Prologue Sam Taylor had five minutes to decide how he wanted to die. In the living room, bleeding out on a rug, gazing into the cold, indifferent eyes of an enemy. Or on the run, making it no farther than the outer hedges of his backyard before being struck down like a hunted pheasant. The doorknob jiggled louder this time, rattling the gold chain on the doorframe and whatever was left of Sam''s nerves along with it. That gold chain was the only thing keeping Sam alive, and that one simple fact plunged his body into ice-cold fear, numbing the tips of his shaking fingers as they pressed against his temples. Sam scoured the den''s bookshelves and thick pillows, eyes wild, before landing on a poker leaning up against the fireplace. As if thin, hard metal could be the difference between life and death. As if he wouldn''t get laughed at right in his face.
Will they bury my body when it''s over? No. They''d cremate it. He''d heard the rumors. The facility was an arsonist''s dream. Tracing would be impossible. Sure, there''d be human DNA inside those ovens, but whose? It would take a decade of subpoenas before the cops figured out if his body was among those vacuumed into the sky. Boots shuffled behind the door. Swallowing back the sour tang of bile stinging his throat, he reached for his laptop and began the purge, blinking at the bright fluorescent screen as his data drained away along with what little time he had left on this planet.
All of the evidence, gone. Untouchable. Untraceable. Unknowable. His life''s work--for what? To prove what? The scrape of metal on the doorknob jolted Sam away from his laptop. They were almost inside. Death was so close he could reach across the living room and touch it. There were no plays left to make.
It was over. Wasn''t it? A voice, small and soft, offered a solution, however outrageous. Call her . He grabbed his phone and dialed the memorized number before he could change his mind. "Hello, you''ve reached the voicemail of--" He hung up. Tried again. "Hello, you''ve reached the--" Another redial. "Hello, you''ve--" He hurled his phone into the couch with the velocity of a Yankees pitcher.
"Fuck." He plunged his head between his thighs, squeezing blond tufts of hair with tight fists, enjoying the pain stinging his eyes while he hiccupped out a few short breaths. A thought struck his chest with the force of a baseball bat. I can still tell her. He''d never wanted her to know. But if he phrased it right, he could lead her to the truth. Only she was smart enough to figure it out anyway. To take the data and run.
To finish what he''d started. And then the world would finally know. There was little glory to be found in these last minutes of life but there might be honor in his death. Sam grabbed his phone one last time. His thumbs flew across its screen. And just before the squeaking "pop" of a door hinging, before the rush of hard boots stormed his hallway, before rough hands groped his neck, before his bloodied face hit the rug, before the world went black forever, Sam hit send. Chapter One "Well, that went terribly." Daphne Ouverture, assistant professor of European history, scholar of modern French imperialism, and semiprofessional rambler on the horrors of colonial medicine, slammed her car door shut.
"What are we talking about here on a scale of one to five?" The car''s Bluetooth speakers took over, brightening Elise''s light soprano. "One being that time you set your date''s shirtsleeve on fire with a candle--" "That was an accident," Daphne muttered. "We went on like two more dates after that." "--and five being when you went out with that silver fox of a man who was super into you only for you to realize at dinner that he was the dad of one of your students?" Daphne cringed while she maneuvered her car onto the road. No wonder she''d banned dating in Calliope. "I wouldn''t say that date was a complete bust, though." Elise''s grin was audible. "That guy was hot.
Like if George Clooney was a rugby coach?" "Elise, you''re one of my bestest friends on the planet but I beg you. Please stop. Remembering this is so horrifying I can''t drive straight." Daphne''s short, chunky braids tickled the nape of her neck as she shuddered. "That''s what I get for thinking I could just casually flirt with somebody in the cereal aisle." "You can totally flirt, babe." Elise, as always, chose to see sunshine, puppies, and free SZA tickets where there was scorched earth. "You just gotta do it with the right person.
And your Bumble date tonight, Ricky--he wasn''t it." Daphne slowed her car at a red light. "Nope." If only that DM hadn''t pinged during an especially boring faculty meeting, a month after she''d finally given up on dating, Daphne wouldn''t be driving back home on a Saturday night strapped into a dress so tight she''d need the jaws of life later to wrest herself free from it. But the Asianists had decided to wade into the department''s Sisyphean struggle to determine whether the Modern Istanbul survey course counted toward the European or Middle Eastern history minor for undergraduate students, thus locking horns, yet again, with the director of undergraduate studies, whose task it was to assign this designation for the next academic year. Daphne was only a first-year professor at Harrison University--a Bambi in the eyes of her colleagues--but even she''d lost all hope that the meeting could be salvaged once her colleague began to explain in precise detail the long history of translocal mail runners on the Silk Road. Ten minutes into the diatribe, a giggling panic had bubbled up in her chest at the realization that she''d locked herself into this career for the next thirty years. She''d reached for her phone as if it was a life raft on the Lusitania, desperate to prove that there was more to her future at Harrison University than fights over the Mongolian postal system.
And there he was, this stud named Ricky who had promised her dinners and front-row seats to whatever her heart desired. Daphne found the thin, hard shell she''d built up for herself begin to melt like the chocolate flan he swore he''d make her from scratch. She didn''t know what she hated more--wanting to feel wanted, or not being able to remember the last time someone had. She''d been on enough dinner dates to know that the profile picture rarely matched the man. But lo and behold, the Ricky she''d met in the overstuffed restaurant appeared to be as dashing in person as he''d been on her phone screen. He''d swooped down to give her a peck on the cheek--and, she noticed, to check out her décolletage--oozing sex, adventure, and expensive aftershave. His scheming, twinkling brown eyes promised her a passionate night if she wanted it. And for the first time in a long time, she thought she might.
Not for the last time, Daphne cursed the Mongols. "Did he like your story about Belgium, at least?" Elise asked. "You mean how nineteenth-century Belgian colonial administrators in the Congo dismembered indigenous Africans for the purpose of scaring local villagers into creating profit for their newly emerging rubber industry?" Daphne gripped her steering wheel a bit too tight while changing lanes. "No, Elise, it turns out that explaining the evils of late-nineteenth-century European imperialism on a first date isn''t exactly a seductive move." After her lengthy side quest into tooth extraction practices in the French Caribbean, Ricky had, understandably, become engrossed in his steak. He''d only lifted his eyes from his plate once--at 6 p.m., to ask the waitress for the check.
Elise''s voice softened. "You''ll find somebody, Daph. I know you will." "Will I?" Daphne asked, doubtfully. "Absolutely, friend," Elise replied. "You''re just going through those first-year blues." That was one term for it. Driving up the ramp onto the highway, Daphne could think of a few others.
Starting this tenure-track gig at Harrison University wasn''t what she''d imagined. She had been elated when she got the phone call from the chair of the history department offering her the job. For the first semester, she''d floated around on campus in a daze, still not comprehending that she''d done it , damnit, she''d really done it . A job, fresh out of grad school--and at one of the most elite institutions in the United States, to boot? Barely a quarter of newly minted history PhD students landed any kind of tenure-track job at all. Eight months in and Daphne was a model of academic success, boasting a contract with a top university press to write her book on Black families in eighteenth-century France, a shiny new teaching award on her desk next to her favorite Josephine Baker coloring book, and a grant application to study in France that she was sure to win. Then the nagging feeling had set in like the gray clouds that loomed over campus the whole month of March. Is this it? Is this my life? "You know," Daphne said, clearing the catch in her throat, "I generally don''t mind my new life. I mean, I''m basically a crazy cat lady.
" "That''s not true," Elise corrected her. "You''re a crazy dog lady." Daphne''s lips tugged into a smile. "Fine. But the same lesson applies. I''m either up to my eyeballs in course prep on campus or I''m at home with Chl.