I go through the house and make sure everything is locked before I head back to my office and pick up Madeline’s story again and start reading. I sit on the end of the leather couch we inherited from Emily’s parents when they moved into a smaller home. I flip on the lamp, which casts a soft glow over a small portion of the room. I almost feel at ease and try to imagine I’m back in the past, reading a student story in the comfort of my warm home. And maybe Emily and Jake are out in the kitchen, working on his homework.

But I know none of this is true.

I’m in a new reality.

And this is confirmed for me when I turn to the third page of Madeline’s story.

The protagonist is entering the campus where she used to go to school, a campus that looks a lot like Commonwealth’s. And when she walks through the gates on the east side of campus, she passes a brand-new alumni center, one named after a graduate of the university who went on to serve for decades on the state supreme court. He bequeathed the university a crap ton of money for the alumni center, and it was built so fast, everyone joked the university was acting like they were afraid the judge was going to change his mind in the great beyond.

It’s a state-of-the-art Georgian building, redbrick with huge columns.

I look up from the page.

A minor detail about the landscape. Something I might enjoy and then move on from in any other story.

Except . . .

The alumni center wasn’t built or named until after Madeline disappeared. It wasn’t here when she was a student.

Which means the story was written since she disappeared. And was left on my desk for me to discover.

Now.

It’s Madeline trying to tell me something. To tell everyone something.

I go back to reading, my eyes moving over the words as fast as they can.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

MADELINE

FALL, TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

Madeline sat in Troy’s facing the door. She’d splurged when she’d arrived, even though her budget was limited. If she was being honest with herself, she’d hoped Dr. Hoffman would be there first. And he would offer to buy her a coffee, maybe even a muffin or a scone.

But Hoffman was frequently late—to class, to conferences—so when she came into Troy’s and didn’t see him . . . and she smelled the rich roasted coffee. The scones fresh out of the oven. She broke down and ordered.