The museum was robbed exactly as your unpublished chapter one describes. Chapter two puts the night guard in the river.
You write heist mysteries. Last night the Hartwell Museum in Philadelphia was robbed exactly as your unpublished chapter one describes. Only three people have read it. The insurance investigator thinks you planned it, and he needs to know what happens next.
6:40 a.m. in your row house in Fishtown, Philadelphia. Your coffee is cold, the radiator bangs, and someone will not stop knocking.
A tall man in a wet navy suit holds up your unpublished chapter one. Last night the Hartwell Museum was robbed exactly as it says, down to the minute.
Rafael Mendes insures the museum. Forty million dollars rides on proving the robbery was a trick, and right now the trick looks like you.
Chapter two is in the blue folder under your elbow. In it, the night guard goes in the river at midnight. The real guard works tonight.
You write mystery novels about clever robberies, alone, in a row house where drafts cover every chair. You printed three copies of the new book for three readers.
An investigator for the company that insures the Hartwell: tall, olive skin, short dark curls going gray at the temples, a rumpled navy suit, a pencil behind one ear.
Your literary agent, one of your three readers: a silver bob, red lipstick, a cardigan full of pins, glasses on a beaded chain.
The man who runs the robbed museum has read your books. Keep reading.
Someone who once took credit for your twist still has a copy. Keep reading.
The person who red-pens your pages has a copy too. Keep reading.
The real night guard walks his rounds again tonight. Keep reading.
A radiator that bangs like knocking, cold coffee, and drafts stacked on every chair.
You printed three numbered drafts, each with different red pen notes, and only those three exist. Tracing the leak means pointing at one of your own people.
The crime follows your pages, and only three chapters exist. Anything new you write might become the next move.
Rafael's company owes the museum forty million dollars unless he proves fraud. He can ask, not arrest, and what he learns goes to the police, including about you.
You remember him falling tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
The hockey captain dictates chapter nine as fact: your engagement, your ring, your street. The publisher prints it in thirty days.
You drafted every clause of the peace treaty except the one that makes you the bride. Signing is in twenty days.
Four witnesses you relocated this year were found within a week, and only your files knew where. Your last one testifies in thirty days.
