door unlocked? Did he think there was more security in a note and a doormat?
Amused, she went in, found the latest tapes among the clutter on his desk. As she began to type, his dictation threatened to put her to sleep. He spoke in a rumbling monotone, with less inflection than Ben Stein in
The Wonder Years.
How he’d managed to teach college students was beyond her. They must have had to pop caffeine pills just to keep their eyes open.
Background noise of chirping crickets and squawking birds broke up the monotony, along with the occasionalsound of a car engine or the ocean. Finally—thankfully—she got to the end of the tapes and decided she would go ahead and start typing the old, out-of-print book he’d given her to enter into the computer.
Thank heaven she could type it from printed copy rather than the drone of his voice. As she did so, she found herself getting involved in the story. The protagonist was a teenage girl who had a stalker following her, watching her through windows, recording her every step. His obsession grew more threatening on every page, building to the climax, when he captured her. After a significant struggle that lasted three chapters, he shot her, then dumped her body in a boat, and set it free to float downriver—
She stopped typing and picked up the book, read that scene again.
I arranged her carefully in the bottom of the boat, her knees bent, her feet crossed. Her fingers lay curled against her face, as if she’d lain down there for a nap, and bled out while she dreamed.
I launched the boat downriver, knowing that someone would find her soon. It was important that they knew. Part of the thrill.
It was just the way Emily Lawrence’s killer had disposed of her, right there in the pages of Gibson’s book!
“You’re still here, are you?”
The writer’s voice from the doorway startled her, and she yelped and swung around. He stood there, dripping with sweat again, but this time instead of camouflage, he wore a gray pair of sweatpants and a white threadbare tank top, with a towel around his neck.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Did you finish the dictation?”
“Yes. It’s all done.” She touched her chest, trying to calm her breathing. Her heart was racing. “I was starting on the out-of-print books.”
“Start on them tomorrow. I need to work and I want to be alone.”
Relief flooded her. “All right. Just let me save what I’ve been doing.”
She made a mental note of the incriminating book, then said a nervous good-bye.
He gave a vague nod. “I may not be here when you arrive tomorrow. I haven’t been sleeping at home. I’ll leave the key under the mat again.”
She didn’t want to ask where he
had
been sleeping. “All right,” she managed to choke out.
She got out of there as fast as she could and practically ran until she was off of his street and back on the main thoroughfare. She hurried along Ocean Boulevard, until she came to the police station.
She wished she looked a little better as she stepped into the air-conditioned building and looked around for Cade.
He wasn’t in the small squad room, but she saw his detective, Joe McCormick, sitting at his desk, glued to his computer.
“Hey, Joe.”
He looked up, then got to his feet and tucked his shirt in better. “Sheila, what brings you here?”
“I wanted to talk to Cade.”
He looked a little disappointed, which surprised her. Had he hoped she’d come here to see him?
“I’ll get him.” He headed to Cade’s office, and she watched him until he was gone. He wasn’t a bad-looking man. His shaved head had put her off at first, but now that she knew him, she thought it looked kind of suave. She wondered if he did it to hide baldness, or if he simply liked the Bruce Willis look.
Joe came back out, Cade following. As attractive as Joe was, Cade was more so. He looked like a calendar model of a hero in uniform. It was a shame that he belonged to Blair.
“Sheila, what are you doing
Amused, she went in, found the latest tapes among the clutter on his desk. As she began to type, his dictation threatened to put her to sleep. He spoke in a rumbling monotone, with less inflection than Ben Stein in
The Wonder Years.
How he’d managed to teach college students was beyond her. They must have had to pop caffeine pills just to keep their eyes open.
Background noise of chirping crickets and squawking birds broke up the monotony, along with the occasionalsound of a car engine or the ocean. Finally—thankfully—she got to the end of the tapes and decided she would go ahead and start typing the old, out-of-print book he’d given her to enter into the computer.
Thank heaven she could type it from printed copy rather than the drone of his voice. As she did so, she found herself getting involved in the story. The protagonist was a teenage girl who had a stalker following her, watching her through windows, recording her every step. His obsession grew more threatening on every page, building to the climax, when he captured her. After a significant struggle that lasted three chapters, he shot her, then dumped her body in a boat, and set it free to float downriver—
She stopped typing and picked up the book, read that scene again.
I arranged her carefully in the bottom of the boat, her knees bent, her feet crossed. Her fingers lay curled against her face, as if she’d lain down there for a nap, and bled out while she dreamed.
I launched the boat downriver, knowing that someone would find her soon. It was important that they knew. Part of the thrill.
It was just the way Emily Lawrence’s killer had disposed of her, right there in the pages of Gibson’s book!
“You’re still here, are you?”
The writer’s voice from the doorway startled her, and she yelped and swung around. He stood there, dripping with sweat again, but this time instead of camouflage, he wore a gray pair of sweatpants and a white threadbare tank top, with a towel around his neck.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Did you finish the dictation?”
“Yes. It’s all done.” She touched her chest, trying to calm her breathing. Her heart was racing. “I was starting on the out-of-print books.”
“Start on them tomorrow. I need to work and I want to be alone.”
Relief flooded her. “All right. Just let me save what I’ve been doing.”
She made a mental note of the incriminating book, then said a nervous good-bye.
He gave a vague nod. “I may not be here when you arrive tomorrow. I haven’t been sleeping at home. I’ll leave the key under the mat again.”
She didn’t want to ask where he
had
been sleeping. “All right,” she managed to choke out.
She got out of there as fast as she could and practically ran until she was off of his street and back on the main thoroughfare. She hurried along Ocean Boulevard, until she came to the police station.
She wished she looked a little better as she stepped into the air-conditioned building and looked around for Cade.
He wasn’t in the small squad room, but she saw his detective, Joe McCormick, sitting at his desk, glued to his computer.
“Hey, Joe.”
He looked up, then got to his feet and tucked his shirt in better. “Sheila, what brings you here?”
“I wanted to talk to Cade.”
He looked a little disappointed, which surprised her. Had he hoped she’d come here to see him?
“I’ll get him.” He headed to Cade’s office, and she watched him until he was gone. He wasn’t a bad-looking man. His shaved head had put her off at first, but now that she knew him, she thought it looked kind of suave. She wondered if he did it to hide baldness, or if he simply liked the Bruce Willis look.
Joe came back out, Cade following. As attractive as Joe was, Cade was more so. He looked like a calendar model of a hero in uniform. It was a shame that he belonged to Blair.
“Sheila, what are you doing
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