“Maris Matherly-Reed?”
“Speaking.”
“Where do you get off screwing around with my life?”
She was taken completely off guard and it took a moment for the rude question to sink in. “I beg your pardon? Who is this?”
She sat up, switched on the lamp, and reached out to rouse Noah. But his side of the bed was empty. She gaped at the undisturbed linens, at the pillow that was still fluffed.
“I don’t appreciate you calling the sheriff,” the caller said hotly.
Where is Noah? “I’m sorry… I was… you caught me asleep.… Did you say sheriff?”
“Sheriff, sheriff. Ring any bells?”
She sucked in a quick breath. “P.M.E.?”
“A deputy came to my house, snooping around. Who the—”
“I—”
“—hell do you think you are?”
“I—”
“To mess with people’s—”
“You—”
“—lives. Thanks for nothing, lady.”
“Will you please be quiet for one second?”
Her raised voice brought him to an abrupt silence, but Maris sensed waves of resentment pulsing through the line. After taking a couple of calming breaths, she assumed a more reasonable tone. “I read your prologue and liked it. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I had no way of contacting you. You left me no way to contact you. So I called the sheriff’s office in the hope that—”
“Send it back.”
“Excuse me?”
“The prologue. Send it back.”
“Why?”
“It’s crap.”
“Far from it, Mr.—”
“I shouldn’t have sent it.”
“I’m glad you did. These pages intrigue me. They’re compelling and well written. If the rest of your book is as good as the prologue, I’ll consider buying it for publication.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I’ve got a southern accent, but I’m still speaking English. Which part didn’t you understand?”
His voice was geographically distinctive. Usually she found the soft r’s and slow drawl of southern regions engaging. But his manner was abrasive and disagreeable. If she hadn’t seen real potential in his writing, recognized an untapped talent, she would have ended the conversation long before now.