Lucy brushed her teeth, then tipped her head upside down and dried her hair. She wondered what Quinn was doing, and she thought of the lunch he’d cooked for her. There was no way anyone would confuse it for a culinary masterpiece, but it had been just what she’d needed. Warm and filling and full-on comfort food. It also had been a very nice thing for Quinn to do.
No, she wasn’t reading too much into his every gesture and action this time. She wasn’t going to read anything into the way he’d held her after she’d opened her front door earlier and flown into his arms. Nor in the way he’d touched her or pressed his lips to the side of her head. And she certainly wasn’t going to read anything into his offer to make her lunch or stay while she showered. He’d been doing his job, and reading more into it was a dangerous slope she wasn’t about to slide down any further.
Once her hair was dry, she walked into her bedroom and pulled on her white bra and blue-and-white-polka-dot panties. She dressed in jeans and a white blouse. She shoved her feet into her penguin footies, then made her way through the kitchen to the living room. She peeked around the corner and found Quinn sitting on the couch. His forearms rested on his thighs, and his hands hung between his knees. A notebook and papers were spread out across the coffee table and couch, and he was staring into the screen of his laptop.
He should have looked out of place, a big man parked on her sofa with his crap spread out on her antique coffee table. He didn’t. He looked like a secure place to land in a suddenly insecure world. Like he alone could keep her safe. Her heart swelled a little at the sight of him, letting her know that he was anything but safe. Not for her.
Quinn turned his head as if he suddenly sensed her, and his dark gaze met hers. He straightened, and a lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” she answered and moved into the room.
His gaze followed her. “You look good.”
She reminded herself that Quinn had hurt and humiliated her, and if a wack job hadn’t decided to send her letters, he wouldn’t be sitting in her house now. Acting like he cared. He’d be off pretending interest in the next suspect. Kissing and touching her in the name of his job. She moved to the window and looked outside. On the sidewalk beyond, two girls rode past on pink bicycles with baby dolls shoved in the baskets. Today was Saturday. Her night to stay at her mother’s.
“Lucy?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “What?”
Quinn looked across the room at her for several long moments before he said, “We have to talk about the letter that came today. I know you said you didn’t want to read what’s in it, but you need to.”
She turned. “Is it bad?”
His dark gaze continued to stare into hers, and he held up a letter encased in clear plastic. “I think so.”
Lucy walked across the room and took the letter from his hand. As she read, she moved around the coffee table and sat on the couch. When she finished, she was glad she’d sat down. Her stomach pitched and got light at the same time. She was afraid she might get sick.
“Who has your home address?” Quinn asked as he looked at her across his broad shoulder.
“I don’t know. It’s not listed anywhere.” She thought for a moment and came up with several possibilities. “Maybe someone at the DMV or post office. It’s printed on my checks, so…who knows?” Lucy set the letter on her coffee table and rubbed her temples.
“How about bookstores?”
Bookstores? “Amazon does. I have books sent here all the time.”
He shook his head. “Local bookstores.”
“I don’t know.” She thought of all the bookstores and why they might have her address. “I have a Hastings card. I had to fill out an application, so I’m sure they have my address.”
He reached for a pen. “Which one?” She told him, and he wrote it down in bold capital letters. “Let’s talk about the Women of Mystery.”
“I told Detective Weber everything I know.”
“You probably know more than you think.” He picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. It was a Women of Mystery roster. “Does anyone on the roster stick out in your mind as behaving odd or perhaps being an over-the-top fan?”
“Well, several of these women are odd.” She pointed to a name on the list. “Betty has been writing and rewriting the same scene about killing off her father since I’ve known her, but I don’t think she’s a killer in real life.”
“Was she the woman with white hair and glasses who was at the meeting at Barnes and Noble on the twenty-third?”
Damn, the man remembered everything. Then again, he was a cop. “That was her.”
“Tell me about Cynthia Pool and Jan Bright.”
Lucy shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Jan’s the current president of the Women of Mystery, and she’s the events person at Barnes and Noble. I know Cynthia is a member of Women of Mystery, but I don’t know how serious either woman is about her writing or whether they’re just dabblers. All I really know about them is that they are both very supportive of local writers.”
“How supportive?”
“They make sure our books are always in stock. Stuff like that.”
“What’s a dabbler?”
“A person who talks about writing but never actually finishes more than a few chapters.”
He turned and looked into her eyes as he said, “We know from the Breathless letters to you that she is a wannabe writer. She reads mystery novels, especially yours.” He reached for the second letter and placed it on top. “What does this line mean, ‘You know what they say: write what you know’? Who is ‘they’?”
“‘They’ could be anyone. Could be anyone in publishing, or she could have read it in a book on writing. It’s just standard industry advice.”
“Jan knew that you’re writing about a female serial killer who finds her victims online.” He flipped a few pages in his notebook and leaned forward, searching for something. The back of his shirt came untucked from his jeans and showed a glimpse of his blue-and-white-striped boxers.
Lucy leaned forward and set the paper on the table. Her shoulder accidentally brushed against Quinn’s, and his hands stilled in the act of turning pages. Traitorous little tingles spread down her arm and across her chest, and for an instant, she thought of something besides the psycho sending her letters. She recognized those tingles; each held a little spark of desire and longing and a hot zap to her heart. He’d given them to her before, when they’d both been pretending to be someone they weren’t. She sat back against the couch, away from the danger to her heart. “I must have mentioned what I was writing in one of their meetings. Or in a live online chat.”
“What do you mean?” He continued to flip pages as if he’d felt nothing. “What kind of online chat?”
“Groups ask me to be their guest speaker online,” she answered, pushing her feelings for Quinn aside, where she could deal with them later. Or not. “It’s really diverse. One night it could be a group that loves mystery novels, and the next a businesswomen’s group.” She brushed her hair from her face and held it at the back of her neck. “I’m asked all the time what I’m working on and when it will come out. It’s always one of the questions people ask. I’m sure I’ve mentioned erotic asphyxiation and the fact that I’m writing about a female serial killer hunting online dozens of times and just don’t remember. Believe me, I wish I knew who this woman could be.” She dropped her hands to her lap, and her gaze landed on the latest letter. “It’s clear she’s seen us together and knows who you are.”
“Yeah. I’ve probably interviewed her.”
“Or she could recognize you from a press conference.”
“I thought of that, but it’s less likely she would recall my face from a press conference than a one-on-one interview.”