“Bullshit, Connor. Bullshit. Don’t act like it’s all so easy. I’ve thought and I’ve thought about the right thing to do. I’ve thought about staying, and I’ve thought about going. But it’s not like you just wave a magic wand and have a great life.”

“You know, I haven’t had a great life either. I’d give up the book, the job, all of it, to have my family back. But I can’t get that.”

“Don’t play the sob-story card,” she says. “Everybody has one. Some worse than others.”

“Madeline, if you’re in danger . . . if someone wants to hurt you . . .”

“I’ve gone back and forth. I really have. There are people in this town, people who may have done bad things. I’d like to see them go down. I really would.”

“If you want to do the right thing, Madeline, I can help you.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. What are you going to do about the money?”

Her words land with a finality. They ring through the small kitchen like metal against stone.

I try to think of anything else I can say, but there’s nothing.

“I told you it’s going to take time. I just started looking into it. I may not be able to get anything.”

She looks disappointed. Not because the money isn’t there. It’s something else. It looks like she’s disappointed in me, like she held out hope I’d deliver and now I can’t.

Like she expected more of me. As her teacher. Her mentor.

As a person.

“And that’s it?” she asks.

“That’s it. I’m sorry. But if I can help you another—”

“Save it.” She comes back to the table, dodges the fallen chair, and picks up her gloves and hat. “I have no choice now. I’m going to the university tomorrow. I’m telling them who really wrote the book.”

“Madeline, the world, all of it, is much more complicated—”

She looks up, her eyes flaring. “Oh, really. Really? You’re going to tell me about the world. Please.”

“You have no proof of what you’re asserting,” I say, sounding very much like the professor I am. “If you go in and tell them I stole your book, they’re not going to believe you. Whose word are they going to take? Yours? Or mine?”

“Because you burned my manuscript, right?” Some of the heat goes out of her eyes. They look more like banked coals than a blazing fire. “That’s the way it always is for women, isn’t it? Who gets to be believed? And who doesn’t?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t tell you that enough. I said there might be more money from the book down the road. It’s all yours. I don’t care about that.”