Page 39 of Kill Your Darlings

And I knew a couple of things about Colby.He was living lean to the bone.He wanted to be a writer.A published author.

Maybe the way out of this mess was simpler than I thought.

Maybe Colby was looking for a publishing contract.

Maybe I could find out exactly what Colby knew—and how he knew it—in exchange for a book deal.Not forI Know What You Did, obviously.A real book.A genuine work of fiction.

If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was take a mess of a manuscript and turn it into a publishable work.

Did I want to give in to blackmail?No.Did I think it was wise?No.You didn’t have to be an editor of crime fiction to know that once you submitted to extortion, you were opening a vein to your bank account.

But I didn’t have a lot of options.I couldn’t go to the police.Even if there had been someone left to corroborate my version of events, I was still culpable.I’d be ruined.I’d go to prison.

My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.I was not someone who would do well in prison.Hell, I was not someone who did well outside of Manhattan.

There had to be another way.And maybe this was it.Maybe I could buy my way out of this nightmare.Or at least the part of the nightmare where I was completely and totally ruined.Maybe this was the price.

Maybe Ideservedto pay this price for the part I’d played in Dom’s death.

On my way out of Steeple Hill, I stopped at the Valero to fill up the rental’s gas tank, use the facilities, and buy a cup of coffee for the trip back to Monterey.

I was very tired.I hadn’t slept much the night before and the day had been…long.

Very long.A million years long.

Which was how long the drive back to Monterey felt.If it hadn’t been imperative I get back for that godawful banquet, I’d have considered getting a room for the night.

Not in Steeple Hill.That went without saying.I’d be overjoyed to never see this town again.But in some safe, anonymous motel down the highway.

Irrelevant.I had to get back.I had to attend the dinner.I had to be up bright and early the next morning for breakfast with Grace Hollister and coffee with…whomever.

It was all starting to blur together.

As the cashier rang up the gas and coffee, I checked my phone for messages.My heart sank at the long list of Recents.

It was already after five.I’d lost time stopping by the house on Seaside Lane.I could spend half an hour going through my messages or I could get back in time for the cocktails before the banquet.It was already going to be close.

I opted to start driving.Not least because I wasn’t sure I could handle one more piece of bad news.

As I walked out of the Quick Mart, I happened to notice the car that had followed me into the station was still idling just beyond the reach of the Valero’s buzzing sodium lights.

A vintage Cadillac DeVille.

I hadn’t seen one of those in decades.

I glanced back at the long, low-slung frame half-hidden in the shadow of a rusted dumpster.The midnight-black paint absorbed what little light reached it.The engine, a deep, rumbling V8, settled into a steady, predatory purr.Through the windshield I could just make out the faint orange glow of a cigarette tip on the driver’s side.

I smiled faintly.The scene was almost comically cliché film noir.Hayes Hartman would have strongly disapproved.

I finished filling up the tank, screwed the gas cap in, and got back in the car.

As I pulled out of the gas station, I automatically looked in the rearview.The Cadillac DeVille remained in the shadows, unmoving, as I turned toward the Highway 1 on-ramp.

It had been a beautiful scenic drive in the daylight.

Each turn of the winding road revealed fleeting glimpses of the churning Pacific to the left and steep, shadowed cliffs to the right.Dense patches of coastal fog had clung to the cliffs, swirling around the stands of wind-bent cypress and knotty, low-slung Monterey pines.

But as daylight drained from the sky, it was a different story.

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