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climber?”
    Taylor felt her headache grow. “That was the plan, but for some reason I can’t get any of my characters to do what they’re supposed to do. The good ones keep turning bad, and the bad ones keep redeeming themselves.”
    Actually, Taylor’s creative flow was at a standstill for the first time in her life. She knew it had nothing to do with the climbing accident and everything to do with the big gray envelope lying on her desk. “Speaking of which, I’d better get back to it.”
    â€œOf course. I’ll call you with that plate number. Meanwhile, maybe you should relax, go get a haircut and a pedicure. You know, let yourself be pampered.”
    â€œThat’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. But first I have to finish another chapter. So many murders, so little time.”
    Candace chuckled. “That’s funny, considering you’re the least bloodthirsty person I know.”
    If Rains kept up his nasty tricks, Taylor decided she might develop a taste for bloodshed. But until then, she had work to do. She hung up, gritted her teeth, and padded to her office, determined to wrestle six characters into abject submission.

Chapter Three

    Taylor’s hands were covered in green glop.
    She stared at her nails, submerged beneath cold gel. Seventy-five dollars an hour, and you got green glop. They could charge you an extra fifty dollars for aromatherapy vitalizing essence, and it smelled nice, but it was still dish soap as far as she could see.
    After two days at home, her bruises had healed to the point of being a minor irritation. The stitches were progressing more slowly, and every tug brought back memories of her wild tumble before the lower bolt had caught, gripping her rope and breaking her fall. But she’d shoved down the terror and plunged into her work, emerging with twenty new pages. As a reward, she’d headed off for an hour of R and R at the expert hands of her old friend, Sunny de Vito.
    Candace was right. Pampering was definitely in order.
    Right now Sunny was staring at her, and Taylor realized she hadn’t heard a word her friend had said. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.” Taylor blinked at her stylist, whom she’d known from her reckless high school days near Carmel.
    Sunny waved her styling scissors. “Forget about your climbing accident. We’ve got more important things to discuss. I said, Do you want layers?”
    â€œSure.” Taylor frowned. “But no dye.”
    â€œWhatever.” Sunny went to work, and hair flew. “You’ve always been a daydreamer, ever since I met you back in ninth grade.”
    â€œDaydreaming is good. Actually, it’s half of what a writer does. And don’t remind me of high school, please.”
    Sunny grinned. “I’ll try not to, although that skirt you made out of duct tape comes immediately to mind. But I’ll shut up while you try one of those Belgian truffles.”
    Taylor eased her teeth into a decadent treat that left her toes curling and thought about Harris Rains. A simple search on the Internet had revealed that the lab Rains worked for did $12 million a year in recombinant DNA research. No information was available about their specific clients or projects.
    The fact that she’d glimpsed a silver Lexus SUV at a cross street outside her apartment had to be a coincidence. Meanwhile, she had considered the situation from every angle, and sometime near dawn she had come to a conclusion.
    Harris Rains deserved to have a stalker. Nothing overt to make him paranoid, of course. Just enough to find out what he was up to. Taylor had also called a friend and made an appointment to turn over Candace’s climbing gear for his expert assessment. If she hadn’t been facing a book deadline, she would have done more research herself, but such was life.
    She considered her half-eaten truffle and smiled nastily. She was looking forward to some