Page 51 of Lake House Killer

Fallon’s lips curl as she takes it all in. “If I wasn’t on duty, I think I’d call a hiatus on my paperback ban.”

“Carbon footprint be darned,” I say with a wistful tick of the head. “I think I’d be right there with you. Which reminds me, are you reading to Buddy? I hear it’s really good for his development.”

“No.” She frowns my way and my eyes zero in on those crimson lips of hers. “And I think you’re confusing him with a child.”

“He’s basically a child.”

“He’s more of an adult than you are. Besides, we both prefer audiobooks anyway.”

A group of women comes sailing in this direction, about my age and on up to fifty or sixty. They’re cackling up a storm, having a good time as they bop along. The blonde on the end shoots me a look as if she wants to make a meal out of me.

“Excuse me.” She giggles to herself as she sways in front of me. “I want to read what you’ve got cookin’ between the pages,” she says before her friend pulls her back.

A light laugh strums from me as I raise my hands in polite surrender. “Sorry, ladies, I’m not one of the authors. Just here enjoying the show.”

They take off and Fallon shoots me the stink eye.

“What?” I inch back. “It’s an honest mistake. I have a scholarly appeal about me.”

She lifts a brow. “Two minutes ago you said you didn’t look all that smart.”

“Two minutes ago I wasn’t mistaken as an author.”

“I guess that means you can be wrong.” Her lips curl with a smile that she’s too stubborn to give.

“I never said that. How about we focus on something other than my intellect? Like Nikki.” I scowl out at the venue as I see it in a whole new light.

I’m about to suggest we pull out that road map they handed out at the registration table and figure out where Damien is seated, but before I can suggest it, a dishwater blonde spots us.

Jewel Barrett comes at us with a cranberry velvet dress that dusts the floor and a stack of books tucked in her arms.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says as she nods our way. “I’m supposed to be helping at Damien’s table tonight, but they’re short so I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off.” She squawks out a laugh. “So what do you think?” She waves a hand at the scene. “It’s organized chaos at its finest.”

“I love it,” Fallon tells her. “I’m a big reader and I love thrillers, so this is essentially my dream.”

“Well, you’re going home with some books, young lady.” Jewel points a finger at her at the peril of almost dropping her own books. “I’ll make sure of it. And hey”—she looks my way—“they’ve got me moderating a panel, can you believe it? Damien will be on the panel. You should come. It’s in the auditorium in the back, in an hour.”

“We won’t miss it,” I say. “I’m not sure if you heard, but one of our agents is missing.”

She cringes. “Damien mentioned it. He said it happened at a bar Owen was working at.” She closes her eyes before stepping in close. “The guy is trouble. I mean, Damien isn’t exactly the easygoing author everyone thinks he is either. But who’s perfect?” She glances over her shoulder. “I guess you should probably know that he threatened to make life difficult for Owen unless he moved. He even hinted he’d use his connections to get Owen’s business audited.”

I glance at Fallon. The guy is dripping with motives at this point.

“We read pages of reports on the fallout between the two of them.” I offer a meager smile. “Hopefully, they can put their differences past them.”

Her lips purse as she tracks someone with her eyes as they walk on by.

Fallon and I glance that way as well.

“Adrienne Sinclair,” Fallon says as the redhead makes her way over to one of the tables nearby and begins chatting with a couple of women. “We spoke with her. I guess this is her domain.”

“She thinks everything is her domain.” Jewel nods our way. “Damien is in the next aisle over, dead middle. You can’t miss him.” She frowns in that direction. “See you at the panel.”

She takes off just as Adrienne finishes up her conversation and we nearly bump into her as she turns to walk away.

Her auburn locks are tucked under her chin and she’s wearing a floral dress that’s as frilly as can be.

“Ms. Sinclair,” I say with an affable smile. “This is quite the show.”

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