Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

joys of her time at home.
    She turned back to the house and tried to tame her unruly hair, but the wind had other ideas. Maybe frazzled and windblown could be a new look for her? Not that he’d even notice. Another strong gust blew past her. Fallen leaves scraped against the pavement, the only sound in an otherwise strangely silent night. It wasn’t that late, but the street was empty, as if everyone knew something she didn’t, some coming apocalypse she’d missed the memo for. Maybe it was the full moon or the coming eclipse? She looked up into the bright moonlight, but the man in the moon wasn’t sharing his secrets either. She stood a moment longer on the sidewalk and then looked at the imposing façade of the Tudor style mansion—strong and intimidating, reeking of old money. The windows were dark and the porch light wasn’t on, and she wondered if he’d forgotten she was coming by.
    A large, gnarled oak tree blocked out most of the light from the moon and kept the front door shrouded in darkness. She stumbled on the path and almost lost her hold on the papers. Leave it to Professor Cross to have cobblestones. Probably imported them from England for the sole purpose of tripping young Americans.
    She rang the bell and waited. After a few moments, the porch light came on and Simon opened the door. He wore casual slacks and a loose-fitting, forest green sweater. Normally, the color would have set off his eyes; now it only served to draw attention to how bloodshot they were.
    “Miss West. What are you doing here?”
    She held out the stack of graded papers. “You said I should drop these off.”
    “What?”
    “The essays from last night,” she prompted with a frown. Simon Cross was many things, but forgetful wasn’t one of them.
    He ran a hand through his hair and nodded absently. “Right. Papers. Come in.”
    They passed through the dark foyer and into the warm living room. A fire blazed in the hearth, and a single floor lamp cast a pool of soft light onto a large, leather wingback chair. As she entered the room, she felt she was stepping inside the man. Outside, the exterior was cold and imposing, but the inside was inviting and comforting.
    She’d been to his home before and took each opportunity to find some new artifact or personal item. To put one more piece of the Simon Cross puzzle in its place. She set the papers down on the edge of a long, fruitwood trestle table and tried again to force her hair into some semblance of human appearance. “Essays weren’t too bad. I think a few of the students might actually be learning something.”
    Simon hovered uneasily in the center of the room. “One can only hope.”
    Elizabeth glanced around the room, guiltily sneaking a peek at the intimate details of his life. A grand piano sat in the corner. Although there was sheet music out, she couldn’t quite conjure the image of Simon ever playing it. Then, she noticed two large, open shipping boxes next to the sofa and gave in to her absurd urge to make small talk. “Packages. I love getting packages. Get anything good?”
    Good manners succumbed to curiosity, and she walked over to the crates. An old photograph rested on top of the crumpled paper inside the box. She leaned over to get a better look. In the photo was a young, lanky boy who stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips. Pure Simon Cross. Although, the cheerful smile was an expression she’d never seen him wear. A dapper, older man with a shock of white hair and an outrageously bushy mustache had his arm draped over Simon’s shoulder. They looked like two great white hunters, their quarry just out of frame.
    She’d been so caught up in the photograph she hadn’t noticed Simon at her side until she smelled the musk of his aftershave. He reached down and picked up the photograph. “My grandfather.”
    “Sebastian Cross? The anthropologist?”
    Simon fixed her with a piercing gaze, the flickering light from the fire reflected in his eyes. “And how did you know that?”
    “Your university bio.” Elizabeth had been curious about Sebastian Cross ever since she’d read the small blurb in the faculty biographies. “He was—”
    “Insane?”
    “I was going to say eccentric. His papers were... Unique.”
    Simon laughed. A cold bitter sound. “You read his papers?”
    “Some of them. They were very interesting.”
    “If by interesting you mean they were derided in academic circles, you’d be correct.” He crossed over to the