by David Bell
“What a fucked-up day,” I say to no one. I don’t even have Grendel around to pretend to listen to me. And that’s the reality that really sets in for me now. After everything, I’m still alone. I’m still a guy with a dog and a book I didn’t write and a job I’ve managed to hold on to by cheating and not much else.
It all seems kind of pointless.
The front doorbell rings. I barely jump. I figure it’s Bowman or a reporter or who knows who else. I decide to ignore it even though the lights are on, and anyone who comes to the window and peeks in can see me sitting here on the couch.
They must have done that because someone knocks lightly against the glass.
“Go away,” I say. I doubt they can hear me, but it’s all I’ve got.
Then they knock again. Harder.
I stand up, turn to face the window.
Now I jump.
My hand goes to my heart like I’m a comedian faking shock. But I’m not faking. Everything in my body loosens, like I could slump to the floor.
It’s Zach Greenfield, his scruffy face pressed to the glass. His eyes wide so I can mostly see the whites.
It’s a no-brainer. I slide my phone out of my back pocket. I’m calling 911.
But he starts waving his hands around, asking me to stop. “Please. No,” he says. “Listen. Just listen.”
His words are muffled by the glass, his breath steaming against the window and then disappearing.
“Go away.”
“Please,” he says. “Please. Just listen to me. You don’t have to let me in, but you have to listen to me.”
“I don’t have to do anything. It’s over. Leave me alone.”
“Please,” he says. Real emotion is etched on his face, drawing lines of desperation on his cheeks and his forehead. “Just listen. For five minutes.”
Against my better judgment, I feel empathy for the man. He’s had his life wrecked. He’s lost someone he—maybe—cared about a great deal. Do I give him the benefit of the doubt?
I enter 911 into my phone but don’t press call. It’s ready to go if he makes one aggressive step. I walk across the room and pull the door open.
He comes and stands in front of the screen door, which is filled with a storm window for winter. It’s filled with glass year-round, even in the summer, because I’m too lazy to change them. But the glass is thin, and he can be heard through it.
“If you have something to say, make it fast,” I say. I hold up the phone. “I’m ready to call the cops.”
He holds his hands out so I can see the palms. He looks young and meek. And cold. His cheeks are flushed above his stubble.
“I just want to talk about Sophia,” he says. “About who really killed her.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
He stays on the porch, hands still raised like he’s surrendering.
“Why the fuck aren’t you in jail?” I ask.
“I was because of what I did to you. I’m out on bail, and I’m just going to plead guilty. Breaking and entering. Assault. My lawyer is figuring it all out.”
“Good,” I say.
“Everybody’s saying that Lance did this, that he killed Madeline and Sophia. And that’s why he killed himself. But I’m not so sure about that.”
“Why? Because he was your friend? Because you used to go to his parties and feel up college girls?”
The flush on his face intensifies, and he looks away for a moment and then back at me. “Lance was my friend. Neither one of us was perfect, but he was my friend, okay? And he looked out for me. My dad was never around, okay? And Lance . . . well, he treated me well. And I’m here trying to help, man. I am.”
“Help how? Did you tell Lance the details of Sophia’s murder?”
“What are you talking about? The cops never told me anything about what happened to Sophia. I was a suspect. They don’t tell suspects the details of a crime. I asked them to tell me more about her murder. I wanted to know. To understand. I begged them to tell me what happened. Sophia was my wife. We had problems, almost all of them my fault, but she was my wife.”
“Did you talk to Lance about Sophia at all?”
“Look, man, that night I came over here and went nuts . . . and I’m sorry about that. I am. But when I did that . . . I did it because the cops came and talked to me. They told me you were a suspect in Sophia’s murder. It just . . . It got me really wound up. And I lost it. It’s so much pressure. . . .”
“Okay, if you came to apologize for that—”
“Just listen, though,” he says. “Will you listen? And then I’ll go. Sophia hated Lance. I mean, she couldn’t stand him, no matter how much I liked him. She thought he was pompous and lazy and, more than anything else, a sexist. She hated that he used to have those parties and let underage kids drink and get high. It’s not that she was a prude. It’s just that she thought an authority figure like a professor shouldn’t be doing that kind of stuff, especially now. She went to one of his parties one time. Once. That was the night with Madeline, and, okay, I’m not proud of how I acted. Sophia had gone home early because she thought Lance was so gross.”
“You should have gone with her. She had good sense.”
“I can’t relitigate the past,” Zach says. “But I’m telling you she hated Lance. And she really turned against him even harder right before she died. She used to just roll her eyes about him, but all of a sudden, she acted like he was the lowest of the low. She told me she didn’t want me even agreeing to play golf with him or talking to him. She said I shouldn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Why the change?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She didn’t say. But on the news they’re saying Lance was sexually harassing Madeline. And maybe Madeline told Sophia. If that’s true, that might be why she took such a harsher view of Lance. He went from being a loser to a harasser. And Sophia really hated anyone who abused their authority that way. She really got righteously indignant when she heard about stuff like that.”
So far, everything he says tracks. It makes sense.
“Okay,” I say, “so Sophia found out about Lance harassing Madeline and confronted him about it. She wanted to protect her friend, her mentee, I guess. She went to Lance, telling him to knock it off, and he killed her to keep her quiet. If it came out that Lance was harassing a student, he probably would have lost his job, even if it happened over two years ago. And it would have been embarrassing for him. He had reason to protect himself.”
But Zach is shaking his head. He looks certain.
“Look, I wasn’t a perfect husband. I . . . okay, I just wasn’t perfect. We got married young. Maybe we rushed it and I wasn’t ready. Sophia was so much more mature than I was. Okay? The whole world knows I made my share of mistakes. But I know Sophia. We were together for six years, married for three. I knew her, okay? The way you know a person when you share a house and a life with them. And I know this—she wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Lance once she learned that about him. She wouldn’t have been able to. She would have been so angry, so disgusted. . . . The truth is, she would have been more likely to kill him than to have him kill her. It just wouldn’t happen. She’d have avoided him like the plague.”
“Okay. So she’d have avoided him. Lance found out she knew and went to her office. He tracked her down and surprised her, killed her in the car. That’s how violence occurs sometimes. Unexpectedly. That’s how Lance took her down.”
But Zach is shaking his head again. “No, man. No. She had a meeting with someone that night. A meeting. She wouldn’t have arranged a meeting with Lance. No chance. It wouldn’t have gone down that way.”
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “I think you’re blinded, Zach. You have some loyalty to Lance, so you’re tying yourself in knots, trying to get him off the hook for killing your wife. And he was loyal to you. The story Madeline wrote says La
nce knew the details. It all points to Lance. I think you’re casting your line into an empty pool.”
“Just think about what I said,” he says. “Don’t just dismiss me. Think about it.”
“It’s been a long day, Zach. And I gave you all the time I can. Good night.”
I shut the door and flip off the porch light. I take one look out the window and see Zach going down the steps and back out into the night.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
It’s time for me to face the music, so I knock on Preston’s door about an hour later.
Grendel barks while I stand outside, the big envelope I was given by Rebecca clutched to my chest, and it lifts my spirits to hear him again.
When Preston opens the door, his eyebrows lift in surprise. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, as if he was expecting company to come by for a cocktail, even though I hadn’t called in advance.
“Connor. I’ve been meaning to call you, but it’s been pretty hectic.”
“I’m sorry to show up like this, but can I come in?”
“Of course.” He steps back.
Grendel comes up and sniffs me. I hold the envelope in my left hand and bend down to pet him with my right. He licks every one of my fingers, his tail wagging. “It’s good to see you too, buddy.”
“Kelly and the girls are over at a friend’s. Do you want a drink or something? I could sure use one.”
“Why not?”
I sit on the couch with the manuscript in my lap and Grendel at my feet. Music plays from somewhere in the house. I can tell it’s the jazz program that runs on the local public radio station, something Preston listens to almost every night.
He comes back with a bottle and two glasses and pours. He sits down across from me on the other side of the coffee table and drinks. I expect him to make a toast to Lance, but he doesn’t. He just throws back his shot and then pours another.
“You’re not touching yours,” he says.
“Not yet. I’m trying to stay clearheaded. For a change.”
“What’s in the envelope?” he asks.
I heft it in my hand and then toss it onto the table, where it lands with a splat. The noise makes Grendel jump.
“That’s my resignation from the university,” I say.
Preston holds his second shot halfway between the table and his mouth. He looks confused. “What are you talking about, Connor?”
“Just what I said,” I say, pointing to the bundle of papers. “That’s the end of my academic career.”
Preston puts the shot back on the table without drinking it. “It’s been a long day, Connor. Maybe the longest day ever. So do you mind not fucking around with me? What’s in the envelope? How is that giant thing a resignation? And why would you even be resigning?”
I do what I came to his house to do. I come clean. “Preston, I didn’t write my book. Madeline O’Brien did. It was her thesis, and when she disappeared, and I needed to get tenure, I passed it off as my own. And published it. That’s part of the reason she came back to town. She wanted the money from the book so she could start a new life. I could have admitted it then or at any point along the way, but I didn’t. And maybe if I had, we all could have avoided the chaos that’s ensued. That’s on me. But I’m admitting it now. That’s the manuscript in Madeline’s own handwriting. And on the top is my resignation letter. I spell this all out in the letter for the dean and the provost to see. The plagiarism and everything. And I resign. I’m going to call my publisher in the morning and tell them. They’ll pull the book. And I’ll have to figure out a way to pay back the money, most of which I’ve spent.” I rub my forehead. “It’s going to be a nightmare. But I deserve it. And I wanted to let you know since you’re the head of the department. And you’ve been a good friend to me.”
Some of the color runs out of Preston’s face. He stares at me, his eyes intense, glistening. Long moments pass while the music plays in the other room.
“This is pretty shocking, Connor. On top of everything else today, this is pretty damn shocking.”
“Lance didn’t say anything to you about this?” I ask.
“He made plenty of snarky and degrading comments about your book. But that’s just Lance. I didn’t listen to a lot of what he said.”
“And the police didn’t?”
Preston rubs his cheek. “Detective Bowman said something about your book and who wrote it. . . . She seemed more focused on the details in there coming from Lance. And how that made Lance guilty of the two murders. I guess I didn’t follow all of it. I was pretty upset by everything that was happening. That’s why Kelly took the kids out. She wanted me to gather myself a little. I was listening to some jazz.”
“Well, it’s all in there. You can take it to the tenure committee and whoever else it needs to go to tomorrow. I can finish the term if you want, but I’m already suspended, so I might as well just stay away. I can start to figure out my next move. If you have any ideas, I’d love to hear them.”
Preston leans forward, reaching for the envelope. He places his hands on either side of it, scooping it up. But before he can lift it, I place my hand, palm down, on top of the bundle, preventing him from raising it.
He looks over at me.
“Before you look at it,” I say, “I have one question.”
He stops trying to lift it. Our hands are close together but don’t touch.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s about Lance,” I say. “Do you remember that night, the second anniversary of Emily and Jake dying, and the two of us went out drinking? You said you knew Lance was crossing the line and there was only so much you could do to protect him. Do you remember that?”
“I knew Lance had some problems. Yes. The parties . . . He was reckless. And it clearly ended up biting him in the ass. And led to terrible, tragic consequences for everyone. For two young women.”
“Did you know about him and Madeline? That he was sexually harassing her as he helped her with her thesis?”
“Like I said, Lance had a lot of problems. None of it is a complete shock to me. And I bear a certain measure of responsibility for that. If I’d stepped in with a firmer hand, if I’d been tougher, then maybe a lot of this could have been prevented. I was blinded by my friendship for him. Someone in a position of authority can’t let that happen. And I need to reevaluate how I do my job going forward. I’m scheduled to meet with the dean and the provost tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“It isn’t going to be a pretty meeting, but let’s hope something positive can come of all of this. If we all grow more aware and more vigilant, maybe we can prevent it.”
He reaches for the manuscript again, and again I place my hand on top of it, holding it down. This time Preston looks irritated with me.
“What are you doing, Connor?”
“Did you know Sophia Greenfield?” I ask. “Personally?”
Now Preston leans back, pulling away from the envelope on the table and from me. He blinks a few times.
“Why are you asking me that, Connor?”
“Did you?”
“No, I did not know Sophia Greenfield. How could I?”
I wait a moment, my hand still on the envelope. “You know that Madeline wrote a short story about Lance when she came back to town and left it for me. That’s how I knew Lance had been harassing her. That’s why I went to campus today. Once I read that story, it all fit.”
“I’m with you so far,” he says.
“I think Madeline must have told Sophia about Lance’s harassment. And that led Sophia to report it to you. Sophia told you about Lance . . . and then what happened, Preston? Were you trying to keep the story quiet so it wouldn’t reflect poorly on the department? So no one would find out you’d been covering for Lance for years?”
P
reston swallows. He uses his tongue to moisten his lips. “You’re crazy, Connor. This day, the insane events, it’s all gotten to you. It’s making you irrational. You need to just take a step back and think about all of this. Rationally.”
“I spoke to Zach tonight. Before I came over here. You know, Sophia’s husband. He told me she wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Lance if she thought he’d harassed her friend. But she’d want to report it. She’d want to tell somebody in a position of authority. That’s you, Preston. You’re the authority. So, tell me. . . . Did she arrange to meet with you? Did you do whatever it took to protect Lance and the department? More important, did you do whatever it took to protect yourself and your career?”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Preston reaches out. I think he’s going to grab for the envelope, to see what’s inside, but he picks up his glass and raises it to his mouth. He drinks a large portion of it down.
“Your source for all this guesswork is Sophia’s husband,” he says. “The guy who has been the prime suspect in her murder ever since she died. The guy who came into your house and tried to kill you.”
“The cops have investigated him for over two years,” I say. “They’ve turned every aspect of his life upside down. Over and over again. No arrest. And if he killed his wife, why not let Lance take the fall for it? Lance is gone. Everyone thinks he did it. Why would Zach want to stir things up again? Unless he’s innocent.”
Preston finishes his drink. “Okay, you seem to be getting at something, Connor. Something I’m not really clear on. You’re admitting you plagiarized. You’re resigning. Your credibility as a writer and teacher and, frankly, as a human being is lacking.”
“That may be true,” I say. “I have and will lose any credibility I’ve built over the years. I’m going to lose everything.” I raise my index finger. “But it’s something I always told my students that brought me over here tonight. I always told them that if a detail they put in their fiction is so unique, so unusual, the reader will think it has to be true. And the police told me something like that when they came to my house a few nights ago.”