I had seen those porch lights. I pointed them out to her. I told her she could go on, that I’d be just fine the rest of the way.

I don’t know what Madeline said. I don’t remember anything else I said.

Had she come all the way to the door? Inside the door?

Had she been in the house with me?

“I don’t know, Detective,” I said. “I just don’t remember. I can’t even be sure about the part I just told you that seems kind of clear.”

Bowman tapped her fingers, which were long and elegant, against her thigh.

“That’s all there is, Dr. Nye?” she asked.

“That’s all. I hope it helps.”

“Oh, it helps,” Bowman said. “As far as we can tell, that makes you the last person to see Madeline O’Brien alive before she disappeared.”

CHAPTER NINE

CONNOR

PRESENT

Madeline finishes her bourbon.

She crosses the kitchen, brushing right against me, and I move out of the way so she can reach the bottle of Rowan’s and pour a refill. She takes her time, her movements slow and deliberate. The bottle clinks against the rim of the glass. The liquid chugs. She’s drawing out the moment, making me wait as long as possible before she speaks.

She finally turns around and leans back against the counter with the half-filled glass in her hand. I’ve scooted over to the kitchen table and stand next to it. Waiting.

“I get it,” she says. “I do. Grief can drive people crazy. Especially when it’s sudden and unexplained. My dad died when I was three. I barely remember him, but I do remember when he died. I just walked around the house, crying and crying. Saying his name. ‘Daddy, Daddy.’ I’m twenty-four now, and isn’t it weird I can remember the feeling of loss more than I remember the man?”

“It’s sad,” I say. “I’m sorry. Maybe that’s why the emotions are so real in the book. Your book. When your character Lilly remembers her family and childhood, the way her father died, I think the reader feels so much empathy for her. It came from a real place.”

“And from you,” she says. “That’s why everyone is going to love the book. They’ll hear your sad story about your wife and fifteen-year-old son dying and associate it with the characters. That’s why it’s smart you’ve talked about your tragedy on social media and in interviews online. People love to know the story behind the story. You should tell everyone what you told me—about sneaking into the cemetery at night. That’s a great detail.”

“I still do that sometimes, but I didn’t want to talk about those things. I didn’t want to use my loss to make money.”

“But you did it anyway.”