“Name of the source?”
“Prefer not to say.”
“Fair enough.” Gleason cleared his throat. “Can you tell me about Ms. Hall’s state of mind when you left the interview?”
“Quiet.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Not until you explain to me why you think Melanie Joan had anything to do with Leila Donnelly’s death.”
Gleason folded his hands on the table and watched me intently. “Prefer not to say,” he said.
I let out an exasperated groan. “Listen, Detective, I can tellyou with certainty that Leila Donnelly was alive when we went to her house, and alive when we left. She was alive when I spoke to her at approximately three p.m. and made plans to meet with her in Boston. Beyond that, there is nothing I know.”
“That’s consistent with our timeline,” he said. “And when we went through Ms. Donnelly’s phone, we could see the call you placed to her. It was two-fifty-six.”
“See? I’m being honest.”
“Apparently,” he said.
“So…I guess we’re through, then.”
“Sure,” he said. “But there’s just one more thing.”
“Who are you, Columbo?”
His brows knotted, as though he didn’t get the reference.
“Old TV show? Peter Falk?”
He lifted his briefcase from the floor and set it on the table.
“Columbo always used to say, ‘Just one more—’ ”
“I know the show.” He removed two pairs of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and handed one of the pairs to me. “Do you mind?” he said.
“Not at all,” I said.
He went to work putting on his gloves. I did the same. He opened the briefcase and removed an item—something in an evidence bag. He put it down on the table. There was a hardcover book inside. Gloves safely on, he slipped it from the bag. “We found this next to the body,” he said. “It’s a copy ofMy Last First Loveby Leila Donnelly.”
“That’s not really surprising, is it? The crime scene was her house. I imagine she owned a lot of copies of her own books.”
“Actually, no,” he said.
“Hmph. Well, what do you know?”
“I’d like you to take a look at it,” he said. “Tell me if you notice anything familiar.” He stood up and gave the book to me, asking me to be very careful while handling it. I wanted to tell him that this was a waste of time—that I’d never even seen a Leila Donnelly book, let alone looked through one. What exactly was I supposed to find familiar?
But I didn’t. The faster I could get through this interview, the sooner I could leave, talk to Melanie Joan, and find out what was going on. Carefully, I took the book and opened it.
I turned to a random page. My mouth went dry. I started flipping through it, Melanie Joan’s voice in my mind.I highlighted all the misogynistic parts in yellow, the terrible clichés in green, and the parts where she’s ripped off other writers—including me—in pink.I turned more pages. I could feel Gleason watching me closely. I said nothing, hoping my expression stayed the same, that my cheeks didn’t flush, that nothing on the surface of my skin betrayed what was going on beneath it.
The book looked like an Easter egg.
“Ever see Melanie Joan Hall with this particular book?”
“No.” I was telling the truth. I’d never seen her with it.
