Chapter Six
MALCOLM DRAGS A CHAIR INTO THE CENTER of the room. “Sit.”
Jaxon Knight glances over his shoulder at the door, as if he’s thinking of making a run for it, but after a moment he sighs and sinks into the seat.
Malcolm lets the silence settle, thicken until it starts to weigh. How would Leo Hardwick play this? he wonders as the seconds stretch on. He’d take his time. After all, without his wife, that’s the only thing he has.
Malcolm lifts the glass sculpture from the corner of the desk, the one from Fletch’s publisher, commemorating the first Petrarch novel. It’s heavier than he expected. And sharper, too. It would make a fine weapon—the thought intrudes, old habit having little respect for present circumstance.
He returns the glorified paperweight to its place and looks around.
How high and mighty old Arty must have felt sitting here, flanked by all the trappings of his success, literally haloed by the light of his creations.
How close to immortality, secure in the knowledge that his work would almost certainly endure the test of time, so many copies sold in so many countries that, barring a nuclear catastrophe, his stories would live on for decades.
Lucky man, thinks Malcolm.
Penn Stonely may be clinging to a spot or two on bookstore shelves, but the three books Malcolm wrote himself, the ones that could have—should have—formed the foundation of his legacy, instead slipped out of the world as quietly as they entered.
Not with a bang, but a whimper.
When he found out they were going out of print—via a single-line email, from an assistant he’d never even met—Malcolm couldn’t bear the thought of all that work being destroyed, so he’d bought the rest of the copies from the publisher.
Had to rent out a storage unit in Queens just to house them all.
When Sienna found out, he told her he hadn’t paid a penny for the books, when the truth was, they’d made him pay wholesale.
It had come out to the cost of a small car.
The thing was, Malcolm always planned to tell her, when time took the sting off the wounds, when they were successful enough that it became a funny story—the kind they could tell packed crowds one day at sold-out signings—instead of what it was: humiliating.
He never told Sienna. And now, he can’t.
Jaxon clears his throat. “Can we get this over with?”
Malcolm sets the sculpture down again. Jaxon’s left knee has started to bounce.
“Are you nervous?” asks Malcolm, leaning against Fletch’s polished desk.
“You’re making me nervous, man. Look—”
Malcolm pulls the page from his pocket. “Do you know what this is?”
“A piece of paper—wait—” He’s caught sight of the type. “Oh shit, is that another note? What’s all that writing on the back?”
Malcolm frowns. “That’s no concern of yours,” he says, laying the page on the desk so that only the threat is facing up.
“It is, if you’re accusing me of something.”
“It’s a sheet of white paper, Mr. Knight. The color you were given to type your pages on.”
Jaxon throws up his hands. “Dude, almost all paper is white! That’s, like, the default shade.”
“Ah, but not in this house, and I found this one on Sisi’s body. Whoever killed her—”
Jaxon’s eyes widen in what seems like genuine surprise, voice dropping as he says, “Wait, you really think somebody killed her?” The penny drops, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Holy shit, you think I killed her?”
Malcolm folds his arms. Jaxon’s a talkative guy, and now that he’s going, it’s only a matter of time before he digs the hole himself.
“So wait, you think I—did what exactly? Sent your wife a menacing message and then caved her skull in with a typewriter? That doesn’t make any sense.
Why would I use my own paper? And then, if I was dumb enough to do that, and I was trying to scare her into leaving, why would I then go and kill her? Sorry, but I don’t get the logic.”
Malcolm frowns. When he puts it that way—
“And if I knew she had the note, why didn’t I take it back before Millie and Priscilla found the body?”
“Well, I’m not—”
“And how did I have time to get back to my room before they showed up without anyone hearing my six-foot-two ass hauling it down the hall?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “I—”
“Which they didn’t, because unlike Millie and Priscilla, I was asleep.”
Malcolm’s thoughts snag. That’s right, they were the only two downstairs instead of up.
“Besides, I’ve never hit a lady in my life, let alone bludgeoned one with obsolete technology and then pushed her down a flight of stairs.”
Malcolm sags back against the desk, rubbing his chin. A good detective doesn’t just look at the facts. He listens to his gut as well, and Malcolm’s gut is telling him that Jaxon Knight may be a shithead, but he’s not the one who murdered his wife.
Jaxon runs a hand through his hair. “I mean. I guess people have done more for less. But still! That’s cold-blooded. Hey,” he adds, leaning forward in his chair, “if it is one of them, my money’s on Cate.”
Malcolm frowns. If Jaxon was going to point the blame at anyone, he’d have thought it would be Kenzo. “Why do you say that?”
“I once dated this girl who barely said a word, and then, when I dumped her, she cut holes in all my jeans and lit my bed on fire.” He leans back and shakes his head.
“Quiet girls, man. Never trust them. That’s why I like Millie.
She’s an open book. A loud one. An audiobook.
” He smiles, clearly pleased with the analogy, lacking as it is.
Malcolm sighs. “Thank you, Jaxon,” he says dryly. “That’s certainly . . . enlightening.”
Jaxon brightens, as if he thinks he really helped. “Can I go for my run now?”
Malcolm nods. Jaxon heads for the door, pausing before he steps into the hall. “Hey, who should I send in next?”