A Perfect Murder -

Julian’s perfect plan crumbled like wet sand. The motive wasn’t simple. It was a double helix of betrayal and counter-betrayal. He had been so busy constructing the frame for Elara and Marco that he had walked into a frame of his own. His desire for a story with no questions had blinded him to the most obvious question of all: what if his characters had their own script?

Julian looked at his reflection in the one-way glass—the same cold, clean clarity, now turned inward. “Because divorce is a story with two endings,” he whispered. “This was supposed to have only one.” A Perfect Murder

He slipped into the suite like a ghost. The bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of warm light escaping. He heard a low murmur of voices, a soft laugh—Elara’s laugh. The sound that once made him feel like a king now made his finger tighten on the trigger. Julian’s perfect plan crumbled like wet sand

Marco turned, his face not one of a frightened lover, but of a weary detective. “Put the gun down, Julian. The room is wired. Two federal agents are in the room next door.” He had been so busy constructing the frame

He pushed the door open.