Maine Crime Writers

Blog Nov 2025.   Jule Selbo

INFO on FREE BOOKS at the end of the BLOG, you guys!

Hey, you guys. This is a relatively ‘old’ scholarly reflection (the topic became kind of big in the early 2000s), but I still find it interesting to ponder when I trip over it…

Do you guys remember a NY TIMES article by Audrey Bilger, the president of Reed College? She put this debate on the map in 2002 and ended her opinion with an influential WE MUST STOP THIS!!!

She called out against using ‘you guys’ as a term of address for women, writing that calling women ‘guys’ makes femaleness invisible. I paraphrase her opinion a bit: ‘Oprah says it. The cast of Friends say it, my yoga instructor says it, as do my students. But is it a good thing? Should we use ‘you guys’ to refer to a mixed gender group or as a term to refer to a group of women?

            Why, Audrey Bilger asks, if one guy is clearly ‘male’ and two or more guys are male, why/how does the plural become, for the most part, gender neutral?

What do you prefer? What is preferable when referring to a group or duo of mixed gender?

1. What are you guys doing over the weekend?
2. What are you all doing over the weekend?
3. What are you folks doing over the weekend?
4. What are you people doing over the weekend?
5. What are you two (three, four or twelve or…) doing over the weekend?

Why do we care? Do we?

A linguist named Steven Clancy noted (around 2001) that ‘male’ terminology such as ‘you guys’ has a tendency to catch on, whereas ‘female’ terminology doesn’t.  It’s acceptable for us to refer to a group of women as ‘you guys’ but we don’t refer to a group of men as ‘you gals’ (unless it’s a joke or derogatory).

American television has made the use of ‘guys’ to include two or more in all genders acceptable and of normal usage is many foreign countries. Most people around the world now accept it as gender neutral.

And, you guys, as we all know, gender itself is a bit of a hot topic. Referring to gender, we can get dinged, we want to get it right. How we use it, report it, live it —is a hot topic.

A linguist prof in Britain (Emma Moore) wrote that it was from the 18th century onwards that people started using male pronouns when describing someone of a non-specific gender in writing and this marked the time when opinions on what pronouns should be used started to change. The prof explained: “You might have a sentence like ‘if a student comes to see the teacher, he must bring his homework’, where he is supposed to refer generically to males and females…However, there are lots of psychological studies that show when people hear that generically, they don’t hear it as gender neutral – they do just think about men.”

Remember the use of ze/zir? They were neopronouns to be used for he/him and she/her. Ze as the subject and zir as an object or a possessive.  Zeself and Zirself were to be used as reflexive. I have yet to see this in the crime mystery books I read. Has anyone?

So you guys, as we know, the word ‘they’ seems to be doing a lot of heavy work now.

We writers (some of us) spend time (perhaps too much time) thinking about what words we want to use to make our craft/art accessible, clear, and enjoyable.  Who has tried to write using only ‘they’, ‘their’ and ‘them’.  What problems were encountered?

AI search states: The American Dialect Society named the singular “they” the word of the year in 2015 and again in 2019.

So, I guess someone cares. (I didn’t even know there was such a thing as A WORD OF THE YEAR.)

Dictionaries note the prominent role of ‘they’ in modern language. AI Overview states: The use of ‘they’ as a singular, gender-neutral pronoun has not (as some expected) gone out of style; it has become widely accepted in modern English for both generic and personal use. It’s formally accepted as a standard pronoun for referring to individuals whose gender is unknown, irrelevant, or non-binary.

Well, you guys, it is sort of nice (IMO) to be able to use ‘they’ or ‘their’ for singular reference.  “The winner can come collect their prize.”  I tend to find it the awkward to use the  ‘his or her’ or “his or her or their” prize.  It gets harder (IMO) in crime mystery genre if we write: ‘They will arrive at the prison, to serve their time for murder…’ when we need to make it clear it is ONE person. So as an example, some of us will revert to using NAMES of characters and avoid (or drop) possessive pronouns: Bill will arrive at prison, to serve time for the murder…

I am wondering: what publications are using this wordage: Ze arrived at prison, walked by zeself past zir and smiled.

I would expect there are publications with ze and zir are out there but they have never crossed my path.

I have screenwriting students who twist their minds into shredded biscuits trying to make their work clear – after all screenplays are considered ‘blueprints’ for production— thus costumers, make-up departments, casting departments et al are doing quick reads to set out the basic needs for a production. The ‘they’ pronoun doesn’t give them quick reference. I point it out once to my students (understanding it is a bias I have) and then let them choose their own pronouns. The Hollywood industry gives this advice: Prioritize clarity: If using “they” for a character, make sure the context is clear to avoid confusing the reader. For example, instead of writing “They enter,” write “Hazel enters” … “They drink the potion and collapse” write “Jim drinks….” even if it’s been established that Jim is the only person in the room… (then no one has to go back and re-read to get the information.

In the crime mystery genre, getting a review that a book is a page-turner or a fast-read is usually considered a good thing. Does using ‘they’ or ‘them’ to refer to singular entities or ‘the guys’ or ‘you guys’ harm that ability to ‘fast-read’?  Because our brains aren’t used to it? Or because we tend to use genders of our antagonists/protagonists/supporting characters in such a way to make some kind of point or to initiate more conflict?

But, you guys (back to the ‘you guys’ article I happened on that got me thinking about this again) – the reading that started this train of thought: The novelist Alice Walker (The Color Purple, Meridien and more) was also interested in ‘you guys’ usage. She said use of the term to refer to women reflected a “fear of being feminine.” Give this a watch if you have time… it’s short:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqvHXYcN0xc

Audrey Bilger, the universal linguist and literature professor (as reported before, also President of Reed College in Oregon) that I enjoy reading – after she wrestled with the idea of shrugging off the importance of the use of ‘you guys’ as referral to any gender in a group, came to agree with Alice Walker.  But Alice also wrote, at the end of one of her (their, zir) essays: “From my observation of the speech patterns of girls and young women — including my daughters and students — I think ‘you guys’ is a horse too far out of the barn to be roped back in.”

Yes? No? Who cares?

Would love to hear – and all who comment are eligible for free crime mysteries!

Best to you all –   Jule

This week, for Halloween, we’re sharing scary scenes from our books…and maybe from some others.

Kate Flora: This is from my 7th Thea Kozak mystery, Stalking Death.  While Thea is assisting a school with a student’s stalking complaint, she stumbles on administrative corruption involving a major donor. In this scene, the administrators and the major donor’s disturbed son, are ‘getting rid of a problem’ where the problem is Thea. She’s been abducted and is in the trunk of a car.

But ten minutes was too long for Alasdair. Suddenly he turned away from his self-involved dance and came back to peer into the trunk. “She’s still in there? Come on. Let’s get her out. Let’s get this thing done. I’ve got a ride to catch.” In the hand swinging loosely by his side, he held the axe.
Fear exploded in me like dynamite. Far away a siren moaned. Chambers and Woodson turned to look. I jerked at my hands, tearing through the last of the tape, pulled them apart, and pushed myself out of the trunk, springing past them and taking off down the road. I ran like the devil himself was chasing me. Or a crazy maniac with an axe. I ran for my life, straight down that dark and bumpy dirt road with three men chasing me, one of whom had a gun.
The words “broken field running” were muttering in my head. A strategy to avoid giving Woodson a straight shot. But it was damned hard to zig and zag when I couldn’t see the ground. It seemed a better strategy to get off the road and into the woods. Sure, the sounds of my feet clomping over branches and rocks would be louder, but there would be lots of cover, too. As soon as I got around that curve I could dimly see up ahead.
I came around the curve and almost slammed into a car standing in the roadway with its lights off. I didn’t wait to see if it was friend, foe or merely some local who’d come out to go parking or jack some deer. I thought I heard a voice yell, “Hey,” but I wasn’t stopping for anyone or anything. Not until I’d put a good safe distance between myself and the guys with the guns and axes.
I veered off the road into the woods, my arms raised before my face for protection. Branches slapped at my arms and snagged my hair. Sharp sticks scratched my cheeks and forearms and stabbed at my legs. Fallen branches and tangles of brush rose to trip me.
I moved through it all with the inexorable momentum of a juggernaut. Scraping, banging, and crashing my way deeper and deeper into the forest, tripping and falling and pushing myself up and going on, unable to hear whether I was still being followed because of all the noise I was making, and too afraid to stop and listen. Once, I heard what sounded like a gun shot. A commotion of voices shouting and then more shots.
When at last I paused to catch my breath, hands on my thighs, my chest on fire, I heard someone behind me and saw the broken beams of a flashlight filtered through the trees. Grimly, I used my sleeve to wipe the blood away from my eyes and started off again. I ran until my chest was exploding and pain stabbed my side, the thud of my feet reverberating through my skull.
I ran for my life, and because training with Andre had made me strong, it was a hell of a run. All those hours in the gym were finally paying off. I ran through the trembling muscles and the cramps and the gasping, pushing on, looking for that second wind until I stumbled up a slope, tripped over a slippery rock at the top, and tumbled down the other side, landing hard.
I lay there on spongy moss, groundwater seeping through my clothes, waiting for dizziness to subside so I could scramble up and go on. I could still hear my pursuer crashing through the woods. See those yellow beams getting closer, slicing through the forest like rays emanating from the hand of an evil wizard. I wobbled unsteadily to my feet, trying to pick out an escape route. He was so close now I could hear him panting. I crawled out of the open toward the darker shadows that meant brush, and shelter.
Suddenly, he was there at the top of the slope, the flashlight beaming down as he searched for me. I lay very still, glad I had dressed in black, hoping I just looked like more darkness, as the beam moved slowly over me and then moved away. My heart stopped when it found me. When the beating resumed, I thought he must be able to hear the thudding that filled my ears.
Then the beam stopped and moved slowly back toward me and I heard Alasdair’s maniac chuckle. “Gotcha! They promised me I’d get to do this and I’m going to.” For effect, he used the beam to illuminate the axe. All this way through the woods, he’d brought his favorite toy because Chambers and Woodson had told the little boy that if he was good and cooperated, he’d get to chop me up.
I scrambled to my feet, slightly blinded by the light, and staggered around, looking around for something to use as a weapon. There were some good-sized rocks, but I wanted a sturdy stick. No much of a weapon against an axe, but it would keep him at a distance.
I hurried away from him, back into the woods, searching the dark forest floor until I found the darker shape of a branch. Alasdair followed at a leisurely pace, keeping me fixed in the beam of his light, chanting “Run, run, as fast as you can… you can’t beat me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.” A vicious little monster with all the time in the world. Toying with me the way a cat plays a mouse.
Farther away, I heard someone call my name. Good guy? Bad guy? I didn’t dare answer.
I also didn’t dare turn my back on him. No one turns her back on a man with an axe, so I was backing away from him, my going ever more unsteady and uncertain. Reflected light gave his face an eerie yellow cast, his features hidden in shadow, as he came steadily on, determined and horrible. Maybe I should just drop the stick and run. I’d stayed ahead of him before. But my skin crawled at the thought of that axe.
I scooped up a rock and hurled it at him, my aim awkward with my bandaged hand. My “good” hand. He gave a hoot of laughter. “Leave me alone, you bastard!” I heaved another. It struck his forehead and wiped the smile off his face. He yelled and charged at me, waving the axe. I yelled back and in my own form of crazy bravado, I lowered my stick and charged, holding my sturdy long branch before me like a lance.
I struck him in the chest. He missed me. We galloped a little way past, turned, and charged again. This time my blow glanced off his thigh and his just missed my knee. Way too close for comfort. I valued my limbs, so this time, when I got past him, I kept right on going, scrambling up the slope and back the way I’d come. Bad guys or no bad guys, I wasn’t lingering to duel with this monster.
Once again, fear made my feet fast. I come over the top, careful of the slippery rocks this time, and started down the other side. But when I raised my head, I saw another flashlight coming toward me. I veered left, away from both of them and farther away from the road, not knowing how much longer I could do this. My clothes were wet. I was chilled and my stamina was running low. Increasingly, my feet landed badly.
Behind me, Alasdair imitated a madman’s laugh. A high, lunatic chuckle. “Run, run,” he chanted. “Run, run, run.” Why wasn’t he getting tired? Was it the drugs?
My lungs burned. All the air I was sucking in didn’t seem to be enough. Ahead, low, dense, darker shadows suggested thicker brush. I slowed so my steps were quieter, then dropped to all fours and crept toward it. I reached some fluffy, low-spreading branches, lowered myself onto my belly, and burrowed deep into the pungent, prickly evergreens. I felt around until I found a good-sized rock. Then I curled into a shivering ball and waited.
Through the thick branches, I got glimpses of his flashlight beam as Alasdair searched and listened, searched and listened. Once his footsteps retreated and I thought he’d gone, but then that bobbing beam was back, moving slowly over the ground, searching for my tracks. I’d probably left an obvious trail, crawling in here. But the brush was too thick for a quick escape and if I moved, he was going to hear me. I lay with my face on the prickly ground, taking shallow breaths, tensed in anticipation of a sudden blow.
I had seen the aftermath of a person attacked with an axe.
Now, unbidden and unwanted, that scene floated into my head. The deep gashes in counters and floors, everything smashed, dried pools of black blood on the floor, streaks and splatters of flung blood on the ceilings and walls. A good forensics expert could recreate the whole scene quite accurately. A good lay imagination did just fine, too. A shudder rippled through me, my skin puckering in waves. Fear pooled like acid in my stomach.
Not more than five feet away, feet shuffled and a branch snapped with a gunfire crack. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Alasdair whispered.
I could hear the swish of branches as he searched. Coming closer. Moving away. Moving back. All the time, reciting bits from children’s games. “Simon says put your hand on your nose. Take three giant steps. Tag. You’re it. Am I warm or am I cold? I’m getting warmer, aren’t I? Aren’t I? Aren’t I?”
A snap. A crack. A swish. An explosive “Gotcha!” The branches above me parted and his light blazed down onto my face.

 

Matt Cost: From Mainely Wicked. The book that made my wife ask, ‘what dark place were you in when you wrote that?

Annie lunged across the table and drove the plastic plate into the Wendigo’s throat. He gagged and she went for his eye with the spoon, but he turned his head, the metal sliding across his cheek instead. The Wendigo grabbed her throat with one huge hand, choking her, and Annie brought her knee up into his groin. It was as if a balloon burst, an explosion of air emitting from the man’s mouth around his gagging, his face coming forward as she brought the spoon thrusting upward and into his eye with a squelching sound.

Annie ran for the door. There was a scream behind her as if she’d angered some large bird, a prehistoric pterodactyl squawking in pain and fury behind her. As she pushed through the door, Annie risked a look, half expecting the Wendigo to be transformed into a reptile with a twenty-foot wingspan and razor-sharp teeth. Instead, she saw a man struggling to his feet, blood streaming down his cheek from his eye, choking, cursing, coughing, and coming after her in a twisted gait.

Annie ran around the barn and into the woods. She’d thought about the road but didn’t want to pass by the house in case the other Wiccans were there, watching, and she didn’t know how far the next neighbor was or even if there was one. So she fled into the forest, a path she knew well from her walks. She’d scoped out her escape route painstakingly over the past week and now her feet flew over the ground as if she were weightless.

The morning was gray, clouds hiding the rising sun, making visibility poor. She tripped and fell. Got up and ran into the branch of a tree, knocking her back to the ground. Bushes grasped at her, branches clawed at her, and rocks leaped in front of her. And then she heard the voice of the Wendigo.

“Annie.”

She ran from the sound with fear, panic dripping from her pores, driving her forward. Trip. Fall. Get up. Then her leash got tangled around some bushes and she had to pull it free, her hands shaking. She could hear her breathing, loud and harsh, then his hoarse bark getting closer.

“Annie.”

It was still closer. Musical. Threatening. Annie ran. Spittle flew from her mouth, blood dripped from a bloodied nose, and still she clawed her way forward. She was not going to be a victim. She would not be sacrificed, throat cut, and left to bleed out. She’d not be butchered and cooked and eaten.

“Annie.”

It was right behind her. She could smell his stink. She could feel his sour breath on the back of her neck underneath the collar. The stench of something dead. The reek of foulness filling her nose, seeping into her skin, pouring into her being. The fetor of rotten eggs and skunk and shit tickling the back of her neck, his hand reaching for the leash around her neck.

“Annie.”

It was time for plan B, she thought. The quarry. Maybe she wouldn’t escape nor live. But she wouldn’t be sacrificed, stewed, and consumed. It was just up ahead.

“Annie.”

She tripped, righted herself, and ran for the edge of the quarry, looming out of the gloom, a gaping chasm in front of her. Death opened its welcoming arms, and Annie Brown reached the edge and flung herself off into space.

And then her head jerked back, twisting her neck with a snap, and she was suspended over the quarry, the leash holding fast.

“Annie.” The Wendigo pulled her back up over the edge. “Don’t you want to be with me?”

 

SCARY SCENE THAT I, (that would be Jule Selbo) CAN NEVER FORGET

 The Cask of Amontillado.  

Probably read this for the first time in junior high. And many times since then. Still freaks me out. Edgar Allan Poe must’ve really been mad at someone! I am taking the liberty to “set up” the story (trimming the hell out of it to get to the scariest moment, so sorry Eddie!)

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge…. He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine…It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells…I said to him—”My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”

“Amontillado?” said he. “A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”

“And… as you are engaged,” I said, “I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me—”

“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”

“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”

“Come, let us go.”… Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, I suffered him to hurry with me to my palazzo…I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into my vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of catacombs…The drops of moisture trickle among the bones…

At the most remote end of the crypt, walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess… as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite.

In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess…

“The Amontillado!?” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

…I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain…. I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast… It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in…But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head…The voice said—

“Ha! ha! ha!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We shall have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo over our wine—he! he! he!”

“The Amontillado!” I said and he replied, “He! he! he!—… is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”

“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”

…I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in reply only a jingling of the bells… I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones… For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.  In pace requiescat!

 

John Clark: The very first short story I ever wrote/sold, In Your Dreams Is still the scariest thing I’ve written. When My main character experiences the following:

Saturday came and went leaving three inches of ice, downed power lines and no way to go anywhere. The Dark Lady came early and stayed late. I awoke Sunday morning, so desperate for a meeting that I would have crawled over to Little Pig’s and carried him on my back. Fortunately, the ice melted quickly and life got back to normal.

Martha called late Tuesday afternoon.

“Hey, lady, great to hear your voice. What’s up?”

“I have a favor to ask, dear. I’m expanding my horizons. Ellen and I have joined a new club and they’re teaching us sorts of neat stuff. Next week we’re going to learn how to can stuff. I seem to remember you saying that your mother did some canning before she passed away. I’m wondering if there might be some mason jars in your cellar I could use.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I set foot in my cellar other than to show the furnace guy where to go when he came to clean it. “Sure, why don’t you come over tonight and I’ll order in Chinese.”

We set a 6 p.m. date and I went back to the business of sorting invoices.

“Thank you, dear, I’m so tired of my own cooking.” Martha cleared away the leftovers and wiped off my kitchen table. I retrieved a flashlight from the utility drawer and we went down the cellar stairs, taking turns brushing aside the musty cobwebs.

A long time ago, my mother had asked dad to build her a small wooden pantry in the back cellar. I had no idea if anything was still stored there, but if I could save Martha a few bucks, I was more than happy to do so.

I pulled the dusty plastic curtain to one side.

“Oh shit! Her eyes, they…” Martha turned and retched

I stared at the gallon jar on the shelf behind the rusty bike and realized I’d never wonder again whether the Dark Lady was real.

A CREEPY POEM THAT I (that would be Gabriela Stiteler) WILL NEVER FORGET

I read this in 9th grade along with a number of other things that stay with me still, including Willa’s Cather’s My Antonia and TS Elliot’s Lovesong and Kazuo Ishiguro’s Remains of the Day.

What a year for my development as a writer, yes?

This makes for a great piece to memorize and recite when necessary because, I have found, it’s always nice to have a few things on the ready should the need arise for a little something at a campfire.

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning (copied from The Poetry Foundation)

The rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!

Maureen Milliken: It’s always hard to pick a scene out of context and hope it will resonate. While this isn’t “scary,” hopefully it at least makes you a little nervous! From the second book of my Bernadette “Bernie” O’Dea mystery series, NO NEWS IS BAD NEWS.

The party was in one of those Philadelphia social club halls—the Ancient Order of Hibernians or something. Smoking ordinance? Not in our freakin’ hall. Pete hadn’t wanted to attend JP Donovan’s return celebration, nearly four years after that August day in 2003 when he’d first met the Donovans. But he knew he had to if he was ever going to get answers. He tried not to breathe the smoke in the hot summer closeness of the hall, a bubble of bile working its way up his throat. He also wanted to see for himself. He’d been so sure JP was dead. So sure Brandon had something to do with it, that Cheryl and maybe even Linda were complicit. He’d spent the last four years trying to figure it out, spending way more time with the Donovans than he wanted, waiting for that break. So, JP’s back, picked up hitchhiking, by a cop, in some remote Maine town? He’d been wrong all along? He had to see for himself.

“There you are, stranger.” Cheryl Donovan, looking much like she had when he last saw her months before, grabbed him by the elbow and gave him a quick dry kiss on the cheek. He tried not to pull back as she leaned in, too close as always. “Come over and see the boy of the hour.” She dragged him through the crowded room.

Pete had felt dizzy since he got there. The room was packed, hot. TVs in the corners and over the bar blared the Phillies game, although none of the shouting, already drunk, crowd seemed to notice. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, sweat, other smells he didn’t want to try to figure out. He was overdressed. Why had he worn a suit? He wasn’t sure. Hadn’t worn one since he’d been put on leave a month before. Now the necktie was strangling him. His T-shirt, damp with sweat under his suit, stuck to him, the backs of his knees wet against his trousers. He tried to tamp down the panic, tried to breathe, as he followed Cheryl.

“Brandon here?” he asked.

“Who? Oh, no. He had to work,” she said over her shoulder. “Here he is.” She pulled Pete in front of a young man. Oversized Yankees baseball cap, a hoodie, loose jeans. The kid looked away, down at the floor, then behind Pete’s shoulder as Cheryl spoke. “JP, this is the cop that helped us. He was looking for you all this time, all these years, all the four years since you went away,” she said, her voice loud over the crowd. “He’s like a member of the family.”

The kid’s eyes met Pete’s, then darted away. Kid’s as shaky as I am, Pete thought. He held his hand out. “Pete Novotny.” He didn’t deserve, right now at least, to introduce himself with his official detective title.

The kid, not looking at him, briefly shook, then shoved his hands in his pockets. A small smirk flashed, then was gone in a split second. That knowing smirk from the photos.

“JP got shy since he was gone,” Cheryl yelled in Pete’s ear. “JP! Pete’s a homicide cop, but he helped us look for you anyway. Even though you weren’t dead!” She laughed as though it was the funniest thing on earth. She was the only one laughing. The kid stared at the ground, shuffled his feet.

“Glad you came home safe,” Pete said, holding his hand out again.

The kid again took his hand. Smirked. Looked at Pete, his eyes not darting away this time, meeting Pete’s. They were half-closed slits in a smooth, unlined face. Pete felt a shift. The one that had eased up just a fraction since his breakdown and suspension. The back of his neck locked. His vision blurred. The bile bubble in that hollow between his stomach and chest got bigger, his stomach clutched. His chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe.

“Gotta go,” he managed to say to Cheryl and the kid. He turned and pushed through the crowd toward the exit sign glowing red over a door. Cheryl’s hand was on his arm, then slid off as he moved, pushing, desperate for fresh air.

Outside, he leaned against the brick wall of the building, taking deep gulps of the warm June night. Trying to get his breath. Willing his heartbeat to return to normal. What triggered the panic attack this time? Seeing the kid he’d been sure was dead? When he shook that hand, grudgingly offered from the sleeve of the hoodie, he’d felt something. He’d never known JP Donovan. Never seen anything but photos. Those snapshots from Christmas and barbecues that, when they’re taken, no one ever imagines are going to find their way to a police desk or missing kid poster. All those photos had that smirk. Was it the same smirk? He couldn’t say.

When he took that hand—clammy, reluctant—he’d tried to look past it into those slitted eyes. He’d felt a hint when he took his hand, but when he looked into those eyes, he was sure. They weren’t hazel. They were a deep brown, almost black. And as old and soulless as Methuselah. He knew now what he’d felt. Not felt, knew. That kid isn’t JP Donovan.

-30-

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