Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

He puts down his monocle. Purses his lips and reaches for a business card. He writes something on the back and hands it to me.

I turn it over.

It’s an address in Stillwater, a tiny town an hour south from here. I know because Eve and I spent our honeymoon there, nearly eight years ago, camped out at a bed and breakfast that overlooked the river.

She was three months pregnant, still nauseated with morning sickness, and even the smell of the gourmet blueberry pancakes sent her running to the bathroom. Not a great start to our life together, and the next six months weren’t much better, with her bed rest and a couple of miscarriage scares. We spent the weekend watching old movies on a tiny television set, me running out for special order ice cream.

I’d love to have another go at the whole thing, starting with the fact that it took me nearly a decade to propose. What was I so afraid of?

I glance at the front of the card, mumble a thanks and head back to the street. I climb into the Porsche and sit there for a minute, debating.

I should go home and work on my manuscript.

A slightly better option would be to finish staining the baseboard in the dining room.

Or, I could strike the jackpot and get a call from one of the moms at Ashley’s school, and get invited for a play date.

As if my mood has conjured it, my cell rings and I look at caller I.D.. I scowl. My agent. Great. But I’ve been avoiding him way too long, so, “Frank. How are you?”

Frank Rydlebower hasn’t had a publishing triumph in nearly a decade. I know he keeps me around because of the lure of my former success, The Last Year, settling in the top ten of The New York Times over twenty years ago. He still thinks he can shine me up and sell me to the highest bidder.

We’ve gotten a few bites, my history at the Minneapolis Police Department still a decent calling card. But apparently, publishers want a finished book.

Of all the gall.

“Rembrandt. How’s the writing going?”

A convertible eases past me down Lake Street, pumping out Taylor Swift’s “Shake it off.”

“Making progress.” I can lie like a criminal when I need to.

“Good.” He hesitates, and suddenly I have the urge to lean my head against the steering wheel and sigh.

“What?”

“I clear my list every year, Rem, and it’s been three since you signed with me…”

Aw, shoot. “I’ll have something to you by the end of the week,” I say, praying this time it’s not a lie.

Silence. Then, “Okay, good. You’ve got another bestseller in you, I know it. Looking forward to reading it.”

Yeah, me too. I hang up, knowing I gotta head home. I’ve got an empty page waiting for me. It can wait a little longer.

I pull out and point the Porsche to the highway, heading south.

It’s a gorgeous day, made even more so by the free and easy vibe of the highway, and I crank up my radio. Sure, I grew up in the late 80s, but my music tastes were cut from a staticky Panasonic radio propped up in my dad’s garage, pumping out classics.

I queue up my play list. I might have a vintage car, but the sound system is top of the line. The Eagles are singing “Hotel California” as I head south.

For the next hour, I’m free, and cruising, twenty-six and leaving it all behind. I barely look at the map, motoring into Stillwater from memory. I pull into a coffee shop and get out, finding my bearings.

The address is a couple blocks away, so I decide to walk. Never hurts to get the lay of the land.

It’s a house. An old white-stucco Tudor with a decaying brick chimney climbing up the front, a quaint rounded top door, with dark stain. I guess I notice those things now—the color of stain, the hosta around the walk, the vintage Japanese maple in the front yard. I’m going to blame my improved home decorating eye on Eve and her laundry list of house upgrades.

I check the address against the metal numbers on the lintel, notice the bars on the tiny square window, and the outer door, then press the bell. A Gothic chime bullies the place and I don’t hear the footsteps.

The door opens, and I’m sized up by an elderly gentlemen, so thin his bones protrude from a lined, saggy face. Fraying white hair, gnarled hands, but his eyes bore through me as if, once up on a time, he was somebody that understood what trouble looked like.