by David Bell
Lance’s refusal to answer or explain.
“What was your connection to Sophia?” I ask.
“You know how I am. I had to be the big shot, had to run my mouth and give Madeline the best details for her book. I drank. I talked. And I’ll be honest, Connor—I wanted to make you look bad. I wanted to be seen as the better teacher, the one the students came to when they really needed help. That’s why I moved in and worked with Madeline on that thesis. That’s why I told her every great detail I could think of.”
“Because you hated me.”
“I hated being eclipsed by you,” he says. “Younger. More successful. I regretted telling her so much. My problems with drinking bit me in the ass. I tried to talk to her, to get the thesis back. . . . I had no choice once I’d said so much.”
“How did you know the details you gave her? Did Zach tell you? I know you were friends. Is that it? Zach killed Sophia and told you what happened? And you gave it to Madeline for the book? If that’s it—”
“Whatever you want to believe, Connor. Zach’s my friend. I hated seeing him dragged through the mud when Sophia died. Friends have to stick together. They do. People have problems we may not see or know about.”
“But what happened to Sophia was horrible.”
“I knew she wanted to pursue a harassment claim against me on Madeline’s behalf. I’d have lost everything, Connor. And I don’t have that much. Without my job . . . my students . . . I haven’t written a word in years. I don’t think I can anymore. If Madeline or Sophia came forward about what Madeline perceived as harassment, there’d be nothing for me. . . .”
“Lance, come down.”
He lifts one hand from the railing. He wobbles on the ledge.
I take two quick steps across the landing, reaching for him.
But I’m too late.
He lets go with the other hand and falls backward, his body bouncing once off the side of the building and then flying out into open space. I watch from the railing as his body spins once and then heads directly for the ground.
The crowd below gasps. And screams.
And they spread out.
And I watch as Lance lands on the sidewalk among them all, his body hitting with a sickening splat I hear all the way up in the bell tower.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
MADELINE
SPRING, TWO YEARS EARLIER
Madeline hated walking alone. At night.
Ever since Sophia’s murder, she’d tried not to go anywhere alone after dark. She wasn’t crazy about walking around alone during daylight either. She frequently looked over her shoulder or changed direction to avoid anyone who looked suspicious.
No, she corrected herself—to avoid any man who looked suspicious.
But that night she had no choice. She had followed Nye home because she thought he needed help. And he pretty clearly did. If she hadn’t followed along behind him, he might have been lying in the street, passed out, sprawled out over the curb and the gutter until someone else saw him.
If they saw him in time . . .
Nye wasn’t in good shape. Not at all. But she’d left the thesis with him because she wanted him to read it. And if he read it and saw those details about the murder of “Sarah,” and if he was able to piece it together, maybe he’d know what to do about Zach. He could tell her it was nothing to worry about, not to let her imagination run wild.
And Nye was somebody the police would listen to and trust if it came to talking to them about it. . . .
Madeline felt a weight lift from her shoulders when she saw her car in the glow of a streetlight a block away. The car meant safety. Warmth.
Yes, even freedom. It was a piece of shit, nine years old, with bad wipers and crappy tires. But it ran. It could take her just about anywhere she needed to go.
It could take her home, where she could wedge the chair under the door, grab her frying pan, retreat into her thoughts, and look forward to the future. Whatever it might hold.
“Madeline.”
She froze. She held her keys in her right hand. But hadn’t stuck them through her fingers the way her mother had taught her when she was in high school. Maddy girl, those keys are a weapon you’re always carrying. Go right for the eyes if you have to.
Madeline turned and looked to the right, in the direction of the voice. Is this going to be Zach?
Instead Dr. Hoffman emerged from between two buildings and walked toward her in his slumped, shuffling gait. He wore a winter coat too bulky for the warming weather. And he looked older than ever before, like he was weighed down by something heavy.
What in the name of God does he want? Madeline didn’t feel like dealing with his bullshit again. . . .
As he approached, she looked at the car. She could dash right for it, run around to the driver’s side, and get the key in. . . . But was all of that worth it? Hoffman held all the power. Eventually he’d get close to her again. If she tried to report him, he could damage her reputation at school. Bad-mouth her to the other professors.
Call her a liar.
“I’m just on my way home,” she said, feeling compelled to offer some kind of explanation. But it sounded weak in the darkness.
Hoffman kept coming, almost reaching her, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
“We have a problem, Madeline,” he said, sounding very sad. Looking like a whipped dog. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. You won’t answer my e-mails asking for a meeting. I couldn’t find you in Goodlaw. It’s like you’re avoiding me.”
“I won’t tell anyone about . . . what happened at your house the other night. It was just a misunderstanding. That’s all. I shouldn’t have come over, and you were drinking.”
For a moment, Hoffman looked confused. Like they were having two different conversations. Then his face cleared. “Oh, I’m not talking about our little misunderstanding. Those kinds of things happen between teachers and students. That’s not my concern.”
“Then . . . I’m sorry. . . . What are we talking about?”
“Your book,” he said, standing at the edge of the streetlight’s glow. “Those details I provided to you. I got carried away. I got fanciful. And I spoke as though I had some understanding and insight into things I really don’t know a lot about. Talking like a big shot takes me away from myself, from my own depressive thoughts.”
As so often happened with Hoffman, Madeline found herself lost, unable to follow exactly what he was talking about. And why.
“I think that’s okay,” she said. “It’s just fiction. You were helping me write the book.”
Hoffman looked to his left, in the direction Madeline had just come from. The direction of Dr. Nye’s house. “You were with Connor. A post-class drink, I presume. Of course, he invited only the kids who are over twenty-one, right? He’s quite the rule follower.”
“He got home okay. I made sure.”
“I bet you did. Let me ask you—did you show Dr. Nye the thesis pages? With those details I provided?”
Madeline hesitated. She wasn’t sure which answer was the correct one. Which answer would cause the least trouble for everyone. For Nye. For herself.
“It’s fiction, Dr. Hoffman. I wrote fiction. And I never told Dr. Nye you were helping me. That’s what you told me to do.”
Hoffman looked even more deflated. “So you did use those details. And turned them in to Dr. Nye.” His head turned in the direction of Dr. Nye’s house again. “Is he okay?”
“He is. He’s fine.”
“Maybe we need to talk further, Madeline,” Hoffman said. “In private. I have a problem when I drink, as I did the other night. . . . I talk a lot, and then I regret it. Sometimes, like now, I regret what I say quite a lot. And some of those things I said, those imaginative details about the murder weapon and the crime scene and the body I provided, they might pr
ove hurtful.”
“Hurtful? You mean, Dr. Nye will be hurt because you helped me more than he did?”
“Can we forget about Connor for a second?”
His voice rose in volume and became sharp. Madeline saw that something else was on his mind, something more urgent.
“Okay,” she said.
“I know you’re friends with Sophia, right?”
“Yes. I am. Was.”
“And what happened to her is terrible. A tragedy. But it’s also led to a lot of misunderstanding. If those details I told you get out, then there will be more misunderstanding. Even by people you know and are connected to.”
“I did use those things you told me because they were so good. They made the book better just like you said. They were vivid and real. You were right when you said the perfect details make the book more powerful.”
“Of course I was right about that,” he said. “But those details are going to cast certain people in a bad light.”
“Oh . . .”
Zach appeared in Madeline’s mind. Again. The hands that touched her at Hoffman’s house . . . were they the same hands that . . . ?
“A thesis is a public document. The defense is a public event. Everyone will know about it. And people will get hurt. And that’s not good.”
“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt,” she said.
“Anyone else? See, that’s it. Someone will get hurt by this thesis. Anyone who reads it will think the worst.”
Madeline’s mouth felt dry. Her head started to hurt. It was the beer. And she hadn’t eaten.
And her heart raced more and more as the conversation went on.
“We’re talking about Zach? That people will think the worst of Zach if these details get out? I know you and he are friends. And he’s a suspect. Is that why you’re worried about this? About him?”
It became Hoffman’s turn to look confused. “Zach?”
Madeline said it before she could stop herself. “Yes, Zach. Is he the one who told you those details? I mean, everyone thinks he did it.”
“Everyone does think he’s guilty, don’t they?”
“Pretty much,” Madeline said. “But I can get the thesis back if—”
“You’re right, Madeline. Those details I gave you will make a lot of people look bad. It will cast guilt on more people than just Zach. And they will cause a lot of problems.” Hoffman took a step closer, crowding her. “You’ve found yourself in the middle of this quite by accident, haven’t you?”
More people than Zach?
He couldn’t mean Connor. Connor seemed to know nothing.
Hoffman meant himself. He knew the details. He was involved somehow. And he wanted Madeline to keep her mouth shut about what she knew.
“I think I should go. . . .”
“That’s a great idea,” Hoffman said. “Why don’t we pursue this conversation further back at your apartment? I figure you don’t want to come to my house again. But if I’m not mistaken, you live just a few blocks on the other side of downtown? Near campus? We could go back there and sort this out. It’s very important that we do. A number of people are involved, and I think once you hear what I have to say and how important it is, you’ll understand. I mean, you’ll have to.”
Madeline backed up, taking a step toward her car. “Sure, I think I do understand.”
“I thought you would. So I’ll see you there? That’s One-oh-nine Fourteenth Street, right? Apartment three?”
Madeline nodded. She struggled to find any words.
Hoffman’s posture stiffened like some of the weight had been lifted from him.
Madeline backed up and got into her car. Hoffman stood there on the sidewalk. He gave her a thumbs-up and turned and walked away, no doubt heading for his car. And then for her apartment.
Madeline shivered. She wished she had worn a heavier coat.
She wished she lived in the tropics, someplace she would never get cold again.
She started the car, knowing she couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go where Hoffman might find her.
PART IV
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
REBECCA
PRESENT
Rebecca sits on the steps on the side of Goodlaw Hall.
She has her head resting in her hands, her backpack by her feet. She sits alone, the concrete cold beneath her. She can feel it through her jeans. But she has her coat open, her hat stuffed in her pocket.
She tries very hard not to remember seeing what she just saw.
Like the rest of the class—the rest of the building, really—she went outside and looked up. She saw Dr. Nye and Dr. Hoffman in the bell tower talking to each other. Dr. Nye held some papers in his hand, and he seemed to be trying to get Hoffman to come in. Twice he waved his arms that way, as if he was saying, Come on, come on. It’s okay.
But Hoffman climbed over the railing and put his feet on the ledge.
And when Rebecca saw that, she felt her stomach drop, like she was about to throw up. She lifted her hand to her mouth, ready to turn away and vomit.
And then Hoffman let go, stepping back into thin air, four stories above the ground.
He bounced once off the top of the building, and then his body tumbled in space like an insane acrobat. . . .
She turned away before he hit the ground.
But she heard the noise. Heard the screams and the gasps and the sirens—
She shakes her head, as if that could make the memory go away. Forever.
She knows it won’t. She knows she’ll be seeing that for the rest of her life. She hasn’t even called her mom yet, but needs to. It will be on the news. On Twitter. It likely already is, the videos students took being posted and hashtagged so the whole world can see Dr. Hoffman’s death. It will trend before the day is out.
She feels sick again. She swallows hard, trying to get some saliva into her mouth.
“Are you okay?”
She looks up when she hears a voice.
“Dr. White.”
The head of the English Department is standing in front of her. He’s not wearing a coat despite the cold. And his face is drained of color. Pretty much like everyone else’s.
She doesn’t know him very well, hasn’t taken any of his classes. She really only knows how he acted that day he came into Nye’s class to tell everyone Hoffman was taking over. And that day he acted like he didn’t want to answer any questions at all.
He looks concerned today. His eyebrows are raised, and he’s offering her a tentative smile, one meant to make her feel like it’s okay to talk to him.
“Are you doing okay?” he asks. “Would you like to go inside?”
“I feel better out here, actually. It’s cold, but . . . I like it here.”
“Sure.”
And he just stands there in front of her like he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. Rebecca can hear voices from the front of the building, where the police and the other first responders are cleaning up the mess and asking everybody questions. Where they’re taking Hoffman’s body off the ground and loading it into an ambulance . . . or a hearse or whatever it is. Students pass occasionally, all of them looking shocked, their hands covering their mouths, their phones out as they call and text friends.
“You’re in Dr. Hoffman’s class right now, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Well, really, it’s Nye’s class. But then it was Hoffman’s.”
And now . . .
Would there be anyone to teach the class? What the fuck was going on?
“Right,” White says. “I remember seeing you in there the other day. I guess I was wondering. . . . Has Dr. Hoffman been acting strange recently? Has he said or done anything that would make you think he was having problems?”
Rebecca almost laughs. Everything Hoffman did was strange. His long-w
inded stories, his political rants. His clothes.
But then she thinks about the question seriously and sees what White might be fishing for. Rebecca remembers going to talk to Hoffman about her thesis and how interested he was in talking about Madeline. Then Dr. Nye pulled her into the alley by Troy’s and wanted to talk about Madeline and that guy at the party and sent her to tell the police all about it.
And last night . . . just over twelve hours ago . . . Hoffman showed up at her house and seemed to be warning her about saying anything else about Madeline.
Is that what Nye and Hoffman were arguing about?
Is that why they went up on the roof together?
Because of Madeline?
Madeline—who dropped that manuscript off on Rebecca’s porch.
With the story at the end about the professor who looked and sounded just like Hoffman.
Rebecca never lies. She hates to do it. Even when she was a kid and did something stupid like steal a cookie or get into her mom’s makeup without permission, she always confessed. She never made up a story or blamed someone else.
But she has no idea what’s going on right now. No idea how she ended up in the middle of these bizarre events. And White is standing over her, his face less friendly than when he first showed up. Now it’s eager, like he thinks she knows something, and he just needs her to admit it to him. And she hasn’t even talked to the police or her parents or Dr. Nye. . . .
“No,” she says, deciding not to mention Hoffman’s visit the night before. “I mean, he’s kind of a weird guy. But . . . that was just the way he acted in class. You know? Kind of . . . eccentric? But he didn’t really say anything else. I’ve been in his class only a few days.”
White leans farther forward, looming over her a little like he’s a tree and she’s in his shade. “So he didn’t do or say anything unusual, inside or outside of class? See, I have to talk to the police because I’m the department head. And they’re going to want to know what the students were thinking or seeing about Dr. Hoffman and Dr. Nye. So you would know very well. Are you sure there’s nothing else to say?”