“No.”

“She’s a writer,” he said. “Has over thirty books or so, mysteries. Lots of them bestsellers.”

“And?”

Colin thought about the articles he found on Clara Tomson after doing a simple Google search querying writers who have killed people.

“Formerly known as Elsa Holm. When she was sixteen, she and her boyfriend killed Clara’s father. Stabbed him while he was sleeping.”

“God. She must have written those books from prison.”

“Nope. She went to prison, but only for about three years, over in Sweden.”

“Why’d they do it?”

“Clara claimed the father was abusive. Maybe he was. Her mother denied it, as did her brother.”

“Spousal denials are common.”

“Yes, they are,” Colin said. “Anyway, justified homicide or not, Clara did her time and now writes mystery novels. I think she’s in her eighties now.”

“So she writes about murder?”

“I haven’t read her books, but yeah, I assume so. Wouldn’t be a mystery novel without a corpse, I’d think.”

He felt Meg shift in the bed, and her toes touched his.

“So are you extrapolating this Tomson’s life onto the Yates woman? You think she writes what she does because she has some dark past?”

He had never formed those exact words in his head, but now that Meg had suggested it, Colin wondered if there was some truth to the idea.

“I’m not extrapolating anything,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’m just saying there might be a reason J. L. Sharp is good at writing books about violent crime.”

Meg offered a hmm and nothing more. A few minutes passed in silence, and then Colin heard the slow and steady breaths of his sleeping wife. Sleep came easy for her, always had. But Colin’s mind still churned with thoughts of Rose Yates and what might or might not have happened in that Milwaukee apartment on the night of July seventh.

As he turned to the side, gathered the pillow up in a ball beneath his head, and tried to fall asleep himself, Colin couldn’t keep four words from looping in his mind. That old phrase from decades past, a basic piece of advice for authors.

Write what you know.

Twenty-One

Bury, New Hampshire

October 15

My editor is pissed.

I’m hunched over the laptop at the kitchen table, reading her response to my email requesting a change to the manuscript.

Rose—

As I told you very clearly, the last round of edits were the final edits. We can’t make changes at this point unless they are obvious typos, etc. Certainly not the scope you are talking about. Even if we could, I wouldn’t want you to change the death scene on the stairs, as it’s a powerful, impactful scene. As you know, the galleys are already out and we’ll be getting trade reviews in about a month. I hate to say it, but we simply cannot accommodate your request.

Best,

Nancy

Shit.

When Cora freaked out about the scene in the book, I admit it rattled me. Made me second-guess the idea of it all. But after my father insisted I have the scene changed or removed altogether, I outright panicked. That night, I went back and read the chapter from a viewpoint of paranoia and suspicion and concluded Oh my god, what have I done?