Lucky man, thinks Malcolm.
Penn Stonely may be clinging to a spot or two on bookstore shelves, but the three books Malcolm wrote himself, the ones that could have—should have—formed the foundation of his legacy, instead slipped out of the world as quietly as they entered.
Not with a bang, but a whimper.
When he found out they were going out of print—via a single-line email, from an assistant he’d never even met—Malcolm couldn’t bear the thought of all that work being destroyed, so he’d bought the rest of the copies from the publisher. Had to rent out a storage unit in Queens just to house them all. When Sienna found out, he told her he hadn’t paid a penny for the books, when the truth was, they’d made him pay wholesale.
It had come out to the cost of a small car.
The thing was, Malcolm always planned to tell her, when time took the sting off the wounds, when they were successful enough that it became a funny story—the kind they could tell packed crowds one day at sold-out signings—instead of what it was: humiliating.
He never told Sienna. And now, he can’t.
Jaxon clears his throat. “Can we get this over with?”
Malcolm sets the sculpture down again. Jaxon’s left knee has started to bounce.
“Are you nervous?” asks Malcolm, leaning against Fletch’s polished desk.
“You’remakingme nervous, man. Look—”
Malcolm pulls the page from his pocket. “Do you know what this is?”
“A piece of paper—wait—” He’s caught sight of the type. “Oh shit, is that another note? What’s all that writing on the back?”
Malcolm frowns. “That’s no concern of yours,” he says, laying the page on the desk so that only the threat is facing up.
“It is, if you’re accusing me of something.”
“It’s a sheet ofwhitepaper, Mr. Knight. The coloryouwere given to type your pages on.”
Jaxon throws up his hands. “Dude, almostallpaper is white! That’s, like, the default shade.”
“Ah, but not inthishouse, and I found this one on Sisi’s body. Whoever killed her—”
Jaxon’s eyes widen in what seems like genuine surprise, voice dropping as he says, “Wait, you really think somebody killed her?” The penny drops, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Holy shit, you thinkIkilled her?”
Malcolm folds his arms. Jaxon’s a talkative guy, and now that he’s going, it’s only a matter of time before he digs the hole himself.
“So wait, you think I—did what exactly? Sent your wife a menacing message and then caved her skull in with a typewriter? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would I use my own paper? And then, if Iwasdumb enough to do that, and I was trying to scare her into leaving, why would I then go and kill her? Sorry, but I don’t get the logic.”
Malcolm frowns. When he puts it that way—
“And if I knew she had the note, why didn’t I take it back before Millie and Priscilla found the body?”
“Well, I’m not—”
“And how did I have time to get back to my room before they showed up without anyone hearing my six-foot-two ass hauling it down the hall?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “I—”
“Which they didn’t, because unlike Millie and Priscilla, I wasasleep.”
Malcolm’s thoughts snag. That’s right, they were the only two downstairs instead of up.
“Besides, I’ve never hit a lady in my life, let alone bludgeoned one with obsolete technology and then pushed her down a flight of stairs.”
Malcolm sags back against the desk, rubbing his chin. A good detective doesn’t just look at the facts. He listens to his gut as well, and Malcolm’s gut is telling him that Jaxon Knight may be a shithead, but he’s not the one who murdered his wife.
