“Thank you, Dr. Hoffman,” she said. “That’s incredibly generous. My study environment isn’t great because my neighbor makes a lot of noise, and I have to work at the grocery store—”

“It’s fine. Like I said, it’s not in use. And a writer as talented as you should have the best equipment. We can figure out a way for you to pick it up before we leave.” He pointed at the thesis again. “Now, as for this, I was thinking about the murder you seem to be heading for in the story. You haven’t really figured out where it’s going to occur, have you?”

“No. I thought maybe I’d change it to the kitchen . . . because she likes to cook for her husband.”

Hoffman nodded, scratched at his chin. “Or maybe . . . and I’m just riffing a little bit here, trying out ideas. But you have this murder happening in a parking lot, which is maybe influenced by certain events in real life. But it’s not very vivid. Didn’t Dr. Nye ever talk to you about the importance of details? Vivid three-dimensional details.”

“Well, yes—”

“Think about how important that crime scene is to the advancement of your plot. . . .”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CONNOR

PRESENT

“Shit,” I say.

Lance quickens his pace, heading down the hall toward a set of double doors that lead to a staircase.

I follow, going past the open door of the classroom. When I go by, some of the students are standing, coming over to see out into the hallway.

“Stay in there,” I say.

But they ignore me. And as I go down the hall, I can hear them coming out behind me. I take a quick look back and see a couple emerging, their faces wide with curiosity.

Lance busts through the double doors, pushing with both hands and swinging them open. By the time I get there, the doors have swung back and then out into the staircase again, and I have to dodge them to avoid getting caught in between.

I see Lance going up.

“Lance. Wait.”

But he keeps going, moving quickly. So I go up, following in his wake.

After one flight, I start to puff. Adrenaline does only so much to keep me moving, and I slow. Lance, despite being almost twenty years older than I am, keeps moving at a steady pace. I try to guess where he’s going. Above us are offices—the History Department and then Philosophy.

Above those departments is the cupola bell tower that makes Goodlaw stand out above and beyond the rest of campus.

But why would he be going there?

No matter. I huff and puff and keep going. The phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it, figuring it’s Diana again.

“Lance. Wait.”

He doesn’t slow. He goes past the next floor and the floor after that. Which means he has his sights set on the bell tower.