Diana flips her glasses down and picks up the phone on her desk. While she’s waiting for someone to answer, I stare at the floor. Madeline will never see the book in print with her name on it. She’ll never see any book in print with her name on it. And she should have and would have. I’m the only one who can try to make that happen—

“When will she be finished?” Diana says into the phone. “Will you have her call me as soon as she is? I have someone who needs to talk to her. . . . Yes, she’ll know the matter to which I’m referring. It’s the only matter she and I are talking about right now. . . . And can you ask her for one more favor? Tell her to call the dogs off my client Connor Nye. He’s going to wait at his house, and he doesn’t need to be arrested. I’m going to bring him in. . . . No, I don’t think I’m Detective Bowman’s boss. I’m just someone who wants to engage in mutual respect with her. If she backs off my client until he’s ready to talk, I’ll bring him in. I promise. . . . Just tell her, okay? Bye.”

Diana slams the phone down so hard, I jump. She takes her glasses off and shakes her head.

“Can you believe that shit? I’ve been practicing law in this town for twenty years, and they want to give me the runaround. Some rookie cop answering the phone . . .”

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“It is. Don’t worry. Bowman is with a witness. Probably that student you sent her way. When she’s done, she’ll call, and we can go in. Or she may just come to your house. We’ll see.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Go home and wait. I bought you a little time to make sure you have your story ready. Just tell her what you told me when the time comes. I’m trying to keep you from getting hauled away like a common criminal. You’re a plagiarizer, not a danger to society.”

“Diana, what exactly happened to Madeline?”

Diana takes a moment to answer. “They’re saying she was stabbed.”

“Oh, God,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t even know what to say. It’s horrifying.”

“It’s a lovely world, isn’t it?”

“That young woman . . .”

Her death seems personal. Angry and personal. Just like Sophia’s murder over two years ago in a dark parking lot. Sophia died alone and in terror as well.

“Who the fuck is doing this to these young women? Is it Zach?”

“I wish I knew,” she says.

“What else did they find?” But then I remember—the knife. It was missing from my pocket when Madeline was gone in the morning. And she died of a stab wound.

If the cops found that—