My heels clicked on the sidewalk as I jerked along in the fastest trot-shuffle my pleather mini-skirt allowed. I clutched a pile of crinkled papers in one hand and fumbled with my phone in the other, acrylic nails clawing at the home button. When the electric glow revealed the time, a snarl of frustration ripped from me.

Eight forty-nine. Late for my appointment time with my professor and even later for my best friend's house party.

Faux fur brushed my fingers as I tucked the phone back into my purse. I squinted through the dimming light at the gleaming gold mailbox number and groaned. 2692, not 2682.

"Shit, shit, shit," I hissed in time to the clack of my heels. 2690, 2688...

A flash of headlights washed the neighborhood in a fuzzy kaleidoscope of color. Perfectly-tended flowers blossomed around front steps, garden gnomes waved jolly greetings, and vibrant doors contrasted ivory house paint.

I hoped my shitty old gas guzzler puffed up a cloud of smog when I blasted out of here.

The headlights passed, and the car slowed to a gentle stop at the curbside of 2682. A tall guy about my age unfolded himself from the car. I watched him from behind as he nestled a file folder under his arm and then clicked the car lock. A fitted dress shirt tucked into black slacks, and the setting sun played through his afro and silhouetted the long, lean lines of his legs.

Well damn, this was the student with the nine o'clock appointment? I never imagined any of those forum prattlers had bodies like this. Maybe this ridiculous trip was not a total waste.

I laid a hand on a cocked hip and slipped into my best sultry tone.

"Hey there, classmate. What are you doing after —"

Then the nine o'clock turned around.

His frown scrunched his nose and creased the skin between his bushy black brows — the kind of expression one can only fully master with a lifetime of regarding everyone in disdain. His eyes dipped down to my heels and flicked to the papers clasped in my hand, and he huffed a laugh. "Don't tell me you are in my class."

"I thought it would be a breeze when I saw it was all online. Can't believe this professor forced us to drive all the way to his fucking 'I Love Lucy' house to hand in our final papers."

"Give the guy a break. It's probably hard to look at a computer screen that long at his age."

"How do we know he's old? Hell, how do we even know he's a dude?"

He rolled his eyes and popped his tongue from the roof of his mouth with a cluck. "His name is Mortimer Thomas. Ever met a young woman with that name?"

"Never met anyone with that name. Including this guy."

"Well, you better go meet him fast. My appointment begins very soon, and I am not okay with sharing my fifteen minutes."

I flashed him a saccharine smile — and a middle finger — as I strutted toward the door.

Or at least, I attempted to strut. The tight pleather constricted my movement, one heel rocked to the side, and I pitched forward near the front steps.

The papers flipped from my hand and fluttered to the ground in a flurry. I cursed as I dropped into an awkward crouch, tugging the miniskirt down with one hand while I collected papers in the other.

Behind me, I heard an exasperated sigh and the tromp of footsteps, and then the nine o'clock crouched beside me. He plucked crinkled papers from the ground one-by-one like dog feces. Eyes cast skyward, he extended the papers in front of me.

I snatched them from his hand and shuffled them into order. "Hey, thank — holy shit!"

He jerked back and braced himself with his palms just before his backside hit the sidewalk. "What the hell?"

I raised a hand to point at the figure who had just stepped out of the shadows from beside the door — a girl our age with olive skin and curly dark hair. "She startled me."

The nine o'clock glanced up at the girl. "Did you just finish? No, you still have..."

She fiddled with her neatly-clipped stack of papers. "I'm the eight forty-five, but I haven't gone in yet. I heard a noise and got a little spooked, so I decided to wait for someone else."

The nerd-guy's head swiveled back toward me, and the well-defined groove of his frown deepened. "She's the eight forty-five? Then you're...?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't understand why we have these appointment times, anyway. Don't we just have to hand him the paper and leave?"

"You're right," said the girl. "Why don't we all go in together?"

The nine o'clock began a disgruntled protest, but I snagged his forearm and cut him off. "Hey, it'll be fine. You and I will help this poor girl conquer her fears, and then she and I will get the hell out of here before your appointment even begins. Cool?"

"Unbelievable," he muttered, but he pushed to his feet, and strode toward the door.

I hopped up and wobbled after him. Pinned to a golden door-knocker on the cranberry-red door, a neat cursive note invited us to enter. The eight forty-five bit her lip, and the nine o'clock studied the note.

I pushed past them both, yanked on the door handle, and shoved the door open.

Flicking on the light switch, I swung a glance around the dimly-lit living room. Accent pillows propped on a floral sofa, and a newspaper stretched across a center table beside a coffee mug on a marble coaster. Perched on an upright piano, a miniature grandfather clock ticked wearily. The smell of mildew lingered in the air.

I rapped my knuckles on the wall beside the door. "Professor? We are here to turn in the final paper. You know, the one you made us come all the way here to give you."

"Maybe he's hard of hearing," the nerd-guy suggested from behind me. More loudly, he called out, "Professor Thomas?"

When his attempt met silence, I snorted. "Maybe he's dead."

The girl curled her free hand over the door knob behind her. "You guys, we could just leave the papers by the door and go."

"You can go," said the nine o'clock, "I for one am not taking any risks with my grade."

I shook a finger at them both. "This isn't even about my grade anymore — this is about respect. I took the time out of my Friday night to drive all the way out to this dude's house, and he's not even going to greet us? Huh-uh. Not okay."

My heels ticked on wooden floorboards and then sank into plush carpet as I made my way across the room. At the end of the living room, an arched entrance revealed a quaint, tidy kitchen. Dust streaked the lamplight and tickled my nostrils.

I wrinkled my nose as I turned back toward the living room. "Guess this guy doesn't own a vacuum."

The nerd leaned over to examine the papers scattered over a low wooden shelf. "There must be a note here somewhere telling us what to do."

"Or maybe we can find a porn stash and blackmail him for an A."

He straightened and propped one fist on his hip. "Look, you might not be going places in life, but I am, and I don't appreciate you not taking this seriously."

I slapped my essay against my thigh. "Wow, you must be fun at parties. And to think, I actually thought you were hot for one —"

Thump.

In unison, we turned toward the front door.

The eight forty-five had disappeared.

Unease prickled the back of my scalp, but I brushed it off with the shrug of a shoulder. "Guess she chickened out."

"Yeah..." He scratched his forehead. "But she didn't even leave her paper."

"Her loss." I turned away from the door to scan the room once more. My eyes froze on the mug of coffee. Dust clung to the mug's handle and ridges.

A slippery chill slithered down my spine. I swallowed hard and then slapped a palm to my forehead with a breathless laugh. Was I really allowing myself to be so unsettled by simple dust?

I paced toward the table with deliberate strides and leaned over to examine the newspaper... and froze. The open page displayed an obituary with one circled name.

Mortimer Thomas.

The muscles in my back locked like a vice, pinching my spine. I pried my jaw open to whisper shaky words. "Hey, this... this is... you need to come see this."

Behind me, a fleeting, wet, gasp.

And a dull thud.

Dread swarmed my gut like maggots. I gripped the papers tightly enough that the top page tore.

"Hey, you okay?"

My only response, gently tolling bells.

Nine o'clock.