I’d first met Matthew Simmons when I was nine. He’d been two. His parents and my parents were both unhappily married and belonged to the same country club. I babysat him a few times over the years, one of the few normal teenage activities I’d been allowed.
Matt had moved in next door to the kids and me two weeks after Christmas. I hadn’t realized it was the same Matty Simmons until I’d brought him a welcome-to-the-building dinner and he’d blurted, “Peona!” The name he’d given me when he was a toddler.
This habit, openly scrutinizing people, was something he’d done even when he was still in diapers. And after living next door to Professor Matthew Simmons for the last two months, I knew evaluating and calculating were his adult default as well.
My smile grew more sincere the longer he scrutinized me. Matty—now Matt—had grown to be adorably peculiar and nerdy. In fact, he was brazenly nerdy; but he was also nice and genuine. He’d always been nice and genuine.
Regardless, I’d had Alex run a background check on the professor—I might have been a little slap happy with the background checks, but suspicious was my default. Grace and Jack had warmed to him so quickly. The man was an open book. Undergrad at Caltech, post grad at MIT, computer scientist, associate professor at the University of Chicago, divorced two years ago and presently married to his work, terrible cook. He was also surprisingly good with kids, though he had none.
And my parents and his parents still belonged to the same country club.
“How’s Grace’s science fair project coming along?”
I pulled on my gloves and bobbed my head back and forth. “So-so. She convinced the kids to taste the PTC strip, but can’t get them to eat the broccoli.” Grace was trying to determine how many of the children in her second grade class were “super tasters,” meaning more sensitive to certain foods than the rest of the population.
“Well, let me know if you need any help.”
“I appreciate the offer.”
“I’m not being altruistic.” His dark eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, a display of pointed sincerity. “I’d do almost anything for another of your roast chicken dinners.”
My grin widened. “Then why don’t you come over and help Grace with her science fair project on Saturday? I was planning to make roast chicken anyway.”
Matt nodded before I’d finished making the offer. “I accept,” he blurted as the elevator dinged, as though marking his acceptance rather than our arrival to the lobby. We both laughed and filed out, parting ways at the entrance to the building after another few minutes of small talk.
Despite the distraction of nerdy and nice Professor Simmons, I was soon stewing in my discontent again. I stewed as I catalogued the inhabitants of the train, making note of threat likelihood, the location of exit points, and potential weapons. One man near the end of the train was holding an umbrella tucked under his arm; this was odd because it was snowing, not raining.
I kept my eyes on him when the train stopped—still stewing in my earlier frustration—and watched him as we both departed. When we exited the train station, he opened the umbrella and turned left. Apparently he didn’t want any snowflakes to fall on his waterproof nylon jacket.
Delores Day’s Dance Studio was on the third floor of a mixed-use brownstone, and I arrived on time. Several mothers, fathers, and nannies—all of which I recognized—were crowded around the door between the practice room and the waiting area. Kids, mostly little girls in tight buns, pink leotards, and stockings, skipped out of the classroom to their caregivers.
I nodded and smiled, chitchatted with the gathered parents about nothing in particular, and craned my neck for a glimpse of my munchkins. When they didn’t appear after a few minutes, I excused myself from the circle of adults wrangling their own children and poked my head into the classroom. Grace was sitting on the floor trying to tie her snow boots and waved at me immediately; Jack was sitting on a bench in front of a piano. His back was to me, and he appeared to be in deep conversation with their ballet teacher. Miss Delores Day was eighty, at least, and in better shape than most thirty-year-olds I knew. She was also sassier than most thirty-year-olds I knew.
Letting the door close behind me, I crossed the room, the sound of my footsteps drawing Delores’s and Jack’s attention. The older woman gave me a broad smile and glided to meet me halfway across the room with the grace of a life-long dancer.
“Mrs. Archer.”
“Please, call me Fiona.” I waved away the formality, my attention moving between Jack and his teacher. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. Everything is excellent. Jack was filling in for Mrs. St. Claire again. He is such a dear boy. A disinterested dancer, but a dear boy.”
“Filling in?” I frowned at Delores then looked to Jack for a clue; he wasn’t looking at me, his dark eyes were affixed to the keys of the instrument and I noted his cheeks were red. “Doesn’t Mrs. St. Claire provide the piano accompaniment?”