“So you lied to get what you wanted?”
What was it with everyone accusing her of lying? “Using a pseudonym is not a lie.”
“No, it’s not, but your use of one for deceptive purposes is.” He ran a hand over the balding spot on his head. “Has your heart been so hardened that you really cannot discern the truth?”
How was she supposed to respond to that? “I don’t have a hardened heart, and I did not lie. He would never have published my stories if he’d known it was me.”
“Perhaps that was meant as God’s protection from writing stories you ought not to have written.” An unpleasant thought must have crossed his mind, for the corners of his mouth curved downward. “Where did you get the details for your stories? I know there were more there than what was available to the public. It’s been a discussion among my peers for weeks.”
She gulped. He would ask that question. She traced her thumb against the engraved surface of the chair. How could she form a palliative answer without misleading him?
“Out with it, Lydia. I already suspect your answer.”
She closed her eyes. “I stole peeks when I visited your office … and I convinced a few officers to show me the files when we visited the station.”
A thud from Papa’s direction indicated he’d dropped into his seat. When she looked, she saw that he leaned against one chair arm with his hand supporting his head. The evident pain and discouragement caused by her answer aged his appearance by years. A new gulf yawned between them, destroying the once solid bond they’d had, and she felt the loss keenly.
Slowly he sat up. “Sneaking around. Lying. Manipulating people. My heart grieves for you. You have deceived yourself. Even if the writing of your stories were acceptable, the means by which you created them are not. How often have you rationalized your actions against your conscience? Do you even hear it anymore?”
The ache behind his words crumbled her defenses. He was right. She had done a great deal of rationalizing her choices to get published and then to acquire the information she’d needed. She still didn’t believe the stories themselves were wrong or even responsible for the murders committed, but in the face of Papa’s crushing disapproval, she could no longer deny that she had selfishly pursued her desires without consideration of the consequences.
A pit formed in her stomach. “There’s more. A reporter has discovered my identity. It will be in the papers soon.”
His head angled back against the bookcase as he seemed to beseech the heavens for direction.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
He shook his head. “Please leave. I need time alone to think and pray.”
The heaviness of the defeat in his voice tied a millstone around her neck. All that remained was for him to throw her in the river to drown. It took great effort to walk out. Thankfully no one else was about as she trudged up the stairs and shut the door to her bedroom.
What had she done?
The partially finished Billy Poe manuscript sat in a neat stack at the center of her desk, awaiting her to finish its tale.
Her reasons for a pseudonym and for writing her Billy Poe novels were valid. James O’Dell would not publish anything but a romance from a woman. And these stories needed to be shared. The evil of this world might be on full display between the pages, but right always won. Evil always died. Didn’t that reflect the ultimate end? Or was she rationalizing a falsehood only she believed?
She laid a hand on the stack of pages.
God, isn’t this what You wanted me to write? Why should a man be the only one allowed to reveal the darkness of this world and point people back to light?
But where is the light in these tales?The question arose as if God Himself had asked it.
It was there. Justice won. That was light enough, wasn’t it?
Her stomach twisted with unease. This was too much unanswerable thinking. She shoved the pages into her manuscript box, locked it in her desk, and threw herself onto the bed. The right thing to do would be to grab her Bible or pray. But she couldn’t. Her spirit was battered and weary enough. She didn’t want to read the words that might indicate that Papa and Detective Hall were right about her. She didn’t want to feel the suffocating disappointment of not only her earthly father but her heavenly one too. Instead, she lay face down, clutched her pillow, and wished all this would simply go away.
She wrote books. Works of fiction. Certainly she’d done nothing wrong. It was the rest of the world that was wrong. It couldn’t really be her, could it?
CHAPTER13
ABRAHAM TOOK HIS TIME RETURNINGto Central despite the imperative task of finding a new lead. How had he missed that Miss Pelton and Dupin were one and the same? He should have suspected her the moment she came so fiercely to Dupin’s defense. Or at the very least, he should have noticed the similarities of style between her and Dupin’s writing and questioned the possibility then.
But no, he’d allowed attraction to affect his judgment. What a fool he’d been to believe her a misguided, onetime criminal and an exception to the immorality of dime novels. His work had taught him better than to think she was different from every other criminal he’d arrested.
Except that shewasdifferent. He could feel it in a way that he couldn’t explain.
Which was ridiculous.
