“I probably didn’t mention his name. It was an ugly letter, and ridiculous on top of it. Not only didn’t Blaine see the manuscript, which I sent straight back unopened, but she’d already written Sudden Dark before he sent his stupid book—without asking, I’ll add. Damn it, we got the ARCs—the advance reader copies—at the end of May, just days after he sent the manuscript. It was so insulting I nearly—”
“It’s all right, Mom.” Blaine reached over, rubbed her mother’s arm. “When she told me, I let my editor know—just in case. But as far as I know that was the end of it. Do you think he’s involved in this?”
“She,” Eve corrected. “And I think she’s killed two people.”
“Oh my God. I didn’t handle it right. I didn’t follow through the right way,” Audrey began.
“You handled it right,” Eve told her. “This has nothing to do with you. This woman is delusional, psychotic. She contacted you again.”
“No.” Firmly Audrey shook her head. “I would have flagged any more correspondence from that name.”
“Twice more I found, different names. Harsh letters.” Eve took them out. “Accusatory.”
“You get that sometimes,” Blaine murmured as she picked up a copy, read it. “You take the good with the bad. Are you sure these are from the same person?”
“I’m confident. I believe this woman relocated from Delaware to Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn?” Blaine went sheet white. “My girls.”
“Local police have an eye. And they’re not in this. They’re not in the books. Are there any coordinating characters with them in the series?”
“No. I don’t understand. If she’s this angry with me, what better way to strike at me than through my girls?”
“She’s angry with you, but you’ve blended, at least in part, with the character of Dark.”
“That’s just crazy. Dark is fifteen years younger than I am, in better shape and a lot better-looking.” She said it with a half smile, but her eyes stayed full of fear. “She’s never been married, has no children, eats fast-food, and drinks scotch when she can get it. Her relationship with her mother is strained at best, and for good reason, as Maggie Dark’s a user of people. She likes loud music and bars, breaks rules as much for the fun of it as expediency.”
Eve listened to the rundown until Blaine stopped herself. “Sor
ry, none of that matters.”
“Actually, it applies. You talk about her like she’s an actual person.”
“She has to be real for me. I have to be invested in her, attached. I have to know her. She’s fictional, of course, but she exists inside my head.”
“She’s real for Strongbow, and she’s lost or is at least losing her grip on the fictional part. You created Dark, she’s inside you. You represent her, or she you. Strongbow’s rewriting your books so the killer wins, because she’s the killer, and it’s her story now.”
“That was her thing, I remember.” Audrey gripped her daughter’s hand. “The killer’s book, with the killer as the main character, as the protagonist.”
“She’s connected her book with my Dark series. She’s what, showing me she’s a better writer?”
“That’s part of it, and it may be the foundation. We’ve got angles on her now, and we’re pursuing them all.”
DeLano lifted a hand to her heart, rubbed lightly. “You think she’s lives in Brooklyn.”
“Not in your neighborhood. I don’t think she could afford it. Do you have any tailoring done, any sewing?”
“Not really. I’ve had—we’ve all had—things altered in the shop we use for the less casual wear.”
“Do you know the seamstress?”
“Gia? Yes. For years. When I had my first signing, Mom insisted I get a nice suit, have Gia fit it. That’s been over a decade.”
Unlikely, Eve thought.
“Have you had anyone come in and do the curtain things, drapes, whatever?”
Blaine smiled again. “We’re just not that fancy. Do you think she’s a seamstress?”