So, maybe he solved cases with a precision not seen since Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot. It didn't matter. The guy was a grade A prick.
And killing him was the best decision I ever made—until it wasn't.
It was supposed to be a good move for me—a way of showing that I wasn't one to back down.
I never imagined it would cause such a visceral reaction...among my readers.
I didn't get it. He was barely tolerable most of the time and his death opened the door for a new detective—maybe one who had her act together.
I never would've guessed that he'd show up on my doorstep, begging for a second chance, or that he'd look even better than I ever imagined. Characters die and everyone moves on—that's the way it works. Sometimes it's even necessary for the story to progress.
When the hate mail gives way to something more sinister, Jake insists that he's just the man to handle the case. He vows to keep me safe in exchange for his life.
The problem isn't resurrecting him.
No, my problem is much worse.
How do I stop myself from falling in love with a fictional character?