Tonight he had to choose. And she was determined he would choose her.

The microwave timer dinged, but she was still nauseated from the wine, and she couldn’t bear the thought of eating anything. She left the mac and cheese in the microwave and paced into the living room, then back into the kitchen. All this waiting was unbearable. It seemed all her life she’d been waiting for something. For love. For success. For someone, anyone, to see her. Instead of pacing, fretting, she should be at work on her new paper, the one due in a week: “Hell Hath No Fury: Violence and the Scorned Woman.” She stopped at her desk and glanced down at the printed manuscript, where she’d scribbled revisions in the margins. Oh yes, she could write entire books about scorned women. About men and their casual cruelty, about the women who loved them, the women they betrayed. Women who chose to fight back.

Women like her.

Suddenly the room felt stifling. She crossed the living room and opened the balcony door. Rain-swept wind blasted her in the face as she stepped outside to scan the street below. At this hour, in this storm, there were no passing cars, not a single soul walking below. A driving rain was falling in sheets beyond her balcony overhang, rain mingled with sleet, but she lingered outside, watching. Waiting. Lately, she could not abide overheated rooms, and only now, standing in the cold, did she finally feel she could breathe.

As she gazed down at the unforgiving concrete far below, she suddenly wondered what it would be like to climb over this railing and to dive off. To plummet through the darkness, the wind rushing past her face and clawing at her hair. A few seconds of terror, ending in nothing at all. But if she died, it would not be as another Queen Dido, meekly surrendering to grief. No, she would make her death matter. It would not be a surrender but the start of a slow and inexorable tightening of screws that would eventually crush Jack Dorian. She would die victorious, knowing that by ending her own life, she would forever ruin his.

Oh yes. She’d make certain of that.

AFTER

CHAPTER 36

JACK

To All Members of the Commonwealth Community:

With deep sadness I write to share the news of the untimely death this past weekend of one of our students, Taryn E. Moore. Taryn was a senior English major who had excelled in her studies and who was planning to enter our English doctoral program this coming fall. We send our heartfelt sympathies to Taryn’s family and friends and we want everyone to know that the Center for Spirituality is open for those who need counseling about this terrible loss.

The email had been sent at 6:10 a.m. that Monday from the president of Commonwealth University. It was buried among the dozens of other emails that daily streamed into Jack’s inbox, and he might have skipped right past it were it not for the name on the subject line.

Taryn Moore.

With a feeling of dread, he’d opened the email, bracing himself for the worst. An accusation, a demand that he resign, or even worse. Instead, what he’d found was a mass email, sent to the entire university community. There was no mention of the circumstances of her death, no speculation about why she had died.

He clicked onto the Boston Globe site and typed her name into the search box. A short article appeared.

Boston police are investigating the death of a Commonwealth University student who was found dead in Boston early Saturday morning. The body of Taryn E. Moore, age 22, of Hobart, Maine, was discovered lying on the sidewalk outside her apartment building at 325 Ashford Street. Police believe she died after a fall from an upper-level balcony.

Taryn’s apartment was on the fifth floor.

He tried not to think about the damage that a fall from that height onto concrete could do to a body. That body, once so warm and alive as it had writhed under his own, was now cold and lifeless flesh.

Thank God Maggie had already left for work, so he could sit and process this information while alone. He’d woken up an hour ago with his head still thick from an Ativan fog, dreading the day to come. The consequences of his actions were fast closing in on him, and he’d felt certain this was the day that life as he knew it would be over.

But this news changed everything.

He clicked onto other online news sites but could find no other mention of her death. On Facebook, however, he found a photograph of Taryn wearing a brilliant smile, accompanied by the caption: My heart is broken. It was posted by Cody Atwood. Jack stared at the image, torn between gnawing guilt and a perverse sense of relief. And sadness; how could he not feel sad about the loss of a young and vibrant life? Yet he couldn’t deny that he had hoped for some sort of divine intervention, and this was exactly what had been delivered.

No one could argue that jumping off a balcony wasn’t her decision and hers alone. As horrible as that was, Jack could not be held responsible, even if their affair was what had made her do it.

An affair that no one would ever have to know about.

He drove to school in a daze, wishing he did not have to face his seminar students today, but this was the final week of the semester, and he had no good excuse to cancel class. The president’s email had gone out to the entire university, so by now, Jack’s students would know about Taryn’s death. He would have to address the issue and allow them to express their grief. Even though she was not the most popular member of the seminar, she was their classmate, and for him to ignore her passing would be insensitive.

It would also make them wonder.

When he walked into the classroom, he expected to see somber faces. Instead, his students seemed no different than on any other day. There was Jason, slouched in his chair and staring at his smartphone as usual. There was Beth, laptop open, ready to take notes. There were Jessica and Caitlin, heads once again bent together in conspiratorial whispers.

But Cody was absent. The two chairs where Cody and Taryn had sat much of the semester were now a gaping hole, glaring at Jack from the end of the table.

He tried not to look at the vacant chairs and instead focused on the thirteen students who were there. “I assume you’ve all heard the news by now. About Taryn,” he said.

There were nods all around the table. And finally, a few appropriately solemn expressions.

Beth said, “It’s so hard to understand why she did it. It seemed like she had it all.”

“No one ever has it all, Beth,” Jack said gently.

“But she was so smart. And pretty.” Beth looked at the empty chairs and shook her head. “God, this has got to be horrible for Cody.”

“Has anyone seen him? Spoken to him?” Jack asked.

Shrugs all around the table.

“Didn’t know him all that well,” admitted Jason.

Of course he didn’t, because he’d never wanted to. That was the nature of popularity; everyone avoided the homely kid, lest their stain rub off on them. But Taryn, to her credit, had not.

“Do you know why she killed herself, Professor?” asked Jessica.

Jack stiffened at the question. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you might.”

He stared at her, wondering what was behind the question. What did she know? What game was she playing? Thirteen pairs of eyes watched him, waiting for his answer.

Or maybe for his confession.

“I have no idea why she did it, Jessica,” he finally said. “And I don’t think anyone ever will.”

CHAPTER 37

FRANKIE

Although she graduated from college three decades earlier, Frankie still feels a freshman’s twinge of anxiety, sitting across the desk from a university professor. Jack Dorian’s bookcase is crammed with intimidatingly fat textbooks, some of which bear his name as the author. On the desk is a stack of student papers, the top one bearing an ugly C-minus. Frankie can imagine what it’s like for a student to sit in this chair and face the man with the power to flunk them—or help launch their career.

But today, the balance of power is tilted toward Frankie’s side of the desk. Though he may not realize it, Jack Dorian is the one with everything to lose.