I grab my coat and bag. I’ll get a coffee on the way. No time to brew any. Grendel is still eating in the kitchen, and I tell him to keep an eye on the house. I remind myself to get a dead bolt installed on the basement door to keep out any other unwanted visitors.

Grendel yawns and trots off to his day bed in the front of the house. I take my key off the counter. I’m ready, just in time.

Grendel starts to bark. I assume it’s someone going by, a jogger or a biker.

But the doorbell rings.

“Crap,” I say. “Now what?”

What if it’s Madeline? Back and more insistent—

I think about ignoring it, slipping out the back while whoever stands on the porch—a religious nut, a political campaign worker, my former student back from the dead—shivers in the cold. But there’s always that doubt. . . . What if it’s something important? I still hear from Emily’s family. Her mother has been in shaky health—what if there’s a crisis? I’d never forgive myself if I missed that kind of news.

Grendel continues to bark. The bell rings again. I look like a man ready to leave, so that will help me get rid of them. I rush to the front, wearing my coat and carrying my bag. Keys jangling in my hand.

I look out Grendel’s window. It’s a woman but not Madeline. Thankfully. This woman is about my age. Tall. Bundled in a long overcoat. Vaguely familiar. Do I know her from work?

Then I see the object in her hand. A copy of My Best Friend’s Murder.

Really? Is this what it’s like for writers? Fans show up on your stoop unannounced carrying the book? Sure, I can see it happening to Stephen King or Anne Rice. But me?

I undo the lock, pull the door open. The cold air blows past like the freezing breath of an angry winter god. It stings the tips of my ears.

“Dr. Nye?” she says.

I know why she looks familiar. I know where I’ve seen her before. It’s been two years, but I can’t forget her face.

“Do you remember me?” she asks. “Alicia Bowman with the Gatewood Police Department.” She holds the book up between us. “I was wondering if we could talk about this.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bowman comes in. She’s my height, a little taller even. She looks long and lean under her overcoat. She might have a few more streaks of gray in her hair than two years earlier, but if anything, she looks like she’s barely aged.

“I can see you’re on your way to campus,” she says. “This won’t take long.”

She bends down, scratches Grendel between the ears, which makes them friends for life.

“Yeah,” I say, “I have a meeting and then class at nine. . . .”