“So, why are you sticking around town? Are you a felon on the run?”
While I was in hiding, it wasn’t from the law. I debated if I should even answer, but the man was going to find out the truth soon anyway, if not by me than by someone else. Another joy of small town living. “Bought a place nearby.”
“Figured that.” One dark eyebrow rose. “Where? I don’t remember seeing any places for sale in town. And no one has talked about moving.”
What, was he the town gossip? Did he have his finger on the pulse of Eagle’s Landing?
But just like my name, it wouldn’t be long until everyone in the town with a tiny population of about two hundred or so also knew where I lived. Even though those facts wouldn’t stay a secret, I wanted to remain as anonymous as possible for as long as possible. Especially when it came to my career.
If I was lucky, no one in this town or the surrounding area ever heard of my pseudonym or had read my books.
“Coleman Lane.”
With his brow dropped low, Rett raked fingers down his beard and I caught myself mesmerized by the whole thing. I silently groaned at my own reaction.
“Coleman Lane? There’s only one cabin on that mountain road because it isn’t a real road, it’s a private lane. And it certainly isn’t a house, it’s a,” he grimaced, “hunting cabin. Or used to be.”
The man was certainly a genius. A regular detective. “Right.”
“You up here to get it ready for hunting season? Are you a hunter?”
I was so not in the mood for small talk. I only stopped in for some reading material. Like at the diner, I wasn’t here to make a friend, especially with someone who asked too many questions. “Sure.”
Rett didn’t appear to believe me. No surprise. “So… what do you do for a living, Chase?”
Sweet baby Jesus. “Mind my own business.”
A half-grin twisted Rett’s lips. “A professional conversationist, then?”
“I’m just here for some books.”
“I have plenty of books.” Rett swept his hand around. “If you haven’t noticed, a whole store full. What do you like?”
“Quiet.”
Once the grin slipped off his face, Rett stared at me with narrowed eyes for a long, awkward moment before he nodded. “Like at the diner, I hear you loud and clear. Feel free to browse. I have a little bit of everything. I’m here if you have questions.”
“Are the books priced?”
“Yes.”
“Then I won’t have questions.”
Rett stared at me for a few more seconds. While his face was unreadable, his eyes were clearly calling me an asshole again.
Should I feel bad for acting like an asshole? Probably. Did I? No. My privacy was important.
With another sharp nod, Rett turned on his heels, stepped behind the front counter and perched himself on a stool. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
I wondered if the man always had to get in the last word. I decided to put that to the test. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jesus. I was right.
With a shake of my head, I headed down the closest aisle, then took my time eyeing book titles, pausing here and there, pulling out random books and reading the back copy before sliding them back into place.
The bookstore owner certainly did stock a variety. I was pleasantly surprised to find there was even a dedicated and clearly marked LGBTQ+ section that included both fiction and non-fiction. I wasn’t expecting to find that in this area, but that wasn’t what I was looking for.
On a bookshelf along the far wall I found the shelves that held thrillers, suspense novels and crime thrillers. My eyes zeroed in on my own titles right next to a few of John Grisham’s.
Shit.
At least one copy of each book in my serial killer series was on the shelf. The first book had three copies in stock. On the shelf right below them was the first series I ever wrote when I was new to publishing. A few copies were missing from that ten-book series.
While the older series was what originally put me on the map, my newer Detective Nick Foster series had launched my career into orbit.
But that rocket was quickly barreling back toward Earth and would crash and burn if I couldn’t get the next one done soon. Especially if my agent fired me and my publisher broke ties.
The next shelf over held mysteries, what I’d actually been searching for. The audiobooks I listened to on my trip west were written by Everett J. Williams. Luckily, I spotted quite a few copies of each book in the series and a tiny laminated sign above them stated they were autographed copies.
That made me pause. Did the bookstore owner buy them autographed or had the author stopped in to sign them?
Interesting.
Maybe the owner was simply a big fan of the author. I wouldn’t be surprised since the books were really good. Not to mention, addicting.