“That’s terrific. I knew the burnout wouldn’t last.”
“Three years is a hell of a long time.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, his positivity beginning to fade.
“Nah,” Hogan rushed to reassure Colson, as if he could sense the self-doubt beginning to eat away at him. “You’re a talent. And quality takes time. Neither book is a carbon copy of the other. Trust me, your readers will be there when the time is right. You’re unique because you put yourself in the head of the killer when you write. Scares me sometimes.”
“Ha-ha. I remember when I told you I always think of myself doing the deeds, and you thought I needed psychiatric help.”
Hogan chuckled. “I still do sometimes, but hey, what the hell do I know about creativity? I’m a numbers guy.”
Colson snickered. “Numbers give me hives.”
“Don’t I know it,” Hogan responded dryly. “Your tax returns are legend here at the firm. Good thing I’m your friend.”
Guilt tugged at him. “Trust me, I know I’m the lucky one.”
“It’ll be okay. Evan turned out to be a shit, but you can’t give up your life for someone who doesn’t give a damn about you.”
Ouch. Fuck, that hurt.
“Well, I’m out now. And talking to you.” Irritated, he drank more coffee. “Do you want to hear more or not? Or does Bea have you on babysitting duty?”
“It’s not babysitting when they’re your kids, idiot. And of course I want to hear about the book. Even if I have to pretend I’m listening to a murderer talk to me.”
Was it an unorthodox method? Maybe. But it worked for him.
“If I don’t think of myself as the murderer, how can I make it real enough for my readers to immerse themselves in the story? Plus, when I shift to the procedural part of the story, I switch gears and put on my detective hat. Or shield, as it is. Realism is what I’ve always tried to give people. Hopefully they’re still interested.”
That was what happened when your personal life imploded, leaving you wondering why you even bothered to get up in the morning. If he had been so wrong to love Evan, who’d found it easy to cheat on him and leave without a backward glance, who was to say he understood anything? Maybe he needed to buy a cabin in the woods, get a dog, and become a hermit. Sounded good to him.
He put away his notebook. A trio of women in their midsixties had taken the space vacated by the grouchy old man. Good friends, from what he could see, as they were sharing pictures of children and grandchildren on their phones. A fourth joined them, carrying a tray of hot beverages.
“Bah,” Hogan dismissed that. “As soon as you announce you’ve got something new, they’ll come out of the woodwork. Tell me what it’s about.”
Colson had thought he’d need to look at his notes, but it was all there in his mind and it flowed off his lips.
“Okay. There’s this little old lady—Millie Johnson. She actually exists and also lives on Willow—you know that big brownstone across the street from me? With the big wooden doors?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I help her with groceries and fixing things around her house, so I know the layout. Her routine is pretty set. Grocery store, bookstore, the diner for lunch, and then home. Twice a week she goes to the bank. She keeps the door open because her arthritis makes it hard to manage the locks.” It reminded him to check on her to make sure she was locking her door. Millie was way too trusting a soul. Only for her had he left his house to help with chores she needed or to carry packages if she couldn’t get something delivered.
“So she never locks her door,” Hogan filled in, “and this guy knows it.”
“Yep. You got it. As I have it planned, she comes home from the bank, pushes open the door, andbam.” He pounded his fist on the table, rattling the napkin holder.Crap. Was he being too loud? It had been a long time since he was out in public. He’d forgotten how to behave and use his “indoor voice,” as he’d heard Bea tell the kids.
Guilty, he glanced at the people nearby to see if anyone had heard him. No one sat by his right, but less than five feet away in front of him, the quartet of women had grown silent, drinking their coffee. His gaze slid away and came to a dead stop, caught by a man entering the coffee shop.
Colson almost swallowed his tongue. He was a little over six feet, with hair black as onyx curling at his nape. His neck wasstrong, his shoulders muscled. A broad back narrowed to slim hips, the crisp shirt tucked into charcoal gray slacks that were poured onto thick thighs and a butt he could write a dedication to. Colson tracked him as he waited on line, but the man never looked up. He studied his phone, a hank of that night-black hair falling forward, hiding his face.
Dammit. He wanted to see more.
“Colson, you there?” Hogan called into his ear.
“What? Yeah, sorry. Just got a little distracted.” He gulped his iced coffee, and it went down the wrong pipe, causing a choking fit. His coughing up a lung drew everyone’s attention, including the hottie’s. Stubble shaded his jaw, but it did little to hide the man’s sharp, chiseled features. Red-rimmed eyes swept over him, their color iridescent as a flawless diamond’s, and Colson quickly shifted away but not before seeing the slash of dark brows rise high and a slight upward tilt of his lips.
Glad my imminent death from choking amused you, asshole.
“Anyway, I’m either going to bash her over the head, or stab her and cut up the body. I haven’t decided yet. I need to do more research to see which is better.”
