“Actually, I don’t have that copy. I’m not an idiot. After I typed it, I burned it.”

“That’s fucking bullshit—”

She takes a lunging step toward me, but Grendel starts to bark in the living room.

Is he barking to protect me? Or for another reason?

I don’t care. Madeline stops when she hears him.

I move over to the entrance to the living room. Grendel is standing on the couch, looking out. Headlights glow against the front of the house.

“Someone’s here,” I say.

I go to the window and look out, Grendel at my side. I see a couple of my colleagues coming up to the porch. Preston White and Lance Hoffman. At the library, they said I needed to break open a bottle of champagne, and when I said I didn’t have any, they threatened to buy one and come over. I figured they were joking, but here they are. I unlock the door.

The two of them are better friends with each other than they are with me. But when Emily and Jake died, they kind of adopted me, making me a special project as I lifted myself out of the depths of grief.

I go back to the kitchen, and Madeline already has the back door open.

“Don’t you want to stay?” I ask. “Weren’t they both professors of yours? Maybe you can say hello. Tell them how you faked your disappearance—”

“I’m not letting this go,” Madeline says. “Don’t try to give me the shaft on this. I mean it.”

She slips out the door and into the night.

Behind me, Preston and Lance come inside, talking loudly like a couple of students themselves. And that’s how they frequently act when they’re together and when they’ve been drinking.

I put Madeline’s glass in the sink.

Preston comes into the kitchen, claps me on the back. He thrusts the bottle of champagne into the space between us. “Told you we’d be here.”

“You’re a man of your word.”

“Where are the glasses? Whoa. What’s this?” He points to the bottle of Rowan’s Creek, the glass on the counter. Then he looks in the sink. “Two glasses?”

“I was thirsty,” I say.

“You’re not going to say who?” he asks. “Lance, the boy had company before us.”

“Who?” Lance asks. He whips his head toward me. He actually looks serious. “A lady?”

I can’t tell them.

“Just an old friend,” I say.

“A female friend?” Lance asks. “A girl?”

“Just a friend.”

“Well, well,” Preston says. “The plot thickens.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’ve never liked getting out of bed. I’ve always hit snooze and buried my head under a pillow. I try to hide from the days as long as possible.

Emily was the exact opposite. She loved mornings and bounced out of bed with the energy of a kitten.