The Murder Games

CHAPTER 3

I submitted my full manuscript within thirty minutes of walking through the front door of my apartment in downtown Nashville, ten minutes till noon. As soon as I hit the 'send' button, the cartwheeling butterflies morphed into what felt like a bad case of indigestion. Not long after that, the feeling dispersed and was replaced with the realization that every other writer at the conference would enter their novel in the contest too. That brought on a numbness that reminded me of why I decided to give up writing in the first place.

What chance do I stand to win? Hundreds of writers attended the conference.

However, there is one thing in my favor. Red Herring had set the submission deadline for Sunday Night at midnight Eastern Standard Time. Just over twenty-four hours after the conference ended. Cara and I had flown up to New York on Friday, had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe, spent the night at the Broadway Plaza Hotel, and when it was all over Saturday night, flew back to Nashville the next day. Of course, my biggest question is why would a huge publisher set such a narrow submission window? I don't know, but I didn't pack my laptop because I doubted I'd have time for it. And if I was to quit writing, why bring it anyway? The race from the airport to my apartment couldn't reach the finish line quick enough, but I made my submission with about twelve hours to spare. I only hope other writers failed to meet the deadline, which of course, would increase my odds of winning.

Selfish, but practical.

I didn't see a date when Red Herring would announce the winner, but it's submitted now. All I can do is wait.

Over the next two weeks, I found myself toying with a book four in my murder mystery series. Time and hope kindle a flame. But as my little corner bookstore thrives with customers daily, reminding me of the real world of business and the unlikelihood of winning the contest, the new inspiration wanes. That's when my father decides to pay me a visit one night before closing. Perfect timing. Not.

When he strolls through the door and the chime sounds off, I busy myself with straightening the hardcover display of Elizabeth Goth's novel, A Game of Murder. The sight of a dozen book jackets bearing the image of a knife dripping blood gives even me, a mystery writer, a slight pause.

With Cara behind the register, catching my gaze, I roll my eyes to confirm my lack of eagerness, and then turn to my father.

"Hello, sunshine." He beams at me with bright blue eyes, a gray beard, and brilliantly white teeth. His eyes have mesmerized me since I was a child. I never told my mom, but I always wished I had his color instead of brown like hers. On another note, he calls me 'sunshine' because of my blonde hair. I understand why, even though I'm more on the sandy side.

"Hi Dad."

"I stopped by to see how you were doing after that conference." He dips his head to make sure we are on the same page. He means to show concern but that's not what I see. "Especially after the heart-to-heart we had before you left town."

"It's been two weeks. What took you so long to check in?"

"Ah," his head bobs, "I've been busy."

My dad owns a real estate firm that's huge in Nashville. Penwright Realty. He's always wanted me to join him because he thinks I would make a great realtor. But I've never had an interest in selling anything but merchandise at my store. Closing big deals is not my thing.

"I still have my eye on the building across the street." His voice deepens with a resonating bass to draw attention to the offer he wants me to take. "If you want a life in the book business, fine, but you could do better. It would take more of an investment in your time and money, but with some remodeling, you could triple your inventory and income, and rival the corporate chain stores."