After a few moments, the sounds stopped, and she sought Papa’s reaction. Ever the kind soul, he patted the man’s back and offered him a handkerchief. Once assured the officer would be fine, Papa retrieved the perfume-scented strip of fabric Momma kept in his bag and secured it over his nose. He glanced at Lydia one more time before going in to see the depths of depravation his daughter’s words had instigated.
Never again would their relationship be restored. Not after he saw what awaited him in that attic. What a fool she’d been. Published mysteries were not worth all that she’d lost. All theliveslost.
The officer, who’d since composed himself, approached the carriage. “Detective Lawson assigned me to watch over you.”
“Lucky you.”
“You have no idea.”
“Is it that bad inside?” By God’s grace and mercy, may her mind have conjured images worse than reality.
Still pale with a tinge of green, the stout man shook his head and shuddered. “You don’t want to even imagine it. It’ll give you nightmares.”
She sat back, nauseated. Five men now had died via her nightmares, with three more anticipating their turn. Her current villain still awaited his fate, but her deadline loomed. Soon the pages that sat on her desk would soak up her ink and sentence a real man to a brutal end.
What was wrong with her? Was she still such an ogre that she’d condemnanotherman?
Yes, breaking her contract came with consequences, but what were those in comparison to a man’s life?
But maybe she didn’t have to break her contract. What if she changed the victim? After these events, no one would consider Billy Poe a hero. Perhaps it was time for him to experience his own demise and allow for a better detective to rise and take his place.
“Good almost-morning, Richards. I heard we have another Billy Poe body.”
Lydia startled out of her thoughts as Mr. Clemens appeared next to the carriage.
Upon noticing her, he faced her fully. “I didn’t expect to find you here. Come to inspect your handiwork, have you?”
She worked to infuse confidence into her posture. Fear was no option in the face of such evil. “Do not jest with me, Mr. Clemens. I do not approve of this.”
“Tell me.” He leaned against the door of the carriage. “What do you think of Ross getting what was coming to him?”
Did he seek affirmation from her for what he’d done? She’d only suspected he was Billy Poe, but did this serve as proof that he really was the sword behind her pen? Her grip on the horseshoe turned white-knuckled. She would not, under any circumstances, encourage the man further.
“I think his murder excruciatingly vile. I’m horrified to ever have written such a thing. If Billy Poe thinks he is showing me his love through these acts, he is mistaken on what overtures of love should look like.”
“‘Overtures of love,’ is it? Hmmm. What sort of ‘overtures of love’ would the Killer Queen of Romance desire if not these? I doubt she is a woman swayed by flowers, sweets, and poetry.”
She glared at him, determined to stop this madness. “There is nothing Billy Poe could ever do to convince me to love him, but if he should stop his vigilante ways, then I might not kill him off in the next book.”
“Still seeking justice through fictional murder, are you?”
The blood drained from her face—no, her whole body. He was right. Killing Billy Poe in her next book wasn’t any different from what she’d done before. Had she really changed so little? She might have sought forgiveness and repentance within the last few days, but was she so far gone that even God couldn’t make her a new creation? Her stomach churned.
“Clemens!” Abraham’s voice cracked like lightning striking a tree.
Lydia recoiled from the shock of it, and Mr. Clemens jolted upright.
Abraham strode from the house with the force and fury of tornadic winds. Whether coming to her defense or to arrest the man purely for the sake of his job, Lydia didn’t care. She’d never been so grateful to have a man with fists clenched and eyes narrowed storming her direction.
Mr. Clemens recovered quickly from his shock and adjusted his coat before pulling out his notebook. “Ah, Hall. Glad to see you. How about you help a fellow investigator out and allow me a peek into the attic?”
“You’re a reporter, not an investigator. Go home. You’re not welcome here.”
“Can’t. I have a job to do. If you won’t allow me into the attic, what about sharing some details? Anonymously, of course.”
“Go. Home.”
Undeterred by Abraham’s crossed arms and wide stance, Mr. Clemens pressed on. “How would you describe the scene inside? A body chained to the wall? Food and water just out of reach? Just exactly how closely does the scene resemble Miss Pelton’s story?”
