“ ‘Wanted,’ ” she says. “Now that’s an interesting word. It can mean a lot of things. Does a parent want their child more than they want to be with someone else? Does a lover want their partner? Do the police want someone?”

“You seem pretty agitated.”

“I’m probably being followed.”

“By whom?” I ask.

“ ‘By whom’?’ Ugh, you professors. Someone who is pissed about the book. You should watch out too.”

“You need to tell me what’s going on, Madeline. What about the book? Why do you know things about Sophia’s murder that only the killer could know? What’s your connection to her death?”

“Whoa, now. Easy there, Chief.” She holds her gloved hands out in front of her, like she wants to push me away. She stares at me through the owlish glasses, the cold light of calculation burning there. “So the cops put all of this in your mind, right? How did they come up with that? Or did you tell them you saw me?”

“I don’t have to tell you any of this,” I say.

“Tell me, Connor. What do the cops know?”

“Did you think I’d just give you your money and you’d leave town, and then I’d be left holding the bag for what you wrote in the book?”

Madeline takes a couple of steps toward the table, pulls a chair out, and sits.

I feel just a little relieved when she’s off her feet.

“Yeah,” she says, “I did kind of assume that. Do you have the money?”

“No. It’s not that easy to get your hands on a bunch of money. More important, what do you know about this murder?”

“Okay. When I wrote the book, I didn’t think anyone would make the connection with Sophia’s murder. But then after I turned it in to you, I realized that might not be the case. And I panicked. Do you remember? I wanted the book back?”

“I do. Was someone pressuring you?”

She ignores my question. “And then when you were going to publish it . . . well, I still hoped it would be okay. You said most books don’t sell a lot.”

“Not unless a writer has really good fortune.”

“And then one of those people who read the book you published—and I wrote—would have to know the details of the crime, right?” She shifts in her seat, and when she speaks again, she sounds knowing, like she’s asking a question she may already have the answer to. “Maybe someone you know read the book? Who is it? Or did you admit the whole damn thing? The plagiarism and everything? Did you cave that easily?”

I’m shaking my head, trying to slow down her train of thought.