Once he returned home, they’d meet every Wednesday for an hour in a small out-of-the-way café. He wanted her to learn to work anywhere, surrounded by distractions. So he insisted she spend time, after he left her at these places alone, working on his suggestions.

Her first book was as much his as hers.

On the day their partnership died, exploded, disintegrated, William had been excited and filled with anticipation of sharing his news. He hadn’t experienced euphoria such as this since his own novel hit the New York Times bestseller list. He surprised himself by how thrilled he was for someone other than himself.

It didn’t occur to him to think of her as a friend. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t helping her for only her sake. Every time they met, or he returned a message with a suggestion or idea, he helped himself. These interactions were akin to papering extra layers of confidence over his ego. And a writer needed his or her ego stroked often.

The way she looked at him, the admiration he saw in her eyes for his genius, as she called it, filled him with bravado. This in turn, transferred to his ability to tackle his own writing.

On that day, he recalled his anticipation, the warmth of the air, the smell of the coffee and freshly baked cakes, as he dodged around chairs and other café patrons. His stomach skipped, imagining her happiness when he delivered the best news any writer could receive.

She would be expecting this to be just another meeting to discuss improvements to her manuscript. His plan though was to tease her. He’d say something like, We have a long way to go. Getting there, but plenty more work needed.

This wasn’t true. Not even close. What he hadn’t yet shared was that four weeks ago it became obvious they were close enough to good that Morris might bite. And bite he did. Into the poisoned apple.

Ain’t hindsight a smack in the head? When it came to Orelia Mason, even back then, it was more a knife sliced across your throat. Sharp, clean and deadly.

49

Against every forget it thought Nem threw at the notion of trying to write a book, another voice fought back with two simple words.

Why not?

By the time she’d turned on to her street carrying Emily’s food, multiple questions had already fired through her mind. How would she do this? Should she first attend a course to learn the craft? When should she begin? What story might she tell?

Thriller? She didn’t think she could write about murders; death being too close to reality.

Ditto for horror.

Mystery? She wasn’t sure she possessed the mind to create twists, turns and red herrings. Possibly though.

Science Fiction. Uh-uh. She’d failed science at school.

Romance? Hmm, potential there. She loved romances and happy endings, but she could put a twist on that. Darken up the storytelling.

What about Mystery Romance? Hmm, getting closer. Definite maybe.