Darell glared daggers at Margaret. “Well?”
Slowly the color returned to her cheeks. She stared back with rank indignation. “I have not told anyone what you’re writing.”
Blood whooshed in his ears. “So you did read my manuscript.”
“Only the beginning pages. I was just—”
“I know very well what you were trying to do.” He threw the words at her, cold and accusing.
Kaitlan’s eyes darted from him to Margaret, bottom lip drawn between her teeth.
Margaret pulled her head back and looked him square in the eye. “D., we can talk about this later. Right now you want to help Kaitlan, don’t you? Then listen to me—search somewhere else. I’m not your leak.”
She held his gaze until the ice flow of his anger broke up and drifted out to sea.
His thoughts floated back to Craig Barlow.
“Then he’s hacked into my computer somehow. Or my online data storage. Craig has read my manuscript.”
Silence throbbed. The three of them focused on the floor, across the room, as the reality settled in their minds.
Darell forced himself to regroup.
He turned to Kaitlan. “I’ve been out of touch with local news in the past year.” All news, for that fact. Except for Googling his own name in masochistic curiosity to see what they were saying about his demise. “I’ve heard nothing about these murders. Are the women sexually assaulted?”
“No. The police have said that much.”
Darell calculated the information.
Kaitlan thrust both hands into her hair. “Look, I can’t imagine how Craig knows what you’re writing. Even with so much pointing to him, I just can’t believe he killed those women. He’s a good person and I … I love him.” She aimed a pleading look at Darell. “Tell me how he can be innocent. I must be missing something.”
His heart squeezed. “What about your landlords? Wouldn’t they also have a key to your place?”
“Yeah, the Jensons have one. But they left for Europe a week ago.”
“Anyone else they might have given a key to? Family in the area?”
“Their kids are grown and live across the country. I don’t know who in this area they would allow to have a key to a rented apartment.”
Margaret spread her hands. “If Craig killed these women, why would he tell Kaitlan about the cloth when he’s not supposed to know?”
“Don’t you know anything after reading my novels, woman?” Darell shot her a withering look. “Three reasons why criminals get caught: greed, ego, or drugs. Ego—that’s a big one. The criminal thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. That he’ll never get caught. And then he gets so full of himself he just has to talk about it.”
Kaitlan closed her eyes, a sick expression on her face. “But how could Craig read your manuscript? And why would he use your writing in real life anyway?”
Darell pulled his head back. “Because I wrote it, that’s why. I know crime. I know the psychology of killers, forensic techniques, law enforcement policies and procedures. I know motivation, the court system, attorneys, and timing and plot. Why devise your own MO when I’ve created the best of them?”
Kaitlan drew her top lip between her teeth and shot Margaret a nonplussed look.
They were silent for a moment. Darell’s brain shuffled through the evidence. Everything pointed to Craig Barlow. Darell wished he could tell his granddaughter it wasn’t so. But the truth was the truth.
If this were a novel, what would he write next?
He’d be stuck, that’s what.
He needed a better sense of this killer.
“What about Craig’s mother? You haven’t mentioned her.”
“She ran off with some other man when Craig was eight. Abandoned her kids. Craig’s father ended up raising him and his sister, Hallie.”
Ah. Childhood troubles. “He still have issues with that?”
“Yes, he’s bitter. I don’t think the pain has ever gone away.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
“How long has he been a cop?”
“Three years.”
Darell’s thoughts were flowing freely now. “How long have you been dating him?”
“Three months.”
Darell tapped his cane. “And the last known victim was two months ago.”
“Yes.”
“Where was Craig at the time of that murder?”
She focused on the far wall. “I don’t know. I think that one and the one before it happened at night. ”
At night. So this one was an anomaly. Perhaps because he now could lure the victim to Kaitlan’s rural apartment?
“What about this afternoon? Was Craig on duty?”
“Yes, patrolling. Alone in his car. Which, really, could give him time to …” Kaitlan crossed her arms and gazed at the floor.
Darell’s brain picked up speed. How terrible yet fascinating this was. Exhilarating. He felt the creative juices begin to flow. It felt good, like the old days.
Could these real-life murders spur his faltering story?
Darell recoiled at the selfish thought. Three women dead and his granddaughter in dire trouble—and he was thinking about his need for a plot?
Still …
If he could just learn more about this real killer. Get into Craig’s mind—if, indeed, he was responsible, which seemed highly likely. Manipulate him. Catch him—that would be the main goal. At the same time … if Craig Barlow had used Darell Brooke’s fiction to create reality, why couldn’t Darell Brooke use that reality to spark his fiction?
Darell’s mind hummed. What serendipity. Just think of the novel he’d get out of this. Based on real events. Imagine the publicity! He’d reclaim his reputation, climb even higher —
The story needs a twist.
The creaking gears in Darell’s brain shuddered to a halt. In the racking quiet, the old emptiness rushed back.
No, no, no. Not yet.
Darell’s shoulders slumped. He dropped his head low.
“What is it?” Kaitlan demanded.
He raised up, his face slack. “It’s too easy.”
Stunned silence. Margaret and Kaitlan exclaimed in stereo, “Huh?”
Darell turned a weary gaze on his granddaughter. How could he have thought for one minute this would work? “The perpetrator, the bad guy. It should never be who readers first suspect. They’ll be disappointed.”
Kaitlan’s brow knitted. She stared at him, lips parted. Then her eyes rounded, her cheeks draining of color. “Grandfather.” Her voice fell to a thick whisper. “This isn’t one of your novels. This is real.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with sorrow and dread, as if she’d gazed into his brain and seen its flimsy barrier between clarity and confusion.
Just what did she think he was, a demented old man?
Darell drew himself up with a huff. “Of course it’s real, girl, you think I don’t know that?”
Kaitlan cast a pleading glance at Margaret. “It’s just … you said …”
He puffed out his chest. “Tell me—why did you come here?”
“I thought you could—”
“Was it not because I have the keen mind, the wits to guide you?” His voice rose. “Was it not because of who I am? My experience, my cunning, my knowledge of psychology and crime?”
She nodded.
“And just where does that come from?” he shouted. “From writing suspense novels!”
Kaitlan bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
Margaret tilted her head. “Now, D.—”
He threw her a steely look—shut up. She closed her mouth.
Kaitlan stared at her lap. A tear dropped onto her cheek, and she brushed it away. “Grandfather, please. I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m scared, and …” She raised her head, mouth trembling. “Can you tell me what to do?”
Darell’s heart twinged. Even now his mind phased in and out. Could he logic through this puzzle?
Leland Hugh. Finding the truth here would give motivation for Leland Hugh.
Darell took a long breath and straightened. He summoned what remained of the man he had been—both for Kaitlan’s sake and his own. The strong voice, the confidence. That brilliant writer who knew how to plot suspense. “Of course I can help you. But you must not question my decisions. You must do exactly as I say.”