“Madeline, don’t be like that. None of this has to be like that. We’re connecting here.”

“I’m going to go,” she said. “And I want you to let me go.” She pointed past him. “Out that door. The one I came in.”

But Hoffman didn’t move. He placed his hands on his hips and seemed to be anchoring himself into place, as if he expected her to charge at him and try to knock him down.

Which she might have to do. And she didn’t think that would work.

She started to sweat. Sticky beads popping out on her forehead. Her breath came in small gulps.

“Madeline, I was just . . . Look, I feel close to you. We can be close to each other. And I had another idea for the book. I wanted to tell you. Why don’t you stay and reconsider, and then we can talk some more?”

Madeline’s hands shook. Her eyes made a quick dash around the room, looking for a weapon. A fireplace poker, a bookend. A baseball bat or a hammer.

But she saw nothing. Just the computer. She wanted it. Wanted to use it to rewrite her novel. But she couldn’t take it from Hoffman.

And she couldn’t carry it out the door alone. She had to let it go. She’d e-mailed her file to herself, so she needed to go. She needed to go because Hoffman was a pig. And tying strings to her acceptance of the computer. Terrible, terrible strings.

Just run.

Just go for it.

“I’m leaving now,” she said, trying to sound as firm and confident as possible. She thought she’d pulled it off.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home. I need to work on this . . . and I don’t want you touching me. Ever.”

“Oh, Madeline.” He remained in the rigid, solid position between her and the door. He showed no inclination to move. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought we really understood each other. I thought we could have fun. And work on your thesis, which I think I’ve made quite a bit better with my insights. Are you going to run off like a scared little girl?”

“I’m not a little girl. And I don’t want anything else from you.”

“What about the computer? My generous offer?”

“I don’t need it. I’ll . . . figure something else out.”

“And handwrite your way through your last semester of college? That will surely impress everyone.”

“Are you going to let me leave?” she asked. “I’ll scream.”

Then Hoffman laughed. He shook his head dismissively, and he laughed. A low chuckle, the kind of thing someone would do when a child acted foolish or immature.

“Oh, Madeline. And you say you’re not a little girl?”

He took a step toward her.

Madeline tensed. Her hands clenched into fists.