He tucked the letters inside his coat as he regarded her. “A person’s character—yourcharacter—is defined by what you do or don’t do, say or don’t say, and write or don’t write. Choose wiser in the future.”
The words pinched, but she appreciated his intent behind them.
“Goodbye, Detective Hall. You are a good man, and I wish you the best.” She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then returned inside.
Papa stood in the door with brows furrowed. “Are you in trouble again?”
When she bit her lip to determine the best answer, he sighed and gestured toward his office down the hall. “How bad is it? Should I be sitting or standing?”
She entered the small room with a bookshelf at the back, a locked file cabinet to the side, a spindle-legged desk with its leather chair in the middle, and a single wooden chair for guests. Telling him in here might suffocate them both, but it was the only room in the house with guaranteed privacy.
“You’ll probably alternate between them, but I’d start with sitting.”
“That bad?” He shut the door and peered at her over his glasses before shaking his head and clearing space in the room.
No matter how much he prepared himself to be shocked or disappointed, it wouldn’t be enough. She twisted the necklace at her throat as his leather chair bumped against the tall bookcase of medical journals and reference books. With the desk almost in the center of the room, he’d have plenty of space to pace once he heard the truth.
Papa lowered himself into the seat and planted his elbows on the chair arms. “All right, I’m ready.”
He might be, but she wasn’t. She gripped the back of the wooden chair to still her jittering fingers and blurted, “I’m E. A. Dupin. The one wanted for those murders.”
Not that there was another E. A. Dupin.
He didn’t move or speak.
The silence stretched.
“Did you hear me? I, your daughter, am E. A. Dupin, the crime novelist.”
He drew a slow breath. “I heard you. I am just struggling to believe that you wrote the novels that fictionally murdered exonerated men.”
“They weren’t murdered by Detective Poe in the stories, but yes, they did die.” There was a difference: Her hero never murdered anyone. Other shadowy characters had done the deed and served as her clear sign of God’s justness.
“I’ve read those books, Lydia. They did not just die.” His head shook, increasing with such vigor that he launched to his feet to continue the movement from one side of the room to the next. “What were you thinking, writing such stories? They’re not proper for anyone, let alone a young woman like yourself.”
“I’m not ashamed of what I write.” Maybe ashamed to tell him, but not enough to stop writing. “Our government is unscrupulous and allows criminals to go unpunished. I bring justice to those who have been denied it.”
He halted his pacing. “God has ordained governments and judges to carry out justice, and we are subject to those authorities. If those authorities are committing injustices, it is a citizen’s duty to vote or petition to have them removed from office.”
A lot of good that did her. She was a woman. She couldn’t vote. Not to mention, everyone knew the crooked politicians physically controlled the voting polls.
“And if the government is too corrupt for a citizen to have any impact?”
“Then God will judge those He assigned to authority. It is not our place to enact vigilante justice when we feel those officials have failed. To do so is to take on the role of God.”
Why couldn’t he see reason? “But I write fiction. It’s not the same as being a vigilante. I didn’t kill those men.”
“No, you didn’t, but the stories you write reveal your heart and make a statement to the world. You believe you have the right to determine whether those men live or die.”
What she wrote was a reflection of God’s justice, not personal opinion. “The Old Testament says that the crimes those men committed are worthy of the death penalty.”
“We are called to mercy, Lydia. Only God and those He appoints can cast judgment.”
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on whether or not my rewriting their stories was wrong or right.”
Dismay lined his face. “Perhaps, but this is still very serious, Lydia. How did you even get permission to write those stories? Your publisher came to me when you sought to publish your romance novels.”
Only because she’d not reached her majority. “He didn’t know I was E. A. Dupin. I submitted it as a pseudonym and requested that my identity be preserved even from him. Otherwise, I knew he would never publish my stories. Not as a woman.”
