Preston is shaking his head and not saying much. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly as the heat blows through the vents at our feet. I think he’s angry at the injustice of it all.

“I’d still be there if it weren’t for Diana. And you. I didn’t want to have to call my sister in Michigan and tell her I was in jail.”

He remains quiet as he makes the last turn, the one onto my street. I study his profile, watch his jaw clench tight.

He pulls into my driveway, stopping next to my car.

“What do you think?” I ask. “You haven’t really said much.”

He leaves the car on. The headlights shine against the garage door.

“It’s a problem,” he says through pressed lips.

“I know that.”

“No,” he says. “It’s a problem at work. On campus. When you called me from the station, and after I got ahold of Diana, I checked in with Paul Armstrong in Human Resources.”

“What for?”

He turns to face me. “Connor, we’re kind of through the looking glass here. I’ve never had a member of the department become part of a murder probe before. I had to know what to do.”

“What is there to do?” I ask. “What are you getting at?”

He sighs through his nose, his lips pursed tighter. “Connor, do you remember what we talked about this morning? About the changing attitudes on campus? They just can’t have someone working there, going to classes and interacting with the students, who might be guilty of a murder.”

“No one’s charged me with anything. They were trying to rattle my cage with a lot of bullshit.”

Preston’s voice goes up. His voice never goes up. He never seems to lose his cool, but I can tell he’s pissed right now. “And everyone’s going to make that fine distinction when the news breaks about this? Right? That’s what we all do so well these days as a culture—make fine distinctions when we hear something on the news.”

“Are you firing me?”

“No. No one’s firing anybody.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “This isn’t corporate America, where you can just run someone out of the building if you want. But you’re being placed on administrative leave. Until we know how all of this is going to shake out, that’s your status. With pay. But you can’t come into Goodlaw, and you can’t go near a classroom.”

I smack my fist against the dashboard. “Are you kidding me?”

“Calm down, Connor. It’s out of my hands. Paul made the call. And he talked to the president about it just to make sure.”

“The president?”

“Yes. The university doesn’t want any black eyes. Not now. Not with a capital fund-raising campaign under way.”