by David Bell
The car starts to warm. A little.
“Preston called me early this morning,” Lance says, shaking his head and still rubbing his hands together. He hasn’t shaved, and his stubble is a mixture of gray and black on his pockmarked face. “He told me about Madeline. The news is starting to spread. It really has me struggling. It’s depressing, horribly so. What a shit show. It makes me wonder what anything is worth. Things are so . . . futile. So hopeless.” He stares at the glove box, his eyes wide and disbelieving. “I don’t even know what to say about it. It’s rare that words fail me, but they do.”
“What else did Preston say?”
I want to ask a more pointed question—did he mention calling the police on me? But I don’t.
“He said you were likely to be a suspect of some kind,” Lance says matter-of-factly. “I mean, I know you were the last one to see her before she disappeared and now there’s something bigger brewing. I have my own theory on it, of course.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Sure.” He stops rubbing his hands together.
“Are you going to share with the class?”
He sniffles, rubs his hand across his nose. “That night your book was launched, and Preston and I came over to the house. Madeline was there, right? She was the one you were drinking with before we showed up, and she split out the back door when she saw us coming. It wouldn’t have looked good for anybody if we’d seen her there with you. I mean, she was supposed to be missing.”
“Where did you come up with that craziness?”
“It makes sense. You were probably involved with her before she disappeared. And so when she came back to town, she must have come to see you. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Lance looks pleased with himself. I can imagine him in the classroom, pinning some underprepared, immature student to the wall with the same glee.
“You’re talking about my life, Lance. My freedom.”
“I have to do right by her. I have to tell the police she was at your house that night.”
“I know she was at your house,” I say.
“What?”
“Before she disappeared. When you had one of your famous parties. She was there. Right?”
“She might have been. I don’t keep a guest list.”
“Do you keep track of what happens to those students when they’re at your house? Besides the underage drinking?”
Lance’s lips part. I see his teeth, which aren’t in the greatest shape. Slightly gray with silver fillings in the back. Finally, he makes a disgusted grunt. “I’m really disappointed in you, Connor. That’s soooo conventional. I would have expected it from other people in the department, but not you. You’re going to worry about college students drinking at my house when they’re underage? Really? Why is that? Because they don’t drink underage in their dorms or at other house parties?” He shakes his head like I’m vermin that has crawled into the vehicle. “Whatever is going on with this Madeline stuff has really knocked you off your game. I defended you to Preston. I did. But I’ll go now.”
As he reaches for the door handle, I say, “You let Zach Greenfield into your party. He’s almost thirty. Was that good for the students? Was it good for Madeline?”
He stops moving. “Why are you asking me about Zach?”
“He tried to assault Madeline at your house. Did you know that?”
“That’s not true.”
“How do you know?”
“It wouldn’t have happened. I know Zach. He’s a friend of mine. He lives in the neighborhood. Just because his wife was killed and everyone blamed him, you’re piling this on top as well. He’s a good guy. Okay?”
“I think you’re blind, Lance. You’re blinded by whatever friendship you have with Zach. He’s going to be in trouble with the police soon, and then all of this is going to come out. You might want to make sure some of the shrapnel doesn’t hit you.”
“You’re the one who’s blind, Connor. You’ve been blinded by all this creeping morality. What an adult over the age of eighteen does with their body is up to them. Whatever Madeline did or didn’t do was her choice. You can’t go all nanny state on her.”
“We’re supposed to look out for these kids.”
“Is that what you were doing the night Madeline disappeared?” he says. “I know all about it, Connor. The drunken walk home. Back to your house.”
“Preston shouldn’t have told you—”
“Glass houses, Connor. Glass houses.”
He pushes the door open and leaves.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Diana keeps an office downtown, only five blocks from the police station. I go straight there from Troy’s and park in the lot next to the redbrick Colonial building, and when I step out into the cold sunshine, I wish I had a hoodie to cover my face. I feel exposed as I walk to the front door, like someone expecting to be hit by a sniper.
When I get inside, into the carpeted and freshly painted waiting area, I give my name to the receptionist, who doesn’t even blink before she calls back and tells Diana I’m here. In the flesh.
It takes about three seconds for Diana to appear, holding the door between the waiting area and the suite of offices open and pointing behind her. “Come on back, champ. It’s about time you showed up.”
I go down the hall, my steps hushed by the thick carpet. I feel dirty and unkempt, having spent the night in my car. And when I wasn’t in the car, I was crawling around on the ground in the cemetery, discovering a murdered woman. I see the open door of Diana’s office on the right and go in. She comes in behind me and we both sit.
“You’re a hard man to find,” she says, scooting toward her desk.
“Gatewood isn’t huge, but it’s not hard to hide. For a while.”
“You have a doctorate, right?”
“I know, I know, but it’s not in stupidity. I couldn’t just sit around, Diana. And I helped the case. I sent Rebecca Knox to the police. She’s there now. She knows Zach assaulted Madeline.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
So I tell her. About Madeline and Zach at the party. Diana listens without taking a note, but she nods along as I talk.
When I’m finished, she says, “She’ll make a compelling witness. And unlike some people in this room, it sounds like she does what she’s told. Her story about Zach’s assault on Madeline at the party dovetails nicely with yours about the fight you witnessed between the lovebirds. And it’s possible the fight you saw grew out of the incident at the party. The timing lines up well.”
“So you’re saying the police are going to think it’s less likely I just made it up?”
“They’re going to want to talk to our friend Zach if he’s still around. I’m assuming that was you who anonymously called in about Madeline’s body.”
“It was. I went there for some quiet—”
“I assume you go there a lot. How many people know you do that?”
“A lot. My friends. Some people I work with. My sister knows, and so do Emily’s brother and mom.”
“Your students?”
I see where she’s going. “Do you mean did I ever mention it to Madeline? I think I did.”
“So a lot of people know you make these nocturnal visits. You weren’t at home, so if someone went to your house looking for you late at night, they might assume you were in the cemetery. Right?”
“You could say that. But I didn’t—”
Diana holds her hand up, silencing me. “Hey, I get it. But the fact is she was dead there. Murdered. It doesn’t look good for you right now, so we need to get out ahead of this. If a lot of people knew you went there, then we start to raise doubts. Is there anything else you need to tell me now? I assume you didn’t just come by to visit. And I can’t help you unless I know it all. I’m your lawyer. I’m working for you.”
&
nbsp; I let out a deep breath. It feels like it comes from my shoes and out of my mouth. “And all of this is confidential? I can tell you anything?”
“It is. You tell me, and then together we decide what to do. Is there something you want to come clean about? Confession is good for the soul. And it might keep your buns out of jail.”
“Okay, I didn’t kill anybody.”
“That’s a good start.”
I let out another breath. “I’m sick about what I did do, Diana. It’s the . . . it’s the worst, most embarrassing thing. As a writer. As a teacher. I just . . . I fucked up royally. And I can never make it up to Madeline now that she’s gone.”
“You look kind of green around the gills. Do you need water?”
I shake my head. “No, let me get this out. I have to, okay? It’s overdue.”
“Go for it.”
“It’s okay if you think the worst of me once I tell you.”
“Just spill it, Connor. I guarantee you I’ve heard worse.”
So I tell her the truth about the book. The tenure deadline and my grief. Madeline’s disappearance after turning in the handwritten thesis. The book getting published and Madeline coming back. All of it.
When I finish, I don’t really feel relief. I feel dirty because I relived it all. My dishonesty. My theft.
Diana shows nothing on her face. Her only movement is tapping her fingers against the top of the desk.
“I’ll say this—you did fuck up.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“It’s okay, Connor. It’s not fatal. You’ll take a public scalding, but you kind of have that coming.”
“Sure. So you see . . . I didn’t know those details about the murder. Madeline did.”
“Or whoever told them to Madeline,” Diana says. “It could be the actual killer. Or it could be a cop or someone else close to the case.”
“Zach. He knew Madeline. We know he assaulted one woman. And fought aggressively with Sophia.”
“I’m going to call Bowman and tell her we want to talk. Are you okay with that?”
I nod. “Sure. Yes, of course.”
Diana flips her glasses down and picks up the phone on her desk. While she’s waiting for someone to answer, I stare at the floor. Madeline will never see the book in print with her name on it. She’ll never see any book in print with her name on it. And she should have and would have. I’m the only one who can try to make that happen—
“When will she be finished?” Diana says into the phone. “Will you have her call me as soon as she is? I have someone who needs to talk to her. . . . Yes, she’ll know the matter to which I’m referring. It’s the only matter she and I are talking about right now. . . . And can you ask her for one more favor? Tell her to call the dogs off my client Connor Nye. He’s going to wait at his house, and he doesn’t need to be arrested. I’m going to bring him in. . . . No, I don’t think I’m Detective Bowman’s boss. I’m just someone who wants to engage in mutual respect with her. If she backs off my client until he’s ready to talk, I’ll bring him in. I promise. . . . Just tell her, okay? Bye.”
Diana slams the phone down so hard, I jump. She takes her glasses off and shakes her head.
“Can you believe that shit? I’ve been practicing law in this town for twenty years, and they want to give me the runaround. Some rookie cop answering the phone . . .”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“It is. Don’t worry. Bowman is with a witness. Probably that student you sent her way. When she’s done, she’ll call, and we can go in. Or she may just come to your house. We’ll see.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Go home and wait. I bought you a little time to make sure you have your story ready. Just tell her what you told me when the time comes. I’m trying to keep you from getting hauled away like a common criminal. You’re a plagiarizer, not a danger to society.”
“Diana, what exactly happened to Madeline?”
Diana takes a moment to answer. “They’re saying she was stabbed.”
“Oh, God,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t even know what to say. It’s horrifying.”
“It’s a lovely world, isn’t it?”
“That young woman . . .”
Her death seems personal. Angry and personal. Just like Sophia’s murder over two years ago in a dark parking lot. Sophia died alone and in terror as well.
“Who the fuck is doing this to these young women? Is it Zach?”
“I wish I knew,” she says.
“What else did they find?” But then I remember—the knife. It was missing from my pocket when Madeline was gone in the morning. And she died of a stab wound.
If the cops found that—
“Shit,” I say. “There’s a knife missing from my house. The night Madeline came in and hit me with the bottle, it went missing.”
“Was there someone else in your house?” she asks. “Besides Madeline?”
I tell her I think someone else—a man?—stood over me while I was out of it. That the door I thought was left open was then closed. . . .
“You didn’t see this man?” she asks.
“No, I was groggy. It felt like a dream.”
“But the knife is gone?” she asks. “For real?”
“For real. We got them as a wedding present. And one is gone. I had it out because . . . I was afraid of Madeline.”
“That makes things a little stickier,” she says. “But the truth will set you free.” She knocks her fist against the desktop. “We hope. I’ll call you when Bowman is ready. If there are any cops outside your door when you get home, call me.”
“Okay.”
“Connor, if you ran anywhere besides home now, it would look bad. Very, very bad. And I don’t take well to looking bad.”
“I’ve been gone all night. I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“That’s a boy.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
MADELINE
SUMMER, TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO
Madeline skipped yoga the week after the party.
She knew if she went, Sophia would be there. And they’d talk.
And if they talked, Madeline didn’t want to have to lie. So she skipped.
She hated to do it. Hated to give up everything that wasn’t the endless cycle of work and school. But she spent the early evening reading for class, a story by her friend Isaac in which a man from earth travels through a wormhole in space to another planet where all the males have died. He must repopulate that planet. He called the story “Adam’s Curse,” which was the best thing about it. The guy downstairs started in with his music, the thumping bass lines. It made it tough for Madeline to concentrate, but she didn’t mind. She wanted to be distracted from the terrible story.
Sophia texted just after seven.
Missed you at class. What’s up?
Madeline felt breathless when she read the message. She decided to ignore it, claim she was in the shower or with a study group or that her phone had died. Anything not to talk to Sophia.
No, it wasn’t talking to Sophia that was the problem. It was the inevitable lie she’d have to tell Sophia that was the problem. Madeline hated lying, especially to someone who had been so good to her. Minutes passed. Five. Ten.
Madeline allowed herself to feel relief, felt the air come back into her lungs. Sophia gave up. She let it go and moved on with her life. Next week, Madeline would think of something else. A pulled muscle, a sick grandparent. She’d take the whole thing a week at a time.
But then her phone dinged again.
Do you have time to talk? I was hoping we could.
Everything changed then. It sounded like Sophia needed something—a helping hand. A sympathetic ear. And she specifically directed her request at Madeline. Not one of her many other friends. Not to her husban
d. To Madeline. She sounded like she wanted to talk to Madeline.
And how could Madeline ignore her if she needed her? Not when Sophia always listened to her troubles.
Madeline tried to keep breathing, tried to reach back and remember things she’d learned in yoga next to Sophia. What a week to skip the class that calms me down.
Okay, she thought. Okay. She wrote back:
Hey! Studying. But I’ve got a few minutes if you need to talk.
The response came immediately: Great. Where do u live?
Madeline sent the address—up the rickety stairs at the back, try not to fall down—and then paced around the apartment, hands on hips. Breathing, breathing.
She couldn’t know. How would she? And if she knew, that meant Zach had told her. And if Zach had told her, then why would Sophia need to talk to Madeline at all? Her problem wasn’t with Madeline. Her problem was with Zach. Her husband. The pig.
But what if Zach had shifted the blame to Madeline? Told a tale about Madeline being the aggressor? And Sophia was coming over to tell her to stay the fuck away from her man?
Her mom had received those visits and calls before. Angry women pounding on the door or confronting her in the grocery store parking lot. Her mother yelling back until a vein shaped like a Y popped out on her forehead.
She should just leave. Just get out of the apartment and avoid Sophia. Wasn’t that the best way to deal with it?
No, she told herself. Running isn’t always the way.
“Shit,” Madeline said. “Shit, shit, shit. Why is this my life?”
Three minutes after Madeline sent the address, Sophia knocked on the door. Madeline knew she was coming but jumped anyway, like a scared little kid. And she felt like one compared to Sophia. She felt like she’d been caught doing something and was about to get punished.
But, she reminded herself, she hadn’t done anything. Zach had.
Sophia smiled when Madeline opened the door, the light from the one bulb above the door casting her face in a pale glow. But her smile lacked the wattage it usually had. Madeline hated clichés, desperately fought to keep them out of her own writing, but she’d always thought it about Sophia—that she had a smile that could light up a room. . . .