“What is?”
“You’re Piper, right?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s nice to finally put a face to the name, you know?” She shrugs. “When he used to talk about you, I always pictured you blonde.”
three
dorian
The line is never-ending.
Is this my fault? When my publicist, Bradley, pushed for book signings, I agreed so long as I got to choose the stores and we held no more than four events, so Piper’s Books was a given. The location is easy to reach, and the size is middling, so I figured that meant smaller crowds.
And I mean, come on…it’sPiper’sstore.
But apparently Tennessee really shows up for thriller writers. The lines for my last three signings in New York, LA, and Dallas have been long, but this is monstrous.
I can’t even be mad that Piper didn’t take measures to stop the line sooner because these people traveled here just to see me. The honor in that alone means I can handle sitting around for an extra hour with a hand cramp.
When my gaze tracks across the store for her, I find Piper still talking with my sister at the register. Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped in with the offer to pay for Paisley’s book, but it’s the least I could do after she dragged her boyfriend through my line for almost two hours.
“What’s your name?” I ask the man sliding the book across the table.
“Henry Jacobsen, with an E-N.”
“Great to meet you. How would you like your book addressed?”
“Henry Jacobsen, with an E-N.”
Full name. Okay. I start the inscription, but my eyes dart to the register, where Piper and Paisley are both now looking at me. The pen glides along the page, and I hurry to pretend it was intentional, sliding into “Jacobsen” with a fancy flourish. My cheeks warm while I finish writing on the title page. When I pass the book back, I sneak a glance at the women and find my sister and Hudson gone, but Piper is still watching me. Her brows are knit together, and she’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle she can’t solve.
What did Paisley say to paint that look on her face?
“Are you planning to finish the Vanishing series?”
Why does everyone ask the one question I can’t bear to answer? My entire body responds with a tight coiling. My hand clamps around the pen. “I’m not sure.”
Henry Jacobsen plants both hands on the desk and leans closer. “I have the perfect premise.”
Of course he does. If I had a dollar for everyone who wanted to supply my next mystery or suggest a way I could kill off my next victim, I’d be able to buy the entire table’s worth of books.
“You can kill Kiley.”
“His wife,” I clarify, just in case Henry Jacobsen, with an E-N, doesn’t remember that minor detail. The romance between Paul and Kiley is what brought in my massive readership to begin with. My agent was certain it was the twist in the book. I know it’s the romance.
They’re kind of linked, so maybe we’re both right.
“Exactly,” he continues. “Kill her, and he’ll go allBravehearton the townspeople.”
Which would be a genre shift.
The elderly woman behind him clears her throat. “I think you meanThe Patriot. Paul wouldPatriotthe townspeople until he found her murderer.”
Henry gives her a look. “They both apply.”
“It would make a lot of readers upset,” I tell him.
