Alexander POV
The townhouse was at the end of a quiet street in Hale, narrow-fronted and older than everything around it, with window boxes that had been tended for years and a brass knocker worn smooth from use.
Professor Caine opened the door before I finished knocking.
She was smaller than I remembered — or I was larger, which was probably closer to the truth. Seventy, maybe a few years past it, white hair cut short, with the kind of posture that comes from decades of standing in front of rooms full of people who needed to take her seriously. She looked at me the way retired academics look at former students — measuring the distance between what they were and what they became, running the calculation quickly and keeping the result to herself.
"Mr. Devereux," she said. "You look like
