How was that ending? Cruella de Scrivendown is back.
Yet again, this bloody story is giving me gyp. I wanted Rick to enter, talk, then leave. Sounds fine, right? Well, I just had to write the conversation, and it was worse than pulling teeth. I waxed poetic, and that just felt bizarre. I guess I shouldn't write during road trips. I hope the characters were authentic; it was mostly just me muttering to myself, trying to build the dialogue. I've also worked out where this story goes, in terms of a whodunnit (!), so there'll be some plot development soon. I promise.
"Rick, I love you."
A sudden burst of anger caused him to shout for, she thought, the first time.
"And you could have told me years ago, but no, you insisted on sticking yourself in relationships you didn't enjoy with men you never loved. You ran, Kate Beckett," he spat, his normally smooth storytelling voice being swept away with the harshness of his mercurial anger.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I just… I couldn't face my feelings for you properly —" she began, but Rick cut her off again.
"You were scared, you wanted to keep me as just your partner, you didn't want to mix the precinct with paradise. And you know what? You could have faced your fears with me, you could have kept me as your partner, and we'd never mix work and fun," said Rick, contempt lacing his voice.
As usual, it shocked her how well he could read her mind, but what he'd said was true; yet another thing she'd never admit to herself. She sat there, speechless, mouth opening and closing, trying to think of a way to keep him there, and coming up blank.
He turned on his heel, and left, the door hitting the frame with a quiet thud, belying the anger of the situation.
The rest of Kate's burns were unwrapped a week later, the skin beneath still considerably more red than the usual light olive tone she cultivated. The broken bones were still setting, though, but were almost healed, and she was discharged with crutches for her right leg, which was still in a cast, and instructions to take it easy — her ribs were still a bit bruised.
Her first stop was to Remy's for a momentary indulgence: a burger and fries, with a coke, which she ate quickly, before heading back to her apartment by cab. Along the way, she called Lanie.
"OCME, this is Dr. Parish."
"Hey, Lanie, it's me."
"Hey, Kate. You been let out?"
"Yeah. I'm heading home with some crutches."
"I'll meet you there this afternoon. I'll get out of here as soon as I can."
"Thanks, Lanie."
The afternoon passed uneventfully. Kate re-read A Rose for Everafter, trying to visualise Rick as he sat at his desk, arm bandaged, typing furiously to make the deadline, as she read the story. Even through the dozen or so times she had read each of Rick's books, every time, something deep within her — the same thing, perhaps, that made her such a good detective: a supreme attention to detail and a love of exactness — would pick up a new and intricate layer of the story; something she had never seen in the narrative before that reading. Even knowing the ending, she still found it a great read — and in some ways, knowing the ending and who did it, why they did it, made it an even better story.
There was a knock at the door, startling Kate from her reverie. The book slipped from her fingers and fell into her lap, and she scooped it up and put it on the table beside the sofa before she crossed to the door. She'd learned, from her experience with Scott Dunn, to always have a weapon handy, preferably a gun, and she checked that she was still able to reach the holster at her waist, where her Sig Sauer nestled against her hip, bumping the crutches with each stride as she hobbled across the room.
She slid the dead bolt across, and pulled the door slowly open, one hand on the butt of her gun, caressing the hard leather and cold steel of the grip, filling her with the adrenalin she craved for moments like this. Her peripheral vision tightened, her heart rate accelerated, her breathing shallowed, and the world seemed to move slower and slower as she nerved herself to open the door.
She pulled it back, ready to pull the gun on whoever was standing on the other side, the blood thundering in her ears, as she eased the gun free from its leather prison.
Lanie Parish was standing on the other side, holding a large bouquet of flowers and a bag of Chinese takeaway.
After some well-deserved wine and Chinese take-out, Kate and Lanie were sprawled on the lounge, a vinyl record slowly releasing the broad, clear trumpet of Miles Davis into the superb record player, then into the Bang and Olufsen sound system. Kate still didn't quite understand how she managed to rent, then buy the apartment with so much thrown in — Lanie had asked her about it, too, and she had no better answer than to say that RAR Trust Holdings must have been incredibly well-endowed to give away a top-notch sound system and a broad music collection spread between vinyl records, CDs and MP3s.
"So, what have you heard?" asked Kate after conversation had slowed down.
"About the bomb? Nothing you've not heard already, Kate," replied Lanie, the wine glass swinging hypnotically in her hand as she gestured, the pinot noir swirling gently in it's transparent vessel.
"Well, I've not heard anything at all, except the sound of monitors beeping, for the last week or so."
"So the boys haven't told you?"
"About what?" Kate asked, her inner detective setting alarm bells ringing in the back of her head.
"They've examined your car. Your engine exploded."
"That was one hell of an explosion for an engine failure," Kate said vehemently.
"It had help," said Lanie, then stopped, listening.
There was another knock at the door