Always know where you’re pointing and beyond it.
Well, the gun was pointing at Detective Lawson’s back, but she was just beyond him. If the shot passed through him, she might end up shooting herself too. Why couldn’t gun rules be more helpful to her in a situation like this instead of keeping her prisoner to the man’s delusions? It was too much to hope for, but maybe Detective Lawson would forget one and accidentally shoot himself.
They passed through the door into a small room. A man about the size of Marcus Monroe—presumably Mr. Ingram—sat in the corner with shackles around his ankles, hands secured behind his back, and a gag over his mouth. He wriggled and made noises, but nothing discernible. He would be no help in forming an escape plan. And honestly, should she trust a man who had beaten his employer to death? Although “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” had merit.
If writing had taught her anything, it was to keep her mind open to all the possibilities. When she had a better idea of where she stood with Detective Lawson, she could sort through for the most plausible and unexpected option.
There wasn’t much to the room. A narrow bed with a carpetbag at the end took up one wall while a desk with a stack of pages on top sat opposite.
Her manuscript.
She didn’t need to get close enough to read the words to know. The brown-singed edges and soot-smudged top were enough to give it away. What she didn’t recognize was the second stack of written pages next to it. She stepped closer. The red-inked scrawl of Marcus’s editorial marks covered the top sheet. Curiosity was too much. She read the first page and then the second. The words weren’t hers but the amateur work of someone trying to write a crime novel.
“You haven’t reached that part, but Ingram was my choice of victim too.” Detective Lawson spoke at her elbow.
She jammed her hip against the desk in her instinctive attempt to put distance between them, but there was nowhere to go.
His satisfied smirk sent chills coursing down her spine. He toyed with her sleeve, alternating between rubbing the material between his fingertips and drawing flirtatious curved paths up and down the length of her arm. “I wrote this years ago, right after Ingram’s poor excuse for a sentencing. It proves that even before I knew you, we were of the same mind. You and I recognized the need for justice and carried it out when no one else was brave enough to do so. Don’t you see—I’ve waited my whole life for a woman who understood me. We belong together.” He clasped her shoulders with a light touch communicating the possession he claimed over her.
If only she could sink her nails into his burns—but it would only make him angry, and she had nowhere to go. Lydia forced herself to meet his eyes, expecting the deranged gloss of a madman’s. Instead, penetrating clarity stared back at her. He wouldn’t be easily fooled, but maybe if she could balance playing to his delusions and questioning them, she could manipulate him into thinking she supported him. After all, Momma often declared Lydia’s theatrics fit for the stage.
“What about Abraham?”
A muscle along his jaw twitched. “What about him? He’ll never support you or your vision for justice. He’s just a young pup who doesn’t understand the injustice in the world he serves. It’ll be years before he realizes that whatwedo is the only way to protect and avenge the innocent.”
“He’s a good detective. It won’t be long until he realizes that you are Billy Poe.MyBilly Poe.” One word had the power to change the meaning of a sentence and its reception.
As she hoped, claiming him as hers eased his stance. It was disgusting, really, but now more than ever she needed to use the right words from the very first moment she said them. There would be no editing.
“I know. I’d hoped youth would prove his folly, and he’d take my observations and conclusions as his own, but he’s too independent for that. It won’t be long before he realizes Marcus is nothing more than a decoy. We’ll need Ingram’s death staged and us out of the city by morning’s light. Otherwise I might have to kill Hall, and I am loath to do that. But I will.”
Morning light came early in the summer. She checked the watch pinned to her shawl and drew a steadying breath. One o’clock. Roughly five hours until sunrise. She needed to stall Detective Lawson much longer than that. The only tool she had available was writing.
Lord, let it be enough.
“I never finished my manuscript. Ingram doesn’t have an ending.”
The racket from Ingram grew louder as the man fought against his restraints and yelled muffled words at them. Her stomach twisted. It had been alarming enough to be abducted by Mr. Keaton’s family, knowing they wanted to hurt her, but listening to Mr. Clemens talk about the most poetic way for her to die had been a horror she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even Mr. Ingram. Nevertheless, if she had to stall for time, she would do it, and hopefully save his life.
She hated to admit it, but Mr. Clemens wasn’t quite the cad she’d thought him to be.
“He does in mine.” Lawson tapped the pages. “I submitted this story to O’Dell last year. Only, Monroe called it ‘lackluster drivel that would better serve as kindling’ and sent it back.”
No wonder he’d had no qualms framing Marcus—he’d experienced at least a partial edit from the man. She well knew how direct and cutting Marcus could be when critiquing a manuscript. But this would provide her the perfect way to stall for time. Editing. The good Lord knew how much she dragged that process out with every manuscript. They could spend days just figuring out the best way to rewrite one scene.
“I’m sure we can work through it together.”
Pleasure at her suggestion eased a bit more of the tension in his stance.
“I’ll need to read your whole manuscript first though. And time to think through the possibilities. The perfect ending is never the first one I write.”
He pulled out the chair and indicated she should sit.
“I’m quite tired. Could you make me a pot of coffee or tea?” If he left, she could rummage through the room and see what was at her disposal for escaping.
Suspicion crinkled his eyes for a moment before a smile re-formed. “Of course. Be warned, if you try to open the door, the shotgun will fire, and a blast of buckshot will go through the wood and plaster. There isn’t a safe place for you.”
It felt as if the blood had drained from her face, but she hoped it didn’t show. She offered a fake smile and picked up Lawson’s manuscript. “Why would I do that? I have reading to do.”
