Innocent Bystander by Glenn Richards Page A

convinced himself Desmond would deny any knowledge of Henri’s dream. “Did he say anything else?”
    “No. I suggested he speak with a professional if they continued to bother him.”
    “He didn’t say anything about not turning the paper in?”
    Desmond shook his head, then glanced at the clock. “Class begins in five minutes. Walk with me.”
    Burnett accompanied his physics professor out of the office and down the hallway.
    “Do you know what the subject of his paper was?” Burnett asked.
    “He was so concerned about the nightmares,” Desmond said without hesitation, “he never got around to telling me.”
    The professor responded too fast, as if his answer had been rehearsed. Burnett decided to push a little. His tone sharpened. “You’re telling me he came to talk to you about his dreams, but never mentioned the subject of his paper? Didn’t show you a draft? Seems strange.”
    “I wish he had,” Desmond said, the tenor of his voice unaffected by Burnett’s accusation. “Knowing Henri, I’m sure it was something astonishing.”
    Burnett wondered whether or not the intensity of his stare had revealed his suspicion. Even if it had, he knew it wouldn’t have affected the professor’s demeanor.
    They arrived inside the lecture hall. Burnett climbed the steps and took a seat in the last row.
    Professor Desmond addressed the class, grim-faced. “I have the unfortunate duty to inform all of you that one of your classmates has died. Last night Henri Laroche accidentally fell from his balcony.”
    A sad, collective sigh emanated from the students.
    An accident? Is that what the cops really believed or was it just the story they’d released? He didn’t mind it being reported as an accident. The thought of everyone knowing Henri had committed suicide didn’t sit well with him. In fact, the whole situation didn’t sit well. He felt certain Desmond knew more than he’d let on, yet still could not imagine any connection between Audrey and his teacher.
    Find her . But how? Googling her name was his first thought. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, he knew, but a place to start—if, in fact, Audrey Lansing proved to be her real name. It sounded like a fairly common name. But if he added her age and a few other details like different cities and towns in the area, something might hit. Perhaps she was an honor student or an athlete who’d made the local paper.
    Or, maybe she’d told the … but he cut himself off. He refused to entertain the possibility that she might have spoken the truth. “It just couldn’t be,” as his grandfather used to say, “no way, no how.”
    Again and again his mind reran the events of the previous evening. Something she’d said or done or worn had to offer a clue to her identity. He tried to recall whether she’d worn any jewelry. To the best of his recollection, she didn’t; this alone struck him as odd. For a girl her age not to wear any rings or have any piercings was unusual.
    He didn’t remember any pictures or writing on her T-shirt. She didn’t speak with an accent, at least none he could detect. Emma had correctly noted that she didn’t talk like an average fifteen-year-old.
    The confident way she provided an immediate and precise answer for each question they hurled at her unnerved him. Not only had she entered Henri’s apartment well prepared, but she’d played her part flawlessly. It wouldn’t surprise him if she turned out to be a drama student.
    No matter how many times he replayed it, he could think of nothing remarkable about her, except her story. The realization set in that finding her would not be simple.
    A student in front of him shuffled across the aisle and trotted down the steps. Others followed suit. He checked the clock. Rarely had an hour and ten minutes sped by so fast.
    He waited, as always, until the majority of students filed out, then hurried down the stairs. A man in a tweed jacket, with mismatched pants and shirt, blocked the exit. His