by David Bell
“I don’t think so.”
“Because it’s very important—”
“Dr. White?”
Both Rebecca and Dr. White turn and look. A police officer stands about twenty feet away, and when they look, he walks toward them.
“Are you Dr. White?” he asks.
“Yes, I am.”
“We’ve been trying to find you,” he says.
Dr. White straightens up, and his jaw sets firmly. “I was in a meeting in another building. And then I stopped here to help this student, who is obviously upset. We do have an obligation to help the students.”
“Sure,” the cop says. “But our lead, Detective Bowman, needs to talk to you as soon as possible. If you could . . .”
The cop waves his hand, as if to say: That means right now.
Dr. White sighs. He looks down at Rebecca and says, “We’ll be in touch, Rebecca. Just let me know if I can do anything to help.”
Rebecca just nods and watches him go with the cop.
And she realizes she feels relief once he’s gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CONNOR
PRESENT
A cop comes into the classroom where they’ve been talking to me.
Questioning me.
It’s not a room I’ve ever taught in before. Not in all my years here.
They must have brought me here because it’s empty and kind of out of the way.
The uniformed cop comes over to Bowman and whispers to her. I’m not meant to hear, but I do. He tells Bowman he’s found Dr. White, the department chair.
“Where was he?” she asks.
I’m wondering the same thing. He saw me come into Goodlaw, heading for Lance’s classroom. . . .
“He had a meeting in another building. And then I found him talking to a student over on the side. The kid looked kind of green around the gills.”
“No doubt,” Bowman says. “She just watched a professor take a header off the bell tower. Okay, I’ll talk to him in a minute.”
The cop leaves, and Bowman turns back to me. She has the story Madeline left in my house on the desk in front of her. Another uniformed cop stands to the side with a notebook in his hand, writing down what I say. And Diana stands near me, keeping an eye on the conversation. So far, she’s let me answer every question they’ve asked.
“Just to regroup, Dr. Nye,” Bowman says, “it’s Madeline O’Brien who actually wrote the book you published. My Best Friend’s Murder. The book is really, really good, by the way. She wrote it, and you passed it off as your own work. And the reason the details in that book line up so closely with the details of Sophia Greenfield’s murder is because Lance Hoffman coached Madeline while she wrote the book and gave her details about the murder weapon and the crime scene, which she included in the manuscript. The ones that were never made public. And he admitted all this on the roof before he stepped out into thin air.”
“Lance knew what happened to Sophia. He knew what happened in that car. He was motivated to silence Madeline and Sophia.”
“And he admitted to killing both women? Madeline and Sophia?”
“No, he didn’t. But he didn’t deny it either.”
“Why not just admit it if you were going to jump off the building?”
“Why jump off the building if you didn’t do it?” I ask.
“Good point,” Diana says.
Bowman taps the papers in front of her. “And this tipped you off. This story Madeline left in your house after she beaned you with the bourbon bottle.”
“It’s a story about a young woman coming back to the town where she went to college in order to confront a professor who not only sexually harassed her but who also knew very specific details of the murder of her friend. And the description of the college and the town and the professor match real life here exactly. It’s Gatewood and Commonwealth and Lance. To a tee. She spelled it out. So she came back to confront me, but also to confront Lance and leave this story behind. And Lance killed her over it. Madeline said she thought someone was following her. Lance knew I went to the cemetery, and so did Madeline. The night Madeline was killed, I wasn’t home. Maybe she went looking for me. At my house and then at the cemetery. If Lance was following her, he ended up there as well.”
“Madeline told you she was being followed?”
“Yes. You see, Madeline was acting skittish. That night when I was knocked out . . . someone came into the house after Madeline left. A man. He stood over me. The door was open . . . and then it was closed when I woke up. I assumed it was Zach. Grendel always barks if he doesn’t know somebody, but he didn’t bark that night. At least not enough to wake me up. So maybe it wasn’t Zach in the house. Maybe it was Lance, and he found her the next night and killed her.”
Bowman scratches her chin. One side of her mouth goes up. “Let me ask you something—why didn’t Madeline just tell the police herself? Or the administration? Why communicate with a short story?”
“She was a writer. And a good one. That was the way she expressed herself. Fiction writers do that.”
“Why give it to you? Why not to us?”
“She didn’t think people in authority would believe her. Her experience in life had been that women aren’t listened to. And I didn’t help things much. I told her she might get in trouble for faking her disappearance. Resources were expended in looking for her. I know cops don’t like that.”
“We don’t. We used some manpower looking for her. I don’t know if she would have faced any charges for it, but we would have expressed our displeasure with her, that’s for sure.”
Diana speaks up. “Alicia, you know you can’t place that heavy burden on a young woman. To have the courage and maturity to go to the police or the university administration. She’d be terrified. Be realistic.”
Bowman crosses her arms. “Why did Hoffman kill Sophia in the first place? I mean, say your theory is correct. I can see why he kills Madeline, if she’s coming back to hold his feet to the fire. Madeline threatened everything in his life with any accusation of sexual harassment she would make, even from two years ago. Hoffman could have lost his job. He could have been publicly embarrassed. And that’s not getting into an accusation of murder. So maybe he tried to get Madeline to go away. Maybe he was following her. Maybe he followed her to the cemetery that night. Things didn’t go his way, so he killed her. I can see that happening, as sick as it is. But why kill Sophia? What did she have to do with it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I say.
“No,” Bowman says. “Enlighten me.”
“Lance and Zach were friends. If Zach killed Sophia, as a lot of people suspect, then maybe he told Lance those details.”
“So we’re back to blaming everything on Zach again?”
“Why not? He’s the husband.”
“We’ve been investigating him for over two years,” she says. “If we had something to get the guy with, we would.”
“So maybe this is it,” I say.
“But this story implicates Hoffman. Not Zach,” Bowman says.
“Okay, maybe Madeline told Sophia about the harassment and she tried to confront Lance about it. Sophia knew Lance and lived near him. Maybe Sophia stood up for Madeline and paid the price at Lance’s hands.”
Bowman taps the pages again. But her thoughts seem to be on things beyond those words in front of her. She gets a funny look on her face, kind of like she just remembered a good joke.
“Here’s the thing, Connor. You submitted this book and published it. With all the details of Sophia’s murder in it. You stood up in front of the library and also did all those interviews claiming the book was yours. And now that the authorship of the book makes you look like a murderer, you’re saying you didn’t really write it. Madeline did. And the two people who are able to back that claim up—Madeline and Hoffman—
are now dead. And when I ask for proof from you that Madeline wrote the book, you say she stole the manuscript from your house. And there was only one copy in her handwriting. And Madeline’s body was found hidden near your family’s graves.” She shrugs, and when she lowers her hands, they both thump against the top of the desk. “It’s awfully damn convenient that you want me to believe you didn’t write that book now. I mean . . . you sat right in front of me and signed a copy. Who does that?”
She’s right. Who does that?
I can’t give her a good answer. I never will. But my stupidity and dishonesty have doubled back on me, swinging around like a boomerang that flies back and hits the thrower in the face.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I fucked up.”
“Somebody did. Bigly.”
“Are you charging my client with something, Alicia?” Diana asks. “He’s told you everything he knows. And I don’t think plagiarism falls under the purview of the police.”
“It doesn’t,” she says. “The university and the literary world will sort that mess out. I intend to look into whether or not you can be charged for stealing a manuscript. We’ll see about that.”
“So we’re free to go?” Diana asks.
She scoops the papers—Madeline’s new story—into a neat stack and pushes herself out of the desk. She hands the papers off to the uniformed cop, who slips them into a leather case.
“I have to talk to your boss,” Bowman says. “Dr. White. And I’m sure the university police will be involved in that discussion as well. We always try to keep things cordial and open between the university and the city. I know I still have your passport. You can go home, but you need to stay there. I’ll be talking to you again.”
She stops at the door and looks back.
“A book signed by a plagiarist,” she says. “Do you think that makes it more valuable? Or less?”
“The same,” I say. “Most authors’ signatures are hardly worth anything.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CONNOR
PRESENT
Someone rings my doorbell just after six.
No one has called or texted all day since I came home from campus after talking to the police. I manage not to drink, even though I desperately want to. I’m desperate to do anything that would erase from my mind the image of Lance falling.
But I can’t. It’s in here forever.
I assume it’s Bowman coming to ask more questions. Possibly to take me away forever.
Grendel is still at Preston’s house, and I miss his barking. I feel very alone, not having him at his post in the front of the house watching the porch and the street.
When I look outside, though, I see Rebecca Knox clutching a large envelope to her chest. She wears a wool hat pulled down low on her forehead and a bulky winter coat. A car sits at the curb, lights on, exhaust puffing out of the tailpipe. Someone is in the driver’s seat, but I can’t tell who.
I pull the door open and hold it for Rebecca.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Nye. I know I’m just showing up here like a freak.”
“That’s okay. Do you want to come in out of the cold?”
“Just for a minute. My mom’s waiting for me.”
She comes in, and I close the door. She stands in the middle of the living room with the envelope still clutched to her chest.
“Do you want to sit?” I ask.
“This will be fast. I’m going home. Maybe for the rest of the semester. After what happened today . . . Well, the university says I can take as much time as I want. And I can finish the year long-distance if I want.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that. I know it was disturbing.”
“Yeah. The thing is . . . I want to come back. Maybe in a couple of weeks. I like being in class and stuff. And I’m graduating, so I don’t want to miss anything. Like my friends. Even my roommate’s pretty okay.”
“I hope you do come back. But take your time. There’s no hurry.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“Did you have a question about class or something?” I ask. “I don’t know who’s going to be teaching it now. And I’m sorry about all the chaos.”
“No, not that. And I hope you don’t mind. . . . I looked your address up online. But I couldn’t find your phone number or I would have called first.”
“That’s okay. It’s nice to have company.”
Rebecca shrugs a little with the package in her hand. Then she extends it, holding it out to me in two gloved hands. “I think this is yours.”
Before she says anything else, I know what she’s handing me. I reach out and take it, my hands shaking. It feels heavy, substantial.
Important.
“Madeline left it for me. And I thought you’d want to have it back.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
REBECCA
PRESENT
Nye takes the envelope.
He stares at it kind of like it’s a lost treasure. Or a newborn baby.
“Madeline gave this to you? When? Why?”
“She left it on my porch. Right before she died. And I guess I’m not really sure why she gave it to me, except that she kind of knew me because we hung out at a party once.” Rebecca has thought about this a lot over the past couple of days. And especially since this morning. But she can’t reach any strong conclusions about it. “We kind of bonded over something that happened that night, something that kind of relates to the book. Or . . . maybe she didn’t have anyone else to give it to.”
“Why are you bringing it to me?” Nye asks. “Did she say to do that?”
Rebecca feels her cheeks get warm. She reaches up and unbuttons her coat, wishes she could take it off. But she doesn’t want to stay long, doesn’t want to keep Mom waiting. They have a two-hour drive ahead, and it’s already dark. Mom doesn’t like driving at night, and Rebecca doesn’t want to add to her stress by taking forever with Dr. Nye. It already took long enough packing her clothes and things in the apartment while Mikaila followed her around, telling her how much she was going to miss her. She was practically crying.
It’s weird, but Rebecca thinks she’ll miss Mikaila. And Steven too.
“I didn’t buy your book that night at the library. I forgot my credit card, and I didn’t really think I liked to read thrillers, even though you wrote it.” When she starts talking, Nye’s shoulders sag. He looks disappointed. Kind of sad. And Rebecca doesn’t want to pile on, so she tries to make it quick. “When this book showed up on my doorstep, I started reading it, and it was really good. I mean, it’s smart. Not just a thriller. It’s about the characters too. And their friendship and how they care for each other even though they’re kind of from different walks of life. But it kind of reminded me of what you were saying about your book at the library. At first, I thought maybe they were just generally the same. I mean, how many different ways can an author murder somebody? You always said in class there are only seven plots, right?”
“I did say that.”
“But I went out this afternoon to Target, and I bought a copy of your book and started reading it. That’s when I saw. It’s the exact same book, basically. I mean, the published one is all cleaned up with no typos, and some of the details are a little different. But it’s the same book. And this is Madeline’s handwriting.” Rebecca points to the envelope. “I once went to a workshop the English Club gave, and shared one of my stories. Madeline was there that night, and she marked my manuscript up. I put that old story of mine in the envelope here, so you can see it. So I know this book was written by her. It’s like proof or whatever.”
Nye’s grip tightens on the envelope. He’s shaking his head, and Rebecca wonders what he’s going to say. Is he going to have some story about how she can’t be right about who wrote the book? Will he try to smooth everything over and lie like Hoffman?
Instead, he sa
ys, “I’m sorry about this, Rebecca. When I did this, I wasn’t at my best. That’s just an excuse, but it’s the only thing I can say.”
“I know,” Rebecca says. “I know about your family and all of that. I just want you to know that I didn’t say anything to anybody about it. Not to the police or my mom or my roommate. Nothing. And I didn’t copy it or scan it or take any pictures. I wanted to give it to you and let you decide. It’s not my choice to make.”
“That’s really thoughtful of you, Rebecca.”
She turns and goes to the door but stops and looks back. Nye is still standing in the living room, looking down at the envelope.
“Can I say something else, Dr. Nye?”
He looks up. “Sure. Anything you want.”
“I still think you’re a great professor. My favorite, really. You really do seem to care about the students. And our writing and stuff. I hope you come back and teach the class again. I was really sorry when you got replaced. And I want you to direct my thesis, if you can.”
Nye looks really moved, almost like he might cry.
But he doesn’t, and Rebecca is glad about that. The day’s been weird enough as it is.
“Thanks, Rebecca.”
“You’re welcome.”
She steps through the door and hurries across the yard to the waiting car, excited to be inside its warmth and heading home with Mom.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CONNOR
PRESENT
The manuscript sits on my coffee table.
For nearly an hour after Rebecca leaves, I stare at the fat pile of papers.
Only a handful of people know the truth—as far as I can tell. Madeline and Lance.
And Rebecca.
Madeline and Lance are gone. Rebecca says she won’t tell, and I take her at her word.
Diana knows, but she’s my lawyer.
I’ve told Bowman the truth, but she seemed less concerned with that than with everything else. And I understand. She’s a cop. Not a literary critic.