“Okay,” Preston says, ever the voice of reason. He uses this voice in meetings, calming passions and moderating arguments. He uses this voice and then moves everyone toward a consensus. Mostly we call him “Preston the Politician.” We also call him “Preston the Peacemaker.” And that’s what I desperately need right now. Peace. “This is all coming at me pretty fast, Connor. I was back there working on something a few minutes ago. Honestly, I was working on my novel because your success and advice motivated me to keep doing it, and now you’re telling me you’re more deeply entangled in this murder. Are you sure you really understand all this?”

“I do, Preston. I do.” I notice my voice rising, so I dial it down. I take a few deep breaths, trying to channel some of Preston’s calm. I try, but I can’t get there. Not with everything that’s going on. “It’s for real, Preston. And there’s even more that I can’t tell you about quickly. It stems from the book and from things that happened years ago.”

“Your book? You know I haven’t read it yet, Conner. I just—”

“Yes, my book. And Madeline. And this murder.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Preston takes a step toward me, his hands signaling for a time-out. Even Grendel looks up at me like I’m losing my grip. “Why don’t you sit down? And you can tell me exactly what you want me to do for you. Right now there’s a gushing waterfall of information cascading on my head.”

I don’t sit, but I start to talk. “I don’t know what you can do. I don’t. But I couldn’t just let myself be led away by the police. I knew you’d take care of Grendel, and then I thought you might have some advice and some ideas. You always do. And you could talk me off the ledge and tell me where to go to get away from all of this.”

“Okay, okay.” He points to the couch. “Why don’t you sit? Really. Sit.”

Like a small child being guided by an adult, I obey. I plop onto the couch.

“I’m going to go out and get us a drink. We both need it now. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He starts for the kitchen, but I reach up and place my hand on his arm.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really.”

“Sure.” He watches me for a moment. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just go in and talk to the cops? You have a lawyer. Let her protect you. If you didn’t hurt this woman, just tell them what you know and be done with it.”

His words make sense. They do. But I’m not ready to listen.