“So tell everyone, Lance. Go down and tell Preston. I’m ready to tell the police and my publisher anyway. I’ll be ruined. Okay? Won’t that make you happy? We can be ruined together.”

“I wish I could do that, Connor. I’d like nothing more than to see your career ended.”

“We’re colleagues, Lance. We’re even kind of supposed to be friends.”

“We’re not friends.” He leans back against the railing. “And I’m not coming down and going to jail.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

MADELINE

WINTER, TWO YEARS EARLIER

Madeline sat in the chair, reading Hoffman’s notes on her pages while he snored on the couch.

From time to time he stirred. His body shifted. Or one of his snorting inhalations reached a crescendo, almost waking him up. But he stayed passed out, head tilted back in that awkward pose. She could tell his neck was going to feel like shit when he finally woke up.

His comments inspired her. Again.

They were detailed. Rich.

Vivid.

They made her want to get back to work. To write. To make the book better.

She stood up and went to the computer, turning it on. It made a low grinding noise as it started, and she pulled up a chair and sat, waiting for everything to load and open.

When it was ready, she started typing, revising the most recent chapter she’d written based on Hoffman’s notes. When he woke up and was out of his stupor, she could take the computer home and keep going.

And going and going.

She’d write so much faster with the computer in her apartment.

She started typing. And she lost herself in the work. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Thirty minutes? Forty-five? She made it through one chapter. And then was on to the next.

She couldn’t say how long he stood behind her.

Seconds? Minutes?

She didn’t know he was there until his hand slid over her shoulder and landed on her breast, cupping it.

Madeline spun one way and jerked her body the other.

“Whoa, whoa,” Hoffman said, standing over her. He lifted both hands in the air. “Just checking in on you.”

He backed up two steps but remained between her and the door.

Madeline immediately looked at the door. For an exit.

The back door, the one that led out to the patio, where students smoked during his parties, was closed and covered by a curtain. Probably locked. And if she ran over there and had to fumble with the lock in order to get out, it would be too late.

And Hoffman’s body, which was short and squat, stood between her and the front door. She didn’t think Hoffman looked especially strong or powerful, but she thought he would be strong enough to stop her.

“Stop it,” she said, not caring how harsh she sounded.