The new mystery novel I’ve been eagerly looking forward to lies before my eyes. How? It’s not supposed to be released until next month.
And then I recall telling my silent guest about it last Saturday night.
Somehow, he made this happen.
And he read it to confirm a bug-free plot.
Chapter 11
Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“The text came in right as I was leaving the hardware store.”
Bartholomew’s eyes flare under his bushy eyebrows. “You went to the hardware store?”
“I needed a new set of screwdrivers.”
“Screwdrivers?”
“Yes. And will you stop repeating everything I say.”
Barty leans back in his chair, raising his hands in surrender.
“I’m simply surprised. That had to be some major repair that your maintenance guy, a driver, and three groundskeepers couldn’t handle themselves,” he chuckles. “You went to see the girl, didn’t you?”
“She wasn’t there,” I growl. “Switched her last shift to today instead, and Brahms didn’t sniff it out. I’ve cut his next month’s salary by a quarter for that.”
“It’s a wonder he still lives. What would you have said to her if she were there?”
“Nothing. There was no reason for us to talk. I just needed to see her to stop my migraine.”
“Was it a bad one?” he asks.
“It was. But it got worse after that damn text.”
“From your rhymey fellow? What did he tell you this time?”
“Usual nonsense. Best laid plans going awry. I’ve had it up to here with his bullshit. When I get my hands on the fucker, he’s a dead man.”
“Uh-oh. He’s really getting on your nerves, huh?”
“Extremely.” I pour myself a glass of mineral water, then take a drink. “I think I’ll cut off his hands and force bits of him down his own throat. One finger after another. He’ll never be able to type another message again. And I’ll enjoy his gagging noises as he’s made to chew and swallow.”
“That’s…graphic,” Barty coughs. “Pardon me. Even after all these years, I’m still startled when that side of you comes out. You very seldom shed the cultured mask.”
“People see what they want to see, Bartholomew.”
“True. But I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve started to show more and more cracks.”
My eyes narrow while I consider his words. “What do you mean?”
“Your escalated cursing, for instance.”
“There’s no need for me to pretend around you.”
“Of course not. But until a few months ago, that veiled persona never appeared. Not even with me. You were always well-spoken. Always polite. Always impeccably refined. Even when speaking openly about the terrible acts you’ve committed, you were formal, concise, matter-of-fact.” He leans toward me over his desk. “Now, something has you rattled. To your very core. Could it be this cookie girl of yours?”
I laugh. “Christ, Barty. Do you really believe anyone could have such an impact on me? Especially a woman?”
