Page 67 of Noble Neighbor
He could imagine the woman pinching the bridge of her nose, pursing her lips into a tight line.
“When do you need an answer?” he hedged.
“Oliver …”
“What if I only agreed to the books? Same stipulation as now — complete anonymity.”
A heavy sigh was his only answer.
“I could always start another series, self-publish. Maybe do a few standalones. I’ve enough of a readership to earn a decent living.” He’d hate to not continue with Dirk and Roxy.
“This is a seven-figure signing deal. Books only would reduce the fee.”
“You’re my agent. Make it work. Five books. No tours. No series.”
“What are you hiding, Oliver?”
“Call me when you have a new deal.”
Oliver disconnected after a quick goodbye, needing to think. Just as he wanted to see where his protagonists took their story, he wanted, desperately, the same with Sunny.
He just had to figure on the how.
18
Second best
“I talked to the documentary people.”
Dismayed, Oliver stared at his father-in-law. “Why?”
“Becausesomeonehad to. My daughter needs to be remembered.”
Oliver bit back his caustic response. “Bert. I remember Christie well. So does Clement.” He slapped a hand to his chest. “Here. And you know why I’m not talking to those buzzards.”
The man lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply before talking again.“Easy, son. They promised — it was the only way I agreed to talk to them — to not draw attention to you and Clement. And they’re not sensationalizing that man. It’s a human-interest piece, Oliver, concentrating on the women, on the lives they led and the mark they left on society, and how their untimely deaths” — Bert’s voice broke, and he sucked in the nicotine — “robbed us.”
Oliver stood and paced the small porch off Bert’s den, staring into the dark backyard, only a couple dozen yards wide and not much deeper before theneighboring property. It was oppressive, this closeness.House upon house, yet only five years ago, this was how he’d lived.
With Christie and Clement.
Then it had been enough, perfect even. But now?
Now a longing for wide open spaces filled him. DC was no longer his place.
He wanted the airiness of Nebraska where he could breathe freely and Clement could thrive. Far from sadmemories and brutal reality.
And he yearned for another porch — a much larger one attached to a sprawlingwhitehouse with a pretty woman and two laughing girls living in it.
He wanted to be home.
Oliver turned back to his father-in-law. “And next, there’s a new series glamorizing another serial killer? The more people are reminded, the more they want. The more they demand, the more explicit the portrayal.”
Rattled, he drew in a sharp breath. “Worse, what if it came out that Clement was there? That my son witnessed his mom’s murder,” he whispered. “All it takes is one cursed reporter to ask the right” — he held up a hand — “no, make that thewrongquestion, and then they’ll all houndClementfor his story. Is that what you want, Robert? To have your grandson harassed by the media? To have him remember the most dreadful moment of his life over and over again?”
Bert moved closer, taking a long drag of the cigarette he sneaked behind his wife’s back. “Of course not, Oliver.”
How he hated Bert’s placating tone. “Even if the full extent of Clement’s involvement never became known, very few people back home know about the circumstances of Christie’s death. About whom we are. But the more she’s in the news, the more the chance of people connecting the dots. They will look at me, at Clement, differently.”
