Page 37 of Kill Your Darlings

I knocked again, harder this time, my fist rattling the warped wood against its frame.

Still nothing.

“Fuck,” I said softly.What kind of blackmailer didn’t sit by the phone or computer waiting for a reply to his—or her—threats?

I stepped back, gaze sweeping the dark windows.The streaked glass reflected the fragmented light of the forest behind my blurred outline.I glanced uneasily over my shoulder, then moved cautiously down the side of the house, tennis shoes sticking in the damp, moss-covered earth as I skirted the overgrown ferns and tangled brush that crowded close against the walls.

I peered through a grimy side window, trying to make something, anything out in the dark and featureless interior.

Was that a desktop on a table or the world’s ugliest sculpture?

Circling around to the back, I found a narrow, covered porch, its railing sagging under the weight of years of damp and neglect.An old, rusting water pump stood to one side, its handle streaked with a thin, greenish patina of algae.A battered, metal trash can leaned drunkenly against the back wall, its lid askew, a faint, sour odor of spoiled food wafting up from within.

So, someone was living here.Had been living here.

They didn’t seem to be home now.

The canopy of trees diluted the light to such an extent that at this time of day, anyone inside that bungalow would have surely turned on a lamp or two.

Unless they were blind.

Or unconscious.

Or dead?

I considered this final option.Blackmail was a risky business.Not everyone would be willing to talk first and decide what to do later.

Had someone decided to murder U.N.Owen?

Or, more likely, was I a guy who had spent the last twenty years readingwaytoo many mystery novels?

Probably the latter.But just because I’d read thousands of mystery novels, didn’t mean I couldn’t stumble into a real-life homicide.As I knew better than anyone.

In fact, suspecting foul play, wasn’t it my duty to see if I could be of help to the potential victim?

Yeah, right.Try explaining that one to the local authorities—without having to explain what I was doing there in the first place.

Who said I had to go to the authorities?

My mind continued to race through possibilities.

Could this be a trap of some kind?

Or an incredible opportunity?

If I could get inside, I’d almost certainly be able to identify who U.N.Owen really was.I might find something to use against them.I might even uncover what they thought they had on me.

I hesitated at the back door, my hand hovering over the tarnished brass knob.The door itself looked swollen with moisture, the paint blistered and peeling, the frame warped and splintered.

It wouldn’t take much…

For a brief, reckless moment, I considered forcing it open, fingers tightening reflexively around the knob.But then I heard it—the faint, rhythmic crunch of footsteps coming down the gravel drive.I caught a whiff of pipe tobacco.

Hastily, heart thumping, I wiped the door knob with the bottom of my T-shirt, and stepped quickly back into the shadows.My pulse kept up a sharp, staccato beat in my ears as the sound of approaching footsteps drew closer.A male figure emerged from the trees, moving slowly, cautiously, head turning left and right as he looked around.

“Hello?”he called.

I shrank back against the wall, breath held tight in my throat, every nerve stretched to the breaking point.

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