She’d thought that since she was feeling safer today, the muse fairy would tap her on the head and her writing would once again start to flow.

It wasn’t happening.

She blew out a breath and leaned back in the chair. If she had the critique from Maddie, she would at least have something to do. And hopefully, reworking a few chapters would kick-start the rest. She stood and walked into the living room. Millie followed close on her heels, and Lucy picked up the television remote and turned it on. She flipped to the twenty-four-hour news stations to see what had been happening in the world since her life had gotten so out of control. There was nothing on but depressing news, and she turned it to City Confidential and vegged out on the tube. What she’d told Quinn that morning was the truth. She wasn’t as scared as she was angry. She felt an impotent rage at the woman who’d pushed her into the worst writer’s block of her career.

She turned off the television and tossed the remote on the coffee table. She thought about Quinn and what he’d said yesterday about their elationship starting out under stress. She had to admit that it had started out a little less than orthodox. Okay, a lot less than orthodox. They’d both lied to each other and dated under false pretenses. But there had been no pretending when it had come to the sexual pull that they’d both felt from that first night in Starbucks. The way he’d looked at her hadn’t been a lie. Not then and not now. There was something a little overwhelming about it. Overwhelming and intoxicating at the same time.

He hadn’t told her he loved her, she reminded herself. But to be fair, she hadn’t told him either. He’d moved her into his house to keep her safe, and he’d taken the tapes out of the evidence room. Taken was a nice word for stolen. He’d done it for her. No, he hadn’t told her he loved her, but no man had ever risked so much to be with her.

Her cell phone rang, and she jumped a little.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Am I speaking to Lucy Rothschild?”

“Yes.”

“I found a folder that I believe belongs to you.”

Quinn stood in the inventory room at Barnes and Noble with his hands in his pants pockets, looking relaxed. In another room, Kurt was talking to the manager and letting her know that all Barnes and Noble employees were going to be reinterviewed.

“Lucy Rothschild has been receiving letters,” Quinn said after five minutes of small talk. Usually, he could warm up a suspect and get them to relax a little, but this one was so cold that it was as if she had an iceberg up her ass. “We believe the person sending the letters is responsible for the recent homicides we spoke to you about the last time we were here.”

Jan Bright looked at Quinn, then shifted her gaze to the shelf of books over his left shoulder. She didn’t speak.

“Do you know anything about those letters?”

She shook her head, and her long, wavy hair swayed across her shoulders.

“Would you be willing to come down to the station to be interviewed?”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“I suppose.” She glanced at Quinn, then returned her gaze somewhere behind him. “If I can help Lucy Rothschild, I’d be happy to do it. I’m very supportive of our local authors.”

“I’m sure Ms. Rothschild will appreciate it.”

The ride to the station took ten minutes, and once he had Jan in an interrogation room and the camera was rolling, he handed her a cup of water. Quinn smiled and once again endeavored to put her at ease. He asked her questions about the Women of Mystery and if she knew if any of them had a grudge against Lucy.

“Oh, no. They’re very supportive.” She polished off her water, and he offered to get her more. He picked up the cup by the handle and passed it to the fingerprint technician waiting outside the door. He left Jan alone for a few moments, and when he returned he had more water.

“Here you go,” he said and set the glass on the table.

“I had a cup before.” She met his gaze and held it.

“I accidentally dropped the cup.”

She frowned as if she didn’t believe him. Then she looked somewhere above his head. “I suppose you are having it analyzed for fingerprints.”

She was smarter than he’d thought. But then, Breathless was no idiot. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I am in a police interrogation room and you just switched cups on me. I’m in a mystery writer’s critique group, and I also read a lot of detective novels.”

No use in bullshitting her. Her prints were either going to match or they weren’t. “Where were you the night of April twenty-third?”

Her brows scrunched together. “The twenty-third?”

“During the day you were at the Women of Mystery meeting in Barnes and Noble. I saw you there. When you left, where did you go?”

“Some of the ladies and I went to Macaroni Grill. I had a few too many glasses of wine and got a little loose. I called my oldest son, and he came and got me.”

He couldn’t imagine Jan Bright loose. She was so uptight she could crap diamonds. “How old is your son?”

“Sixteen.”

The door opened a crack, and the lab technician stood on the other side shaking his head. Damn. For all her bizarre behavior, Jan Bright was not a murderer.

“Tell me about the people you work with. Any of them date customers they meet in the bookstore?”

“A few, maybe. I think it’s disgusting.”

“How about Cynthia Pool?”

Jan shook her head. “Oh, no. Cynthia would never date men who come into the bookstore.”

Quinn looked down at the notebook on the table in front of him. His gaze skimmed the next few names on his list. “Why’s that?”

“She thinks men are dirty.”

Quinn looked up. “‘Dirty’? Are those your words or hers?”

“Hers.”

“Do you think she hates men enough to kill them?”

“No. Cynthia is a very kind person. She had a really difficult marriage and divorce. Her husband was abusive and cheated on her, but she is not a murderess.” Jan laughed, a kind of strained sound, before she added, “And I’m sure she would never write upsetting letters to Lucy Rothschild. She’s her biggest fan.”

Chapter 17

Hardlvnman: Seeks Sunshine…

“I’m your biggest fan.”

Lucy stood within the shade of Cynthia Pool’s porch and smiled. “Thank you.” Her gaze slid down Cynthia’s Mickey Mouse T-shirt and black stretch pants to her empty hands. “I’m so glad you found the folder. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

“Come on in and I’ll get it.”

Cynthia’s house was near the Boise Towne Square Mall and about a mile from the police station and Quinn’s office. On her drive across town, Lucy had called and left a message for him on his voice mail. She’d hoped he wouldn’t be upset that she’d had to borrow his Jeep, and she hadn’t wanted him to worry if he phoned home again and she wasn’t there.

Lucy stepped from the bright afternoon sun and inside Cynthia’s house. The curtains were all drawn, and Lucy reached for her sunglasses as she shut the door behind her. Shoving the glasses into the purse hanging from her shoulder, she glanced about the interior. A corner lamp lit the living room, and Lucy was instantly struck by the Disney knickknacks covering every conceivable space. Every character from Mickey Mouse to Cruella De Vil stared at her through thousands of painted eyes.

“Wow. I didn’t know you were a collector.”

“Oh yes. I’ve been collecting Disney memorabilia for most of my life. Ever since my father bought me my first Mickey gum ball machine. I still have it.”

Lucy wasn’t much of a collector and didn’t know what to say except, “Wow.”

Cynthia smiled and clasped her hands together. “Have a seat and I’ll get that folder for you.”

Lucy moved aside a pillow featuring Donald Duck in short pants and a sailor’s cap and sat on the couch. She couldn’t wait to get that folder and hopefully get back to work. But even more, she couldn’t wait for Quinn to get home and tell her about the latest evidence.

Cynthia returned with the folder in hand, but instead of giving it to Lucy, she moved across the room and sat in a chair. “I’m so glad you’re here. It will give us a chance to talk about writing.”

Lucy groaned inwardly. “Can I help you with something?”

“Actually. No.” She held up the folder. “I read your chapters.”

Lucy felt her brows rise up her forehead. The only person she ever let read her rough drafts was Maddie. “Really?”

“Don’t look so alarmed.” Cynthia tilted her head to one side and smiled. “They were wonderful as always.”

It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to ask, What the hell? Instead she forced a smile and said, “Thank you.”

“I really liked the part where the killer stalks her victims for a while after she meets them and before she kills them. It’s kind of like a honeymoon period. That’s a nice touch. Very thrilling.”

Okay. So Cynthia had read a few rough chapters. She’d been curious and taken a peek. No big deal. Or rather, Lucy wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I noticed there were comments written in the margins. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of adding my critique.”

Oh my God. The blood drained from Lucy’s head, and all she could manage was a stunned, “Oh.”

“I noticed a few comma errors, and you really need to watch for run-on sentences.”

Be nice, Lucy. “Well, it is a rough draft,” she heard herself say. She stood. She needed to get out of there before she said something rude and condescending.

“That’s why I didn’t comment on your overuse of -ly adverbs. In the future, that might be something you should watch for, too.”

Lucy moved across the room and stopped in front of the chair. “I’ll remember to do that.”