The Dead Children Sabina Murray (bio) You said it was his heart?" she asked. "A massive coronary. Surprised everyone." "That is very sad," Judith said. She hadn't known Anton Galchek well, but anyone's death was sobering. Judith nodded, signaling an end to the conversation, although that seemed an elevated term for their exchange. It was a Friday, 5 p.m., and already dark. The department meeting had been mercifully short and other faculty members lingered chatting on the library steps, as if the half hour handed back to them needed to be immediately squandered. Some of the younger instructors would, no doubt, be heading for a drink at one of the local bars, but they wouldn't ask her to join. And she wouldn't go anyway. There was a detective show that she was slowly working through on Netflix and that was calling to her, but perhaps she'd stop by her office and finish the last three papers that needed grading. Then tomorrow would be free, and she could use the time to get a jump on her paper, a fluff piece on servants—Mrs. Danvers from Rebecca and Mrs. Grose from Turn of the Screw—that she was presenting at an on-campus symposium the following semester. Also, Judith was not quite ready to go home. She crossed the quad to Carew Hall, noting the drop in temperature. Somewhere, a wood fire was burning and the scent of it tinged the air. A smell like that could use a glass of red wine, she thought. Judith had just fished her ID out of her wallet and was touching it to the security pad to let her into the building, when she heard the woman call out. "Judie," came the woman's voice, "Judie Denlow." Judith had turned, alarmed by two intimacies: the first, her name shortened to Judie, the second, the Australian accent. The woman was standing half-lit in the streaming lamplight. She was wearing a knee-length floral dress, a coat of hard tweed, and sensible shoes. A sensible black handbag hung on her shoulder. "Do we know each other?" Judith asked. "We did," she said. The woman must have been near 70. And there was something familiar about her, which Judith found unsettling. "How can I help you?" "I'm not sure you can," said the woman. "It has been a long time, but [End Page 71] you two were so close. She'd be your age now, although I don't think she'd be a professor. You were always the more clever of the two. The cleverest girl in the school. Everyone thought so." But not pretty, not nice. She did know this woman, although it had been 40 years since she'd seen her. Judith was flooded with cold, unforgiving adrenaline. "Mrs. Begley, am I right?" said Judith. "That's right," said the woman, but she made no move to come closer, just stood washed by light, her bare face raised with an accusing vulnerability. "What brings you to Vermont?" "I wanted to see the sights," said Mrs. Begley. "And is the college one of them?" Judith forced a smile. "No. Actually, I just wanted to see you." The woman held her eyes, unblinking. Perhaps a cup of tea would do it. Just some tea, a little reminiscence of her childhood in Perth, and then the woman would be on her way. But where? The two restaurants that doubled as coffee shops and bars would no doubt be bustling because of the meeting, and Judith had no desire to be sitting with this odd relic of her childhood under the watchful gaze of her colleagues. "Where are you staying?" asked Judith. "Are you at the hotel?" "Yes. It's very nice," said Mrs. Begley. "Perhaps I could make us some tea at home, and then drop you after? I do have some grading, but it would be a shame not to catch up, if only for an hour." "That's very kind of you," said the woman. But her eyes had narrowed when Judith indicated that their proceedings would be finite, that she had an hour but no...