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CHAPTER TEN

Without Teague to cuddle with in front of them, my living room holiday decorations didn’t feel as festive as I’d have liked.

And, yes, I knew that was partly from shallow comparison of my current state to Clara’s, while also recognizing the demands of his job were part of the package that made Teague Teague, and I accepted that.

I just hoped he accepted—

Not going to wallow in that.

I went upstairs to my office, determined to write.

I’d seen Kit write sitting on a crate on a listing ferry, during high-level negotiations over the movie rights to Abandon All , using a stack of napkins that shredded under her pen, at the bedside of a dying friend while the man slept.

She said the stories took over and took her out of the moment.

Me?

I stared at the computer screen in my small, but way, way better than a crate on a ferry — especially with the improvements Teague had built — office and tried to commune with my characters.

Instead, I thought about Teague. Who actually wanted Clara and me to talk to people this time.

Okay, I was avoiding thinking about other things that involved talk and Teague . Do you blame me?

It didn’t feel like we’d made much progress. Sure it was only one day, but had we really gotten anywhere?

I thought of Robbie and Mamie. Then Derrick, and all the others touched by his death in one way or another.

At least all the ones we knew about. Maybe there were others...

See, there I went. Back into the moment, instead of the story.

My phone rang.

Caller ID prepared me, but also surprised me. Kit was already home in North Carolina? Unless her trip hit a snag and she was calling because she was stranded...

Quick math told me there had been time for her flight to Norfolk, Virginia, then the two-ish-hour drive south to her Outer Banks home. It seemed fast because so much happened here.

I answered with a chirpy, “Hi, Kit. You’re home? Everything’s good?”

There was a definite pause before she said, “Yes, I’m home, and, yes, everything’s good. What’s wrong with you?”

I put the call on speaker. For my dog. Gracie’s ears popped up the instant I said Kit’s name.

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong with me?”

“Where are you?”

“Where—? Why?”

“Where are you?”

“In my office.”

“Uh-huh. Sitting in front of the screen and not writing.”

How did she know? It was uncanny.

“I was thinking about a marketing plan for when I finish this book,” I fibbed.

She snorted in derision. “First write. Then decide how you’re going to publish it. After that consider marketing.” She clicked her tongue. “Local library had me out to do a talk last month—”

Kit, as the author of works the wide world did know about, gave talks for libraries when asked, to support them and their patrons.

“—and four people asked about marketing, but only one had even started writing, much less finished.”

Kit always said the hardest part of writing was starting and the second-hardest part was finishing.

“I hope you were gentle. I know how they feel.”

“Finish something, Sheila. Stop giving yourself an out. And when you’re done, plan on self-publishing.”

I groaned.

“It’s work,” she said, agreeing with the groan, “but it’s worthwhile. Especially selling direct from your own store. That’s the way to start from the beginning.”

“I thought we aspiring authors weren’t supposed to think about publishing or marketing until we finished something.”

“Smartass. You’re a special case, because you shall finish and publish. And then you’ll start again.”

Unspoken was that she would be on my tail if I didn’t.

If you’re thinking I shouldn’t have told Kit I was trying to write if I didn’t want her on my tail about not writing, you’re right. Except I didn’t tell her. She just knew.

Clara and Teague knew, too. Otherwise, I wasn’t spreading this around until — unless — I published.

I didn’t want people asking, even in the most well-meaning way, how the book was coming when I asked myself that all the time and the answer was never good.

But Kit... Well, I envied those people she talked to at the library. She didn’t have their phone numbers.

Not bothering with subtle, I changed the subject. “Are you going to see your gentleman friend?”

“Yes.”

“I expect you’ll hear all about how he spent the holidays and you can tell him about yours. Though maybe you won’t want to talk about Puzzle Place and all that. Depending on the kind of relationship you have. He might not—”

“Why are you talking so fast and—” She broke off, but followed up so quickly I didn’t have time to prepare for what came next. “You didn’t. Already? I haven’t even been gone a whole day.”

I tried anyway. “If you mean did I call Teague the way you were hounding me to and set up a time for us to talk when I’ll tell him all about how you and I lived before you moved there and I came here, then it’s my turn to say yes.”

She cut through my run-on sentence like it was the proverbial butter and she was the proverbial knife.

“About time you tell that boy. Don’t know why you’ve put it off.”

“Because I don’t know how he’ll react—”

“And you never will until you tell him. On top of how you two clearly feel about each other, you’ve got the default to belief concept going for you.”

She’d given me academic papers to read on the truth-default theory, which says humans’ inclination is to believe information they are given as truth, even without evidence. And that once they do, they resist changing that stance even despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Academics maintain that without the truth-default, human interactions could be even more difficult than they are.

Maybe.

The problem is, if someone falls for an initial lie, then resists any and all evidence that reveals it as false, that causes a lot of strife. Maybe we’d be better off being skeptical all along, testing the logic and likelihood of what we’re being asked to accept.

Kit calls it the liar’s advantage. The liar sucks people in with that first lie and then benefits from the lie-ee’s refusal to see the truth.

My stomach sank.

Had I used the truth-default on Teague? Benefited from him accepting my initial less-than-truthful account of my background, then having his belief in me bolstered by this human reaction?

“Or is default to belief going to work against me when he knows the truth?” I muttered.

“Again, won’t know until you tell him,” she said briskly.

“But that’s not what I mean about you talking fast to cover up.

You’ve already landed in another investigation.

I can’t believe it — but I do. It’s like you were waiting for me to leave Kentucky.

And here I thought we did well together, you and Clara and me. ”

“Waiting for you to leave,” I scoffed, more than willing to veer away from the upcoming inflection point in my relationship.

“And we did do well together. It’s...

Well, okay, yes, someone asked Clara for help and Clara called me — I’d barely hung up with Teague and I wasn’t even home from the airport yet and she started telling me all this stuff and then when I did get home, Teague was here and it turns out he actually wants us to talk to people this time, because—”

“Wait. Back up. You’re jumbling everything together. Give me the story in order.”

“The order I learned about it or the order it happened?”

“You know, that’s an excellent writer question. Think about how that applies to your work in progress and the most effective way to present the story to the reader. Maybe try the opening several ways.”

I groaned again.

“Nobody said it was going to be easy.” She was way too cheerful.

“You’re learning one of the nastiest things about writing for most of us.

It’s hard as hell to get your head into writing mode and easy as all get-out to snap out of it.

And I’m not talking about those few, spaced-out, but glorious intervals when you get into flow, when the world and time disappear, and the words come through your fingertips like there’s no mental or physical effort to get what’s in your head onto the screen.

Which, of course, is what most people think all of writing is, when it’s a damn small part. ”

“It’s like football fans going on and on about the one play when the quarterback makes the perfect pass to the receiver, who feints the defender, then sprints into the end zone. It’s spectacular, but it’s sure not the whole game.”

We might have let Kit watch too much football over the holidays.

She’s always liked the game, but knows she can get obsessed, so generally disciplines her watching time.

Sometimes she needs a little help — some might call it intervention — with that discipline.

But, hey, it was the holidays. We might have let up.

I suddenly wondered if she’d chosen to go home before New Year’s so she’d have less interference from family in her watching.

“It’s just one play, when the game’s made up of many plays and each play’s made up of many parts.

Your players, the other team’s players. Actions of each player, along with decisions by coaches and staff, right back to drafting and hiring.

All the work, decisions, actions need to be there to get that beautiful touchdown pass.

“It’s the same with writing. When you’re in flow, the words come and the world disappears.

But for most of writing, the world’s right at your shoulder, pecking away at the delicate bubble of creativity you need around your brain.

Peck, peck, peck. Bills, news, to-dos, want-to-dos, obligations, people, pets—”

“Football games?”

She ignored my interpolation. “You saw enough of it to know writing doesn’t come in a gush of inspiration.

It comes from work. The temptation to avoid that work is ever-present just beyond the bubble you try to create.

Your first job is to protect that bubble against the pecking.

Your second job, in this case, might be recognizing when the bubble has no chance to withstand the pecking of a murder to solve.

“You are never going to make use of every moment of time to write. Because most writing needs time around it. Time to transition from the real world with all that pecking, to the fictional world. Now, about this murder—”

“Murders. And one of the victims was the murderer.”

With that intro — not bad, if I said so myself — I plunged into the account, starting with Clara telling me about Mamie’s plea to help figure out who killed Derrick, then filling in the background of the murder of his first wife and his conviction.

“What happened with Jaylynn colors everything each person thinks about what’s happened now. It’s understandable — it’s hard not to be emotional about a young mother murdered with her baby son in the back seat. It’s horrifying. And for her husband and the father of that baby—. See, there I go, too.”

“As you said. Hard not to,” Kit said. “Those emotions might help you spot things. But you also have to be rational.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about that. We’re bound to hear a lot of emotional reactions from the people we’re talking to.

What I’d like to do is read the trial transcript.

That should lay out the case against Derrick, with the evidence that persuaded a jury.

I’m going to call the North Bend County Circuit Court Clerk’s office in the morning.

Although with it being the week between the holidays.

.. Still, they should be able to get me the name of the court reporter, though it might be a while—”

“I can get that expedited.”

Of course she could. With her sources and connections, she could probably have it hand-delivered with a bow.

“That would be a huge help. Thanks, Kit.”

“Remember that’s not the only way I can help.”

“Of course. You have to know how much we value your insights.”

She humphed , but only half meant it. “Have to go now.”

I grinned at the phone. “Your gentleman caller’s there? Planning to celebrate a belated Christmas together?”

“I am planning,” she said sternly, “to thoroughly enjoy a booty call.”

I spluttered as she hung up on me.