“Writers’ Police Academy,” Boston detective D. D. Warren was muttering fifteen minutes later, coffee in one hand, map of the technical college in the other. “What kind of writers even want to go to a police academy? For the love of God, even cops can’t wait to get out.”She paused in front of the building that housed the lecture series. This “vacation” had been Alex’s idea. Fly out to Wisconsin, of all places, and spend a weekend hanging out with hundreds of thriller writers talking shop. He’d been roped into it years ago by a forensic buddy, who swore it really was fun. Discuss latent prints, blood spatter, and favorite crime scenes with a bunch of aspiring novelists who were not only fascinated by police procedure but determined to get it right. As experts, D.D. and Alex got to attend for free. And as long as they were there, they could also attend some of the more interesting activities.

For example, the yearly Writer’s Police Academy not only offered hourly lectures on things such as ballistics 101 but also partnered with the local sheriff’s department to provide hands-on workshops: SWAT team training. Evasive driving techniques. Underwater evidence recovery. Alex had brought his wet suit. Personally, D.D. was looking forward to playing on the SWAT team’s training course later in the afternoon.

But first she had to survive the morning. Where she got to play the part of the so-called expert, providing day-to-day details of a homicide detective’s life. Which, in fact, was not nearly as interesting as most people/writers thought. D.D. read thrillers on occasion—when she had time to read. She enjoyed a good twisty plot. And if fictional detectives spent all their time playing cat-and-mouse with serial killers, all the better for leaving the real cares of her job behind.

Today, however, her job was to provide the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She just hoped she didn’t bore her students to death.

D.D. walked through glass doors, instantly replacing the hot August sun with frigid institutional temperatures. She’d forgotten this from her own academy days: the tendency to keep classrooms arctic, most likely to keep the occupants awake.

One flight of stairs, a turn here, a turn there, and she arrived at her designated classroom. Outside the sign read: Boston Detective D. D. Warren’s Insider’s Guide to Policing. Within, true to Alex’s prediction, easily a hundred people waited, some having arrived early enough to snatch seats, the rest standing valiantly in any available space. Meaning she really had better open strong, or bit by bit, the standing ones would wander out again.

“What am I going to say?”

D.D. smiled bravely, clutched her coffee tighter, and headed for the front of the room. Along the way, she passed a petite blonde whose hairstyle D.D. wouldn’t mind trying out for herself—the keynote speaker, Karin Slaughter, whose thrillers did live up to her name. And sitting next to her, a forensic anthropologist, Kathy Reichs, who already wrote things about decomp D.D. never wanted to know. Because a Writer’s Police Academy had to offer more than just cops bursting everyone’s bubbles, but also a few New York Times bestselling authors who already knew how to get the fictional job done.