The Sixes by Kate White Page A

no legit reason not to give the top job to Craig. Later I came to realize Craig was the one who stirred the pot about Hutch and helped push him out.”
    “Too bad.” Phoebe couldn’t imagine the headaches Glenda had to deal with. “So what’s next for you today?”
    “Devising a press strategy. And trying to figure out how to inform the students. Feels weird to put news like this in an e-mail blast, but that’s how it’s generally done these days.” They’d reached East Gate, and Glenda pointed toward the curb. “Just let me off here, okay? I want to walk around campus and take the pulse.”
    “Call me if you hear anything,” Phoebe said as Glenda stepped out of the car. “I’ll do the same.”
    As soon as she was home, Phoebe phoned Stockton on her cell. She wondered if he’d try to blow her off again, using the latest news as an excuse.
    “My, you’ve had a busy morning,” he said as soon as she’d identified herself. “Glenda just filled me in.”
    “Yes, pretty harrowing,” Phoebe admitted.
    “You can tell me more when we meet today.”
    So he wasn’t blowing her off after all.
    “Noon still good?” she asked.
    “Yes, see you then.”
    She stripped off her bike clothes and showered. As hot water streamed over her, the image of Lily’s dead body fought its way into Phoebe’s brain—the sodden jeans, the long, wet hair clinging to the bloated face. And then she could see Lily underwater, submerged, terrified. Don’t go there, she told herself, fighting back tears. Stay focused.
    Thirty minutes later, she was headed toward campus. Berta’s was to the east of the college, but Phoebe first wanted to check the mood on campus, just as Glenda had. Passing through the western gate, she saw that the Lily flyers were still up—though some had come partly unstapled and now flapped forlornly in the wind.
    How many people know by now? Phoebe wondered. The campus seemed busier than she expected. Bunches of students, dressed in jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers, stood gathered together at various spots, talking. Phoebe guessed, from the troubled expressions they wore, that the talk was of Lily.
    It was a relief to enter Berta’s. Something about the atmosphere there—the raffia-wrapped dried herb bouquets and the countless rooster tchotchkes—seemed to repel anyone under twenty-five, giving the town at least one student-free zone besides Tony’s. The crowd was generally a mix of faculty and administration, as well as locals, who sat for hours drinking lattes and eating muffins the size of cantaloupes. She surveyed the half-filled room, first for Tom, and then, when she didn’t see him, for a table with a little privacy. There was an empty one against the back wall, and Phoebe snaked her way toward it. Though not even crowded, the place seemed to be oddly energized. People surely had heard about the body pulled from the river and were buzzing about it.
    Phoebe ordered coffee and waited. Finally, nearly twenty minutes late, Stockton arrived, ducking his six-something length under the upper doorframe as he entered. He was good-looking in an uptight, Waspy way, and probably in his late thirties. Catching Phoebe’s hand wave, he wove through the tables to the back of the café.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he said, pulling a chair out. “It’s been perfectly crazy.”
    “I can only imagine,” Phoebe said.
    “Nice to officially meet you, by the way,” he said, reaching across the table to shake her hand. His grip was so hard it pinched her fingers. He shrugged off his navy barn jacket, letting it sag behind him. He was wearing pressed khaki pants with a crisp blue cotton shirt and a belt of buttery brown leather. His dark blond hair was short, worn in a classic side-part style, and his skin was smooth and clear, except for a tiny razor cut on his strong chin. He looked like the kind of guy who should be working at a distinguished college like Williams or Middlebury; she wondered how he’d ended up at