“I think Madeline must have told Sophia about Lance’s harassment. And that led Sophia to report it to you. Sophia told you about Lance . . . and then what happened, Preston? Were you trying to keep the story quiet so it wouldn’t reflect poorly on the department? So no one would find out you’d been covering for Lance for years?”

Preston swallows. He uses his tongue to moisten his lips. “You’re crazy, Connor. This day, the insane events, it’s all gotten to you. It’s making you irrational. You need to just take a step back and think about all of this. Rationally.”

“I spoke to Zach tonight. Before I came over here. You know, Sophia’s husband. He told me she wouldn’t have gone anywhere near Lance if she thought he’d harassed her friend. But she’d want to report it. She’d want to tell somebody in a position of authority. That’s you, Preston. You’re the authority. So, tell me. . . . Did she arrange to meet with you? Did you do whatever it took to protect Lance and the department? More important, did you do whatever it took to protect yourself and your career?”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Preston reaches out. I think he’s going to grab for the envelope, to see what’s inside, but he picks up his glass and raises it to his mouth. He drinks a large portion of it down.

“Your source for all this guesswork is Sophia’s husband,” he says. “The guy who has been the prime suspect in her murder ever since she died. The guy who came into your house and tried to kill you.”

“The cops have investigated him for over two years,” I say. “They’ve turned every aspect of his life upside down. Over and over again. No arrest. And if he killed his wife, why not let Lance take the fall for it? Lance is gone. Everyone thinks he did it. Why would Zach want to stir things up again? Unless he’s innocent.”

Preston finishes his drink. “Okay, you seem to be getting at something, Connor. Something I’m not really clear on. You’re admitting you plagiarized. You’re resigning. Your credibility as a writer and teacher and, frankly, as a human being is lacking.”

“That may be true,” I say. “I have and will lose any credibility I’ve built over the years. I’m going to lose everything.” I raise my index finger. “But it’s something I always told my students that brought me over here tonight. I always told them that if a detail they put in their fiction is so unique, so unusual, the reader will think it has to be true. And the police told me something like that when they came to my house a few nights ago.”

“What was that?” he asks. And he sounds curious, hooked by my words.