Simon thought about her question for several seconds. “I’m not sure. To prove she could? To shut Donna up, or impress her? Maybe she just got tired of what she was writing and wanted to do something different. Any of that could be true.”

“But you think it’s something else.”

He stood up and walked over to the shelves that held all Clare’s other books. He studied their spines, as if some obvious clue could be deciphered from those sideways titles. “It’s just a feeling. Like, everything changed for Clare when she started working on that book. And I don’t just mean her writing, although that was completely different as well.”

“Different how?”

“Well, the pace for one. Like I said, she typically churned out five or six books a year. But when she started working on that one, it took her over a year to get even the first draft finished enough to send to her editor. Then she agonized for months on end over revisions. They almost didn’t make her deadline date because Clare kept insisting on changes—minor stuff too. And the movie? Jesus, the script writer was working off one of the earliest drafts, and the whole production got the green light early so the movie release could coincide with the book release. She was pissed with me for weeks for allowing the movie rights to be sold off so quickly. She had always been indifferent about all the Hollywood stuff before. So, things had been tense between us for a long time, but when I think back…it all started right around the time she first began working on it.”

He turned and faced his sister-in-law. “Which makes me wonder, What was the trigger for that book? For the change?”

“Can you remember what was happening for her then? Anything unusual? Does she have any friends you could ask?”

He scoffed and shook his head. “Friends? Not that I’m aware of anyway. She has people who work for her. I’m not sure she’d have called them friends. The only other living thing that was close to Clare…” He stopped.

“What is it?” Eileen stood up from her chair.

“I didn’t even think about…but surely that wouldn’t have been it. Right around the time she started writing A Perfect Life, I’m almost certain it was before, Clare came home from visiting your mother in the city, and she found Charlie dead in the road, right in front of the house. Clare, she was a mess, and I was in New York for editor meetings. She blamed herself because in a rush she forgot to close the garage door. She was convinced she ran him over herself.”

“Oh, God! I remember him from Christmas, such a sweet dog. And Clare was so crazy about him. She must have been heartbroken.”