Kill Me Again. Maggie Shayne

really.”

      It was a lie. It not only felt like a lie, but it also looked and sounded like one, too. He had remembered something.

      Okay, now she was being ridiculous, she told herself. What reason would he have to lie to her? He didn’t even know her.

      She shook her head slowly. “Most victims of violent crimes don’t jump straight to the conclusion that it was somehow their own fault. Or if they do, they shouldn’t. It could be something else. Mistaken identity, a jealous competitor—”

      “Yeah. I hear the East Coast writers and the West Coast writers have a real grudge fest going on.”

      “I’m not sure I would joke about this, Aaron. Someone really did try to kill you, after all, and that means there has to be a reason.”

      He frowned as he studied her. “You seem to be pretty familiar with my…career. Have I been accused of anything in the press? Any violent episodes touted in the tabloids or something like that?”

      She lowered her head and told herself to try to state the facts without sounding like a gushing fan. “I think if you knew who you really are right now, you wouldn’t ask those sorts of things.”

      “And you know who I really am, is that what you’re saying?” he asked.

      She let her eyes sweep over him, head on the pillow, toes sticking out from beneath the white covers. “I don’t know if I do or not. I know the man I think you are, based on the stories you tell. I’d like to think that man is for real.”

      “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me. Who am I?”

      She took a breath, choosing her words with care. She wasn’t going to heap praise on him or pretend a relationship that didn’t exist. She didn’t see herself as a sappy fan, and she didn’t want him to see her that way, either. “I like to think any writer puts something of themselves into their stories. Your protagonist, Harvey Trudeau, is the main character in every one of your novels, and it seems to me his personality is probably the best chance we have of unraveling yours. I could be entirely wrong, but that’s my theory.”

      “Understood. So you’re going to tell me about Harvey, and then time will tell whether the same things apply to his humble creator.”

      “Exactly.”

      “All right. So tell me about Harvey.”

      She shifted her eyes in thought, and then her gaze turned inward as she recalled the character she’d grown to love. “Harvey is a gentle human being. He’s sensitive. He sees beauty in everything around him. There’s not a violent bone in his body. He’s sweet, and kind, and emotionally deep. He’s also very in touch with who he is.”

      “Sounds perfect.”

      “Far from it. Harvey’s got his flaws. He doesn’t trust people easily, and they usually prove him right. But he misses out on a lot of good relationships because he paints everyone with the same brush. His logic is that it’s better to be alone than to risk being hurt and disappointed by trusting someone not worth trusting. I understand that about him.”

      His intense eyes seemed to sharpen at those words. But he didn’t interrupt.

      “So as a result, I think…I think you’re lonely.”

      “I’m lonely? Don’t you mean that Harvey’s lonely?”

      “I think I mean both.”

      “And what makes you think that, Olivia?”

      She thought that, she mused, because she was lonely, too, and for the very same reasons. She recognized it in him. Had done, even before she’d met him, just by reading his books. She had felt it coming through the pages. But she couldn’t very well say so. “I guess it’s because Harvey always ends up alone at the end of every book.”

      He nodded slowly. “What if I’m nothing like my books?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “I suppose that’s possible, but it just doesn’t seem very likely. How could you write the way you do if you didn’t feel it on some level?” Then she made herself stop, deciding it might be best if she left now, before she made a starstruck fool out of herself. “I should probably go. I’m starting to sound like a gushing fan, and I’m not that. If you need anything, call me, okay?”

      He lifted his brows. “You said that before, but honestly, you’ve done enough already.”

      “No. I’m the one who agreed to take care of you while you were in town. And I intend to keep my promise, even though we have to cancel the fundraiser.”

      His lips thinned. “I’m really sorry about that.”

      “You were shot,” she reminded him. “My card’s on the nightstand. Call me if you need me. I mean it. And I’ll be back in the morning.” She got up and moved toward the door, then turned back once more. “Are you going to stay the night here?”

      He looked at her a little strangely, but he nodded. “I’m going to try. If I start to feel too antsy, though, I’m going to trust my gut and check myself out.”

      She didn’t want to leave him—it felt like abandoning a lost boy, somehow. But he wasn’t a boy, and it would go beyond the bounds of their very brief acquaintance for her to stay. She forced herself to turn and walk out the door.

      The house was dark when Olivia arrived home. The Expedition’s headlights illuminated the front entrance, probably burning through a layer of paint while they were at it. The thing was huge, and beyond macho. It screamed big, rugged, sporty, manly man, and it was the polar opposite of what she would have expected a bookish little man like Professor Mallory to own. She guessed you never could tell about people. She would need to move some things before putting the SUV in the garage, she realized. It would have to be okay outside for now.

      The overbright headlights lit up the front steps with their wrought-iron railing. She’d rushed out in such a hurry that she hadn’t bothered to turn on an outdoor light. No matter, she wasn’t too worried with Freddy around.

      She shut off the engine, which had a deep growl to it that she was unused to, and took the shopping bags she’d procured on the way home from the passenger seat, then slid out of the SUV to the pavement below, landing with a jarring thud. Then she ambled up the walk while fumbling in her bag for the house keys and thinking she ought to consider trading up. The thing had tons of room for Freddy in the back, and it was fun to drive.

      After a successful search, she stuck the key in the lock and, with the ease of long practice, stepped inside, flipping the light switch as she went.

      “Freddy!” she called. “I’m home!”

      He didn’t answer. And that was not like him.

      “Freddy?” She walked through the house, checking every room. It wasn’t that big a place, so searching it was neither difficult nor time-consuming. The dining room and kitchen were one large, open room, separated only by a countertop, with French doors on the far side leading to the deck and fenced-in backyard.

      She headed in that direction when there was no response from inside the house, turning on lights as she went along. She hated being in the dark. And she especially hated being alone in the dark. It was just too creepy.

      There was a very large doggy door—she’d had to have one custom-made to accommodate Freddy’s bulk—just to the side of the French doors. But it was very unlike him not to hear a car pulling in, and come bounding from wherever he might be to see who was at the door, much less come at her call. Something about this was off. And something about the house felt off, too.

      An icy chill danced up her spine and along the back of her neck. She shivered, and quickly unlocked and opened the French doors, eager to be with her dog, and feeling the earliest warning signs of impending panic. If anything ever happened to him…

      “Freddy!” she shouted as she stepped out onto the redwood deck. “Freddy,