I did understand. I considered telling him that Leila Donnelly had been Book Babe—and had been far crueler online to Melanie Joan than she’d been in response. But then I realized that 1) he probably knew that by now and 2) even if he didn’t, it would only bolster the case he was trying to make.
“I don’t want to believe Melanie Joan committed murder,” Evan said. “I don’t want you to believe it, either. But from what I’ve seen of her, it’s possible. And I’m just asking you to keep your eyes open.”
I stood up. “They are open,” I said. “Thanks for dropping by.”
He stood up, too. He had terrible posture. “This isn’t something I enjoy.”
“When we find out who really killed Leila Donnelly,” I said, “I’ll make sure and let you know. In the most humiliating way possible.”
I showed him to the front door. When we passed Blake’s desk, he started to apologize for not bringing in coffee, but I held a hand up.
“Mr. Woodrow is in a hurry to leave,” I said.
“Okay, bye!” Blake said.
“You hate me more than ever now, don’t you?” Evan said, once I’d walked him into the hallway.
“You’re perceptive about some things,” I said. I stepped back into my office space and closed the door.
“What was that about?” Blake said.
“Nothing worth discussing.”
I returned to my desk, thinking about what Evan Woodrow had said—how quickly he could believe the worst of a woman whom he’d known for a quarter of a century, and who had made his entire career.
If Evan believed Melanie Joan was capable of murdering someone, I didn’t even want to imagine what was running through Greg Scepter’s mind. Or, for that matter, Gleason’s…
“Sunny, did you see this?” Blake said.
I got up and walked to his desk.
“This came up on my Google Alerts,” he said. He had a CelebrityScandals.com article pulled up on his screen. The titlewas:Rom-Crime: Did Melanie Joan Hall Kill Leila Donnelly?After a brief paragraph detailing what I already knew, the article consisted of a series of captioned pictures—author photos of Melanie Joan and Leila, a press conference pic of Greg Scepter, a Getty image of mourning Leila fans taken in front of the Connecticut State Police barracks, separate, side-by-side shots of Tony and me, taken in nearly the same spot, with a caption that readTeam Melanie Joanbeneath them, along with our names and job descriptions.
To my horror, they’d also included a screenshot of Melanie Joan’s infamous comment, with all the offensive words blacked out. It hit me that even if the worldhadfound out that Book Babe had been a fake account created by Leila Donnelly, it probably wouldn’t have mattered much. The comment had that type of staying power. And if Melanie Joan was eventually tried for Leila’s murder, it would be shown to the jury. Even with Rita Fiore on her side, she didn’t stand a chance.
Another photo captured Leila Donnelly’s house, the front door bound with crime scene tape. I stared at it. A couple cops stood on the front porch, their backs to the camera. In the driveway, I could make out part of a medical examiner’s van. The picture had been taken at sunrise, just after Leila’s body had been found. I’d been to a lot of crime scenes. They evolved very rapidly. By now, I imagined, the tape was still there, but Leila’s body had been removed, along with the murder weapon, Melanie Joan’s highlighted book, and other items the police thought were relevant to the case, including furniture. Butthere might still be something there worth looking at, or maybe a cop more amenable than Gleason.
Union was only an hour away. I handed Blake the key to my loft and asked if he could feed and walk Rosie on his way home.
Then I grabbed my purse, made sure I had my gun, wallet, and car keys, and hurried out of the office. I hoped there wasn’t too much traffic heading toward the Connecticut border.
Thirty-seven
Driving to Connecticut three times in less than twenty-four hours was something I never thought myself capable of doing willingly. But here I was, on my way back to Union again, talking to Richie on my Bluetooth and feeling like a commuter.
Interestingly, if you added three round trips from Boston to Union, Connecticut, the mileage was less than that of one round trip to Asbury Park. But as I was telling Richie, that didn’t stop this latest journey from feeling especially long.
“What’s Union like?” Richie asked.
“Reminds me of that town in the movieGroundhog Day,” I said. “But that could just be because Melanie Joan and I keep seeing it again and again and again.”
“Makes sense,” he said. He was quiet for a little while.
“What are you thinking?” I said.
“Nothing, really,” Richie said. “I just can’t believe how much has happened since you met with Swinging Dick.”
“Jeez, you’re right,” I said. “I feel like he should be about forty by now.”
