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He considered it dangerous and had warned her on various occasions that a convicted killer could be paroled or escape or have friends and Kristi was painting an ever-larger target on her back.
“These people aren’t rational,” he’d said, his eyes blazing, his lips tight with concern. “You can’t trust them, no matter how ‘good’ they’ve been while serving time,” he’d pointed out, while pouring himself a drink, a double scotch. Neat. His favorite.
“And they have friends,” he’d continued, taking a sip from his short glass and pointing at her with a long finger. “Family members. People who would like nothing more than revenge against anyone they think exploits them. You make money from their mistakes, the pain of their loved ones. They’re crazed. And they have weapons.”
“Exploits them? Killers?”
“In their eyes, you’re abusing them.”
“Oh, Jay, stop it.” That—his remark about abusing killers? Seriously? That had particularly stung and she’d longed for a drink of her own. Red wine. Her go-to when stressed, but that last night, because of her recently discovered secret, that they would be parents, she’d eyed the bottle but left it be.
“This is my job, Jay,” she said. “It’s not dangerous.”
“You don’t know that.”
“And you don’t know that it is. You’re just paranoid.”
“Am I?” He was getting angrier. Downed his drink. “What about Roy Calhoun, the author who wrote about that Chicago strangler? He ended up at the end of a rope, a noose hung from his own ceiling, dangling over a copy of his book, the pages all ripped out.”
“One case?”
“How about Anne DeVille?”
“That was an accident,” Kristi argued, really wanting that glass of wine.
“She went canoeing alone and was found drowned, her boat capsized. Her life vest missing.”
“She was careless.”
“Like you?” he’d said. “You’ve already published enough books. You don’t need to write any more. Face it, Kristi, with every book you write, you’re taunting someone in the shadows, profiting off their pain, throwing them and their families into the spotlight.”
“I thought killers loved the limelight. I thought they got off on mentally reviewing their kills, that they loved to replay the suffering of their victims, that they got their rocks off by outplaying a game with the police.”
“Some. But it’s dangerous. These people are capable of unspeakable acts.”
“I know.”
“And you make them famous. Throw them into the spotlight again.”
“I tell their stories, Jay. What are you saying?” she demanded, seeing deeper into his argument. “That I glorify them? Murderers? Rapists?”
“That they could object to you profiting from them.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” she’d flung back at him. “This isn’t just a job for me, it’s what I do. What I want to do!”
“Find something else. Something less dangerous.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right. I can just imagine what you would do if I told you to find another career.”
“I’d listen,” he’d argued, and tossed back his drink.
“And then you’d do what you wanted. Well, consider yourself listened to.” She’d grabbed her backpack and mat and stormed to the door. “And now I’m going to do exactly what I want.”
“Kristi, don’t!”
“Don’t what?” she’d demanded. “Don’t leave now? Don’t write my story? Don’t be the person I was meant to be?” She’d felt her temper rising, her anger exploding. “Maybe I should quit being Kristi Bentz and be satisfied with just being Mrs. Jay McKnight.”
“Just?” he’d repeated.
