“What about these things she wrote about you and Sophia? How did you know the details of Sophia’s murder?”

He swings his other leg over to the sound of more gasps. He keeps two hands on the railing, the only thing holding him in place. His back is to the void, the open air four floors down to the ground.

I feel shaky. Unsteady. Like I might fall over. The height.

Lance’s refusal to answer or explain.

“What was your connection to Sophia?” I ask.

“You know how I am. I had to be the big shot, had to run my mouth and give Madeline the best details for her book. I drank. I talked. And I’ll be honest, Connor—I wanted to make you look bad. I wanted to be seen as the better teacher, the one the students came to when they really needed help. That’s why I moved in and worked with Madeline on that thesis. That’s why I told her every great detail I could think of.”

“Because you hated me.”

“I hated being eclipsed by you,” he says. “Younger. More successful. I regretted telling her so much. My problems with drinking bit me in the ass. I tried to talk to her, to get the thesis back. . . . I had no choice once I’d said so much.”

“How did you know the details you gave her? Did Zach tell you? I know you were friends. Is that it? Zach killed Sophia and told you what happened? And you gave it to Madeline for the book? If that’s it—”

“Whatever you want to believe, Connor. Zach’s my friend. I hated seeing him dragged through the mud when Sophia died. Friends have to stick together. They do. People have problems we may not see or know about.”

“But what happened to Sophia was horrible.”

“I knew she wanted to pursue a harassment claim against me on Madeline’s behalf. I’d have lost everything, Connor. And I don’t have that much. Without my job . . . my students . . . I haven’t written a word in years. I don’t think I can anymore. If Madeline or Sophia came forward about what Madeline perceived as harassment, there’d be nothing for me. . . .”

“Lance, come down.”

He lifts one hand from the railing. He wobbles on the ledge.

I take two quick steps across the landing, reaching for him.

But I’m too late.

He lets go with the other hand and falls backward, his body bouncing once off the side of the building and then flying out into open space. I watch from the railing as his body spins once and then heads directly for the ground.

The crowd below gasps. And screams.

And they spread out.

And I watch as Lance lands on the sidewalk among them all, his body hitting with a sickening splat I hear all the way up in the bell tower.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

MADELINE