“I’m half-inclined to believe some of the rumors,” Bryan said thoughtfully. Outside Lee’s office someone was having hysterics over the final editing of an article. “I’d say the guy lives in a cave somewhere, full of bats with a couple of stray wolves thrown in. He probably writes the original manuscript in sheep’s blood.”

“And sacrifices virgins every new moon.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Bryan swung her feet lazily while she munched on her chocolate bar. “I tell you the man’s weird.”

“Silent Scream’s already on the bestseller list.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t brilliant,” Bryan countered, “I said he was weird. What kind of a mind does he have?” She shook her head with a half-sheepish smile. “I can tell you I wished I’d never heard of Hunter Brown last night while I was trying to sleep with my eyes open.”

“That’s just it.” Impatient, Lee rose and paced to the tiny window on the east wall. She wasn’t looking out; the view of Los Angeles didn’t interest her. She just had to move around. “What kind of mind does he have? What kind of life does he live? Is he married? Is he sixty-five or twenty-five? Why does he write novels about the supernatural?” She turned, her impatience and her annoyance showing beneath the surface of the sophisticated grooming. “Why did you read his book?”

“Because it was fascinating,” Bryan answered immediately. “Because by the time I was on page three, I was so into it you couldn’t have gotten the book away from me with a crowbar.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman.”

“Damn right,” Bryan agreed and grinned. “So?”

“Why do intelligent people buy and read something that’s going to terrify them?” Lee demanded. “When you pick up a Hunter Brown, you know what it’s going to do to you, yet his books consistently spring to the top of the bestseller list and stay there. Why does an obviously intelligent man write books like that?” She began, in a habit Bryan recognized, to fiddle with whatever was at hand—the leaves of a philodendron, the stub of a pencil, the left earring she’d removed during a phone conversation.

“Do I hear a hint of disapproval?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Frowning, Lee looked up again. “The man is probably the best colorist in the country. If he’s describing a room in an old house, you can smell the dust. His characterizations are so real you’d swear you’d met the people in his books. And he uses that talent to write about things that go bump in the night. I want to find out why.”