Metaphor for Murder (Mystery Writer's Mysteries Book 3) by Becky Clark

Author:Becky Clark [Clark, Becky]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

I spent the night at Ozzi’s, only half aware that he’d received a call in the middle of the night and left, mumbling something about a glitch in his software. I assumed it had literal meaning.

He returned, coming up behind me just as I locking his front door.

“Ugh, I was hoping you’d still be here,” he said.

“Technically I am.”

He rubbed a hand over his bleary face. “What?”

“Never mind.” I unlocked his door and ushered him into his apartment. “Straight to bed with you, mister. You’ve got about four hundred hours of sleep to catch up on. You’ve been working too many hours on this project.” I pushed him down the hall toward the bedroom. “Are you hungry?”

“No. Ate all night.”

“Anything healthy?”

“Nope.” He kicked off his shoes, then dropped his pants. His phone bounced out of his pocket and I picked it up.

“Can I turn it off so you can sleep?” I closed the drapes. “Expecting any more emergencies?”

“Is that an oxymoron?”

“I’m turning off your phone.”

“But—”

I moved to his nightstand. “I’m setting your alarm clock for eight hours. Then you can wake up and check your phone for any emergencies. I’ll leave it on the coffee table.”

“I’d argue with you, but I’m too tired.”

I kissed him, tucked him in, and left the room, closing the door behind me. I turned the ringer off on his phone and set it on the table before making my way to critique group.

I hadn’t planned on going today, since I didn’t have any pages to submit. Plus, I felt scattered enough that I probably wouldn’t give any constructive feedback to anyone who was diligent enough to submit pages today. But it occurred to me that my critique group could help me think through this real-life plot twist I found myself in. After all, I asked them for brainstorming help all the time. The only difference here was that it wasn’t for one of my fictional mysteries.

As I drove to the exit of my apartment complex parking lot and waited for traffic to clear, I looked to my left and saw Nova sitting in front of Espresso Yourself like she was the doorman. Doorperson. Doordog. She was so cute I had to fight the urge to turn the steering wheel that direction in order to go visit her. However, I knew that Kell would have breakfast and delicious hot coffee waiting when I got to his house. Visiting Nova would be a balm to my soul, but would make me late.

I bumped into the driveway of Kell’s McMansion a little bit early. I thought back to all the times I got here late for our meeting. For many years I detoured a few miles out of my way so I could drive past the parking lot where my dad had been gunned down when I was a teenager. I rarely stopped, just wanted that connection and maybe some answers. I got those answers recently so I’d been able to drive straight to Kell’s without the detour. I also didn’t have much of the tremor that had developed after Dad’s murder.

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