The Murder Games

CHAPTER 2

My vow for the rest of the conference is to avoid another query pitch at all costs, and to push my mother's death as far from my mind as possible. The latter is harder because I keep going back to that night, wishing I could solve her murder. Maybe that's the reason I do what I do? Write about cold blooded killers and the amateur sleuths who unmask them because of an internal drive to capture the one who got away. Joining law enforcement seemed like a stretch since I prefer to avoid confrontation but using my imagination and a laptop; I've never had a problem there.

That's why I'm in New York.

Maxine Smithers delivered a well-thought-out presentation, informative and inspiring if I cared to admit, but my desire to endure another rejection is at an all-time low. She spoke for an hour or a little more. Her theme hinged on the need to do your research when querying literary agents. Something I learned from getting in the query trenches, visiting their websites and seeing what they wanted. Of course, my main problem was, in the end, they didn't want more of my story. And that stings.

I follow Cara into the restroom during the break before the main event. She reapplies her lipstick while I swipe a few unruly strands from my face. Seems like my hair always tickles my forehead and cheeks, even with the clip holding most of it back. After the Smithers talk, while we waited in line to use the bathroom, someone had walked outside. When they opened the door, a January gust rushed in and sent chills over my arms. It also ruffled my hair. With the goosebumps gone and those strands back in place, we step out into the lobby once more.

I spot the woman with the Chanel No. 5 and steer Cara in the opposite direction. "Thank God her seat is on the other side of the auditorium."

"You're hilarious."

"No. I'm practical and have good survival skills."

Cara snorts and nods at me. "You think someone might steal your book before you get back to your seat?"

"Don't be silly," I say with the hardcover clutched against my side, my purse on the other shoulder. "It's more of a secret weapon. Books have that effect on me. Makes me feel safe and calm, like an anchor in a storm."

"A book can do all that? Good thing you have a whole store full of them. By the way, you have that novel in stock. Like, lots of them. Why didn't you buy one from yourself? I mean, I was happy to get a copy so you could get an autograph tonight, but I'm pretty sure I didn't see this one in your apartment the other day. I would have noticed. The cover stands out."

"I still have a hundred pages left in her last book, and I've been so tensed up lately."

"About what?"

"This." I wave my hand around the lobby and gesture toward the auditorium. My face tingles and my eyes burn. "This makes me...makes me..."

"Makes you what?"

"I don't know." I bear hug the book. "I want to write stories, not try to sell them to agents."

"That's part of it, girl. Kinda something you can't avoid."

"I know, but still."

"Sometimes you have to do things that stretch your boundaries."

The heat behind my eyes could burn a forest down. It's a defense mechanism. Instead of pouting or crying, I hold it all in and deflect to the point that I get angry about my failures. Once I get past that stage, I get irritable and short with people. Except with Cara. I can't stay that way long with her. Besides, my frustration lies with me, not her.

"I know I need to stretch myself," I say. "But I can read it on their faces. They don't want me. They want someone else."

"They want a story they can believe in. One they can sell, and I think you have it. You just have to find the right agent."