by David Bell
“I told you I’d indulged a little,” he said. “Maybe more than a little. Let me just tell you this, and then you can take that machine out of here.”
Madeline stood with her arms crossed, her car keys still in her hand. She’d seen Hoffman drunk and high at the party, but him sitting on his own couch that way, on a weeknight, barefoot and sleepy, made him seem particularly pathetic. Was that the way he spent most of his evenings? And maybe all of his weekends too? Drowsy from booze, slipping away after reading the ten thousandth student poem or story of his career?
“This husband character,” he said, scratching his head. “What’s his name?”
“Trevor.”
Hoffman snapped his fingers. “That’s it.”
Madeline found her hand going up to her eye and stopped the tic. But she wasn’t sure how long she could hold it off while she was in that house.
“He needs to be more sympathetic,” Hoffman said. “The problem is, you paint him as an unmitigated jackass. And he may be that. But you have to allow the reader to feel some empathy for him. No character is all good or all bad. Did Dr. Nye teach you to write in such cartoonish ways? Or are you just trying to turn a man into an easy target? It’s easy to do but doesn’t make for good literature.” Hoffman finished what remained in his glass and set it on the floor by his feet. He yawned, covering his mouth. “Give us something about him we can relate to. Does he collect stamps? Have a dog? Did his dad leave the family when he was young? Who knows? That can mess a person up. Just a little of that so we have a fuller picture of the guy. He can still be the killer, but give him a redeeming quality too. We all have them. Even I have them. I wouldn’t want to be depicted in such a one-dimensional way.”
As soon as he said it, Madeline understood what he meant. She hadn’t shown another side of Trevor, mainly because she hadn’t wanted to. She’d based him on Zach, and she hated Zach. So why not take out on the character what she couldn’t do in real life?
But she remembered something Dr. Nye said once: As a writer, you have to understand all of your characters so the reader can understand them.
She needed to understand Trevor—not Zach—better in order to write about him more effectively.
“That makes sense,” she said. “I can definitely do that.”
Hoffman made no response. His breathing was deep. He was snoring on the couch, his head lolled back so far, it looked like it might fall off.
Madeline looked at the computer, looked at the pages on the coffee table. She listened to the snorting breaths coming out of Hoffman’s nose. She turned, and on the pass-through window from the kitchen to the living room, she saw a bottle of Four Roses bourbon. Almost empty.
How much had he had that night?
Did he need help?
If Hoffman drank that much every night, he’d probably be okay. But how did she know?
She went closer, picking up the pages. She saw a few notes, written in red ink and a pinched script. Just a few notes, and she knew she’d have to rewrite those pages so Nye didn’t see them.
She sat in a chair turned perpendicular to the couch, her eyes on Hoffman until she was sure he was still breathing. Then she started to read.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CONNOR
PRESENT
I take another tentative step toward Lance. I reach out for the railing next to me to steady myself.
I hate being up here. So high. So cold. I want to turn and go back inside.
I want to walk away.
But Lance can’t be left alone.
“What’s more complicated?” I ask. “Tell me.”
Lance turns to face me, and his back is against the railing.
I risk another glance down. A police car, lights flashing, pulls up in front of the building. In the distance, I hear a siren. A fire engine turns onto the street that fronts Goodlaw and heads our way. Maybe Diana called Bowman anyway, told the cops to get to Goodlaw.
I want Preston to appear, either behind me or on the ground. Lance might listen to him. Preston might be the only one Lance would listen to.
But Lance remains silent, watching me. I have to keep him talking.
“According to this story, which she wrote after she came back to town, Madeline wanted to expose you. The character of the professor is described exactly like you. He has your mannerisms, your clothes.”
“You’re quite the detective.”
“Lance, none of us is perfect. I shouldn’t have been drinking with my students as much as I was. I was out with Madeline’s class the night she disappeared. Maybe if I’d been clearheaded, I could have helped her. Look, I need to admit my mistakes, and you can come down and admit what you did. We’ll both face the music.”
“Drinking with students is nothing. Madeline thought I killed Sophia,” he says.
“I know. The story says that too.”
“It’s because of her thesis,” he says. When he says those words, he seems calmer, like he’s on steadier ground. “Madeline and I worked on that book together. I had to carry her through that project because you weren’t there for the students.”
“You’re right about that.”
“I just started reading your book last night, Connor.” He laughs, a sound that cuts through the wind and the shouts that reach us from below. People are trying to get our attention. A cop with a megaphone calls up.
We ignore them.
“I hate thrillers,” he says. “And I couldn’t stand that you published that book and made all that money.”
“It wasn’t a lot of money. I promise.”
“More than I’ll ever make writing poetry.” He looks down, makes a slashing motion across his throat, trying to silence the cop. “I don’t even write anymore. I don’t write anything. But you published that book. And I told myself I wasn’t going to read it or anything about it. I refused to. At the library that night . . . I went to the bathroom while you were talking. But you know, finally . . . I couldn’t resist. I wanted to know what you’d written, what the big deal was. So I started it . . . and lo and behold, it was awfully damn familiar. Awfully familiar.”
His words have a strange effect on me. I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.
He knows. Somebody besides Diana and Madeline finally knows. . . .
“So tell everyone, Lance. Go down and tell Preston. I’m ready to tell the police and my publisher anyway. I’ll be ruined. Okay? Won’t that make you happy? We can be ruined together.”
“I wish I could do that, Connor. I’d like nothing more than to see your career ended.”
“We’re colleagues, Lance. We’re even kind of supposed to be friends.”
“We’re not friends.” He leans back against the railing. “And I’m not coming down and going to jail.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
MADELINE
WINTER, TWO YEARS EARLIER
Madeline sat in the chair, reading Hoffman’s notes on her pages while he snored on the couch.
From time to time he stirred. His body shifted. Or one of his snorting inhalations reached a crescendo, almost waking him up. But he stayed passed out, head tilted back in that awkward pose. She could tell his neck was going to feel like shit when he finally woke up.
His comments inspired her. Again.
They were detailed. Rich.
Vivid.
They made her want to get back to work. To write. To make the book better.
She stood up and went to the computer, turning it on. It made a low grinding noise as it started, and she pulled up a chair and sat, waiting for everything to load and open.
When it was ready, she started typing, revising the most recent chapter she’d written based on Hoffman’s notes. When he woke up and was out of his stupor, she could take the computer home and keep going.
And going and going.
> She’d write so much faster with the computer in her apartment.
She started typing. And she lost herself in the work. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Thirty minutes? Forty-five? She made it through one chapter. And then was on to the next.
She couldn’t say how long he stood behind her.
Seconds? Minutes?
She didn’t know he was there until his hand slid over her shoulder and landed on her breast, cupping it.
Madeline spun one way and jerked her body the other.
“Whoa, whoa,” Hoffman said, standing over her. He lifted both hands in the air. “Just checking in on you.”
He backed up two steps but remained between her and the door.
Madeline immediately looked at the door. For an exit.
The back door, the one that led out to the patio, where students smoked during his parties, was closed and covered by a curtain. Probably locked. And if she ran over there and had to fumble with the lock in order to get out, it would be too late.
And Hoffman’s body, which was short and squat, stood between her and the front door. She didn’t think Hoffman looked especially strong or powerful, but she thought he would be strong enough to stop her.
“Stop it,” she said, not caring how harsh she sounded.
“Madeline, don’t be like that. None of this has to be like that. We’re connecting here.”
“I’m going to go,” she said. “And I want you to let me go.” She pointed past him. “Out that door. The one I came in.”
But Hoffman didn’t move. He placed his hands on his hips and seemed to be anchoring himself into place, as if he expected her to charge at him and try to knock him down.
Which she might have to do. And she didn’t think that would work.
She started to sweat. Sticky beads popping out on her forehead. Her breath came in small gulps.
“Madeline, I was just . . . Look, I feel close to you. We can be close to each other. And I had another idea for the book. I wanted to tell you. Why don’t you stay and reconsider, and then we can talk some more?”
Madeline’s hands shook. Her eyes made a quick dash around the room, looking for a weapon. A fireplace poker, a bookend. A baseball bat or a hammer.
But she saw nothing. Just the computer. She wanted it. Wanted to use it to rewrite her novel. But she couldn’t take it from Hoffman.
And she couldn’t carry it out the door alone. She had to let it go. She’d e-mailed her file to herself, so she needed to go. She needed to go because Hoffman was a pig. And tying strings to her acceptance of the computer. Terrible, terrible strings.
Just run.
Just go for it.
“I’m leaving now,” she said, trying to sound as firm and confident as possible. She thought she’d pulled it off.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. I need to work on this . . . and I don’t want you touching me. Ever.”
“Oh, Madeline.” He remained in the rigid, solid position between her and the door. He showed no inclination to move. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought we really understood each other. I thought we could have fun. And work on your thesis, which I think I’ve made quite a bit better with my insights. Are you going to run off like a scared little girl?”
“I’m not a little girl. And I don’t want anything else from you.”
“What about the computer? My generous offer?”
“I don’t need it. I’ll . . . figure something else out.”
“And handwrite your way through your last semester of college? That will surely impress everyone.”
“Are you going to let me leave?” she asked. “I’ll scream.”
Then Hoffman laughed. He shook his head dismissively, and he laughed. A low chuckle, the kind of thing someone would do when a child acted foolish or immature.
“Oh, Madeline. And you say you’re not a little girl?”
He took a step toward her.
Madeline tensed. Her hands clenched into fists.
Hoffman laughed again and walked past her, heading out to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and started whistling.
Madeline dashed for the front of the house and grabbed the doorknob like it was a lifeline. She worried it was locked, that she’d be trapped inside still. But the knob turned, and she pulled the door open, felt the cool air from the outside rushing against her face.
“Wait.”
Madeline hated herself for looking back. But she did.
Hoffman stayed in the kitchen, looking out. He made no attempt at coming closer.
“I’ll give you a lovely parting gift,” he said. “A freebie. And you can always remember who helped you more with the creation of your book than anyone else. The murder weapon in the book. Make it something personal, something that means a great deal to Sarah. A vintage scarf. A family heirloom. Something handed down to her, something she treasured. That will have the biggest kick for the reader.”
Madeline stayed rooted in place for a moment. The detail he gave was so weird, so specific—it seemed like he was conjuring it from memory and not from imagination.
And what was it Dr. Nye always said—if a detail was weird and specific enough, the reader would believe it was true?
Madeline knew Sophia had been strangled in her car outside work. Everybody knew that. She’d pictured the crime in her head many times—and when she slept, it emerged in her dreams—and she always saw thick hands grasping Sophia, squeezing the life out of her.
But sometimes she thought about what Detective Wallace had told her—maybe the killer got his thrills by using a piece of clothing instead of his hands?
So was Hoffman just summoning a specific detail out of thin air?
Madeline hoped so. But the detail came to him so quickly, so effortlessly, and he seemed so . . . gleeful about sharing it. So much like the very mention of the detail of the scarf served as a triumph for him.
“I’m leaving—”
But Hoffman went on. And as he talked, the look on his face became distant. Almost . . . haunted? Like he was really seeing what he described. “Madeline, you can almost imagine the body slumped over to the right against the steering wheel. And the hands . . . her hands . . . the right resting on the seat. With the palm facing up. The left . . . let’s say the left hand was hanging limply at her side. The middle nail on that left hand, cracked. Painted red but broken from the struggle with her assailant.” His gaze focused again. “Ghastly, really. Terribly vivid if you describe it right.”
The air from the outside felt colder than the temperature. It reached inside and chilled her bones.
She shivered.
And went out without closing the door behind her.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CONNOR
PRESENT
The cop speaks to us again through the megaphone.
“Is everybody all right? Does anybody up there need medical attention?”
Lance makes the throat-slash gesture again.
More students and faculty members have gathered on the lawn. They all look up, like we’re the eclipse. Or maybe like we’re animals in the zoo about to put on a spectacular show.
“You should talk to a lawyer, Lance. Maybe there’s something you can work out. A plea, whatever.”
He’s looking down, ignoring me. Some of the students are from my class, the one Lance was just teaching. And they wave.
Where the hell is Preston?
But I don’t see him.
My phone vibrates again. I take it out and check. Now it’s a text from Diana. She’s telling me the police want to search my house. They want to know if the knife that killed Madeline came from my kitchen.
I hold the phone up. “Lance, the murder weapon. They think it came from my house. The knife. I had it in my pocket one night when Madeline h
it me with a bottle. But when I came to, the knife was gone. They think the killer used it on Madeline the next night when she was murdered in the cemetery. But the only person I know who was in the house with me that night was Madeline. Why would she take the knife out of my house? What would that do for her?”
“She was crazy,” Lance says.
“Were you following her?” I ask. “I thought it was Zach. I kind of hope it was Zach. But maybe . . . Grendel didn’t bark at whoever was in the house, which means he was familiar with the person. Did you come into the house while I was out on the floor? Did you take the knife because you were looking for a chance to frame me?”
“So what if I did, Connor?”
“And the night I found Madeline’s body . . . that was the night I brought Grendel to Preston’s house, the night after you must have taken the knife. Maybe Madeline came looking for me again while I was out. And I didn’t go home right away that night after I dropped Grendel off. I drove around for a while and ended up at the cemetery . . . and maybe you were looking for her at my house again. Did you come across her and kill her that night?”
“I knew Madeline wanted to expose me,” Lance says. “Why else would she come back to town that way? She was going to do the same to you, wasn’t she? About the book? She wanted to take us all down. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in two years. I kind of assumed she’d moved on to another life . . . but then she came back. . . .”
“We all failed her, Lance. Clearly.”
Lance swings one leg over the railing, onto the narrow ledge surrounding the bell tower. I can hear the gasps from the crowd below.
“What about these things she wrote about you and Sophia? How did you know the details of Sophia’s murder?”
He swings his other leg over to the sound of more gasps. He keeps two hands on the railing, the only thing holding him in place. His back is to the void, the open air four floors down to the ground.
I feel shaky. Unsteady. Like I might fall over. The height.