Within/Without

chapter fourteen.

Val

Technically speaking, I shouldn't be here. It's Sunday, so the little floor of the Clubs Building we claimed should be shut, but Caz always leaves the back door to the office open. I'm pretty sure the only reason he does so is so the janitors have a way to get in, not for me to come in and do last minute research, but it doesn't matter too much. Either way, the door's open, and I'm in.

My phone sits beside my hand as I search on one of the school computers. I haven't heard from Simon since he tracked me down earlier this week to cancel what might have been a date. I've reminded myself multiple times during the weekend that we haven't exchanged numbers yet, but still I find myself staring at the phone screen, praying for a text to show up.

Sighing, I flip the phone over. I should be focusing.

I snuck in here to use one of the school computers, specifically, because there's a lot of faculty records and old blog posts and all sorts of school-related information on them if you dig deep enough in the database. I need to find out more about this missing professor, like what he did, what he researched, who he knew and who he didn't know. All I have right now is his name: Silas Wade.

I pull up the faculty directory first, and scroll through the years until I find him. Last Boston University saw of him was 2011, just like Caz said. His picture's as the awkward as the rest; he's wearing a multicolored plaid shirt and his dark hair is wildly curly. He grins, lopsidedly, at the camera, one eyebrow lifted. I'm looking at his face, trying to gather if I've ever seen him before, but I'm drawing a blank.

"Wade," I murmur to myself, opening a new window and typing in his name. "Silas Wade. Silas Wade...?"

The first thing that pops up is a Facebook page. By no means is Facebook a reliable source, but there's nothing else on this guy; he really did disappear off the face of the earth.

I search through his photos—mostly group pictures, a few awkward selfies of him and his cat—and through the pages he liked (nerdy sociology stuff). Finally, I search through his friends list, a whole other group of people I know nothing about: Kit Newman, Watson Gross, Larry St. John, even the current Dean Simmons. Still, it gives me nothing, besides the fact that this Larry guy seems to own the same multicolored shirt.

I push out a breath of frustration through my nose, reclining back in my chair. "This is impossible."

"Is it?"

I jump, nearly falling out of my chair. When I turn, Caz is there, in a crewneck sweatshirt and jeans, cardboard drink carrier in his hands. Nestled within the carrier are two paper coffee cups, which he holds out to me. "Latte?"

I take one, begrudgingly. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

Caz shrugs, easing down on the edge of the desk. His fro is delightfully tousled, as if he went through a lot to be here. I sort of hope he didn't. "I know the janitors aren't the only ones who take advantage of that back door I leave open."

"Oh?"

Caz winks at me. "You always forget to log off the computer."

I roll my eyes, taking a sip from the coffee up. It's caramel, my favorite. I look up at him, almost as if to ask if he's aware of this. He seems to be. "So my secret's out."

"So it is," Caz agrees, then cranes his neck a little to see the screen. "Any luck?"

I swing the monitor towards him, showing him the utter fruitlessness of my Facebook search. He narrows his eyes at the screen, a frown at his mouth. "No," I say. "No luck at all. There's nothing on this guy except that he was a major nerd and had the same shirt as one of his Facebook friends."

"Weird," Caz says, then shrugs. "Well, he's a professor. They can be recluses sometimes."

I bite my lip. "Maybe, but isn't this extreme? I wonder if the police would know more..."

Caz shudders. "I wouldn't go there first. You should go see the dean, or any of the professors that knew this Wade guy. They might be able to tell you something."

"Maybe," I agree, twirling around in my desk chair. I pause, glancing out the window. The sky's dim, overcast, as if a storm is coming. The room is washed, too, in a dismal gray.

"Caz?" I say, swiveling to face him again.

He hasn't moved from his spot upon the desk, but now he cocks his head, just slightly. "Yeah, Val?"

"What exactly is my goal, here?" I ask, sitting up. Caz just frowns at me. "Am I just writing about the fact he went missing all those years ago, or am I...am I trying to find him?"

Caz is silent for a moment, a moment long enough that I begin to wonder if he heard me at all. Then he exhales, downing a fair amount of his coffee and then slamming it down on the desk. "I think it's hard for you to do one without doing the other."

I chuckle uncomfortably. "You gave me the hard one, Caz, you jerk. Why can't I do another pizza review?"

Caz hops off the desk, grinning shyly. "Because Boston doesn't need another pizza review. It needs an answer to a long-asked question, and I know you're good at that."

"At what?"

"Finding the answers to things."

"Sure," I say, spinning the chair around once more, "unless it's the important things."

Caz frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as if he's considering saying something. In the end, though, he's silent; he just shrugs and tips his drink at me. "Keep up the good work, soldier," he says, and then he's gone.

I turn back to the screen, almost expecting something new to have popped up.

But nothing has, so I switch it off.