I can assure you, Cal, I will not have a good night.
I sleep fitfully, a million thoughts swarming in my mind and manifesting into some really weird dreams I can’t fully remember.
But I remember Cal visiting me in jail. And all my books being pulled from the shelves. People going on social media and burning my merchandise.
The stress and anxiety from yesterday pool in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t even muster the motivation to get out of bed. How could anyone think I’m a murderer?
I’m barely almost 5’6 and lanky as fuck. A strong wind has knocked me on my ass many times. I can barely reach the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet where Cal hides all his fancy European cookie snacks, let alone stab someone. Or slit someone’s throat. Or cut someone’s hand off—literally an appendage! That shit is connected by bones and muscles. How could anyone actually cut off someone’s hand? I can’t even bring myself to kill a spider.
They only think I’m capable because I write dark romance. Just because I write about vigilantes seeking justice, morally gray heroes, and crime-solving vixens doesn’t mean I’m capable of what my characters do.
Unfortunately, I’m not some psychopath who hunts down those who’ve wronged me and murders them as retribution. If I were, I’d hunt down the piece of shit killing people and turn his ass in before he ruins my life.
I roll onto my back, closing my eyes. My book won’t write itself. I have to get out of bed and stop spiraling. The breathing exercises my therapist always suggests work sometimes. They’re worth a try.
Inhale for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds. Inhale for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds. Inhale for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds.
I keep repeating, and with each breath, the anxiety melts away. My mind clears, and my muscles unclench. I feel like an actual human being.
An idea hits me like a brick through a window. What if I were like the characters in my book? Like, not a murderer, but someone who could hunt down the person responsible for killing all those people? Instead of killing him, I could turn him over to the police.
I know Cal said he would handle it, but I won’t be able to focus on writing my book with all of this hanging over my head. The police are one hundred percent wrong about me, but they were onto something…
If I can write a dark romance murder mystery thriller where a toxic couple falls in love while solving a crime, then why can’t I solve a crime in real life? It can’t be that much different.
Bolton Monroe—aka Bolton Blue, award-winning and best-selling author— will now add murder mystery solverextraordinaire to his resume. Whoever is fucking around with me better watch themselves.
Once I find them, they’re going to regret crossing me.
5
BOLTON
Ijump out of bed feeling a thousand pounds lighter. Fuck waiting around for my career to implode. I’m finding this asshole myself. Then turning him in…after giving him a piece of my mind.
I take a hot shower in the guest bathroom, forming a plan as the hot water pelts my back. The first order of business is to find out more about these murder victims, if the victims are connected. How were they selected by the Christmas Cleaver? If I’m lucky, he’ll have established a pattern I can follow right back to him.
I also need to comb through my books for potential murder scenes he hasn’t used as inspiration yet. Maybe I’ll find some clues as to where he’ll dump the next body.
Well—hopefully I catch him in time and there isn’t a next body—but realistically, I’m a writer, not the second coming of Sherlock Holmes. I’ll be lucky to find him at all, let alone stop him from killing another victim.
Bolton, what have I told you?I hear my mom’s voice in my head.Fake it til you make it, honey.
She’s right. I can’t get down on myself before I’ve even started. Confidence can be the difference between clearing my name and having my own story on the eight o’clock news.
I wrap a towel around my waist and head back to my room. It’s already nine, so Cal should be long gone. Knee-deep in meetings, charts, and reports.
He’s one of those early-riser types.Gag.I’m legit fake-barfing in my mouth at the thought of waking up before double-digit times. I’m team night owl all day, only waking up early for international flights and meetings with my publisher.
When I open the bedroom door, I’m surprised to see Cal sitting up in bed, shirtless with pajama pants. I can see all his chest hair, including the little strands of gray woven through it. His laptop sits on his lap, and he’s typing away, intently focused as he wears his slutty Clark Kent glasses. The scene is distracting enough that I don’t register him calling my name right away.
“Bolton…” he calls me again.
“Yeah…” I reply, trying to buy myself some time.
“Good morning,” he greets me with a smile.
“Why are you here?” I blurt out.
