For the first time in his career, Julian had nothing to say.
Julian’s smile didn’t waver. “Observant.”
“Then why won’t you give up?” he finally exploded one night, caught in a downpour outside her windmill door. He was soaked, shivering, and he’d lost his expensive umbrella somewhere. He looked less like a romantic killer and more like a drowned accountant. Romantic Killer
“Easy money,” Julian murmured, studying her photograph. She was pretty in a chaotic way – ink-stained fingers, eyes that looked like they’d just seen a ghost. She was a walking, talking trigger for his particular brand of poison.
He arrived on a Tuesday, the sky the color of dishwater. He’d rented the cottage next to her windmill, posing as a visiting ornithologist. His opening gambit was flawless: accidental meeting by the fence, a dropped book of Sylvia Plath poems (she’d love the tortured aesthetic), a self-deprecating joke about his “soulless spreadsheet of a life.” For the first time in his career, Julian had nothing to say
So when a consortium of desperate parents pooled their considerable wealth to hire him for the case of Luna Vesper, Julian almost laughed. The brief was thick with clichés. Luna, 22. Lives in a converted windmill. Believes she’s waiting for her “fated mate” – a man who will arrive on the back of a storm, carrying a single black dahlia. Has rejected twelve “perfectly logical” suitors.
And somewhere in a converted windmill, a former realist learned that the only thing harder than killing a romance was surviving one. He was soaked, shivering, and he’d lost his
“You’re very good,” she said, tilting her head. “The scruffy stubble is a nice touch. But your shoes are brand new Italian leather. Ornithologists don’t wear shoes that cost more than my car.”