“Marcus Monroe has a burned hand and your manuscript.”
Though she’d suspected Marcus, the news still came as a wallop to the gut. They’d been friends of a sort and, for a brief moment, potentially more than friends. She’d often written of betrayal, but she’d never really tasted it until now. What a poor job she’d done of depicting it. Yes, it tasted of bitter disappointment, but there was something more. A loss so deep it made her chest ache and her limbs heavy. If she felt this for a man she would only claim as a close acquaintance, how much worse must it have felt for her characters when a loved one had driven the dagger into their backs?
“We believe his partner could be James O’Dell, Eugene Clemens, or even someone unknown.” Detective Lawson hesitated a moment before adding with gravity, “There was also a note with Miss Davis’s address on Monroe’s desk. There is a chance his partner knows where you are and is even now coming to collect you.”
“Then let him come.” Theresa’s voice carried with challenge. “We’ll be ready for him.”
Lydia smiled at her friend’s confidence. With all the booby traps they had planned, Marcus’s partner didn’t have a chance. It would take some time to rig them, but soon the house would be as impenetrable as a fortress. Yes, the betrayal hurt, but eagerness to prepare a defense had her rubbing her hands together. Which plan should they implement first: the swinging pots over the doors or boards with nails beneath the windows?
“Out of an abundance of caution, I’m taking Lydia to a hidden location that has no connection to her.” Detective Lawson selected the wrong shawl from the hall tree and handed it to her. “Officer Atwood will stay with you ladies in case Monroe’s partner decides to make an appearance.”
Nora stepped forward and switched the shawl with the correct one. “But where are you taking Lydia?”
“I am afraid I cannot disclose that. Detective Hall and I believe it is safer for her if only the two of us know.”
Lydia regarded her three friends, each held a troubled countenance. “If Abraham thinks this is best then we’ll go along with it. Booby-trap the house for your safety, and then I’ll see you tomorrow. Just consider this your chance to catch the villain. It’ll make a great story to tell our children and grandchildren one day. I’m jealous that you get to have all the excitement.”
One by one, they hugged her tight.
Nora was last and held on a little longer, keeping her voice to a low whisper. “Remember, knee to the groin, fingers to the eyes, then run like hell’s hounds are on your heels.”
Leave it to Nora to give fighting advice. “Thank you, friend. Soon, we’ll celebrate the end of Poe’s reign.”
CHAPTER34
IT TOOK A COUPLE HOURSto get a judge to sign off on the search warrant and another to conduct it. The search revealed little evidence but enough to incriminate Marcus. A few matching handwritten notes lay on his desk. The most recent Poe novel, the margins of which were filled with personal annotations, sat next to his reading chair. A list of the names and addresses of each exonerated criminal with a line through the ones who’d been murdered served as a bookmark. It was a little too easy to find, and it unsettled Abraham.
Shouldn’t the man who brought Billy Poe to life be smarter than that? And shouldn’t there have been more than just those three items?
It was well past the end of his shift, but Abraham couldn’t go home and sleep. He considered visiting the address Lawson had left him, but he didn’t want to risk leading Monroe’s partner to Lydia. Abraham returned to the office and pored over their notes on the case. Monroe wasn’t a clear fit for most of the murders. The only connection he had to them was being the editor of the books. He didn’t have any tangible relationships with the exonerated criminals or their victims. That alone didn’t make him innocent, but everything felt a little too … staged? But surely not.
Still, that niggle of skepticism bothered Abraham.
Logically Monroe made sense as Billy Poe. His regard for Lydia. His knowledge and access to the stories. His insistence that Lydia’s purpose lived in those stories. That what they published was right and good. He had even suggested the men got what they deserved.
Abraham examined the burned manuscript box again. This was the first condemning piece of evidence brought in by Lawson. Proof that Monroe was Poe. Cinders covered the majority of the bottom half of the box, and the charred corners testified to the burning process having begun. Enough of it remained solid that the interior appeared mostly unharmed—except for the smattering of soot at the top and the white powder of pages turned to ash at the bottom. Wouldn’t the entire interior have become blackened if dozens of pages had burned?
He sifted through the ash and rubbed the contents between his fingers. There might be enough for a few pages, but not for an entire novel. Not even when combined with what he remembered from Plane Manor. They hadn’t found any of the manuscript pages in Monroe’s home, and his hearth and kitchen stove were as cold and empty as anyone would expect during summer temperatures. Abraham tossed the box back onto the desk, sending a puff of ash into the air.
Maybe he should go home to bed. He could revisit the case tomorrow with a clear head, and by morning Monroe would be able to answer their questions without the confusion of an opium haze. Tonight, Lydia would be protected by Lawson, and if Monroe’s partnerdidshow up at Miss Davis’s, Lucian would be able to capture him.
“I don’t think Monroe is Poe.”
Abraham looked up from his desk to find Clemens, a grim line to his mouth, standing in the doorway.
Abraham leaned back in his chair, his muscles complaining about the hours of hunched searching. “I take it bail was finally set.”
“Uncle James decided to drop charges.” Clemens shifted uncomfortably. “Probably in large part due to my mother’s influence.”
So the reporter was a mama’s boy. That was a surprising revelation. What did the woman think of her son’s dealing in sensationalism?
Clemens cleared his throat and straightened. “Come listen to Monroe. I believe Lawson’s framed him.”
“Framed?” Abraham blinked, then outright laughed. He was too tired for that nonsense. “By Lawson, no less? That’s more implausible than a Lydia Pelton romance novel.”
“Not implausible. Do your job. Question the man.”
Abraham bristled at the command but rose from his seat. As much as it galled him, Clemens was right. Abraham had a confession—or at least an explanation—to wrangle out of Monroe. What evidence did Clemens think Monroe had to be able to accuse Lawson of framing him? The watch attached to the chain hanging from Abraham’s vest indicated the time was past midnight, meaning Monroe had been sleeping off the opium for hours. There might be enough lucidity to him by now to get a decently straight answer.
