It had been six months. Six months since Frank Hardy had left that babbling message on Nancy Drew's voicemail. Six months without hearing from her. Six months since he had quit ATAC (at twenty, he wasn't exactly a teen anymore, anyway) and decided that it was time he did something else with his life.

Joe had tried to talk him out of it right up until the day he had moved into Rodin College House at the University of Pennsylvania. Had tried to talk him out of it a week after classes had started, saying it wasn't too late to back out and come home and pick up his old life.

But it was too late for Frank.

It was too late, because he had turned a corner he had never wished to turn. He hadn't meant to let all of it come out like it had, but he couldn't help it. He'd thought Nancy was going to die, and his desperation had led him to reveal more than he had ever told anyone aside from Joe. Joe had tried to do damage control, but Frank didn't know if it had even worked. He hadn't heard from Nancy since then, and it made him think that she'd heard the message and had decided that it would be easier to cut off conversation cold-turkey than it would be to try to talk about an awkward situation only to make it more awkward.

Because Frank knew that she would never pick him over Ned. He'd said at much to Joe, for the fiftieth time, when they'd talked on the phone two nights ago.

"I don't get it. Why don't you just call her? Even if she did hear it, she'll probably just—"

"Not say anything," Frank finished. "Yeah. Thanks, but no thanks. I think it's better this way."

"I'm just saying that I don't think it would be so bad to—"

"Goodbye, Joe."

Frank had felt bad hanging up on his brother, but it was a conversation that he didn't want to have. Joe had accused him before that he was running away from everything that reminded him of Nancy and that stupid voicemail. Joe was right, of course, but that didn't mean that Frank didn't think it was a better idea than torturing himself. He needed to try to have a normal life. It would be good for him. No mysteries, just normal college stuff. For once, he wasn't undercover, and it felt good to not have to lie. When kids asked where he had studied before, he told them that he'd gone to the university in Bayport and had just needed a change of scenery.

This was true, mostly, and he kept secrets but didn't lie and it felt good to not have to worry about blowing his cover. It was nice to be normal.

But when you're the son of Fenton Hardy, and you've spent almost your whole life looking for and solving mysteries, it's difficult to ignore it when one walks right into your home, so to speak. And this one was dancing naked in his living room.

Frank didn't normally pick up the Daily Pennsylvanian when he left for class in the morning. He'd glance at the headline as he passed through the gate, but he wouldn't stop to grab it. It wasn't that he didn't want to know what was going on, but he just didn't have time on his way to class to worry about picking up a newspaper. He could read the DP online when he actually had time.

That particular morning, however, as he slowed down to allow the gate sensor to register he was there, the headline caught his eye.

ARCHAEOLOGY PROFESSOR DISAPPEARS

Frank's hand twitched towards the stack of papers, and he was picking one up before he really knew what he was doing. The walk to Huntsman Hall was a short one, so he wasn't finished the article when he slid into his desk for his lecture. He didn't know the professor—he was in Wharton, and therefore not an archaeology major—but it still bothered him. Apparently the professor—Dr. Daniel Sherman—had been missing for over a week and had yet to email his students regarding his absences from class.

Frank stowed the paper in his backpack and pulled out his notebook as his professor began the lecture, but he couldn't shake the article from his mind. He took notes automatically while he tried to fight the gnawing curiosity. This wasn't his job anymore, but telling himself that didn't seem to be working. He hurried back to his apartment after class, preparing to do some research.

He found several articles about the Dr. Sherman's previous fieldwork, but he hadn't been on a dig in several years, or so it seemed. Frank had little experience with archaeology. He knew whom he would normally call about this kind of thing—Nancy had spent that time in Egypt on that dig site—but he didn't want to open that can of worms. Not unless he had to.

And he didn't have to, of course. This wasn't his job anymore.

Joe called him that night, memory of Frank hanging up on him completely forgotten.

"Did you see the DP article about the missing archaeology prof?"

Frank sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Joe stalked the DP website as if he were a Penn student himself. Usually, it was amusing. Whenever Joe found something interesting, he'd call Frank and read a good chunk of the article to him over the phone, as if Frank hadn't seen it already or as if Frank were incapable of reading it for himself.

"Yes," he said. "I saw the article this morning."

"Are you gonna look into it?" Joe's tone said that he thought Frank should look into it, and Frank had to suppress a sigh.

"No." He made sure he sounded firm. "I told you, I'm not doing that anymore. That's why I'm here, remember? To forget about this kind of thing?"

"Riiiiight."

Frank's face deadpanned at his brother's tone. "I'm serious, Joe."

"I know," Joe singsonged. "But you know who isn't not doing that kind of thing anymore?"

Frank knew what Joe wanted him to say, and said the opposite. "You?"

Joe huffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Frank. I'm talking about Nan—"

"I know you were talking about Nancy, and I've made it pretty clear that I don't want to talk about Nancy."

"I'm not saying you should talk about her. I'm saying you should talk to her. It can't hurt, Frank. I'm sure her dad has a contact at the university."

"Joe," Frank said, gritting his teeth. "I. Am. Not. Getting. Involved."

"Fine, fine," Joe said airily. "Have it your way, Grumpy."

But despite what Frank had told Joe, he found himself looking up the Dr. Sherman's office on the Penn Directory the next morning. He told himself that he wasn't going to go—it was out of his way—but he picked up his lock pick kit on his way out.

Later that afternoon, as he stood in the ransacked ruin of what had once been the missing professor's office, he found himself wondering if going to college had been such a good idea after all. Maybe he should have quarantined himself in a hut in the middle of nowhere. Alaska sounded like a good idea. But now that he was here and—he hated admitting it to himself—investigating, he knew there was no turning back now.

He poked around the office, looking for anything that could give him a clue to what the person was looking for, but Frank knew so little about archaeology that it was embarrassing. He stared at a book on the floor, open to a picture of hieroglyphs, and felt something like lead settle in his stomach. Joe had been right. He usually was, infuriatingly. Frank knew he should get out of there soon, before someone caught him snooping and thought he was up to something. Which, of course, he was, but not what someone would think he was up to. But if he didn't do it now, he knew he would chicken out and let this bother him for the rest of his life. He sighed and slid his phone out of his pocket. His hands were shaking too badly to allow him to scroll through his contacts properly, so he pushed the voice control button on the side.

"Call Nancy Drew."