Free A Novel Murder by Ginger Simpson

can use to solve this case.”
    On her walk to the car, she wished she wasn’t so darned independent. Having Tony hold her hand might not be as bad as she made it sound. She shook the thought from her head. Between fantasies about Tony and her unwanted visions, she was definitely bound for the nuthouse. Hmmm, she thought. Maybe from there, M.D. Lynch could write one heck of an autobiography. Her chuckle echoed in the hallway.
     
    * * *
     
    In her apartment, Michelle considered calling her mother, but thought better of it. She’d just dredge up old pains about Dad’s passing. Seemed it was all she had to talk about since he died.
    Shell had to occupy her mind or she’d go mad. Scenes from her vision kept replaying. She had to tell someone, and who better than Naomi. She picked up the phone and dialed.
    “Hey, Nay, you’re home already.” Michelle’s bestie worked at the library and had casual hours.
    “Yeah, business was slow today, so I took off early. I swear all the Nooks and Kindles have turned the library into a graveyard. Amazon and Barnes and Noble are running the world.” She laughed.
    “It’s a shame. Lots of bookstores have closed…and more threatening to, although I admit to being one who enjoys the new electronic age.“
    “So, what’s up?“
    “I was going to leave a message and ask if you want to come over.”
    “Sure, you sound stressed. Is everything okay?”
    “Not really. I’ll tell you about it when you get here?”
    “Should I bring wine?”
    “Lots…and I’ll pay this time.”
    “See you in a few.”
    Michelle changed into her sweats and pulled out her laptop, opening her latest manuscript. With her knees bent and heels tucked against the sofa bottom, she pondered her future. Sales from her first novel climbed slowly, and with the promo gal she’d hired, more and more people were discovering her work, at least electronically. She had yet to name her current story, but with her first, the title hadn’t materialized until she finished the last paragraph. As a fiction writer, she concluded that novel with the happiness reader’s craved…the murderer captured, imprisoned, and paying his debt to society with a life sentence. Although she wrote fiction, the ending had turned out to be true, but sadly now, a new perp roamed free, and quite possibly was a serial killer.

Chapter Seven
     
    She eyed the phone on the end table, struggling with the urge to call Tony and ask if he’d found a connection to their case, but she tamped down her eagerness. This was ‘me’ time and a two-month publishing deadline hung over her head. Of course, her editor kept hounding her for a title, but as someone who didn’t plot her stories and wrote as ideas came to her, she continued to stall the woman with promises of calling with a title soon. “Pantser” was the term applied to Michelle’s writing style. You either plotted or wrote by the seat of your pants, and she often wished she could plan out her story ahead of time. She’d tried and couldn’t. Still, her style gave her the benefit of enjoying being witness to a story that unfolded before her very eyes—sometimes literally.
    Unfortunately at the moment, the voices in her head weren’t talking, at least those who told her what to write. She’d run into the proverbial brick wall, not knowing whom to identify as the killer…or even having a motive. She hoped she’d tossed in enough ‘red herrings’ to lead the reader astray, but Michelle had no precise direction at all.
    She hit the ‘save’ button and put her computer on the coffee table. If she’d learned one thing aside from backing up her work on a flash drive, she’d discovered when the words didn’t come, there was no use staring at the screen.
    Lost in thought about the undiscovered murder, Michelle’s attention was tugged to the knock at the door. She found Nay on the other side. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here.”
    “Is it me or the wine, you’re talking to?”