Page 64 of Shiver

She turned away from them and watched the chief walk ahead of her. How had he known she was back so fast? Had her parents called him? Had they told him what she’d said about the others? The feeling of betrayal ate at her.

They entered the chief’s office and sat in the chairs in front of his desk.

“I’ll have to ask you to hang your piece there by the door,” the chief said to Riley.

Devra looked up in surprise. She hadn’t been aware Riley had his gun. Riley nodded and hung his jacket on the coat tree by the door, then removed his shoulder holster and placed it on top of the jacket.

Chief Marshall nodded but didn’t speak, just opened his drawer and pulled out a thick file with her name on it. Devra took a deep breath to steady herself and tried not to think about what that file might contain, or how many years he’d spent working on it.

Looking away from the file, she saw a picture of Tommy on his desk. Memories flooded her mind—his smile, his laugh, the twinkle in his eyes as he’d chase her through the forest. He’d been her best friend, her first crush. She’d loved Tommy. Yet, she’d never been allowed to mourn him, to go to his funeral, to say goodbye. This man stole that from her, that and so much more.

She fought the despair filling her heart and turned to Riley. He reached out his hand. She took it and gave him a grateful smile.

“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the years, Devra.”

“Have I?” she asked and turned to look at the chief, to face the coldness in his eyes.

“I had a hard time tracking you down at first, once you changed your name.”

A band tightened around her chest.

“It took me quite a few years to discover how you could be making a living, paying taxes, being an upstanding citizen of a community, when it seemed Devra Miller had dropped off the face of the earth. You have quite a few secrets, don’t you, Ms. Miller?”

Secrets.

She glanced at Riley and gnawed the corner of her lip. “I-I didn’t kill Tommy. That’s why we’re here. We want to discover the truth.”

“Which truth would that be? That you’re not Devra Morgan? Or that you’re not D.M. Miller? The author who writes stories of gruesome murders, stories that are suspiciously close to murders that have actually taken place.” He sat back in his chair, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his face.

Paralyzing dread grabbed hold and turned her stomach.

“You’re D.M. Miller?” The accusation in Riley’s tone cut her to the quick.

Chief Marshall swiveled his chair around to the bookshelf behind him and pulled down several books, all by D.M. Miller, all books Riley had heard of. In fact, Michelle had been a big fan. He recalled the typed pages he’d found in Devra’s printer describing Michelle’s death. Would his sister-in-law’s last moments end up in Devra’s next book? The thought sickened him.

“Have you read any?” the chief asked.

Riley shook his head. He’d always meant too, just never found the time.

“Fascinating stuff, plots are captivating, compelling. I’m sure it won’t be long before she hits the bestseller list.”

“How’d you find out?” Devra squeaked.

“What do you suppose your publishers would think if they found out your stories were based on actual cases? Or how will your fans feel if they find out you spent five years in a mental institution?”

Riley had heard enough. He dropped Devra’s hand and leaned forward. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant to why we’re here,” he cut in, disgusted by the chief’s smugness, disgusted that the man would throw her time in the institution back in her face, and disgusted with himself for believing all the secrets were out, that there couldn’t possibly be anything else Devra was keeping from him.

“Don’t you?” the chief asked. “That’s because you’ve never read one of her books. Here, let me save you the trouble. Book number one—A Time to Die.” He held up the first book. “Our heroine is trying to discover the identity of a serial killer. She doesn’t. Nor does she in books two and three, but that’s okay, there’s plenty of other mischief going on that she does figure out. It’s a great plot device, drawing the readers back, again and again, to discover who the killer can be. But what brings me back, are the victims. Here, I’ve made it easy for you.”

He pulled a yellow pad out of the file. “Victim number one, killed in Seattle. Victim number two, killed in Portland. Victim number three, killed in Miami. Ringing any bells yet?”

Riley stiffened, a cold dread working its way through his system.

“All blond, all have long, curly hair, all blue eyes. The specific details to the real victims in each of those cities are startlingly close, so close one would have to conclude that she’s very good at her research. Except for one small detail.”

Riley frowned.

“Each victim in her stories was left posed with their pinkies intertwined together.”

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