Julian’s perfect plan crumbled like wet sand. The motive wasn’t simple. It was a double helix of betrayal and counter-betrayal. He had been so busy constructing the frame for Elara and Marco that he had walked into a frame of his own. His desire for a story with no questions had blinded him to the most obvious question of all: what if his characters had their own script?
It was a picture of Julian. Three nights ago. Leaving the apartment of a woman named Claire, his own secret lover. A Perfect Murder
Marco turned, his face not one of a frightened lover, but of a weary detective. “Put the gun down, Julian. The room is wired. Two federal agents are in the room next door.” Julian’s perfect plan crumbled like wet sand
At 8:15 PM, the elevator light chimed for the eighth floor. Julian felt a cold, clean clarity wash over him. He adjusted his cufflinks, stood, and walked to the stairwell. He had exactly seventeen minutes. He had been so busy constructing the frame