“You said something about Lance that night, and we’ve never really talked about it. But it came back to me now. Plus the other day you were warning me about the new atmosphere on campus.”

“Lance gets too close to the students,” Preston says. “He’s an excellent teacher. I should have been more discreet. Usually I am.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Besides, you have to think about this now. A lot. You were with Madeline that night she disappeared, and you don’t really remember what happened between the two of you. So you say. That’s going to come back at you if you’re a suspect in another death.” Preston drains his glass. He looks like a weight is pressing down on him, pushing his head and shoulders lower. “I can’t even believe this is going on.”

He wipes his eyes again. And that’s Preston. Cool and collected. But also likely to choke up when a student or a faculty member achieves a great success. Or when one of his daughters makes a drawing for him. Or on Kelly’s fortieth birthday, when he made a loving toast to her. When I told him about my book deal, he hugged me tight. I thought he’d never let go.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry I dragged it to your door.”

“Let’s deal with the problem at hand, which is landing on you pretty hard.”

“Okay, you’re right. My problems.” I haven’t finished my drink, but even the small amount I’ve swallowed loosens my tongue. And Preston’s a good friend. A rock in the storm. “If I told you something about the book, something I think I need to get out . . .”

“Of course you can,” he says. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t read it yet. When you went up for tenure, you only had the contract. And it just came out . . . I mean, I bought one, but it’s tough to find the time.”

“I know my colleagues won’t read the novel. We know the dirty little secret of academia—we don’t read one another’s work. For a variety of reasons.”

“I will, though. Kelly wants to read it too. Just . . . Look, I didn’t eat enough for dinner, and this is hitting me. I’m going to get some cheese and crackers for us. I’ll be right back.”

I want to keep talking, but I stop as he leaves the room. I stare into my glass and then finish it. Grendel watches me, his eyes dark pools above his graying muzzle. My future looks like a narrowing tunnel, shrinking to a pinpoint of light.

“It’s just one,” I say.

The bottle tempts me, but I resist. So I sit and wait, deciding whether I should go ahead and tell Preston about who really wrote the book or not. He’d listen. He’d know what to do.