“Maybe that’s another book,” Bowman says. “I hear true crime is big right now.”

Before I can say anything, she pulls the door open and leaves, letting in another blast of cold air against my burning cheeks.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sartre said hell is other people.

But he never tried to park on the campus of Commonwealth University.

On a weekday morning after eight o’clock.

On days I ran late—and there were a lot of them—Emily used to drop me off before she went back to work. Those ten or fifteen minutes we spent together in the car, alone, were some of the best of our marriage. We developed the habit of finding a song on the radio to sing along to, and then we’d belt it out as loud as we could. Neither one of us could sing, but we let it rip anyway. Sometimes we’d pull up next to my students at a stoplight, and they’d stare with puzzled looks on their faces as we screamed “Livin’ on a Prayer” or “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” Most of the time we laughed more than we sang.

Now I know exactly when I have to leave my house in order to make it to campus in time to get a parking spot close to Goodlaw Hall, which houses the English Department. Bowman’s visit—and pointed questions—threw everything off. And I end up in the overflow lot at the bottom of the hill, which means I have to schlep about a half a mile in the biting wind, carrying my ancient university-issued laptop and a stack of student papers. The cupola bell tower on top of Goodlaw looks like it’s in another county when I start walking, and by the time I reach the building, I’m winded like a man who just ran ten miles. I’m sweating under my clothes, and I can’t wait to peel off my winter coat and drop my bag in my office.

And I’m almost convinced Madeline has already been here, telling Preston or the dean or anybody who would listen that I stole her book, that I need to be fired, that I’m the lowest form of life to ever live—

And I am intercepted right inside the door.

But it’s one of my colleagues, Carrie Richter. She’s a few years older than I am and teaches American literature. We’ve never really socialized, and I know she’s divorced with a teenage son. Carrie and I have served on a few committees together, and I’ve always found her to take a reasonable approach to solving problems. She’s standing inside the door as though she’s waiting for me, although I’m not sure why. But when she sees me, she lifts her index finger as though testing the direction of the wind.

Does she know Madeline? Has Madeline talked to her?