“I guess so.” I check the clock behind Preston. It looks like something he bought from Pottery Barn instead of the run-of-the-mill schoolroom clocks most of us rely on. “I really have to run. But I promise you there’s nothing going on with any students. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says. “Maybe I’m an overprotective mother hen here in the English Department. But I worry about my people. Especially you.”

“It’s good to have friends.” I gather my things and stand up.

“Madeline,” Preston says.

When I hear the name, I spin around like he’s fired a gun.

Madeline? Why?

“What did you say?”

“Madeline. Madeline O’Brien. She really worshipped you.”

“She was very talented,” I say.

“Right,” Preston says. “She’s an example of a smart, talented kid who really looked up to you. I’m just trying to let you know you’ve got a lot going for you. Everyone sees that. Even if you don’t.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

REBECCA KNOX

PRESENT

It’s freezing cold. Butt-ass cold for January in Kentucky. It’s her senior year, her final one in college, and she doesn’t remember it ever being this cold in Gatewood.

Despite this, Rebecca circles Goodlaw Hall once and then again and starts around a third time.

She knows Nye is in there, in his office getting ready for his next class. She knows when he’s around because she was in his class early this morning, and she’s talked to him plenty of times. About writing. About applying to graduate school someday. About life.

Why is it so hard for her to go in this time?

Why couldn’t she just talk to him after class?

She wanted to but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Rebecca makes her third trip around, the snow flurries pelting her face. Her heart flutters like a flag in a strong wind. Flapping here and there and back and forth. She has friends who smoke. They claim it calms them down, helps them deal with stress. Rebecca has never smoked a cigarette in her life, never wanted to, can’t imagine what her mom would say if she did, but if it brings peace and calm . . . She kind of wishes she did.

Just go in, she tells herself.

Do you know what you must look like out here? No doubt some student is bored in class and staring out the window while their professor drones on and on about Milton or Dante or dangling modifiers. And that kid is looking out the window and wondering why this girl is circling the building like a crazy person in the freezing cold. Anyone watching would think Rebecca was drunk or high or crazy.

“Screw it,” she says out loud, and heads to the nearest door.