by David Bell
So Madeline vowed to do that and nothing else.
When she entered Troy’s that day, Hoffman was already there. Bright and early, sitting at a table with the pages of her manuscript in front of him. And when she stepped to the counter to order a coffee— figuring that if she was going to get through the meeting, she needed and deserved some good caffeine—Hoffman popped up and paid for her order.
She thanked him, and when they sat down across from each other, she noticed that Hoffman appeared to have lost his usual energy, some of the smirking condescension he normally displayed. He looked a little like his puppy had just died.
He jumped right in.
“I feel like I owe you an apology before we begin talking about your thesis,” he said.
Madeline sipped her coffee. Blazing hot and rich. She loved it that way. She couldn’t get that black gold flowing out of the cheap coffeemaker in her apartment, the one she had bought at Goodwill for five dollars.
She remained quiet. Listening. Nervous.
Heart thumping from more than caffeine.
“The last time we were here, at the beginning of the last semester, and we talked about your thesis, I think I . . . I think I may have given you the wrong impression. Sometimes I get a little carried away when I talk to students, and I believe I reached out and placed my hand on your knee. I hope that gesture didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
He paused and seemed to be waiting for an answer.
So Madeline gave him one. “It was a little surprising. Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that. And I understand if you don’t want me to have any more involvement in your thesis. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. I’ve given you space for these last months because of what I did. I worried . . . well, I worried you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me. I was just trying to help you while Dr. Nye was incapacitated. And I’ve tried to give you some space and not contact you during the rest of the fall semester, in the hope you would see I wasn’t trying to hurt you or crowd you. But I wanted to apologize the whole time. So I’m doing it today. It’s late, but I’m doing it.”
Around them, people talked. The machines steamed and hissed behind the counter.
Hoffman looked expectant. The dynamic between them had shifted. She was judge and jury. He the accused, hoping for mercy.
You have to do what you have to do.
“It’s okay,” she said, shrugging it off. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Really?” Hoffman’s face brightened. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Forget about it.”
“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “My students are kind of my life. I don’t have any children. And I’m not married, so I tend to pour myself into what I do at the university. That’s why I haven’t written as much poetry over the last few years. And maybe that’s why I don’t always know what’s appropriate.”
“Appropriate”? That was the word Sophia used when Madeline had told her about Hoffman.
Madeline looked down as the steam from the coffee rose past her face. Sophia. She was all Madeline could think of. Sophia had known Hoffman—a little. And Zach knew him better. Had Sophia said something to Hoffman about touching Madeline? Was that why he’d apologized?
Or had he been in a funk because of Sophia’s death? Maybe they shared that shock and grief.
She wanted to know.
“Did someone . . . did—”
“Did what?”
She decided to let all of it go. To keep Sophia’s name out of it. And to do whatever Hoffman needed her to do in order to complete her thesis and graduate with honors. No one in her family even had a college degree, let alone one with honors. And no one in the family would really care about the extra designation on her diploma, but she would. And wouldn’t it be good to stay and finish something for once? To see it all through and suppress the impulse to run?
“It’s good,” Madeline said. “It’s all good. Thanks.”
“Okay. Thank you for understanding.” He pointed to the manuscript on the table. “Shall we?”
“Sure. You said something about bringing me into the twenty-first century. Are you saying my writing feels old-fashioned? I never thought that would be a criticism.”
“No, no. Not that.” Madeline noticed Hoffman hadn’t written anything in the margins. “I have an old computer, a desktop, one I haven’t used in years. You see, my eyesight is getting to be so bad, I struggle to read. And while your handwriting is perfectly neat and clear, I’m just not used to reading it. My eyes start to hurt after an hour or so.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Hoffman. My computer died, and I just couldn’t afford a new one. And I don’t want to go to the lab really late at night. And I have to work.”
He waved her off. “It’s okay. I understand. I went to college with a Smith Corona and two extra ribbons. I understand the technology problems.”
Madeline wasn’t sure what he meant by Smith or Corona—she often didn’t understand his allusions—and she was too mortified to ask for clarification.
“I can let you use my old computer,” he said. “It’s a bulky thing. Kind of heavy. But you’d be welcome to use it in order to finish the thesis. And any other work you had until you graduated. Maybe even beyond. It’s just collecting dust on my table. . . .”
Madeline hadn’t cried when she learned Sophia was dead. She’d wanted to, but she just couldn’t get it out. Madeline couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried—and certainly not the last time she’d cried in front of another person. In a public place.
But she wanted to cry in Troy’s. Because of the offer of the computer.
Something she never would have been able to afford without going deeper into debt.
She stared at the tabletop, felt Hoffman’s eyes on her. She drank coffee. A long, hot swallow. And wiped at her left eye, hoping it just looked like she had an itch.
For once, she didn’t feel like pulling her eyebrows out.
“Thank you, Dr. Hoffman,” she said. “That’s incredibly generous. My study environment isn’t great because my neighbor makes a lot of noise, and I have to work at the grocery store—”
“It’s fine. Like I said, it’s not in use. And a writer as talented as you should have the best equipment. We can figure out a way for you to pick it up before we leave.” He pointed at the thesis again. “Now, as for this, I was thinking about the murder you seem to be heading for in the story. You haven’t really figured out where it’s going to occur, have you?”
“No. I thought maybe I’d change it to the kitchen . . . because she likes to cook for her husband.”
Hoffman nodded, scratched at his chin. “Or maybe . . . and I’m just riffing a little bit here, trying out ideas. But you have this murder happening in a parking lot, which is maybe influenced by certain events in real life. But it’s not very vivid. Didn’t Dr. Nye ever talk to you about the importance of details? Vivid three-dimensional details.”
“Well, yes—”
“Think about how important that crime scene is to the advancement of your plot. . . .”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CONNOR
PRESENT
“Shit,” I say.
Lance quickens his pace, heading down the hall toward a set of double doors that lead to a staircase.
I follow, going past the open door of the classroom. When I go by, some of the students are standing, coming over to see out into the hallway.
“Stay in there,” I say.
But they ignore me. And as I go down the hall, I can hear them coming out behind me. I take a quick look back and see a couple emerging, their faces wide with curiosity.
Lance busts through the double doors, pushing with both hands and swinging them open. By the time I get there, the doors have swung back and then out into the stai
rcase again, and I have to dodge them to avoid getting caught in between.
I see Lance going up.
“Lance. Wait.”
But he keeps going, moving quickly. So I go up, following in his wake.
After one flight, I start to puff. Adrenaline does only so much to keep me moving, and I slow. Lance, despite being almost twenty years older than I am, keeps moving at a steady pace. I try to guess where he’s going. Above us are offices—the History Department and then Philosophy.
Above those departments is the cupola bell tower that makes Goodlaw stand out above and beyond the rest of campus.
But why would he be going there?
No matter. I huff and puff and keep going. The phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it, figuring it’s Diana again.
“Lance. Wait.”
He doesn’t slow. He goes past the next floor and the floor after that. Which means he has his sights set on the bell tower.
I’ve been up there only once. A few years ago, the giant solar eclipse passed over us, and Preston got his hands on the keys and allowed a few of us to go up and observe from on high. But it’s supposed to be kept locked to prevent drunken students from dangling over the edge or throwing water balloons at passersby.
I reach the third floor and hear the door to the bell tower open above me. Either it’s been left open, or Lance has a key.
I stop for a moment, try to catch my breath. After a few gasping heaves, I will myself forward and go up the last flight. Since it’s rare for anyone to come up here, the steps are dirtier, the air mustier. But I can feel a cold draft as I go higher, meaning Lance left the door open behind him.
Then I worry he’s done something rash.
I finally get there, and the heavy rusted metal door stands wide. I can see the giant bell, the arched cupola surrounding it, and, beyond that, a sweeping view of the surrounding area. The campus buildings give way to the town and then the countryside. Bare trees, rolling hills. It’s beautiful, even in winter.
But I don’t know why I’m here.
“Lance?”
Something scrapes across the way, on the far side of the bell. I see Lance, standing over there, about fifteen feet away, with his hands resting on the metal railing that rings the cupola platform.
It’s cold up here. The wind picks up and lifts my hair.
“What are you doing up here?” I ask. “It’s too cold. Come down and talk to Preston.”
“Preston doesn’t care. You know who he’s looking out for. He can’t help me.”
“Then come down and talk to somebody. A counselor or a lawyer. Whatever you need. Just don’t stand up here. You’re right at the edge, and it’s dangerous.”
I’m still in the doorway, but I take a step out into the tower itself. I immediately feel the vertiginous drop on all sides of me. I see students walking by below us, cars passing on the street. My head whirls, and I reach out, bracing myself against the railing.
“This will ruin me, Connor.” His voice reaches me over the wind. “You’re trying to ruin me.”
“I’m not trying to do anything but get to the truth.” I’m still holding the story, so I wave it around. “Madeline is telling her side here. I’m giving it to the police and the university. We have to listen to it. We have an obligation.”
“You sound like Preston. All his talk about needing to listen to women. All of that crap.”
“He’s right. Don’t you agree?”
“He’s a great talker.”
“Lance, if you harassed a student, then you just need to come clean about it. You’re going to face the music with Human Resources. And I don’t know about the stuff with Sophia and the book that Madeline wrote about it, but it’s not worth this . . . being up here. . . . It’s dangerous. Just come down. Explain it.”
“Coming down is more dangerous,” he says.
“Are you saying Madeline is telling the truth in this story? Downstairs you said not to believe it. Did Zach tell you these things that went into the book? If he killed Sophia, he would know.”
Lance looks away from me and over the railing. A few students have gathered below us, looking up. Enjoying the show. I see one of them has a phone out, taking video.
“It’s so much more complicated than you even know,” he says.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
MADELINE
WINTER, TWO YEARS EARLIER
A couple of weeks passed after their last meeting in Troy’s, and Madeline hadn’t heard from Hoffman again.
In Troy’s, he gave her a number of interesting suggestions about how to improve the book and move the plot forward toward its conclusion, and Madeline left the coffee shop that cold afternoon buzzing from the caffeine and overly excited about returning to work on her thesis.
She also wanted to get her hands on that computer—the one Hoffman had offered to let her use. But when their meeting ended, Hoffman stood up without saying anything else about it. He started talking to a student at another table, and he and Madeline made no plans for how to get the computer to her.
She thought he’d bring it up again. By e-mail. In the hallways of Goodlaw.
But she didn’t see him or talk to him.
And Madeline knew how forgetful Hoffman was. Late, scattered, disorganized. Maybe he was still giving her space, keeping his distance. Leaving the ball in her court.
She’d almost cried when he offered the computer. She reached the point weeks later when she wanted to cry again because it wasn’t going to happen. She worked her way up to letting it go, writing it off. It was one of those things people said in the moment but they don’t really mean. Just a gesture, like when someone asks how you are doing but doesn’t really want to hear the answer.
But Hoffman had been so helpful with the thesis. And he’d seemed so willing to hand the computer over. Eager even. And Madeline couldn’t stop picturing herself sitting in her apartment, typing away. With her headphones on to block out the neighbor’s music. After all, even once a draft of the thesis was complete, she’d have to type the whole thing again for the Honors College. How was she going to do that in a computer lab in the middle of the night?
So she e-mailed him on a rare night off from the grocery store, gently asking if she might still be able to get her hands on that computer he had mentioned. And if he’d already given it to someone else, she understood.
Hoffman wrote back immediately. As if he was sitting at his computer, waiting for her to write:
My apologies, Madeline. The computer is yours. I’d deliver it to a neutral location right now, but I’m in my cups and shouldn’t drive. (I’ve had a DUI before, sorry to say.) I can bring it to campus another day. Or you are welcome to come to the house and pick it up. Do you remember where I live?
She thought “in his cups” meant he was drunk. Right? Was it something from Shakespeare?
Did she want to wait? Did she want to waste the evening she had off work and not write?
She could stick to pen . . . and feel like the kid showing up to school in the off-brand shoes with the haircut given by her mother over the kitchen sink. . . .
It was the kind of thing she might ask Sophia about.
But couldn’t.
I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. If that’s okay.
When she arrived at his house, Hoffman opened the door. He stepped way back when he let her in, acting as though Madeline were carrying some kind of highly contagious germ that might leap over to him if they came within five feet of each other. He held a drink in his hand, amber liquid in a short glass. No ice. His eyes looked watery and red. His hair was mussed, like he’d been asleep.
With the hand that held the glass, he pointed across the room to a small table with a computer on top. “There it is. Nothing fancy, but it works. I kept up with the updates. Mostly. No printer, but you can do that on campus anytime.
Right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Hoffman stood with the door open. Things grew a little awkward. Madeline didn’t know if she was just supposed to walk over, unhook the computer from the wall, and go. Or did she need to wait for him to say something else?
“I have been thinking about the book a little more,” he said. His words sounded a little sloppy, a little slurred. How much had he had to drink? “I do that sometimes. Discuss a student’s work with them, and then other thoughts occur to me later that I forgot to share. If I don’t write them down right away, I forget. Like most everything.” He points to the door. “I’m going to close this for a second.”
Madeline started to say he didn’t have to, but it wasn’t her house. And were they going to stand at the front door with it wide open and have a conversation?
She tried not to let her eyes trail to the rear of the house, to the yard and the alley beyond, where Zach had placed his hands on her like she was a piece of meat. She hadn’t seen or heard anything from him or about him since Sophia’s death four months earlier. Just that he was a “person of interest” in her case but hadn’t been charged or arrested.
Every time she saw that phrase online—“person of interest”—in relation to Zach, she shivered. Were the hands that ran up her body and under her shirt the hands of a killer?
“I had some ideas about the behavior of the husband character,” Hoffman said.
It was like he’d read her mind. Did Hoffman know who everybody in the book was? Zach and Sophia? Would everyone?
Was that what it was like when you were a writer? Your innermost thoughts got shared with the whole world? And anyone who wanted could examine them and draw their own conclusions about you and the people around you?
Hoffman walked across the room. His bare feet shuffled, and the steps seemed to require more effort than they should. He went to the couch and slumped down onto it, the drink still in his hand. He rubbed his eyes, and when he took his hand away, the lids drooped.
On the coffee table in front of him, she saw pages of her manuscript. The ones he hadn’t read yet when they met at Troy’s. Ones he promised to give back just as soon as he made it through them.