“Who’s a good boy, huh? Who’s a good boy?” She straightens up. “Shall we sit?”

Bowman manages to make her friendly suggestion—Shall we sit?—sound like a command. And before I can answer, she’s heading to the couch, taking off her coat, which she tosses over the recliner, and sitting down, the book in her lap. It’s my house, but I follow her lead and sit as well, my coat still on, my bag at my feet.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your event last night. I had to work. But I bought the book right away. Ordered it early in fact so it would arrive yesterday. I read online that’s best for the author.”

“That’s what they say.”

“And I started reading it yesterday. On my lunch and dinner break. And before I fell asleep. It’s quite compelling.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s really impressive the way you were able to write about two female characters. Not every man could do that.”

“Well, I was married. And when I was growing up, I was close to my sister.”

Bowman studies the back cover of the book. She doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.

“Do you want me to sign that for you?”

“Would you?” She holds the book out to me.

“Sure.” I reach inside my coat and find a pen. Even after last night and the book signing, it feels strange to have someone want my signature. I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to write, with how much of a flourish I should sign my name. “To Alicia?”

“Alicia and Jenn. My wife.”

“Sure.”

As I write, she goes on.

“Jenn makes fun of me for reading these crime thrillers. She always asks me if I want a break from the kinds of things I deal with at work. But you know how it is in Gatewood. We don’t get a lot of cases that would belong in a book. Mostly it’s smaller stuff. Robberies. Drugs. College kids getting drunk and fighting. It’s rare we get anything too exciting. Well, you know that. Your student a couple of years ago. Madeline O’Brien. That’s the kind of thing that could make a good book.”

I’m writing the date when she says Madeline’s name. My hand clenches, and the pen slips, almost sliding off the page, giving the “y” in my last name a gigantic tail. I don’t want to look up, don’t want to see if Bowman notices. But I’m sure she does. She’s a detective who probably notices every little thing.

I cap the pen and hand the book back. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

“I appreciate you buying it. But I really have to get going—”