Three days later the text came at 11:17 p.m.

One line. An address I didn’t recognize. A time: now.

I was already reaching for my keys before I finished reading it.

The place turned out to be a quiet side-street apartment building near campus, the kind faculty sometimes kept for late work or quieter nights. The outer door was unlocked. His door was ajar. I stepped inside and locked it behind me the way I had learned to.

Professor Hale stood by the window with his back to me, sleeves rolled, a glass of something dark in his hand. The only light came from a single lamp. When he turned,...