But the more she tried to force herself to imagine that Michael O’Connell wasn’t anywhere near her, the closer he actually seemed to be.

She could not put her finger on something concrete and say out loud, “That’s him,” but dozens of small things, telltale signs, told her that he was neither out of her life nor really keeping much distance. She came home to her apartment one day and discovered that someone had scratched a large X in the paint on her door, probably using nothing more sophisticated than a penknife or even a spare key. On another occasion, her mailbox had been opened, and her paltry pile of bills, flyers, credit card offers, and catalogs had been strewn about the foyer.

At the museum where she worked, items on her desk kept being moved. One day the phone would be at her right hand, the next, shifted to her left. One day she came in and found the top drawer locked-something she never did, because she didn’t keep anything remotely valuable inside.

Both at work and at her home, her phone would often ring once or twice, then stop. When she picked it up, it buzzed with a dial tone. And when she checked the caller identification, it came up with either a “private party” notation or a number she didn’t recognize. She tried hitting*69 several times to redial the incoming call, but each time got a busy signal or electronic interference.

She was unsure what to do. In her daily phone calls with both Sally and Scott, she described some of these things, but not all, because some seemed simply too bizarre to mention. Others seemed to be the sort of ordinary mishaps that plague life-such as when the professor in one of her graduate courses was unable to access her undergraduate transcript electronically, and computer services at her college were unable to discover why a series of blocks were on her files. They removed these, but only after considerable effort.

When Ashley rocked in her chair alone in her apartment, watching the night close in outside, she thought that everything was O’Connell and nothing was O’Connell. With her uncertainty came frustration, followed by outright anger.

After all, she kept insisting to herself, he had given his word. She kept telling herself this, even if she didn’t really believe one word of it. And the more she thought about it, the less reassuring it was.

Scott spent a restless night waiting for the package from Professor Burris at Yale to arrive by courier. Few things are more dangerous to an academic career than a charge of plagiarism, and Scott knew that he had to move swiftly and efficiently. His first step had been to find the box in his basement at home where he had stored all his notes for the piece for The Journal of American History. Then he had sent e-mail messages to the two students whom he’d enlisted three years earlier to help with the citations and research. He was lucky to have a contact address for both. He did not specify exactly what he had been accused of when he wrote them. He merely said that a fellow historian had asked some questions about the piece he’d authored, and he might need to rely upon their recollections of their work. It was just an effort to put them on alert, as he waited for the material in dispute to arrive on his doorstep.

It was all he could do.

He was at his desk at the college when the overnight deliveryman arrived, carrying a large envelope for Scott. He signed for it quickly and was just tearing into the envelope when the phone rang.

“Professor Freeman?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Ted Morris over at the college newspaper.”

Scott hesitated. “Are you in one of my classes, Mr. Morris? If so…”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“I’m quite busy. But what is it I can help you with?”

He could sense some reluctance in the momentary pause before the student replied.

“We have received a tip, an allegation really, and I’m just following it up.”

“A tip?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure that I follow,” Scott said, but this was a lie, because he knew exactly what was coming.

“There is an allegation, Professor, that you are engaged in a, well, for lack of a better phrase, an issue of academic integrity.” Ted Morris was being careful about what he said.

“Who told you that?”

“Ah, is that relevant, sir?”

“Well, it might be.”

“Apparently it came from a disgruntled graduate student at a Southern university. But that’s about all I can tell you.”

“I don’t know that I know any graduate students at any schools down South,” Scott said with a little false levity in his voice. “But ‘disgruntled’ is a description that unfortunately applies to just about every grad student at some point in their academic career. It pretty much goes with the territory, don’t you think, Ted?” He dropped the formal Mr. from the student’s name, just to underscore their respective roles. He had authority and power-or, at the very least, he wanted Ted Morris at the campus newspaper to think this.

Ted Morris paused and, to Scott’s immediate dismay, wouldn’t be distracted.

“But the question in front of us is simple. Have you been accused-”

“No one has accused me of anything. At least not that I know of,” Scott scrambled quickly. “Nothing that isn’t completely routine in academic circles-”

Scott took a long breath. He guessed that Ted Morris was writing down every word.

“I understand, Professor. Routine. But still, I think I should come speak with you in person.”

“I’m pretty busy. But I have office hours on Friday. Come by then.”

That would give him several days.

“We’re under some deadline pressure here, Professor.”

“I can’t help you on that. I’ve always discovered that rushed things are inevitably confused or, worse, erroneous.”

This was a bluff. But he needed to put off the student on the phone.

“Okay, Friday. And, Professor, one other thing.”

“What’s that, Ted?” he said with his most condescending voice.

“You should know that I string for the Globe and the Times. ”

Scott swallowed hard. “Well,” he said, affecting as much phony enthusiasm as he could, “that’s excellent. There are many fine stories on this campus that those papers should be interested in. Well, see you on Friday, then,” Scott said, hoping that he had deflected and obscured enough so that the student would simply wait until Friday before calling the city desk at either paper and with a few short words explode Scott’s entire career.

He hung up the telephone thinking that he had never thought he would be scared, no, terrified, of the sound of a student’s voice. Then he quickly bent to the material from Professor Burris, anxiety filling him as he read every word.

Hope went into the ladies’ room adjacent to the Admissions Office, knowing it was likely to be the one place on campus where she could be alone for a few moments. As the door shut behind her, she gave in to the turmoil within her and burst out in a deep, unbridled sob of despair.

The accusation against her had arrived at the dean’s office via an anonymous e-mail, claiming that Hope had cornered a student in a steamy section of the women’s locker room, just outside the showers, when the student was alone after a sports practice. The e-mail described how Hope had fondled the young woman’s breasts and reached for her crotch, while all the time whispering to the fifteen-year-old about the many advantages of sex with a woman. When the teenager had resisted the advances, Hope had threatened to manipulate the student’s grades if she ever complained to any authorities or to her parents. The e-mail ended by urging the school administration to “take whatever appropriate means necessary” to avoid a lawsuit, and perhaps criminal prosecution. It used such words as predatory and statutory rape along with homosexual enlistment to describe Hope’s behavior.

Not one word of it was true. Not one moment described in such near pornographic detail had ever occurred.