The Never List

the trial.
    Though both had been psychology majors, Adele had been a sophomore when Christine would have been a senior, so Christine was in Jack’s cellar before Adele enrolled. Adele went on to the graduate school program, and was Jack Derber’s research assistant for two years, until the day he was arrested and hauled off by the FBI in the middle of a lecture to three hundred co-eds. Naturally, it was very shocking to the students, and the university had to do quite a bit of damage control in the press and on campus. It was, among other things for other people, a PR disaster.
    I remembered from the trial that the prosecutors were surprised, and maybe even a little impressed, that Adele had not only continued on in the program—the other female graduate students in the department had transferred out immediately—but she barely missed any of her other classes during the time of her testimony.
    Then several years later she accepted the very chaired professorship that Jack Derber had once held and that no one had taken since. I found it a little strange at the time, but I had other thingsto worry about in those days. Now I wondered what it was about this woman that allowed her to be so impervious to the horror of those events. She hadn’t seemed afraid back then, according to what I’d overheard the lawyers say. She hadn’t seemed to register her brush with death, working so closely with him on his research and spending late nights in the lab with him, as she surely must have done.
    And even now her career seemed to be built on the same kinds of sick perversions she had learned about through Jack Derber. From the university Web site, I discovered she specialized in abnormal psychology. She studied people with deviant behavioral issues, who had atypical mental development. In other words, people who did horrible things to other people—that was the cohort that interested her.
    As I walked toward the psychology department, I saw her leaving the building across the quad carrying a small stack of books. I recognized her from her bio page, though she was prettier in person. Stunning in fact. Tall, with long brown hair loosely flowing down her back, she still looked more like a student than a professor. She carried herself with enormous confidence, hips swaying purposefully, chin jutting slightly forward, almost defiantly. She was moving so quickly, I had to run to catch up to her.
    “Excuse me. Are you Adele Hinton?”
    She kept walking, maybe thinking I was a student. If so, she was clearly not interested in a student-teacher conference here on the lawn. This woman was busy.
    “ Professor Hinton, yes.”
    This time I had prepared a story. I had put in my time online at the hotel and felt ready. I took a step closer and began.
    “My name is Caroline Morrow, and I’m a doctoral candidate in the sociology department.” I rushed the words out. I knew my lines sounded overly rehearsed and that she’d be able to check upon me later if she wanted, but I pushed on, hoping to find out what I needed quickly. Adele was still walking. I knew how to get her attention, though.
    “I’m writing my dissertation on Jack Derber.”
    At that, she stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me warily.
    “I have nothing to say on that topic. Who is your supervising professor? Whoever it is, he or she should have known not to send you to talk to me about this.” She stood and waited expectantly, as if every command she’d ever given had always instantly been obeyed. I hadn’t anticipated this response, that his name would be such an anathema to her, considering her fortitude all those years ago.
    I had hoped to avoid telling her who I was. I wanted the emotional cover of anonymity. Not to mention that my tragic life story was a distraction, a sideshow, and one I didn’t want to be a part of for the millionth time. Nevertheless, Adele’s eyes were narrowing suspiciously. She either wasn’t buying my “research” story, or she was going to march directly into the university president’s office to put an end to my nonexistent project.
    I froze. She was waiting for an answer, but I didn’t have one. In ten years I hadn’t told a single new person who I really was. I hated hiding this way, behind a made-up name, but I felt safe there.
    It wasn’t going to work with Adele, though. Jack’s name touched too deep a nerve with her. I had to come out from behind the mask for Jennifer’s sake. I didn’t have a Plan B this