Wallace took her time answering. “It’s early in the investigation. Sometimes it takes a while to sort everything out. But we’re definitely trying. I can promise you that.” Wallace pushed herself out of the chair and, as she did, reached into her pocket, bringing out a business card. “If you think of anything else, you can call me here.”

Madeline stood up and took the card. Her hands were damp with sweat and stuck to the thick paper. “I saw the funeral is in a couple of days. I wanted to go, but it’s down in Tennessee. And I’m in school. . . .”

“You don’t have to go to the funeral to remember your friend,” Wallace said. She sounded so wise, handing out the kind of help Madeline thought a mother should have been dispensing.

“I was going to send a card to her parents.”

“I think they’d appreciate that. Just let me know if you want to talk about anything else. I mean, if those other avenues don’t work on campus.” Wallace paused at the door. “This lock,” she said. “You might want to call your landlord and have it fixed. It’s not in the greatest shape.”

“Are you saying that because there’s a killer on the loose?”

“I’m saying that because you’re a woman.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CONNOR

PRESENT

Madeline keeps her coat on.

For a quick moment, I’m reminded of past winter days, the rare times it really snowed here in Gatewood, and Emily and I zipped Jake into a jacket, took him to Harmon Hill near campus, and went sledding. Even in winter, the days with him felt like they’d last forever. Red-cheeked, snotty-nosed days. Emily making hot chocolate on the stove when we got home. The three of us watching a movie together while darkness fell outside.

Now I’m in my kitchen, the same kitchen Jake went in and out of for most of his childhood, and I’m facing another young person. And I’m shaking inside, my blood cold, my organs quivering.

In the classroom, in my office, I’m always in control. I stand before the students with authority and command, which rarely gets questioned.

But Madeline has flipped the script on me. She holds the upper hand.

She unnerves me. Scares me.

What is she here for tonight?

“Why don’t you take your coat off?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Do you have any more of that bourbon you gave me yesterday?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here,” I say, keeping my voice more level than I feel. “The police are questioning me. They might be watching me for all I know. And you’re . . . you’re kind of wanted, aren’t you?”