Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The Last Logan - halfway there

Back to the business of killing off characters - this is romantic suspense, right?

I'm at about 230 pages. Dead so far are
    Charles, the newest Logan child, age 3 (died before the story started)
    William the "badass", the oldest son whose death begins the story
    Elizabeth and her unborn child - Old Man Logan's mistress

Still to die,
    Grace, newspaper reporter, (currently the killer has her kidnapped)
    Lakesia Styles-Logan, Old Man Logan's daughter,
    Travis Styles, her half-brother
    And, of course Old Man Logan himself.

There has been one attempt on the life of the heroine's daughter. There will be one more at the end.

Today's work got me to the point where the hero Kyle, is telling the heroine, Beverly, that he spent the last ten years in a Texas prison for murder. What he doesn't tell her is that he was framed, by his father and brother. (The Logan's are a truly heart-warming family). “Why Texas?”
Kyle shrugged. “Logan Enterprises has dealings there and my father needed someone to oversee activities. Once there I got bored and became involved in … extracurricular activities.”
He paused, head raised as if he expected something from her. When she remained silent he said, “Aren’t you going to ask?”
Keep calm, girl. Just do your job. Interviewing the hostile was her specialty. Sandy often compared her to his father after a hostile witness in the courtroom. But this was Kyle. He might never have loved her, but he’d never been hostile. “What was the charge?”
The Earth tilted beneath her feet. She gripped the back of a chair to hold herself upright. “Impossible.”
“Not something I’d lie about, Beverly.”
He’d never been the kind to think being locked inside a jail some badge of honor. Just the man least likely to have a jail’s doors close behind him. She’d imagined Kyle Logan crawling through a desert on hands and knees, her name the last sound falling from his lips. Imagined him in a hot tub surrounded by a dozen glamorous women. But never thought of him imprisoned.
“Who did you kill?”
“Their names – I never knew.”
His hands crossed over his chest. Hands that once wielded a paintbrush with the dexterity of a maestro. Fingers that had curled around a paintbrush, that should be stained with the result of his creativity. That had caressed her skin, sent electric sparks arcing through her, driving her wild with desire.
Those hands killed six people?

She's right to not believe him. Hopefully within the next hundred pages or so she'll get the full story out of him. Before the real killer gets to them all.

No comments: