Hello, friends! I’m C.S. Poe, and it’s great to see you here again at my monthly author column. You may know me from my mystery-romances Southernmost Murder or the Snow & Winter series. If you’re new here, this post is Pt. 8 of my free read, Choose Your Own Adventure story, that absolutely requires reader interaction! Are you intrigued?

This is The Murder Collection, and you can read previous entries here. At the end of each chapter, readers vote on which action Dean Stewart should take. Last month readers were given:

What does Dean say when faced with Detective Watanabe standing in his bedroom? The majority ruled….

“So uh… you seeing anyone, Detective?”

Blurb: Dean Stewart recently graduated from a prestigious art college in New York City. Riding the high of a major success that has put him in the spotlight of the art community, there’s tremendous pressure for Dean to unveil his next collection. The only problem is, he doesn’t have one. In fact, Dean hasn’t felt any inspiration in months, and the funds from his first major sale aren’t going to pay for his apartment and work studio forever.
Just when Dean can’t afford a single distraction, he gets noticed by homicide detective Jiro Watanabe, and not in a good way. Without warning, Dean is thrust into a world of mystery and murder, when all he wants is for Jiro to ask him out on a date that doesn’t involve the police station.
The art world just got a whole lot more cutthroat.

–

“So uh… you seeing anyone, Detective?” The words were like mental vomit—they just fell out of my mouth before I could consider all possible reactions or ramifications.

Watanabe slowly poked his head out of the closet. He stared at me from across the bedroom.

Jesus.

Fuck.

How do—what do—

“Because I’m not available,” I quickly added.

Oh good. That made it better.

My face was hot, my heart pounded, and my fingertips felt tingly as the blood left them in favor of brightening my face like a Jack-o-lantern.

Watanabe was still staring at me.

I cleared my throat. “I’m just going to… be right back.” I turned and calmly walked out of the bedroom. I went across the tiny living room, into the kitchen, opened the freezer door, and stuck my head inside. I moaned into a bag of frozen peas.

“Everything looks secure,” Watanabe said from behind me a moment later.

“Great,” I muttered.

His footsteps came to a stop. “Stewart?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Come lock this door behind me.”

My cheek was stuck to the peas. I peeled the bag free from my skin, shut the freezer, and reluctantly followed Watanabe. “Hey. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Watanabe had a hand on the front doorknob. He looked at me again with that calculating, soul-searching expression.

My gut clenched at the strange combination of fear and excitement I felt. I decided it was an adrenaline combination I didn’t like. Just made me feel nauseous and I really didn’t want to blow chunks again. I’d done that in front of this badass cop one too many times already.

“Yes, you did,” Watanabe replied in that low, smooth tone he’d been using on me all day.

I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes. I felt like a moth to the flame. I knew I was going to get burned—but hell, the light was beautiful.

“I guess I did,” I agreed. I tried to shrug nonchalantly, but I felt as stiff as a board. “Can’t blame me.”

“Oh?”

“You’re handsome. I was serious about wanting to paint you.”

Watanabe’s mouth quirked to one side. “I’m flattered.”

“Are you?” I asked, perking up.

“And I’m also a homicide detective, Stewart,” Watanabe chastised. “So let’s mind our boundaries, hm?”

I nodded a few times and looked down at my shoes. “Right. Sure. Of course. All this murder business is making me loopy.”

Watanabe made a noncommittal sound under his breath then said, “Here you go.”

I looked back up. He was holding out a business card. I took it. “Jiro Watanabe,” I stated. His full name on my tongue felt like little sparks of lightning.

“You call me for anything related to today’s incidents.” Watanabe opened the apartment door. “And only today’s incidents.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” But Watanabe didn’t step into the hall right away.

I held eye contact for a moment, but Watanabe’s intensity made me break away first. I shot a peek down at myself and confirmed I was still wearing pants and hadn’t at any point pissed myself, which would have been a reasonable justification for his staring.

I looked to my left, right, then back at Watanabe.

He blinked, and whatever that had been, was gone. “Goodbye.”

 

After the rush of finding Jordan Bradley decomposing in my studio, getting shot at by wanted killer Charlie Houdini, and then defending myself to a highly suspicious and gorgeous cop, I’d passed out so hard that I too could have been mistaken for a dead body. In fact, I only woke from a series of terrifying chase dreams because my cell’s obnoxious ringtone was finally able to penetrate REM sleep.

I rolled over on the couch as I made a blind reach for my phone, and fell right off the side. My cell was knocked off the coffee table and hit me in the face.

“Fuck! Jesus….” I picked it up, and with bleary eyes, managed to hit Accept on the call. “Hello?”

“Dean! My God! I’ve been calling you all day!” Jeff Delaware—my publicist. “Where have you been?”

“Here. Sleeping.”

“I thought you were going to actually get some painting done today?” he chastised.

I scrubbed my face with one hand, still laying wedged between the couch and table. I belatedly realized the room was totally dark. “What time is it?”

“Time? Dean, it’s almost nine. Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

“I have terrible news,” Jeff continued. “Dean… oh Dean….”

“I’m here. What?”

“Jordan is dead! No, no, I swear it’s true,” he continued, not giving me a chance to interject. “I’ve been speaking with the police all afternoon. He’s been murdered.”

Jeff Delaware was my publicist first, but when I graduated college and my collection sky rocketed in the art world… no, I’ll say it. I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Jordan was jealous. Jeff was damn good at his job, so Jordan had taken him on retainer and had been livin’ la vida loca ever since. Meanwhile, I’d been fighting an artistic block the size of Mount Rushmore and didn’t have much left in savings to keep paying Jeff. And if he wasn’t working to keep my name alive while I played with paints and brushes, what was the point of trying?

What was the point of trying to salvage my budding career?

“Dean! Are you listening to me?” Jeff protested.

I sat up, shaking my head. “S-sorry. Yeah. I heard you.”

I got to my feet as Jeff kept talking, starting for the bathroom. I paused halfway across the room when I heard a weird thump and drag from the hall outside my apartment.

Kind of like furniture. Was someone moving in? Or out?

Seemed rather late, but hey. This was New York.

I changed direction, went to the door, and glanced through the peephole.

Nothing.

Huh.

I shook my head, left, and headed for the bathroom a second time.

Jeff was trying to tell me the limited information the cops—Watanabe probably—had shared with him in between sobs. I didn’t correct him or include my two cents to the story. I didn’t want to ruminate on Jordan’s gooey leftovers.

“Yeah,” I murmured, feeling like it was a decent place in the one-sided conversation to add a word or two.

After relieving myself, I flushed the toilet and cradled the phone against my ear and shoulder as I washed my hands.

Knock, knock, knock.

“I just can’t believe this happened!” Jeff had said for like the tenth time.

I leaned back from the sink, stared out the open door and down the hallway. “Jeff.”

“What?”

“Shut up,” I whispered.

“E-excuse me?”

“I said shut up,” I hissed. I turned the water off and dried my hands on my pants while walking down the hall. I was behaving like a skittish squirrel and it was unnecessary. This was a secure building.

And I had neighbors. Who were awake and going about their lives.

Maybe someone needed a cup of sugar and that was all.

I stared out the peephole again but didn’t see anyone. I unlocked the door and peered into the hallway.

No one.

And nothing.

…Except for the box in front of my door.

“Dean?” Jeff finally said. “Why are you breathing so hard—”

“I’ll call you back.”

“What? No, wait, De—”

I ended the call, patted my pockets, and took out Watanabe’s card. I dialed the number listed just below his name and put the cell back to my ear.

I crouched and lifted a tag hanging from the front of the box.

Have you ever heard the story of the Boy With Nails For Eyes?

“Watanabe.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was parched.

“Hello?” he asked.

I turned the tag around.

Bang.

“W-Watanabe?” I managed to say.

A brief pause. “Dean Stewart?”

Wow, he recognized my voice over the phone? Although I suppose that wasn’t too hard. How many young, twenty-somethings sounding as if they were ready to pass out did he regularly have contact with?

“I uh—” I paused as I turned the box with one hand. In black sharpie was scrawled, Bang.

Bang.

BANG.

“I think I’m in trouble again.”

CHOOSE DEAN’S NEXT ACTION

1. Dean takes the box inside.
2. Dean shuts the door on the box.

 

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The Mystery of the Moving Image (Snow & Winter Book Three)

It’s summer in New York City, and antique shop owner Sebastian Snow is taking the next big step in his relationship with NYPD homicide detective, Calvin Winter: they’re moving in together. What should have been a wonderful week of playing house and celebrating Calvin’s birthday comes to an abrupt end when a mysterious package arrives at the Emporium.

Inside is a Thomas Edison Kinetoscope, a movie viewer from the nineteenth century, invented by the grandfather of modern cinema, W. K. L. Dickson. And along with it, footage of a murder that took place over a hundred years ago.

Sebastian resists the urge to start sleuthing, even if the culprit is long dead and there’s no apparent danger. But break-ins at the Emporium, a robbery, and dead bodies aren’t as easy to ignore, and Sebastian soon realizes that the century-old murder will lead him to a modern-day killer.

However, even with Sebastian’s vast knowledge of Victorian America and his unrelenting perseverance in the face of danger, this may be the one mystery he won’t survive.

 

–

C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and EPIC award finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books.

She is a reluctant mover and has called many places home in her lifetime. C.S. has lived in New York City, Key West, and Ibaraki, Japan, to name a few. She misses the cleanliness, convenience, and limited-edition gachapon of Japan, but she was never very good at riding bikes to get around.

She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best on a daily basis to sidetrack her from work.

C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization.

Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published by DSP Publications, 2016.

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