Page 12 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 12

T HE RIDE HOME WAS UNCOMFORTABLY silent as they bounced along in a hack that smelled of stale sweat and unwashed bodies. Lydia had no idea what to say to the man who’d obviously lost all regard for her. No more smiles or banter graced his lips, just stern scowls and silence. Given his opinion of Dupin before he knew it to be her, he must now view her as a vile, selfish coward.

And she was beginning to agree with him. At least in part.

If she had come forward the moment she’d heard about the Dupin murders, Cincinnati might not have reached the boiling point it was at now. Tomorrow, instead of settling into a simmer with the revelation, Cincinnati’s chaos would likely spill over to burn her and those she loved. What would Papa think when she told him she’d not only written stories capable of being used to plan murders but hidden it from him for three years? Her stomach twisted again, but thankfully there was nothing in it left to heave. She was indeed a coward.

And maybe a little selfish.

She’d wanted it all. The ability to write, the satisfaction of making a difference, and the anonymity needed to do so without facing any consequences. But she wasn’t completely selfish. Those stories had been written for others. The victims deserved justice, and they weren’t going to get it any other way.

But she was not vile. Yes, her stories were dark, but they weren’t immoral. And her pseudonym was nothing more than protection. It wasn’t a form of deception. Detective Hall could think what he wanted. His opinion didn’t matter to her.

Except that it did. A perplexing nuisance. She’d not cared one whit about the other good men she’d encountered in her life, but for some reason Detective Hall’s disdain felt as crushing as a lost dream. Maybe because he’d become Detective Darcy to her, and now she didn’t think she’d be able to write that story without seeing the contempt on his face. How could she not mourn the loss of a man who, though he was repulsed by her, spoke up to warn her about heroes not encouraging those around them to lie like Marcus had?

The hack stopped before the combined row house and physician’s office she called home. Inside, her unsuspecting father waited, about to learn of her secrets. Secrets that would affect his position as coroner if Cincinnati ever discovered he was the unwitting source of much of her research.

“I’ll need those letters now, please.”

The use of please softened his cold tone. He was upset with her, but he still treated her with respect. Why did that make her feel like a chastised child?

“I’ll return with them immediately.”

She slipped inside and noted that Papa was taking inventory of his supplies in the converted examination room. Good. She wouldn’t have to explain herself just yet. Sneaking past, she went upstairs to her room and retrieved the locked box where she kept her paperwork related to Dupin. The stack of letters was small, but she smiled at them nonetheless. These were confirmation that writing those stories had been part of her calling. Granted, none of the letters were from the families of actual victims, but the readers had thanked her for holding the justice system accountable. She hated to relinquish them, but if they helped the police find the real murderer, then she would do her part.

When she returned outside, Detective Hall was pacing the sidewalk in front of the hack.

This was her last chance to say something to him, for he’d no doubt avoid her after this. There would be no mending his good opinion now, but she could at least offer an apology. “Before we part ways, I’m sorry for having delayed your investigation of the right suspect.”

He tucked the letters inside his coat as he regarded her. “A person’s character— your character—is defined by what you do or don’t do, say or don’t say, and write or don’t write. Choose wiser in the future.”

The words pinched, but she appreciated his intent behind them.

“Goodbye, Detective Hall. You are a good man, and I wish you the best.” She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then returned inside.

Papa stood in the door with brows furrowed. “Are you in trouble again?”

When she bit her lip to determine the best answer, he sighed and gestured toward his office down the hall. “How bad is it? Should I be sitting or standing?”

She entered the small room with a bookshelf at the back, a locked file cabinet to the side, a spindle-legged desk with its leather chair in the middle, and a single wooden chair for guests. Telling him in here might suffocate them both, but it was the only room in the house with guaranteed privacy.

“You’ll probably alternate between them, but I’d start with sitting.”

“That bad?” He shut the door and peered at her over his glasses before shaking his head and clearing space in the room.

No matter how much he prepared himself to be shocked or disappointed, it wouldn’t be enough. She twisted the necklace at her throat as his leather chair bumped against the tall bookcase of medical journals and reference books. With the desk almost in the center of the room, he’d have plenty of space to pace once he heard the truth.

Papa lowered himself into the seat and planted his elbows on the chair arms. “All right, I’m ready.”

He might be, but she wasn’t. She gripped the back of the wooden chair to still her jittering fingers and blurted, “I’m E. A. Dupin. The one wanted for those murders.”

Not that there was another E. A. Dupin.

He didn’t move or speak.

The silence stretched.

“Did you hear me? I, your daughter, am E. A. Dupin, the crime novelist.”

He drew a slow breath. “I heard you. I am just struggling to believe that you wrote the novels that fictionally murdered exonerated men.”

“They weren’t murdered by Detective Poe in the stories, but yes, they did die.” There was a difference: Her hero never murdered anyone. Other shadowy characters had done the deed and served as her clear sign of God’s justness.

“I’ve read those books, Lydia. They did not just die.” His head shook, increasing with such vigor that he launched to his feet to continue the movement from one side of the room to the next. “What were you thinking, writing such stories? They’re not proper for anyone, let alone a young woman like yourself.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I write.” Maybe ashamed to tell him, but not enough to stop writing. “Our government is unscrupulous and allows criminals to go unpunished. I bring justice to those who have been denied it.”

He halted his pacing. “God has ordained governments and judges to carry out justice, and we are subject to those authorities. If those authorities are committing injustices, it is a citizen’s duty to vote or petition to have them removed from office.”

A lot of good that did her. She was a woman. She couldn’t vote. Not to mention, everyone knew the crooked politicians physically controlled the voting polls.

“And if the government is too corrupt for a citizen to have any impact?”

“Then God will judge those He assigned to authority. It is not our place to enact vigilante justice when we feel those officials have failed. To do so is to take on the role of God.”

Why couldn’t he see reason? “But I write fiction. It’s not the same as being a vigilante. I didn’t kill those men.”

“No, you didn’t, but the stories you write reveal your heart and make a statement to the world. You believe you have the right to determine whether those men live or die.”

What she wrote was a reflection of God’s justice, not personal opinion. “The Old Testament says that the crimes those men committed are worthy of the death penalty.”

“We are called to mercy, Lydia. Only God and those He appoints can cast judgment.”

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on whether or not my rewriting their stories was wrong or right.”

Dismay lined his face. “Perhaps, but this is still very serious, Lydia. How did you even get permission to write those stories? Your publisher came to me when you sought to publish your romance novels.”

Only because she’d not reached her majority. “He didn’t know I was E. A. Dupin. I submitted it as a pseudonym and requested that my identity be preserved even from him. Otherwise, I knew he would never publish my stories. Not as a woman.”

“So you lied to get what you wanted?”

What was it with everyone accusing her of lying? “Using a pseudonym is not a lie.”

“No, it’s not, but your use of one for deceptive purposes is.” He ran a hand over the balding spot on his head. “Has your heart been so hardened that you really cannot discern the truth?”

How was she supposed to respond to that? “I don’t have a hardened heart, and I did not lie. He would never have published my stories if he’d known it was me.”

“Perhaps that was meant as God’s protection from writing stories you ought not to have written.” An unpleasant thought must have crossed his mind, for the corners of his mouth curved downward. “Where did you get the details for your stories? I know there were more there than what was available to the public. It’s been a discussion among my peers for weeks.”

She gulped. He would ask that question. She traced her thumb against the engraved surface of the chair. How could she form a palliative answer without misleading him?

“Out with it, Lydia. I already suspect your answer.”

She closed her eyes. “I stole peeks when I visited your office … and I convinced a few officers to show me the files when we visited the station.”

A thud from Papa’s direction indicated he’d dropped into his seat. When she looked, she saw that he leaned against one chair arm with his hand supporting his head. The evident pain and discouragement caused by her answer aged his appearance by years. A new gulf yawned between them, destroying the once solid bond they’d had, and she felt the loss keenly.

Slowly he sat up. “Sneaking around. Lying. Manipulating people. My heart grieves for you. You have deceived yourself. Even if the writing of your stories were acceptable, the means by which you created them are not. How often have you rationalized your actions against your conscience? Do you even hear it anymore?”

The ache behind his words crumbled her defenses. He was right. She had done a great deal of rationalizing her choices to get published and then to acquire the information she’d needed. She still didn’t believe the stories themselves were wrong or even responsible for the murders committed, but in the face of Papa’s crushing disapproval, she could no longer deny that she had selfishly pursued her desires without consideration of the consequences.

A pit formed in her stomach. “There’s more. A reporter has discovered my identity. It will be in the papers soon.”

His head angled back against the bookcase as he seemed to beseech the heavens for direction.

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

He shook his head. “Please leave. I need time alone to think and pray.”

The heaviness of the defeat in his voice tied a millstone around her neck. All that remained was for him to throw her in the river to drown. It took great effort to walk out. Thankfully no one else was about as she trudged up the stairs and shut the door to her bedroom.

What had she done?

The partially finished Billy Poe manuscript sat in a neat stack at the center of her desk, awaiting her to finish its tale.

Her reasons for a pseudonym and for writing her Billy Poe novels were valid. James O’Dell would not publish anything but a romance from a woman. And these stories needed to be shared. The evil of this world might be on full display between the pages, but right always won. Evil always died. Didn’t that reflect the ultimate end? Or was she rationalizing a falsehood only she believed?

She laid a hand on the stack of pages.

God, isn’t this what You wanted me to write? Why should a man be the only one allowed to reveal the darkness of this world and point people back to light?

But where is the light in these tales? The question arose as if God Himself had asked it.

It was there. Justice won. That was light enough, wasn’t it?

Her stomach twisted with unease. This was too much unanswerable thinking. She shoved the pages into her manuscript box, locked it in her desk, and threw herself onto the bed. The right thing to do would be to grab her Bible or pray. But she couldn’t. Her spirit was battered and weary enough. She didn’t want to read the words that might indicate that Papa and Detective Hall were right about her. She didn’t want to feel the suffocating disappointment of not only her earthly father but her heavenly one too. Instead, she lay face down, clutched her pillow, and wished all this would simply go away.

She wrote books. Works of fiction. Certainly she’d done nothing wrong. It was the rest of the world that was wrong. It couldn’t really be her, could it?