Patrick’s handwriting was terrible, so it took a while to decipher any notes he’d written. Mostly about what he wanted to put in the story —ideas, plotlines, character details, all written down randomly. He’d fed her dinner: roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Now they sat quietly together as they both finished decaffeinated coffee. Her brain was mush. She’d gathered from the information that he intended to write a book centered around boats or boat theft. Jason had been gunned down by thugs after he’d received a call about a boat being stolen. That’s what Chris Downey had told her. She couldn’t make out what Patrick Reagan was trying to do, though. There was nothing specifically about Jason in all the paperwork she’d gone through. “Tomorrow you will continue reading what I’ve written on The Living End.” “Okay.” Under any other circumstance, the prospect of reading his unpublished work would be beyond thrilling. Tonight it was just one more thing to try to unravel.
