Chapter Three

This was a nightmare. How could he be on his way to a police station? Colson knew they were only following procedure, but he'd thought after explaining who he was, they'd understand and realize it was all a mistake and let him go. That bastard detective hadn't even wanted to listen to his explanation. Once they'd returned from their huddle, neither of them had been willing to take his statement at the scene. They'd told him to either come in voluntarily to talk to them, or they'd arrest him right there and ask questions later.

It was one thing to write a crime drama, but a hell of a difference to live through it, Colson was learning. This wasn't exciting or fun. At all.

At the station, they walked him through a maze of desks and past offices, where people wearing handcuffs were being processed—a far cry from the last time he'd been inside a precinct. Back then, he'd been treated like a guest and mini celebrity, as many of the law enforcement people he'd met had read his books. He'd always treated the police well in his writing, but maybe after this experience, he'd have to change his view.

"Have a seat, Mr. Delacourt." Detective Martinez indicated a chair. "Can I bring you some coffee or water?"

"He's already had coffee this morning." Detective Rose smirked, and Colson glared.

Bastard . How could he have ever thought this man was attractive? He'd like to punch him in that perfect face.

"I'm fine, thanks. Has anyone checked to see how Millie is doing?"

Rose glowered. "She's still unconscious. They're prepping her for surgery."

He rubbed his face. "I can't believe anyone would do something like that to her."

"Why don't we start by you telling us about your conversation in the coffee shop?"

Colson rolled his eyes. "I was planning my next book and talking about it with my friend Hogan. I knew people were listening in—this group of women kept staring and making comments."

"Your next book?" Martinez questioned. "You haven't had a release in almost three years."

"And?" he challenged. "Burnout is real. But I had an idea, and I wanted to share it with my best friend."

"That's sweet," Rose sniped. "What's this best friend's full name?"

"Hogan Carmichael. He works at Pomerantz and Co., a CPA firm in the city."

"We'll check him out." Unsmiling, Rose met his eyes. "Go on."

"Uh, well, part of how I write is I immerse myself in my stories by becoming the character I'm writing about."

"Murderers," Rose interrupted. "You're telling us you pretend you're a murderer to write murder."

"Yeah." He raised his chin. "Maybe it's unconventional, but—"

"Maybe?" Rose's disbelieving laughter filled the air. "You've got to be kidding me."

He glared daggers across the worn metal table. "You're obviously not a reader of crime fiction. Or anything at all," Colson mumbled, and saw he scored a direct hit from the flush of anger on the detective's face.

"I don't have the time."

"I've read your books, Mr. Delacourt. And I've seen your interviews where you've stated what you've just told us. But please, continue." He guessed Martinez was the good cop in this scenario.

"I was working through a new idea for a serial killer, and I was explaining it to Hogan, going through the type of murder my killer might commit—striking her over the head or stabbing and dismembering."

Rose winced.

Colson pressed on. "I knew the ladies were listening, so I might've hyped it up a little for their benefit. Made it a bit more gruesome than necessary. And when I left, I said something snarky to them."

Rose's face remained unreadable.

"What did you do after you left?" Martinez took notes as he spoke.

He gulped. "I, uh, went to Millie's, to see if she needed anything, but she'd just had a delivery from the store. She was baking, and since her hands hurt from her arthritis, I offered to cut the apples and measure the flour. Helped with the oven." He found Rose's eyes on him. "I told you all this already."

"Humor us." Rose's lips thinned.

"I told her I was putting her in the book, and even though she was the victim, she was excited." Despite his bleak surroundings and being questioned for attempted murder, he smiled. "She said she was the star of the show. She invited me to come back later for a piece of pie, and I told her I'd bring the ice cream."

"And you went home after that?" Martinez asked.

"No." His gaze dropped to the ugly, scarred table. "I-I went for a walk through the park and then to the water in Dumbo."

"How did you hurt your hands, Mr. Delacourt?" Rose didn't sound quite as angry as before.

His face grew warm. "Uh. It's personal."

Rose's brows arched high. "You're in a police station being questioned for attempted murder. I think we're past the point of questions being too personal."

Colson clasped his hands over the table. "Uh…a few months ago my boyfriend of three years left me to take a job in Paris, and I was looking at his social media." His gut twisted, and to his horror, those damn tears burned in his eyes. He blinked rapidly. "I saw he'd deleted all our pictures together, and he'd met someone new. I got upset and pounded the rock I was sitting on with my hands."

To his shock, Rose had no obnoxious, cutting comeback. Instead, he dipped his head. "I'm sorry. That must've been rough."

He blinked. "Y-yeah. It was. Anyway, I went to the store to buy the ice cream, went home to take a shower, and came to Millie's. That's it."

"Can anyone corroborate what you told us?"

His heart sank. "I don't know…it was pretty empty because of the rain. I was happy because I hate how crowded the park gets."

"Yeah. Full of tourists," Rose agreed, surprising Colson yet again. Was he being nice to him, preparing for the kill? All this put him on edge and made him jumpy. He should never have left the house today. His bed never hurt him. His bed was his friend.

"But I did buy ice cream at the deli. I can give you the name. They'd remember me."

"Why? What made you so memorable?" Rose asked.

Oh, good. There was the rude SOB he'd hidden for all of five minutes.

"When I came home, I saw blood on my face. They must've thought—"

"You were a killer?" Rose finished for him with a quick twist of his lips.

"For fuck's sake, I didn't try and kill Millie. I care about her," he yelled. "There's a real criminal out there. You should be looking for them instead of concentrating on me."

Martinez and Rose stared at him.

"We'll be right back," Rose said, and he and Martinez left him alone.

From his research, Colson knew they could see and hear everything he did. He sighed, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes. How did this all happen? Poor Millie. She'd looked so white…so frail.

"Please let her be okay," he whispered. He felt so terrified. So alone. He knew Detective Rose didn't believe him, but Martinez seemed to understand. At least he hoped.

Close to an hour passed before the door opened and Martinez walked in, carrying a bottle of water, a packet of peanut butter crackers, and a bag of M&M's.

He raised a brow. "Health food diet?" He peered over the detective's shoulder. "Where's your charming partner? Did he find some raw meat to chew?"

Cackling, Martinez slid the snacks to him. "Good one. He's making some calls based on the information you gave us."

"If he speaks to Hogan, he'll repeat everything I said. I'm telling the truth."

"What's your ex's name?" At his startled expression, Martinez explained. "I want to check out his social media to verify what you told us."

"Oh. It's Evan Perez." He gave Martinez the Instagram handle and watched as he found Evan's account and started scrolling.

"What you stated checks out here."

The door flew open, and Rose strolled in. "I just got off the phone with your friend Mr. Carmichael." Those moonlight-pale eyes Colson had lusted over earlier locked on his through a thick sweep of dark lashes.

For some inexplicable reason, his heart pounded and adrenaline rushed through him. "Yeah? And?"

"He basically stated word-for-word what you did. By the way, he thinks it's creepy as shit too."

Relief tore through him. "I-I told you he would." Somehow he managed a weak laugh. "And yeah, I know. He tells me all the time."

"Since we have your prints in the system from one of your book-research visits, forensics identified a print on the knife handle as yours," Rose added.

The dread returned. "I told you why."

"Yes, sir. That's why we're going to release you." Rose paused. "For now. But stay close to home." His lips pressed into a thin line. "In case we need to contact you further. Have a good day."

He couldn't wait to escape but hesitated at the door. "Is Millie—will she be okay?"

"She's still not awake."

"I'm gonna go there to see. Millie has no family. I think when she wakes up, she should see a face she knows."

"Boy Scout," Rose murmured as he passed by.

"Jerk," he muttered, and Rose snickered as he walked away.

He couldn't leave the police station quickly enough, and he called a car to the hospital. When he arrived, they directed him to the emergency room, where he sat waiting. With regret, he realized he should've taken the food Detective Martinez had brought him. He was starving.

A doctor entered the room. "Mr. Delacourt?"

He jumped to his feet. "Yes. How is she? How's Millie?"

"Are you family?"

His heart sank. "No, but—"

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything."

"Maybe you can tell me, then." The deep, smooth voice of Detective Harper Rose startled him. "I'm a detective with the NYPD investigating this case. Is Ms. Johnson awake? Can she answer any questions?"

The doctor stared at Rose. "This is an eighty-four-year-old woman with a knife wound."

"I'm aware, Doctor," Rose responded, not backing down in the least. "And I'm trying to catch the person who did that to her. So I'm going to ask you again if I can speak to her for a few minutes."

The doctor blinked. "She should be awake soon. Lucky for her, it wasn't as bad as it looked. The knife didn't penetrate enough to damage vital organs, so we stitched her up, but because of her age, we're concerned. Don't stay long. I'll make sure the nurses keep an eye on her."

"Not a problem."

The doctor walked out, and Rose cast a glance his way, said nothing, and left.

"Jesus, what a jerk." Colson sighed, and realizing there was nothing left for him to do, decided to leave. He could come visit Millie tomorrow.

Once home, he took another shower, feeling dirty after sitting in a police car, at the precinct, and at the hospital. Checking his phone, he saw three missed calls from Hogan.

"What the hell, Colson? Are you all right? Where are you?"

Weary, he lay on the couch, facing Willow Street and Millie's house. "I'm home. They said talking to you made them realize I was telling the truth, but that I'm still not ruled out as a suspect. It's crazy. I didn't try and hurt her. I couldn't."

"Of course not. That's what I told that detective. I trust you with my kids, for God's sake."

"Thanks. I'm just going to sit in my house from now on. It's safer in here."

"That's not the answer," Hogan protested.

"It is for me," he muttered, and watched out the window as a delivery truck pulled up. Something bothered him, and he needed to think. "I gotta go. I'll call you later."

"If you don't, I will," Hogan warned.

He remembered Millie saying she'd had a delivery earlier in the day—"a nice young man" she'd called him. The neighborhood watch had reported that because of the increase in home invasions lately, they were installing cameras up and down the area. Colson dug out the card Martinez gave him and called. He wasn't there, but Colson gave a detailed message to the person who answered.

He ate a peanut butter sandwich and decided to type his handwritten chapter, but gave up halfway through. It was eerily close to what happened to Millie, and Colson couldn't bring himself to finish. He called the hospital but was told they couldn't give him any information.

"Dammit."

How could it be only afternoon? It felt as though he'd lived a year this day alone. To keep from thinking about Millie or that annoying detective, he flipped on the television to some nature show. He'd always found them fascinating, but even that didn't hold his interest, and he awoke with a start to his doorbell ringing. The sky outside had dimmed to blue-violet, and he rubbed his eyes as he peered at the video screen to see Detective Rose on his doorstep.

His stomach tumbled with a mix of fear and, for whatever reason, anticipation. He opened the door. As irritated as the man made him, Colson couldn't help admiring his gorgeous face.

"Detective. Is Millie okay?"

"She's in the hospital, so I doubt she's okay." He crossed his arms, so nonchalant that Colson's ire rose. He should've known better than to think the detective was human.

"You know, I could do without the wiseass comments. I've been accused of attempted murder. I've had kind of a rough day."

"Well, I'm here to make your night a whole lot better." A wicked grin curved his lips, and Colson stared at him as his mouth dried, his heart accelerated, and a curl of desire tugged in his belly. Yeah, he was a jerk and a sarcastic son of a bitch who thought Colson could stab an old lady, but damn…he was gorgeous.

"Wh-what're you talking about?" He licked his lips.

"I had a chance to speak to Millie." Rose paused as several people walked past. "Can we take this inside? Unless you want your neighbors to hear."

"Yeah, sure." Colson stepped aside. Rose passed by him, and instead of waiting, walked right into his living room.

"Nice house." His measured, assessing gaze swept over the room, then returned to him. "How'd you end up in Brooklyn from Greenwich, Connecticut?"

"You looked me up?" He shouldn't be surprised, but it still felt like an invasion of privacy.

Unrepentant, Rose shrugged. "SOP—that's standard operating—"

"Procedure. I know. I do research for my stories." Colson glared at the detective and decided to ignore his question. "What's the purpose of your visit? You said you spoke to Millie?"

"Yes." He should've known Rose wouldn't let go of his question. "Your family is one of the oldest in New England. Practically Mayflower. Fancy boarding schools and all that, yet you left to live in Brooklyn." Those penetrating eyes traveled over his arms, leaving Colson breathless and trembling. "How'd they feel about those tattoos and your earring? Were you one of those rebellious youths?"

"Not that any of this is your damn business." Colson gathered his wits. "I left home because my parents didn't want to deal with a gay son. Does that satisfy you?"

Rose blinked, and for a second, Colson thought he spied sympathy in his eyes. "Millie exonerated you. I had a chance to ask her if she saw who did it, and she said it was the delivery boy. We're searching for him now. I wanted to let you know." His lips twitched. "She was very adamant it wasn't you. Said you were too sweet and couldn't hurt a fly."

He glowered at Rose. "You think this is funny, don't you?" When he remained silent, Colson sighed. "I actually called your partner because I remembered that the block association put up cameras because of the home invasions." It was his turn to smirk. "Maybe now you could concentrate on those and find the real criminal, instead of harassing innocent citizens."

Rose's expression darkened. "You're cleared. Have a nice night, Mr. Delacourt." Rose walked to the front door, and Colson unlocked it and waited for him to leave. "And a word of advice? Keep your conversations about your books within the walls of your house. Safer for you that way and saves the NYPD valuable time."

Detective Rose was annoying as hell, but Colson could concede he had a point. "Thanks for letting me know. Good night."

"Good night…Boy Scout." Rose took off down the street, and Colson slammed the door.

"Jerk."