Chapter 9: The Shoebox

Miles Ferris had not planned to spend his last two weeks at Larkin in a dean's office.

He had not planned to hold a girl's coat while she signed a police report, either.

But there he was.

The dean of students was a tired, decent man in a cardigan.

He read the loan paper twice and said a word under his breath that deans do not usually say.

"File with campus security and the county by Sunday night, and I can lift the hold," he told Clara.

"It's a forged document. We see it more than you'd think."

"Do I have to name who did it?"

"You have to name who you believe did it."

Clara went still.

Miles did not look at her. He studied the cardigan's elbow patch and waited.

"I don't know who signed it," Clara said, at last, clearly. "I'm filing against whoever did."

The dean looked at her over his glasses for a moment.

Then he nodded and pushed the form across the desk.

Her hand was steady while she wrote her name.

It was the first time Miles had seen her do something that cost her, in front of him, with her eyes open.

He felt something in his chest go quiet and certain.

At noon the man in the gray jacket did not get his eleven hundred dollars.

Miles stood at the window of the dean's outer office and watched the Union lot.

The gray sedan sat there for twelve minutes with its engine running.

Then it pulled out and drove away.

"He'll be back," Clara said behind him.

"Probably."

"You don't have to stay."

"I know." He kept his eyes on the lot. "I'd like to be there anyway."