She hoped.

  She had been worried about just this type of eruption earlier today, and she felt wholly unprepared to deal with it. She could get her people through this change as long as the worst that happened was an occasional swear word during a Socratic dialogue about the pros and cons of the new course of study. She was way over her head if violence became the norm. Truth was, she was as bothered by the fight as Kent seemed to be, and she desperately wanted to hide that fact from the sergeant.

  “Besides,” she continued, “bloody hallway is an exaggeration. I was the only one who was bleeding, and that was pretty much contained to my shirt.” She gestured at the front of her, making the mistake of looking down at her bloodstained hand and top. She swallowed tightly and forced her attention away from the sight.

  “Yes, but next week it might be two professors who are better at throwing punches. Do you really want another innocent bystander to get hit then? Or worse?”

  Tig didn’t answer because Kent already knew what she’d say. Of course she didn’t want that to happen.

  Kent nodded, as if content to have proved her point. “So, our two boxers. Are they members of opposing factions? Separate alliances? Warring city-states?”

  Tig tried to give her a look of contempt, but in reality, the third option captured the feeling she had while trying to unite her faculty. One side had been subsumed by the other—well, technically, one side had won the war and the other had no choice but to accede. Athens and Sparta were pretending to coexist. “Chase Davies has been opposed to the new department, and Kamrick Morris has been for it.”

  In truth, Davies had been one of the most fanatical of the opponents, surprising her with his vehemence at times, when he had always seemed pretty easy-going and cheerful. Morris had been neutral for the most part, until he realized which side was winning, then he offered his lukewarm support as if he’d been one of the proponents the entire time.

  Kent watched her silently, as if guessing that Tig was glossing over the details. “And the one who hit you?” she asked after a pause.

  “Well, he didn’t really mean to…I got in the way, and it was an accident.”

  “Davies,” Kent said, making another note.

  “He seemed sorry,” Tig offered. It was a weak defense, but he was one of her professors and her loyalty had to be toward him and not anyone outside their department. Of course, that didn’t mean she was going to be all sweet and forgiving the next time she and Chase had a chance to speak in private, without the cops listening in.

  “One more question. There were two people in the audience who didn’t seem to fit the mold of either classics professors or students. One wearing all black, the other in bright clothes. Do you know who they are?”

  Damn it. Kent had managed to spot the two people Tig had been most upset to see at Denny Hall’s impromptu spectacle. Did she have to answer? Couldn’t she plead the Fifth, or whatever it was they said on legal dramas?

  “I have all day,” Kent said. “You, however, have a short window of time before your nose sets and you have to live with that bump. And constant snoring.”

  Without making a conscious decision to do so, Tig reached up to feel her nose, which seemed as straight as it always had been. She figured Kent was lying, and that she didn’t really have a fracture, and that there was no real statute of limitations on fixing it if she did, but she chose to answer anyway. For one, she really wanted to get her hands on some painkillers. Also, almost anyone else in Denny would be able to identify the two people for Kent.

  She reluctantly gave their names. “Max Adel is CEO and owner of SEATRINT, an international trading company that offers a full scholarship to outstanding students who are classics majors, and we have usually one or two recipients every year. Samiya Ayari is one of the people who have been involved in implementing the new department. She was an external member of the steering committee and a visiting professor here a couple of years ago, and she’ll be joining our faculty starting next quarter. She was a professor at UC Berkley, but she’s been in Tunisia on sabbatical until she starts teaching here. She comes to UW every month or so, and she’s here for a week this time to help finalize the curriculum and manage the logistics of office space, classrooms, and so on.”

  Kent took rapid notes. “And you’re not happy that the two of them witnessed today’s fight,” she commented without looking up. She didn’t seem to be asking a question that needed answering, so Tig stayed silent. She desperately needed the support of both Max and Sami, and she wanted their respect. Max’s financial contributions to the department were significant, and Sami was going to be Tig’s Vice Director and colleague. Plus, even though Tig hadn’t spent much time with her socially when she had taught at the U, she felt a kinship with Sami that she knew would easily turn into friendship. She felt a growing pressure behind her eyes, and she carefully rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ease her growing headache.

  Kent suddenly tucked her notebook away and stood up. “We need to get you to the ER now. I might contact you in the future if I have any more questions, but honestly, I hope I don’t see you again, except to nod hello if we pass on campus sometime. I want to go back to ignoring Denny Hall because the people working inside it keep their noses clean and their hands off each other. Can you try to make that happen?”

  Tig nodded. She wanted nothing more than to get her department off Kent’s radar. And once everything here was under control, maybe they would pass on campus sometime. Maybe they’d say hello, or stop and chat. Go get coffee together. In the future when everything in Tig’s world didn’t seem so fragile. For now, staying as far away from each other as possible seemed like the best course of action.

  “I’ll do my best, Sergeant.”

  “Good.” Kent walked over to the door and opened it, sticking her head outside. “I see you down there, Professor Hart. Get in here.”

  She stepped back again, and Libby walked into the office. “I work in this building, you know,” she said to Kent with a scowl.

  “I know you do. And if you can make time in your busy schedule of skulking in hallways, I’d like you to take Professor Weston to the hospital to get her nose checked and to make sure she doesn’t have a concussion.”

  “A concussion?” Libby repeated, looking at Tig with a worried expression. “Was she punched that hard?”

  “I didn’t think so, but she’s acting a little…erratic.”

  “Hey,” said Tig, annoyed with both of them for talking about her like she wasn’t in the room. And not very politely, either. “I’m perfectly…” Un-erratic? No, that sounded silly and would add evidence to Kent’s unfair diagnosis.

  “Stable,” Libby offered before turning her attention back to Kent. “That’s just Tig. I’m sure she’s all right.”

  “Still, doesn’t hurt to check. I’ll call ahead and let them know to expect you.” Kent looked at Tig and tapped her radio with a fingernail. “I don’t want to hear the phrase Denny Hall on this thing again, okay?”

  She left the office without another word, and Tig didn’t throw the bust of Homer at the back of her head. A successful truce.

  “Come on, then,” Libby said with a sort of forced cheerful tone. Tig knew her friend must have been worried about her, and she figured the lurking in the hall was as much to be there if Tig needed her as it was to be on hand during the course of even a minor investigation. “Do you need to hold my arm for support, or can you walk?”

  “Of course I can walk. Davies hit my nose, not my legs,” Tig said, hoping she wouldn’t embarrass herself after that statement by toppling over as soon as she tried to stand. She felt much steadier on her feet, though. The few minutes of rest and the anger she had felt toward Kent over her casual dismissal of Tig’s department seemed to have joined forces to banish Tig’s momentary weakness.

  She buttoned her blazer, trying to hide as much of the blood as she could, and frowned at Libby. “And what the hell did you mean when you said That’s just Tig. What’s just Tig?”

  Libby shrugged. “You’re sort of scattered. We find it endearing, but Kent must have misinterpreted it as the result of a blow to the head.”

  Tig picked up her scuffed leather messenger bag. “Well, I wish you hadn’t told her that.”

  “It’s cute. And why do you care what she thinks, anyway?” Libby paused, and her expression visibly brightened. “Unless you…say, did you notice any fireworks while the two of you were talking?”

  Tig scoffed. What a ridiculous question. She might have felt a sparkler or two while sitting here in such close quarters with Kent, but who could blame her? Kent’s uniform fit really well. She wasn’t about to admit anything of the sort to Libby, though.

  “By fireworks, do you mean beautiful multicolored lights cascading through the night sky or a rocket that goes off while you’re still holding it and takes off a few of your fingers, and then your friends have to try to find them and put them in a baggie of ice in the hope that the doctors will be able to sew them back on at the hospital?”

  “Um, the first one.”

  “Sorry, then, but no. She has no idea what it’s like, trying to hold this department together while it’s falling to pieces around me. She thinks we should just shut it down. Shut it down! Can you imagine a university without a Classics Department? What would I do?”

  Tig’s last question was delivered with a bit of a wail, which would have made Kent underline the word erratic in her little notebook if she’d been here to hear it. Tig’s words were telling, as she moved in one stream of thought from bemoaning the decline of classics as a symbol of scholarship and tradition in a university setting to her too real fear that her career, her passion, was becoming obsolete.

  Libby just regarded her steadily. “Well, since most of the classes I teach are connected to this department, I can understand your concern. But Kent’s responsibility is to keep her campus and the people who live and work here safe. According to Clare, she’d do just about anything to make that happen. Closing a department to avoid letting the Mediterranean Studies conflict endanger others would be a no-brainer for her.” She put her hand on Tig’s shoulder. “I have faith in you. You’ll get your people back in line. By the time the department switches over to the Mediterranean format, they’ll be ready to welcome the new faculty and students with open arms.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Tig walked along the rain-soaked path leading to the back of Denny Hall. She had parted ways with Libby just a block ago. Libby—calmed by the doctor’s assurance that Tig had neither a concussion nor a broken nose—had headed toward the apartment she and Clare shared just a short distance off campus. Tig, with nothing medical to worry about except a purpling bruise and a screeching headache, was running back to her office for a reference book she had forgotten before she went home to painkillers, a bath, and then bed.

  Although she didn’t share Libby’s optimism about the open arms, she was determined to get back in control of her people. They could handle this in a civilized way. After all, they were all about symposia and debates in the forum, not gory gladiatorial games. She’d convince them that the time to argue was over, and the time to plan and get excited about the new program was upon them. She had logic on her side, as well as necessity.

  She had just passed Parrington when she saw the elegant figure of Professor Ayari walking toward her. Great. She didn’t feel up to doing damage control at the moment, but she seemed to have no choice. She veered to the left to intercept her newest colleague.

  “Sami,” she said once they had reached each other and come to a halt. “I have to apologize for today’s fight. I’m sure it was just a spirited discussion that got out of hand. We’ve all been stretched as we work to develop the new program, and everyone is exhausted, but excited. Emotions are running high…”

  Luckily, Sami stopped Tig before she rambled on. None of the reasons she was giving explained why Davies and Morris had been fighting, and neither of the men had actually been contributing to the work. Chase, because he’d be likely to sabotage it, and Kamrick because he didn’t really seem to care one way or the other. As long as he could still study and teach the works of his favorite historians, he was content.

  “You remember, I worked with both of these men when I taught here,” she said, in the slightly formal tones of someone for whom English wasn’t a first language. “I am not surprised by their behavior today. Disappointed, perhaps? But not surprised.” She put her fingers, cool to the touch, under Tig’s chin and turned her head gently to one side and the other. “You are not seriously hurt?”

  “No, just bruised,” said Tig as Sami released her. She didn’t mention the headache.

  “I am glad. Although, I also feel much consternation over the events of today. Max Adel, also, has been worried. We were discussing how the death of Laura Hughes and now this public display are damaging to the department. He might need to remove his endorsement and pull his scholarship if his reputation is in danger.”

  Tig frowned. She hadn’t realized the two were friends, although they had had plenty of opportunities to meet over the past years, while Sami taught classes here and, more recently, as she traveled between her old university and this new one. “And you?” she asked. Sami was under contract—her job with the university was a done deal, as was the entire Mediterranean Studies program—but Tig didn’t know if there was some sort of afraid of getting punched clause that might let her out of it.

  “I am committed to this university, and to the program you and I have created.” She gave a small laugh. “When we began work on this program a few years ago, I had initially hoped to be named director, to be in charge. But now…what is the saying? Better you than I?”

  “Close,” Tig said, not trusting herself to say more. She hadn’t realized Sami had originally wanted—and maybe expected to get—her job. Tig had assumed that she had been chosen over the more renowned Ayari because the university wanted to placate alumni and members of the Classics Department by keeping one of their own in charge. Eventually, Sami would probably have her chance at the position, and Tig would step down. It was tempting to make that happen this very night, but while she often complained about having to lead this charge toward a more progressive curriculum, she believed what Ari had said—she was the best person for the job because she cared so much about classics, and about her people. But maybe this fiasco wouldn’t have happened if Sami was the faculty’s leader.

  Sami rested her hand briefly on Tig’s shoulder. “I have faith in you, Antigone. Tomorrow, we will start fresh. We will work together to repair the rifts and make our program a proud one.”

  Tig just nodded, then stood and watched Sami take the path that would lead her back to the U District and her boutique hotel. She finally started walking again, both concerned and encouraged by Sami’s words. She focused on the positives.

  Yes, they’d start pulling together and maintain the integrity of their department. Morris and Davies—and likely everyone who witnessed the debacle—must understand now how this had gotten too far out of hand. They’d turn back into the reasonable adults she knew they could be, and Sergeant Kent would have no need to come back to Denny Hall.

  Tig reached the back entrance to Denny and paused next to the metal door, fishing her key ring out of her messenger bag. A light overhead cast a circular aura, and she leaned into the brightness to help her pick out the right key. As she moved out of the light, she saw a flash of something pale and out of place in a clump of rain-darkened leaves under an evergreen shrub.

  Something that looked like a hand. But it couldn’t be a hand. Not possibly. Not on the ground like that, looking so lifeless and still.

  She took a couple of hesitant steps closer, then pulled aside some branches. Yes, it was a hand, attached to an equally still and lifeless body. Even facedown, she was able to recognize Chase Davies. Even with a bullet hole in the back of his head, and with his usually tidy hair mussed and matted with blood.

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Five

  Kent pulled the last report in front of her and tried to focus on its contents. Her unplanned jaunt as a patrol officer had put her behind in the actual work she was supposed to be doing, and she had already stayed in the station an hour after her shift was meant to end. No one who walked by her open door seemed surprised to see her still there, since she tended to take her scheduled hours as a guideline rather than a rule and often worked beyond them. She was finding it more and more difficult these days to concentrate on administrative tasks, not because she had too much to do or because the work was too hard, but because she was so damned bored with it. Getting back out into her community and dealing with humanity in all its imperfect glory had been exciting, and she vowed to take advantage of Cappy’s absence and fill in the gaps on patrol. Really, her people needed her to be out there with them. She wasn’t doing this for selfish reasons at all.

  Well, maybe a little. It had been a while since she had felt the rush of dodging fists and grappling with public brawlers, and she realized that she had been missing this kind of excitement in her life. She had been concerned over the last few months about her growing ennui when she came to the station and had been considering taking a vacation or even a leave of absence to reinvigorate herself. Turned out all she needed was a couple of inept professors to start throwing punches around.

  And maybe meeting Tig had been a teeny bit invigorating as well.

  Kent wasn’t sure why. Tig was attractive, sure. She had a face made for smiling, with her slightly upturned lips, and the hint of lines at the edges of her mouth and eyes were signs that she often did. Those lips looked soft and made for kissing, too, but Kent only noticed that in a detached, highly professional manner. She was trained to notice every small detail about a person, and that’s the only reason she had made that observation.