“Have you ever been in the police station that way?” I ask. “I was there yesterday being questioned. I felt trapped, like I’d never get out. And I’ve been there for other stuff, as you know. When Emily and Jake died. It’s just . . . I feel the walls closing in when I’m there. I don’t think they want to let me out, Preston.”

“But you could clear it up. Get out from under this.”

“Not yet, okay? Just . . . let me think.”

“Okay, bud.”

My hand is still on his arm, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze.

“Sit tight while I check on the kids and then get us a drink. Okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Then we’ll figure out the next step.”

He pulls away and leaves the room.

I finally let out a breath I feel I’ve been holding forever.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CONNOR

FALL, THREE YEARS AGO

I dreaded that date.

More than anything in my life—I dreaded that date.

The year before, the first time I faced the terrible anniversary of Emily’s and Jacob’s deaths, I fell completely apart. I canceled my classes, and I sat in the house, head in my hands, drinking and crying all day. Friends called and texted, but I ignored them all and stewed in my own misery, eventually passing out on the couch around seven o’clock.

I decided not to do the same thing that second year.

I attended my classes as usual. I went in clean and sober, shaved and showered, looking like the picture of health and contentment. I still received calls and texts during the day from friends and family—not as many but some—and I responded to them all with a simple “Thanks!”

At the end of the day, I sat in my office alone. Most of Goodlaw was empty—students and faculty gone for the evening. I was afraid.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to face the empty house I knew waited for me. The house still held nearly every artifact of Emily’s and Jacob’s lives. Pictures. Clothes. Emily’s painting supplies in the basement. Jacob’s soccer equipment in his room. Going home meant entering that museum of grief, that monument to everything I’d lost.

I started thinking of ways I could sleep in my office. Move some of the furniture to the edges, use my messenger bag or coat as a pillow. Peaceful oblivion on the floor of Goodlaw Hall. I expected to find the sounds of the overnight cleaning people comforting. The sweeping of brooms and the rustle of trash bags proof I wasn’t spending the night alone.

But around five thirty, Preston came to the door.

He looked as fresh as he had when he’d entered the building in the morning. Every hair in place. His shirt unwrinkled.

“Good,” he said. “You’re still here.”