“Thank you,” I say. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“Nope, nope. I’ll let you be. Probably be contacting you again. Or, if the cards play out in your favor, maybe you’ll never hear another word from me.”

Let’s hope for that option, I think.

“Bye, Rose,” he says. “I’ll be keeping any eye out for your next book. I’m sure it’ll be as good as the others.”

I nearly lose my grip on the tomato sauce. A jar crashing to the floor is not the reaction I’d want to give him, or my boss.

Pearson walks a few feet down the aisle before turning back.

“You said ‘concerning my husband,’” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you had nothing to hide ‘concerning your husband.’ It’s just that most people wouldn’t have used a modifier. They’d have just said they had nothing to hide. Period.”

I turn to the shelf and finally place the jar of tomato sauce next to all the others, hiding my face from Pearson.

“You’re reaching now,” I say with my back to him.

I picture him cracking a gentle grin, a cop smirk, the kind that’s supposed to be disarming.

“Maybe I am,” he says. “Can I ask one last question? Just about being an author. I was curious about something.”

“Fine,” I say, turning back to him and crossing my arms.

He nods as if to say thanks and says, “I was thinking of that old piece of advice for authors and was wondering if it is really true.”

“What advice?”

“Write what you know,” he says. “Is that really a thing? Do authors write what they know?”

If Pearson is trying to unnerve me, it’s working. I compose my thoughts the best I can and answer.

“Doesn’t really allow much room for imagination,” I say. “Some of the best parts about writing are discovering new worlds.”

He scans my face, and I keep mine as still as possible. Cops are trained to identify signs of a person being deceitful, simple physical tells. Averting of the eyes. Biting of the lips. Touching the face.

If Pearson registers something about my face, I can’t tell.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he says. “Imagination.” He dwells over the word like a distant memory, then snaps his attention back to me and adds, “Say, you ever read Clara Tomson? Mystery writer, like you.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. “No,” I say. Pearson certainly asked me this for a very specific reason, and because of that, I say nothing else, not wanting to go wherever it is he’s hoping to lure me. I do, however, etch the author’s name in my mind, because I sure as hell am looking this person up when I get home. Clara Thompson.

“Oh, okay. Just thought I’d ask.” He holds a beat but I remain steadfast in my silence. Pearson then thanks me again and walks away. As I return to stocking the jars, I notice the tremors in my hands.