“What?”
“You saidyou, talking about writers.Youdream up crimes. Notwe.”
Priscilla’s face goes blank. Then her mouth twitches in a bleak smile. “Yeah,” she says. “Iwrite romance, remember?”
Malcolm nods, realizing she’s right. “Good point,” he says, refilling his glass. “Send in the horror writer.”
Chapter Ten
“HOW LONG IS THIS GOING TO TAKE?”asks Kenzo Gray.
“What’s wrong?” asks Malcolm, sipping his Scotch. “Somewhere to be?”
Kenzo eyes the safe in the corner, the countdown blinking on its front, then looks down at the coffee nested in one hand. “You can have till I finish this cup.”
Malcolm frowns, wishing he had a spotlight. The overhead light in here is too warm, the light through the windows too diffuse, the room itself entirely too welcoming, and that must be why Kenzo looks too comfortable, sitting in the chair, one foot crossed against his knee. It’s true, he doesn’t strike Malcolm as the type to murder competition, but then, there’s more than one reason to want someone dead.
“Well,” he says, leaning back against his desk (he’s come to think of it as his, these last few hours). “Things would go faster if you simply confessed.”
“And what exactly am I confessing to?”
Malcolm grips the filigreed lip of the desk as he leans forward. “To killing my wife.”
Kenzo sighs.
“Oh, but that’s right,” continues Malcolm. “You think it was just an accident. Or so youclaim.”
“It was an educated guess, based on the circumstantial evidence.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? That you’re the only one with the expertise to say? Expertise you kept to yourself until it came in handy.”
“Because up until last night, no one haddied.”
“But why?” presses Malcolm. “Why would you hide something so”—he almost saysinteresting, but catches himself—“important about yourself?”
Kenzo meets his gaze.
“Because authors are assholes,” he says flatly. “They’re assholes about money. They’re assholes about sales. They’re assholes about work. Specifically, they see having other work as a surrender, a mark of shame, even though almostno onecan make it in this business without another source of income. An affluent spouse, a plush inheritance, or yes—a day job.” He blows out a breath. “Look, Malcolm. I’m sorry for your loss, I really am. I didn’t get to know Sienna all that well, but I thought she was pretty great.”
“I bet you did,” sneers Malcolm.
Kenzo cocks a brow in question, raising the espresso to his lips.
“I saw you two together. I saw the way you looked at her.”
Kenzo chokes on the coffee.Got you, thinks Malcolm smugly. Words can lie, but the body always tells the truth. (A good line, he makes a note to write it down, after this whole mess is sorted.) But as Kenzo wipes his mouth, Malcolm realizes, with frustration, that he’s trying to suppress alaugh.
“Is that supposed to be my motive? That I was hitting on your wife?”
“My guess is, she told you we were splitting up.”
“Youtold me,” counters Kenzo. “Remember? You toldeveryone.”
“Ah, but I think she told you first. And you, you tried it on. But she rejected your advances.”
“I wasn’t hitting on Sienna, Malcolm. I wastalkingto her. She was bright, and funny, and easy to talk to, and I liked her a hell of a lot more than I like you, but I can assure you, I had no interest in coming on to your wife.”
“Why’s that?”
