“And?” Sydney says.

  Milo’s eyes cut toward her. “What?”

  “And you’re, like, the best student at the school, right?”

  Milo tries to look embarrassed, but he clearly enjoys the praise. “Well, I don’t know—”

  “No, I heard that too,” Duffy says. “Not only do you have a perfect GPA, but . . . what was it? The IQ test. Didn’t you get a one sixty-three or something like that? My roommate told me.”

  “It’s no big deal, man,” Milo says.

  “Oh, it is,” I say.

  “I agree,” says the captain. “Although those exams contain an inherent bias in favor of the white and the privileged.”

  “Well, if I were privileged, I wouldn’t be here taking this exam because I needed the money,” Milo says, “would I?”

  I quickly turn to the latest arrival, the woman in the cardigan sweater built for two. “And can you tell us your name?” I ask.

  She still stares at her heavy shoes, but her voice—a combination of the ethereal and the formal—says, “I’m Natalia Gomez, and I’m studying biology. Cellular biology to be exact. I’m kind of from Columbus, Ohio. I’m an honors student.” She lifts her head and focuses on Milo. “You were in my sophomore honors seminar last year.”

  Am I imagining it, or do Milo’s cheeks flush?

  “Was I? Oh, yeah. That was a cool seminar. Tough prof, though. That final paper nearly did me in.”

  “Well, Dr. Wyland is a stickler for citations and research.”

  Now I know. Everyone can see it. Milo’s face flushes. He says, “I didn’t think Wyland communicated what she wanted clearly. She was vague and not very approachable.”

  “She was eminently clear about how to use sources,” Natalia says, her small, acne-dotted chin thrust forward.

  I’m not sure where the conversation is going, so before Milo or anyone can say anything else, I say, “Great. I’m glad we’re not strangers anymore—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Captain Stephenson says. “Aren’t we supposed to have one more fellow?”

  I take in the little group jammed under the portico roof. “You’re right, Ja—Captain. There are supposed to be six fellows here. Plus, we’re still waiting on Nicholas Hyde.”

  I check my watch. Eight forty.

  “What’s going on over there?” Milo points toward the protestors.

  I turn and see another commotion at the barricade. A lot of gesturing and some booing.

  And then one of the police officers moves a sawhorse aside, and a young woman comes walking through, head held high, and starts toward our spot on the Hyde House portico.

  4

  ONE OF THE POLICE officers walks with the woman. It’s the campus police chief, Lonnie Rogers. He’s built like a fireplug, and his head is shaved, which makes it resemble a bullet. He’s closing in on sixty and has worked at Hyde for more than thirty years. Students and faculty alike call him Chief.

  “He’s arresting her,” Milo says, shaking his head. “Chief gives no quarter. Guy’s all over everybody.”

  “No, no,” Duffy says, “he’s escorting her.”

  “Chief will have a key to the house,” Sydney says. “He can let us in. Right?”

  “Good thinking,” I say. “Chief has a key to everything.”

  “That’s Emily Paine,” Natalia says. “She’s an English major. Creative writing, to be more precise. We both lived in Collins during our freshman and sophomore years.”

  “Oh,” Duffy says. “Emily.”

  “What does that mean?” Sydney asks.

  “Nothing. I just kind of know her.”

  “Then that’s our last student,” I say.

  Emily Paine wears glasses so big they obscure most of her face. She’s wearing a short-sleeved black dress and Doc Martens boots. Every exposed inch of her wiry, muscular arms is covered with tattoos, so many that I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Or maybe they’re all one giant image? The tattoo phenomenon among the students makes me feel older than my forty years.

  “Vice President Gaines,” Chief says, “this student is supposed to be here with you in Hyde House. She came walking up by those miscreants back there, so I decided to help her.”

  Chief stands with his thumbs hooked into his belt, like a marshal from a Western movie. Tough, capable, noble. “I’m sorry about that brick business. The perpetrator is being taken down to the city jail. We’re going to move these protestors back to the main road about a hundred yards so there won’t be any more trouble.”

  “Did they resist at all?” Captain Stephenson asks.

  “No, sir,” Chief says. “Just a kid who got carried away. Mob mentality does that to people. They make decisions they wouldn’t otherwise make.”

  Captain Stephenson nods along to every word Chief speaks.

  “What about freedom of speech, Chief?” Milo asks.

  Chief studies him for a moment, eyes squinted. “Reed, right? Milo Reed?”

  “That’s me.”

  “It’s been, what, about a year? I remember you. I saw your name on the list of fellows.”

  “The college dismissed your charges against me on appeal. I guess you can’t just go into any party without permission and start hassling students.”

  “Hassling, huh? Is that what you call it?”

  “Emily, why don’t you . . . ?” I wave at her, and she steps up onto the portico with us. “Emily, we understand you’re a creative writing major. Anything else we need to know about you?”

  Her owlish glasses have slipped down her nose, and she knuckles them back up. “I guess someone was talking about me.” She looks at Natalia, who stares at her feet again.

  “Actually,” I say, “I had a report on all of you from the college. Where are you from?”

  Emily is slow to answer, but then she says, “Montgomery, Alabama.”

  “Very good. And now that Chief is here, he can let us in.”

  “Rock on, Chief,” Duffy says.

  But Chief is shaking his bullet head back and forth, still staring at Milo, his lips pressed into a thin line. “No can do, friends.”

  “But you have a key to everything,” I say. “You probably have a key to my house and car.”

  Chief’s mouth turns up on one side, his version of a smile. “I do have a key to Hyde House. Of course. In fact, I was here early this morning letting campus catering inside. Then I locked the house behind them.”

  “So then let us in, Chief,” Sydney says. “I mean, like, you saw that giant brick come flying at us. Right?”

  “They won’t throw a brick when I’m standing here,” he says, his voice a tough-guy rasp. “And the bad apple has been plucked. Besides, as you know, Vice President Gaines, the Hyde Scholarship bylaws prohibit anyone from going inside the house until the arrival of the presiding member of the Hyde family. This isn’t my first rodeo and can’t any of us go against what the Hyde family wants. Especially today.” Chief checks his watch and sighs. “So . . . we wait.”

  I turn to the students. “Hold on one second. I need to ask the chief something.”

  Chief nods his head, and I step off the portico and walk about twenty feet into the yard with him. His leather gun belt creaks as we move, and I feel exposed and think again about flying bricks and Molotov cocktails. But the chief’s broad, stern presence eases my mind.

  We stop, and I say, “Chief, you’ve been here a long time. You know everybody. What are you hearing about Nicholas Hyde?”

  Chief nods sagely, his blue eyes cool and opaque. Like most police officers, he’s slow to reveal information. “I know he’s the sole heir now. His father, Theodore, died last year, of course. Ted was a stand-up guy.”

  “Indeed. The last four years when I’ve overseen the process, Ted was here representing the Hyde family. Now it’s going to be Nicholas.”

  “And he was close to his mother, and he lost her this past year too. A damn shame for him. We only get one mom. I never met Olivia Hyde. Did you?”

  “A couple of times, but she didn’t have much to do with the college since she was divorced from Ted.”

  Chief nods again. “I guess I hear what you hear about Nicholas. He’s young, about thirty. Rich, of course. Not married. No significant other. Kind of . . . What’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “ ‘Immature’?”

  “ ‘Entitled.’ Like some of our students.”

  “You mean Milo? Is he a troublemaker?”

  “We busted him at a party. Underage possession last year. Disturbing the peace. It went to the college disciplinary board, and he won on appeal. Said we didn’t have permission to go into the apartment.”

  “Oh.”

  “We used to run a tighter ship around here. Now the inmates are in charge.”

  “So back to Nicholas Hyde . . .”

  Chief’s voice is lower than before, even though there’s no way anyone can hear us. “You’ve seen his social media feed, right? Twitter?”

  “I have.”

  “I try to keep an open mind about people,” Chief says. “My policy is to get along with everyone, regardless of their political views. I’m sure Theodore Hyde wasn’t the most enlightened guy in the world, but he kept those views to himself. I guess I’m old-school, but young Mr. Hyde has spilled a lot of crazy conspiracy theories all over his feed this past year. It’s—how should I say this?—different.”

  “He’s young, like you said. He has time to grow out of it. That’s how I view the students.”

  Chief doesn’t seem convinced. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some substance-abuse issues there, Troy. Drinking. Drugs. Whatnot. That’s what my sources tell me about Nicholas Hyde.”

  “Really?”

  His sources? I imagine Chief meeting shadowy figures in dark parking garages to learn about campus intrigue. Signaling with flowerpots and chalk marks on mailboxes.

  Chief nods once again. “You’ve no doubt seen what’s been in the papers, right? About the Hyde Corporation?”

  “You mean that it’s hemorrhaging money?”

  “Sure. Look at these protestors. The fossil fuel industry is yesterday’s news. I used to own stock in GM, but I sold it. You were a business professor. You must have seen the writing on the wall.”

  “Yeah, sure. But the Hyde family has moved away from fossil fuels. They’ve branched out into a little of everything over the years. Retail, green energy, some manufacturing.”

  “Some would call that being overextended. Or overleveraged.”

  The protestors seem to have lost some steam. A few continue to chant. Others talk or look at their phones. One stands off to the side, exhaling a plume of smoke from a vaping pen. The two police officers manning the barricade appear relaxed, almost bored.

  “You know, it won’t be good at all for the college if the Hyde family money disappears,” Chief says. “They’re about all that’s keeping this place propped up. And if it’s in the hands of someone . . . let’s say . . . unreliable . . .”

  “You’re right about that. I’m not crazy about the whole house of cards being built on the efforts of one partying thirtysomething. I wish I had a better read on him.”

  Chief’s voice is even lower now. I lean closer to hear what he says and catch the scent of coffee and cigars.

  “Keep this under your hat, but I’m thinking of retiring soon. Like I said, it’s not like the old days, when we all received a little more respect. You know, the college is talking about trimming pension benefits. I’ve been here too long to take a hit on that. Those catering folks I let in today, some of their colleagues have been laid off. Groundskeepers, maintenance crews. A lot of people aren’t happy about the way things are going.”

  “The administration is doing everything it can to keep the school operating.” I hear the defensiveness in my voice. And I know Chief does too.

  “I mean no offense. And I know you’re one of the good ones, trying to look out for the employees and the students. But President Chan . . . she’s sharpening up that budget scalpel. Everybody’s going to get a haircut. And it seems to disproportionately affect the folks who do the dirty work around campus. The landscapers, the cleaners, the cooks, the cops.”

  “It’s not that, Chief—”

  “Hey, my two boys are finished with college, the house is paid off, so my work is done.”

  I get a jealous twinge in my chest. My house is nowhere near being paid off. My daughters—all three of them—haven’t even started college. And I can’t conceive of a way to pay for them all to go unless I win the lottery. The discount I’d get as a Hyde employee is only fifty percent. Fifty percent of private college tuition times three is still a lot.

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out, Chief.”

  “I see bad things rising around here. I’m trying to play a stronger hand.”

  “Do you know anything else about . . . ?”

  My voice trails off. Chief is staring past me in the direction of Hyde Lane. He lifts his chin, and I turn that way.

  A jet-black BMW pulls up to the barricade, music thumping from behind its tinted windows.

  “Looks like our guest of honor has graced us with his presence,” Chief says.

  5

  THE BARRICADE PARTS, AND the black car rolls through and heads our way.

  As it pulls into the small parking lot, I leave Chief behind and make a beeline that way, where the music continues to thump, and the door of the BMW stays closed.

  The students remain on the portico, and six sets of eyes follow me as I approach the car. When I get there, I wait.

  The door is still closed. After a few moments, the music stops—mercifully—but the door stays shut. Chief has taken up a position near the students, thumbs hooked in his belt Old West–style again. His posture says, Don’t look at me for help on this one. I can handle brick throwing, but not wealthy donors.

  Finally, the door opens a crack. Then Nicholas Hyde places an expensive brown leather boot against the door and kicks out, and the door swings all the way open. He glances up at me, an astronaut just splashed down to earth. His face is pale, his thick dark hair in disarray. He squints.

  “Man, it’s bright,” he says.

  “It’s good to see you again, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas places his hands on either side of the doorframe and, after a moment’s pause, pushes himself out of the car. He wears a blue suit and a pink shirt, the collar open with everything wrinkled as though he drove a long way or slept in the clothes. He’s an inch taller than I am, and since the last time I saw him a year earlier, he has developed a sizable paunch that spills over his belt. Stubble dots his face, and I want to believe it’s a fashion statement and not slovenliness. But I can’t tell.

  He holds out his hand, and we shake. His skin is clammy, like a dead fish.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice full of a wealthy man’s hail-fellow-well-met jauntiness. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Troy Gaines,” I say, assuming my name will trigger a look of recognition. Which it doesn’t. “Vice president for institutional development for the college. We toured campus together in the fall, and you might remember we discussed the One Hundred More Initiative.”

  Nicholas studies my face for a moment, then nods. “Right, Gaines. Yes. You sent me an e-mail or something.”

  “I did. I sent you quite a few.”

  “Right. You and the president . . . What’s his name again?”

  “Her. Grace Chan.”

  “Yeah, she wrote to me a lot too.”

  The wind has shifted slightly, blowing from behind Nicholas. I catch a whiff of recently smoked cigarettes, and alcohol appears to be oozing out of his pores. He’s looking over my shoulder, so I turn.

  “Ah,” he says, “Hyde House.”

  From where we stand, the house shows only its glory. We’re too far to see the fading bricks, the chipped paint. The tarnished knobs and ancient wiring.

  “It’s quite a legacy your family has created here,” I say. “I was hoping to speak to you about some—”

  Nicholas Hyde brushes past me and goes to the rear of the BMW. He opens the trunk with the key fob, which makes a high-pitched beep, and reaches inside, bringing out a sleek leather briefcase. He also removes a phone from his pocket.

  “We spoke in the past about the One Hundred More Initiative,” I say, “and I thought if you’re free for dinner—”

  He’s tapping at his phone. “Okay, yeah . . . I think this is all okay now. . . .”

  “—if you’re free—”

  Nicholas’s face contorts with concentration. He lets out a deep breath. “Yeah . . . okay . . . I think this is ready to go.”

  “Did you need help with something?”

  He tosses the phone into the trunk and slams the lid. “Not anymore.”

  “Did you hear what I said about dinner? If you’re—”

  This time I’m interrupted by shouting from behind the barricade. The protestors have apparently figured out who Nicholas is, and they have resumed their chanting—and it’s even louder than it was before when it reached its crescendo with the thrown brick.

  Chief gestures to his fellow officers, but I don’t know what anyone can do about the noise. I agree with Milo—the students do have the right to protest and say whatever they want. Even if they’re making it that much more difficult for me to do my job and schmooze with the college’s most important donor.

  Nicholas is past me, walking toward the house and the students, so I hustle to catch up. “I’m sorry about the protestors over there. It’s a small number of students and doesn’t reflect the way the college community feels about your family and their contributions to the campus.”

  Nicholas nods toward the barricades. “What’s that?” he asks.

  “The students. The protestors. Actually, I doubt they’re all students. They think . . . Well, never mind.”