“It involves your ex-wife.”
“I should have known.” Disgust echoed through his voice. “C.J., go upstairs.”
“I want to stay with you, Papa.”
“Upstairs,” Jefferson repeated, but patted the top of the boy’s head.
The kid took two steps, and Eve read his intent in his eyes. She danced back, avoiding an angry kick in the shins. The miss and momentum had the boy skidding back. He’d have fallen on his ass—a moment Eve would have enjoyed—but his father reached out, steadied him.
“Upstairs,” Jefferson repeated, adding a light ass swat. One that Eve interpreted as a congratulatory ass pat.
The boy stomped up the steps, pausing only to shoot Eve his middle finger behind his father’s back.
“Mattie!” Jefferson bellowed. “I left my drink in my den!” Then he turned into the living area.
The furnishings coordinated as meticulously as the outfits of the residents, and every inch shined clean and stood ruthlessly organized.
Eve imagined if a dust mote tried to sneak in for a visit, it would be eradicated in seconds.
“Ten minutes.” Jefferson sat in a chair with wide, masculine arms. Eve chose the (pillow-free) sofa. “What has Blaine done?”
“Ms. DeLano’s done nothing. However, two people have been killed in the last month. This individual is replicating scenes from Ms. DeLano’s books.”
His eyebrows rose, indicating surprise, before he let out a snorting, derisive laugh.
“It amuses you, Mr. Jefferson, that two people are dead?”
“It amuses me that anyone reads that dreck Blaine churns out, and that the police would have any trouble finding the lowbrow reader of second-rate potboilers who’d use their simplistic plots to kill.”
“You must have read them yourself to have such a strong opinion on their content.”
“I have not. I don’t need to read them to know they’re dreck.”
Mattie hurried in, carrying a lowball glass of amber liquid with a twist of orange on a small tray. Like a skilled waitress she set a cocktail napkin on the table beside Jefferson, put the glass on it.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Craig?”
“No. This won’t take long.”
When Mattie turned to go, Eve spoke up. “Mrs. Jefferson, if you could stay for a moment.”
“My wife is preparing dinner.”
“It won’t take long,” Eve repeated.
On a sigh, Jefferson waved at a chair as if giving his wife permission to sit. She did, on the edge of the chair, back straight, knees pressed together, ankles crossed.
“Apparently one of Blaine’s readers—and I use the term loosely—is copying murders from her books. Turning low-rent fiction into reality.”
“I … Killing people? Murdering people?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” Jefferson snapped. “What do you expect me to do about it?” he asked Eve.
“You can start by telling me where you were last night between five and seven P.M.”
Face flushed as red as his son’s had been, that same ugly heat burning in his eyes, Jefferson pushed halfway out of his chair.
“You would dare accuse me? Mattie, get my lawyer on the line.”