Oh God. 'Do I have blackberries on my mouth?' She lifted a napkin, wiped.

'No, no.' Ron laughed. 'I'm just enjoying myself. Actually taking a break.'

Harper reddened, lifted her cup, looked away. She changed the subject. 'How long will Anna sleep?'

Anna, after all, was the reason they'd gone for coffee, but so far neither had mentioned her.

Ron looked at his watch. 'Not long.'

'I should go let her know I'm here-'

'No rush. They need to talk to her when she gets up.'

Harper recalled the suddenness of Anna's fall. 'I've never known anyone with narcolepsy. I thought she just was bored and dozed off in class.'

'Bored?' Ron feigned disbelief. 'In your class?'

Harper grinned.

'Actually, Anna's falling asleep in class indicates the opposite of boredom. Narcoleptics tend to have episodes when they feel intense emotion.'

Intense emotion? As in a crush on a classmate? 'Anna said there's no cure.'

'No. But there are ways to ease symptoms. Napping regularly. Taking medications.' Maybe Anna hadn't been taking her pills.

Well, for that matter, neither had Harper. She hadn't taken her flashback medication for weeks. But talk of pills reminded Harper of the vial in Graham's book bag. Maybe Ron would know what it was.

'Let me ask you something.' She unzipped the bag, took it out.

'What's that?' Ron set his cup down.

'Graham a my student a had these with him when he died.' She held the bottle out. 'The label says they're from the Neurology Center. There's a number, but no doctor or drug name. Can you tell what they are?'

'These were with him when he died?' Ron frowned.

'Here in his book bag.'

The frown deepened. He opened the vial and looked inside. 'Is this the only bottle he had?'

She nodded. 'Why?'

Ron took a pill out, studied it. 'I just . . . I'm wondering how he got hold of these.'

'Why? What are they?'

'I'm not sure. There's no pharmaceutical code on this. It might be from a drug trial.'

A drug trial? Anna had said that her classmates were participating in drug research. 'So maybe Graham was taking part in a trial? That would explain why he had them, right?'

Silence. Dr Kendall turned the pill in his hand.

Harper pressed on. 'Actually, I thought they might be medicine. For depression, maybe. Or some condition that would explain what happened-'

'No. If your student did have a condition, these pills weren't to treat it. The vial is labeled, see?' He pointed to the marking: RKM93. 'It looks like the code number for a study.' Ron set the pill on a napkin. 'So, what do you plan to do?'

To do? Oh, with the pills. Harper shrugged. 'I'll give them to the police with the rest of his stuff.'

Ron folded his hands.

'Is there a problem?'

'No, of course not.' Ron looked from Harper to the pill, then back to Harper. 'Look. Actually, Harper, I'd like to ask a favor-'

Chelsea appeared, refilling their cups. And Harper saw Ron wrap the pill in a napkin and stuff it into the pocket of his bike shorts.

'What's the favor?' Harper eyed his pocket, about to ask him what he thought he was doing.

Ron leaned across the table, came close enough to whisper. Reflexively, Harper backed away, unaccustomed to close contact with men in Spandex. 'I want to take that pill with me, so I can identify it.' He sat back, waiting for her answer.

What he said made sense. After all, the things needed to be identified, and he was taking just one. She still had the rest of the vial for the police.

'OK. Take it.' She didn't mention that he already had.

Ron didn't seem satisfied. He fidgeted with his spoon, scowling.

'What?'

He met her eyes. 'To be honest, I'm concerned about the police getting that vial. The suicide is all over the news, and the kid had the pills with him when he died. It's going to be a disaster if the media get a hold of that tidbit.'

'I don't follow.'

'Harper, the media blow everything out of proportion. It's what they do. Don't you see? If these pills are part of a drug trial, and a test subject suddenly kills himself, that means some real bad publicity.'

'You're worried about publicity?'

Ron's eyes were fiery. 'You bet I am. I have to be.' He drew a deep breath. 'Harper, this death was a terrible tragedy. And I'd like to avoid even the slightest implication that a drug from the Center had anything to do with it. We need to keep a low profile here.'

Harper was appalled. 'You're worried about public image? A student is dead-'

'Exactly. And if these pills in any way contributed to his death, then no question, that needs to be and will be addressed.' Ron folded his hands. 'But if, as I suspect, the pills are benign and completely unrelated, I'd prefer a I'd strongly prefer a to keep the Neurological Center out of the news entirely.'

Harper looked away, confused. Ron Kendall was the man she trusted with her husband's brain a with his life. But what kind of man was this ambitious third-generation doctor? What exactly was he asking her to do?

Harper looked directly at him. 'To be frank, Dr Kendall, it sounds like you care less about a student's life than the Center's reputation-'

'Now, hold on.' His voice was too loud. He stopped, lowered it, leaning close. 'You of all people know that isn't true. My entire career is about saving lives. Which is why, despite my sorrow about your student, I've got to look at the big picture.'

'The what?'

'The Center is privately funded, completely dependent on grants and donations. And our work is unparalleled. Our research a like that on frontal lobe injuries affecting your husband and thousands of war veterans a our advances on learning and memory a nobody in the country a nobody in the world does what we do.'

He reached for his cup. Picked it up, put it back down. 'Harper, I might sound cold, but I'm assistant director of research here. So, yes, I'm concerned, very concerned, about publicity and its effects on our funding. And, frankly, with your husband here, you should be, too. We'd both hate like hell to see the Center's financing sabotaged and our work halted by misleading bad press.' His eyes glowed gold.

Harper saw his point. But not what, if anything, he wanted her to do about it.

They sat silently. Harper looked at pie crust, avoided his eyes.

'Sorry I got upset. But these are tough economic times, and we depend entirely on-'

'Right. I get it,' Harper interrupted. 'You can't afford bad press. But you can't expect me to hide the pills-'

'No, of course not.' Ron seemed startled by the thought. 'I wouldn't ask you to. No. The only way to avoid bad press is for me to hurry up and identify this.' He tapped his pocket. 'If it played no role in your student's death, that'll be the end of it. If it did, well, the Center will have to deal with it.' Ron's eyes focused on Harper. 'I shouldn't have even bothered you about this. It's not your problem.' He reached across the table, touching her arm.

It was just a touch, but it brought goose bumps, jolted her. She looked away, made herself think of Hank. Pictured him upstairs in his sterile room, watching daytime television. Or napping, awaiting his next procedure.

Ron gave her arm a squeeze; Hank's image fizzled away.

'Ready to go?' He released her arm. His hand retreated across the table, picked up the check. She could still feel its warm imprint.

Stop it, she scolded herself. She'd been starved of male companionship for too long. Ron's concern, his request to identify the medication a their coffee and conversation a were purely professional. His touch had been a normal human gesture, nothing more.

'Ready.' Harper gathered first her bulky bag, then Graham's, and slid out of the booth, careful not to knock anything on to the floor.

Paycheck in his pocket, Larry sat in the coffee shop, popped a couple of his remaining pills and thought about what he was going to do. Graham, the fuckhead, had really screwed him. Screwed them all. Right after the cops stopped asking questions, Larry had raced home and searched the apartment, turned Graham's toilet of a room upside down, hadn't found a thing. Dammit, where had Graham stashed them?

Larry rubbed his eyes, fought a headache while considering the chick in the corner booth. Long dark hair, tattoo on her ankle. Low-cut halter top. He could see a mole on the top of one tit. But then, while he was picturing what he'd do to that mole, to his sheer astonishment, in walked his Archeology teacher. And guess what?

She was carrying fucking Graham's fucking book bag.

His book bag. Shit. The asshole. He must have stuck the numbers in his book bag. Of course. Larry had looked every-place else and found zip; they had to be in the book bag.

Actually, the Loot looked pretty messed-up. Her clothes were muddy and her hair was all clumped. But she was so into the bike guy she was with that she walked right past Larry, didn't even notice him sitting just a couple of booths away. The babe in the corner didn't seem to notice him, either. Just as well. He didn't need anyone to remember him being there, not if he was going to get his hands on those numbers. Damn Graham. Couldn't he at least have handed them over before he took a leap?

Larry glanced at the Loot's back, wondering if she'd found them, if she had even a clue what they were, if there was a way to get the bag from her. Shit. Shit shit shit. He reached in his pocket, took another pill from an almost empty vial, popped it into his mouth, felt his anger building. The chick, meantime, was annoying him. She was the kind who knew she was hot, wearing tiny cut-offs and fancy jeweled flip-flops, leaving her long legs bare. Flaunting that damned tattoo. She was playing him, telling guys like him: Look at me, want me, but don't even think about getting close.

He was, though, thinking about doing exactly that. Getting close enough to bite off her little mole. The idea tickled him, and he was picturing it when the waitress came by, changing the other chick's entire future.

See, there was something about waitresses. He'd studied them, had become an unofficial expert, and he'd discovered that waitresses were like spiders, luring you into their fine, almost invisible traps. Supposedly, they were there to take care of you and bring you food, but really they were trying to entice you so you'd give them your money. They teased, wagging their hips, batting their eyelashes, pretending to be your friend. Until they got what they wanted.

'Hi, I'm Chelsea,' this one announced. 'I'll be your server.'

His server? He smiled, imagining it. Indeed, Chelsea, you will be my server, but not yet. Asking, 'What would you like?' with her eyes opened all round and innocent, as if she had no idea what he would like, even though she wore a tight black skirt with a shirt unbuttoned to her cleavage. She did it on purpose, using her tits to tease him so she'd get a big tip. Well, the teasing worked. He had a big tip, and he'd give it to her. But not now.

Now, he ordered a root beer float and took one more pill while he watched her waltz from booth to booth in her black leather sneakers. Her hair was the color of straw, and she had it pulled back off her face, maybe trying to keep cool. But forget being cool. This one generated steam, enough to power a factory. The idea amused him; he chuckled out loud as she put the float in front of him.

'Anything else, sir?'

See how she was messing with him? Calling him 'sir'. As if she were the cat and he the mouse, not the other way around. Her eyes were blue, her lashes blonde, almost white, so they glistened. Her lipstick was faint, almost worn off, and when her mouth moved, he could see the tiniest chip on her front tooth. She stood beside him, and he wanted her to stay there, so he pretended to be thinking about her question, but really he was smelling her, inhaling her. He took in a breath, analyzing it. What was in her scent? Something powdery. And vanilla? He shut his eyes briefly, concentrating, penetrating the superficial aroma, seeking her underlying, genuine scents. Finding them. Yes, there they were a dark, musky, sweaty a the smell of tired skin bound up in tight, confining clothes, of hot and aching feet snug inside black leather. Of private places, simmering, festering, never exposed to light.

Clearing his throat, stalling, he snuck a peak at her chest; it was right there at eye level, and he saw a swelling of flesh, a tiny edge of beige lace. Freckles. But he couldn't linger there, didn't want her to notice him yet. So quickly, deftly, he moved his eyes to her hands. She had long nails, probably fake, painted dark, decorated with rhinestones. Seriously? Rhinestones?

She was so close.

'So, you're all set?' She was taunting him.

Again, he cleared his throat, counting the gold rings on each of her fingers, even her thumbs, rings spattered with small colored stones that sparkled when her hands moved, flashing red, yellow, blue, purple, as she waited for him to answer.

She was, after all, his server.

Stop, he told himself. Be cool. He wanted to take her right then, but instead he raised his glass and took a long suck on his straw, reminding himself to stay invisible. Not to draw attention. So he gave her a casual, forgettable smile. 'Yup, Chelsea. That'll do it.'

'Thanks.' She scribbled on her notepad, ripped the page off and dropped his check on to his table. 'Have a great day now.' With that, she pivoted, showing him her backside, working it just a little as she approached a guy in the booth behind his teacher and the bike man. Seeing them made him think of his predicament. The problem of getting Graham's bag. Damn. He had to make a plan, had to get out of here and think. Teacher's back was to him; no chance she'd look his way. Time to move.

'Hi, I'm Chelsea,' he heard as he stood and moved behind her, unable to resist brushing her body lightly as he passed, feeling her heat, inhaling a final deep breath of her. 'What can I get you?'

Her body swayed slightly, sensing him, moving in response. Excellent. He lowered his head, walking swiftly, pretending he wasn't there. On the way to the cashier, he passed the dark babe in the corner and slowed, grabbing one final gander at her legs. Her skin was tawny, but by no means as tantalizing as Chelsea's. No contest. He'd made his choice.

Her smell was still in his nostrils as he left the coffee shop and walked across the lobby, invisible, blending in, waiting. Planning all the stuff he had to do.

Half an hour later, Harper sat at her desk in the cramped, tiny office she'd been assigned for the summer. Olive Tjaden Hall was on the corner of the Arts Quad; her small window on the top floor provided a skinny view of the hills, the edge of town and a sliver of Lake Cayuga. She gazed at the thin slice of calm water, thinking positive thoughts, imagining being out there, sailing away from suicide, narcolepsy, flashbacks and blistering heat. But she wasn't out there. She was here on the blistering fourth floor, and she had email to answer and a eulogy to prepare. Christ. A eulogy? Here? This wasn't a war zone. Kids weren't supposed to die in Ithaca.

Email was easier, so Harper started with that. Her adviser, Professor Schmerling, had written from Peru; he and the research team still regretted that she'd been unable to join them on the dig. He hoped her husband was recovering and that she could accompany him next time. Photographs and notes related to her dissertation were attached.

Lord. Her doctoral thesis? Was he serious? How was she supposed to do a dissertation? Dr Schmerling, the dig a her career plans a everything seemed out of reach. Harper closed her eyes, felt the rush of air from her office fan. Saw Graham's eyes locked on to hers as he hung from the ledge. Would that image ever fade? Would her flashbacks ever stop? Would life ever feel normal again?

Actually, for a little while that day, it had. In the coffee shop with Dr Kendall a Ron. Sitting in the booth having coffee, talking, tasting each other's pie, she'd felt almost normal. Like part of a couple. Harper felt a pang, missing Hank. She pictured him puttering in the kitchen, grinding beans for coffee so strong it had blasted her out of the house, made her talk fast and tremble for hours. Now, without it, she drank chai. Man, that had been good coffee.

But, today, coffee had been with someone else. Ron had been easy to talk to. Not just about Anna's narcolepsy or the pills in Graham's bag, but about anything acareers, sports, education. Good Lord, she'd even talked about her father. The only topic they hadn't touched on, actually, was the most obvious one, the one that linked them.

Well, of course they hadn't. They hadn't mentioned Hank because they had already discussed him a thousand times. It wasn't as if she'd done anything wrong. She'd had a piece of pie; that was all. OK, not all. She'd had whipped cream on top. But whipped cream wasn't the issue. The issue was that, for almost an hour, she hadn't had to struggle to be thankful or positive; she'd simply enjoyed herself. Was that so wrong?

No. Except enjoying herself wasn't the issue, either. The real issue was neither food nor fun; it was that she'd had both with a man. A man who wasn't Hank.

Ron wasn't even close to being Hank, didn't remotely resemble him. Yet, when he spoke, Ron's easy words underlined Hank's inability to speak. The lightness of his eyes brought to mind the darkness of Hank's, and his elegant, smooth hands emphasized the roughness of Hank's hairier, calloused ones. Everything about Ron was un-Hank-like, and his presence across the table from Harper screamed of Hank's absence. Sitting with him, chatting and eating pie, Harper had fought the heart-wrenching sense that she was glimpsing her future: going places Hank couldn't, doing things he couldn't. Without him.

Harper drew a breath. She needed to write a eulogy. To think about Graham's loss, its affect on her students. Anna, apparently, was OK; she'd awakened, been checked out and left the clinic before Harper had finally looked in on her. But what about the others? What should she say to them? Maybe she should consult Dr Michaels, the 101 lecturer. But, to him, Graham had been just one of a hundred students. He hadn't even known his name.

No, never mind Dr Michaels. She was on her own. She needed an opening sentence: Graham's life was . . . She searched for a metaphor. A glimmer of light? A breeze? A brief but gentle touch. She thought of Ron's hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the coffee shop. No, Graham's life wasn't like that. It was like something else a a tease, a riddle . . .

'Loot? You in there?' Someone knocked at the door. 'Loot? It's Larry.'

Larry? Good. Poor kid, seeing his room-mate kill himself. He probably wanted to talk. She hurried to the door. 'Larry. Come in.'

Larry didn't. He stood in the doorway, cracking his knuckles. The heat of the day hadn't improved his scent; sweat stained his T-shirt.

'Are you OK?'

He shrugged, eyes averted. 'Yeah. It's . . . weird.'