Hoffman laughed again and walked past her, heading out to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and started whistling.

Madeline dashed for the front of the house and grabbed the doorknob like it was a lifeline. She worried it was locked, that she’d be trapped inside still. But the knob turned, and she pulled the door open, felt the cool air from the outside rushing against her face.

“Wait.”

Madeline hated herself for looking back. But she did.

Hoffman stayed in the kitchen, looking out. He made no attempt at coming closer.

“I’ll give you a lovely parting gift,” he said. “A freebie. And you can always remember who helped you more with the creation of your book than anyone else. The murder weapon in the book. Make it something personal, something that means a great deal to Sarah. A vintage scarf. A family heirloom. Something handed down to her, something she treasured. That will have the biggest kick for the reader.”

Madeline stayed rooted in place for a moment. The detail he gave was so weird, so specific—it seemed like he was conjuring it from memory and not from imagination.

And what was it Dr. Nye always said—if a detail was weird and specific enough, the reader would believe it was true?

Madeline knew Sophia had been strangled in her car outside work. Everybody knew that. She’d pictured the crime in her head many times—and when she slept, it emerged in her dreams—and she always saw thick hands grasping Sophia, squeezing the life out of her.

But sometimes she thought about what Detective Wallace had told her—maybe the killer got his thrills by using a piece of clothing instead of his hands?

So was Hoffman just summoning a specific detail out of thin air?

Madeline hoped so. But the detail came to him so quickly, so effortlessly, and he seemed so . . . gleeful about sharing it. So much like the very mention of the detail of the scarf served as a triumph for him.

“I’m leaving—”

But Hoffman went on. And as he talked, the look on his face became distant. Almost . . . haunted? Like he was really seeing what he described. “Madeline, you can almost imagine the body slumped over to the right against the steering wheel. And the hands . . . her hands . . . the right resting on the seat. With the palm facing up. The left . . . let’s say the left hand was hanging limply at her side. The middle nail on that left hand, cracked. Painted red but broken from the struggle with her assailant.” His gaze focused again. “Ghastly, really. Terribly vivid if you describe it right.”

The air from the outside felt colder than the temperature. It reached inside and chilled her bones.

She shivered.

And went out without closing the door behind her.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

CONNOR

PRESENT

The cop speaks to us again through the megaphone.

“Is everybody all right? Does anybody up there need medical attention?”