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Hotel security staff arrived within five minutes.

Five minutes is a long time when you’re waiting with a dead body.

The minute I hung up with the front desk, I phoned Finn, and Finn arrived what felt like ninety seconds later—well, before security.

He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and carried the mostly decorative blue and gold afghan from the suite’s living room

I had the confused idea that he was going to retrieve Colby’s body and put the blanket over him, but the afghan turned out to be for me.

He wrapped it around my shoulders, putting his face next to mine and saying very quietly, “Don’t lie, but don’t offer anything, either.

Answer what they ask—no more, no less. You’re in shock, you were swimming laps, you saw something in the water, and you called for help.

That’s it. Stick to what you know for sure, not what you think or suspect.

And if they push, tell them you want to talk to your lawyer before going further. ”

I nodded mechanically. “There are security cameras everywhere. They’re going to see my run-in with Colby last night.”

“No. They’re going to see a conversation. Which can be interpreted different ways. What they will also hopefully see is whoever followed Colby up to the Horizon Deck.”

I stared at him. “You don’t think it could have been an accident?”

Finn said grimly, “Until we hear otherwise, it absolutely was an accident. That should be your assumption.”

“Right. Yes.”

Finn hesitated. “If the subject of the manuscript comes up, play it like you did last night with Colby.”

“I— You said not to lie.”

“It’s a decades-old missing persons cold case. Nobody’s going to make an instant connection to what happened in Steeple Hill. We need some time to figure out what’s happening. Right?”

I nodded.

He scrutinized my face. “You okay?”

“I think I need a vacation.”

He grinned a little. “How’s San Clemente sound?”

It sounded like heaven and about as far out of reach.

Security arrived at that point. They conferred, agreed that the victim was clearly deceased, and phoned 911. After confirming that Finn and I were guests at the hotel, we all waited the ten minutes it took Monterey Police to respond to the 911 call.

Finn sat with his arm around my blanketed shoulders. We didn’t speak.

The first officers arrived and the scene was secured. I was separated from Finn and very briefly interviewed: What’s your name? What were you doing in the pool? Did you touch the body? Did you see anyone else?

To my relief, they did not ask if I recognized the dead man, and, remembering Finn’s instructions (and the thousands of mystery novels I’d edited) I volunteered nothing.

After about fifteen minutes and more conferring, the decision was made to call for a detective supervisor.

My heart sank, but it wasn’t really a surprise.

It was still unclear—or at least, I was still unclear—as to whether Colby’s body had visible injuries. But a sudden unexplained death at a mystery conference?

No chance in hell was there not going to be a complete and thorough investigation.

About ninety minutes after I’d discovered Colby’s body floating in the Horizon Pool, Homicide Detective Robert Olivares strolled into the crime scene, and I finally caught a break.

Olivares was perhaps fifty, handsome, genial, and clearly experienced. He wore a gold wedding band and a small golden stud in his right ear.

“Mr. Chandler?” he asked. His voice was warm, conversational. “Detective Robert Olivares, Monterey PD.”

I said automatically, “How do you do?”

“Better than you, I imagine. Anybody offer you coffee? Something to warm you up?”

“Yes. Thanks. My stomach’s a little off.”

He offered a brief sympathetic smile. “Understandable.” He pulled a small notepad from his jacket. “I understand you discovered the body. Mind walking me through what happened this morning?”

I took a breath, trying not to glance back at the far end of the pool, where Colby’s still floating body was currently being photographed behind crime scene tarps.

“I was swimming laps,” I said. “Early. Around six thirty? Maybe a little after. I noticed something in the water at the deep end. I wasn’t sure what it was at first.”

“You were the only one using the pool?”

“At that time, yes.”

“You enter through the east gate?”

I nodded again. “I used my key card.”

“Did you see anyone else around? Anyone entering or leaving?”

“No.” I hesitated. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I took my glasses off when I got to the pool. I was focused on swimming.”

Olivares jotted something down, then looked back at me. “So, you saw something in the water—what made you realize it was a body?”

“I didn’t, at first. But as I got closer… The way it moved—didn’t move, actually. The shape. Then I saw it—he—had a face.” I shivered convulsively, seeing that face again.

“You touch the body?”

“No. I could tell he was dead. His eyes were…” I swallowed, admitted, “I couldn’t jump out of the pool fast enough. I got to the nearest phone and called the front desk.”

He watched me for a moment, then asked, “Did you know the victim?”

I hesitated. “I didn’t get a close look at him, but I think it’s Troy Colby. He was a writer attending the conference.”

“Then you did know him.”

“Only in passing.”

It was alarming how easy it was to say too much.

Olivares raised an eyebrow. “And you’re…another writer?”

“No. I’m an editor. Several of my authors are here this weekend.”

“Right,” he said, flipping a page. “Keiran Chandler. Senior editor. Millbrook House. You’re staying in the Grand Bay Suite?”

That was a timely reminder that detectives often asked questions they already knew the answer to.

“Yes.”

Another nod. “Did you have any disputes or disagreements with Mr. Colby?”

I gave a short laugh. “Disagreements? I’m sure I did. He was a writer.”

Olivares smiled faintly. “I meant anything more serious.”

“Not from my perspective.”

His brows shot up. “That’s an interesting comment.”

It was, wasn’t it? What the fuck was the matter with me?

“I’ve bumped into several authors this weekend who, it turns out, took offense at comments I made during evaluations or because I turned down a manuscript. Those decisions are part of my job. It’s not personal to me, but, understandably, it is to writers.”

He smiled, displaying perfect teeth. “I can see that. You rejected Mr. Colby’s manuscript?”

“If that is Mr. Colby, his wouldn’t be the only manuscript I turned down this weekend.”

“Do you know if Mr. Colby had run-ins with anyone this weekend? Did he have any enemies?”

“Wasn’t it an accident?”

Olivares shrugged. “Just covering all the bases. At the moment, it’s a suspicious death. Would you say he had enemies?”

I hesitated again. “I can’t answer that. I just don’t know.”

Olivares studied me for a long beat. “Okay. We’ll follow up later for a formal statement, but I appreciate your cooperation this morning.”

I nodded. I was abruptly out of words.

He clicked his pen and gave me another of those polite, unreadable smiles. “You might want to have a hot drink. Lie down for a few minutes. It’s normal to be shocked.”

“Yes.”

“Different from books, right?” His tone was wryly humorous.

I nodded. There were no words for how different it was.

“You’re not planning to leave town?”

“I— No. The conference ends tomorrow. I’m having a cocktail party for some of my authors tomorrow night. I can postpone my flight for however long is necessary.”

“We appreciate that.” He nodded in dismissal.

That was not the part where I caught a break. That happened as I was leaving the Horizon Deck.

Finn, who had been waiting over to the side, made his way over to Olivares and quietly introduced himself as a retired San Clemente homicide detective.

That was all I was able to hear, but as I went through the security gate, I heard Olivares exclaim, “ Finn Scott ! No kidding. Man, I love your books!”

It was about forty-five minutes before Finn returned to our room.

I’d had time to shower, shave, dress, and consider burning I Know What You Did in the living room fireplace before I heard the electronic lock.

I couldn’t read Finn’s expression when he walked in, but he was good at concealing his feelings.

“Was he murdered?” I asked.

He grimaced. “They’re not confirming or denying, but I got a glimpse of Colby when they dragged him out. There’s a lot of bruising around his neck.”

“Jesus. I don’t understand.” I leaned forward in my chair, carding my damp hair with my fingers. “Does this make sense to you?”

“No. It doesn’t make any sense. You’ve been the target from the beginning. So why is Colby dead?”

I appreciated the importance of the question, although, frankly, I couldn’t help being glad not to be the one floating in the swimming pool.

I studied his face. “Are we still going to see Judge Baldwin?”

“No.” At my expression, he said, “I don’t think you’re under exceptional scrutiny, but you found the body and you did admit to some level of acquaintance with the victim, so you’ve attracted their attention. The last thing we want to do is point them in a direction potentially dangerous to you.”

I closed my eyes. “Right.”

“The best thing to do is carry on as normal.”

What the hell was normal?

I opened my eyes. “Do you think I should destroy the manuscript?”

“ No .” Finn was definite. “We don’t know how many people have knowledge of that manuscript.

We don’t know who, besides Rachel Ving, saw Colby hand it to you or whether that exchange showed up on a security camera.

We don’t know how many copies are floating around out there or what records he kept.

If it’s discovered that you destroyed your copy of the manuscript, it will be viewed as an admission of guilt.

Whereas treating it like any other submission you planned on rejecting, looks innocent. ”

I thought about that, and said, “What if I mark up the manuscript as if I’d actually edited it?”