Page 5 of Edge of Secrets

“Not so far today. I’m still working. Busy day. I moved lots of stock. I’ll wrap up in about an hour, then I’ll break down and take off straight for Wilmington after I grab a bite. I feel twitchy if I stay in one place. I prefer to be a moving target. Is that silly?”

“Hell, no. Sounds smart to me. Drive carefully. Did you talk to Nancy?”

“Yeah, she’s with Liam in San Francisco, hanging with his dad. They’re coming back tomorrow. Thank God we don’t have to worry about her, at least. That guy is like a Doberman lunging at the chain. Very comforting. Got a customer, babe. Gotta go.”

“Okay. Later.” I slid the flip phone into my purse, stared at the flyer again, and shrugged inwardly. What the hell. I might as well give it a shot. I dialed the number.

“Burke Solutions, Inc., can I help you?” said a youthful, reedy male voice.

“Yes, please. May I speak to, um …” I consulted the flyer again. “Duncan?”

“May I ask what it’s regarding?”

“It’s regarding the writing job I saw advertised.”

“Oh, okay. Just a sec. Hold on.”

I drummed my fingers and fretted about whether I was wasting my time or not until a deep, resonant male voice came on the line. “Hello. This is Duncan.”

“Hello, Duncan. My name is Nell D’Onofrio, and I’m a grad student of literature at NYU. I’m interested in the writing job I saw advertised.”

“Do you have writing and editing experience? Are you familiar with poetry?”

His curt tone got my back up. “Of course,” I said. “I’m writing my thesis on nineteenth-century women poets. I lead a discussion section for a summer poetry lecture course, and my graduate seminar focused on Christina Rossetti.”

“Ah.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Well, then. I’m supervising the creation of a computer game. It’s a mystery quest, and it has clues encoded in maps, books, poems, etc. I need a writer for the texts. And I want good texts.”

“That sounds doable,” I said cautiously. “I’m a big fan of good texts myself. I noticed that the flyer says flexible hours. How flexible? And is this remote work?”

“I imagine so, at least some of it. I don’t know yet. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.” He sounded irritated. “This is actually my brother’s project. I have meetings all afternoon, so come to the office tomorrow at six. I’ll interview you then.”

His master-and-commander tone bothered me. “I won’t be free until seven-thirty,” I said, although I could have probably done six with a little finagling. But I’d be damned if I’d go out of my way for a guy that bossy and presumptuous.

“Seven-thirty works. Tomorrow, then. My receptionist will give you directions.”

I wrote down the directions the receptionist gave me, committing them to memory. Huh. Who knows. If the hours were flex, this might have potential, even if Duncan seemed grumpy and irascible. Depending on the money, of course. Besides, tomorrow was Friday, and I had nothing better to do after my restaurant shift than go home and jump at shadows.

I shoved a pile of midterm essays into my bag. They would keep me too busy to work myself into a paranoid frenzy over every little sound I heard—or else climb the walls all night with sexual fantasies about Mr. Hyper-Focused, which was my other classic option. That one had a better short-term payoff, but neither was very restful.

I armed the alarm as soon as I went into my apartment. A breach of the door or window would be instantly reported to the police, but the new alarm didn’t make me feel much safer. I heated up a dinner of three different types of takeout leftovers cobbled together. I did cook occasionally when Vivi stayed with me, but I usually didn’t bother when I was alone. Who had the energy?

I was finishing up a stale Oreo that I’d found forgotten in the cupboard when the buzz of my phone sent me zinging up into the air.

I picked it up with shaking hands, heart thudding wildly. “Hello?”

“It’s just me,” said my sister Nancy. “Relax, sweetie. You sound nervous.”

I sank onto the couch, knees trembling. “No, not at all,” I lied. “I’m good. Great to hear your voice. How are things? Vivi told me you guys were still in San Francisco.”

“We are, with Liam’s dad and his lady friend, Joanne. I have news. Remember when Liam’s friend Charlie Witt told me about that elderly guy with the designer clothes? The one they found in Jamaica Plains, with his throat snapped?”

“The one they called the clotheshorse? That was right after Lucia died, right?”

“Right. The time of death was estimated to be roughly the same time Lucia died, although they couldn’t be sure.”

I doubled over, pressing my hand hard against the nervous twisting in my stomach. “I see,” I said. “What about him?”

“Well, after what happened to me in Boston, Detective Lanaghan finally deigned to take all of this a little more seriously.” Nancy’s voice had an ironic edge to it. “She had his prints compared to the ones found on the coffee cup in Lucia’s apartment, as I requested they do weeks ago. But no one ever got around to it, evidently. Until now.”

---