Rebecca’s hands shake as she sweeps up the broken glass with the little broom and dustpan they keep under the sink. She soaks up the water with a towel. She hopes the mundane task will ground her, make her racing mind calm down some.

So Madeline came back to town, went to Dr. Nye’s reading, and then left a manuscript on Rebecca’s doorstep before she was murdered?

Why?

Rebecca goes back to her bedroom for her phone, which she plugged in to charge. She needs to call her mom, to talk to someone who can make some sense of everything that’s going on. She’s already called home five times today, including once before she went into the police station and then again on the way out. Her mom has a way of making everything sound manageable. She told Rebecca just to tell the police the truth, to leave nothing out, and so she did. And before they hung up the second time, her mom said she and Dad would come visit during the upcoming weekend, take her out to dinner. Or if Rebecca preferred, she could come home, sleep in her old room. Rebecca likes the sound of that idea the best—get out of Gatewood for a couple of days.

After all—isn’t there someone on the loose who killed Madeline?

She’s about to make the call when their doorbell rings, and Rebecca jumps again.

Could the police be coming by to ask her more questions? They said they might.

Steven sticks his head out of Mikaila’s bedroom doorway. Rebecca refuses to think of it as “their” room. Not unless he starts paying rent, and she doesn’t see that happening.

“Was that the door?” Steven asks.

“Did you guys order food?” Rebecca asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you expecting someone?”

Mikaila has done that a few times—invited people over without telling Rebecca. She’d come home from work or class or studying and there’d be six or eight people in the living room, drinking beer or passing around a joint. And Mikaila would say, “Hey, everybody, this is my super-chill roommate, Becca. I love you, Becca Boo!” And Rebecca would have to stand there and smile and act like it was cool to have a bunch of people she didn’t know in the living room on a Tuesday night.

“No,” Steven says. “We’re just hanging out.”

“Will you answer the door, then?” Rebecca asks. “I mean, since you’re a guy and everything. And just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Just say I’m not home.”

“Sure.” But he doesn’t leave. He stands before Rebecca, his head cocked to one side. “You seem pretty tense tonight. A guy in one of my classes said a former student got murdered. Did you hear that too?”

“Yeah, I did. And I knew her.”