“He needs to be more sympathetic,” Hoffman said. “The problem is, you paint him as an unmitigated jackass. And he may be that. But you have to allow the reader to feel some empathy for him. No character is all good or all bad. Did Dr. Nye teach you to write in such cartoonish ways? Or are you just trying to turn a man into an easy target? It’s easy to do but doesn’t make for good literature.” Hoffman finished what remained in his glass and set it on the floor by his feet. He yawned, covering his mouth. “Give us something about him we can relate to. Does he collect stamps? Have a dog? Did his dad leave the family when he was young? Who knows? That can mess a person up. Just a little of that so we have a fuller picture of the guy. He can still be the killer, but give him a redeeming quality too. We all have them. Even I have them. I wouldn’t want to be depicted in such a one-dimensional way.”

As soon as he said it, Madeline understood what he meant. She hadn’t shown another side of Trevor, mainly because she hadn’t wanted to. She’d based him on Zach, and she hated Zach. So why not take out on the character what she couldn’t do in real life?

But she remembered something Dr. Nye said once: As a writer, you have to understand all of your characters so the reader can understand them.

She needed to understand Trevor—not Zach—better in order to write about him more effectively.

“That makes sense,” she said. “I can definitely do that.”

Hoffman made no response. His breathing was deep. He was snoring on the couch, his head lolled back so far, it looked like it might fall off.

Madeline looked at the computer, looked at the pages on the coffee table. She listened to the snorting breaths coming out of Hoffman’s nose. She turned, and on the pass-through window from the kitchen to the living room, she saw a bottle of Four Roses bourbon. Almost empty.

How much had he had that night?

Did he need help?

If Hoffman drank that much every night, he’d probably be okay. But how did she know?

She went closer, picking up the pages. She saw a few notes, written in red ink and a pinched script. Just a few notes, and she knew she’d have to rewrite those pages so Nye didn’t see them.

She sat in a chair turned perpendicular to the couch, her eyes on Hoffman until she was sure he was still breathing. Then she started to read.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CONNOR

PRESENT

I take another tentative step toward Lance. I reach out for the railing next to me to steady myself.

I hate being up here. So high. So cold. I want to turn and go back inside.