“Been at it since dawn, I’d wager. Heard him pacing before the sun was even up,” Edie told her, brow furrowing. “Seems in a state today, but more focused than brooding, if you know what I mean.”
That was promising.
“So,” Edie said, leaning against the counter with her mug, “how was your day off? Get out and about a bit?”
Sadie nodded, breaking off a piece of shortbread. “Actually, I had quite the adventure yesterday. I went for a hike up in the hills past the church, but I got turned around and ended up on someone’s farm. Mr. Davies, I think. I’ve seen him in the pub a few times.”
Edie’s face lit up and she grinned. “Old Gareth Davies! Salt of the earth, that one. Been farming those hills longer than I’ve been alive.”
“He was so kind,” Sadie continued, warming to the memory. “I ended up spending most of the day there helping him with the lambs. He taught me how to bottle-feed the orphaned ones. I was covered in mud by the end, but it was worth it. I couldn’t get enough of those little lambs with their wobbly legs.”
Edie’s eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure. “That’s a proper Great Missenden welcome, that is. Gareth doesn’t let just anyone get that close to his precious lambs.”
“It was exactly what I needed,” Sadie admitted. “After being hunched over manuscripts for days, holding something warm and alive was…” She trailed off, unsure how to articulate the simple joy of it.
“Good for the soul,” Edie finished for her. “Remind you there’s a world outside these pages we all fuss over.”
Nails scrambling against the hardwood announced Riley’s approach. The Irish Wolfhound bounded into the kitchen, his lanky frame vibrating with excitement as he spotted Sadie.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” Sadie laughed as Riley shoved his massive head into her lap, nearly knocking her off the stool. She scratched behind his ears, his favorite spot. “Someone’s happy this morning.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. “We’ve got work to do.”
Sadie turned to find Corbyn leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. His hair was disheveled, and there was a restless look about him that suggested he hadn’t slept well. But there was something different in his posture, as he rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the tension.
“Good morning to you, too,” she replied, keeping her voice light. “I’m not due in your office for another ten minutes.”
His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, then back to her. “I need to ask you something about that scene in chapter eight.”
“What about it?” she asked, still absently stroking Riley’s head. Chapter eight contained a crucial revelation about Detective Shaw’s missing brother. She’d suggested major restructuring, worried the impact was being diluted by too much exposition.
Corbyn shifted, clearly uncomfortable having this conversation with an audience.
“In the study. When you’re done…” he trailed off, gesturing toward her tea.
Instead of retreating back to his office, though, he lingered in the doorway. His left hand flexed at his side. It was a subtle movement she’d come to recognize as a sign of either pain or agitation. Today, she suspected it was the latter.
“I can come now,” she said, giving Riley a final pat and sliding off the stool. “Thanks for the tea, Edie.”
The housekeeper nodded, her shrewd eyes moving between them with barely concealed interest as she called after them, “I’ll bring more in a bit. Something tells me you two might need it.”
Stepping through the study door, she was greeted by the now familiar scents: the faint trace of wood smoke from the hearth, the earthy smell of the old books that lined the shelves along one wall, and something uniquely Corbyn. At some point, she had memorized the scent of his cologne, and she told herself it was merely because she spent hours in this room with him and nothing more.
“So,” she said, “chapter eight.”
Corbyn circled his desk, picking up a marked-up page covered in her red ink and his cramped handwriting.
“This bit you circled,” he responded, “about Shaw realizing his brother might have staged his death.”
“Yes?”
“You said it comes too late. That I need to seed it earlier,” he continued with a frown, pointing to a spot on the page. “But if I move it up, it undercuts the tension in the warehouse scene.”
Sadie approached the desk, close enough to see the page but maintaining a professional distance.
“Not if you handle it right. Look, the reader suspects something’s off with the brother from chapter three. But Shaw’stoo close to see it; it’s the classic detective blind spot. If you show him picking up on the clues but dismissing them because it’s his brother, then, when the warehouse revelation hits, it’s not just shock but self-recrimination.”
“I’ll try it your way,” he conceded after a moment. “But if it falls flat…”
