deleted it, all of it. Then I sat shivering, teeth clenched to keep from throwing up.
That story creeped me out so much that I questioned the future of our joint venture. While we’d built a comfortable, although strange, online friendship, I had to wonder if I’d missed some vital clue. I was blindsided by GQ's sudden personality change.
Then I got mad. I opened a new message and pounded on my keyboard, “Why are you talking to me like this? I thought we were friends! That story was ugly and mean!”
I sent it off and returned to my housecleaning. About an hour later, I heard my computer ding. It was a reply from GQ.
“I wrote it because I can. Did I hurt your widdle feelings, huh? Poor baby, if you can’t stand the heat, don’t try to write about someone’s pain and suffering!”
I disconnected from the Internet that evening, needing time to think. I’ve had enough violence in my life to know I didn’t want any more. But it gave me an idea for another story.
@-:o)
That’s e-mote for me getting a bright idea. Oh, well —
>:o\
I searched the Internet for private detectives. Found one and called their 1-800 number right away before I forgot my idea.
Donner Harris from Cyber-Trakkers answered my call and agreed to set aside some time for me to pick his brain. It turned out that their offices were right here in Seattle. I think he was attracted to the idea of being in a book. He offered to email me their physical address so we could meet later in the week. That gave me a few days to think of some brilliant questions since he’d graciously offered his time gratis. That’s the best kind.
After we hung up, it occurred to me that he could have given me his local address while we were talking.
Aha! Bet he was checking me out to be sure I was who I said I was. Well, in this crazy world, you can’t be too careful. I must remember to put that in my story.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Work in the front offices had slowed to a stop by the time I arrived for work the next morning. Office staff huddled in a small group in the lobby. Six beautiful young people murmured in low and horrified tones. Ringing phones went unanswered.
I was running a teensy bit late, so it was my good luck that some minor crisis occupied them. Rather than give in to my natural curiosity, I slipped into the studio and went right to work just like the hard-working employee that I am.
Twitch was probably too busy to bother with me but if I’d suddenly arrived at the top of the country’s ten most- wanted list, he’d happily give me the bad news in person. Besides, I was way behind schedule on a design for an ad for a free Internet company. That Internet; it’s everywhere.
I didn’t have to wait long to learn what the ruckus in the office was all about.
“Excuse me. Are you Miss Ingalls?” My right hand shot up, halting the stranger’s next words. He stretched his neck and twisted his head from one shoulder to the other trying to read my work upside down. He remained silent until I completed the panel.
“I’m Mia Ingalls. Can I help you?” I raised my eyes to the intruder and saw a short, slightly plump man with thinning brown hair. He peered at me across the elevated end of the drafting board. Even though I sat on a stool he was still shorter than I was. He blinked dark brown eyes and stood quietly, waiting.
Occasionally, clients evaded security in order to show me their painstakingly drawn ideas, expecting me to translate them into spectacular ads. Their ideas were nearly always worthless, but I’m not supposed to tell them that.
“Detective Smith,” he finally offered his hand across the storyboard, dragging his cuff through the wet ink. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you have a minute?”
“Not really, can you talk while I work?” He made it hard for me to remain civil after messing up hours of work. I had to paint that intricate caption again.
His hand intrigued me and I furtively grabbed a pencil to sketch a dozen quick gesture drawings for future reference. The twisted, arthritic fingers with enlarged knuckles were a sharp contrast to his ageless, cherubic face.
“I have a deadline, and at the rate I’m going I’ll miss it completely.” Growling at the intruder, I picked out a fine-tipped paintbrush. Just great! The Twit was really going to have my head now.
Smith coughed and cleared his throat. I seem to have that effect on men. They either lose their power of speech or turn abusive like Twitchell.
I’ve gotten used to it. ‘Love me or hate me, just don’t forget me,’ was my new motto. I didn’t much care which anymore since I broke up with Eddie. He started out loving me, but left hating me.
Bet he won’t forget me, though. Eddie never could understand the creative type. It made him crazy that I don’t color inside the lines. He expected me to be perfect. Said I didn’t try hard enough. I said I had enough hang-ups without adopting his. He said I was lazy and left in search of someone he could control.
“Conrad Twitchell was shot this morning.”
My body went rigid as I shot to my feet. The paintbrush in my hand finished the detective’s job of trashing my completed panel.
“I-is he dead?” I sat slowly, feeling behind me for the stool. All my muscles had suddenly turned to rubber.
“No. He’ll be fine. Why did you think he was dead?” Smith’s dark eyes stared hard into mine as though he could see into my brain. Wouldn’t have done him any good.
It was mush.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Smith finally broke the silence, “I understand there is a great deal of animosity between you and Mr. Twitchell. Did you have any reason to want him dead?”
I opened my mouth to reply.
“Hic! I, uh--hic! Er--hic!” I stood and wobbled across the studio, “P-please--hic! Excuse me. Hic!” As my diaphragm convulsed, I swallowed air making growly, burpy sounds, and the hiccups came faster. Smith urgently guided me to the water cooler and steadied the paper cup as I tried to fill it.
“Sit. Breathe. Please.” He held a chair for me.
My mind raced. This is the place in all the thrillers you read where the next victim always withholds vital information. Information that could have saved her life. Not me! I was covering my precious backside.
In a tight, squeaky voice I asked, “Was he shot in a public place? Like a drive-by shooting? Or a sniping?”
Smith nodded, still watching me intently.
“Was it a flesh wound? No apparent motive?”
Smith pulled up another chair and sat facing me, his knees almost touching mine, still maintaining eye contact. “How did you
