“Murderers,” Rose interrupted. “You’re telling us you pretend you’re a murderer to write murder.”
“Yeah.” He raised his chin. “Maybe it’s unconventional, but—”
“Maybe?” Rose’s disbelieving laughter filled the air. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He glared daggers across the worn metal table. “You’re obviously not a reader of crime fiction. Or anything at all,” Colson mumbled, and saw he scored a direct hit from the flush of anger on the detective’s face.
“I don’t have the time.”
“I’ve read your books, Mr. Delacourt. And I’ve seen your interviews where you’ve stated what you’ve just told us. But please, continue.” He guessed Martinez was the good cop in this scenario.
“I was working through a new idea for a serial killer, and I was explaining it to Hogan, going through the type of murder my killer might commit—striking her over the head or stabbing and dismembering.”
Rose winced.
Colson pressed on. “I knew the ladies were listening, so I might’ve hyped it up a little for their benefit. Made it a bit more gruesome than necessary. And when I left, I said something snarky to them.”
Rose’s face remained unreadable.
“What did you do after you left?” Martinez took notes as he spoke.
He gulped. “I, uh, went to Millie’s, to see if she needed anything, but she’d just had a delivery from the store. She was baking, and since her hands hurt from her arthritis, I offered tocut the apples and measure the flour. Helped with the oven.” He found Rose’s eyes on him. “I told you all this already.”
“Humor us.” Rose’s lips thinned.
“I told her I was putting her in the book, and even though she was the victim, she was excited.” Despite his bleak surroundings and being questioned for attempted murder, he smiled. “She said she was the star of the show. She invited me to come back later for a piece of pie, and I told her I’d bring the ice cream.”
“And you went home after that?” Martinez asked.
“No.” His gaze dropped to the ugly, scarred table. “I-I went for a walk through the park and then to the water in Dumbo.”
“How did you hurt your hands, Mr. Delacourt?” Rose didn’t sound quite as angry as before.
His face grew warm. “Uh. It’s personal.”
Rose’s brows arched high. “You’re in a police station being questioned for attempted murder. I think we’re past the point of questions being too personal.”
Colson clasped his hands over the table. “Uh…a few months ago my boyfriend of three years left me to take a job in Paris, and I was looking at his social media.” His gut twisted, and to his horror, those damn tears burned in his eyes. He blinked rapidly. “I saw he’d deleted all our pictures together, and he’d met someone new. I got upset and pounded the rock I was sitting on with my hands.”
To his shock, Rose had no obnoxious, cutting comeback. Instead, he dipped his head. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been rough.”
He blinked. “Y-yeah. It was. Anyway, I went to the store to buy the ice cream, went home to take a shower, and came to Millie’s. That’s it.”
“Can anyone corroborate what you told us?”
His heart sank. “I don’t know…it was pretty empty because of the rain. I was happy because I hate how crowded the park gets.”
“Yeah. Full of tourists,” Rose agreed, surprising Colson yet again. Was he being nice to him, preparing for the kill? All this put him on edge and made him jumpy. He should never have left the house today. His bed never hurt him. His bed was his friend.
“But I did buy ice cream at the deli. I can give you the name. They’d remember me.”
“Why? What made you so memorable?” Rose asked.
Oh, good.There was the rude SOB he’d hidden for all of five minutes.
“When I came home, I saw blood on my face. They must’ve thought—”
“You were a killer?” Rose finished for him with a quick twist of his lips.
