“Here’s the thing, Connor. You submitted this book and published it. With all the details of Sophia’s murder in it. You stood up in front of the library and also did all those interviews claiming the book was yours. And now that the authorship of the book makes you look like a murderer, you’re saying you didn’t really write it. Madeline did. And the two people who are able to back that claim up—Madeline and Hoffman—are now dead. And when I ask for proof from you that Madeline wrote the book, you say she stole the manuscript from your house. And there was only one copy in her handwriting. And Madeline’s body was found hidden near your family’s graves.” She shrugs, and when she lowers her hands, they both thump against the top of the desk. “It’s awfully damn convenient that you want me to believe you didn’t write that book now. I mean . . . you sat right in front of me and signed a copy. Who does that?”

She’s right. Who does that?

I can’t give her a good answer. I never will. But my stupidity and dishonesty have doubled back on me, swinging around like a boomerang that flies back and hits the thrower in the face.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I fucked up.”

“Somebody did. Bigly.”

“Are you charging my client with something, Alicia?” Diana asks. “He’s told you everything he knows. And I don’t think plagiarism falls under the purview of the police.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “The university and the literary world will sort that mess out. I intend to look into whether or not you can be charged for stealing a manuscript. We’ll see about that.”

“So we’re free to go?” Diana asks.

She scoops the papers—Madeline’s new story—into a neat stack and pushes herself out of the desk. She hands the papers off to the uniformed cop, who slips them into a leather case.

“I have to talk to your boss,” Bowman says. “Dr. White. And I’m sure the university police will be involved in that discussion as well. We always try to keep things cordial and open between the university and the city. I know I still have your passport. You can go home, but you need to stay there. I’ll be talking to you again.”

She stops at the door and looks back.

“A book signed by a plagiarist,” she says. “Do you think that makes it more valuable? Or less?”

“The same,” I say. “Most authors’ signatures are hardly worth anything.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

CONNOR

PRESENT

Someone rings my doorbell just after six.