On a Saturday afternoon Darell stood before the mullioned windows in his office, brooding at the Pacific Ocean. Was it only five weeks ago he’d been in this very spot, brewing with frustration over his fight to plot a book?
It seemed like eons.
Beyond the closed door he could hear Margaret calling Kaitlan. He could swear his assistant’s voice sounded lighter, happier. How lonely she must have been in this house with only him for … hardly comfort. More like harassment.
Darell pushed up his lower lip and sniffed.
Margaret called again. Fool woman. So much for quiet in the house. Didn’t she know he was setting to work today?
Imagine what writing’s going to be like with a baby around.
His lips relaxed, then hinted at a curve.
The computer called.
Darell glared at it. Leland Hugh sat in there as silent and enigmatic as ever. No thanks to Craig Barlow, who’d proved no help at all with Hugh’s motives.
Now Hallie Barlow’s journal—that was a different story.
In the hospital Darell had spent day and night trying to slough the mud from his brain and plot the manuscript he so wanted to finish. The one that would rejuvenate his career. Sure, it was great that sales of his back list were soaring—though for all the wrong reasons. People no longer had forgotten Darell Brooke. But he wanted to write now. Give his fans something new.
Nothing worked.
As the sun dared rise three days ago, the King of Suspense finally gave up.
In that nascent light Darell had stared at his white bedroom ceiling and seen his life. Blank. Vain emptiness. Oh, he’d built a career, a worldwide reputation. His books were still selling. He’d made all the money he’d ever need. But he trampled over people to get it. Worse, he’d trampled over family.
In that moment of stillness, a profound knowledge pierced Darell as surely as an arrow: It’s your fault that you’ve been alone.
Why hadn’t he seen this before? How does one miss the ocean from the beach or stars in a clear night sky?
Perhaps he’d known all along and refused to see. And he’d thought himself so clever.
On the office door a knock sounded. Darell turned. “Come in.”
Kaitlan timidly stuck her head inside. “I’m so sorry to bother you—”
“Kaitlan.” He gazed at her with intensity. “You are never a bother.” Surprise crisscrossed her face, followed by a slow smile that yanked at Darell’s heart. “Okay.”
Two weeks ago Kaitlan had returned to working at the beauty salon. She missed it, she said. And salacious-minded people were finally beginning to leave her alone.
She hung in the doorway, eyes roaming the office as if seeing it for the first time. Impatience gurgled inside Darell. “You wanted something?”
“Yeah. Just to tell you Margaret and I are going shopping.”
Darell shrugged. “Fine.” He surveyed her. “What about tonight? You seeing Ed?”
Her eyelids flickered. “Yeah. It’s time I … we need to talk.”
That they did.
She took a deep breath. “You okay by yourself for a while?”
“Of course. I have writing to do.”
Kaitlan grinned. “Good. That’s so good.”
The computer pulled at Darell like a magnet. He’d been thinking this through since his epiphany—and now he was ready. More than ready. Anticipation popped through his veins.
Darell raised his eyebrows. “Remember, you promised to help me.”
“I know. I will.”
“You sure you understand what it will mean? How thoroughly I’ll have to interview you? Reliving difficult events is never easy.”
Nor was baring one’s soul.
“I know. But I’m ready.”
He read the thought she would not express. She needed to do this, as he did.
“Good.” He waved a hand at her. “Now get out of here. I have to get to work.”
“Okay, bye!” The door closed.
Darell shuffled to his desk and sat down. The desktop page gleamed so empty. So frightening.
Writing would still be difficult, even if he didn’t need to plot. He’d have to fight his wandering concentration constantly. But he would prevail.
Write a page a day—and you have a book in a year.
Darell took a deep breath and reached for the mouse.
“Help me on this one, God.”
The prayer blurted out, surprising him. Quite the first in his writing career. But apropos. Necessary.
This book would be from his heart, with his own chapters in first person. It would be his penance. His coming clean. Not that it wasn’t an amazing story. But to tell it with truth, every detail the way it really happened, required airing his own weaknesses and destructive pride. It meant admitting the lifelong dark pursuit that had cost him so much.
When all was said and done, his reputation as the formidable King of Suspense would be forever tarnished.
So be it.
Darell opened a new file.
Kaitlan had come home. Next year she’d present him with a great grandchild. But somewhere in England he still had a daughter—Kaitlan’s mother—whom he had driven away. Who he hoped would read this book. And hear.
The white page awaited.
How far would he get in his work today? Anticipation pulsed through him at the thought. At least the first few pages were already written.
Settling himself, poising fingers over the keys, Darell Brooke typed his cover page.