The car pulled to a stop five yards in front of her, and Timothy stepped out, joining her in the wash of light from the nearby warehouse while that cold wind swept over them from across the water and up the boat ramp.

“Did you learn anything about Miranda?” Timothy asked as he approached her.

“All the arrows point to you, Timothy.”

“Are you sure? What arrows?”

He really doesn’t know. He really has no idea.

“Did you bury her in the woods up in the Adirondacks, or dump her body in the river here, at this dock? You used both methods in your books.”

“But those things aren’t real. They didn’t happen.”

“I can’t work with someone I don’t trust, and I can’t trust someone who’s unbalanced.”

She tossed the folder that Blake had given her to the ground at Timothy’s feet.

He bent and flipped it open, then thumbed through the papers. “Where did you get these reports?”

“From a friend.”

“Who?”

“You were careless, Timothy.”

“Who gave you this information on me? Dr. Percival?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you did.”

“So did I do it? Did I kill Miranda?”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

“What?”

“Were you involved in a romantic relationship with that young woman? You knew her before that final book signing, didn’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You used different pens to inscribe her books.”

Timothy was quiet.

Julianne unpocketed the necklace that she’d helped herself to in Miranda’s room. “And this? In your latest book, the killer gives his lover a pearl necklace.”

He continued to stare at her without speaking.

“You gave it to her, didn’t you?” Julianne said. “You gave it to Miranda. Just like Lonnie did in your novel before he killed Rose.”

Timothy scratched at the base of his neck, leaving bloodied fingernail streaks behind.

Julianne held up the copy of his latest novel. “Why didn’t you tell me you two were lovers?”

“What does it matter? I wanted to know if I—”

“If you killed her.”

“Right. Yes. If I did.”

“I’m going to read you something, Timothy.” She flipped to a bookmarked page. “‘Lonnie kept squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. He was strong, yes, he knew he was strong, but he was also scared. Even after the woman stopped moving, even then he kept squeezing her throat, hands tight around it, fingers clenched, arms trembling with the exertion. Even then. That was the fear part. It wouldn’t let him stop, wouldn’t let him let go.’ Does that sound familiar, Timothy?”

“I wrote that, yes, but why are you—”