Free What Time Devours by A. J. Hartley Page B

as a kid but he was probably twenty-five. He was balding, with the kind of goatee favored only by graduate students and baseball players.
    “Thomas,” said Jules, “this is Chad Everett. One of my doctoral candidates.”
    Thomas nodded and shook his hand. Chad’s eyes were cautious, watchful.
    “Are you a graduate student too?” he said.
    “Recovering,” said Thomas. “A decade gone and still clean.”
    Jules laughed, but Chad didn’t. He was still standing.
    “You want to join us?” said Thomas. “I’ll be going in a minute . . .”
    “No,” he said, brusque. “I’ve got to do some work on my paper.”
    “Chad is presenting tomorrow,” said Jules. “His first conference.”
    He looked at her at that, a quick, stung look, as if she had announced that he wet the bed.
    “There was just something I heard today that I wanted to check,” he said, pointedly not to Thomas.
    “Okay, Chad,” she said with elaborate weariness. “Pull up a chair. Would I be right in thinking that you have your paper with you?”
    “Yes, actually,” he said, humorless, opening an antique satchel.
    “Isn’t that handy,” she said. “Thomas, I’m afraid we’re going to talk shop.”
    “My cue to go home,” said Thomas. He drained his glass.
    “Maybe we’ll meet again soon,” she said.
    She held him with a frank, amused gaze that made him flush like a teenager.
    “Maybe,” he said, getting up. “Chad,” he added, in farewell.
    The graduate student didn’t look at him.
     
    On his way out, Thomas remembered the petulant dismissal he had left for Escolme on the notice board. Maybe it was the beer, or the conversation, but he was feeling forgiving. Escolme surely hadn’t meant for Blackstone to die at his house. He couldn’t blame the guy for not advertising how he had inadvertently dropped his old teacher in the thick of things.
    Thomas walked briskly across the silent lobby, found the notice board, and looked for the green flyer. It was nowhere to be seen. Escolme—or someone—had taken it down.
    Now why, he thought , does that bother you?

CHAPTER 15
    It was a little after four in the morning. Thomas wasn’t sure why he had woken, but he knew how tired he was, and he immediately rolled over, trying to get comfortable again. He thought he might want to pee. His bladder didn’t feel especially full, but he knew that he would struggle to get back to sleep, now that the idea had struck him. He rolled out of bed, his eyes barely open, and shuffled toward the bathroom. He was almost inside, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, when he froze.
    At first he thought he had heard something, but then he realized that it hadn’t been a sound. It was something about the air. He could feel the faintest hint of a breeze coming up the stairs and on it the heady and distinctive scent of the flowering tobacco plant by the front door. He stood quite still, listening and thinking.
    Someone was in the house.
    For a second he couldn’t think of anything at all. Any other day he might have thought that the best way to scare off some common burglar was to move around noisily. But not today. If there was someone downstairs, it was no common burglar looking to rip off his stereo and his TV . . .
    This was something different. Something much worse.
    Thomas stepped noisily to the bathroom, opened the door, reached in, and turned on the cold tap. He closed the door, letting it snap noisily in the stillness. Then, with the sound of running water spilling out into the house, he cautiously picked his way over the floorboards back to his room, and the phone.
    The house was old and the floors creaked, but Thomas had been there long enough to know the telltale spots, and he was back in the bedroom without making a sound. He had almost reached the phone when he heard the groan of wood under pressure.
    The stairs, he thought . He’s coming up . . .
    Thomas did not own a gun, but he suspected that whoever was coming up the stairs