The storm began just after sunset.
Professor Hart’s wine and debate evening had always been intimate twelve handpicked students, firelight, soft jazz, rare books lining the walls. Fallon had dressed carefully that night. Nothing overt. Just suggestive enough: a fitted black sweater, sheer tights beneath her tweed skirt, dark lipstick.
She hadn’t expected to be the last student left behind when the snow began falling hard, cancelling rides and cutting off the roads.
Hart was calm, as always.
“You’re welcome to wait it out here,” he’d said, removing his glasses and motioning toward the fireplace in the private study. “It’s warm. Quiet. Safe.”
But when the old oak door to the study slammed shut behind them with a sharp click
They discovered it was locked from the outside.
Fallon’s phon
