“I deal with students all the time in this town,” Bowman says. “I’m on it. And thanks for the heads-up. Now, let’s talk about you, Connor. Are you sure you don’t want to come in and clear things up on your end? We still have some stickiness relating to Madeline’s death. It’s odd her body was found so close to your family’s graves, isn’t it? Like someone had killed her there and then tried to cover it up. Did you know she was still alive, Connor? Had you seen her back here in town?”

“I’m going to go now—”

“It’s possible someone has seen the two of you together. Or knows she was with you. Again, it’s better to get things out in the open.”

I don’t know if she’s bluffing. Or if she really does know something about Madeline’s visits to my house.

I don’t want to find out. Not now.

“Good-bye, Detective.”

I end the call.

But before I can start the car and get out of here, someone knocks against the passenger-side window, and I jump so high, I nearly hit my head on the ceiling of the car.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I can see only a portion of a person outside the window. A torso. A zipped-up winter coat.

My insides turn to water. It’s Bowman. She traced the call somehow to find my location. And now I’m going into the police station and never coming out.

My rational mind wrestles for control of my brain. The midsection outside the window wears a beat-up coat, one that was new about fifteen years ago. Nothing like Bowman would wear. And the body is broader, heavier than Bowman’s trim figure.

The person bends down, knocks again. Waves for me to open the door.

It’s Lance.

“Shit,” I say. Relieved.

I undo the locks, and he pulls the door open, slipping inside along with a blast of cold air.

“You looked like you’d gone to another world there for a minute,” he says. He’s wearing the checked Ivy cap he always wears outside when the weather is cold. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better.”

He rubs his hands together. “Are you going to turn this thing on? It has heat, you know.”

I do what he says and start the engine. The heat comes out cold at first, and I shiver. I smell whiskey on Lance. Not an unusual occurrence. On many a morning in the English Department, he smells like booze before nine o’clock. I’ve always given him the benefit of the doubt and told myself it was likely left over from the night before. I’ve always suspected he drinks at home, sinks into a funk, and then fails to bathe before coming to campus. But I’m never sure if I’m correct.

The car starts to warm. A little.