I could barely get the words out. “I…I think I know who killed her,” I croaked.
Makayla’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“A writer. A harmless murder mystery writer. Or so I thought.” I put my hands over my mouth as the horror of the situation hit me full force. Makayla wrapped her arm around my waist to steady me. “I was wrong,” I murmured, staring at the newspaper and its dire headline. “God help me, but my mistake may have cost Tilly Smythe her life.”
Chapter 12
FEELING SICK TO MY STOMACH, I GRABBED THE newspaper and left a stunned Makayla sitting at the café table while I raced upstairs to my office. Vicky said something to me as I rushed by, but I ignored her.
There was a pounding in my head, like a rush of floodwaters, and it almost overpowered my ability to function. My whole body was trembling as I fell into my desk chair and dialed Sean’s number.
“Please,” I prayed into the receiver. “Please pick up.”
He did, but his first words were a curt “I can’t talk to you right now.”
“You have to! It’s about Tilly’s murder,” was my abrupt response. Suddenly, I released all the anger I felt over my own blindness at Sean. “I think I know who killed her, but if you’re too busy to listen, let me speak to another officer!”
I could hear an intake of breath on the other end and I tensed, expecting Sean to lash out at me. Instead, he softly said, “Excuse me for a moment,” to someone nearby and I realized that he hadn’t been alone. The sound of a door closing came through the speaker and then Sean spoke again. “I was just about to interview Tilly’s husband, Lila. I shouldn’t have answered my phone, but…well, now that I have, tell me what you know.”
The image of Tilly’s husband, sitting grief-stricken and stunned beyond all reason in one of the department’s interview rooms, filled me with shame. What was I doing, picking a fight with the one man who’d go to the ends of the earth to see that justice was served?
“I’m sorry,” I said. My apology was not just for behaving like a petulant child, but also for not mentioning T. J. West to Sean the night before last. I knew there was no hope for atonement, as the damage was already done, but I could at least give the police a solid lead. “Tilly mentioned seeing a man around town. He fits the description of a writer I met during a pitch session at the book festival. Sean, the guy’s manuscript contains details freakishly similar to Tilly’s murder. I only know what I read in the Dunston Herald, but it was enough to give me chills.”
“What’s the writer’s name?” Sean asked, his tone professional and direct.
“He only gave me his pseudonym, which is T. J. West. I have his email address and I’ll ask Vicky to look up his mailing address. West must have put one on his registration form or we wouldn’t have been able to send him materials for the book festival. Vicky probably has his credit card number or a copy of his check on file as well.”
Sean sucked in a quick breath. “Can you email me this man’s book? Right away?”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll drive it to the station this minute. That way, I can show you the scene I mentioned without your having to hunt for it.”
There was a pregnant pause and I feared that Sean didn’t want me around right now. I couldn’t begin to fathom what the last twenty-four hours had been like for him. I wondered when he’d first heard about Tilly’s murder and was both surprised and hurt that I’d had to learn of her death by reading about it in the newspaper. Why hadn’t he told me? How could he let me discover what happened to her like this? Did he care so little for me?
“Okay,” he finally answered. “But I’m reluctant to have you come to Dunston. You’ve been through enough lately and I want to spare you any more pain.”
I felt a rush of warmth. Sean hadn’t called because he’d been trying to protect me. He knew that Melissa’s death had taken its toll on me, but I was stronger than he realized and there was no chance of my standing aside. Not now. Not when I felt responsible for what happened to Tilly. “Sean, if I’d told you about West sooner, Tilly might be still alive. I deserve to feel pain. I’m coming in.”
“You don’t know that. I’ve told you before that it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions.” He instilled his voice with tenderness. “And, Lila?”
“Yes?”
“I know you’re upset, so drive carefully,” he cautioned gently. “That Vespa should only go so fast over mountain roads.”
After promising to arrive in one piece, I printed out T. J. West’s first three chapters, synopsis, and a copy of his original email. I then rushed out to Vicky’s desk and asked her to look up the writer’s address.