SPRING, TWO YEARS EARLIER

Madeline hated walking alone. At night.

Ever since Sophia’s murder, she’d tried not to go anywhere alone after dark. She wasn’t crazy about walking around alone during daylight either. She frequently looked over her shoulder or changed direction to avoid anyone who looked suspicious.

No, she corrected herself—to avoid any man who looked suspicious.

But that night she had no choice. She had followed Nye home because she thought he needed help. And he pretty clearly did. If she hadn’t followed along behind him, he might have been lying in the street, passed out, sprawled out over the curb and the gutter until someone else saw him.

If they saw him in time . . .

Nye wasn’t in good shape. Not at all. But she’d left the thesis with him because she wanted him to read it. And if he read it and saw those details about the murder of “Sarah,” and if he was able to piece it together, maybe he’d know what to do about Zach. He could tell her it was nothing to worry about, not to let her imagination run wild.

And Nye was somebody the police would listen to and trust if it came to talking to them about it. . . .

Madeline felt a weight lift from her shoulders when she saw her car in the glow of a streetlight a block away. The car meant safety. Warmth.

Yes, even freedom. It was a piece of shit, nine years old, with bad wipers and crappy tires. But it ran. It could take her just about anywhere she needed to go.

It could take her home, where she could wedge the chair under the door, grab her frying pan, retreat into her thoughts, and look forward to the future. Whatever it might hold.

“Madeline.”

She froze. She held her keys in her right hand. But hadn’t stuck them through her fingers the way her mother had taught her when she was in high school. Maddy girl, those keys are a weapon you’re always carrying. Go right for the eyes if you have to.

Madeline turned and looked to the right, in the direction of the voice. Is this going to be Zach?

Instead Dr. Hoffman emerged from between two buildings and walked toward her in his slumped, shuffling gait. He wore a winter coat too bulky for the warming weather. And he looked older than ever before, like he was weighed down by something heavy.

What in the name of God does he want? Madeline didn’t feel like dealing with his bullshit again. . . .