“Boo, look at me.” When I didn’t, he cupped my chin in his hands and turned my face toward his. His copper eyes burned right into mine. “I’m not lying. I haven’t been with anyone but you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t. And if you want me to tell you, I will, and then you can make any decision you want.”

It didn’t get much fairer than that. “What do you want me to do if I start seeing someone else?”

He grinned. “Hide him.” And then he kissed me.

But for the first time ever, I spent the night in George’s room without any sex involved. I slept poorly, and early the next morning (okay, around 8 A.M.) I left and headed back to my suite. As expected, Josh was either gone or asleep.

I paced for a while in my room, as unable to sleep there as I had been in George’s arms. Sure, I was angry at Jenny, but underneath it all, she was my brother, and what’s more, she was in all likelihood in serious trouble. But if Jenny Santos, who was about a hundred times smarter and better connected than I was, couldn’t help herself, how was I supposed to do anything?

I couldn’t, but then again, maybe I wouldn’t need to. I’d call in the big guns. I sat down at my laptop, pulled up my Phimalarlico webmail, and dashed off a quick e-mail to Malcolm.

From: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

To: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Emergency

Lance, I need your help. Lucky betrayed us, and now she’s gone missing. The others think she’s hiding out because she knows how angry we are, but I suspect foul play. I saw her room. If she left, it wasn’t planned. I need your help. We need to find out what happened to her. Call me ASAP.

My big sib must have been on his computer, because I got an answer two minutes later.

From: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

To: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Re: Emergency

bad timing, little sis. leaving now for fishing trip. (what are you doing up at this ungodly hour?) this is quite the mess. i understand your predicament, but you know what to do: call poe. he’ll help you.

Yeah, right into my grave he’d help me—roses not included. I shot back:

From: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

To: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Re: Re: Emergency

Poe hates me and I’m not too fond of him. He’d never help me. Please, Lance? I need you!

This time, it took less than thirty seconds to get a response.

From: Lancelot-D176@phimalarlico.org

To: Bugaboo-D177@phimalarlico.org

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Emergency

gotta run. call poe.

You know that bit about banging your head against the keyboard? In real life, it’s not actually all that effective as a stress reliever. Plus, it’s a bit impractical, what with all the accidental shutting down of programs that results.

Once I rebooted, I considered my options:

1) Forget the whole thing. Jenny must be okay.

Yeah, so not my thing.

2) Go back and beg some of the other Diggers for help.

Right, because I’m a veritable glutton for punishment.

3) Deal with it myself. After all, I’m a smart, capable sort of girl. I could surely get to the root of a suspected kidnapping all on my own.

Except, what do I know about kidnapping? I’m a Lit major, for crying out loud. The last abduction I read about was The Rape of the Lock.

4) Call the cops and explain to them that I was worried this girl I didn’t actually know all that well and wasn’t really all that friendly with and who is also, by the way, a computer millionaire, may have been kidnapped as part of a vast conspiracy reaching all the way up to the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States because she’d threatened to tell the world who a bunch of middle-aged men had slept with in their teens.

Res ipsa loquitur.[3]

5) Suck it up and contact Poe.

After all, he’s every bit as paranoid as I am, and much more experienced at dealing with it.

Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy. Not only was there the aforementioned mutual hatred, but I’d managed to avoid ever learning the bastard’s real name. That would be step one.

Cue Mission Impossible theme and commence stealthy journey back into the tomb. Once there, I took the stairs to the room of records. There’d been a motion to seal off the room until we’d located the leak, but no one thought it would be much of a deterrent. The person already had their info. Now I was glad for the access.

Along the wall of the room of records hung a group portrait for every club as far back as daguerreotypes were in vogue. I checked the wall for D176. The men were clustered around the grandfather clock I knew was in the Firefly Room, and before them lay a low table with the etching of Persephone on top. Each wore a formal tuxedo with tails. There was Malcolm in the front row, his hand resting on the shoulder of the knight I knew as Poe. I looked at the list of names beneath the photo.

James Orcutt.

What a ridiculously normal name. I’d half been expecting Darth Vader. But, no matter. The Grand Library had a computer terminal (because, honestly, how grand would it be otherwise?). I entered Orcutt’s name into the student directory, and a few moments later had his home number. Bingo. I exited into the hall and approached the tomb’s only phone.

Point of no return, Amy. Are you honestly going to do this? Go to Poe? I took a deep breath, and dialed.

“Hello?” My Pavlovian response to his voice has always been fight-or-flight, but I steeled myself and tried to sound cheery. Or at least amicable.

“Hi. James?” The name sounded bizarre on my tongue. “This is—”

“Amy Haskel.” Not a question. “What do you want?”

I hesitated, still reeling from the shock that he’d recognized my voice. “I…Malcolm said—I need your help.”

Silence, and then, “Figures. What is it—wait, are you at the tomb?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me at my place: 27 Danbury, number 3. Come now.” And then he hung up.

What choice did I have? I was the desperate one. I’d work on his timetable. So I hoofed it across town. All the law students live off-campus, but when I got to the address Poe—sorry, James, but old habits die hard—had indicated, it was clear my nemesis was living as disreputably as possible. I stood for a moment on the tree lawn and debated whether or not the trash heap before me could possibly be the right address.

The front yard was a mess of weeds, hemmed in by a sagging chain-link fence emblazoned with a black-and-red BEWARE OF DOG sign. But there was no dog to be seen as I opened the catch and picked my way up the cracked front walk, and no mangy mutt chased me as I put my first tentative steps onto the team-of-termites-holding-hands that passed for a stoop. The steps creaked beneath my feet, and the front porch practically screamed “Skirt the edges,” with all of its saggy spots. I reached number 3 and rang the bell.

A few moments later, the door beyond the screen opened, and there stood Poe—I mean, James—in his usual uniform of grubby white undershirt and worn dress pants. He leaned against the jamb and regarded me through the screen.