She starts reading this new story or whatever it is, and it’s about a woman returning to the town where she went to college, and the town is also an exact match for Gatewood. And the campus an exact match for Commonwealth, just like in the novel.

But the character is back in town to confront a professor who has sexually harassed her.

And the description of that professor sounds very, very familiar . . .

Dr. Nye always said the purpose of art is to make us feel less alone.

By reading Madeline’s story, Rebecca knows she’s not the only one to have had an uncomfortable encounter with Dr. Hoffman.

She knows she’s not alone.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CONNOR

PRESENT

I jog up the steps to the main entrance of Goodlaw Hall. It’s a cold morning, my breath frosting as I climb. But the sky is clearer than it has been, promising the possibility the day will be warmer. When I reach the top of the stone stairs, my phone rings. It’s Diana.

I stop and answer the call.

“Where are you now?” Diana asks. “I’m at your house. Bowman is ready to talk to you, and I said I’d bring you in.”

“I had to come to campus real quick. It’s important. I might have figured something out.”

“Connor, this isn’t the time to flake out. If you want to tell your—”

“I’ll call you when I know for sure. Okay? I might need Bowman and I might not.”

“Connor—”

I hang up and pass through the breezeway, two sets of double glass doors. I know exactly where I’m going. In my right hand, folded into a cylinder shape, is Madeline’s short story, the one I finished reading last night. The one I read over and over again, late into the night, making sure I understood what it was really saying. I turn left past Preston’s office, where the door is wide open, and I see him sitting inside but I don’t bother to stop. Or allow him to stop me. I keep going down the long hallway to the familiar classroom where I always teach.

Where Lance has taken over.

As I approach the room, I hear his voice. Deep. Commanding.

Even wise.

He’s talking about the president, bemoaning budget cuts to higher education. How he’s going to tie that to fiction writing, I have no idea. How he ties anything he talks about to creative writing, I never know.

I always close the door to my classroom. Lance keeps his wide open. Everyone and anyone can hear. He loves to think all the world is his audience.

I stop in the doorway. It takes him a moment to look over and see me. When he does, his face shows surprise, and he stops his monologue. But then the composure quickly returns, and he smiles at me in a sly way.