Contents (85)
- Contents
- Part I
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Part II
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Part III
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
Maybe ten seconds elapse before John, my manager, scurries up from behind.
“He said he was with the Milwaukee police.” John comes around to the side and I look at him. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitches, and his eyes are wide with weird, nervous excitement, like a cat that doesn’t know what to do with the bird it’s just maimed. “What’d he want with you?”
It’s none of your goddamn business, I want to scream. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? Why do you all have to ask so many questions? I came here to escape my life, not be suffocated by it.
But I don’t say anything, because there’s a rope still tethering me to social convention. The rope is well frayed and may only have the tensile strength of dental floss, but for now, it holds.
“He’s just closing out the case on my late husband,” I say, jaw tensed, voice monotone, offering no more. I’ve never told John my backstory, but I’m assuming he knows about Riley. I simply assume everyone knows because this is Bury.
John nods. “I see.” Assumption confirmed. “Well, I suppose that’s good,” he adds. “But…he came all the way here just to close out a case?”
“Everything’s fine,” I tell him.
“Okay.” Based on the fact that he doesn’t leave, I’m guessing it’s not really okay to him. He just hovers around a few more seconds until I finally reach out and put a hand on his arm.
“John, everything’s good. I appreciate your concern, but this is a private matter. If it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to talk about it. Things have been hard enough.”
He nods, the mustache twitches a little more, and he gives me another nod before turning and walking back down the aisle.
I exhale, as if I could simply breathe out all the things that are eating me from the inside out.
But those things stay inside, burrowing and devouring, until there is nothing left to be had.
Twenty-Six
I make it as far as the front seat of my car before I search Clara Thompson on my phone.
The first Google result tells me she was a prominent psychoanalyst who died in the 1950s. I look at the Wikipedia page and see nothing about her being a mystery writer.
I return to my search, scroll down, and realize I had the last name wrong. It’s Tomson, not Thompson. I find a link for her website.
International Bestselling Novelist
I click on it and scour through all her titles, none of which are familiar. That’s hardly surprising; I don’t read many cozy mysteries. Her bio page shows the face of an elderly woman, coiffed brunette hair, striking blue eyes, and an expression that conveys a mild displeasure at having her picture taken.
The bio is long but hardly revealing. Born in Norway just before World War II, moved to Sweden as a child. Started her writing career in her twenties, and her work mostly consists of light, cozy mysteries and includes what appears to be a very successful series featuring a character named Victoria Landon. And cats. Lots of cats.