Page 43 of D for Dead

Amy’s eyes went wide. ‘Do they blame me? I wrote the book. It was my book that got her killed.’

‘No, it was the person who shot her who got her killed,’ Sullivan said firmly. ‘Amy, look at me.’

Distracted, Amy continued to stare blankly at the picture of Shannon on the screen.

Sullivan clicked off the page, set the laptop down on the coffee table.

‘Amy, look at me,’ he repeated.

As his voice registered, she glanced up.

‘Don’t blame yourself for this. If it hadn’t been your books, there would have been another trigger. People don’t kill because they watch TV or read; they kill because they’re sick. Whoever we’re looking for would have done it anyway.’

‘I guess.’

There was a pause.

‘You ever get fan mail?’

‘Some.’

‘You keep it?’

‘Sure. I mean, I’ve had emails I’ve deleted, but letters? I’ve kept those. It feels wrong to throw them out.’

‘Can I see them?’

‘Sure.’

She kept the letters in a shoebox, stashed away on one of the top shelves of her bedroom closet. Pulling the box down, she took it through to Sullivan, sitting back on the couch as he lifted the lid and pulled the letters out.

There were maybe thirty or forty, some yellowed with age, some typed, others handwritten. A few fans had written to her time and again; others had sent just the one letter.

Sullivan started rooting through them, reading each one. Scanning over a particularly flattering letter from a male fan, he grinned, and Amy’s face flushed.

She drew her knees up to her chin, hugging her arms around her legs and watched him read, taking the opportunity to study him. What was his story, she wondered. What made him tick? He had a southern accent. What had brought him to Oregon? Did he have family here?

He picked up another letter, his brow furrowing as he started to read.

‘Who sent this one?’

Amy glanced at the print. It was from one of her fans who aspired to be a writer, one of the few who always typed, never handwrote. She got a letter after the release of each book and they were always signed ‘X’.

‘I don’t know. There is never a name.’

‘You’ve got more than one letter from this guy?’

‘Yeah, there’s usually one after each book. How do you know it’s a guy?’

‘What about a postmark?’

‘Umm… local, I think. Why?’

Sullivan glanced over the letter again.

‘Do the letters come here or to your publisher?’

‘My publisher gets them and passes them on. Why?’