I want to walk away.

But Lance can’t be left alone.

“What’s more complicated?” I ask. “Tell me.”

Lance turns to face me, and his back is against the railing.

I risk another glance down. A police car, lights flashing, pulls up in front of the building. In the distance, I hear a siren. A fire engine turns onto the street that fronts Goodlaw and heads our way. Maybe Diana called Bowman anyway, told the cops to get to Goodlaw.

I want Preston to appear, either behind me or on the ground. Lance might listen to him. Preston might be the only one Lance would listen to.

But Lance remains silent, watching me. I have to keep him talking.

“According to this story, which she wrote after she came back to town, Madeline wanted to expose you. The character of the professor is described exactly like you. He has your mannerisms, your clothes.”

“You’re quite the detective.”

“Lance, none of us is perfect. I shouldn’t have been drinking with my students as much as I was. I was out with Madeline’s class the night she disappeared. Maybe if I’d been clearheaded, I could have helped her. Look, I need to admit my mistakes, and you can come down and admit what you did. We’ll both face the music.”

“Drinking with students is nothing. Madeline thought I killed Sophia,” he says.

“I know. The story says that too.”

“It’s because of her thesis,” he says. When he says those words, he seems calmer, like he’s on steadier ground. “Madeline and I worked on that book together. I had to carry her through that project because you weren’t there for the students.”

“You’re right about that.”

“I just started reading your book last night, Connor.” He laughs, a sound that cuts through the wind and the shouts that reach us from below. People are trying to get our attention. A cop with a megaphone calls up.

We ignore them.

“I hate thrillers,” he says. “And I couldn’t stand that you published that book and made all that money.”

“It wasn’t a lot of money. I promise.”

“More than I’ll ever make writing poetry.” He looks down, makes a slashing motion across his throat, trying to silence the cop. “I don’t even write anymore. I don’t write anything. But you published that book. And I told myself I wasn’t going to read it or anything about it. I refused to. At the library that night . . . I went to the bathroom while you were talking. But you know, finally . . . I couldn’t resist. I wanted to know what you’d written, what the big deal was. So I started it . . . and lo and behold, it was awfully damn familiar. Awfully familiar.”

His words have a strange effect on me. I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.

He knows. Somebody besides Diana and Madeline finally knows. . . .