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“Barrett,” I say. “Thank you.”
I follow her to Odegaard, which has the distinction of being the ugliest library on campus. She grabs an alcove on the second floor with such familiarity that I have to imagine this is a regular spot for her.
I pull over an aging wooden chair while Christina unpacks not just one but two laptops, and reaches under the table to plug in a charger.
“What are you looking for?” she asks. “Or—who?”
“Who.” This was our only lead, and I don’t want to leave a single stone unturned. “A professor who used to teach here in the physics department, Ella or Eloise Devereux.” I think back to the grad announcement Miles and I found. “She might be in her sixties?”
As she logs in, I get a look at her username, and my world tilts on its axis.
Christina Dearborn from Lincoln, Nebraska. The girl who was supposed to be my roommate.
“Something wrong?” she says, and I wonder if she can sense my heart tripping over itself.
“No, I—” I shake my head, laughing at the cosmic coincidence of it all. “I think we were supposed to be roommates?”
Her face completely changes. “Oh my god. Barrett. Yes! I thought your name was familiar, and I guess there probably aren’t too many Barretts on campus. They made a mistake—I’m a sophomore, and Olmsted is a freshman dorm. So they moved me to Cleary last-minute,” she says by way of explanation. “Hopefully your new roommate is half as delightful as I am?”
“She’s a real treat.”
“Good,” she says. “I guess we were destined to meet regardless. Funny how the universe works.” Then she returns her attention to her computer. “Okay. Eloise Devereux, you said? We’ll try a few options for spelling.” She hits a few keys, lets out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding. She’s not easy to find.”
We fall into silence for a few minutes, except for the sound of Christina punching at keys, muttering “hmmm” under her breath.
“I was able to pull up this cached page,” she says, spinning her laptop around so I can get a better look at the screen. “This your Devereux?”
Professor Ella Devereux receives annual Luminary Award from Elsewhere Foundation, the top of the page reads.
The article is on Elsewhere. Lucie’s parents’ site.
In the photo is a petite woman with graying brown hair shaking hands with the Lamonts. A tiny Lucie in formalwear is at the edge of the photo, staring straight into the camera as though annoyed she’s not the center of attention.
Oh my god.
My breath catches in my throat. I knew there was more to this story. People don’t just disappear in this day and age. Not without an explanation.
“You are magic, thank you,” I say after Christina prints it out, passing her a handful of twenty-dollar bills I got from the campus ATM earlier this morning. Christina Dearborn, the girl who was supposed to be my roommate, saving my life. Possibly literally.
“Of course, roomie,” she says with a wink. “Feel free to mention my services to anyone else. I could always use the extra cash.”
I promise her I will, and if we ever get out of here, I intend to make good on that promise. For now I message Miles, who’s just asked if I have any non-revenge, non-bank-robbery ideas for today. Following a lead today. Talk later.
And I can’t deny that after yesterday, a little space from Miles might be a good thing. Because just his name on my screen takes me back to last night, and that weighted moment before I fled the room.
It’s three fifteen when I get back to Olmsted 908, psyching myself up to grovel.
“Hope you still like iced hazelnut lattes,” I say when I enter the room, presenting Lucie with a cup.
She’s at her desk, fighting with an extension cord. “Thank you?”
I close the door behind me and place the coffee on her desk. I haven’t exactly been a saint to her over the past few days of fuck-it-listing with Miles, but I also haven’t gone out of my way to push her. “Lucie. I know you’re less than thrilled to be rooming with me. But I need to ask you something.”
Maybe the gravity of my voice convinces her this is important, or maybe it’s mere curiosity, because she shuts her laptop and turns to face me.
“Do you remember this?” I unfold the article from my bag. “Specifically, that woman in the photo?”
She pulls it closer, examining it. “My parents used to do a bunch of these things before passing them off to their lackeys. I was always bored out of my mind.”
