Resigned, she sat back down, expecting him to dive directly into questioning her, threatening her, or trying to trick her into revealing information she didn’t want to disclose.
He said nothing.
The silence lingered.
And lingered.
And lingered.
Lydia tried to think of a plausible story, but she couldn’t while sitting under his unnervingly silent observation. Had this silence occurred even two weeks ago, it wouldn’t have bothered her, for her mind was never quiet anyway. The voices of characters, story ideas, or snippets of research she’d uncovered would have filled the spaces quite comfortably. But since the newspapers had declared the manhunt for her, the only work her imagination did was on how the world would react if they discovered Dupin’s identity.
Maybe if she led Detective Hall to discuss other things, she might be able to relax enough to create a believable story. “Congratulations on the promotion to detective.”
“It isn’t official yet.”
“Still, I’m sure it is well deserved. From what I’ve seen, you have a sharp mind. An admirable and necessary quality in a detective.”
“I’m not sure my mind is as sharp as I thought. I cannot make you out, Miss Pelton. I want to believe that you are the woman of good character you claim to be, but all I see before me is a goat thief protecting a man who may very well be responsible for the death of four men. And you want me to believe that dime novels do not corrupt a person?”
The question may have been rhetorical, but she needed to answer. “I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but you cannot presume to know me just because you’ve only seen me at my worst. Just like you cannot presume to know Dupin only by his novels.”
“Dupin’s continual hiding behind a pseudonym, even when it comes at the cost of lives, declares him to be a selfish brute and a coward.”
She clenched her fists beneath the table and hoped the rest of her body would not betray her personal offense. She might be a coward, but she wasn’t selfish. Shehadtried to come forward with proof of her innocence. It just wasn’t good enough for the stubborn men who didn’t have the good sense to start hunting someone else. “Dupin is not selfish. He values justice and truth. Those stories give the victims the justice denied them. He might be a coward for not coming forward, but there is more to his reasoning behind it than you know.”
“I’d know if you told me.”
“I’ve already told you. If he comes forward, his life and the lives of those around him will be ruined.”
“And what about the lives of those dead men? Their lives and the lives of those around them have been forever altered in ways that cannot be repaired. Why should Dupin be exempt? Would not his own version of justice demand that he suffer for the injustices he’s committed?”
“Their deaths were not his fault! He just wrote the stories. He didn’t kill them.”
“Those men were exonerated of their crimes. Even if they shouldn’t have been, it isn’t up to Dupin to decide their futures. He could have written any fictional story he wanted. Instead, he chose to rewrite the narratives of real cases, using details so distinct that no one would question who Billy Poe pursued. Their fictional deaths served as an exact guide for the very real deaths of those men. Theexact guide, Miss Pelton.”
The endings of her Billy Poe novels flashed through her mind, and she shuddered. The villains’ deaths had always mirrored those of the crimes they’d committed. She’d never been graphic, only alluding to the deaths they received, but had it really been enough for someone to use? The nausea from earlier returned.
“Dupin is not a hero, nor is he a man worth protecting. Even if he didn’t physically commit murder, he corrupted a reader to do the deed he wasn’t willing to do himself. Dupin is as responsible for their murders as he’d be if he’d slain them himself.”
With each statement, the bile built in her throat.
No. Murder happened because of sinful choices, not literature. She was not responsible for their deaths. She hadn’t killed them.
Except in fiction.
Did that make her complicit, at least in part?
Lydia wrapped her arms around her stomach as she rocked to abate the nauseating cramp.
But Detective Hall didn’t stop talking. “Tell me. Are you still willing to risk your reputation for that man? Is protecting his identity worth what it will cost you?”
Acid burned in her throat, making her voice croak. “It doesn’t matter what I say. The end will be the same for me.”
Detective Hall rose from his seat and rounded the table to crouch beside her. His voice gentled. “We can keep your name out of the newspapers if you tell us Dupin’s identity. You will not suffer the same as he. I promise you. We can protect you.”
She shook her head and did the only thing she could do. “You don’t understand.I amE. A. Dupin.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see it in the frustrated tension in his face. Feel it in the puff of his breath as he determined his next tactic.
