Page 48 of Twisted Paths

Her fingers tighten around her mug.

“I became pessimistic. Distrusting.” I shake my head slightly. “And then the books happened. I started writing as an escape from all of it. At first, it was just a side thing. A way to get it out of my head.” I let out a dry breath. “Didn’t exactly expect to become a bestselling author.”

Nancy tilts her head, still silent, still watching.

I glance at the paper again. “The few times I’ve told people; it’s gone one of three ways.” I hold up a finger. “They belittle it, ‘oh, you write crime books, how cute.’” Another finger. “They immediately try to get me to help them get published, as if that’s how this works.” A third finger. “Or—on occasion—they think I must be sitting on a ridiculous amount of money and they suddenly become very interested in what I can do for them.”

Nancy’s brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.

I shake my head. “It’s like the second people hear the name John Brooks; Luke Evans stops existing. And I just… I hate it.”

Silence stretches between us.

I drag a hand through my hair. “So, I don’t tell people when I first meet them. Not because I’m trying to lie, but because it’s easier that way. If they’re going to stick around, they usually figure it out eventually.”

My mouth quirks slightly, but there’s no humour in it. “Not that many people tend to stick around.”

Nancy keeps her gaze on me, steady and unreadable. Then, finally, she speaks.

“Do you think they don’t stick around because they feel like you’re hiding something?”

I exhale sharply, leaning back in my chair. “Maybe.” I tilt my head, meeting her eyes. “Or maybe nobody’s ever really made the effort to get to know me… until you turned up.”

Nancy studies me, her blue eyes sharp, but there’s something softer there, too. Like she’s trying to see past all of it.

“So,” she says eventually. “Who is Luke Evans?”

Her expression remains unreadable and that unsettles me more than if she were angry or shouting.

I don’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to sit across from someone, lay myself bare, and hope they don’t look at me differently afterward. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm’s length. It’s safer. Easier. Less messy.

But she’s here. Still here.

And for the first time in a long time, I want someone to see me properly.

So, I try.

I exhale slowly, my fingers pressing into the table. “I like the quiet. But that doesn’t mean I like being alone.”

Nancy’s brows pull together slightly, like she’s turning those words over in her head.

I rest my elbows on the table, lacing my fingers together. “I’ve really only got one friend. Well, two.” I pause. “Philip—he’s my editor. He’s been with me since my first book. And his husband, Mark. They’re probably the closest thing I have to family.”

“Your editor?”

I nod. “Yeah. But he is so much more. He’s been managing my career for years. Knows me too well, really.” I smirk slightly. “He’s also the most persistent person I know. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably still be a miserable lawyer, hating my life.”

She tilts her head. “So, he convinced you to quit law?”

“More like bullied me into it,” I admit. “Told me I had talent, that I was wasting my time defending people I didn’t believe in when I could be writing books instead.” I glance down at the royalty statement she’d pushed toward me. “Turns out, he was right.”

Nancy watches me, quiet for a beat, then asks, “And aside from Philip and Mark?”

I hesitate, then shrug. “That’s it.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around her mug, but she doesn’t speak.

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