Page 5 of Someone Knows

It’s a bright spring day, warm air floating between campus buildings, navy-and-gold Pace flags fluttering in the wind. Usually, I’d grab a coffee and sit and enjoy the sunshine, or maybe finish up grading on a park bench. But today, I have a singular goal.

The registrar’s office is in a big, modern brick building with a glass front. I find the entrance, step through the automatic doors, and come to a stop. To my right, there’s a student help desk, but I need more than they can give. My purse vibrates as I look around. Digging my cell from inside, I find Sam’s name flashing on the screen. We have plans for tonight, which I forgot all about until this minute. It seems impossible that it was only yesterday I texted him. Yesterday, when my biggest problem was that the date on the calendar read May 20. Now there’s someone who knowswhat happenedleading up to that date twenty years ago, someone who has threateneda reckoning. I ignore Sam’s call, too anxious to get the information I came for to let anything else distract me right now.

The main office is a DMV-like setup, with seating to wait and numbered stations, staff calling up students. I peer around for someone to help me. Of course, only two of the stations out of twelve are currently staffed with employees. One of them I recognize. The twentysomething doesn’t justwork here. Eric’s also a student. He catches my eye and smiles. I’ve dealt with him a few times before, when I had scheduling issues and errors in my class roster. He’s the sort whose eyes rest on you too long, who remembers your name and classroom when he shouldn’t. And every single time I’ve spoken to him, he’s given me a compliment of some sort. But that might work to my advantage today.

He finishes with a student, so I step up to his station. “Hi, Eric.”

“Aaron,” he corrects, yet smiles. “But how are you, Elizabeth? It’s been a while.”

I should remind him it’s Professor Davis, notElizabeth, but instead, I smile. “Right, of course. Aaron. I’m doing well. How about you?”

“Can’t complain.” He eyes my hair. “I’ve always wanted to ask you . . . Is that your natural color? Usually, red is sort of orangey, but yours is more like a cinnamon.”

Who asks a woman if she dyes her hair? Certainly not a student. Yet I twirl my hair like some flirty teenager and lean in, because I’m not above anything today. “It is. Do you like it?”

He leans closer, too. “It’s beautiful. Makes your green eyes stand out.”

Oh God.It’s difficult not to roll those eyes. I need to cut to the chase. “Listen, I need help, Aaron. Do you think you can help me?”

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

Perfect.

“I’m having trouble reaching a student. She’s not answering her student email, so I was hoping she might have another email listed in the school’s records? Or a phone number or an address? Some other method of contact.”

“Oh, that’s . . .” He swallows, looks down at his hands. When he looks back up, he won’t meet my eyes. “I’m afraid it’s against policy to give that out to anyone, even professors.” Aaron fidgets. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s really important,” I press, dropping my voice. “She could fail the class if I can’t get ahold of her. I would feel really awful. Aaron?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He looks up, locks eyes with me.

“I think this once we could make an exception, right? Help out a fellow student. And because we’re friends. Right?” Another smile, just between us.

“Well . . . okay. But don’t tell my boss, all right?”

“Oh, I thought you were in charge.” I slide him a paper where I’ve written down what I know about Hannah Greer. “This is her name and student number.”

“Let me . . .” He types away, clicks the mouse, then pulls the scrap of paper toward him and scribbles a Gmail account. “Oh, interesting,” he mutters. “This might be why you can’t get ahold of her.”

My ears perk up. “Oh? Is something wrong?”

“No. But she’s a visiting student.” He slides the paper back. “Nonmatriculated. It looks like yours is the only class she’s taking.”

I pause, sirens blaring in my head. So “Hannah” could be anyone, anyone whoonlysigned up for my class.

“Thank you so much, Aaron. I owe you.”

Stepping outside lets me breathe a little easier, but not for long. My nerves come back full force as I glance down at the sheet.Hannah Greer.I have a Gmail now. I would have preferred an address. I’ve slowed to a stop, lost in thought, staring down at the scrap of paper, when someone bumps into me.

“Excuse me,” the man mutters. He’s tall, wearing a dark jacket, and continues striding down the sidewalk. I look up, watch him go. There’s something familiar about him, but then again, I’ve had hundreds, thousands of students here. Of course I recognize some. I glance over my shoulder, cross the street, and hurry toward my office. I can’t help it—once I’m across, I look back one more time. The man in the dark jacket, he’s stopped. And he’s lookingright at me.

Is hewatchingme?

Did he bump into me on purpose?

Couldhebe Hannah?

No, no, no.I’m being paranoid. Have been since I read that damn chapter. The chapter that’s acoincidence. A very big one, but a coincidence nonetheless. It has to be. Once I sort out who this student is, I’ll know for sure.

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