“No,” Mary said, not quite as a challenge, but Caitlin knew she’d been caught. “I talked to your publicist. You’ve got nothing for weeks. Plus, you told me you’re between contracts, right?”

Caitlin nodded, took a sip. Her editor at the paper had given her a three-month window for book publicity. She could still pitch stories, but he wouldn’t assign anything until she returned to full time. Between her savings and the recent film rights sale of Fallen Angels, she could afford time away.

“What about your rape thing?”

“What about it?”

“Caitie, you made a damn speech, freaked out the chancellor and everything. You’re here to ‘finish that story’—remember? Are you saying you wrapped that up?”

“Not exactly.” Caitlin doubted getting high and passing out in her hotel room counted as closure. “First off, calling what I said at the Q&A a speech is a tad generous. Words just came out in the moment. I never had an actual plan. I thought I’d come for the diploma, hang with you, sell some books, and if there was time, maybe go back to the place it happened and tell the rocks to screw themselves, maybe journal about the whole thing, but that didn’t happen.”

“You should stay until it does, Caitie.”

Caitlin looked up at her old friend, saw the same expression of trust she’d counted on years ago. “Sure. I’ll just drop a few grand on soul-searching. Not sure how much you know about publishing, but books don’t exactly bring in lottery money.”

“I’ve got a place you can stay for free, as long as you want.”

“I’m not going to impose on you and Aaron, Lubbers.”

“Think I want your single ass in my sex palace? You can’t handle the noises I make. I’ve got a house south of campus—my place before Aaron and I shacked up.”

“You kept it?”

“Hyphenated my name, kept my one-bedroom cottage. My marriage is great, but a little extra space never hurts.”

Caitlin knew she could take her diploma back to LA in the morning, lose herself in some new assignment, even meet up with Jim Martinez for some sushi—all without ever having to feel as out of control as she had at lunch with Detective Greenwood—or as nervous as she’d been watching a turn signal blink. She could go back, run away … again.

She swirled the last inch of wine in the hotel’s plastic cup, reminded of her father’s favorite saying, something he claimed came from a pack of gum. He’d mumble his silly mantra every time he had to choose between doing something the easy way or the right way. Under a set of jack stands or a leaky sink, with a roll of duct tape in hand, she’d hear his nickel philosophy.

Could don’t mean should,

but would won’t mean did