“Too close,” Nikki said, shuddering inwardly when she remembered her up-close-and-personal experience with the Grave Robber. That horrifying episode still invaded her sleep, bringing nightmares that caused her to wake screaming, her body in a cold, damp sweat.

“I’m not advocating you ever become a victim again, trust me. But you know you have to write something that you’re emotionally connected to.”

“So you keep saying,” Nikki admitted as she looked around her little garret, with its built-in bookshelves, easy chair, and reading lamp. Cozy. Smelling of the spice candles she lit every morning. A perfect writing studio, as long as she had a story to put to paper.

“Here’s the deal,” Ina said. “The reason your first book worked so well, or at least in the publisher’s eyes, is your connection to the story, your involvement. That’s what you need.”

“That might have been a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” Nikki said as she twisted her pen between her fingers and rolled her desk chair back.

“Let’s hope,” Ina said. “Look, no one wants you to be a victim again. God, no. But you had a connection with the second book too.”

Therein lay the problem. She’d sold Coffin for Two, her first book, a true-crime account of the killer she’d dubbed the Grave Robber, a psycho who had rained terror on Savannah before targeting Nikki herself. She had no intention of coming that close to a psycho again—book deal or no book deal. Coffin for Two, into which she’d infused a little dark humor along with her own personal account of dealing with the madman, had sold thousands of copies and caught the eye of a producer for a cable network that was looking for particularly bizarre true-crime stories. The book was optioned, though not yet produced.

Her second book, Myth in Blood, also had a personal hook; she had been close to that true-crime story as it had unfolded. Working for the Savannah Sentinel, Nikki had pushed her way into the investigation, stepping on more than a few toes in the process and pissing off just about everyone in the crime department at the newspaper. That case, involving the rich and ill-fated Montgomery family, had had enough grotesque elements to appeal to the public, so another best-seller had been born. While trying to get close to that investigation, she’d met Detective Pierce Reed, and their relationship had developed to something deeper. Now they were engaged, and she was supposed to be writing book three of her publishing contract, but so far, no go. She just didn’t have a story.

Ina said, “You know, dozens of true-crime books come out every month, but the reason yours stood out was because of your personal involvement. Take a tip from Ann Rule; she knows what she’s doing. You’ve read The Stranger Beside Me. The reason that book is so damned chilling is because she knew Ted Bundy. She was there.”

“She seems to have done well with other books, where she didn’t know the killer.”

“I’m just sayin’ that we could use another Coffin for Two or Myth in Blood.”

“Or The Stranger Beside Me.”

“Yeah, I’d take that too.” Nikki heard the smile in her agent’s voice.

“I bet.”

“You can come up with something. I know it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Stretching her back, Nikki stood. She’d been sitting for hours, working on a story for the paper, and now her spine gave off a few little pops. She needed to get out. To run. To start her blood pumping hard. For as much as she was arguing with Ina, Nikki knew her agent was right. She was itching to get to work on another project, couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into a new book about some grisly, high-profile murder.

Cell phone pressed to her ear, she walked to the window, where she was lucky enough to have a view of Forsyth Park, with its gorgeous fountain and display of live oak trees. From her vantage point above the third floor, she could watch people in the park and look beyond the trees over the rooftops of Savannah. She loved the view. It was one of the selling features that had convinced her to buy this old, converted mansion with her advance from the book deal. She’d leased the two lower floors to renters and had kept the third, with this nicely designed loft office space, for herself. She was in debt to her eyeballs.

“Look, Nikki, it’s getting to be crunch time. Maybe you should talk to Reed, see if he’ll let you help with an investigation.”

Glancing at the diamond sparkling on the ring finger of her left hand, she said, “Yeah, right. You know I won’t use Reed.”

“I know just the opposite.”

Ina wasn’t one to mince words.

“Thanks so much.” Inwardly, Nikki winced as she glanced at a picture propped on her desk. In the photo, she and Reed were huddled close together, beach grass and dunes visible in the background, their faces ruddy from running on the sand. The wind was up, her red-blond hair blowing across Reed’s face. They both were smiling, their eyes bright. The photo was taken on the day he’d proposed on that same beach.

So now she was considering compromising their relationship?

“Okay, maybe not use him, of course, but maybe he could, you know, let you get involved in some way with a current case?”

“That’s not Reed’s style.”

“Seems you managed to squeeze into an investigation or two before,” her agent reminded her, and she squirmed a little in her chair. There was a time when she would have done just about anything for a story, but that was before she’d agreed to become Mrs. Pierce Reed.

“Forget it, Ina, okay? Look, even if I could get him to agree, and let me tell you that’s a gigantic if, it’s not like knife-wielding psychopaths run rampant through the streets of Savannah every day, you know.”

“Every city, or area around a city, has bizarre crimes. You just have to turn over the right rock and poke around. It’s amazing what you might find. People are sick, Nikki.”

“And I should be the one to capitalize on that.” Nikki didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“It’s what you do best. So dig a little,” Ina suggested. “Turn over those rocks. Squeeze Reed for some info on a new case, even an old one. There’s got to be something. What are the police working on now?”