She marched toward the kitchen.
“How did you determine which men should live or die?”
Detective Hall’s question brought her to an abrupt halt.
“Excuse me?” She turned to face him.
“How did you determine which men should live or die?”
She stared at him for a moment before the words made sense. “I did not choose for these men to die.” At his arched brow, she amended, “Not in real life. I’m not a murderer.”
“No, but the only connection between each of the murders is your Billy Poe novels. It seems to me that if you had not written their stories and defiled some poor soul’s mind, those men would still be alive.”
She’d come to realize that being called a liar or manipulator was accurate enough, but to be called the one responsible for someone else’s wickedness? That was not to be borne. “I stand by my belief that sin corrupts a man’s soul, not literature.”
“Yet the murderer chose to becomeyourcharacter and kill the menyouselected.”
A new and terrifying thought struck her speechless. If she’d written about different crimes, would those men have been the ones to die? Her stomach twisted, but she forced a calming breath. The answer didn’t matter. She still wasn’t responsible for another’s choice.
“I need to know how you chose your stories. It could impact the investigation.”
Whatever it took to end this madness. “I chose cases where men were undoubtedly guilty but walked free because of dishonest dealings.”
“I can name half a dozen more that fit your parameters but haven’t made it into your stories.”
“Because I can only write so fast. Out of necessity, I wrote about the ones occurring at the time I was writing. Otherwise, needed documents would’ve been harder to access without garnering unwanted attention.”
At his glower, she rolled her eyes. They’d been over this already.
“Perhaps it was wrong of me to obtain information that I shouldn’t have had, but—”
“Onlyperhapsit was wrong? Have you learned nothing?”
“Fine. It was wrong of me to obtain the answers I did in the manner that I did it, but I amnotguilty of murder.”
“Did you write those stories to communicate your plan to a partner?”
“Have you been drinking?” It was the only explanation for such a ludicrous question. “There are more efficient ways to communicate with a partner than through writing a book that takes months to draft and as many months more to edit, then publish.” She crossed her arms despite her determination to keep her temper under control. “My stories are a means of serving justice, not communicating dastardly plans for murder. I may be a broken and sinful woman, but I do not delight in death.”
“Your books would indicate otherwise.”
He really did believe her vile. How disappointing. Her Detective Darcy would never be so blinded by prejudice.
Detective Lawson appeared at the window. One glance at the standoff between her and Detective Hall, and his countenance wrinkled like a prune. He clambered over the windowsill and strode toward them.
Before Detective Lawson reached them, Detective Hall speared her with another question. “Are you upset that those men are dead or only that your pseudonym is exposed?”
“That is enough, Hall.” Detective Lawson’s words came out hard and reprimanding.
“I’ll ask no more,afterI hear your answer, Miss Pelton.”
Lydia looked Detective Hall directly in his stubborn eyes. Forget comparing them to delectable molasses cookies. They were mud brown, just like the words he slung. “I do not revel in their deaths, and I am sorry that they were murdered, but I cannot say I feel any remorse for rewriting their stories. They were criminals who escaped the punishment they deserved.”
The harshness of her own words boxed her ears. She still believed the sentiment behind them, but Papa’s rebuke of last night pricked her conscience. Was she taking God’s place by insisting her execution of justice was better than His?
Detective Lawson touched her back. “I think it best you go pack. It won’t be safe for you to stay here until that window is fixed. Hall, I’ll meet you outside.”
Detective Hall didn’t even acknowledge her as he strode toward the kitchen to leave. Papa met him and handed him a piece of paper. After a quick perusal of the sheet, he glared at Marcus, who stood behind Papa, then pivoted back toward Lydia and Detective Lawson.
