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on the floor, not eight feet away. Luckily, he was facing sideways with his eyes closed. He wore black pajamas— silk from their sheen. He had a pair of earphones clamped on. Resting his back against the sofa, he had an ecstatic look on his face, his left hand gently stroking a throw pillow.
    Iris watched in fascination. She squinted to read the title on the CD jewel case but his hand covered the writing. She could almost hear the romantic music that must be producing the look on Xander's face—Debussy, or maybe Grieg, something like that.
    Across the room two of Arne Jacobsen's classic Swan chairs faced the understated greige sofa. Nestled in the crossed feet of one chair was a bottle of some amber liquid, its label facing away. As Iris looked closer, she spotted an empty shot glass in Xander's idle right hand. He must have saved his nightly alottment of alcohol for savoring after dinner.
    Ellie had called what Iris felt for Xander a “professional crush,” but maybe it was his entire lifestyle she coveted, not just the professional part. She wanted to live like him, have his career, but still surround herself with her friends. Was that too much to ask?
    Sheba took this moment to let out an impatient whine. Iris froze as Xander's eyes opened and he cocked his head toward the window.
    Then she flew down the porch steps, dragging Sheba behind her.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    I t was Friday, the second day in a row that Jasna hadn't been in class. Iris had instructed her students to e-mail her if they were sick or had to miss Studio for any reason, but Jasna had maintained radio silence. When Iris grilled her students, Rory mentioned that Jasna had borrowed his car two nights before, but had returned it to its parking spot the next morning. That was the last time anyone had seen or heard from her.
    In Iris' vivid imagination, Jasna lay on the floor of her apartment, deathly ill, struggling to reach for her cell phone. The thought propelled her down the hall toward the dean's office and Peg, the keeper of everyone's contact information.
    But as she entered the fourth floor office, Peg's eyes lit up and she waved a folded newspaper in Iris' direction. “Professor Reid—I was just going to call you! Have you seen the Globe today? It's that young girl who asked us for directions.”
    Iris took the paper Peg handed her and laid it flat on the desk. On the bottom of the front page ran a headline: Cambridge Girl Missing above a close-cropped photo of the girl who had come to this office the previous week looking for Xander. Iris looked carefully. It was definitely the same girl.
    “I think I should call the police to tell them about her visit,” Peg said, “but I don't want to get Professor DeWitt in trouble.”
    Iris held up one finger and eased into the visitor's chair to scan the whole article.
    Lara Kurjak, twelve, is a seventh grader at St. Peter's School in Cambridge. Her father, Ivano, returned from his weekly card game on Wednesday night to find her missing from their apartment. There was no sign of a break-in. She is described by her father and teachers as a sweet, quiet girl. Anyone with information about her whereabouts is asked to call the police hotline: 617-555-3300.
    Iris noted the byline: Robert Buchanan Jr.—or “Budge” as he'd been known to her Dartmouth class twenty-some years before, for no reason that Iris could remember. She shuddered. She could still picture Budge and his snickering cronies lying in wait at Thayer Dining Hall, holding up written numbers from one to ten to rank the looks of any co-ed who walked past their table.
    Peg's voice brought her back to the present. “What should we do?”
    “When did we see her?”
    “Friday. Remember—the student evaluations were due.”
    “And from what it says here she disappeared the following Wednesday—two days ago.” Wednesday. Iris felt her cheeks flush. Wednesday night was when she had gone by Xander's house.
    She managed to say, “Professor DeWitt must