“Why?” Deckler asked protectively.

Why, indeed. I shouldn’t have mentioned where I was going. It had been something to say, an excuse to leave. “I have some questions about a former student.”

“Who?”

Why did I keep saying things that led to more questions? I wanted to tell Deckler that it was none of his business, but there was a chance I might need his cooperation later. A change of subject seemed a better tactic than confrontation. “Actually, there’s something I was hoping I could clarify with you first.”

“Oh yeah?” Deckler looked intrigued. “What’s that?”

“You mentioned there were some crimes that you dealt with entirely on campus. Did you mean they don’t get reported to the local police?”

I suspected whatever gap there was between Steve’s assertion that all crime on campus got reported to the Ridgedale Police and Deckler’s implication that the opposite was true had everything to do with the enormous chip on Deckler’s shoulder. But I did wonder whether Rose Gowan, whose last name Stella had given me somewhat reluctantly, could have been sexually assaulted by the father of her baby—maybe the baby—and whether Campus Safety would have a record of it even though the police did not. Ridgedale certainly wouldn’t be the first university to prioritize the confidentiality of an accused student over a full and fair investigation.

“Life on campus can be complicated that’s all. These are all just kids,” he said, and with this look like I was supposed to get what he meant. “But if you want details about our procedures, you’ll have to talk to our director.”

“You must know what happens when you’re the reporting officer, though. From what you said before, it sounded like there are all sorts of procedures in place. Is one of those calling the local police?”

Deckler narrowed his eyes at me. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but if you think I’m going to be the one to start speaking on behalf of the university about a thing like this, then you must think I’m as dumb as Ridgedale’s finest do.”

Guess where I am? I texted Justin as I waited inside the dean of students’ suite for his bulldog of a secretary to see whether he was available. It had occurred to me that I should have warned Justin that I was on campus, headed to speak with the dean of students, or at least trying to. Justin didn’t report to him, but this dean probably had a close relationship with the dean of faculty and the university president, both of whom Justin did report to.

There was no response to my text. No ellipses signaling an answer on its way, either. I checked the time. I was pretty sure Justin was in the middle of office hours. If he was in a meeting with an advisee, he’d never notice his phone.

I tried again. On campus. Interviewing dean of students. Waited. Still no answer.

“Ms. Sanderson? I was told you wanted to speak with me?” When I looked up from my phone, there was a long-haired man standing in front of me in a sport jacket. He had a hand outstretched. “I’m Thomas Price, the dean of students.”

He was much more attractive and younger than I’d been anticipating. Dashing, that’s how I would have described him. My thinking that would have made Justin gag. He didn’t like Thomas Price very much. He’d mentioned that more than once. Seeing Price, I understood why. In general, Justin wasn’t fond of dashing men, found them too precious and pretentious. In addition to being good-looking, Thomas Price had an air of easy sophistication—an excess of money and education that probably went back for generations. I always thought Justin and his family were so fancy until I met someone like Price, who was actually fancy.

“Yes, thank you so much for seeing me.” I reached out to shake his hand. “I imagine you’re incredibly busy.”

“You are correct,” he said with a warm but tired smile. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. I felt a guilty thrill that I’d noticed. It had been a long time since I’d been capable of registering such a thing. Price waved me toward his office, checking his watch: large and silver and expensive. “I have a meeting soon, but I have a few minutes.”

Thomas Price’s office was spacious and bright, a large, paned window filling most of the back wall. Through it was a view of the athletic center and the hospital beyond and, in the very distance, the woods that led to Essex Bridge.

“Please, have a seat.” He pointed toward two red wing-back chairs facing his desk.

“Thank you,” I said, admiring the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. “Your library is amazing.”

“And thank you for not immediately dispensing with common courtesy. You’re not the first reporter I’ve spoken with today, but you are certainly the most pleasant,” he said as he sat behind his beautiful mahogany desk. “I suppose it’s the nature of this situation, but I don’t recall reporters ever being this aggressive. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who have threatened to park themselves on campus if they don’t get answers immediately. Answers we don’t have. Answers I don’t believe anyone has yet. In any case, if even a small fraction make good on their threats, it will be quite crowded around here.”

“Well, I bet none of the other reporters has a husband who’s a brand-new professor here,” I said. “Having your spouse’s livelihood hanging in the balance tends to encourage good behavior.”

“Sanderson, of course,” Price said, pressing a palm to his forehead. “You’re Justin’s wife, right? He told me that you were going to be working at the Ridgedale Reader. Welcome to town. I know you weren’t convinced about leaving the city—and that’s understandable—but Ridgedale is a wonderful place to live. I’ve only been back for a few years, but I also lived here when I was in high school; my father was a professor in the English Department. I apologize for not making the connection immediately. It’s been an extremely long day.”

“All the more reason for me not to take up too much of your time.”

“Yes, the university president just called to summon a group of us to discuss the problem of the police being on university property.” Thomas Price took a deep breath, his body sinking into the chair as he rubbed his hands over his face like someone trying to rouse himself from sleep. He seemed so genuinely overwhelmed that I felt disarmed by the intimacy it had given our conversation. “How exactly he expects us to make this very big, very bad problem go away is another matter entirely.”

“That sounds stressful.” And it did, but the words came out awkward, canned.

“Stressful, indeed.” Price smiled at me, holding eye contact for an extra beat as if he were noticing something for the first time. What was it? That I was pretty? Once upon a time, men had often responded to me that way. Maybe they had never stopped even though I’d certainly stopped noticing. Price added, “I’m sorry, here I am complaining, and you came to ask me questions.”

“There was a student here named Rose Gowan,” I said, stumbling to get back to the reason I’d come. “Do you know why she withdrew this past year?”

He frowned. “This is connected to the baby?”

“It’s part of a broader set of circumstances we’re investigating.”

Good. That didn’t expose Rose unnecessarily, and it wasn’t a lie. It was simply what I hoped would be true.

“In other words, you don’t plan to tell me?” he asked, eyes locked on mine.

“No, I don’t.” I held his stare.

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling a little, as if enjoying our push-and-pull. “I suppose that would be inappropriate. I’m afraid it would also be inappropriate for me to answer.” Thomas Price narrowed his eyes, considering, then turned to face his computer. “But because you have been so nice, and because you are part of the university family, as it were, let me see what I can find out for you here.” He turned to point a finger at me. “This is off the record, however. I’ll claim you broke into my office and rifled through my files before I admit to having told you.”