The Never List

time.
    I took a deep breath.
    “Actually, my real name is not Caroline Morrow. And I’m not even a student here. My name is Sarah Farber.” I was surprised at how good it felt to say those words out loud, despite the circumstances.
    Adele looked stunned, clearly recognizing my name immediately. I could only imagine the sorts of memories it must have conjured for her. She looked uncertain for a moment—but only for amoment—then calmly put her stack of books on the ground and leaned closer to me.
    “Prove it,” she said testily.
    I knew exactly how. I lifted up my shirt and rolled the top of my pants down slightly, so she could see the skin over my left hipbone. There, in red-scarred flesh, was the brand.
    When she saw it, Adele swallowed hard, leaned over, and picked up her books quickly. I almost thought I saw a glint of fear in her eyes as they darted right and left. As if I were dragging that past around behind me physically, and Jack might be about to spring from my head, fully formed, like some sort of Greek god.
    “Walk with me.” She moved fast and didn’t say anything for a while, her eyes fixed straight ahead. During my years of seclusion, I had lost some capacity for reading human expression, and I was feeling that loss acutely now. I couldn’t even begin to tell what she was thinking. But was it me? Or was there something about this woman that was impenetrable to anyone? Her face might as well have been cut from stone.
    “How—how are you?” she finally said rather stiffly, without a single note of actual pity or compassion, as though she had only just remembered that she ought to indicate some small semblance of humanity.
    Despite its utter lack of warmth, the question made me smile with relief. I knew this line of questioning by heart. It was really all anyone had asked me for years. I had all my lines memorized.
    “Me? Oh, I’m fine. It was nothing ten years of therapy and self-induced seclusion couldn’t fix.”
    “Really?” She turned to face me at that, suddenly interested. “No anxiety? No depression? No flashbacks or night sweats?”
    I looked away from her, my pace slower now. “That’s not why I’m here. Don’t worry, I have a professional support system. I’ll live. Unlike Jennifer.”
    She nodded, not taking her eyes off me, understanding perhaps that I was not fine at all, but not pushing me further.
    “So what are you really doing here?”
    “I want to find Jennifer’s body. I want to prove that Jack killed her, so he doesn’t get paroled.”
    “Paroled? They’re going to parole Jack Derber?” For an instant she seemed genuinely shocked, and then she regained her composure.
    “Maybe,” I replied. “I don’t know. I don’t want it to be possible. But I guess technically it is.”
    Adele nodded, even as she looked off in the distance, thinking hard.
    “That would be just about the worst thing in the world,” she finally said. “I would help you if I could. That man deserves to be locked away forever. But I don’t have any new information on him. I told the police what I knew back then.”
    By now we were at the steps of the psychology building. She paused for a moment, then gestured for me to follow her in. It felt like my first real victory.
    We made our way down the hall to her office. She didn’t say a word, and I followed obediently.
    We sat down, she behind the desk and I on a small worn sofa across from her.
    “Actually,” I began, “I’m not expecting you to remember anything more about the past. I mostly wanted to talk to you about his academic work. What he was studying at the time, his research. I have this idea that it could lead to something new. And I know you were his research assistant, and that your work now seems somehow … relevant.”
    I wasn’t sure how that would go over. By now she was making me nervous. She just stared at me. Maybe she was thinking. Maybe she was willing me out of her office after all.
    I glanced around the room to avoid meeting her eyes. The space was impossibly neat and orderly. The shelves were lined with titles in alphabetical order, and her notebooks were stacked and organized with color-coded tabs. It was mesmerizing in a way. Finally, she spoke.
    “His research? I don’t think you’ll find anything there. His work was highly theoretical, and his subjects were varied. He covered a lot of ground, but I suppose he was careful not to study topics that might reveal his dark side. When he was arrested,