Page 43 of Someone Knows

I smile sadly. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you coming back?”

My eyes slant to my mother inside the car and return to his without saying anything.

He looks at me for a long time. “I really enjoyed meeting you, Elizabeth.”

Did you?

He looks sincere. But what the hell do I know anymore?

I blow out a heavy breath and climb into the car. “Take care, Noah.”

As I pull away, I glance in the rearview mirror. Noah’s still standing there. Just watching.

CHAPTER

19

Ithought returning home would be a relief—that stepping off the plane at JFK, taking the trains home, and walking through the doors to my building would put me at ease. I would breathe again without the humid air of Louisiana. I missed being able to walk in a store and be anonymous instead of running into people I grew up with, people I suspect ofsomething. . .

Instead, as I head to the university, that prickle on my neck won’t go away, not even after two days. I duck around a corner, then glance through the window front of a café, looking to see who’s following me. Of course, there’s no one—or rathereveryone, an assortment of people in all sizes and shapes, headed to the library, to a class, to meet someone. No one is looking at me, though. No one following. At least, no one I see.I’m being ridiculous.

I huff out a breath and pull my sweater closed. It’s an uncharacteristically chilly morning for the third week in June. I clutch my second cup of coffee, trying to relax enough to avoid squeezing it so tightly it bursts. I didn’t sleep well last night. Only a few catnaps where I fell asleep for fifteen or twenty minutes, then lay awake for hours, staring at a dead plant on my windowsill, a gift from Sam the first time he came over. The symbolism isn’t lost on me.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip it out to find Sam’s name. I haven’t answered his last few messages. I know I need to have a conversation with him, end things politely. He’s been kind to me, and I owe him that much. But my head isn’t in the right place. It’s an effort just to focus on reaching my office, getting to my first class on time. The bustle of campus usually invigorates me, but today—today it’s too many people.

Finally, I reach my office. My calendar stares at me from the wall, and I realize tomorrow, I’ll be getting more chapters. My stomach roils at that—or maybe it’s all the coffee without any food.

I sit down at my desk, then bolt back up to my feet. Someone’s been sitting here. My chair is adjusted all wrong. I force myself back down, tentative, feeling the different position of the armrests, the depth of the chair. Whoever sat here isbiggerthan me, taller. My gaze drifts over my desk, but nothing appears out of place.

Was someone going through my things? I imagine Sam or a student or . . .

I swallow more coffee and adjust the height of my chair, eyes darting around the room searching for anything else that’s changed. Nothing seems out of order, so I slide open one wooden drawer, then another, and another. My hand pauses on the cool metal of the handle, trying tothink. . . Is there anything someone might have found?

No, of course not. I have no connection to my old life anymore. No pictures, no datebook with private notations, not even a scribbled-down telephone number lying around. My only connection is the story. Hannah Greer. But that’s all digital now, locked away on a server.

It leaves me uneasy, though, and as I gather my things to go to the lecture hall to teach, my mind drifts to Jocelyn. Jocelyn, who wasn’t in Louisiana and who I can’t find so much as a mention of online. Maybe it’s time I find her? She’s the missing piece of this puzzle.

A few students are already seated as I enter the classroom and get settled at the front. I pull out my notes for today’s lecture. Thankfully, I’ve taught this class a million times and can do it without any prep. I take my cell out to switch it into silent mode, and Sam’s last message appears in preview.

Sam:Get together tonight?

I sigh. Then a thought hits me. Maybe it’s time I ask Sam to help me find Jocelyn? Would that be using him?Maybe. Probably. Yes, yes, it would be.But these days, I’m not above anything. I nibble on my bottom lip as I debate doing something I know is shitty, not to mention risky. The last of my students file in, and I need to get started, so I force myself to make a decision and text back before silencing my phone.

Elizabeth:Sure, sounds good.

The evening starts with wine. As if I didn’t already feel like a shitty person, Sam’s gone all out, gotten a fancy bottle he says is thereserveblend, three burners are going on the stove, and he handed me flowers when he answered the door. The wine is fruity and thick, and I take a long draw, letting it roll over my tongue.

“How’s your mom?”

I look up from where I’m studying my glass at the kitchen island. He uses tongs, tosses wild field greens, pours olive oil and vinegar and a seasoning—God, this man turns cooking into an art. I appreciate it, even if I don’t have any desire todo it myself.

“Um, she’s . . . okay.” I try to remember if I told him she was in the hospital. That she’sdying. Did I text him that? Mention it? Probably not.

He turns his back and moves to the stove to turn the pork chops. I open my mouth, almost tell him. But I don’t. It’s opening a can of worms, a can full of emotions and heaviness, and that’s better left shut tight where I don’t have to think about it. “It was good to see her,” I finish with, because that’s what’s expected when you go home and see your mother.

“And Louisiana? How was that?” He turns, hands on hips. My gaze traces the strong, handsome lines of his face, and I can’t help but compare him to Noah, even though there’s a twenty year age gap. They’re both self-assured, borderline cocky.

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