“It can't be all you read.” He smiled. “And I'm sure it's not all you're capable of writing.”

“Maybe.” She touched the paper, but still didn't take it.

“Maya.” He leaned over his desk and put his hand on hers. It reminded her immediately of the feel of his hand pressing hers under the table, and brought the same warmth and tingle. “I don't think you know how good you really are.”

His words made her feel even warmer. “Really?”

“You remind me a lot of me,” he said, nodding. “When I was your age.”

She smiled. “You make it sound like it was a hundred years ago.”

He smiled back, but his was a wry smile. “I think it was.”

“No,” she whispered, turning her hand over under his, pressing her palm upward. The pressure of his hand kept hers on the desk, and the feel if it made her flush. Her eyes moved from their hands back to his eyes, and she saw her own feelings reflected there.

He cleared his throat and moved his hand slowly off of hers. “So, what do you think?”

Maya sat back and looked at him for a minute. “I have one question.”

“What's that?” He opened his desk drawer and took out a small scheduling book and a pen.

“Are you really Rebecca Winters?”

Her question made him drop his pen, and it rolled under the desk toward her and settled against her shoe. He stared at her, opening his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He did that twice more, but still, nothing.

Maya reached into her backpack and pulled out the book, setting it on his desk. There was a picture of a half-naked woman on the cover, her breasts nearly spilling out of her bodice, with a shirtless man leaning over her, kissing her neck. When she looked up at the professor, she saw that he had gone very pale.

“Did you… were you…?” He couldn't seem to finish the question.

“Before,” Maya said. “The woman who left, she threw the book.”