A/N: This story is dedicated to my college roommate at Houghton College, which is located in a very very rural area. A week before graduation, she commented that everyone in the Witness Protection Program should be relocated to Houghton, since no one would ever find them there. That idea has been percolating ever since.

The timeline will bounce around. 2016 is considered the present time, and major precipitating events happened in 2011. Thanks so much for reading.

I do not own any of these characters.

Frank

July 25, 2011

Everything about this grey stone building was old. Not shabby, but old. I'd walked up and down winding streets to get here, half expecting to see an Amish buggy passing me on the left, and entered through a heavy door. Pictures of previous college presidents adorned the hallway to the upstairs—I'd checked to make sure their title was "president," not "headmaster"—and I'd had a brief paranoid suspicion that the eyes of the pictures might be following me.

Now I sat in a faux leather chair, trying not to move or even breathe too heavily, as movement might cause a creak or a squeak. It reminded me of a chair Nancy and I used to have at our house, the one she'd always begged me to get rid of. As soon as I'd signed up, Joe had been required to go through the house in my and Nancy's absence, putting it back on the market and forwarding our belongings to the central location. After waiting a few months, they had repacked our things in new boxes and sent them to Nancy and me, dividing it as best they could. The boxes had only arrived last week. I didn't even know if the house had ever sold. That piece of information, along with many others, was deemed not necessary for me to know.

The secretary typed on her computer screen (too bad it wasn't a typewriter, I thought) efficiently, competently, with only a faint hard edge around her mouth betraying a sense of stress. Of course she must have a lot on her plate these days. The fall semester was only five weeks away.

I glanced at the clock: 11:06. Not too much longer now, I thought. The president wouldn't want to seem unprofessional by keeping me waiting for too long, but neither would he take me exactly on time and risk appearing like he had nothing else do. After all, I was an outsider that might need to be taught how things are done around here.

I mentally scanned myself to see how I was doing. No clammy palms, no low back pain, no repetitive movements. I was nervous, but only slightly. Before every interview, ask yourself what you want out of it and why, I could hear my father coaching. Of course he'd been referring to conducting interrogations, but this time I would be on the other side of the desk.

What I wanted was obvious. A good quality of life, for the foreseeable future. As for what I was feeling…curious. No. More than curious. Wary. I'd have to keep that in check. He'd be annoyed if he felt like he was in the hot seat instead of me.

I missed my brother. We'd been on both the giving and receiving end of many interviews over the years, and he'd always been by my side. My right side, to be exact. Somehow, over the years, he had always taken the right seat, and me the left. I made a mental note never to mention this fact to Joe. He would immediately connect the symbolism to a married couple having assigned sides of the bed. I sunk lower in my chair to lean onto my elbow, covering my smile with my hand. The secretary glanced over at the gentle squeak that came from my chair.

The door opened just in time for the president to see me slouched in my seat. I stood up immediately, just slightly too quickly, and took the proffered hand in a firm handshake. I matched his smile, professional yet warm. "Mr. Campbell," President Taylor said in greeting. "Please, come in. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you," I responded, picking up my folder (that should have been a briefcase) and following him into his office. "I appreciate your time." My seat was obvious: directly across from a massive oak desk, laden with primly organized books and papers.

If only Joe were here. His good-old-boy smile would give him the ability to bypass this interview altogether. He'd have the contract in his hand and the secretary in giggles in just a few minutes.

Suddenly I realized that I had never been on a job interview in my life. Joe and I had solved several of our father's cases, which had eventually led into full-time work with ATAC. It had been a series of promotions and transfers ever since. I reminded myself that this interview was only a formality, just like the others had been. This man already knew what he was going to do with me.

President Taylor settled into his chair and leaned back, assessing me. He gestured to some papers in front of him. "Forgive me. I haven't glanced at your application or resume yet."

"I'm grateful that you're granting me an interview at all," I said truthfully. "This community has been more than kind to me as it is. You took quite a chance." We could hear the secretary's typing through the door.

"You're welcome." He paused. I saw his eyes drift to a noisemaker next to his door. I anticipated his request, leaning over and flipping the switch. A sound like a very loud air conditioner came from the small unit, drowning out the typing. No one on either side of the door could hear each other.

The president sighed, folding his hands on his lap. "I admit that this is quite a unique situation. I am allowing this because of my personal relationship with the man who referred you here. He says he doesn't know you, but he worked with your father for a few years on the NYPD."

"Yes," I said, nodding. "I've never met him, just spoke on the phone. He was assigned to my case and recognized my last name."

"Which is Campbell." It had been highly recommended that I keep my first name, but last names were of course always changed.

At my silence, President Taylor let out his breath slowly. "Not a fair question. My apologies. I'm sure you have a mildly interesting fictitious past studied and memorized. Your past is the business of you, your family, law enforcement, and God. Your personal life interests me only insofar as I believe you can uphold the doctrinal statement and the code of conduct of this institution. Have you studied them?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "The code of conduct will not be a problem. My personal and professional behavior will never give you a reason to regret hiring me." This last statement came out fiercer than I had intended it to. The president appeared slightly taken aback, then nodded respectfully.

"Thank you. I do not doubt your sincerity. I would like to warn you, however, that about two-thirds of our students are females, and they are used to having much older professors." He opened my folder and began to scan the first page of my application.

"I am thirty-one," I provided. "And not easily tempted—"

His eyebrows suddenly shot skyward, and he dropped my papers back onto his desk. "You checked off the married box."

I stiffened. Now I began to feel the sweaty palms and tension in my lower back. "Yes," I said. It felt like a confession.

President Taylor whipped off his glasses. "I was never told about this. Your wife is certainly permitted to join you here."

I shook my head. I cleared my throat. "She…she chose not to come with me."

His eyes narrowed in an effort to understand. "Is she safe?"

"Yes, she is safe. As far as I'm aware. She didn't want to join me for…primarily personal reasons."

He stared hard at me. Somehow I could still make out the ticking of the clock over the noisemaker. I held my breath, hoping that he would not ask more. Finally he relaxed, and nodded.

"If she changes her mind, please come speak to me. As you are married, I will grade your compliance with the code of conduct accordingly."

"Of course," I said, relieved. As in, no dating. I would never be with anyone but Nancy anyway, I knew that.

"So how about the doctrine of faith? What is your relationship to Jesus Christ?"

I'd known this question would be coming, but it didn't make it any easier. He hadn't asked about God, or, even more generally, "spirituality," but specifically Jesus. In fact, I'd prepared a host of excellent-sounding answers, and now found that the thought of saying them raised the taste of bile in my throat. This man had literally saved my life and had been gracious throughout this interview, and he deserved the truth. "Developing," I answered. "I have nothing else, no contact with anyone from my previous life, less than ten percent of my former possessions. I am taking this area very seriously."

"So you have no faith journey? No background in the church?"

The clock continued to tick.

I sighed. "For all intents and purposes, no. Unless CCD counts."

"And how can I trust a three-month Christian with the spiritual advisement of my students?"

I sat up straighter. "Because this isn't a Christian high school, it's a Christian college. It's my job to teach students how to think and how to grow, and I'll be leading by example. They need professors with all types of testimonies, including those who came to God through tragedy, not books or Sunday School."

Not the most profound answer; I still wasn't very good at Christian lingo. I was relieved to see the president put his glasses back on and pick up my resume once again.

"Master's in Criminal Justice from…oh, yes, that's an online university," he mumbled, looking down his nose at seven years of post-high school education. "Most of our professors have their Ph.D.s, but we can use life experience in your case. How long are you planning to stay, by the way? I heard you're here for at least a few more years."

My face blanched at this, as I had not been given an estimate. "It's impossible to say," I managed, grateful that he wasn't looking at me. "And the theory of this program is that I will create a new life—"

He shook his head suddenly, putting my papers down and looking up. "I can't hire you full time. I'll start you off with two classes. So that's no benefits—I trust you're in reasonably good health?"

I wanted to burst out laughing. The thought that I would be concerned about health benefits after all I'd been through. "Yes. That's not a problem."

"Houghton College does not have a major in criminal justice. I'm hoping that you can help to create a minor. Your new landlord has recommended that you begin a Sherlock Holmes class that can be used for both literature and pre-law credits." His eyes twinkled at me, a grandfatherly gesture.

I felt my shoulders lower in relief. It finally looked like this interview was going my way. "I think we can make that happen."

"Think you can handle upstate New York winters? A foot of snow by the middle of October? We're only 90 minutes from the Canadian border."

"That'll be an adjustment, but I'll manage."

My new boss stood up and extended his hand. "I'll need to speak to the pre-law department, and you'll need to submit a sample and teach a class to the department head. He'll be in touch."