Page 86 of The Writer

Her phone rings. It’s Kirby.

Denise answers and says before the woman can get a word in, “I’m sorry, something came up and I had to run home.”

Her agent does a poor job of masking her frustration. “Are you coming back?”

“Tell everyone I had a wonderful evening. It was good to see all of you.”

“Denise, call me tomorrow. We need to discuss—”

Denise hangs up.

She can’t. Not now.

Quimby appears from nowhere, weaves around her ankles with a loud purr, and heads to the kitchen, a not-so-subtle attempt to point out that dinnertime came and went an hour ago.

Denise drops her keys in the bowl by the door and navigates the foyer and hallway without turning on any lights. In the living room, she tosses her phone onto the couch. It bounces softly and settles near the far end.

Feed cat. Valium. Wine. Bath.

In that order.

Tomorrow she’ll hire a new attorney and file restrainingorders against all of them—Cordova, that lieutenant, the whole lot. Maybe she’ll revive her lawsuit. She doesn’t need the money, but she does need to send a message.

A loud message.

In the shadows just beyond the kitchen, someone clears his throat and says in a gravelly voice, “I’m curious, Ms. Morrow—as a writer, what’s the one question you get asked most?”

Denise gasps and turns to see a vague outline stamped in the darkness. The can lights above the kitchen island come to life when Detective Cordova brushes the switch near the back hall with a gloved hand; with his other hand, he’s holding a revolver that’s pointed at her.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

ALTHOUGH DENISE MORROW appears startled at the sight of him, she recovers quickly. She makes no attempt to move. She says, her words sharp, cold, “How did you get in here?”

Cordova can’t help admiring her strength, her resilience. Her mind is clearly dancing, weighing every possible option, moves and countermoves. She’s probably thinking about the .22 she has hidden in her pantry five feet to his left. “Answer me,” he says in a soft, even tone, the gun steady in his hand.

“What question am I asked the most?”

“Yeah.”

A long silence ticks by. Beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows, the city breathes and moves, a living thing of harsh lights and rumble of traffic, distant sirens and horns. All of it seems aworld away. Inside the apartment, the air is still, growing thick.

Denise Morrow’s left hand twitches; she presses her thumb and forefinger together and gently rolls them in a slow circular motion. He’s seen her do this before, in court. Saffi told him autistic people sometimes do it to center themselves, to force their brains to focus on the now. Her cold gaze locks with his and stays there. “They ask where I get my ideas.”

The words hang between them for a moment, suspended.

“Have you ever answered honestly? Just once?” Cordova shakes his head before she can reply. “Never mind; we both know you haven’t. Probably not even to yourself.” A wry smile crosses his lips. “Does your agent know the truth? What about David? Did he know? I can’t imagine you’ve gone all these years without telling anyone.”

The expression on her face turns to steel, and when she speaks, her voice is eerily calm. “Breaking and entering. Holding me at gunpoint. I hope you understand you’re living your final moments outside of a cell, Detective,” she says flatly. She looks around her apartment. “I saw your friends outside. Are you alone?”

Cordova shifts his weight to his left foot. “I sent them home. It’s just us. I think it’s been a long time coming.”

Morrow’s cat darts across the room, eyes his empty bowl on the floor, then hops up onto a stool by the kitchen island, does an elegant spin, and settles down on it, watching them both.

Denise Morrow’s eyes narrow. “I have no interest in talking to you.”

Cordova thumbs back the hammer of his .38. He’s not ready to shoot her, not yet, but he wants her to know he will if he hasto. “Mia Gomez worked for GTS. I wrote that down when we found her body, and I blame myself for not digging deeper. Her death initially looked like a mugging, then things tied to Geller Hoffman. Her employment didn’t seem important, but as you’ve pointed out in your books, sometimes everything hangs on the little details. Those three letters completely slipped my mind until I saw them again this morning.GTS—that stands for Gerhardt Transcription Services. Of course you already know that, right?”

She says nothing, only stares at him.

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