Playing Dead by Allison Brennan

you’re an alum.” She walked over to a file cabinet and flipped through some folders. Pulled one, wrote information on a sticky note, and handed the note to Claire.
    Tammy Amunson, Clark Hall #25A.
    Beneath was a phone number.
    “She lives on campus?”
    “Yes.”
    Claire glanced at her watch. She might have time to talk to her, if she could find her now. Clark Hall wasn’t far. “Did Oliver have an advisor?”
    “I’m sure he did, but I don’t have those records here. I can have someone call you with the information later today.”
    “That’s okay, thanks.”
    Claire didn’t push it. Oliver’s girlfriend might know, and if she didn’t Claire could go to the law school herself. The fewer people who knew she was looking for Oliver, the better.
    She left the administration building and walked briskly while dialing Tammy’s number. A sleepy voice picked up. “ ’ello.”
    “Tammy?”
    “No, it’s Jennifer. Who’s this?”
    “Claire. I’m looking for Tammy.”
    “Wednesday . . . she has biology at some god-awful hour. She’s out at 10:30.”
    “At Messenger?” It helped having a familiarity with the campus.
    “Yeah.”
    “Who does she have?”
    “Oh, God, I—Thompson.”
    “Thanks.”
    It was nearly 10:30 now. Claire had no idea what Tammy looked like, but she hightailed it to Messenger Hall where the science labs were. She put her blazer back on to look more professional, even though it was far too hot for a jacket. She brushed her hair as she walked, glad that she’d left her backpack in the car. Backpack said student, not private investigator.
    Claire mentally thanked her boss at Rogan-Caruso for urging her to get her PI license. With it came official-looking documentation, when all being a PI really meant was using common sense.
    The first student she asked about Professor Thompson’s class gave her the room number, and Claire walked into the classroom three minutes before class was over. She marched up to the front and the professor—an older, gray-haired woman with a stern face—frowned at her. Claire didn’t falter. She showed Professor Thompson her PI license and whispered in her ear, “Name’s O’Brien. I’m looking into the disappearance of a student here, Oliver Maddox. I was told his girlfriend Tammy Amunson was in this class.”
    The stern face softened, and the professor glanced at a blonde in the front row. “Tammy, you may leave with Ms. O’Brien.”
    Tammy looked skeptical and a bit skittish, but she gathered her things and followed Claire from the classroom.
    “Hi, Tammy, I’m Claire, a private investigator looking into Oliver’s disappearance. You filed the missing person report, correct?” She showed her the license, but pocketed it quickly. If Tammy knew what Oliver was working on she might connect Claire’s name with her father and become suspicious.
    “You haven’t found him yet?”
    “No. Let’s go outside and talk.”
    They sat on a bench a ways from the main doors and Tammy said, “I’m so worried about Oliver. Something was wrong, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”
    “Let’s start at the beginning. Why did you file a missing person report in the first place? How long had he been missing?”
    “The last time I saw him was January 20. It was Saturday night and we had a date. He’d been so busy I—” Tears sprang to her eyes. Normally, when a woman started crying, Claire became suspicious. Girls used tears to get any number of things they wanted, or to avoid getting into trouble. But watching Tammy—her demeanor, her posture, the way her hands clenched and unclenched her biology book—Claire decided the emotion was authentic.
    “It’s okay,” Claire said, not sure how to console her. Claire never cried. Especially in public.
    “I told him I was going to break up with him if he didn’t spend more time with me. That was awful of me, I know, but I missed him, and I missed us.”
    “What was he working on that kept him so