She released my hand and lay back on her bed. I tiptoed down the hall and to the door. Sure enough, I found a dog-eared copy of the book on the shelf by the door. A casual page flip revealed sentences she’d highlighted and notes in the margin. Despite my cynical tendencies, I was touched she would lend me a book she obviously esteemed so highly.
Down the steps I went, thinking about how Mrs. Q really needed to live in a place without stairs and also how much of my life I’d already wasted on Ken. I shoved those second thoughts away because there wasn’t anything I could do about that now.
When I entered my apartment, the entire kitchen had been tidied and the dishwasher hummed. Malone sat on my love seat, reading one of my Nora Roberts books with the kitten in his lap. He looked awfully at home for someone who swore he was only in town temporarily.
When he looked up, I said, “Person who is not Blake Malone, we need to talk.”
Chapter 16
His smile disappeared, but he recovered quickly. “Oh, no good has ever come from that sentence. And here I was hoping you’d decided to discuss the benefits package.”
“Nope. I want to know why you’re living in Blake Malone’s apartment and answering to his name,” I said as I tossed Mrs. Q’s book on the small table by my door.
He froze, and the kitten looked up at him expectantly. “Who says I’m not Blake Malone?”
“His wife.”
He relaxed, absently scratching between the kitten’s ears. “Well, I suppose she would know.”
One of a private investigator’s best tools, one I’ve had to cultivate in spite of my nature, is patience. Often, if one waits, the other person will fill the silence with just the information you were looking for.
After two excruciatingly long minutes, it became clear Malone was not one of those people.
I took one of the dinette chairs and turned it around so I could straddle the chair and lean my arms on the back while I stared at him. Intently.
He had reopened the Nora Roberts. Without looking up, he said, “That strategy isn’t going to work.”
“Stubbornness,” “pettiness,” and “spite” were all ugly words often used to describe women who were merely persistent; I had been blessed with all three.
“Seriously, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to,” he said.
Waiting made me itch from the inside out, but I maintained my position and exuded a calm demeanor that was the very antithesis of how I really felt.
He had yet to turn a page, and the book was one of my favorites,Midnight Bayou, so I knew he was only pretending to read.
With a sigh of exasperation, he closed the book and met my gaze. “Look, it’s complicated.”
“Then simplify it for me, Artist Formerly Known as Malone.”
“I am Malone.”
“Well, you’re not Blake.”
“Thank God!” he said with so much feeling that my kitten looked up at him in disgust and then scampered off to find a seat that wouldn’t move so much or make loud noises.
I pounced. “So you know him. I’m guessing you’re the mysterious California cousin.”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am his cousin. Unfortunately.”
One theory confirmed. “And you don’t like him, but you’re pretending to be him?”
He sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“So you say, but this isn’t a Facebook post, so you’re going to have to do better than that, Malone. Why are you pretending to be your cousin?”
“I’mnot.I’m just not disabusing anyone of the notion that I’m him. When I said I couldn’t tell Mrs. Q about the job I’m doing, that wasn’t a lie per se.”
“Well, I’m not Mrs. Q. Call me old-fashioned, but if you’re willing to share your body, then I think you should also be willing to share your secrets.”
