“Spectacular.” And it was. The pastry was buttery, crumbly perfection and the creamy goat cheese melded with the tang of peppers. “You’ve woken my taste buds from a coma.”
She looked pleased. “Good. And I know you’re great at what you do, too. Not that I’ve ever read any of your books, but my friend Frankie is addicted. She only reads vile stuff.”
“Thank you.”
“That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” Her cheeks were pink. “I didn’t mean that your books were ‘vile,’ more that the subject matter is vile. They are way too scary for me. I know I wouldn’t like them.”
“If you’ve never read one, how would you know?”
“The cover is a clue.” She sliced into her tartlet. “The last one had blood dripping from the blade of a knife. Then there are the titles. Death Returns isn’t exactly going to make me rush to pick it up off the shelf. I’d have to sleep with the lights on and I’d wake in the night screaming. Someone would dial 911.”
“You might be gripped.”
“I don’t think the subject matter would thrill me. Tell me about the story you wrote when you were eight. Was that the same kind of thing?”
“The neighbors’ cat was found dead on the side of the road. Everyone said it had been hit by a car, but I kept asking myself, what if it wasn’t? What if something more sinister had happened to that cat? I drove my family crazy with all the alternative explanations I offered.” He saw her expression change. “You would have rather gone with the car scenario?”
“I’d rather have the scenario where the cat lived, but I’m guessing if you’re the one telling it, this story has no happy-ever-after.”
“Afraid not.” That statement was all he needed to remind him of the differences between them. “It was summer, and I shut myself in my room and didn’t come out until I’d written the story. I figured there were at least nine different ways that cat could have died.”
“Please don’t list them.”
Remembering the macabre ending he’d chosen, he gave a faint smile. “I gave the story to my English teacher and she said she’d never been so spooked by anything in her life. Said she had to check the doors and windows twice before going to bed and locked her cat in her bedroom. Then she suggested I con
sider a career as a crime writer. She was joking.”
“But you took her seriously.”
“She told me she’d had to read my story with the lights on. I don’t think she meant it as a compliment, but to me it was the biggest compliment anyone had ever given me.”
Eva looked unconvinced. “So you wrote your terrifying cat story, and then what?”
“I kept doing it. I gave stories to my classmates, chapter by chapter. I discovered that I liked keeping people in suspense. It carried on when I went to college, except that by then I knew I was serious about it.”
“What did you do at college? Creative writing? English? History of the great American novel?”
“I studied law at Columbia, but I was more interested in why people committed crimes than I was in defending them. I finished my first novel, handed it to my roommate to read and he was up all night. I decided then that was what I wanted to do.”
“Keep people awake all night?”
“Yes.” He looked at the soft curve of her mouth and decided he would have no problem keeping her awake all night, and he wouldn’t be relying on words to do it.
Maybe his grandmother was cleverer than he gave her credit for.
“Does anyone fall in love in your books?”
“Occasionally.”
“Really?” She looked surprised. “But do they live to enjoy a happy-ever-after?”
“Never.”
“That’s why I don’t pick your books from the shelf. I’m a coward. Speaking of dialing 911—” She stuck her fork into her food. “Those officers that showed up here yesterday—they knew you and you knew them.”
“That’s right.” He took another mouthful of food. It was delicious, the flavors fresh and intense.
“But you don’t actually have a criminal background, you just write about it. So how do you know them?”