Til Text Do Us Part

By Tina Griffith

Louisiana Hobbs is an award-winning, murder mystery writer, and she has a malicious stalker. This person has been taking particular passages from the pages of her books, and has used the detailed information to commit chilling murders to perfection. But, has the stalker killed people out of revenge or as a form of flattery? While the author works closely with Detective Brody Anson to find the answer to that burning question, they develop an obsession for each other that becomes difficult to deny.
As the weeks turn into months, they have been trying to keep their surging desires in check…at least until the murderer has been put behind bars. But when Louisiana becomes the target in a dangerous game of cat and mouse, will this couple continue to withhold their true feelings from each other and the rest of the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665514132

Tina Griffith

Tina Griffith has written 27 children’s books, worked in television for 11 years and radio for 5, and began writing romance novels, after her husband of 25 years passed away.  This is her 10th book in the last 12 years, and it’s the best one yet.  Tina writes in color, and pulls you into the story on the first page.  She breathes life into her characters and she keeps you interested until the very end.  She writes with raw emotion, and uses the strange reality of our private lives to tell her stories.  Yes, she gives the excitement of intoxicating lovemaking moments to her characters, but they are written with class and definitely worth reading.  All of her stories are compelling, which is probably why she has won awards for her writing skills.  If you’re looking for something to stimulate your senses, read anything that Tina Griffith has written.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

33517.png

Louisiana Hobbs was 30 years old, had no siblings, and lived in a two-bedroom townhouse in the old part of Boston. She found immense pleasure in catching insects as a child, and had given them all names as if they were human beings. Because she preferred to be alone rather than play with others her own age, many people thought she might be shy or difficult to be with. Her mom didn’t think so, and she took great pleasure in encouraging her daughter’s amazing imagination.

As the tomboy grew up, a flicker of possibility that she could become a great writer, presented itself when she was in Grade 9. For it was on that day when she was asked to work on the High School newspaper. During the next 12 months, she worked hard and eventually earned the right to be the acting editor. Years later, when she entered Riley Austin College, she achieved her journalism degree while working odd jobs at the Boston Tribune. But a week after graduation, just as she was about to begin her job as an investigative journalist, she trembled when she had to ask for some time off.

Louisiana was an opportunist and felt that every adventure had a purpose, so when she was forced to go back to Calgary for a funeral, she realized that she could sharpen her skills by writing down everything she saw and/or heard. In the beginning of those couple of weeks in her home town, it proved to be a great exercise. Not only was it keeping her mind too busy to cry over the loss of her beloved grandmother, but she was also able to thrust her enormous grief into her writing. And because she had been recording tons of notes while being plunged into the middle of all the painful memories and loss around her, she had unknowingly ended up writing a very poetic love story.

Louie, as she was known to her friends, prided herself on never missing a chance to write. Every time she scribbled a passage, she promised to polish her description and dialogue abilities at a later date. And while each segment never amounted to more than a few pages, she hoped to one day write a full-length novel.

A week after the funeral, while she was sitting on a bus, Louie heard a loud explosion near one of the tires. Her body had been roughly jerked to the side along with everyone else’s, and wide-spread panic and mayhem soon followed.

The #88 bus suddenly came to an abrupt stop, and even though people were crying and pleading to get out, the driver refused to open the door. Instead of panicking, he stood up, raised his open hands flat to his passengers, and spoke in an unruffled manner. Calm down, please! The police are coming! Stay in your seats and you’ll be safe!

Sadly, nobody wanted to listen. While the bus load of strangers pushed and shoved and screamed for help, they grabbed their belongings and pressed against the back door with an amazing amount of force.

Louie stayed seated and continued to look out of the nearest window with an uninhibited amount of curiosity. It was clear that her investigation instincts had kicked into high gear, and she could also feel that all of her senses were suddenly working at full steam. As she surveyed all that was around her, the young reporter was fascinated that nothing else mattered but what was happening below the bus.

It seemed like mere seconds before loud sirens were choking the air, and large vehicles could be heard rushing to get to the scene. Minutes later, several police cars arrived, along with two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a few reporters. People in uniform were treading softly while looking around for anything suspicious, and they all had one hand perched over their gun which was fastened in their holster.

As her eyes bulged in disbelief, her nerves fluttered in her belly. Louie couldn’t help but watch as dozens of people had become fragmented with uneasiness, and she felt helpless because there was nothing she could do to calm anyone down. And then, for a quick second, she thought she saw a peculiar man standing near a cream-colored stucco wall. The blurred image was but a flash before her eyes, and even though she blinked several times and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands, he was long gone before she could spell her first name out loud.

That area was now in total chaos and everyone in attendance was scared, but Louie was much too absorbed in what was happening to be frightened. She stuck her fingers in her ears to shield her mind from the confusion that was going on, but she continued to watch the terrifying circus of events that was unfolding before her eyes. ‘And what about that man with the gun? Was he someone who they should worry about?’ she wondered. ‘Or did my mind play a trick on me?’ Those questions would haunt her for the next few hours.

Louisiana was the last person to get off the bus, and she was ordered by the police to go straight home. And by the time she entered her small apartment, Louie had realized that she had always written short stories that were painted with undertones of romance and strife. With the commotion that had lengthened her bus ride home, she wondered what would happen if she were to add danger and suspense into her stories. It took a few minutes for that to sink in, and then it occurred to her that she didn’t have to stick with just one genre. There are no rules to that literary puzzle! she shouted to the world. Her arms automatically stretched out to the side as she spun herself around, and from that day forward, she was determined to add as many elements as she could into her stories.

Those significant few moments changed her life, and one year later, Louisiana Hobbs had finished writing her first, 375-page novel. Four weeks later, she sent the manuscript off to two different literary agents, and to her surprise, both of them wanted to sign her right away. By the time she turned 29, she had written four more books and each one became a #1 Best Seller. And now, at 30 years old, after a year of doing book festivals, talk shows, speaking engagements, and signing autographs, she decided to take some time off to write another novel.

As she sat quietly, in her lovely office filled with exotic plants and personal nick knacks from around the world, she looked at the abbreviated details of her newest, spine-tingling, page-turner, and she wanted to weep with joy. It’s perfect, but now I need a title.

The birds were chirping just outside her window, a grey squirrel was playing with its friend in the front yard, her coffee cup was half-full and still warm, and she had become semi-lost in the throes of contemplating a name for her newest story. A moment later, her happy world collapsed.

CHAPTER TWO

33517.png

It was a near noon and quite cold in the second week of February, and the sun was shining as bright as ever. All the students who attended school were on a two-week, spring break, and they were looking forward to going tobogganing, skiing, or for hikes in the mountains. But not everyone was enjoying all that the great outdoors had to offer.

The house phone rang and jolted the author out of her current state of concentration. Louie was totally absorbed in what she was typing and was unwilling to stop, but with a great deal of reluctance, she groaned while she removed her hands from the black keyboard and picked up the phone. Hello? she sighed, in a tone that was not very welcoming.

This is Detective Anson from the Boston Police Department. Is this Louisiana Hobbs?

Her eyebrows inched their way up her forehead. Yes. Because the man spoke in a formal manner, it made her sit up straighter than she had been.

Are you the author of Murder In The Rockies?

Yes, I am. Do I know you? There was a pensive shimmer in her eyes as she waited to hear what this conversation was about.

No, you don’t know me personally, but the police department would like to have a word with you.

Louie was immediately dumbstruck and her breath got caught in her throat. Can I ask why? She swung her chair around using her feet, and now she was no longer facing her desk.

I’m afraid I don’t want to say too much on the phone, but we’d like you to come down here as soon as possible.

Louie was more than surprised by the mysterious nature of the call, but because she didn’t think she had a choice, she agreed to meet with him. I’ll be down there in less than an hour, she said, while vivid images paraded across her mind.

Good. We’ll see you then.

There was a loud click from his side of the phone, followed by a deafening silence.

Louie, who had confusion and fear racing through her veins, was still holding the receiver in her hand as if it was a life line. She repositioned her chair in slow motion until she was staring at the unfinished page before her. She realized that she didn’t have too much time to wallow in endless thought, so she placed her hands on the chair and pushed herself into a standing position. I guess this will have to wait, she mumbled to herself.

After fixing her hair and changing into a different outfit, she drove to the Boston Police Station. After parking her car, she went into the main doors and walked straight to the front desk. I’m here to see Detective Anson, Louie stated kindly.

The clerk wrote down her full name, and then pointed to where Louie needed to go.

After nodding her thanks, the shapely brunette walked down the uninteresting hallway. Fourth door to my left, she whispered to herself, and she counted the doors as she passed them.

Brody Anson was coming out of his office at the same time when Louie had arrived at his door. As she studied him from far away, she could tell that he was extremely handsome, but she was surprised that he couldn’t have been much older than she was. Pardon me. Are you Detective Anson?

He looked at her as if he was looking at a mirage. Yes, I am. She was breathtaking, and in a simple move which he didn’t quite understand, he suddenly stood straighter and puffed his chest out.

Hi. I’m Louisiana Hobbs, she said in an official tone. Without shame, she stuck her hand out to shake his.

The book-smart man was stunned by her natural beauty and lack of make-up, because he had always preferred the outdoorsy look on a woman. Thanks for coming down here as quickly as you did, he stated politely. His fingers clamped firmly over hers, and after jerking his hand up and down three times, he released his grip, but he couldn’t seem to release the hold which his eyes had on hers. I have to run this file to the front desk, but please, have a seat and I’ll be right back. He extended his arm to the left to show her that this was his office.

Thank you. Louie gave him a forced smile and a tense nod, and did as she was told. As she entered his office, she realized that he must have been wearing rubber soles, because there were no echo sounds of hard shoes clicking against the ancient vinyl flooring as he walked. That didn’t surprise her, though, because cops must need to be quiet in order to sneak up on their prey. Louie giggled at the thought, and then she stepped closer to his desk. She leaned forward and took her time to peek at all the documents which were hanging in exact rows on his office walls, and she couldn’t help but ‘ooh’ and ‘awe’ at everything. She now knew the name of the school he went to, she had learned that he liked to fish, and she found out when he became a cop. As she sat down in one of the two chairs which were placed directly in front of his 5’ wide desk, her eyes scanned the books, the awards, and the withered plant which was sitting on his desk and was barely hanging onto life. As her nutmeg-colored eyes scanned the rest of the small room, she wondered why he had no pictures of loved ones anywhere in his office. That was certainly not any of her business, but it did give her a hint about his personality.

Okay, the detective stated loudly, as he bolted into the room.

Louie’s body jumped when he seemed to appear out of nowhere, and as she repositioned herself in the uncomfortable chair, she hoped that he hadn’t caught her inspecting the many personal things which he had on display.

The man who had earned the title of detective three years ago, plopped himself down in his cheap leather chair, flattened his feet to the floor, and opened the file which had been sitting in the top left corner of his desk. Let me tell you why I’ve asked you to come in.

Okay. Louisiana was already wide-eyed and nervous, and as the curious part of her personality took over, she shifted her body until her bum sat at the very edge of the worn-out seat.

We have an interesting situation that we’d like to talk to you about, he began. The detective pulled two pages from the file folder and flipped them around so she could see them clearly. One was a printout of a page from her first book and the other was a copy of an article from yesterday’s newspaper.

What am I looking at? she asked, as her eyes glazed gingerly over the documents.

There’s been a murder, he stated nonchalantly. He then watched her reaction with great interest.

Louisiana was now wide awake. What does that have to do with me? she asked, as a cold shiver travelled up the length of her spine.

What makes this fascinating to us, is that it was executed exactly as you had described it in your book. He was speaking in a monotone voice while his rugged face wore a blank expression.

What? She was barely able to control her gasp of surprise.

He opened the file folder and showed her a picture which confirmed the title of her book. Murder In The Rockies. That’s yours, right?

Her hand leaped to her chest before she could reply. Yes, but…

A woman died by having too much wax on the bottom of her skis.

Louie was in shock and wanted to protest, but the strait-laced detective locked his eyes to hers and wouldn’t let go.

The detective closed the folder and joined his fingers together on top of his desk. She was an experienced skier, according to her friends and family, and a frequent guest of the ski hill. We know that she was wise in the rules – what to do and what not to do – so that means that someone had tampered with her equipment. We don’t know why and we’re hoping that you can help us figure it out. His confident set of shoulders were round and stiff in his dark-colored jacket, and while his face was rigid, it was not without compassion.

Louie was surprised at his words and inhaled sharply. And you’re sure it came from one of my books? She paused to collect her thoughts before she spoke again. There are hundreds of murder mystery novels out there. Certainly there are writers who might have written murders which seem similar to mine. Her eyes were glistening and her heart was pounding as she tried to argue her innocence.

He stayed focused but laughed lightly to ease the tension in the room. I assure you that we did our homework. He was sporting a smug smile as if he had just been told a joke.

And while the detective tried to explain the hows and whys of his theory, Louie tried to find reasons to protest.

There happened to be a copy of this book in the cafeteria, and by coincidence, someone had read it about a month ago, he began. When news about this murder came through our office yesterday, a woman mentioned that the murder in the newspaper was the same as the murder in your book. He paused and stared into Louie’s eyes for a quick second. I assure you that it took us all by surprise. And after we checked it out, we decided to call you.

She cocked her head to the side and made a face as if to mock him. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think? As the daring question left her mouth, she felt that this scenario sounded more like a set-up then reality, and it caused her to become a little annoyed. To further poke the fire she added, So, my book just happened to be laying around for you all to find.

His right hand came up and it waved in the air as he spoke. No, no. It wasn’t that easy, he replied. He had become a little angry by her taunting tone and knew that he needed to make things right. After asking around, we found out that the cleaning lady had been reading it to improve her English. When she was finished, she left it on one of the tables for someone else to read.

Uh, huh. There was a distinct hardening of her eyes, which clearly showed a hint of doubt.

Detective Anson was growing weary of having to convince this woman of the connection between the crime and her book, so he raised his left hand and positioned his fingers into a Boy Scout Salute. I swear that what I’m telling you is the truth.

Because what he was trying to convey was remotely possible, Louie decided to believe him. Okay! she said, as she shrugged her shoulders.

Seeing that she finally understood, he released a huge sigh of relief.

Wait a minute! she called loudly, while pointing an index finger in the air. She tried to control her breathing in order to calm herself down, but her inner alarm was going off like crazy. Am I here because you think I did it? She was on the verge of panicking because she wasn’t sure if she should be worried or not.

No, no, he said lightly. Again, there was a hint of laughter in his voice. The detective leaned his upper body forward and continued in a softer, more professional tone. We just want to ask you what you think.

About what? she asked in a strong and inquisitive manner. Am I a person of interest? Her words were delivered slowly and one at a time, to ensure that he understood what she was asking.

He smiled and shook his head, and then he replied in a firm fatherly tone. No. We want you to be aware of what’s happening, that’s all. He pushed the two pieces of paper closer to her side of the desk and asked her to study them. Look closely. Is this a passage from one of your books?

She skimmed the details of the murder in the article and replied, Yes, but I still don’t understand. A line of worry hovered between her well-groomed eyebrows as she added, Why would someone want to copy what I wrote?

That’s what we’re going to find out, he replied. As the detective pulled the pages back to his side of the desk, he straightened his posture. After he placed them inside the folder, he laced his fingers together and decided to speak more directly. Do you know of anyone who might want to cause you any harm? Perhaps someone who you’ve seen hanging around a lot, like at your book signing events or at your home?

The author inhaled sharply while her right hand raced up to her neck. After she exhaled through loosely puckered lips she replied, I don’t know, but I don’t think so. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head from side to side, as if too much information was being throw at her, all at once.

It was clear to the detective that the author was beginning to unravel from the sudden pressure, but he needed to keep going. Have you had a fight with anyone lately? the officer asked, in a way that the statement was almost a dare.

No! she stated loudly, in a voice that was packed with tears. The nature of this conversation was causing her nerves to vibrate, while a snake of uneasiness was beginning to crawl all over her body. I haven’t fought with anyone in the last few months.

He could see that she was becoming unglued, so he tried to coax her to relax. Okay, calm down. There was a thread of an apology in his voice, while he quickly positioned his hands to pat the air down.

She kept her eyes closed as she took a deep breath, and as the tension around her grew less, Louie could feel the fingers of her right hand drumming out of a rhythm on her right kneecap.

Detective Anson needed her to answer a few more questions, so he allowed her to have a minute of quiet before he continued his interrogation. Listen, we believe that someone has read your book and decided to act out a murder.

All of my books have murders! she confessed loudly. I write murder mystery stories!

We know what you do and that’s why you’re here, he stated in a tone that had a degree of warmth and concern to it. We don’t know if this will happen again, but I assure you, we don’t want anyone else to die.

The young brunette gasped in horror as her mind began to race. Would the murders in my other books also be acted out? It was a dreadful thought, and she could feel the screams of frustration at the back of her throat come to life.

The 31-year-old detective could see that she was distraught, and he leaned back in his chair to try to read her thoughts.

A tiny shiver ran over the top layer of Louie’s skin, as if a ghost had touched the fine hairs on her back. She wasn’t sure what to say or do, so after a minute of silence, Louisiana looked into the detective’s kind eyes with the innocence of a little girl. What happens now?

‘There we go,’ his inner voice cheered, and his body automatically jerked forward. We need you to provide us with a list of the other books that you have written.

Okay. I can do that, she agreed wholeheartedly. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, and when she found the website that listed all of her books, she handed the plastic device to the officer. As she watched him study the screen, she became nervous and promised, They’re all there.

Without lifting his eyes to meet hers, he replied, Thank you. Detective Anson was grateful that she was co-operating, and he was quick to jot down all the information onto his notepad. When he was done, he handed her the phone back.

You’re welcome. Her eyes were as large as saucers, her knees were pressing together, and her stomach was growing tighter. While she nestled her phone in her fingers which were now tucked between her thighs, the officer could see that the woman before him was nervous. He had not intended to scare her, and had only asked her to come in to make her aware of what was going on. That was his job, but it wasn’t the part that he enjoyed. Still, it had to be done.

Louie wanted to leave, and because the silence was more than she could handle, she spoke up without thinking. Is there anything else you need from me? she asked, while looking directly into his eyes.

He closed the file folder and pushed it to the left top corner of his desk. Yes, actually. He then leaned forward and continued. We would like to know if you have a fan-base. More importantly, if one name sticks out more than the others.

Her head began to reel as a mob of unfamiliar faces flashed relentlessly through her over-worked mind. She had been to so many book events in the past year, but she was not aware of anyone who seemed familiar. Or anyone who stood out more than the others. And as the incessant imprints of the many places she had been to, raced around her head, she was suddenly struck with an ugly awareness: someone had read her work and was trying to mimic the gruesome parts of her stories.

The room had been strangely soundless for much too long, and because he had other work to do, the detective made his presence known. Miss Hobbs?

She looked in his direction and instantly clicked back to reality. Oh, yes, sorry.

The detective didn’t want to detain her anymore than he had to, so he stood up and moved himself to the front of his desk. You can go, but I would appreciate it if you would call me if you remember anyone who you have seen more than a few times. He reached behind him and then handed her his business card. My cell phone, as well as my office number, are written on this card. Please feel free to contact me anytime.

Louie stood up to take it from his hand. Thank you. I promise to call if I remember anything, she replied.

Good, he added. I hope to hear from you soon.

Louie nodded, and as she left his office, she placed the business card in her purse. While driving home, Louie couldn’t help but replay each and every detail of their conversation again. After she closed the door to her home, she made sure to double lock it. She then leaned against the back of it and slid her body all the way down until her bum hit the floor. What the hell, eh? she stated in absolute disbelief.

Louie stayed in that comatose position for an indescribable amount of time, before she stood up and poured herself a stiff drink. With two ice cubes and a huge shot of whiskey in a clear, 8-ounce glass, she made her way upstairs to her computer room. As her almond-shaped eyes scanned the typewritten pages of her newest book, she wondered if she had made it too easy for someone to commit a murder. It even made her question if she should continue writing. After the warmth of the hard liquor hit her throat and slid down to her stomach, she contemplated her next move. Should I lay low, should I hide, or should I go about my normal routine? she wondered out loud. Because the detective didn’t tell her to stop writing, she decided to do what came naturally.

A second later, Louisiana Hobbs, a determined woman who was committed to her craft, took another large gulp of the chilled golden liquid and began to type.

CHAPTER THREE

33520.png

As the weeks went by and the detective had not called her, Louie resigned herself to the fact that the murder might have been random. Whether that was true or not, the weight of this theory certainly lessoned her worries.

Louie was writing again and truly enjoying her newest story. It had been a month since she had been summoned to go to the police station, and just when she had convinced herself that the murder was a one-time occurrence, Detective Anson dialed her number.

Hello, Miss Hobbs?

She recognized his number before she heard his sultry voice, and her heart leaped into her throat with worry. And as the receiver pressed up against her delicate ear, she felt as if someone was watching her. Yes, she answered, in a voice that was quiet yet unsettled.

I’m afraid we need you to come back downtown as soon as you can. His demeanor was stiff and businesslike, and not at all what she had been hoping for.

I guess I can do that. She desperately wanted to believe that the police had found the man who had committed the murder, but before she could ask if she was right, the detective was already delivering his next question.

Are you available today?

She looked at the time, and as the feeling of ice melted down her spine, she replied, Yes, sir. I’ll leave right away.

Good. I hope to see you soon. As he hung up the phone, the detective tapped the eraser end of his well-used pencil against his heavy desk four times. It was a mindless act, and as a smile slid across his attractive face, it showed that he was pleased that she had agreed to his request.

While Louie drove downtown, she guessed that there had been another murder. But if there was, and it had been taken from the pages in one of her books, she would be devastated. She shook her head as if she was trying to remove the fake scenario, and then she quickly came to another conclusion. What if she was going to the station in order to identify someone - a man or a woman who she might recognize from the book festivals or autographs signings? No! she said loudly, while moving her head from side-to-side. Her mind was racing and she wasn’t sure what to think, so she decided to concentrate on staying in between the two white lines on the 4-lane highway.

Detective Anson had gotten everything ready and was sitting at his desk, waiting for the author to arrive. When he heard a knock on his door, he looked across the room and his eyes automatically lit up. Miss Hobbs! Thank you for coming down, he said kindly, while trying to wipe the impish grin off his face. He stood up while his hand pointed to the chair in front of his desk, and he felt himself take a breath at how beautiful she was. Please, have a seat. It wasn’t until after she was comfortable that he stopped staring at her and went back into cop mode.

Being in his office for the second time was even more frightening than the first time. And when the detective pulled out the same file and Louie saw that it was now bigger, her heart began to pound to a stronger beat.

I’m afraid that there’s been another murder, he began. And before you ask, I’ll answer you with a yes, because it was taken from the pages of The Tennessee Twister.

As her tender hands were unconsciously fidgeting in front of her tummy, Louie’s mind was having a hard time believing that this nightmare could be true.

The detective took two pieces of paper out of the file and shifted them around so that they were facing her. As you can see, the details in the newspaper match what you wrote in your second book.

Louie was stunned and could feel her body starting to tremble.

Of course, we can’t confirm the minutes leading up to the woman’s death, but after some hikers found a woman’s bloated body floating in the river, we sent a team to search for clues. It took a few hours before they discovered a hefty hammer and a soaking wet, over-sized blanket nearby, and that does appear to match the details in your second book.

She was barely able to breath. I write fiction stories! They are all set in different cities! None of my self-generated stories are real! she insisted. Her voice was loud and she knew it, but she couldn’t help it. The facts came from my head! she cried.

I realize that, he stated in a calm voice. Detective Anson wanted to comfort the delicate woman before him, but he knew he could not do so without risking his job. Instead, he used his voice and body language to unruffle her tousled nerves.

Louie didn’t want to fall apart, but she could feel that tears were starting to pool in her eyes and her soul had somehow broken off into two separate pieces. Why is someone doing this? she asked with utter sadness.

We don’t know, he stated firmly. He leaned his body forward, braided his fingers together, and he spoke in a lowered voice. We’re asking you to help us understand what’s going on. For instance, why are people dying in the same way which you have described in your book?

The well-known author looked at the decorated officer as if he should have the answer to that question. And after staring at him for what seemed like a long while, the following imprudent words burst out of her mouth. How could I possibly know that? she asked in an unruly manner. She stared at him without blinking, while her arms automatically tightened themselves against her body. I didn’t know about the first murder until a month ago. And up until today, I didn’t think there would be another one. With the ugly realization that this was all becoming very real, she lowered her eyes and felt ashamed that she might have caused this horrid string of events to happen.

The detective watched as her body began to squirm. He could see that she had become a little panic-stricken, but he needed her to focus. Miss Hobbs! he stated loudly. A note of firmness had suddenly crept into his voice.

Louie raised her face and looked into his eyes, but she wasn’t sure how to defend herself. I write novels. I do not commit murders. She felt her bottom lip quiver as she sent the harsh words flying across his desk.

I realize that, he indicated with remote dignity. The detective had a job to do, and he decided to bring the conversation to another level. I have a warrant that states we can go into your home and have a look around. He took his next breath and waited for her to respond.

Her eyes widened with alarm as her hands clutched the ends of the armrests on the old chair. What? she shouted. She suddenly imagined all kinds of things happening, like strangers going through her computer room, scavenging through waste baskets, taking her written pages, and removing some books from her private collection. It’s even possible that the police would go through her desk drawers, her closets, her boxes that she kept in the basement, and even her garbage. It seemed so surreal and she desperately wanted to protest against all of it, but somehow she knew that she couldn’t stop them.

The detective raised an open hand in the air as if to calm her down. We just want to see what you have on your computer. Oh, and if you have any copies of your books handy, I’d like to read them. He lowered his hand and the intense look in his eyes softened.

Louie felt defeated, as if she had no choice in the matter. Okay, she replied. And as she leaned her body forward until her nose was almost touching her knees, she basked in the feeling of her fingers combing through the ends of her thick strands of hair. She was now aware that her breathing had returned back to normal after hearing that nobody would be taking anything out of her home, but she knew that she would feel even better if she spoke her mind. She sat up straight and tall, and allowed the words to tumble out of her mouth freely. I don’t mind you searching through my things, because I have nothing to hide, she confessed. I just need you to know, that when I write, I need to do research about murders and guns, and I do it to make those passages seem real. I don’t search the internet with any other intention. Up until this point, she had been struggling to keep her composure, but she suddenly began to get weepy out of desperation.

Detective Anson reached for a tissue and moved it towards