The Collector by Nora Roberts Page A

And why not say I saw your brother push her when I called? Clean and simple. So they’ll chew on it, then just want to know how we ended up sitting out on the Kilderbrands’ terrace having a glass of wine. And that’s a reasonable question with a reasonable answer.”
    â€œThat’s logical and straightforward.”
    â€œWhen you write you have to figure out what makes sense.”
    Compassion, he thought, married to logic and flavored with what he believed to be a well-honed imagination.
    â€œHigh school werewolves make sense?”
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be possible so much as plausible, within the world you create. In my world, my werewolves make perfect sense. Which doesn’t explain why I’m so damn nervous. Too many police.” She rose, grabbed the watering can though she’d already watered. “I’ve gone my entire life without any real contact with the police, and now it’s all over. I’m talking to them, you’re talking to them, and I’m talking to you, which is one degree of separation. Julie’s talking to them, so—”
    â€œBecause she brokered the painting?”
    â€œWhat? No. Her apartment was broken into last night. Just some kids—it had to be, because all they took were a pair of Manolos, abottle of perfume, a lipstick—that sort of thing. But it’s still a break-in, still a police report. And now here they come again. Now I’m overwatering the plants.”
    â€œIt’s hot. They’ll be fine.” But he stepped over to take the can from her, set it down again. “I can meet them downstairs.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t mean that. Besides, I want to talk to them now since you’ve talked me back into believing your brother didn’t push her. Should I make coffee? I have a stash of goldfish—the little crackers. I could set them out. I never know what to do. Why didn’t I make sun tea?”
    â€œIt’s that buckshot again,” he decided. “I think you should relax.” He picked up the wine she’d set aside, handed it to her. “And we’ll go inside and talk to the police.”
    â€œRight. I’m glad you’re here,” she said as they went inside. “Although if you weren’t here they wouldn’t be coming here. But I’m glad you’re here. And here they are,” she said when the bell rang.
    Stop thinking about it, she told herself, and walked straight to the door.
    â€œDetectives.” She stepped back to let them in.
    â€œWe didn’t realize the two of you knew each other,” Fine began.
    â€œWe didn’t—before.”
    â€œI overheard enough at the precinct yesterday to realize Lila was the nine-one-one caller.” Ash took a seat in the living room, waiting for the others to do the same. “I caught up with her on her way out, asked if she’d talk to me.”
    Fine gave Lila a long, speculative look. “You asked him to come here?”
    â€œNo. We talked in the coffee shop across from the police station. Ash asked if he could see the perspective where I saw what happened. What I saw of what happened. I didn’t see the harm, especially since Julie knows him.”
    Waterstone cocked his eyebrows. “Julie?”
    â€œMy friend Julie Bryant. She manages Chelsea Arts, and they carry some of Ash’s work. I told you about Julie,” she remembered. “I use her address.”
    â€œSmall world.”
    â€œIt seems that way.”
    â€œSmall enough,” Fine picked up. “The victim has one of your paintings in her apartment, Mr. Archer—purchased through Chelsea Arts.”
    â€œSo I’m told. I didn’t know her. It’s more unusual for me to meet or know someone who buys my work than not. I’m not pushing myself into your investigation. He was my brother. I want answers. I want to know what happened. Tell me what he was wearing,” Ash