“Yes, and the data is promising. Twenty percent indicate they are more confident in the real world after self-actualization exercises in the virtual world. But I’m concerned that the line between reality and imagination is blurring for some.”

He frowned. “They’ve exhibited quantifiable depression or personality changes?”

“No. But they haven’t been required to test for depression or personality changes in the last month. Most of these subjects aren’t due for testing for another few weeks.”

He relaxed. “Then in another few weeks we’ll find out if they have a problem.”

Not soon enough for Martha Brisbane. She’s already dead. In a few weeks Christy Lewis might be unemployed. “We should be testing more frequently,” she said firmly.

“So you’ve noted many times,” he said, condescendingly. “And as I’ve attempted to explain to you each time, we need to use independent third-party testers to ensure our double-blind status. That costs money for the university and time for the subjects.”

“There is surplus in the test budget. I’ve kept careful track of spending.”

“You’d have subjects dropping like flies if they had to come in more frequently.”

“But sir,” she started and Donner lifted his hand.

“Miss Wilson,” he said sharply, then smiled, but somehow a smile never worked on his face. “Eve. Your graduate research could help a lot of people. Role play in the real world has long been used to help our patients improve self-esteem. It’s timely and relevant to explore using the virtual world of the Internet to do the same.”

Timely, relevant, and publishable. She lifted her chin. “I never intended our subjects to participate to the point of ignoring their real lives. We’re responsible for them.”

His smile vanished. “Your subjects signed a release indemnifying us from liability. We are not responsible. Don’t ever indicate that we are, spoken or written. I don’t have time for this. I have a class to teach at noon, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Eve didn’t move from her chair. “Dr. Donner, please. What if our subjects show evidence of depression, even… suicidal thoughts? What would we do then?”

“We’d ensure that subject was treated by an independent third-party therapist.”

Eve looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. Too late for Martha. “What if, hypothetically speaking, I knew one of our subjects was suicidal?”

“It’s moot,” he said coldly, warningly even. “You do not have that information.”

She looked up. His eyes were narrowed, daring her to continue. “But if I did?”

“Then you’d be facing discipline from the committee. Perhaps worse.”

Eve wanted to close her eyes, wanted to retreat back into the dark. But this was real. Martha was really dead. They might have seen it had they tested more frequently. I should have insisted. A year ago she’d been happy to have her research approved and funded. Rocking the boat hadn’t seemed worthwhile. The situation had changed.

She took the copy she’d printed of Martha’s death article from her notebook. “This was subject 92.” Keeping her hand perfectly steady, she handed it to him over his desk.

He stared at the page, then grabbed it. His face darkened and Eve’s throat closed. This was it. He’d throw her out of the program. Cancel her research.

“I think that if we’d tested her more often, we might have been able to get her help,” she said. “Her death is on my head, Dr. Donner. I don’t want any more suicides.”

Deliberately he dropped the sheet onto his shredder and hit the switch. Instantly the page was gone and with it any minute respect she’d held for Donald Donner.

“I never saw that,” he said. “You never saw it. Are we clear, Miss Wilson?”

Eve’s knees were shaking, but she’d be damned before she’d let him see it. “Crystal.”

For a long time she sat at her desk, staring at nothing, trying to figure out what to do.

What would Dana do? Dana Dupinsky Buchanan, one of the women who’d all but raised her in Hanover House, a Chicago shelter. Dana, who’d risked her freedom and her life helping battered women find hope and safety. Helping runaways like me.

Dana would do whatever was necessary to keep those people safe. So should I.

Maybe no more bad things would happen. But if they did… I’ll do what I need to do. She knew where every one of her subjects resided in Shadowland. Now she’d seek them out in the real world, right here in Minneapolis. Starting with Christy Lewis.

If Donner found out, she’d be finished. But I’d rather forfeit it all and be able to look in the mirror. She’d do what she needed to do, but smartly. If I’m lucky, nobody will ever know. Her subjects would be safe and Donner would get his precious published study.

Then she’d get a new advisor. But first, Christy. She’d watched Christy’s Gwenivere for weeks in the virtual world. It was time to set Christy straight in the real one.

Monday, February 22, 2:10 p.m.

Noah had expected Mrs. Kobrecki to look meaner. So when a sweet little old lady answered his knock, he had to swiftly control his surprise. “Mrs. Kobrecki?”

“You must be the detectives.” She opened the door wide. “Please, sit down.”

“Thank you,” Jack said with an engaging smile. “You’re a hard woman to reach.”

“My cellular phone battery was dead. I was away for the weekend and returned just this morning. I called you all as soon as I saw the crime scene tape. Poor Martha.”

“How long had you known Ms. Brisbane, ma’am?” Noah asked.

“Eight years. We had our differences, but I never dreamed she’d do this.”

“What kind of differences?” Noah probed with a sympathetic smile.

“Her apartment,” Mrs. Kobrecki said archly, as if it were obvious. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but that woman lived in total filth.”

Noah thought of Martha’s spotless apartment. “When did you last see her?”

“Week ago, Saturday. She was going out, which was odd. She didn’t go out often.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Jack asked.

“No.” Mrs. Kobrecki’s lips thinned.

“Did you have an argument, Mrs. Kobrecki?” Noah asked.

“Yes. I told her that if she didn’t clean her place, I’d evict her. She just ignored me. That woman made me so mad.” Then she sighed. “But I never would have wanted this.”

“Of course not,” Noah said soothingly. “Did you see when Martha returned home?”

“No. I would have been too angry to talk to her anyway.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“It’s routine, ma’am. We’re trying to establish a time of death. For her family.”

“Her mother probably won’t care what time Martha died.”

Noah feigned surprised concern. “Martha didn’t get along with her mother?”

“No, and I don’t know why. I once went up to yell at Martha about the mess. I heard her through the door, on the phone, yelling at her mother. She came to the door crying.”

“Did you hear what they were saying to each other?” Jack asked.

“Not really. I did hear Martha tell her mother she was doing it for her. I assumed she meant that was why she worked all the time and never visited her.”

“Was it normal for a week to pass without seeing her?” Noah asked.

“Sometimes I’d go a month without seeing her. I hadn’t planned to see her that night. I just ran into her at the door. I’d already decided to evict her before that last argument but my lawyer had told me to give her one more warning, and if she didn’t listen, then get photos of the mess. Her going out gave me the opportunity to do that.”

“Did you get the pictures?” Jack asked.

“Yes, after Martha left that evening. I don’t normally intrude on my tenants’ privacy, but I knew I needed to get her out or my whole place would be infested with roaches.”

Noah felt a spurt of triumph. “Can we get a copy of those pictures? For our files.”