Page 15 of Always Murder

“It was,” I said.“He was trying to live stream it.”

“In an empty box he carried into the lounge?I should have fired him that day, but we’re shorthanded as it is.It was only a matter of time before he tried again.”She pointed to the door.“Now, get out.If I see you on CPF property again, it’ll be trespassing, and I’ll call the sheriff.”

“Ms.Hernandez,” Millie tried.

“Out!”

The rudest part was she didn’t trust us to leave on our own.(Okay, I mean, I get it.) Luz followed us to the front door, unlocked it, and gave us the bum’s rush.

Outside, the day had that diffuse brightness of a gray, cloudy day when the sun just won’t give up.Millie and I made our way back to the car.A semi rattled past us toward the loading docks, doubtless dropping off another load of packages to be delivered to eager residents of the Oregon Coast, and the smell of exhaust wafted up.

“That,” I said once we were in the car, “could have gone better.”

“She was DEFINITELY trying to hide something,” Millie said.“She was SCARED.And DEFENSIVE.”Eyebrows shooting up, Millie whisper-screamed, “WHAT IF SHE’S THE GHOST?”

I gave Millie a long—and significant—look.

“What?”she said.

“You know what.”

Millie squirmed in her seat.“She could be!And anyway it was a good plan.I didn’t know Ms.Hernandez would recognize me.”

“It wasnota good plan,” I said.“It was a terrible plan.And you didn’t ask me.You didn’t even talk to me about it.God, Millie, we could have gotten arrested.”I tried to take a calming breath.I tried to let it go.“AndChaz, Millie?Really?”

“You look like a Chaz,” she said weakly.

“How dare you?”I took several more of those deep, calming breaths before I finally trusted myself to say, “Start the car.”

Millie reached for the keys, but her phone buzzed.She glanced at it, and her face changed.

“What?”I said.

“My mom’s asking if I know where Paul is.”Her head came up; worry tightened her mouth.“No one can find him.”

Chapter 6

In the end, Millie dropped me off at Hemlock House, and then she went to look for Paul.

I offered to go with her, but Millie insisted it would be better if she looked for him on her own.I thought part of that might have been because I hadn’t been thrilled with the spectacle at Clatsop Parcel and Freight, so I apologized for getting upset, and I insisted I wanted to help.No matter what I said, though, Millie stayed firm: she wanted to look for Paul alone.

So, I ended up in the den.

Over the last year and a half, the den had become my unofficial—and, by now, my official—workspace.It was a beautiful room, with built-in bookshelves and wingback chairs and a window that looked out on Hemlock House’s front lawn.I’d done some nesting: cozy blankets, notepads, a million pens, and a lot of half-finished and abandoned mugs of cocoa and coffee.Sometimes, Bobby didn’t understand that nesting was an integral part of the writing process.Nesting was as important as brainstorming or outlining or—yes, even drafting.Nesting was essential.I’d tried to explain this to Bobby once, and he’d nodded, and then he’d made me take all the mugs to the kitchen and pick up the candy wrappers.

To my credit, I was making surprisingly good progress on my novel.Surprising in the sense that—well, okay, in alotof senses.And despite the fact that it didn’texactlyhave a title yet.Or an ending.And it onlysometimeshad a middle.

But it was good.I could tell it was good.At least, on the days when I wasn’t riddled with self-doubt, I could tell it was good.That’s one of the weird things about authors—at least, about me, and I think it’s true for some others.There are times when we’re working—writing or revising or whatever—and that little voice, the one that says everything we’ve ever written has as much value as the jumble on the back of a cereal box, quiets down, and we canfeelthat something we’re working on is good.It’s not all the time.And it’s not everything—I mean, I write my fair share of absolute trash.And this isn’t taking into account all the days when Iamriddled with self-doubt.

But the book was good.It was going to be good, I could tell.And that was the most exciting feeling in the world.(Not counting when Bobby gives me that certain smile and rolls over in bed.) It was also, frankly, terrifying.

Because if it was good—and if I finished it—eventually, I’d have to send it to an agent.

That thought made me want to do some more nesting.

Instead, I snuggled up with my favorite blanket, grabbed my laptop, and set to work.

The problem I was currently struggling with was plot.Specifically, when in the story Will Gower (my intrepid detective) would find his first dead body.See, one of the staples in PI stories—and Will Gower was the most intrepidest of private investigators—was for the PI to get hired to do something (like take pictures of a cheating spouse, for example, or do a background check on an applicant) and, along the way, stumble onto a murder.

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