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says,” Nick replied. “Might be nice to see him. Catch up on old times.”
    “I never said we had old times.”
    “You didn’t need to.”
    Kat abruptly stood, pushing in her chair so hard that it slammed against Nick’s good knee. While she acted apologetic, Nick remained suspicious. The topic of Mr. Olmstead seemed to bring out the worst in her.
    “So are you going with me or not?” he asked.
    Kat paused at the door, holding it open for Nick and his cane. “Of course.”
    “Good. In the car, you can tell me all about how Eric Olmstead broke your heart.”
    And with that, Kat let go of the door. It slammed shut inches from Nick’s face, forcing him to struggle once again to open it while wrangling with his cane. Through the glass, he saw Kat watching him with what could only be described as bemusement.
    “That,” Nick yelled through the door, “was not an accident!”
    Kat smiled sweetly. “Neither was the chair.”

THREE
    Sitting in front of his laptop, staring at the blank screen he had faced so many times before, Eric typed two words: FIND HIM .
    He sighed, reading the slim columns of black against the wide expanse of white. This was not what he was supposed to be writing. He had told his editor—promised, in fact—that he would be hard at work on the latest adventure of sports-reporter-turned-detective Mitch Gracey. Yet the two words on his screen were the most he had typed in two weeks, and they had nothing to do with hard-drinking, Mets-loving Mitch.
    Still, Eric couldn’t delete them and start over. In fact, he typed more. FIND YOUR BROTHER .
    Eric deleted it immediately. He needed to focus. He needed to write. And fast. He was nearing a head-on collision with his deadline and had nothing to show for it. Sitting up in his chair, he cracked his knuckles and let his fingers hover over the keyboard.
    They remained motionless.
    As much as he tried, Eric found himself incapable of forming a sentence. It was that way in the days before his mother died and had only grown worse in the two weeks that followed. At first, he had chalked it up to a variety of factors. Location was a big one. The rickety desk and the bedroom he grew up in were a far cry from the Brooklyn apartment that served as his usual writing base. Timing was another. He normally wrote at night, when darkness made it easier to come up with the brutal scenarios required for crime fiction. But in Perry Hollow, he woke early. His mother’s condition had required it. Now that she was gone, he still couldn’t shake the habit.
    Yet deep down, he knew these weren’t the reasons. They were simply excuses he used to justify spending the day napping. Or surfing the Internet. Or eating peanut butter sandwiches while watching
Animal House
for the sixteenth time. The real reason Eric Olmstead couldn’t write was because the well had run dry. He wasn’t sure what had sapped his creativity. Grief, probably. Guilt, definitely. But it was gone, not to return anytime soon, no matter how much time he spent at his laptop.
    That morning he vowed to stay there until he wrote five pages or until noon rolled around, whichever came first. But with no inspiration in sight, Eric had a feeling noon was going to be the winner, so he was happy when the doorbell rang at quarter after nine. It meant he had a distraction on his hands, and writers loved distractions almost as much as they loved royalty checks.
    Reaching the front door, he found a man in a black suit standing on the porch. Had he been a character in a Mitch Gracey book, Eric would have described him as worn but handsome. The cane gripped in his right hand hinted at a troubled past. Also he had been a cop at some point. Eric knew that from the searching green eyes that tried to take in everything all at once.
    “Eric Olmstead?” the man asked.
    “Yes, sir.”
    The man extended a hand. “I’m Nick Donnelly.”
    Eric must have looked confused because the man added, “We spoke on the phone on Friday.