Someone wanted John dead, and the most likely suspect was the man claiming to be Simon. The man who’d done the interview in New Orleans. The man who had given her the willies from the moment they’d met. Okay, so the man was self-absorbed. He was the center of his own world and saw no reason why he shouldn’t be the center of everyone else’s, too. He seemed to feel an extremely strong sense of entitlement, as if all the fame, fortune, and adulation were no less than he deserved. There was his intensity, not quite reasonable, not quite normal, and the way he looked at people, measuring them, judging them, exposing them layer by layer with his less than pleasant gaze. Taken one by one, there was nothing wrong with those traits. Even combined, they didn’t automatically add up to murderer potential. In Simon, though, maybe they could. Especially if he wasn’t really Simon. If he had become so obsessed with the real Simon Tremont’s work that he had learned to write like him, if he had come up with this outrageous scheme to take over his idol’s life, if he had managed to steal the outline for Resurrection from the real Simon and had somehow written the book… If he was capable of doing all those things, then, yes, he was capable of killing.
