Chapter 3
Once Vivienne had disappeared into the crowd, I bolted for the exit.
Outside, it was evening: purple sky, deep shadows slanting across campus between the redbrick buildings, a breeze making me shiver.
The air was clean, and it smelled like the end of an October day and like running water.
A few yards away, reflected in the tall gallery windows of the conference center, Quick Creek was the same color as the glass.
Bobby answered on the second ring. “How’s the conference—”
“Vivienne’s here.”
“What?” Noises came from Bobby’s end of the call. “What do you mean? Are you okay?”
“Bobby, she’s here. She’s here!” I had to clamp down on my voice. “She is literally here right now. She walked up to me. She talked to me.”
Bobby said a few words that had never made it onto the Matron of Murder TV show. “Did she hurt you? I’m on my way.”
“No, no—” Saying it—just telling someone—loosened something in my chest. Everything in my body loosened, as a matter of fact.
I moved down the side of the conference center, away from the people coming and going, and sagged against a stretch of brick.
Sharp edges dug into my back, but in a way, it was strangely grounding.
My legs were trembling. “No,” I said again.
“Don’t come. I’m fine. I—Bobby, how can she be here? ”
“I don’t know,” Bobby said grimly.
“She said she received a pardon.”
Bobby said some words that, if the Matron of Murder had heard him, she would have washed out his mouth with soap.
“I know,” I said. “But that’s what she said.”
“Where are you?”
“Still at the conference center.”
“Good. Find a well-lit spot with lots of people around and stay there.”
“No, Bobby—”
“I’ll be right there.”
For a few seconds, I stayed where I was, clutching the phone.
The intense strain of seeing Vivienne again, speaking to her, being near her—it hadn’t registered until it was finally gone, and now, in its place, I felt wrung out and exhausted.
It was tempting to stay here, where the shadows were deep and cool and nobody would bother me.
But Bobby was right; I needed to get somewhere with other people.
I dragged myself back into the conference center.
My first bit of good luck for the day was that I found a chair pushed into one corner of the building.
My second was that nobody bothered me. Maybe nobody recognized me—I’d had enough run-ins already that it should have been statistically impossible for anyone to recognize me.
Or maybe whatever they saw on my face was enough to keep them away.
How could she be out?
It was impossible.
But it wasn’t impossible. Because she was here.
And what did she mean, she was going to solve a murder?
I had an idea—and the last time Vivienne had tried something like this, it had ended with an innocent woman going to prison for most of her life.
Bobby texted me as he got closer to the campus, and a few minutes later, he came through the doorway.
Did I mention he was Detective Bobby Mai, now?
And Detective Bobby Mai didn’t have to wear the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office uniform.
Detective Bobby Mai got to wear a navy polo that looked incredible against his golden-olive skin and cuffed his biceps perfectly.
Detective Bobby Mai got to wear a pair of chinos that did things—good things, wonderful things—for his, uh, rear.
Detective Bobby Mai, with his glossy dark hair in a perfect part, with his heart-shaped face and his razor-sharp jawline, with his burnt-bronze eyes—well, Detective Bobby Mai was a snack.
When he reached me, he crouched in front of the chair. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. But I did put a little misery into it, because this was Bobby, and if I couldn’t be a baby sometimes with Bobby, well, who could I be a baby with?
He ran his hand over my hair, cupped the back of my head, and drew me forward to give me a kiss.
“God, Bobby, she came out of nowhere. Like the Wicked Witch of the West.”
He nodded.
“Actually,” I said, “I don’t think the Wicked Witch of the West came out of nowhere. If anything, it was the house that came out of nowhere—wait, was that the Wicked Witch of the East?”
Bobby, bless his heart, knew better than to engage. He took out his phone, pressed a button, and said, “He’s all right.” To me, he mouthed, Sheriff. Then he said into the phone, “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”
“What’d she say?”
As he pocketed his phone, Bobby said, “Nobody knew she was getting a pardon. Nobody knew she was being released. Nobody informed the sheriff. And she’s not happy about it, because that’s not how this is supposed to work.”
“So, what?” I said. “This is for real? She’s out of jail?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it has to be real, right? Otherwise, there would be a manhunt, people would be talking about a prison break, everybody would know.”
“We don’t know anything yet,” Bobby said. “The sheriff is working on it.”
“I just sat there.” I dropped my head into my hands. “I should have—I should have called the sheriff, or gotten campus security, or—or run. I should have done something. But I was so off balance because of the TV show, and then the shock of seeing her. God, I’m such an idiot.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You called for help as soon as you could.” Bobby paused. “What TV show?”
“Oh my God.” I sat up straight, rubbed my eyes, and told him.
When I finished, Bobby said, “Dash, that’s amazing.”
And because it was easier to talk about a show called Mr. Murder than to deal with the thought of Vivienne on the loose again, I said, “Is it? Because it sounds like a terrible idea.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, because it’s going to be a disaster.”
“Why would it be a disaster?”
“I don’t know, Bobby. A lot of reasons. Primarily because it involves me.”
A beat passed. And then Bobby said, “But this is great.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Bobby shifted his weight and ran a hand through his hair. His expression was distant with thought. “What’d they say about time commitments? This isn’t going to interfere with your writing, is it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked about how much time it will take.”
His knee started to bounce. “Are you going to have to move to Hollywood or—where is this all going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just assumed it would be somewhere around L.A. But I don’t want to move, Bobby.”
“We can figure it out. We can find you an apartment.”
“Uh, yeah, if it comes to that.”
“Maybe a week there, a couple of weeks here, and then you fly back again.”
Bobby’s knee was still bouncing like crazy. I put my hand on it, forced him to be still. “Bobby, I don’t even know if I want to do it.”
He blinked as though he’d forgotten we were talking. And then he smiled—the big, goofy one, but with a shadow of something else behind it. “Right, I know.”
“These deals aren’t always to the writer’s advantage,” I said. “Besides, isn’t this a little, you know, crazy?”
“Crazy? No. You’d be great! I’m just thinking out loud. But yeah, you’re right, let’s wait and see. And whatever you want to do, Dash, you know I’ll support you.”
I tilted my head, studying him from a new angle. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I hope Vivienne doesn’t murder me, because that would put a big damper on being your boyfriend.”
Bobby’s burnt-bronze eyes were surprisingly hard. “We’re going to figure this out. It’s not going to be like last time.”
“I guess.” My phone buzzed, and when I worked it out of my pocket, a calendar notification showed on the screen. “Shoot. There’s this panel—”
“Want me to stay?” Bobby asked as he got to his feet.
“No, God, I can’t believe I dragged you down here. I’m sorry.”
“Dash, I want to be here. I love you. Of course I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” I even tried for a smile that might, I hoped, be convincing. “Thank you.”
Bobby gave me a kiss and a searching look. “Public spaces. With people. The whole time.”
I did the Scout sign.
For some reason, that made Bobby sigh. “Where’d you park?”
“Uh—that way.”
“And what time is the conference over?”
“There’s an opening social, and then it gets kind of loose after that.”
“Call me. I don’t want you walking to your car by yourself.”
“Bobby, it’s not—”
“I want you to call me.”
I sagged and gave him the Scout sign again.
Bobby pecked me on the lips, murmured, “Be safe,” and headed for the door.
I let him go before I headed into the crowd.
Bobby wasn’t wrong—those precautions were safe and sensible, and I was emotionally evolved enough to admit that I liked having a protective boyfriend who was going to make sure I was safe in a dark parking lot.
Bobby and the sheriff were going to figure out what was going on.
On the other hand, I was also aware that Bobby’s efforts—no matter how thorough—weren’t going to be enough.
Protecting me was a reactive job. We were always going to be one step behind Vivienne.
And although the term criminal mastermind gets thrown around a lot these days, in Vivienne’s case, it was true.
She’d lived a life of murder, literally and figuratively.
She had no qualms about lying, stealing, or killing to get what she wanted, and she had the track record to prove it.
If she wanted to get back on top, she wouldn’t let anything stand in her way.
And in the meantime, what was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for Vivienne to act?
So, I decided I had to do the obvious thing.
I had to figure out what she was up to.