“It couldn’t be helped. The hall’s not wide enough for the three of us.” He stalked ahead of them and banged on O’Dell’s door before disappearing inside.
Abraham lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t antagonize him. Now we are both targets, which makes protecting you even harder.”
“Nonsense. You’re a police officer. You’ll be fine. You deal with danger all the time.”
How could a woman who wrote the stories she did and had a coroner as a father be so naive? “This isn’t a romance novel, Lydia. Officers don’t have immunity from death. Every day is a day I might not come home. Just last week, Officer Chumley was murderedinsidethe Ninth Street station house with three officers standing right next to him.”
Wide-eyed horror mirrored his own reaction when he’d first heard the news. He should regret his bluntness, but she needed to know this was serious.
Her head shook in violent denial. “That won’t happen to you.”
Would that her proclamation could make it true. He clasped her shoulders and tilted his chin down so that she couldn’t escape his gaze. “It could, especially with a jealous madman on the loose.”
“Oh, Abraham. I’m so sorry. I …” Her eyes’ shimmering depths declared she really did care for him.
She kissed you to win a bet.
The reminder was supposed to be a warning, but it just made his attention flick lower. What she’d done couldn’t be called a kiss, and her absolute mortification had proven it done without thought. Still, the soft whisper of her lips against his had shot through him with shocking force and left a lingering desire to see what something longer might feel like.
O’Dell’s door opened, and Monroe stepped out. “You may come in.” The frost in his words matched the stabbing icicles of his glare.
Lydia stepped out of Abraham’s hold and offered Monroe a weak smile as she entered the office. Abraham followed, and Monroe shoved a shoulder against his back under the guise of standing too close while shutting them all, himself included, into the room.
O’Dell didn’t bother to rise. “You had better have that manuscript with you, Miss Pelton. Someone broke in last night and destroyed our largest press. We’re rushing the edits for both your latest romance and your newest Poe novel. I need them out while your popularity still allows for twenty-five-cent sales instead of the normal fifteen.”
The greed of that man astounded Abraham.
Lydia looked to him, and the earlier fear and insecurities she’d confessed to God showed on her face. Abraham had promised he’d stay by her side, and that was what he’d do. He stepped forward and laid an encouraging hand to her back. No words passed between them, but he felt the deep breath she took for courage. She lifted her chin and reached into her reticule.
“Actually, I’ve come to return the advance given to me for the next Billy Poe novel.” She laid the folded money on the desk and stiffened her posture. “I won’t be writing it or any future novels.”
“What?” That brought the man and his large girth out of his chair. “You cannot break your contract.”
“On the contrary, according to the penalty clause, my contract can be broken provided the advance is returned with forty percent interest.”
Forty percent? Abraham knew moneymongers who required less.
O’Dell sputtered for a moment, then regained his slimy, self-assured composure. “Without a Poe novel, I won’t publish your next contracted romance. You’ll owe me the advance plus forty percent for that one too.”
“I expected as much.” She retrieved more money and laid it on the table. “This is the full sum plus interest for breaking both contracts. There will be no future submissions from me. I will not be picking up a pen again.”
Monroe rushed forward and turned her toward him. “You can’t let them win. You must keep writing.”
Abraham forced himself to remain rooted in place. Lydia made no attempt to remove herself from Monroe’s grip, nor did she appear more uneasy than before. Unless she or Monroe gave him a legitimate reason, Abraham would not intervene, no matter how much he desired to pull her to safety.
Lydia shook her head. “I can’t.”
“What you do is more than write words. You give hope and justice to those who cannot find it any other way. Think of the letters you’ve received. This is your purpose in life. You can’t give it up.”
Her face softened with compassion and strength. “No, Marcus. I’m finished pretending I know better than God. Those men were exonerated, and whether I agreed with that decision or not, I didn’t have the right to condemn them to death. I will not be responsible for one more lost life.”
“You aren’t responsible for their deaths. They are just words. Meaningless words.”
Monroe stood as a pillar of contradictions. First, what she did was more than words, but now those words were meaningless? It was the sort of twisted logic a man like Billy Poe might believe.
Lydia folded her arms and cocked her head. “If they are so meaningless, why are five men dead, three fearing for their lives, and Cincinnati crying out for my own indictment? All words have meaning and power, Marcus. And I have wielded that power in the worst possible way. I cannot do it any longer. Please don’t ask me to.”
He stepped back from her, his face twisted in betrayal and disgust.
