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“Why wouldn’t the police have made that connection?”
“I don’t think the chief was even on the force at that point, and some of his men probably weren’t out of diapers. Second, whoever was killed at the party wasn’t killed the way Daniel was. It wouldn’t necessarily be the first connection people would make.”
Fiona nodded slowly. “I get it. I have to say I didn’t connect the two until we were looking at and talking about Daniel’s paintings. The easy connection was with my book. I must have pulled that from a distant memory when I wrote that.”
“Does that happen often?”
“What, that I pull things from my past? Most definitely. Sometimes deliberately and sometimes subconsciously.”
“Is that kind of common knowledge among or about writers?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I didn’t know it, but then I know very little about writers and their process.”
“There’s a couple of old sayings about writers. The first is write what you know, and the second is that everything is ‘grist for the mill,’ so I’d say it would be fairly common knowledge.”
“Is there any way the killer could have held you responsible for the kid’s death?”
She shook her head slowly. “I wouldn’t think so. I mean I was there, but so were dozens of other kids. I don’t know why anyone would single me out.”
“Babe, sometimes we’ll never know why someone is singled out. Why Daniel? Does the killer think he did it? Did he or she think Daniel was mocking the kid’s death? Does he or she think you’re making money off it? None of those things may seem rational to you or me, but it may make all the sense in the world to the killer. And then again, the killer may have chosen Daniel for a myriad of reasons or no reason at all. The point is we have to start somewhere and little by little, we weed out all the extraneous information until we get to the stuff that leads us to the killer.”
“That’s weird to me because as a writer I need to know the why before I can even determine the who. Then once I know the who, I can weave in clues and red herrings.”
Slade glanced at his watch.
“That’s pretty. Is it a Rolex?”
He nodded. “It was my dad’s. When my mother passed, my brother and sister asked me if there was anything I wanted. This was the only thing. Well, my father’s watch and my mother’s engagement ring and wedding band. Both of them asked to be cremated and their bands handed down within the family. Generously, my brother and sister said yes.” He clapped his hands together. “I’m starving.”
“I’m not sure what I’ve got in the fridge, but if I know Jessica, there’s something, and probably even something made by her housekeeper, who is an amazing chef.”
“Maybe we’ll have that for dinner. We’re going out for lunch.”
He saw fear flash across her face. “I don’t know…”
“Then it’s a good thing I do. Look, I know that people treated you badly after the pseudo-arrest, but that isn’t going to get any better by hiding up here in your loft. So, we’re going to dinner at that place with the famous chef.”
“Seraphim? I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“I do. Besides, didn’t you find that long-lost angel statue there?”
“Yes, but…”
“No buts about it. I publicly put you in handcuffs and carted you off to jail. I think we need to walk to the restaurant holding hands and get a table up by the window.”
“Don’t you think someone in your office might be worried about you having lunch with a suspect?”
“Did you miss the part where I said Went had confirmed your alibi? You are in the clear, and as far as I’m concerned, you are owed an apology for my precipitous arrest yesterday. What better way to do that than to take you to lunch?”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
That wasn’t necessarily true. He was sure of his growing feelings for Fiona. Granted, he’d haunted her bookstore not just because he liked old books or her free coffee, but to catch glimpses of her. When he’d realized one of the reasons he came to Angel’s Rise was to visit her bookstore, he’d made himself stop coming, which in turn made him miserable. He kept telling himself that a woman like Fiona wouldn’t be interested in a man like him.
He’d hated having to arrest her yesterday, but even more he’d hated that others had been so quick to believe the worst. He hadn’t said as much as ten sentences to the woman, and he’d known there was no way that she could be guilty. True, he’d arrested her, but that had been a knee-jerk reaction to hearing her read a passage in her book that was a bang-on description of the crime scene he’d just left.
