The classroom is a refuge even though I’m distracted. I head off to my next class, Introduction to Creative Writing, and half of that class is fiction and half is poetry. I know nothing about poetry. I’ve never written it. I’ve never even read it. But I have to pretend to be an expert for fifty minutes a day. While the students read their assignments out loud—and their readings sound like recitations of the tax code—my mind continues to drift back to what I was reading when Rebecca came in.

An article from the local paper about Sophia Greenfield’s murder.

I’d only scanned the beginning when Rebecca knocked, but the details cycle through my mind like a GIF. Twenty-seven-year-old Sophia Greenfield was found dead outside her job last night. Police have no suspects. Her husband, Zachary Greenfield, was working late. When she didn’t come home, he grew worried and found her body in the parking lot. Her parents have been notified.

A picture accompanied the article. A smiling blond young woman. Pretty. Bright. A life full of promise. All of it cast away in a few moments of struggle inside her car.

There’s something more about her face, something I recognize. It feels like I’ve seen her before—have I?—but I can’t say where. I don’t think she was a student. I don’t think I knew her from anything else.

Does she just look like all the other beautiful, smiling, healthy young faces populating this college town? The ones that always make me think about Jake?

But . . . Bowman is right. Her story sounds just like my story. Just like Madeline’s story. A woman murdered in a parking lot. Her husband the prime suspect.

The scarf. The position of the body. The wounds.

What would I think if I were Bowman?

The room has gone silent. I’ve blanked out, gone off into my head. I look around. Nineteen faces watch me expectantly. I’m supposed to be saying something, leading the way. After all this time, it’s still hard to believe I’m the authority figure. That I’m the one people look to for guidance.

“That was a great discussion,” I say. And I have no idea if it was or not. I glance at the clock. Only seven minutes left in class. Close enough. I tell them what to read for next time and send them packing. I dash out of the room faster than they do, eager to get back and finish reading about Sophia.

As I navigate the halls, I look at every student’s face more closely than ever. Normally I glide past them, nodding or saying hello to those I recognize, trying hard to remember names of students from past semesters.