I’m up, trying to distract myself with the Ken Burns Civil War documentary, which is running continuously on the university’s PBS station. I’ve seen it before. Twice. But it draws me in, takes my mind off the craziness of the day. And since I don’t have to teach for the time being, it doesn’t matter how late I stay up. Preston e-mailed me earlier and told me Lance was taking over my fiction-writing class, which makes me feel bad for the students. Lance’s attendance can be spotty, and he is easily distracted. And he has a polarizing effect on the students. About half see him as a lovable, dedicated eccentric who changes their lives by spending a great deal of time with them as they revise their work. The other half despise him for being a self-centered blowhard.

I don’t recognize the number on the ID screen. I know I should let it go, ignore it, but I can’t. So while the Battle of Antietam rages on my television, I answer the call.

“Connor? This is Diana Lukas.”

I sit up straighter when she says her name. My lawyer, the one Preston told me to call.

“Diana,” I say, “why are you calling so late?”

I lean forward, use the remote to mute the sounds of gunshots and cannon fire on the TV.

“Connor, we have a problem. I need you to listen, okay?”

“I’m listening.”

“You’ve really stepped in it, and it’s going to come and bite you in the ass.”

“What is, Diana?”

She takes a deep breath, then starts. “I have a friend on the police force here in Gatewood. And I got a call from him just a few minutes ago. Connor, did you pay a social visit to Zach Greenfield earlier today?”

Her words don’t really surprise me. What did I expect to happen if I went around to the home of a murder suspect or person of interest or whatever he is and started asking him questions? Did I think the police would be happy?

“Did you hear me, Connor?”

“Yes, I did. I just—”

“Why did you do that?” Diana asks.

“I was going to say . . . I thought he might know something about all of this. And I thought he might be able to help me out.”

“Help you out? Connor, you have a doctorate, right?”

“Yes.”

“Is it in stupidity? Is that what you studied?”

I feel slapped. More than that—my head buzzes as though I’ve been smacked with a two-by-four.

“Okay, Diana. So I fucked up. But I’m a person of interest or whatever in a murder case, and I kind of want to know what’s really going on.”

“That’s my job. You’re supposed to listen to me and do what I say. And I’ll keep your nuts out of the fire. Do you understand?”

“I do.”