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months.”
    Burnett met his supervisor’s nod with an eyebrow raised in modest surprise.
    “Yeah, going on thirty years now. Anyway, I’ve been singing your praises to upper management. Can’t say you’re a shoe-in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they offered you the position.”
    Just what he needed, a new position guaranteed to eliminate his favorite perks. “I’m just not interested.”
    “Wait until you’ve had some time to get over your friend’s death. Then think about your future.”
    Burnett didn’t need any time. Over the past four years he’d saved enough money to live comfortably for at least six months, a year if he was frugal.
    Under almost any other circumstance, he would have given the requisite two weeks’ notice. But with Henri dead, and Audrey free, he couldn’t imagine pulling out his chair and typing his password into the computer again. No, once she was caught, he’d dedicate his life to understanding Henri’s paper and unleashing it on an unsuspecting world. Their alcohol-induced vow would be realized.
    “You’re awfully quiet,” Westfield said.
    “Lot on my mind.”
    “All I’m saying is, don’t make a decision now.”
    Burnett extended his hand. “Already have.”
    “Nothing I can do to change your mind?”
    “Not this time.”
    Westfield took his hand and gave it a limp shake. “I’ll keep your decision between us, in case you do change your mind.”
    * * *
    Thirty minutes later, Burnett stood beneath the backboard of one of the State University of New York’s four outdoor basketball courts. The rising sun had already driven the temperature to near eighty, but he felt comfortable in his white cotton polo shirt and khaki shorts.
    Joel Sandstrom, arguably Henri’s second closest friend, dribbled a basketball near the top of the key. He gripped the ball, flexed his knees, and in one fluid motion lofted a shot. The ball arced above the gently sloping hills behind the court and hit nothing but net.
    Sandstrom, dressed in navy blue shorts and a white PUMA T-shirt, was tall with a lean, muscular frame. His jaw worked overtime on a wad of gum, and his dirty blonde hair covered part of his face. He avoided Burnett’s stare while the ball, as if by design, bounced back into his outstretched hands.
    Sandstrom, the only friend of Henri’s who hadn’t shown up at the hospital, stepped to his right and sank another shot. Again the ball returned to him without his needing to move.
    “We missed you at the hospital last night,” Burnett said.
    “I was at my uncle’s place in Maryland. Couldn’t make it back ’til this morning.”
    “I see,” Burnett said, the flatness in his voice more pronounced than he’d intended.
    Atypical of Henri’s few close friends, Sandstrom was a gifted athlete. The back-up point guard on the university’s basketball team, he appeared to have little interest in academics and none in science.
    In fact, the one thing the athlete and the genius had in common was the one thing Burnett would have expected to keep them apart. Sandstrom was Emma’s ex-boyfriend. Burnett didn’t know him well, but from what he’d observed, Sandstrom played the part of a hot-tempered, spoiled jock to perfection. Yet he and Henri spent quite a bit of time together.
    “How’s Emma?” Sandstrom asked. “I went to see her this morning. She didn’t answer the door.”
    “Haven’t spoken to her since last night.”
    A tense silence followed.
    “What the hell happened?” Sandstrom said. “And what’s this I’m hearing about a girl who showed up at his apartment with some fucked-up story?”
    “Henri said he told you about his nightmare.”
    “Whoa,” Sandstrom said, raising his hand like a policeman at the center of an intersection. “Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.”
    “This girl,” Burnett said. “She knew all about it. Said she was from the future. Told him the dream would come true if he turned in his paper.”
    “That’s fucked.” He shook his