“But I went out this afternoon to Target, and I bought a copy of your book and started reading it. That’s when I saw. It’s the exact same book, basically. I mean, the published one is all cleaned up with no typos, and some of the details are a little different. But it’s the same book. And this is Madeline’s handwriting.” Rebecca points to the envelope. “I once went to a workshop the English Club gave, and shared one of my stories. Madeline was there that night, and she marked my manuscript up. I put that old story of mine in the envelope here, so you can see it. So I know this book was written by her. It’s like proof or whatever.”

Nye’s grip tightens on the envelope. He’s shaking his head, and Rebecca wonders what he’s going to say. Is he going to have some story about how she can’t be right about who wrote the book? Will he try to smooth everything over and lie like Hoffman?

Instead, he says, “I’m sorry about this, Rebecca. When I did this, I wasn’t at my best. That’s just an excuse, but it’s the only thing I can say.”

“I know,” Rebecca says. “I know about your family and all of that. I just want you to know that I didn’t say anything to anybody about it. Not to the police or my mom or my roommate. Nothing. And I didn’t copy it or scan it or take any pictures. I wanted to give it to you and let you decide. It’s not my choice to make.”

“That’s really thoughtful of you, Rebecca.”

She turns and goes to the door but stops and looks back. Nye is still standing in the living room, looking down at the envelope.

“Can I say something else, Dr. Nye?”

He looks up. “Sure. Anything you want.”

“I still think you’re a great professor. My favorite, really. You really do seem to care about the students. And our writing and stuff. I hope you come back and teach the class again. I was really sorry when you got replaced. And I want you to direct my thesis, if you can.”

Nye looks really moved, almost like he might cry.

But he doesn’t, and Rebecca is glad about that. The day’s been weird enough as it is.

“Thanks, Rebecca.”

“You’re welcome.”

She steps through the door and hurries across the yard to the waiting car, excited to be inside its warmth and heading home with Mom.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

CONNOR

PRESENT

The manuscript sits on my coffee table.

For nearly an hour after Rebecca leaves, I stare at the fat pile of papers.

Only a handful of people know the truth—as far as I can tell. Madeline and Lance.

And Rebecca.