GW: In that case, can you summarize the story for me in a few sentences? To make sure I am the right fit.
A: There will be three POVs, one by killer, one by female, and one by male. People are being tracked by a serial killer, they’re killed, and left with some kind of clue. Each book holds another clue. As the series progresses, the clues lead the police in the right direction. Question is, can they figure out who the next victim is in time?
GW: How much time is there in between each victim?
My question was a little open-ended, and it was, after all, a fictional book, but I was curious, nonetheless.
A: I would like it to be two weeks between each.
A prickle of excitement raced across my chest, maybe because I was curious even though I was writing the story.
As I scanned the words, I knew this story was meant for me. The fact that my uncle was a sergeant at the police department meant I could job shadow and observe the city’s crime. My in-depth research was what made my writing stand apart from others.
My phone broke me out of my excitement. It was my lawyer.
“Hey, Kirk.”
“Spencer, I got your contract here, and everything looks standard. I don’t see anything to be worried about.”
“Great. I want this job.”
“I will say that this author has major trust issues. The clause he has in here regarding if you tell anyone is pretty significant.”
“What is it?”
“If you say anything, you must finish the series with no payment and will be charged a fee of twenty thousand.”
“It’s a good thing I keep my mouth shut, then, hey?”
“I’ll look it over one last time and send it over.”
“Thanks, Kirk.” I hung up and glanced back to my screen.
GW: I’m in. I’ll get the contract over to you by tonight.
A: Great, thank you. I’ll send you the information for the first three chapters as soon as the contract arrives.
I sent a quick text to Kirk.
Spencer: As soon as you’re done, send it to me. Time is a factor here.
Ten minutes later, he sent it over with zero changes. I was impressed as I scribbled my name on the dotted line, scanned the pages, and sent it through the chatroom. I preferred to use DocuSign, but the author didn’t offer that option, so the old way it was.
Suddenly, he messaged me.
A: See Attachment. I’m looking forward to seeing your work.
My fingers flexed, and my heart raced. Let’s do this!
I opened the file and scanned the outline.
-Female cop – hardass
-Male cop – hardass love interest to female cop
-Killer – bold personality, a little overbearing but means well around others. Single and has a thing for slender legs.
-Starts off with a murder, female dancer.
-You choose personalities.
-One sex scene will come at the end of chapter eleven with details. Make it hot.
I didn’t remember the day passing by or the fact that my stomach screamed at me for some attention. I just knew this story poured out of me like my next breath. Plus, I wanted to prove myself to him…or her, I guessed.
As I shoved a fork full of noodles in my mouth, I read back the opening scene to the story.
* * *
Claire
The wind was wild, and whitecaps took over the color of the sea. No one in their right mind would be out in a speed boat in this weather, so when a Boston Whaler was spotted out by a rig, it caught my attention and drew me away from my call. I parked my unmarked cruiser on the side of the road and lowered the passenger window just enough to peek through. Fishing for my binoculars, I focused the lenses to see a white male, maybe in his fifties, trying to balance to grab a box from someone on the rig. The boat rocked and took on some water while another man started to yell and shake his arm for the other two to hurry.
Wait, was that Sergeant Slingers? I rubbed my eyes and glanced back to make sure I wasn’t losing my shit.
“Matt,” I muttered into my radio, “I have eyes on a possible drug deal. You should see this.”
“Ten-four, I see you. Give me three.”
I switched the channel to four to call in to the station. “Forty-four to sixty-seven, is the sergeant in today?”
“Sixty-seven to forty-four, no he’s out on a family vacation.”
“Shit,” I hissed and changed the station back. “Matt, I think I see the sergeant on the boat.”
“You’ve been up too late, Claire.”
“I have eyes on him right now.”
I squinted to try to keep up with the rocking waves but jolted when someone fired a gun at the driver of the boat. Pop, pop, pop. All the men on the boat fell, probably dead, just like that, and the men from the rig retrieved their box.
“What the hell?”
The door suddenly swung open, and Matt snatched the binoculars from my cold hands. “I don’t see anyone.”
“That’s because they’re all dead.”
For eight days, I remained behind my desk, madly typing away in a fictional world of good versus evil, where good fought to be on top. I loved every moment of writing this story. I loved how the author was incredibly impressed with my work and handed me over all the chapters as I went.
By day ten, I got word that the book was received by his publisher, and they were anxiously awaiting book two’s journey.
I felt on top of the world. I proved to myself that I still had it. I glanced at my parents’ photo and wished to the heavens they were watching me right now.
I grabbed my keys and coat and rushed out the door. I knew if I didn’t check in with G soon, he would send a search party.
The station was at full throttle that morning. Phones were ringing loudly, so I made my way over and set a coffee on Benny’s desk and headed into the sergeant’s office.
“Morning, Spencer,” my uncle greeted me with a warm smile, the same smile my father had when I’d come into the room. “You are one day shy of a door beatdown.” He eyed me. “Thanks.” He picked up the coffee and took a long sip. We both lived and breathed caffeine.
“So,” I wiggled onto the couch that ran along the wall and kicked my light blue Chucks up on the table, “guess what?”
“You’ve met someone.”
I rolled my eyes. We were not going down this road again. He hated Justin and thought Benny was a better pick for me.
I disagreed.
“No.” I paused to glare then broke out in a huge smile. “I got another book deal.”
“Really?” He seemed to perk up. “Well?”
I loved that I could share this with my uncle. He was one of the first to sign the NDA when I got my lawyer to draw one up. I was touched he saw that it was a big deal to me to remain professional, even when it came to family.
“Five-book deal, eight grand per book.” I clasped my hands together when his mouth dropped open. “It’s a murder mystery with romance. The client sends me chapters each week, so I don’t know what’s coming at me next. It’s actually very appealing, and I just finished book one and got positive feedback from his publisher. I start book two when I get home.”
“Well, shit.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his gray crewcut. “I’m so damn proud of you.”