The image of Doreen Rodriguez’s bloody, dismembered body flashed in her mind. She opened her eyes immediately, her vision of the murder far too real because she had created it. It couldn’t have been a similar crime. Just the name was the same.

“Rowan, she was killed with a machete against the restaurant wall, her body thrown in a Dumpster!” Annette’s voice took on a feverish pitch. “She worked in Denver and was born in Albuquerque. Some crazy person copied the crime exactly as you wrote it.”

Rowan pressed fingers deeper into her right temple. Someone had copied her fictional crime? It couldn’t be possible. How had the killer found someone so exactly like her fictional character?

More important, why?

She sunk to the floor next to her desk and buried her face in her arms, holding the phone with her shoulder. She took another deep breath and held it. She had to get hold of herself; then she’d get to the bottom of this.

There had to be a mistake.

“Are you okay?” Annette’s voice was full of concern.

“What do you think?” Her voice came out a raspy whisper.

“I’m worried about your safety, Rowan.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’ll come right over.”

She almost grinned at the thought. Petite fifty-something Hollywood producer Annette O’Dell rushing over to protect her star screenwriter from a pack of vicious reporters. Rowan shook her head. “No, after my run I have to go to the studio and talk to the director about reworking a scene.”

“The reporters will follow you. They’re probably staked out there now.”

“Damn the reporters! I have no comment. Period. Nothing, nada, zero. I don’t want you saying word one about this to anyone. I am going to the studio and going to do my job. I’m not a cop; let them take care of this.” She didn’t want to play cop anymore. She didn’t want any more blood on her hands.

But there it was. She wiped her hands on her sweats until Lady Macbeth came to mind, madly scrubbing her hands of blood that wasn’t there.

Doreen Rodriguez. Rowan didn’t kill the poor woman, but she had somehow caused her death just the same.

“Rowan, let me hire a security-”

Rowan cut Annette off with a click as she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

She took a minute to gather herself before getting up from the floor. Outside, another car drove up, more vultures ready to pounce. It made great copy, she thought wryly. Real-life murder mystery: The Fiction Copycat. The Copycat Killer. The press seemed to actually like murders. Especially high-profile, gruesome crimes. Nothing exciting in a typical domestic dispute, a hit-and-run, or a routine gang drive-by. But being sliced and diced by a machete against the side of a quaint Italian café…

She shook her head. Was she any better? She wrote violent murder mysteries. Even if her corpses were fictionalized, didn’t she do the same thing as the reporters? Capitalizing on people’s interest in gruesome crime? The human fascination with death went back thousands of years. Violent Greek and Roman myths had relieved people’s fear of the unknown. Similar gruesome entertainments could be found in every generation since.

Doreen Rodriguez. Could the murder possibly have been the same as Rowan had written it? Her heart beat double-time as she imagined the pain and horror that poor young woman had suffered.

It would do her no good to dwell on the victim now. Rowan mentally summoned more than ten years of training to distance herself. When it got personal, that’s when mistakes happened.

Ignoring both the door and phone, on her laptop she logged onto the local Denver newspaper website. She hoped against hope there was a mistake, some misunderstanding. But the press was on top of the story. Bad news travels fast, evidence of which was parked in her driveway.

Everything Annette had told her was there on the screen. Rowan wondered what details had, in fact, been withheld. She wondered how long it would take for the police to come and interview her. With the press already showing an interest in the coincidence, the police wouldn’t be far behind. She’d get more details from them once they tracked her down.

No. No, she couldn’t get involved. She had a meeting at the studio in two hours. She had made a new life for herself, a quiet life. Damn if she was going to let a murdering lunatic control her future. Again.

She started for her bedroom to dress for her run when a familiar pounding on the front door interrupted her. Cops.

That was fast.

“Ms. Smith!” a mumbled voice called. “Ms. Smith, this is the police. We need to talk.”

She turned toward the door. It had started.

They sat at the dining room table, in front of the picture window that framed the blue-green Pacific Ocean. From here, twenty feet above the beach and a good hundred feet inland, one could still see the individual waves and whitecaps, tossed up by a light wind. The tide was out, the beach empty of people.

Rowan placed two mugs of hot black coffee in front of the detectives, then opened the window. The tangy, salty sea air relaxed her as she breathed in deeply. She needed to be calm and alert, but above all else, she needed to maintain control.

She sat across from the cops, holding her own coffee mug with both hands.

Ben Jackson was a short, thin man with skin the same color as the rich coffee in his mug. His poker face couldn’t disguise intelligent eyes. His rigid posture and the hint of muscles under his impeccable coat told Rowan he was fit and took his job seriously. He had flown out from Denver this morning just to talk to her.

The Denver P.D. wouldn’t waste scarce budget dollars. Obviously they believed the Rodriguez murder was connected to her book.

Jim Barlow was from L.A.P.D. He was older, his skin ghostly compared to Jackson’s. He looked like the stereotypical, slightly overweight cop in wrinkled slacks and too-tight blazer with worn leather patches on the elbows. His pale blue eyes seemed to take in everything, while his hands fidgeted, as if he were holding a cigarette. An ex-smoker. Rowan sympathized.

She liked them both. Her instincts told her she could trust them.

Jackson began. “You’ve heard about the murder of Doreen Rodriguez.” He motioned loosely toward the front of the house where the reporters were dissipating. The newly arrived cops’ threat of arrest for trespassing had held some weight, she thought with a slight smile.

Rowan nodded. “I read the article from the Denver paper online.”

“You were with the FBI.”

“Six years.”

“Probably made a lot of enemies. I know I have.”

“Your point?”

“I believe your life is in danger and you should consider hiring security.”

“I’m a trained FBI agent, detective. I know how to protect myself.”

“You probably do. You probably still sleep with a gun under your pillow.” He nodded, noting some minute reaction on her face, then continued. “This was a brutal crime and it was directed at you. You must be aware of the similarities between the murder victim and a character in your book.”

“I told you I read the article.”

It was all Rowan could do to maintain eye contact. She didn’t want to accept the fact that this murder had anything to do with her. But her instincts shouted the contrary. This was personal.

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she said. “If there’s another crime, maybe this maniac will pick another writer to mimic. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be extra careful.”

Damn, she sounded sarcastic without meaning to. Her defenses were up.

Jackson paused before speaking. “Did you know the real Doreen Rodriguez? Did you use her for your book?”

She shook her head. “I just made up the name. The character needed a name.”