Grey Expectations by Clea Simon

probably wanted to apologize for scaring her. Maybe he wanted to make plans for later. But when she had chased a particularly spicy mouthful with some of Lala’s limeade and wiped her hands as well as she could, she didn’t find the number she expected on the phone. Neither their apartment nor Chris’s phone started with the familiar ‘495’ exchange. Whoever had called had been using a university phone, and it was with a bit of curiosity – and still-sticky hands – that she dialed voicemail.
    There was no message, and as she once again raised the messy burger to her lips, Dulcie mulled over the possibilities. Was there something happening at the departmental offices that Nancy wanted her to know about? Was it Thorpe? She could try the number – later. Lala’s was too busy for her to claim counter space for anything but the serious work of eating. As she chewed another mouthful, she considered what else to do with her day. She could head back to the library. Something about the underground atmosphere was conducive to serious reading. Or she could go to her office. She had the blue volume in her bag, and if she needed a break, the last of the final exams waited for her red pencil.
    Maybe it was the thought of grading, or maybe it was that, now she had quelled her cravings, she could see that the day outside was golden, the sky beautiful and bright with promise. Or maybe, to be honest, it was that she was creeped out by what Chris had said. Dodging the looks from waiting patrons, she picked up the phone again. That last call was weighing on her. If only she had recognized the extension. If only the caller had left a message.
    Then it hit her: she had called Roland last night and asked him to ring her. She’d called the number listed in the student directory – a home phone or cell. But maybe his own phone was broken. Maybe his cell had been stolen and he was catching up from a university extension, holed up in some office on campus. That had to be it. And because her own message had been so vague, he hadn’t left a message of his own. Maybe he even knew that he’d been outed by Coffin. Maybe he was on the run, reaching out to a colleague  . . .
    Wiping her hand one more time on the greasy napkin, she hit redial and waited for two, then three rings. Roland had just called her; he had to answer. Four rings, and the phone picked up.
    â€˜Roland?’ Finally, all this mystery would be put to rest.
    â€˜University Police. How may I direct your call?’
    Dulcie sat there, the café buzzing about her, frozen.
    â€˜Hello?’ Something brushed against her, hard, and she nearly fell off her stool. A woman muttered as she squeezed in beside her.
    â€˜Hello? University Police.’
    Fumbling with hands that had suddenly turned to ice, Dulcie hung up.

THIRTEEN
    â€˜ M r Grey, are you there?’
    Dulcie had run out to the street, leaving the last of her burger behind. Not even Lala’s surprised face, looking up from behind the counter, could stop her, so desperate was she to get out – to get away.
    â€˜Mr Grey? I could really use some help here.’ She’d run out of breath halfway through the Yard. Out of ideas, too. Dropping the phone back into her bag as if it were contaminated, she had wanted to get away. Now that she had calmed down a little, it registered that her first panicked thought – that the police could somehow trace her, that they would be converging on the sandwich shop within seconds – had faded. Trista’s odd experience had left her spooked, and the mix-up with the Dunster Codex seemed to threaten them all. Still, her initial destination – the basement office she shared with Lloyd – no longer seemed like such a good idea. While it was unlikely that the police would track her to a Harvard Square eatery, they very well might have someone waiting at her office. Especially – she looked at her watch