Dark Pursuit

He had chosen to meet in this room where he still reigned King. Darell Brooke novels lined the shelves—in over twenty languages and multiple formats. Hardcover, paperback, audio tape, CD, large print. Special editions, book-club issues. Not to mention an entire case of awards he’d won. On other shelves were other authors’ books—classics and contemporary, some cheaply bound, some in leather. A sea of books, symbolic of the literary world in which the King of Suspense lived and moved and had his being.

Kaitlan and Margaret trailing, he thumped over to his burgundy leather armchair and lowered himself down. He sat with back straight, palms on top of his cane. So many thoughts in his head. There had to be an explanation for this.

Maybe these women were lying.

Was his online data storage not secure? The company declared it was. The system automatically backed up any changed files in his computer. He’d used it since before the accident with never a problem.

Heat flamed his nerves. If someone was reading his manuscript, they’d know he couldn’t write.

Was it his agent? His publisher?

But what would they have to do with a killer?

Darell’s throat ran dry. “Margaret, get me a glass of water.”

She scurried off, her footsteps pattering against the floor like a nervous child’s.

Kaitlan stood before him, empty handed and trembling. She’d left her purse in the hallway.

“Sit.” He waved the back of his hand at her.

She sidled over to the matching couch and perched on its edge.

Margaret returned with the water, placing it on a coaster on the table beside Darell. She faded back and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Kaitlan.

“Now.” Darell gave his granddaughter a stern look. “Tell me your story, and I’ll decide whether or not to believe it.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “It started this afternoon when I came home early from work …”

Time stalled for Darell as she rattled out her tale. A crazy, heart-stopping scenario that sounded as if it had been pulled from one of his novels. The young, unsuspecting woman returning to her out-of-the-way apartment. The noise outside. Was it the cat? Signs of an obvious intruder. A body. Victim’s identity unknown. The boyfriend with a key to her place. Who knew too much. His pen on the floor.

Somewhere along the way Darell’s disbelief faded. Kaitlan, with her wildly gesturing hands, the round eyes and uneven voice, was not spinning a lie. She was reliving.

Panic trailed down his spine. Kaitlan was indeed in terrible trouble. What if he couldn’t help her? What if puzzling through the mystery lay beyond him? Wait, slow down! he wanted to cry as she hurried on. So many details for his mushy mind to remember.

Even so, excitement began to sing in his veins.

He gripped the arms of his chair, torso bent forward, listening for all he was worth.

“… then I looked away from the footprint toward—”

“Stop.” Darell lifted his hand. “Explain the print.”

“Um.” Kaitlan blinked. “It was just inside the sliding door that leads to the little patio off my bedroom, like I said.”

“Pointed what direction?”

“Oh. Sort of like parallel to the doorway, but not quite.”

“Explain ‘not quite.’ ”

“It was like the heel was closer to the threshold than the toes. So maybe at a … forty-degree angle to it?” She scrunched her face. “Does that make sense?”

“How big was it?”

“Bigger than mine. I think it was Craig’s.”

“Left foot or right?”

She thought a minute. “Left.”

Darell closed his eyes, picturing. Forty-degree angle. As if someone had hurried outside, then stepped his left foot back in, not intending to enter but merely leaning in to listen …

For what?

The sound of a key in the lock?

“Grandfather?”

He grunted impatiently. “Yes, yes. Did you see an unknown car in the area?”

“No.”

“And this area is pretty rural, you say.”

“Well, on the edge of town. Neighbors are kind of scattered. We’re backed up to woods.”

Woods. Nice place to hide things. Maybe the victim’s car?

“Describe the body.”

Kaitlan did. Darell pulled from her every nuance. Position of the victim’s arms and legs. Marks on her skin. Was she warm or cold to the touch? He shivered to hear she’d been still warm. The woman hadn’t been dead long. Kaitlan might have been able to establish an alibi for time of death had the woman died much earlier. But if it was soon before she came in the door …

“How wide are they?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“The stripes on the cloth. Tiny? Medium? Large?”

“I don’t know. Medium, I guess.”

“And green.”

“Yes.”

“Grass green?”

Kaitlan stilled. “Yes.” Her eyes swept over Margaret’s face, then pulled back to Darell’s. “Is all of this … ? I mean, is it really from your manuscript? The body and everything?”

“Not the body. Nothing about the scene. Just the cloth. But it’s a perfect match. Perfect.”

Kaitlan’s gaze roamed the library, as if searching for an answer to this madness. “Craig talks about you a lot.” She looked to Darell. “You’re his favorite author. He dreams of meeting you—having you look at the manuscript he’s writing.”