Lance’s lips part. I see his teeth, which aren’t in the greatest shape. Slightly gray with silver fillings in the back. Finally, he makes a disgusted grunt. “I’m really disappointed in you, Connor. That’s soooo conventional. I would have expected it from other people in the department, but not you. You’re going to worry about college students drinking at my house when they’re underage? Really? Why is that? Because they don’t drink underage in their dorms or at other house parties?” He shakes his head like I’m vermin that has crawled into the vehicle. “Whatever is going on with this Madeline stuff has really knocked you off your game. I defended you to Preston. I did. But I’ll go now.”

As he reaches for the door handle, I say, “You let Zach Greenfield into your party. He’s almost thirty. Was that good for the students? Was it good for Madeline?”

He stops moving. “Why are you asking me about Zach?”

“He tried to assault Madeline at your house. Did you know that?”

“That’s not true.”

“How do you know?”

“It wouldn’t have happened. I know Zach. He’s a friend of mine. He lives in the neighborhood. Just because his wife was killed and everyone blamed him, you’re piling this on top as well. He’s a good guy. Okay?”

“I think you’re blind, Lance. You’re blinded by whatever friendship you have with Zach. He’s going to be in trouble with the police soon, and then all of this is going to come out. You might want to make sure some of the shrapnel doesn’t hit you.”

“You’re the one who’s blind, Connor. You’ve been blinded by all this creeping morality. What an adult over the age of eighteen does with their body is up to them. Whatever Madeline did or didn’t do was her choice. You can’t go all nanny state on her.”

“We’re supposed to look out for these kids.”

“Is that what you were doing the night Madeline disappeared?” he says. “I know all about it, Connor. The drunken walk home. Back to your house.”

“Preston shouldn’t have told you—”

“Glass houses, Connor. Glass houses.”

He pushes the door open and leaves.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Diana keeps an office downtown, only five blocks from the police station. I go straight there from Troy’s and park in the lot next to the redbrick Colonial building, and when I step out into the cold sunshine, I wish I had a hoodie to cover my face. I feel exposed as I walk to the front door, like someone expecting to be hit by a sniper.

When I get inside, into the carpeted and freshly painted waiting area, I give my name to the receptionist, who doesn’t even blink before she calls back and tells Diana I’m here. In the flesh.