Writer Isaboe Blake used a pseudonym for all of her murder mysteries, and never turned a rough draft in. The only person who had access to her novels was her publisher and her editor. On the television in her suite of rooms she saw the scene of her last book playing out in front of her. The camera panned around and she noticed the page laying near the body, then a knock at the door followed by the announcement, "LAPD, we need to ask you a few questions."
He couldn't believe it was her. She had been the one that got away. He had been a fool to let her go but she was here and he was here and he needed to see her again. He wanted to see if he could rekindle what he so foolishly let go. He had been in her suite trying to talk to her when she stopped and went white as a sheet. The knock on the door had him standing ready to place himself in the background and out of the way.
Would she see it? Could she understand? Would she like it? She had to like it. He had done it for her after all.ns 188.8.131.52da2