Chapter One

"Maybe I don't have to kill him. I could just choke him and stuff him in a garbage pail." In between sips of cold brew, he jotted a few lines in his notebook. "But I prefer murder."

Colson Delacourt sat in his neighborhood coffee spot, ensconced at a corner table. He chewed on his lower lip as he contemplated the plot of his new mystery while scanning the crowd coming and going in a steady stream.

Normally, he'd be at home in pajamas, sitting at the dining table he'd commandeered as his desk, the television on in the background for noise, while his fingers flew over the keyboard. No matter how many times he'd explained it to Evan, the man had never understood how Colson could write with so many distractions.

As it turned out, Evan hadn't understood a lot about him.

Colson's stomach cramped, but he couldn't be sure if it was from thinking about his broken relationship or the coffee on an empty stomach. Heartbreak and hunger didn't go hand in hand.

"Whatever," he mumbled to himself. "Hopefully the change of scenery will help." He closed his eyes for a moment, willing his swirling thoughts to coalesce into coherent words he could put on page. He couldn't sit and stare at a blank screen anymore, so he started writing longhand and it helped him.

Readers enjoyed not only the complex plots but following the lives of the detectives as they searched for answers. He had two New York Times bestsellers, several short stories, and a slew of awards. A beautiful house and a great neighborhood Chinese restaurant where they knew him by name.

Living the life, right?

Colson sighed. It had been almost four years since his first book had released to critical acclaim. Three years since the second was published and he and Evan had met and moved in together. The burnout had started soon after. It'd been eight months since the breakup. Forever since he'd felt whole.

Not today, Satan.

He reread what he'd written and rubbed his cheek as he pondered. "Dismemberment. Hmm . Haven't done that yet. Better check the ins and outs. So much blood. I hate a messy crime scene."

Colson flexed his fingers, took a look around, and met the gaze of an elderly man sitting a table away, who immediately turned his head. Colson frowned. He'd showered this morning and had made an attempt to tame his hair, although he needed to visit the barber. It had been a while. Okay, a long while. Probably his tattoos and the earring were a turn-off. Some people said he was intimidating. Guys used to think it was hot.

Maybe it was a bad-boy image, but his ink had been done more as a fuck-you to his tight-ass, cold-as-ice parents than to intimidate anyone. His stomach twisted again. Anger mixed with grief slammed into him, a common occurrence anytime he thought about them.

"Fuck it," he growled. "Let's do this." He closed his eyes, and suddenly, like a sunbeam breaking through murky clouds, it clicked. The names of the protagonists, their backstories, and the plot going forward. He could see the pages unwinding before his eyes like the fucking yellow brick road.

"Yeah, baby. That's it. Perfect. Love it." His cramping stomach forgotten, he let the words rush over him in waves, and when he finished, he grunted with satisfaction, oblivious to the pain of his almost-numb fingers.

"Finally. That's got to be three thousand words. That's two thousand, five hundred and forty more than I've been able to write in the past two years." He reviewed them, ecstatic to see they weren't merely words on the page but actual usable words. A great first chapter to hook the reader.

"Ha-ha," he crowed and banged on the table. At a sharply indrawn breath, he darted a glance and found the elderly man frowning. He then huffed and vacated his seat, finding one across the coffee house.

Colson didn't care. This book was a winner, and he was going to celebrate.

He picked up the phone and hit Hogan's number.

"Colson? That really you?"

"Yeah, it is. How's it going?"

"Better now that I've heard from you. What's it been, man? Four months, five? I tried calling, but you were kind of MIA."

"Make it eight. When…you know…" Colson shrugged. "And sorry about shutting you out. I wasn't in the right headspace for any conversation other than thanking my food delivery person."

"Shit, yeah. Sorry. You…okay?" Hogan asked cautiously—a far cry from how he would've done it during their hard-partying, beer-pong days in college.

"Yeah. I think so."

A whoosh of air filled his ear. "Thank fucking God." Colson heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like sniffling.

"Are you…crying?" A smile curved his lips. A bear of a man at six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds, few knew Hogan was more teddy than grizzly.

"No, you asshole. I have allergies."

" Mmhmm. Sure. Anyway, I called because I got an idea for a book and I wrote the first chapter. Three thousand words. I feel it, Hogan. It's happening again. This is a good one."

"That's terrific. I knew the burnout wouldn't last."

"Three years is a hell of a long time." He chewed the inside of his cheek, his positivity beginning to fade.

"Nah," Hogan rushed to reassure Colson, as if he could sense the self-doubt beginning to eat away at him. "You're a talent. And quality takes time. Neither book is a carbon copy of the other. Trust me, your readers will be there when the time is right. You're unique because you put yourself in the head of the killer when you write. Scares me sometimes."

"Ha-ha. I remember when I told you I always think of myself doing the deeds, and you thought I needed psychiatric help."

Hogan chuckled. "I still do sometimes, but hey, what the hell do I know about creativity? I'm a numbers guy."

Colson snickered. "Numbers give me hives."

"Don't I know it," Hogan responded dryly. "Your tax returns are legend here at the firm. Good thing I'm your friend."

Guilt tugged at him. "Trust me, I know I'm the lucky one."

"It'll be okay. Evan turned out to be a shit, but you can't give up your life for someone who doesn't give a damn about you."

Ouch. Fuck, that hurt.

"Well, I'm out now. And talking to you." Irritated, he drank more coffee. "Do you want to hear more or not? Or does Bea have you on babysitting duty?"

"It's not babysitting when they're your kids, idiot. And of course I want to hear about the book. Even if I have to pretend I'm listening to a murderer talk to me."

Was it an unorthodox method? Maybe. But it worked for him.

"If I don't think of myself as the murderer, how can I make it real enough for my readers to immerse themselves in the story? Plus, when I shift to the procedural part of the story, I switch gears and put on my detective hat. Or shield, as it is. Realism is what I've always tried to give people. Hopefully they're still interested."

That was what happened when your personal life imploded, leaving you wondering why you even bothered to get up in the morning. If he had been so wrong to love Evan, who'd found it easy to cheat on him and leave without a backward glance, who was to say he understood anything? Maybe he needed to buy a cabin in the woods, get a dog, and become a hermit. Sounded good to him.

He put away his notebook. A trio of women in their midsixties had taken the space vacated by the grouchy old man. Good friends, from what he could see, as they were sharing pictures of children and grandchildren on their phones. A fourth joined them, carrying a tray of hot beverages.

"Bah," Hogan dismissed that. "As soon as you announce you've got something new, they'll come out of the woodwork. Tell me what it's about."

Colson had thought he'd need to look at his notes, but it was all there in his mind and it flowed off his lips.

"Okay. There's this little old lady—Millie Johnson. She actually exists and also lives on Willow—you know that big brownstone across the street from me? With the big wooden doors?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"I help her with groceries and fixing things around her house, so I know the layout. Her routine is pretty set. Grocery store, bookstore, the diner for lunch, and then home. Twice a week she goes to the bank. She keeps the door open because her arthritis makes it hard to manage the locks." It reminded him to check on her to make sure she was locking her door. Millie was way too trusting a soul. Only for her had he left his house to help with chores she needed or to carry packages if she couldn't get something delivered.

"So she never locks her door," Hogan filled in, "and this guy knows it."

"Yep. You got it. As I have it planned, she comes home from the bank, pushes open the door, and bam ." He pounded his fist on the table, rattling the napkin holder. Crap . Was he being too loud? It had been a long time since he was out in public. He'd forgotten how to behave and use his "indoor voice," as he'd heard Bea tell the kids.

Guilty, he glanced at the people nearby to see if anyone had heard him. No one sat by his right, but less than five feet away in front of him, the quartet of women had grown silent, drinking their coffee. His gaze slid away and came to a dead stop, caught by a man entering the coffee shop.

Colson almost swallowed his tongue. He was a little over six feet, with hair black as onyx curling at his nape. His neck was strong, his shoulders muscled. A broad back narrowed to slim hips, the crisp shirt tucked into charcoal gray slacks that were poured onto thick thighs and a butt he could write a dedication to. Colson tracked him as he waited on line, but the man never looked up. He studied his phone, a hank of that night-black hair falling forward, hiding his face.

Dammit . He wanted to see more.

"Colson, you there?" Hogan called into his ear.

"What? Yeah, sorry. Just got a little distracted." He gulped his iced coffee, and it went down the wrong pipe, causing a choking fit. His coughing up a lung drew everyone's attention, including the hottie's. Stubble shaded his jaw, but it did little to hide the man's sharp, chiseled features. Red-rimmed eyes swept over him, their color iridescent as a flawless diamond's, and Colson quickly shifted away but not before seeing the slash of dark brows rise high and a slight upward tilt of his lips.

Glad my imminent death from choking amused you, asshole.

"Anyway, I'm either going to bash her over the head, or stab her and cut up the body. I haven't decided yet. I need to do more research to see which is better."

Loud whispers floated over from the table of ladies. "Oh, my God! What do you suppose he's talking about?" Their faces reflected horror, and he grinned to himself. If they were going to eavesdrop, he was going to give them something to talk about. That was the price they paid for being nosy fuckers.

"So what's the premise?" Hogan asked. "It's not only killing the lady."

"I can't help it if I like killing," Colson said, raising his voice a bit so the ladies could hear. "There's something so soothing about it. Like squashing a bug."

The chatter grew frenzied.

"He's crazy."

"What should we do?"

"We need to call the police."

"Uh, Colson? Is there something you need to tell me?" Hogan's anxiety had him laughing.

"You know me. I'm a ruthless fucker. And Millie is rich. Very rich. Her brownstone is full of antiques. She's a little eccentric. Bakes cookies for everyone and wears her fabulous jewelry and Chanel suits to run her errands, that kind of thing."

"Got it."

"And it's not the first time. It's a pattern. Befriending wealthy older ladies, helping them, becoming indispensable to them."

"So he's a serial killer."

A curl of excitement lit his belly. "Yeah. I haven't done that yet."

"Well, it all sounds absolutely gruesome and perfectly you. Can't wait to read it."

"Thanks." The hottie had gotten his coffee and found a seat on the opposite side of the café from him. Still glued to his phone, he frowned. A flash of gold caught Colson's eye, and upon further inspection of his lower extremities, he caught sight of the shield clipped to the man's waist.

Detective, huh?

While researching, Colson had visited a few homicide divisions and spoken to many detectives. None resembled this man.

Maybe he could use him in his story. That would be a first. Normally his law enforcement personnel were older, rumpled, and grouchy. Hard-boiled and hard-living, with problems of their own that often spilled over into the investigations they handled. This man looked like he belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, not poking around crime scenes. Having a hot-as-fuck detective might draw in more female readers.

The four women continued to shoot Colson terrified glances. He slipped his notebook into his bag, picked up his coffee, and walked past them.

"Have a lovely day, ladies. I hope you get home safely…and in one piece."

They all gasped, and he laughed and walked out. A side-eye at the large glass windows showed the detective still frowning, now in his direction. He'd done nothing wrong.

He decided to pay a visit to the real-life Millie Johnson to see if she needed his help with anything. Really, he was a pussycat.

He rang her bell and heard the tapping of her heels on the hardwood floor. When she opened the door, her smile beamed. "Colson. So good to see you."

"Millie. How many times have I told you not to open your door without asking who it is first? It's a dangerous world out there."

"Oh, phooey. Who'd bother an old lady like me? Come with me." She waved him in, and he made sure to lock the door behind him. "Would you like some tea? I was thinking of baking an apple pie."

She chattered as he followed her to the kitchen. A bag of flour, sugar, and several apples sat on a large wooden table.

"I hope you didn't carry this all yourself, Millie." He fixed her with a stern eye. "You know I'll help you whenever I can."

"You're a dear, but I need to get out. And no. A nice young man from the supermarket delivered it." She picked up a knife and set it down, rubbing her stiff fingers. "It's so humid and damp out today. My arthritis is acting up."

"Do you need me to help you?"

Her eyes brightened. "Would you mind? If you cut up the apples and measure the ingredients, I'll be able to do it."

"For your apple pie? Gladly."

"You're a very sweet man, Colson. I appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure." Millie needed protecting. She was one of those people who only saw good in others. He followed her directions, and as Millie was a big fan of his writing, he told her of his new book idea while peeling and chopping the apples. She laughed and clapped her hands when he told her he planned to use her in his new book.

"Oh, how exciting. You must let me read it when it's finished."

For a moment he felt a twinge of regret making her the victim. "I hope you don't mind me killing you off."

She brushed away his concern. "Not in the least. If it wasn't for me, there would be no book. I'm the star of the show."

He slid the pie into the oven for her, cleaned up the kitchen table, and loaded the dirty bowls and plates into the dishwasher. He rinsed off the knife and several spoons and put them into the dish drain. "Anything else I can do for you before I leave?" He wanted to get home and type out the chapter to upload to the cloud.

"No, I don't think so. Make sure you come by later for a piece of pie."

"I wouldn't miss it. And I'll bring vanilla ice cream."

Her laughter was as infectious as a young child's. "You know my weakness." Her eyes dimmed. "I'm so glad to see you happy again. You can't let a bad relationship keep you from enjoying life."

His throat closed up. Millie should only know it wasn't his first. It had all started with his parents, old-money Delacourts from Greenwich, Connecticut, who had no use for a gay son. And except for his grandparents, who'd unfortunately passed away, and Hogan, he'd yet to find anyone in his life who cared enough about him to stay.

"I'm fine. Now that I'm writing again." At the slight pattering sound, he glanced up at the skylight. "It's raining. I'd better go, but I'll check in with you later."

"I know." Her laugh was merry. "You don't want to miss out on your pie." She walked him out. "And don't forget the ice cream," she said cheerfully.

He kissed her cheek. "I won't. Make sure you lock the door after me." To be certain, he tested the knob afterward.

The rain had petered out, but a fine mist replaced it, cooling the sultry air, and after stopping at home to drop off his notebook, Colson decided to walk to Brooklyn Bridge Park. The area—usually crowded with throngs of tourists during the summer—was now mostly deserted. The earlier shower, quick as it was, must've driven them away, for which Colson was grateful. A few hours in the coffee house and then time with Millie had left him peopled out.

Head down, shoulders hunched, he walked along the path that wound by the river. The benches were too wet to sit, and he didn't feel like standing at the railing, so he continued on, past the rocky inlet where ducks quacked and swam, and the barbecue grills, and the bobbing boats of Brooklyn Sail. Some parents braved the weather and stayed in the playground with their children, pushing them on swings or reading to them. He smiled at their innocence, wishing he could remember ever being that close to his mother or father.

Doubling back, he walked through to the other side, past the Time Out Market, which he noted was crowded with all the people who'd escaped the earlier rain. He headed over to the beach area, where he found a rock and sat, staring into the gray waters of the East River sloshing at the shoreline.

The disintegration of his relationship with Evan could be pinpointed to the beginning of his burnout. And Evan, who'd met him during the good times, hadn't been prepared for his slow slide from celebrated author to morose, introspective hermit. Later on, he'd realized that was when the cheating had started. Colson had been so lost in his own head and wrapped up in his inability to write, he hadn't even noticed that he and Evan hadn't had sex in months.

"You're supposed to stay and support your partner. Isn't that what being in love means?" He watched as Evan packed his suitcases. "It'll get better once I start writing again. I know it will."

Evan zipped up a rolling bag filled with his toiletries. "And if that never happens? What then, Cole? I have a life too." His black eyes darkened, and Colson searched their depths, but Evan had proved adept at hiding, and Colson was unable to read his intent. "I did support you. For almost two years, I sat and encouraged you, putting my life on hold. I've been waiting for you to wake up, and I can't sit around by myself anymore."

"And you haven't been?" He'd suspected Evan of cheating after he'd made excuse after excuse for late-night meetings keeping him at the office. Evan would come in after midnight, sometimes smelling like strange cologne and alcohol. Colson didn't have the energy to confront him, perhaps because he knew Evan would leave, and he'd be alone.

In the end, it didn't matter. Evan left him anyway.

Evan shrugged. "I didn't think you'd care. We've been more like roommates than lovers." He finished the last of his bags and reached out to put a hand on Colson's cheek, but he jerked away from the touch. "I guess I should've told you about the job offer, but I kept thinking you'd start writing again, and I hoped everything would be fine. Maybe you'd even want a change of scenery and you'd come with me. But it's not going to work," he hastened to add, likely to prevent Colson from agreeing. He lowered his gaze and sighed. "It's only for a year. Maybe we can see if we can work it out."

"You guess you should've told me." Colson pulled his phone from his pocket and found Evan's Instagram account. The pictures of him and another man hugging, having dinner with large groups of friends, and kissing while visiting famous Paris landmarks—Versailles, the Eiffel Tower, the winding steps of Montmartre—a trip the two of them had planned but never taken—shouldn't have hit him so hard. It shouldn't have hurt him to read the caption "Best day ever" because Evan had said that exact same thing to him when Colson had invited him to move into his town house. There had never been any intention to work it out—he hadn't heard from Evan since he left and didn't expect to.

With shocked sadness, he scanned Evan's photos, realizing he'd deleted all the pictures of the two of them. Their vacations, events attended together, anniversary dinners, and sweet sleepy moments of the two of them cuddled in bed.

Years wiped away. As if he'd never existed.

Maybe he hadn't. Maybe the reason he couldn't write was simple. Evan left and took with him Colson's soul and everything that had made life beautiful and worth living.

"Fucking hell." He pounded his fists on the rocks and brushed the tears off his face. He wouldn't—couldn't—live squirreled away any longer while the world marched on. This idea for the new book was nibbling at his brain, the characters and plot points unfolding before his eyes. He itched to write.

"You're back," he muttered like a mantra. "You are back. Let's do this."

He remembered to pick up the vanilla ice cream from the supermarket, not understanding why the clerk pushed the container toward him without meeting his eyes. Upon his return home, his reflection provided the answer—streaks of blood from his bruised hands covered his cheeks.

"Great. Now I really look like the killer I'm writing. Talk about getting into character." Laughing to himself, he put the ice cream in the freezer and went to take a shower, anticipating his piece of apple pie.