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Morpheus God of Dreams

By: Dorothy McFalls

He was big. He loomed over me, making my heart race.

“Miss?” he said. I must have paled at the sound of his baritone voice.

His fingers wound around my arm, one hand cupping my elbow. I stared at those hands, large and powerful, and knew they could easily hurt me. Without a word spoken, he led me to an armchair and set me down. He turned then and stood in front of a sideboard.

I listened to the clink of crystal and the swish of liquid over the sounds of the storm pounding the glass outside.

His burgundy baroque parlor was dark and warm. Occasional flashes of lightening brightened a room fashioned for dim, shadowy light. A small lamp on a round side table and a fire blazing in the stone fireplace on a far wall provided the only relief to the oppressive darkness.

However, I welcomed the dry warmth of the room. The rain had caused a chill.

A drop of water landed squarely on my nose. I swiftly brushed it away and pushed my damp tangled hair away from my face. Only a madman would receive a disheveled, drenched stranger into his townhouse.

He pressed a cool glass into my hands and sat in the twin to my armchair. His eyes, black as the night sky, settled squarely on me. I took a sip of the brandy hoping to regain the courage that had escaped the moment I stepped over the threshold into this room. I opened my mouth to speak but found no words.

He killed my sister. I was terrified to my toes just sitting in the same room with him.

Anger and grief had compelled me to take the first flight to London after my family buried Trina in a clover-covered field in Pennsylvania. She was five years younger than me, only twenty-one, in the prime of her life.

Classical literature was her first love. Her professor and mentor at Penn State had arranged for her to spend a semester in England, studying the classics with some supposed well-known expert in that field.

I had never seen her happier. She would email me regularly extolling with a bubbly wonder the adventures she had found. There was no hint of any problems until that last email, the night before her death. I had printed her emails out and now carried them with me, neatly folded in my pocket.

I arrived in London early that morning, having taken an overnight flight. I had not slept in days and could feel the tight madness of exhaustion building in my chest. His townhouse, a skinny red-brick building wedged between two stone offices, had been my first destination.

I stood outside on the sidewalk just steps from the front stoop for hours until the inconvenience of the drenching rain gave me the courage to bang on his door.

His butler tried his best to block my entrance. I had to sidestep my way past the portly man in a desperate attempt to face the devil in his own lair.

I have just met the most interesting man. He’s American. Imagine that. I travel so far away from home only to meet an American here. He is dark and serious and as handsome as the devil. Please don’t tell Mom and Dad, he’s much too old for me, but I don’t care. My sister had written in an email to me only a month before he strangled her.

“Are you going to tell me why you forced your way into my home or are you just going to sit there and stare into that brandy?”

“Trina Hastings was my sister.” My voice was cold and emotionless. My anger must have steeled my nerves.

“Trina . . .” he said letting my sister’s name linger on his lips.

He took me out for dinner for the third night in a row. Professor Greyson is furious with me because I have been staying out too late and am a sleepy waste in the mornings. But I just laugh at the professor’s foul moods. I’ve never felt so alive. My dark prince seldom smiles, but when he does the world fills with joy. She had written later.

I’d been happy for her. I had encouraged her. I had thought it promising that she finally took her head out of a book and noticed the world.

“She wrote to me about you,” I said. I watched his reaction carefully, hoping to see a flinch of guilt, a shiver of confession.

His jaw muscles tensed. “She was a good kid, entertaining to have around.”

I think that I’m in love with him. No, I’m sure of it. And even better, I think he loves me too. I wanted to bury my head in my hands and cry. This man had not loved my Trina. He had played with her emotions and then twisted the life from her body with his bare hands.

“Look, it’s late and I assume that there is much you want to talk about. No, don’t argue with me. I can see very clearly that you’re exhausted. Tell me where you are staying and I will take you there. I will come by early tomorrow morning. We can talk then.”

A storm more fierce than the one raging outside erupted in my head. Trina had been killed in her apartment early in the morning. The police believe that she had opened the door and welcomed her murderer in.

There is evil here, and he is at the center of it. I confronted him tonight. I had never known terror before. He took me home and promised to come by early in the morning to discuss things. I hesitate to give you details. I fear that my knowing has put me in grave danger. I don’t want to involve you too. If I could, I would jump on the next plane home and hide under the bed. I would flee, but he holds me here. Why did I see anything? Why did I make my eyes guilty? Why did I recklessly learn of a sin? Trina had been dead several hours before I had read that message.

So he wanted to know where I was staying? He wanted to come to me early in the morning?

“Well?” he said. He was standing now and looking as if he were losing his patience.

“Uh, I don’t have a hotel. I just arrived to England this morning.” I blurted out the truth.

He leaned down, his hands gripping the arms of my chair, his breath hot on my neck. “You expect me to believe that you arrived with no luggage, with nothing?” The truth did sound unbelievable. “Who sent you? What do you want from me? I can see straight through this game.”

I did not answer him. My breathing sounded loud and labored. It took nearly all of my effort to keep from screaming.

“I should kill you right now.” His hands moved to my throat. He caressed my neck. “Maybe I will hurt you first.”

I screamed. A swift hand muffled the sound. He had moved so quickly, had so smoothly pressed his hand against my lips. He ripped me from the chair and twisted me around until my back was pressed firmly against his body.

I felt powerless.

His lips brushed my ear. “You must think you’re so clever by throwing Trina up in my face, thinking I would melt from the guilt of it all.” His voice betrayed his rage. “I will keep you a prisoner for a while, use you to my advantage.” He sighed a ragged breath. “I believe then I must kill you the same way Trina died.”

* * * * *

A light knocking on a door stirred me from a fitful sleep. The morning sun filled the room with sunlight. I blinked my eyes twice and felt a sudden rush of dizziness. This pale blue room, with three windows as tall as doors across the front and furnished with old Victorian furniture, was not my bedroom. He had locked me in here last night. I had been helpless to stop him.

“Miss?” a very English voice called out. I was politely informed that breakfast was waiting. He spoke to me as if I were nothing more than a guest in this killer’s home.

I found my way into the adjoining bathroom and washed my face and combed out my thick auburn hair. I had already searched the rooms for anything that could be used as a weapon the night before and had found nothing but blunt objects.

The man I kept waiting unlocked the bedroom door when I was ready to leave.

“You may call me Davens, Miss,” he said. He was the butler who had tried to keep me away from his employer the night before.

I gave Davens a smile.

“Follow me.”

He led me down a long flight of stairs that terminated at the front entrance. Seizing what might be my only chance to escape, I pushed Davens aside and lunged for the door. I struggled with the handle, fumbled with the locks.

“I assure you that all exits have been secured against your escape.” My head turned around so fast I thought my neck would snap. My sister’s murderer stood at the end of the hallway on the other side of the stairs. His arms were crossed in front of him, and he frowned. “My plans are not for you to die of starvation. Please join me for breakfast.”

I released the door handle only after giving it another strong tug and stood up straight and proud. I marched into a sunroom with my jaw so tight my head threatened to pound.

I surprised both my host and myself by my appetite. I ate everything on my plate and then devoured two more platefuls. Davens attended to both my host’s and my own needs by filling glasses with juice and coffee and refilling plates with food.

“You should not have slept in your clothes.” I looked up from my food. He looked as if he had not slept at all. “You look worse than you did last night.”

“What would you have me do, sleep in the nude?” I said and then wished I had not. One dark eyebrow rose, but he did not answer. “Davens, what do you think about what your employer has done? Is kidnapping an acceptable practice in England these days?”

Davens shifted his feet and looked uncomfortable. He looked to Trina’s killer for an answer.

“Thank you Davens. You may go now.”

Davens bowed and made a hasty retreat.

“You will not speak to him. He’s a good man, a kind man. I will not have you taking advantage of that.”

Anger quelled my fears. I wanted to toss something at him. I wished for a gun. I wished for the knowledge to use a gun. I wished to kill this arrogant man who stole my sister’s life.

“Trina once told me that her sister was afraid of flying, that she had refused to visit because she could not fly over an ocean. But, here you are.”

I did not know what to say. Yes, I wished I had traveled to England with my sister. I wished that I had been here to protect her. Overcoming a dreadful fear was nothing compared to the awful pain and anger in knowing that a murderer was walking free when Trina was sleeping in her grave.

“My family knows where I am. They know all about you and what had happened. Trina was frightened. She emailed me the details the night before she died. I know, and I told my parents everything. You cannot escape from this so easily.” Anger, I found, was a powerful weapon against blinding terror. I had lied well.

I had not told anyone of this trip because it had not been planned. And I had not been able to bring myself to share her emails with my parents. Those short messages were the only pieces of Trina I had left. I was selfish; I could not share.

He smiled an unpleasant twist of an expression and raised his hands in the air. “What would you have me do?”

“Turn yourself in. Confess to Trina’s murder and face the consequences.”

He laughed. “Is that all? I guess it would get me cleanly out of the way.”

It had been a romantic beginning. We met in an antique bookstore. Professor Greyson had sent me out to search the stacks of dusty tomes for rare copies of the classics from the sixteenth century. Finds seldom show up in these places, but Greyson insists that opportunities are not passed up. I was deep in the stacks, sneezing my nose off because of the thick layer of dust I had just kicked up when a handsome devil appeared and pushed a crisp handkerchief into my hand.

“Philip Meeks at your service,” he said and I laughed at him between sniffles. I soon discovered we shared a burning passion in literature, though he was more interested Italian literature. He’s not a scholar. It’s just a hobby with him, but he knows so much! We searched the stacks for books together.

I stared into those dark, evil eyes, trying to imagine what Trina had seen when she looked into them.

“Trina told me that her sister’s name was Taylor. So I will call you Taylor.” A strange thing for him to say, but who is to question a killer?

Davens slipped into the room. “Sir, two men are waiting in the parlor to see you.”

This caught Philip’s interest. He tilted his head and flashed a surprised look in my direction. “Your parents, perhaps?”

I did not dare give an answer, thinking it best not to provoke an unstable personality too regularly.

He sighed and frowned and then pushed his chair back from the table. From his coat pocket he produced a small handgun and pressed it into Davens’s palm. “If there is trouble, kill her.”

“Very good, sir,” Davens said, but the poor butler’s voice trembled.

I calmly stuffed a few more muffins into my mouth. Strange, I did not feel like a prisoner or as if my life was in danger.

I stood and made my way to the door. Davens, who was busy wiping nervous sweat from his brow, did not notice at all that I was getting away. I cleared my throat to gain his attention. It would not have been fair to startle the man.

When he finally noticed my move for the door, he raised the pistol till it was nearly level with my chest. His hands shook violently.

“M-miss, you heard Mr. Meeks’s instructions. Please don’t make t-trouble.”

“Davens, I hardly hope to make trouble under your watchful eyes. I just want to go up to the bedroom.”

Davens hesitated, not trusting me. Smart man, I had no intention of going upstairs. It was those mysterious men in the parlor who interested me.

“Very well,” he said; after all, he was more accustomed to fulfilling wishes than denying them. He followed as I marched through the townhouse as if it were my home.

The door to the parlor had been left ajar. I could not see the men inside but could hear their voices. The strain in Philip’s voice brought a smile to my lips.

Before I had a chance to concentrate on the conversation, Davens gently and politely nudged me to continue walking to the stairs. I shook my head and pursed a finger to my lips.

“Have off it, Philip. Admit that you killed Trina.”

“I’ll admit nothing you –-”

“Such emotion from a supposedly educated man. I’m shocked.”

I eased the door open and peered into the room. I could see the side profile of the man who had just spoken. He looked about the same age as Philip, in his early forties. He was thin, painfully so. Large glasses teetered precariously on the tip of his nose making his face look even more pinched. His blond hair had thinned leaving tufts of fuzz on the top of his head.

He was seated in the same chair I had occupied the previous night. He leaned forward. “I know you engineered that fateful meeting with Trina. I know you were trying to use her to get to me. Too bad, it just didn’t work out. The pieces fell apart.”

Philip, out of my view, slammed his fist against something wooden, jingling glass, and swore a colorful oath. “I cannot believe that you find your reputation so precious.”

I wondered at those words. They were completely out of context with the conversation. But then again, Philip was a murderer, and certainly not in a stable sort of mind.

The other man shrugged. “A good reputation brings money, an excellent one delivers a fortune.” An odd reply.

I leaned further into the room, wondering where the second man was standing. I had yet to hear a comment from him. My head was nearly in the room before I spotted him. The silent man, a hulk really –- making even Philip look small –- stood in a corner with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a menacing snarl on tightly closed lips.

Davens poked me in the back. His nerves were certainly shattered by now, but I did not care. I waved him away with a flick of my wrist.

“I have always been better than you, Philip. The women may have flocked to your bed, but I had something better. I had a genius that you could never fathom.”

Philip laughed. It was a tight, painful sound. “Your genius? Was it your genius that led you to be a –-”

“Enough!” The wiry, little man jumped to his feet. Our eyes met for a second. I jerked my head away from the door and pressed my body against the wall, hoping to blend in. My heart began pounding in my throat. I could hear rustling and movements coming closer to the door.

“Wait,” Philip called out. “Is that another young student of yours?”

There was silence.

“I mean, that girl you sent over here yesterday to torment me -- that girl masquerading as Trina’s sister. Is she one of your students, or just one of your hired whores? Doesn’t matter really. She’s now under my power. I will kill her and make sure the guilt falls on you if you don’t do exactly as I say. And don’t you dare think that I will to go to prison for Trina’s murder without a fight.”

There was more silence.

Finally, the small man spoke. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. I suppose you never considered that your hostage could truly be Trina’s sister. Turn her over to me and I’ll learn the truth for you.”

Davens pulled me down the hall, tossed me through a door, and turned the key in the lock just moments before the guests emerged from the parlor. I listened with me ear pressed to the heavily paneled door as Davens rushed back down the hall to fawn all over the two men while ushering them on their way.

Professor Greyson is a funny little man with huge glasses. His glasses are so big I fear that his body would tip over if he were to lean forward. Fortunately for him, he keeps his head thrown back so he can look down his nose at people even when they are taller than him. I had pictured a doddering old man. Could the man who had just been in the parlor be Greyson?

I cursed my foolishness. I was sure making a mess out of this small act of vengeance. I should have visited the little professor first. He could have provided me with information and assistance. Failing that, I should have thrown myself into the parlor and begged for rescue. Who would have stopped me, Davens?

But . . . but I felt certain that the little man who I now believed to be Professor Greyson saw me. He looked right at me. He heard Philip threaten my life. He knows what Philip did to my sister. Yet, he did nothing to help me. Did fear stop him?

He didn’t act frightened of Philip. Certainly he must be going for assistance . . .

While my mind continued to ponder, my eyes and fingers searched my latest cell. It was a library. The walls were covered to the ceiling with shelves and shelves of old books, many encased behind protective glass. There was a modest reading table in the middle of the room stacked with books.

In the corner, by a large window, sat a mossy green overstuffed chair –- just the place for curling up and enjoying a light read. I skimmed some of the titles. Most were not in English. Those that were included works such as The Metaphysical Poets of the 17^th Century, Philip Massinger’s The Old Law and The City Madman (appropriate for this modern day Philip’s library), The Complete Works of John Donne, and John Milton’s The Reason of Church Government and Tenure of Kings and Magistrates. Not exactly what I would consider a light or an enjoyable read.

Quickly bored with the review of books in the room, I slumped down at the reading table and began leafing through the five books that had been stacked there. These books were new. Their colorful covers and pliable pages were a surprising contrast to the brown musty volumes, with paper as stiff as dried leaves, surrounding them on the shelves.

The topics of these new books were all the same: dissertations on classical literature. I flipped the first book open to a random page and read. It was interesting really, written not just for scholars, but for the ignorant like me. The author drew parallels from classical works, quoting them at length, to the time period in which each one was written.

I closed the book and stared blankly at the cover.

Wait --

D.H. Greyson, Ph.D, had written this book.

That was odd. Philip did not seem to think highly of the professor. Why would he own a book written by the man? I looked at the four other books, all were written by Professor Greyson.

Could these be Trina’s books? Would she sit in this chair and study? My fingers trembled as I drew them across the cover of the top book trying to feel my sister’s lost spirit.

The more I get to know Philip, the more I think that such a man would be perfect for you. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not willing to give him up. You just remember that when you meet him. He’s mine; all mine. But his temperament and yours are similar. That’s probably why I love him so. It frustrates me though how he keeps things from me, just like you try to. He has a dark secret. I can feel it just like when you hid your breast cancer from the family. But this is different. It isn’t about his health. You know me; I’ll pry it out of him in time. I wish you would come and visit. You’ll love Philip; I just know it. But if you do come, you’ll have to promise to keep your hands to yourself. I saw him first. Gotta go now. I’m on Philip’s computer and I’d hate to boost his ego by letting him read any of this over my shoulder . . . more later . . .

Trina and her insatiable love of mysteries.

Large tears swelled my eyes. I fought them and tried not to wonder how she could have been so wrong about this man.

I returned my attentions back to the room. She must have loved this library. She cherished old books more than money. To sit in this chair and be surrounded by such a history of literature must have been heaven to her.

A tear escaped my lid and dropped like dew onto the page. I forced myself to block my sorrow. I had to concentrate on avenging Trina’s death.

“I told you to keep her in the sunroom,” Philip’s voice boomed through the halls. “Why did you fail me?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I understand that you are feeling desperate considering Trina’s unfortunate death. But sir, you have to agree that holding her sister hostage in your home is stepping over a line into madness.”

“That line had been crossed quite a while ago,” Philip said. Footsteps in the hall grew louder along with the voices. “Are you threatening to turn me in, Davens?”

“No, never sir. A secret is always safe with a proper English butler. But you did tell the professor. He could turn you over to the authorities.”

“He won’t do that. He’s still worried about what I know. He would’ve never come here today if he wasn’t frightened to death of what I could do.” There was silence in the hall. “Give me the gun. I’ll deal with our . . . um . . . um . . . hostage.”

“Very good, sir.” Davens paused. “Sir, what do you plan to –-”

“Go,” Philip ordered.

I jumped when the door swung open with the force of an explosion.

His dark, devil eyes studied me. He raked a hand through his jet-black hair and snarled, revealing white, straight teeth. He was big, strong, handsome -- a classical warrior. He would have appeared romantic on the cover of a romance novel, but not here, not under these circumstances. He was just dangerous.

“You say you’re Trina’s sister, Taylor?”

I stood, carefully watching him. “Yes.”

“You have proof?”

I untucked my shirt and pulled out a travel pouch -– a gift from my sister –- that had been tucked into my pants. From the pouch I produced a passport and a photo of Trina and me. We had traveled north one summer and stopped in the mountains. At the end of a long trail, we had discovered a magical waterfall. We were both soaked from the spray of the water and entirely pleased with ourselves in the photo.

He studied first my passport and then the photo with great care. I tried to read his expression. I hoped that I had not imagined the passing glimmer of compassion in his gaze.

“So you are,” he said and returned my passport but kept the photo tightly between his fingers. “What did she tell you?”

“Everything,” I lied. “And I told everybody.”

“Humph.” He turned back to the door. “Follow me. Davens should have never allowed you in this room.”

“Wait.” I gathered the five books from the reading table into my arms.

Philip watched with consternation.

“I assume that these belong to my sister. I’m taking them back.”

Philip’s shoulders sank. “I won’t stop you.”

I followed him, my arms weighed down with the heavy books, into the parlor. Finding no suitable surface, I dropped them to the floor and sunk down next to them. “If you’re not planning to kill me right now, I’d like to look through my sister’s books.”

He did not answer.

He remained in the parlor with me. A haunted expression darkened his face. I hoped it was the ghost of my sister tormenting him.

I spent the afternoon pouring through the pages, searching for clues to what my sister was studying, and if it had led to her death.

Random passages in the books were marked with blue ink, underlining key words and phrases and recording thoughts in the margins.

I could make no sense out of what she was searching for, why she was making so many notes on her professor’s various texts.

“It’s a puzzle,” I said aloud.

Philip mumbled incoherently and cradled his head. He appeared to be on the verge of sinking off to sleep. The gun hung loosely from his hand.

Now was my chance to escape. I quietly rose from the floor. It tore at my heart to leave the books behind, but it really couldn’t be helped.

I glanced down one last time at the open page of my sister’s book. One word stood out on the page like a beacon. It had been circled twice. Blue arrows had been drawn in the margins, pointing to that one word.

“Morpheus.”

The word struck a note with me. I fumbled through my pockets and found the printout of emails from Trina.

Oh Taylor, I’ve been so nervous lately. Morpheus, the God of Dreams, visited me last night in the form, a fabrication, of Professor Greyson. He warned me to be careful. Trina had written.

What had she meant? God, why did I fail to protect her?

Philip was still on the sofa, dozing. I watched the slow rhythm of his breathing. He was alive while Trina’s breath had been twisted from her body.

My grief drove me to madness.

“You don’t deserve to live.” I lunged at him, clawing for control of the gun.

His reflexes unerring, he caught hold of my wrist and twisted it painfully behind my back. I never got close to the weapon.

“What’s this?” He ripped my copy of Trina’s emails from my fingers. I screamed at him, fought him, trying desperately to retrieve her words. They were echoes of her soul. He had no right to see them.

“She feared you. She had nightmares. Morpheus -- whoever he is -- haunted her. Warned her.”

I tapped that hidden strength that lurks in the dark side of our minds, twisted free of his grasp, and snatched the papers away from him. They were mine and mine alone!

I crouched low, muscles taunt like a cornered beast, waiting for his attack.

“Morpheus?” he said. His brows knit and he pulled a hand through his thick hair. The gun slipped from distracted fingers onto a cushion. “Morpheus.” His eyes glistened like finely polished onyx. “She said that Morpheus haunted her dreams? Are you certain?”

“Of course, I’m certain,” I said. I backed toward the door. “Who is this Morpheus? And why would he haunt her?” I had to ask. This madman, this murderer, held the only key to unlocking the mysteries surrounding my sister’s death.

“He’s just a minor Greek god, mentioned only in Ovid’s Metamorphosis.”

For a moment he was lost within his twisted thoughts. “Morpheus is a god of dreams. Ovid suggests that he’s the only dream god that can mimic humans. You see, he doesn’t appear in dreams as himself. Trina would be well aware of that. She was, after all, somewhat an expert on classical literature, especially from the Roman era.”

Well, she had written that he appeared to her as Professor Greyson, but I was not about to share that knowledge with her killer.

He must have taken my silence as confusion. “You don’t know Ovid?” he asked, but did not wait for a reply. “Publius Ovidius Naso. He was born March 20, 45 BC near Rome. He’s a famous poet.”

I’m sure that Trina had mentioned Ovid before. I had never paid much attention when she would lecture on and on about one of her old musty tomes. And I really was not in the mood for a literature lesson from her killer.

I scooped up the stack of Professor Greyson’s books and started for the door.

“If you plan to shoot me, you best do it now because I’m leaving.” I held my breath and I marched from the room.

“Davens!” I called out. “Come unlock this front door!”

I stood alone for quite some time in the entranceway. Poor Davens, I doubt it had been easy for him to ignore my cry for help. After all, he had tried to stop me from stepping into this den of hell in the first place.

The books in my arms tumbled and flipped to the ground as I fought the heavy door, hoping to break the brass antique lock.

“Why did I see anything? Why did I make my eyes guilty? Why did I recklessly learn of a sin?” Philip said in a low, steady voice.

He had quoted the last words that Trina had written to me. Had she spoken them aloud? Had they been her last gasping plea?

My fingers froze. Slowly, I turned, expecting to meet my death.

He towered over me, his arms crossed over his chest. His powerful legs spread wide, unyielding.

“What did you say?” I whispered.

Philip stretched out his arm and pointed a neatly manicured finger to the floor.

One of Trina’s books lay open. A bright blue pen had circled those three sentences. Why did I see anything? Why did I make my eyes guilty? Why did I recklessly learn of a sin?

“It’s a passage from Ovid’s Tristia,” Philip said. “He’s lamenting the reason he was banished from Rome. The Emperor Augustus exiled him to a cold and desolate region near the Danube for the rest of his life.”

“What does that have to do with Trina?” It was rhetorical, and not at all meant to slip from my lips.

“She must have been studying it.” He bent down, gathered up the scattered books, and handed them to me. “It’s time that this madness come to an end,” he said, reaching beyond me to slip the key into the lock.

A violent banging shook the door. Philip and I both jumped back.

“Open up!” a voice cried from outside.

Philip did not hesitate. He unlatched the door and swung it open.

Professor Greyson, red-faced and panting, marched into the entry. A tall man in a dark suit followed closely behind.

Greyson charged me, grasping my arms. His small stature masked a bruising strength. “You are safe now,” he shouted.

Professor Greyson can get so excited. Yesterday, I purchased a stack of letters written in 1532 for his collection. They were pretty worthless, if you ask me. They were mundane letters from the lady of a household to her husband’s steward. And the bulk of the purchase consisted of blank pages. But to see the way Professor Greyson rushed at me to get them, you would have thought I had found a yet undiscovered play by Shakespeare. Trina had written in an email.

“Mr. Philip Meeks?” the tall man spoke. “I’m Chief Inspector Stewart from Metropolitan Police.” He held out his credentials. “I need to ask you some questions.”

Philip gave a sedate nod. I’m sure he was accepting the inevitable. He would be punished for his crime, I vowed to ensure that fate.

“He murdered my sister,” I said.

A grin grew across Professor Greyson’s pinched face. “Your fantastic luck comes to an end, Philip. Not even what you did to Trina could succeed in destroying my success. I’d love to stay and watch you try to talk your way out of a murder charge, but I’ve got a very important presentation in an hour. Thanks to Ovid, this presentation will sear my name into the pages of literary history.”

Ovid! I never wanted to hear that name again.

Professor Greyson grabbed my arm. “Come with me, Taylor. Trina was closely involved in my research. She will be thanked for her efforts in the presentation.”

Professor Greyson tucked me into a cab and then perched on the edge of the seat beside me, emulating his glasses balanced at the tip of his nose.

He gave a great laugh. “That Philip Meeks is finally getting what he deserves. The hack has received too much acclaim for his dissertations.” He turned suddenly to me. His eyes were wild with jealousy. “I’m sure he fabricated those texts he claimed to find. I just can’t prove it.”

I experienced more discomfort sitting there with Professor Greyson than spending a frightening day with my sister’s killer. He was staring at me, his eyes jumping with unfettered emotion.

I searched my blank mind for something to say to him.

“Ovid,” I uttered the first word that sailed into my head. Then my sister’s last plea marched through me, and I knew exactly what I wanted to ask. “Why was Ovid banished from Rome?”

He leaned forward with a quirk of his neck. “You don’t know?” He huffed. “Well, we can’t all be well-educated. Ovid was banished because of a song and a mistake. His poem, Ars Amatoria, created quite a shock. I’m sure you’ve read it.”

“Uh, no.” I’ve never read anything that wasn’t on a bestseller list.

“Hmmm. Ars Amatoria is a treatise instructing the manner a man or a woman should conduct a sexual affair. It is very detailed and promotes adulterous relationships.”

“I see, shocking for the time. And the other reason? The mistake?”

“No one really knows. But we scholars believe that Ovid saw something of a rather, um, embarrassing nature that the emperor’s granddaughter, Julia, was involved with. For Julia, too, was banished.”

The cab pulled to an abrupt halt in front of a great hall. Professor Greyson shoved some money into the driver’s hand and hurried on his way.

“Come,” he shouted. “You can find a prime seat in the audience while I prepare. It’s not every day a man gets to present a great find such as a new text written by Ovid and transcribed into English in the sixteenth century.”

About one-third of the seats in the small auditorium were filled. I took a seat near the back, wondering what I was doing there.

Trina had been murdered. Like Ovid, she had witnessed something she shouldn’t have seen. But what did she see? Would her death remain as much a mystery as Ovid’s banishment?

Philip had used her; that was certain. Did he kill her after discovering Professor Greyson’s secret project?

The words of her emails swirled in my brain. Morpheus rumbled in there, like the thumping of my heart.

Morpheus.

Professor Greyson took the stage. The room fell silent.

Morpheus, the God of Dreams, visited me last night in the form, a fabrication, of Professor Greyson. Trina had written.

Greyson began speaking eloquently about how Trina had discovered a dusty text, a text he recognized at once as something great. Slides flickered on the screen, presenting images of the yellowed loose-leaf find.

In all of Trina’s emails, she never once mentioned a great discovery. She had only purchased those mundane letters and stack of blank pages.

My heart stood still.

My God, Trina had given me all the clues.

Professor Greyson fabricated his great discovery, using the loose papers that Trina had found. Of course, the paper could be dated as coming from the 1500s.

He killed her when she confronted him with her knowledge of what he had done.

I flipped open one of the books Trina had marked up and compared the phrases she had underlined with those appearing on the screen.

Professor Greyson had merely taken bits and phrases from Ovid’s original text to create this ruse. A ruse he believed would bring him international fame.

And I now held the proof in my hands.

A hand gently squeezed my shoulder. I turned and saw Philip taking a seat in the row behind me. Chief Inspector Stewart was at his side.

After the lecture, I emptied my soul by showing the inspector the evidence, the clues given to me by Trina.

Philip was astounded. He had no idea what Professor Greyson had done, only suspicions complicated by a growing trail of false evidence that threatened to implicate Philip in the murder.

“I’ve felt like my sanity was being torn from me after Trina’s death. Those emails have proven my innocence, Taylor. I am forever grateful.”

Now, with Trina’s evidence, the truth was known. Within several hours, Chief Inspector Stewart charged Professor Greyson with murder.

Three weeks later, I was back in Pennsylvania, laying flowers on Trina’s grave. Philip stood beside me. He might not have loved my sister, but he cared for her. That much was clear in his tear-stained eyes.

“Instead of banishing Trina for what she saw, he killed her,” Philip said.

I collapsed into his protective arms. Tears that I had fought for so long flowed freely. I was finally ready to grieve.

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