Free Six Years by Harlan Coben Page A

life, but we think he is on the way back. He has recently worked with a faculty member to create a charity to make amends for his recent actions. He understands the ramifications of what he has done, and due to the highly unusual extenuating circumstances in this case, we have agreed that Todd Sanderson should not face expulsion.
    My eyes traveled down to the bottom of the page to see the professor who had signed the panel’s opinion. I made a face. Professor Eban Trainor. I should have known. I knew Trainor well enough. We were not what one would call friendly.
    If I wanted to learn more about this “tough blow” or indeed this decision, I would need to talk to Eban. I wasn’t looking forward to that.
    It was late, but I wasn’t worried about waking Benedict. He only used a cell phone and turned it off when sleeping. He answered on the third ring.
    “What?”
    “Eban Trainor,” I said.
    “What about him?”
    “He still hate my guts?”
    “I would assume so. Why?”
    “I need to ask him about my buddy Todd Sanderson. Do you think you can smooth it out?”
    “Smooth it out? Sure. Why do you think they call me the Sandman?”
    “Because you put your students to sleep?”
    “You really know how to butter a guy up when you’re asking for a favor. I’ll call you in the morning.”
    We hung up. I sat back, unsure what to do next, when my monitor dinged that I had received a new e-mail. I was going to ignore it. Like most people I knew, I got too many irrelevant e-mails during all hours of the day. This would undoubtedly be yet another.
    Then I saw the sender’s e-mail address:
    [email protected]
    I stared at it until my eyes watered. There was a rushing in my ears. Everything around me was silent and too still. I kept staring, but the letters didn’t change.
    RSbyJA.
    It took me no time to see what those letters meant:
Redemption’s Son
by Joseph Arthur—the album Natalie and I listened to in the café.
    The subject was empty. My hand found the mouse. I tried to get the cursor over the e-mail so I could open it, but first I had to control my shake. I took a deep breath and willed my hand still. The room remained a hushed quiet, almost expectantly so. I moved the cursor over the e-mail and clicked on it.
    The e-mail stopped my heart.
    There, on my screen, were four words. That was all, just four words, but those four words sliced through my chest like a reaper’s scythe, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I collapsed back on the chair, lost, as the four words on the screen stared back at me:
    You made a promise.

Chapter 10
    T he e-mail wasn’t signed. Didn’t matter.
    I quickly hit the reply button and typed:
    Natalie? Are you okay? Please just let me know that.
    I hit send.
    I would explain to you how time slowed to a crawl as I waited for her next e-mail, but that wasn’t really what happened. There was no time for it, I guess. Three seconds later, my new-e-mail-ding sounded. My heart raced until I saw the sender’s name:
    MAILDAEMON
    I clicked open but I already knew what I would find:
    This e-mail address doesn’t exist . . .
    I almost smacked the computer in frustration, as if it were a candy machine that wouldn’t dispense the Milky Way. I actually shouted “No way!” out loud. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there and I started drowning. I felt as though I were sinking and couldn’t even flail my way back to the surface.
    I went back to googling. I tried the e-mail and different variations, but it was just a waste of time. I read her e-mail again:
    You made a promise.
    I had, hadn’t I? And when you stopped and thought about it, why did I break that promise? A man had died. Maybe it was her husband. Maybe it wasn’t. Still, was that a reason to go back on my promise to her? Maybe. Maybe it was at first. But now she had made it clear. That was the purpose of the e-mail. Natalie was calling me on it. She was reminding me of the promise because she knew that I don’t make promises