chapter sixteen.

Val

I've gone in for office hours before—several times before, actually—so that in itself isn't precisely what's stressing me out. What's stressing me out is the fact I've never met this professor, and from what I've heard, she's terrifying.

Amelia Dunn is a professor of psychology that, from what little research I could gather, apparently worked very closely with this Silas Wade figure. Also from what little research I could gather, she's the human adaptation of a velociraptor. Sharp teeth and everything, with only two moods: mildly peeved and ravenously hungry. Sometimes both at the same time. Needless to say, as badly as I need some sort of lead on this story right now, I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

The hallway smells faintly of cigarette smoke and mildew, and I'm fighting the urge to wrinkle my nose as I walk, eyes darting around, searching for the right room number. I narrow my eyes, squinting underneath the dim overheads. Everything about this building needs a renovation. Maybe that should be my next op-ed.

I stop when I reach room 1121, the plaque beside which reads, Professor A. Dunn, PhD.

"Here goes nothing," I say to myself, and knock briefly. "Professor Dunn?"

I pop my head around the corner, just as the professor looks up. Sure enough, she does remind me a bit of a velociraptor: thin, drooping skin, like a tarp draped over a surprise. Narrow eyes and a sharp nose, mouth eternally bent in a frown. Her sinewy hands fold together, and she regards me from underneath circular wire-rims. "May I help you?"

I can't fight a shudder. Even her voice is creepy.

I clear my throat, stepping fully into her view. "My name is Valerie Love, and I'm with the Terrier's Gazette?"

"Is that a question?"

I expect—or hope, I guess—for her to laugh, but the question ends bluntly, without mirth.

I clear my throat again. "No, ma'am; I'm sorry. I came here hoping you could tell me about a certain Silas P. Wade?"

I could very well be imagining it, but something in Professor Dunn's expression shifts—towards worry, towards furtiveness. She knows something, possibly a lot of things. I can only wonder how many of those things she's actually willing to tell me.

"What do you care about Professor Wade?"

She hasn't offered me a seat, but I take one in front of the desk anyway, discreetly pulling out a pen and pad. Professor Dunn regards me skeptically as I say, "He went missing eight years back, correct? Surely you've heard that people have started to see him around again lately."

Professor Dunn scoffs, tapping away at her keyboard for a moment. "Please. Saying you've seen Silas Wade again is like saying you've seen Bigfoot, or the Loch Ness Monster."

"Well," I say, "we don't have proof those aren't real."

Professor Dunn just blinks at me with her beady eyes. It crosses my mind that I may have said the wrong thing. "I can't help you," she snaps. "The only person who knows about Silas is Silas."

"Why is that?"

"He kept to himself, always. He would come to teach his class or go over some research, but if you blinked, he was gone again. Poof, like a cloud," Professor Dunn said, gritting her teeth. "It was only fitting he went missing. You can't disappear that often without it becoming permanent."

You can't disappear that often without it becoming permanent. I'm not sure what the image of Silas Wade was in my mind, but whatever it was, it changes now: more of a myth than a man, a distant facade, a reflection in a looking glass, or in a puddle. One touch, one move, and it's gone. "Any chance," I ask, my eyebrows knitted, "that you know just where he disappeared to?"

Professor Dunn kisses her teeth, and levels a glare at me. "No. But he used to carry plenty of money on him, so I'm sure he's fine."

"How much money is plenty—"

Professor Dunn gets to her feet abruptly, chair squeaking as she pushes it backwards. At her full height, she towers over me, yet another velociraptor-like trait. I'm feeling slightly intimidated. "I think you should go," she says, nodding her head towards the door. "I've already said too much."

It's not nearly enough, I want to say, but I don't.

Instead, I slide my blank legal pad back into my backpack, shoving the pen into my pocket. Rising to my feet, I nod at her. "Thanks, Professor Dunn. And if you ever have anything else to share, just swing by the Gazette, will you?"

I get no response from her, other than a calculating stare.

As she asked, I leave.

It's one in the morning again, and I'm at the diner. More than likely Jo's going to worry about me.

The diner menu sits untouched beside my open laptop. I don't have much on Silas Wade, not much at all, but I figure I should work out what I do know, at least, and what better place to do that than a hole-in-the-wall diner that smells like chicken grease and smoke?

The word document in front of me is widely blank and sort of depressing. All I have besides the name Silas Wade is the link to his facebook account, and some notes on his general demeanor, as little of it as Professor Dunn described. It's like digging and digging at an archaeological site; I find even the smallest bone, and it's a victory.

"Silas Wade," I mutter at the screen, shuddering as the diner's door opens, sending in a rush of cold air with it. A burly old man, face mostly hidden behind his heap of a scarf, walks in and heads straight in the direction of the bathroom. It's strange, but I nearly get the feeling I've seen him before.

"Silas Wade," I say again, as if saying his name enough times will summon him, somehow. "Who are you?"

The cursor blinks back at me, steadily. I still have nothing to write.

Maybe this whole thing is a waste of my time. Maybe I'd better tell Caz—

"Is this seat taken?"

I jolt, recognizing the voice before I look up and recognize the face. It's Simon, standing awkwardly at the side of the booth, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. His red hair's adorably mussed and his cheeks are pinched pink from the cold, and though he's grinning, he seems wary.

"Simon!" I say, but stifle it almost immediately, trying to subdue the excitement in my voice. By the look on his face, though, it seems like he already noticed it. "Wow. We really have to stop meeting like this."

Simon slides into the booth across from me. From behind the sit-in counter a few feet away, I notice Kimmy narrow her eyes at him. "Whatever do you mean?" asks Simon. He scoots closer to the window, tapping it lightly with the pad of his finger. "I think it's lovely. Just us and the night and greasy diner food. Speaking of which, do you want fries? I could kill for fries."

I think about saying no. I don't say no.

Simon flags down Kimmy, who takes our joint order of fries and two lemonades. Normally I go for black coffee at this hour—it just seems fitting—but Simon convinces me that black coffee and fries don't go together, which I suppose is sort of true.

The more I look at him here, the more he seems out of place, almost. A time traveler blown in from a lost century, from some place you don't read about in a history textbook. His hair is soft, colorful, ageless. He speaks like old, yellowing books smell and he dresses the way an ancient work of art looks. He's something new and something old at the same time, and it may have been but a few days, but God, did I miss him.

"Can I say I'm sorry again?" Simon says, then clicks his teeth. "Screw it. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to ditch you. It's just—my great-grandma and all."

"There are not many situations I'd accept being ditched for a grandma," I say, and the edge of Simon's mouth perks up, if only a little, "but lucky you: this is one of them that I will accept. How is she? Your great-grandmother?"

"Old," says Simon, drawing a listless circle atop the table with his finger. "She's achieved a lot, being a nonagenarian and all, but sometimes I look at her and wonder if she's even still with us."

Kimmy drops our lemonades and a basket of fries between us, along with a full bottle of ketchup. I take a fry from the basket, and sure enough, it's drooping with grease. This can't possibly be okay. "Oh," I say to Simon. "I'm...sorry?"

"I don't remember much of her when she wasn't far gone," replies Simon with a shrug. He grabs a single fry and nibbles at it sparingly; this is to say, he eats his fries not in a manner that convinces me he'd really kill for them. "So it's fine."

I'm not sure what, I detect that there's something else he's not saying, whether it's something else that happened since I last saw him, or something to do with this spontaneous visit home. I'm not sure of much of anything, besides the restless something in his eyes, the slight way he's frowning at the table.

"I'm sorry for ditching you," he says.

I laugh a little. "You said that already."

"I know, but I really feel bad about it."

"Simon. We can just reschedule it."

He pauses, finishing off a handful of fries and then dusting his hands off. "No," he says, with a shake of his head. "Forget rescheduling. There's nothing like here and now. Well, maybe not here, in this place. But now. Definitely now."

For a moment I think he's joking, but then he just blinks at me steadily, and I realize he's dead serious.

I scoff a little, pulling at my hair. I'm not dressed for a date; I'm in a drug rug, for God's sake. The only makeup on my face is mascara that's probably badly smeared. I want him to be kidding.

"Simon...I don't..."

He does something I don't expect. He reaches across the table and finds my hand in his, and for a moment I can't focus on anything except the jarring feel of his skin on mine. When was the last time someone touched me like this? I can't even remember. "Val," he says. "Val, don't you trust me?"

Yes. I do. And that's the problem. That's always the problem.

I should say no. God knows that's what I should do.

Instead, I squeeze his hand. "You've got until sunrise," I tell him. "So take me on an adventure."