Then I remember Bowman asking about the internship program. And whether I talked to Sophia about it. Bowman knows that Carrie did.

“I’m so glad to see you because I wanted to tell you something,” she says.

“What’s that?” I ask.

More questions about Sophia?

I’m trying my best not to sound out of breath from my walk up the hill. I always think my overall health is in the toilet if I can’t walk up the hill without getting winded. I don’t change my lifestyle any, but I do worry about it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to your event last night,” Carrie says. “I had some exams to grade. Besides, your book isn’t really my kind of thing.”

“Your kind of thing?”

“I know a lot of people like mysteries and thrillers and whatever. You know . . . books about women getting killed in awful ways. There’s enough of that in the world.”

I feel like I have to say something. And Bowman’s visit had been running over and over in my mind as I drove to campus. “You knew Sophia Greenfield, right?”

Carrie’s eyes widen. “I did. Well, to be honest, I only met her for coffee once. Mostly we e-mailed because she was trying to get us to send her interns.” She visibly shudders. “It was ghastly what happened to her. Murdered that way. Disgusting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you know her?” Carrie asks.

“No, no. I didn’t.”

“She was really kind. That’s the impression I had of her. We talked about Anthony a little.”

“Your son.”

“Right. She offered to mentor him or something. He was having some tough times.”

“Did she do that?”

Carrie’s brow creases. “Why did you bring her up today?”

“Well . . . you mentioned a woman being murdered. And I knew about the internships. . . .”

My fumbling explanation seems to satisfy Carrie. “It’s so sad. That’s why I don’t read books about serial killers.”

“It’s not about a serial killer—”

“I mean, I get it, especially if you’re going to the beach. But . . . not for actual reading.”

“I understand,” I say, although I don’t. “Thanks for telling me your thoughts.”

I wait, wondering if she’ll say more. Maybe . . . congratulations or something like that. But she doesn’t.

“Well,” I say, “it was a good event.”

“I have to run. I’m off to talk about Edgar Allan Poe.”

I start down the hall in the opposite direction, but then Preston sticks his head out the double doors that lead into the English Department.

“There he is,” he says. “Our distinguished author. You’ve got time before class, right, champ?”

“I was just coming to see you,” I say. Again my mind goes back to Madeline. Has she already spoken to Preston?