by David Bell
Sophia started to say something back to him but cut the words off. Instead, she said, “Okay, babe. We can go.”
“I don’t want you going home alone after what you told me earlier.”
“Okay,” Sophia said. “Sure.” Sophia shrugged as she turned to Madeline. “Do you need a ride?”
“I’m good.”
“Be safe, okay?” She hugged her, pulling Madeline tight, a whiff of cigarette smoke cutting through the lavender.
“Are you okay?” Madeline asked.
“Right as rain,” she said. “There’s just a creep in our neighborhood. He’s kind of watching us. He comes around late at night and walks up and down the street with his dog. Zach’s right.”
“Gross.”
“It’s fine,” Sophia said. “Maybe he’s harmless. But who can tell these days? Something for your book, right? See you at yoga next week?”
“Yes.”
Sophia blew a kiss in Madeline’s direction and started walking with Zach, taking his hand.
Madeline watched them go, a little envious. And Madeline looked away only when Zach turned back, checking her out over his shoulder, his look lingering longer than seemed right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
REBECCA
PRESENT
Rebecca goes to one more class after she leaves Hoffman’s office—World History II—and while she sits through that lecture on Henry VIII, she starts to worry that she shouldn’t have said anything about thinking she’d seen Madeline at the library. Especially to Hoffman.
Once she’d mentioned it, his interest perked up in a weird way, and he showed more enthusiasm in talking to her about Madeline than he had about her thesis. The discussion of her own work seemed more like an excuse for him to ramble on and on about things he wanted to talk about—just like he had in Nye’s class—but when the conversation turned to Madeline and the possibility she was back in town, Hoffman asked question after question. And actually appeared to be listening to the answers.
It now seems silly to think she worried he’d be dismissive of her concerns, like Nye was. Hoffman kept the conversation going for almost twenty minutes, and it felt like he was playing the role of detective, as he wanted to know everything Rebecca knew about Madeline.
Rebecca admitted she didn’t know much. They weren’t such great friends. But Hoffman pushed.
“Maybe she had her heart broken by someone and left.”
“She never mentioned any guys to me,” Rebecca said.
Hoffman nodded, like he wanted her to say more. She wasn’t sure what she could have said. But Hoffman looked so eager to hear, she went on.
“Madeline was kind of secretive about her life,” she said. “Once before Christmas break the year she disappeared, I asked if she was looking forward to going home. I know I was. I couldn’t wait to be in my parents’ house with good food and plenty of hot water. But Madeline said no. I thought she was kidding, and I laughed. But she looked really pissed at me for laughing and said, ‘No, I really don’t want to go home. I’m staying in Gatewood as much as I can.’ ” Rebecca shrugged. “She said it in a way that made it clear she didn’t want any follow-up questions.”
“Interesting,” Hoffman said.
And Rebecca thought that would be the end of it.
But he went on and said, “So maybe she had a guy here in town she wanted to spend time with. Do you think that’s possible?”
It’s strange—Rebecca knows about the guy at the party. And the party was at Hoffman’s house. But Madeline swore her to secrecy about that. Rebecca considered breaking the promise, and would have if Madeline were dead. But since Madeline might be here . . . and since Hoffman might be freaked out if she mentioned something that went wrong at his house, she kept her mouth shut.
When Rebecca finally left his office, she felt a little off-balance. She wasn’t really sure if Hoffman had interrogated her out of genuine concern for a former student in trouble or for some other reason. Two years had passed since Madeline disappeared—did Hoffman think he was going to solve the case by asking about Madeline’s love life when the cops must have already dug into all of that?
After World History—and the stories about Henry VIII slicing off the heads of his wives, stories her professor told with a sly smile on his face—Rebecca heads to her job at the public library downtown. She spends four hours there, shelving books off a cart, which she thinks is just about the best job a writer could have. She rolls the cart into the far reaches of the library, picks up a book, and if it strikes her interest, she stands around, paging through it, seeing if it’s a book she might want to check out and read on her own someday.
Someday when she has money to buy all the books she wants.
Someday when she has all the time in the world to read on her own.
Rebecca waits for the bus at six when her library shift ends. The wind blows straight into her face, and she turns her head to the side as she waits on the brightly lit sidewalk. Mercifully, the bus arrives quickly, and she steps into the warmth. The bus is never full, and it’s only five blocks to her apartment, but she refuses to walk once the sun goes down. Not since Madeline disappeared. Rebecca looks back at some of the times she’s walked or jogged in the dark and wonders what she was thinking. She always assumed a place like Gatewood was safe, that nothing that bad could ever happen here. Clearly she’d been way wrong. She still carries in her left coat pocket the pepper spray she bought.
She trudges up to the second-floor apartment she shares with her roommate, Mikaila. As she goes up the steps, Rebecca hopes against hope Mikaila isn’t home. Or if Mikaila is here, that she is alone. Mikaila and her boyfriend, Steven, have been spending more and more time in the apartment, sprawled out on the couch watching Netflix, or giggling—loudly—in Mikaila’s bedroom. Rebecca wants to ask but never does why they don’t spend their time at Steven’s place since he lives alone near campus.
But Rebecca hears them giggling through the door before her key even goes into the lock, and when she steps inside, Mikaila—her bare legs intertwined with Steven’s on the couch—shivers in an exaggerated fashion.
“Oh, God,” she says. “It’s awful outside.”
“Sorry,” Rebecca says. “But that’s the only way I can get inside. Through the door.”
“It’s just so cold. Isn’t it, babe?” Mikaila leans over and kisses Steven, who is staring at the TV screen.
“You could try wearing pants,” Rebecca says, her voice too low for Mikaila to hear. Rebecca keeps her coat on and starts down the hall to her bedroom, looking forward to nothing more than putting on her noise-canceling headphones and starting to read for class.
But Mikaila’s voice stops her. “Oh, hey, Becca?”
Rebecca hates it when Mikaila calls her Becca. She likes it only when her mother calls her that—not anyone else. But she’s given up on correcting Mikaila.
“What?”
“There’s a package on your desk. It was sitting outside the door when I got home.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“It’s weird.” She leans over and kisses Steven again. “There’s, like, no postage on it or anything. It’s just a fat envelope. Were you expecting something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, cool.”
Steven finally looks away from the TV and returns Mikaila’s kisses, so Rebecca takes that as her cue to leave. She feels relief when she steps into her room and shuts the door behind her. She drops her bag and peels off her coat. She kicks one boot off as she picks the package up from her desk.
A giant yellow envelope sealed at the top with a strip of packing tape. Across the front, in Sharpie, someone has scrawled Rebecca’s name. But she doesn’t recognize the writing. It feels like a stack of papers inside. She slips her index finger under the flap and rips. It takes a few tries to get the tape and sealed flap open, but she f
inally does.
She tips the envelope to the side and a stack of papers slides out.
Rebecca kicks off her other boot while she turns the stack right side up.
Handwritten pages. Pen on paper. Hundreds and hundreds of pages of a handwritten manuscript that matches the writing on the front of the envelope. The first page reads “Chapter One,” like it’s a novel. No title. No author name. She flips through the pages but doesn’t recognize anything.
Has a classmate sent it? A friend?
What the hell is it doing here?
CHAPTER FORTY
CONNOR
PRESENT
The phone starts to ring just after eleven.
I’ve made sure every door is locked, every window slammed tight.
I’m up, trying to distract myself with the Ken Burns Civil War documentary, which is running continuously on the university’s PBS station. I’ve seen it before. Twice. But it draws me in, takes my mind off the craziness of the day. And since I don’t have to teach for the time being, it doesn’t matter how late I stay up. Preston e-mailed me earlier and told me Lance was taking over my fiction-writing class, which makes me feel bad for the students. Lance’s attendance can be spotty, and he is easily distracted. And he has a polarizing effect on the students. About half see him as a lovable, dedicated eccentric who changes their lives by spending a great deal of time with them as they revise their work. The other half despise him for being a self-centered blowhard.
I don’t recognize the number on the ID screen. I know I should let it go, ignore it, but I can’t. So while the Battle of Antietam rages on my television, I answer the call.
“Connor? This is Diana Lukas.”
I sit up straighter when she says her name. My lawyer, the one Preston told me to call.
“Diana,” I say, “why are you calling so late?”
I lean forward, use the remote to mute the sounds of gunshots and cannon fire on the TV.
“Connor, we have a problem. I need you to listen, okay?”
“I’m listening.”
“You’ve really stepped in it, and it’s going to come and bite you in the ass.”
“What is, Diana?”
She takes a deep breath, then starts. “I have a friend on the police force here in Gatewood. And I got a call from him just a few minutes ago. Connor, did you pay a social visit to Zach Greenfield earlier today?”
Her words don’t really surprise me. What did I expect to happen if I went around to the home of a murder suspect or person of interest or whatever he is and started asking him questions? Did I think the police would be happy?
“Did you hear me, Connor?”
“Yes, I did. I just—”
“Why did you do that?” Diana asks.
“I was going to say . . . I thought he might know something about all of this. And I thought he might be able to help me out.”
“Help you out? Connor, you have a doctorate, right?”
“Yes.”
“Is it in stupidity? Is that what you studied?”
I feel slapped. More than that—my head buzzes as though I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.
“Okay, Diana. So I fucked up. But I’m a person of interest or whatever in a murder case, and I kind of want to know what’s really going on.”
“That’s my job. You’re supposed to listen to me and do what I say. And I’ll keep your nuts out of the fire. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good. Well, you’re up against it now. Detective Bowman wants to come and talk to you again. I put her off briefly, but she’s not going to let go of this.”
“Shit.”
“Connor, if the cops come to your house or call you, just shut up and don’t do anything. Except call me. I’ll be there before they really start asking you anything. Okay? Did you hear me? Just shut your damn mouth and wait for me.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have friends you can call? Family?”
“I have a sister in Michigan, but I’m not going to bother her. I’m fine.”
“If you say so . . .”
“Diana, none of this can be real. Can it?”
But I’m talking into the void.
“Diana? Diana?”
She’s gone.
And I feel completely alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I tell myself I’m doing this for Grendel. If the police come at some point and haul me away, bring me to the station and question me all night, who will take care of my dog?
But really, I know why I’m doing it.
I’m scared.
The police already think I know more about Sophia’s death than I should, so what are they going to think now that I’ve gone and tried to talk to her husband?
I grab Grendel’s leash, a bag of his food, and a box of his treats.
“Come on, boy. We’re going on a visit.”
I’m not even sure it’s going to work. I worry about running into the cops as we go out the back door into the freezing night. When I’m out here, my body freezes. But not from the weather.
What if the person who killed Sophia is now looking for me?
What if it’s Zach, and he’s decided to take revenge another way?
The night is so quiet, it’s like I’m the last man on earth.
No one to call to for help. No one to defend me.
If there’s a killer lurking in the darkness . . .
Or maybe it’s Madeline waiting . . . ready to gong me again. . . .
The atmosphere feels brittle and sharp. It’s like the very air has edges that poke and prod my skin. Grendel climbs into the backseat, tail wagging. He loves going in the car, but he must be wondering what the hell I’m doing so late.
I slam the driver’s door shut and engage the locks. I breathe a little easier as I start the car.
I back out of the driveway, looking both ways up and down the street. No flashing lights, no sirens. I’m slipping away.
It’s a ten-minute drive to Preston’s house. I don’t even bother to text or call. His kids will be asleep, but I know he stays awake working most nights when the house is quiet. He gets by on less sleep than I do and bounces out of bed early in the morning, heading to the gym before he works a full day on campus.
The streets are quiet, most houses dark. While I drive, I also think about Madeline, out there in the world with that manuscript that incriminates me. I always liked her as a student, and I believed she liked me. I remember her coming to my office to discuss a story she wrote. Even coming to my house a couple of nights ago, sitting in my living room, so calmly laying out what she wanted me to do.
I’ve always felt paternal toward my students, even before I lost Jake. Since his death, that feeling has swelled, filling me with an intense appreciation for the kids in my classes. Their wit and talent, their anxieties and insecurities. Their striving. Jake would be one of them now, attending a college, going to classes, making new friends. Even stumbling and falling as he tried new things.
I have to slow down, wipe tears from my eyes. I simply can’t process or accept that I’m a suspect in the eyes of the police.
I can’t.
I pull into Preston’s neighborhood, which is just outside downtown. Mostly ranches built after World War II, back when not everything looked the same: low, sleek houses with large windows and big yards. I pull into his driveway and feel relief when I see the light on in his office near the back of the house. I text him, telling him I’m here with Grendel.
He writes back immediately and comes to the front door, waving me in.
I grab Grendel by the leash, along with his supplies, and go up the walk. Preston lets me into the living room, where a single lamp glows, casting a warm light over the space. The furniture is modern and spare, but the room still feels inv
iting. Maybe it’s something about the lives being lived here—a family, children. A refuge against everything.
Preston speaks in a low voice. “Kelly and the kids are asleep. What is going on that you’re over here this late?”
Grendel loves Preston and his family. Even though he hasn’t lived with them for a while, he remembers them. I’ve occasionally brought him over to run around the yard with Preston’s kids. Even his daughter who is supposed to be allergic enjoys playing with Grendel, which confirmed my belief it was a story meant to make it easier for me to accept the gift. She’d throw a ball over and over, giggling when he brought it back to her, slobbering on her tiny hands. And she’d stick her face right into his fur, showing no side effects.
Preston bends down and pets Grendel while I start to talk.
“You’re going to want to hear what’s going on,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, still petting the dog, but his eyes trail up to meet mine. He must detect something in my voice, my manner, that tells him something is really wrong.
“I mean it, Preston. I’m in real trouble.”
He remains in place, bent over Grendel, but the muscles in his arms tense. His jaw looks set.
I wish I knew a better way to tell him, some words that wouldn’t embarrass me or make him think I’ve lost my mind.
I just say it.
When I tell him about talking to Zach and the police finding out about it, he slowly straightens up, his mouth partway open, his eyes watching me like I’m a crazy person.
“Why did you go harass that guy, Connor?” he says.
“I wasn’t trying to harass him, Preston. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not making any sense, Connor. None at all. Are you saying you went to the home of a murder victim’s husband and threatened him?”
“I didn’t threaten him. I wanted to talk to him because of what the police think about Sophia and me. But now he’s told them, and it makes me look very bad.”
“You’re damn right it does.” Preston runs his hand through his hair, looks up at the ceiling. “This is all wrong.”