Page 25 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 25

B Y THE TIME THE CARRIAGE rolled onto Theresa’s drive, Lydia had composed herself. The knowledge she’d never write again still made the idea of curling up under her bedcover for the rest of her life appealing, but Abraham’s presence and silent support made facing the world bearable. Barely, but enough. If only she could hold his hand or lean into him whenever the brokenness of her situation overwhelmed her and threatened to drown her. Yes, knowing God was with her at all moments was a consolation, but there was no denying the relief Abraham’s physical presence brought.

How was it that a man she’d met twelve days ago and agreed to friendship with only yesterday had become her anchor? She’d written plenty of romance novels with fast friendships and whirlwind romances, but she hadn’t actually believed them realistic. Was it possible she was living a dream? Considering the fantastical turn everything had taken with her Billy Poe novels coming to life in the most horrific manner possible, she shouldn’t be surprised that her romance novels decided to vie for a position in her reality. But was this reality? Or would Abraham, like a fictional detective, disappear once the book was closed on the Billy Poe case?

He ducked out of the carriage to the graveled drive and turned to assist her. His tender and compassionate smile promised her that he wasn’t going anywhere, but her imagination was an atrocity that shouldn’t be trusted. She was simply reading too much into his expression. It didn’t matter that crying in his arms made her feel loved, cherished, and safe. He was her friend—whether temporary or a forever sort—and that was all.

His warm hand wrapped around hers, and a zing traveled up her arm.

No. No. No! Zings and locked, longing gazes were only supposed to happen in romances. They didn’t happen in real life.

Yet here she stood, half ducked at the door, completely unable to remove her attention from the molasses-colored eyes that made her heart thud harder. Friends didn’t stare into each other’s eyes for no other reason than to enjoy the sight of them. That was what lovers did. She flicked her gaze away, but instead of going somewhere safe, it found his lips.

You have to stop this, Lydia. He is not the hero of your novel, nor are you the heroine.

Her foot overshot the narrow metal step, and she tumbled forward. Abraham moved quicker than her fall, and she found herself tucked safely within his arms.

Or rather, hanging from them.

The tips of her toes dug into the gravel, and her knees hovered inches above the ground, thanks to his strong hold.

Abraham’s voice rumbled against her cheek where it pressed against his chest. “If you were trying to knock me off my feet again, you missed your target. My lips are higher up.”

Good gracious. Had he noticed her attention on his mouth? Her face flamed even though she could hear the jesting in his tone. If he jested, that was a good sign, right? Inside jokes between friends were special—especially those that referenced a kiss. Friends kissed on occasion, right? Not that she’d ever kissed Theresa, Nora, or Flossie, but the French did, didn’t they? Surely the Hall and Pelton surnames had some French history somewhere …

He hefted her higher, and she gained her feet—although they weren’t much in helping her to stand when her legs were as firm as jam under this man’s amused smile and supportive grip. He didn’t even smell like a perfumed corpse to her anymore.

This is not a romance novel. Stop it. Now.

Lydia let loose a nervous giggle and stepped away, not at all sure that she’d be able to stay upright. “I thought we were moving forward as if that never happened.”

“Some embarrassing moments are too good to let go. Especially when I’m presented with an opportunity to bring them up again.”

“I’ll keep my lips to myself from now on, thank you very much. And that’s a promise.”

A suppressed grin peeked out. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Oh, and you think we’re bound to kiss again?”

“I’m saying, if the possibility exists, you shouldn’t make promises against it. I am your beau, after all.”

At his wink, a true swoon threatened to overtake her. Another inside joke? Or did he not consider it humorous at all? Was there truly a possibility for them?

“You can’t court her. It’s unprofessional.” Detective Lawson’s reprimand, harsh and unyielding, came from behind Abraham.

The teasing dropped from Abraham’s expression, and he stepped aside, creating distance between them and a clear view to his partner. “We’re not courting. It was a jest in reference to a reporter’s interpretation of my escorting Lydia to break her contract.”

“Reporter? What—” Detective Lawson’s scowl swung toward her. “Wait. You’ve broken your contract? The one for more Billy Poe novels?”

“I have. There will be no more Billy Poe or romance novels from me.”

He stared at her as if not comprehending.

“There can’t be more bodies if I don’t write any more books. I should’ve never written them in the first place.”

He blinked at Abraham. “And you allowed her to do this?”

“Of course. I encouraged it, even.”

Detective Lawson massaged his forehead for a moment, then gestured for them to walk toward Plane Manor. “You are young and shortsighted. If we don’t catch Poe before he fulfills the other novels, we will have no way to predict his next victim.”

Lydia stumbled at the implication. “Are you saying you fear the other three men will die before you catch him and that you need more potential victims for him to claim?” The thought was horrifying. “I cannot condone or be a part of such a plan.”

“We’ll catch him. Have no fear.” Abraham’s confidence reassured her like a soft touch. “We won’t need future novels to lure him out.”

Mrs. Hawking opened the door, and Lydia led the men into the parlor.

Theresa popped to her feet from the sofa and rushed to her. After a brief inspection of Lydia’s face, Theresa pulled her into an embrace. “You did it, didn’t you? Oh, Lydia, I’m so sorry.”

She pulled back, and the friendship from their youth that bound them in sisterhood meant nothing else needed to be said. Theresa knew the depths of Lydia’s pain in walking away from writing, and Lydia knew by the ferocity of Theresa’s expression that the woman was ready to go to war for her. If Billy Poe wasn’t arrested soon, Theresa would blow the battle horn and call their clan of Guardians together for a trap-plotting session.

“I’ll be okay.” Lydia put up a courageous front. “But I wouldn’t be opposed to your sitting with me for a while.” A much safer alternative to the possibility of Abraham claiming a position next to her on the sofa.

Obviously she was too emotional to think clearly. Her imagination was reveling in the freedom to take every kind gesture from him as the potential for something more.

Detective Lawson claimed the seat directly in front of Lydia. Abraham chose to stand farther away, but there was a protectiveness in the way he watched her—like he was prepared to step in and rescue her should Lawson’s questioning become too much.

Theresa pressed Lydia’s hands and drew her attention—and, thankfully, her imagination—away from Abraham. “How did O’Dell take the news? Was it as terrible as you thought it would be?”

“I think he took it better than Marcus, but Mr. O’Dell did practically beg to buy the unfinished manuscript from me.”

Detective Lawson scooted to the edge of his seat. “You have an unfinished manuscript?”

“I was almost finished when I discovered the Billy Poe murders were occurring. I haven’t been able to add a word since.”

“That could be the piece we need to lure Poe out of hiding. May I see it?”

He couldn’t be serious. Yes, it could work for bait, but she would not be so foolish as to believe there wouldn’t be consequences to such a scheme. “No, you cannot. Not one person, aside from me, has seen it, and I intend to keep it that way. I’ll not risk giving Billy another target.”

“But don’t you see? That manuscript gives us control. Your best choice is to hand it over to us. You can trust us to keep it safe and use the information only when necessary.”

“ When necessary?” It wasn’t even a matter of if . She tried her best to hold the disdain from her voice, but it slipped out thick as syrup. “If you can’t catch Billy Poe before he murders three more men, then I’m not going to give you the means to provide him with another.”

“There won’t be three more deaths. Two have fled the city after the report of Ross’s murder, and the third might as well be dead. He’s in a consumption sanatorium in Colorado.” Detective Lawson leaned his elbows onto his knees, imploring her with his nearness. “Your manuscript is the only way to direct his next move.”

“No. Absolutely not. There are other ways to trap him than to put another man’s neck in the guillotine and dangle the drop rope for Billy to grasp.”

“Lydia’s right.” Theresa’s countenance brightened, a sure sign of the suggestion about to fly from her mouth. “If you allow her, Nora, Flossie, and me to put a plan together, we’ll have Billy Poe trapped and begging to be arrested rather than deal with us within a few days.”

A choked laugh came from Abraham. The curve of his lips betrayed his thoughts—probably along the lines of her and Theresa being enough trouble even without the aid of Nora and Flossie to force Billy to beg for mercy.

At Lawson’s scowl, Abraham schooled his countenance. “I have to agree with Lydia, Lawson. It’s an unnecessary risk, and we can’t force her. It’s bad enough that having the manuscript makes her more of a target. Marcus knows she has it, and is desperate to retrieve it.”

“All the more reason for her to give it to us.”

Lydia jumped to her feet. She hadn’t walked into Mr. O’Dell’s office and broken her contract just to turn around and use the manuscript anyway. “I’m not going to do it. I’d rather burn the thing.”

Detective Lawson leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “I will not force you to give it to us, but I do encourage you not to burn the manuscript. Having written a story myself, I know how much work goes into creating one. Once this is over, you may change your mind and choose to publish it. Don’t allow your emotions to drive your decisions.”

“Just because I show my emotions doesn’t mean I allow them to rule me. I am capable of sound judgment. Don’t you dare make that face, Abraham.” She didn’t even have to look at him to know he either smirked or gave her a dubious frown.

“I’m not making a face,” Abraham said. “You absolutely are capable of sound judgment. Whether you use that judgment is another story.”

Lydia snapped her attention to him, ready to knock him off his feet by a completely different method, but his stupid smile disarmed her. Teasing her was entirely unfair. The familiarity of it drew her in like a novel’s promise of a happily-ever-after.

“You’re lucky you’re so charming, or I might have to show you sound judgment isn’t the only thing I can deliver.”

His eyes sparked. “Are you implying that you want to knock me off my feet? Because I don’t think that would be wise. I just might turn around and teach you how to do it properly.”

His answer completely discombobulated her. She didn’t know whether to blush, melt into a puddle, slug him, or run away and try to figure out what on earth was going on between them. Friends. They were friends .

Theresa cleared her throat. “Whatever Lydia decides about her manuscript, she needs time to think it through”—she pulled Lydia toward the door—“without your influence. She’ll present you with her decision tomorrow. Until then, I suggest you two review the case while Lydia and I discuss her options. Oh, and since Detective Hall helped Lydia so much today, I think it best if he goes home tonight.”

Oh no. Lydia inwardly groaned. Theresa must have picked up on the unspoken conversation. Had Detective Lawson?

His scowl hadn’t changed much since she’d declared she’d not give him the manuscript. Maybe she and Abraham were safe.

Well, at least they were safe from Detective Lawson. If Theresa’s giddy and mischievous expression were any indication, Lydia was about to be in serious trouble.