You Don't Know Jack by Adrianne Lee

aware of the crowd, too aware that somewhere in that crowd were the Crain Sisters, the Golden Oldies, the Maddox men. Somehow I managed, "You're upset. Overcome with grief—"
    "Ask Detective Maddox," Bruce taunted. "I gave him the letters this morning."
    I felt the stroke of a familiar gaze and, glancing over the riveted crowd, I met Stone's hard eyes. His handsome face wore his usual stay-out-of-it look.
    Too late. The floor beneath me had gone mushy at what I saw in my BFF's eyes.
    Hatred... for me.
    And worse... guilt.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    I've always believed trust is a bonding agent — much like Gorilla Glue, strong enough to hold even when it takes a tornado-sized hit. So, imagine my shock when something as tiny and fragile as a secret zapped that bond like Clairol bleach zaps dark roots.
    The week passed in a blur of sexy men and awful happenings. Apollo avoided me as he would a horde of West Nile mosquitoes. Not that I blamed him. After Stone confirmed Lars had been stabbed with a knife found in Apollo's VW, Apollo had been arrested, charged with first degree murder, and called a flight risk by the judge, his bail set for more than I'd saved of Lars' contract money.
    I still didn't know who'd paid it.
    I could understand Apollo being angry at me for not telling him about the tie, but I was just as pissed at him for not telling me about the incriminating letters, whatever they were. I figured that made us even and therefore, all should be forgiven. He disagreed. I think. I wasn't sure since he wasn't speaking to me.
    Stone on the other hand wouldn't leave me alone, and without my BFF to bring me chocolate or talk me down when the man-cravings were at their worst, my on-going battle to remain celibate grew shakier by the minute. I needed a diversion.
    My apartment might only boast one bathroom, but it had two bedrooms. Well, one bedroom and a pantry-sized cubby hole with a closet and window. My office. It held a corner desk, a bookshelf, and a white eraser board for plotting — a trick I'd learned from Lars.
    I decided to attack the current WIP: Writer shorthand for work-in-progress. Some writers can't write when their life hits the fan, but if I stopped writing whenever life turned into a pile of poo, I wouldn't have completed three manuscripts. Thank God, I could escape into my story worlds. Thank God, I could write through anything.
    My writing ritual involves facing roommate Ken-doll toward the window to ward off evil, word-stealing spirits, like the two local news van parked outside; donning my neon orange "butt in the chair" writer's tee shirt; twisting my hair into a scrunchy; applying thick mascara to my blond lashes so I can focus. But nothing gets done without an accessible supply of caffeine.
    I put a mug of chocolate espresso within reach, booted up the laptop, read through the pages I'd written last week, and then stared at the blinking curser for a few minutes. Over the next hour, I refilled the mug twice and wrote, edited, and deleted the same new paragraph six times. My "I can write through anything" wasn't working.
    I gave up, tried phoning my mother, my aunts, the Clip and Flip , and Apollo without luck. Was everyone avoiding me? Or were they all avoiding the relentless media?
    I picked up the marker pen for the eraser board and made three vertical lines. I wrote SUSPECTS over the first column and listed Bruce Villa, Lars' life partner, Ruth Lester, the writer who sued Lars, Carter Hawks, Lars' literary agent, and Patricia Pepper, the bookseller. I wrote MOTIVE over the second column and left that blank for now since most of what I knew was gossip that needed confirmation.
    Above the third column, I wrote EVIDENCE, and then listed the things I knew about the murder to-date. The tie. The letters. The scuffle in the dressing room. The knife. What knife? Apollo didn't own a knife, did he? Lars' hiring me to find out whether or not Stone was using Bruce as bait to catch a serial killer — though I still