Ethan was pacing the office when I walked in, the rest of the crew settled around the conference table, looking through manuscript pages. He turned toward the doorway at the sight of me, and relief flooded him.
He strode toward me. You should have told me where you were going.
I nodded. I know. But I was afraid I’d lose my nerve.
He smiled, pushed hair behind my ear. And did you?
I held up the folder, smiled cockily. I did not.
“You got them?” Mallory asked, coming toward me.
“All forty, just in case.” I handed her the folder. “I haven’t even looked at them yet—just rushed there and back. And when this is all said and done, you have a rendezvous with a research librarian.”
; “No,” I said, and pushed back my chair. “We’re not out of luck. Not yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
TRIPLICATE
I told Mallory where I was going, asked her to let the others know. I needed to do this, and I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I talked to Ethan first. If I acknowledged the fear I’d have to face down.
This would be a homecoming, and not an altogether good one. I’d come face-to-face with Logan Hill only a few months ago. And even though the university was barely a mile from the House, I hadn’t so much as walked into the library where I’d spent so many nights a single time since my attack. I hadn’t talked to my professors, my advisers. Hadn’t talked to my friends in the English department. I’d needed a clean break.
That didn’t keep guilt from forming a hard, cold weight in my chest.
The man, tall and thin, with dark skin and short hair, was waiting in front of the library’s entrance, its imposing concrete walls rising on either side of us. “Merit,” he said with a smile. “Long time no see.”
“Hey, Pax.”
Paxton Leonard hadn’t been a colleague; not exactly. He’d been a gatekeeper, one of the few men and women trusted with the literal keys to the most precious documents at the University of Chicago. I’d spent enough time in the center reviewing manuscripts for my dissertation that we’d become friendly.
He reached out, and we exchanged an awkward hug. “You don’t call. You don’t write.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Not that we did any better.” He paused. “We felt . . . awkward about it.”
I nodded. “Me, too.”
“But we’ve kept up with you—watched the news. You’ve come quite a long way. From books to swords.”
“It wasn’t a transition I figured I’d ever have to make,” I said, and let a smile touch my lips. “But it kind of worked out.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“How’s your family?”
“Good!” he said with a bright smile. “Mom and Howard finally tied the knot.”