Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 May 20th. The date printed at the top of the newspaper startles me, and I drop it like it's a hot coal that's burned my hands. It falls to the floor in a scattered array of ink-stained stories. The man behind the counter frowns. "Sorry," I offer as I bend, then do my best to shuffle the pages into order and place the paper back on top of the New York Post pile before moving to the magazine rack. Sports Illustrated has a racehorse on the cover. Mr. Hank, my old landlord, will like that, so I pluck it from the pile and head to the register to pay. It's the third time I've been reminded of the date since I woke up, and it's only 4 p.m. Normally, when I'm teaching summer classes, like I am now, I only go in twice a week, so I don't even know what day it is. But May 20th isn't just any day, I suppose. It's the twenty-year anniversary of the day I'll never forget. I leave the bodega and decide to walk the fifteen or so blocks to Mr. Hank's assisted-living facility, rather than taking the subway. It's beautiful out, and I still need to stop and pick up donuts. Plus, I don't want to see him until I can clear my head. He's struggling through dementia, so the last thing he needs is me bringing my anxiety for a visit. But my mind whirls as I walk, and not even the bright pink blossoms of the magnolia tree in Union Square Park can soothe the melancholy that lingers in my heart. I pass the High Note, the pub where I met Derek, the guy I used to hook up with before Sam, and look through the front window. Derek was a fireman. A few guys are sitting at the bar, probably firemen, too. They seem to occupy the place most evenings. I don't have any desire to go in, but it gives me an idea, reminds me there's a way to loosen the tight knot in my neck and take the edge off all the anxiety I feel today. So I reach into my pocket, pull out my cell, and type as I stroll past the bar. Elizabeth: Up for hanging out tonight? "Hanging out" sounds so much better than fucking me until I can't think straight anymore . But running five miles this morning didn't clear my head, and I'm sure Sam won't mind. He's always been the initiator of our get-togethers and has mentioned more than once that I could reach out to him, too. Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Park Manor Nursing Home. I still don't feel great, but Sam's enthusiastic response to my text has helped, smoothing the edges of my jangled nerves. He's working tonight, though, so I won't see him until tomorrow. I check in with the nurse at the desk on the third floor, and she hits the button to unlock the door to the memory care unit. It's easy to find Mr. Hank--he's laughing uproariously at the television in the lounge. The hearty sound lifts my mood more than anything else today. As I approach, he catches sight of me, his eyes twinkling with recognition. "Elizabeth!" he says. "C'mon over here, young lady." The warmth of his greeting thrills me. Despite the fact that he saved my life when I first moved to New York--two days shy of twenty years ago--by giving me a discount on rent and telling me where to look for a job, he sometimes can't recall who I am now. I hurry over, give him a big hug, and offer the bag of donuts I picked up from his favorite street vendor. They're chocolate, also his favorite--that's one thing he never forgets. "Oh, you didn't have to do this." "I wanted to." I smile, holding out the magazine and daily racing form I picked up at OTB earlier. "I shouldn't encourage your habit, but I thought you might like these, too." Mr. Hank has been a gambler all of his life, mostly on the ponies. He can't go outside without the assistance of an aide anymore, and he refuses to use anything but a landline phone, yet somehow he's figured out how to create a FanDuel account on his iPad so he can bet ten dollars a day on horse races. "You're too good to me." He pulls a chocolate donut from the bag and licks his lips. "You know, I used to make chocolate donuts. Just like this. Only better, of course." I smile. "Of course. Your bakery was voted best donuts in New York City, eighteen years in a row." He takes a bite, chews slowly, and I can tell he's savoring it. "I was the only baker in my neighborhood to keep making them by hand after the donut machines came out." Another bite. This time with a groan of happiness as he chews. Mr. Hank looks good today. Not all that different on the outside from twenty years ago, though maybe some wrinkles have grown deeper. I wish I'd appreciated how special he was when I first moved here. Sure, I knew he was helping me--and I said thank you, and I truly was grateful--but you never realize how much you appreciate someone until they're gone. Of course, he's still here. Most of him, anyway. "What block was your bakery on?" I ask, even though I know the answer. He chews, polishing off the last bite of his donut, and something shifts in his eyes. He looks right at me and tilts his head. "What bakery?" My heart sinks. "Oh, never mind. How was your donut?" "Delicious. Want one?" He holds the bag out. "I made them myself. Hand-rolled, not by some machine." Usually, I'd say no. But he has such hope in his eyes, I can't refuse. "I'd love one. Thank you." "How are your studies, missy?" I smile, say something about how they're going great, even though I've been the teacher for fifteen years now, not a student. He nods. "I always knew you were a good one. Could tell from the moment I met you." My heart squeezes. He was the only one who thought that back then. "How's Walter doing?" God, the brain is such a labyrinth of complexity. Precious memories fade like whispers in the wind while the worthless ones stay anchored. Walter was some jerk I dated briefly when I first moved here. But I've learned that it's best for Mr. Hank if I don't correct him and just continue with the conversation. So I force a smile. "Things are okay." He makes a grunting sound. "I think it would be best you date men your own age. Older men have agendas." This time my smile is real. Some things haven't changed after two decades. Sam is ten years older than me. Forty-five minutes later, it's dinnertime for Mr. Hank. He opens his arms for a goodbye hug, and I step in, inhaling the scent of chocolate donuts and Old Spice. The smell is uniquely him. When I pull back, he clutches my arm for a second, gives me a big smile. "I love you, kid." I press a kiss to his cheek. "I love you, too." Two hours later, I'm soaking in the bathtub with a glass of wine. The stress I've felt all day dissolves like a sugar cube in a hot cup of tea, and I barely remember my name, much less today's date. I should have done this earlier; maybe I would've finished the work I need to complete before it got so late. I only teach two classes at Pace University during the summer, but one of them is an online yearlong fiction-writing seminar that just started, and it requires a lot more time than the English 101 course, which meets in person twice a week. There are two dozen first chapters of books waiting for me to read and critique. I'm the only professor who volunteered to take on the class when the school started offering it a decade ago, and it's a lot. But every once in a while, I find a diamond in the rough, a student who shows promise, and it makes all the extra hours worthwhile. My iPad is on the bath mat, so I reach over the tub and grab it, along with my reading glasses, and press the button to fire it up. I preferred the days of students handing in papers that were on actual paper --much gentler on my eyes and easier to scribble a note in the margin with a red pen. But I'm a dinosaur at thirty-seven now. I call up the first submission and read through the chapter. It's written well enough, but it doesn't grab my attention, doesn't make me excited to turn the next page or anxious to read the whole book. Polishing it likely won't make it a diamond, but I add a few comments, note a few suggestions to pick up the pace, and hit send. I open the next file, sip my wine, and sink deeper into the warm tub. The document opens to a title page-- The Reckoning by Hannah Greer. My course syllabus suggests not attempting to come up with a name for the book until the first draft is completed--so the title can capture the true spirit of the novel. But every year, one student does it anyway. The next page even has a dedication--that's something new. To anyone who has done something evil in the dark and believes it will never come to light. You're wrong. Your day of reckoning is coming. Wow. Dark. Though it certainly has piqued my curiosity as a reader. I scroll to the next page and expect the creepy vibe to continue. But it doesn't. Instead, it opens with a prologue, a beautiful discussion about coming of age when life isn't so easy. It might not be what I expected with that title and dedication, but it's a strong start nonetheless. Immediately, I have a sense of the character--a young woman questioning her self-worth, on the cusp of going out into the world. I can identify with that. I add a quick comment, suggest the student describe the face her protagonist is making, rather than tell me she's sad. I keep reading. The main character is a girl in her senior year of high school. A girl who looks at her male teacher differently than the other kids do. It sounds like she might have a crush. She's daydreaming, looking out the window at a yellow finch-- A yellow finch. My breath comes up short. My heart pounds. I close my eyes and manage to shake it off, laugh out loud at myself even. I'm being ridiculous. It's just a bird. And find me a high school kid who doesn't stare out the window daydreaming at some point. I'm just being paranoid. I read another paragraph, then another, but the farther I go, the more I realize I can't shake it off anymore. A sheen of sweat forms on my forehead, though the bathwater has grown cool. I read rapidly to the end and swallow. This isn't fiction. This is a real story, a true story. But that's not possible. Is it? Maybe it's just... similar. I wipe my forehead, grab my wineglass, and gulp the rest down. Then I flip back to the beginning and read again. It's just a first chapter, but the names, what the teacher does, it's... Definitely not fiction. And while I might've only read the beginning of the story, I already know the ending. Mr. Sawyer has an affair with my best friend, Jocelyn, and winds up dead. Because I killed him . Exactly twenty years ago today. Excerpted from Someone Knows: A Novel by Vi Keeland All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
