As he approached, she looked at the car. She could dash right for it, run around to the driver’s side, and get the key in. . . . But was all of that worth it? Hoffman held all the power. Eventually he’d get close to her again. If she tried to report him, he could damage her reputation at school. Bad-mouth her to the other professors.

Call her a liar.

“I’m just on my way home,” she said, feeling compelled to offer some kind of explanation. But it sounded weak in the darkness.

Hoffman kept coming, almost reaching her, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

“We have a problem, Madeline,” he said, sounding very sad. Looking like a whipped dog. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. You won’t answer my e-mails asking for a meeting. I couldn’t find you in Goodlaw. It’s like you’re avoiding me.”

“I won’t tell anyone about . . . what happened at your house the other night. It was just a misunderstanding. That’s all. I shouldn’t have come over, and you were drinking.”

For a moment, Hoffman looked confused. Like they were having two different conversations. Then his face cleared. “Oh, I’m not talking about our little misunderstanding. Those kinds of things happen between teachers and students. That’s not my concern.”

“Then . . . I’m sorry. . . . What are we talking about?”

“Your book,” he said, standing at the edge of the streetlight’s glow. “Those details I provided to you. I got carried away. I got fanciful. And I spoke as though I had some understanding and insight into things I really don’t know a lot about. Talking like a big shot takes me away from myself, from my own depressive thoughts.”

As so often happened with Hoffman, Madeline found herself lost, unable to follow exactly what he was talking about. And why.

“I think that’s okay,” she said. “It’s just fiction. You were helping me write the book.”

Hoffman looked to his left, in the direction Madeline had just come from. The direction of Dr. Nye’s house. “You were with Connor. A post-class drink, I presume. Of course, he invited only the kids who are over twenty-one, right? He’s quite the rule follower.”

“He got home okay. I made sure.”

“I bet you did. Let me ask you—did you show Dr. Nye the thesis pages? With those details I provided?”

Madeline hesitated. She wasn’t sure which answer was the correct one. Which answer would cause the least trouble for everyone. For Nye. For herself.

“It’s fiction, Dr. Hoffman. I wrote fiction. And I never told Dr. Nye you were helping me. That’s what you told me to do.”

Hoffman looked even more deflated. “So you did use those details. And turned them in to Dr. Nye.” His head turned in the direction of Dr. Nye’s house again. “Is he okay?”