Grey Zone by Clea Simon Read Free Book Online

going on, and whatever it is, it probably has nothing to do with the department or last year’s course. She was a frosh, then. A baby. They cruise concentrations like . . . like . . . mayflies.’
    It wasn’t like Lloyd to mix a metaphor. ‘Lloyd, you know something else, don’t you?’ The sense of dread had settled into her stomach, cold and hard. ‘Tell.’
    â€˜It’s probably nothing.’
    â€˜Lloyd . . .’
    â€˜OK, like I said, it’s probably nothing. But I think there might be a connection to our own little mystery.’
    â€˜ Lloyd !’
    â€˜Dimitri.’ Lloyd said their colleague’s name like it was obvious. ‘I mean, he went absent today, too. And I think he may have been tutoring her.’
    â€˜In English?’ Dimitri had only transferred to the department the past year. But her confusion was a small price to pay for the wave of relief that washed over her.
    â€˜Hey, even non-concentrators have got to take a few classes, right? Chaucer?’
    â€˜Actually not,’ Dulcie admitted. Lloyd had come from Yale, and, in comparison, Dulcie was a little embarrassed for her Alma Mater. Besides, Dimitri’s area of expertise – the hard-boiled detective fiction of the 1920s and ’30s – barely overlapped with the basic canon. ‘But, maybe she took something for fun. His noir seminar or something. At any rate, are you sure?’
    â€˜No, I’m not. But I seem to recall him saying her name. And he’d just arrived. Maybe he got saddled with her somehow.’
    â€˜Could you find out?’
    â€˜Yeah, sure. I think I’ve still got those assignments in my email.’ He reached for his laptop and, in the process, knocked over a travel mug. ‘Damn!’
    Dulcie leaped up and reached for the pile of blue books. Lloyd, meanwhile, pulled a cache of paper napkins from a drawer and began mopping his desk.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Lloyd. I shouldn’t distract you.’ Dulcie placed the blue books on the dry side of the desk. ‘Besides, you’ve given me an idea.’
    As Lloyd left the office to fetch some paper towels, Dulcie powered up her own laptop. Email – of course – the modern equivalent of the telegram. In general, Dulcie tried to avoid contacting students electronically. Not because of the illusion of accessibility it created, although Dulcie had heard enough grumbling to know that some undergrads did think their tutors should be available 24/7. No, for her, it was the strange lack of affect in an email. However, in this case . . .
    Or was she copping out? Even a phone message had more emotion in it. A few clicks settled it. The university directory listed an email for a Carrie A. Mines, but no phone. Off-campus students weren’t on the university exchange. Just as well, Dulcie told herself. The police would have tried to call. And in truth, she admitted as she opened a new window, she didn’t want to phone the girl. What would she say to a student she hadn’t seen in a year? Email would be perfect.
    Hi Carrie , she typed. Don’t know if you remember me, but I wanted to touch base. Is everything OK? As Lloyd came back, a wad of damp towel in his hand, she hit send, and then opened another note.
    Corkie – Sorry to have missed you. We have midterm reports due! Let’s resched? Simple, sweet, and to the point. But no blinking reply came, and she was still staring at the screen when Lloyd, with a loud sigh, dumped the coffee-colored towels in the wastebasket. He looked harried, and although she had grading of her own, Dulcie sensed he’d be happier by himself. Besides, sending those emails had freed her.
    â€˜So, Corkie isn’t coming back, right?’ He nodded, distracted.
    â€˜Great!’ She jumped up and grabbed her bag. This time, she meant it.
    Halfway up the stairs, she paused to thumb in the digits. Corkie was a