We chat with author Melidna Leigh about You Can Tell Me, which follows crime writer Olivia Cruz who is drawn into the dark secrets of a missing friend in a terrifying novel of suspense by #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author. PLUS you can read an excerpt at the end of the interview!
What inspired you to write YOU CAN TELL ME?
I created Olivia Cruz in the Morgan Dane series. I enjoyed writing her character so much, that I’d always planned to give her more books. She’s bold, funny, and wicked smart. Olivia is also a challenge to write because she is a resourceful character.
What is different about this new Olivia Cruz series?
Sheriff Bree Taggert is the protagonist of the other series I’m currently writing. I enjoy the framework of the police procedural, but at times it can feel restrictive. Basing a series on a true crime writer gives me more flexibility. There are times when Bree must act a certain way and perform specific tasks because of the legal requirements of her position as sheriff. Olivia is not constrained in the same way, and I intend to have fun with that creative freedom.
What about the mystery genre appeals to you as a writer?
I enjoy laying out the clues and misdirecting the reader. It’s like creating a logic puzzle. Plotting a mystery adds an additional layer of challenge to the novel writing process that I find fascinating. Plus, I was always a math geek, which is why I was once a financial analyst. I view plotting a mystery as a series of linear equations that intersect at the same point.
This is the start of your seventh series. What do you like about writing series? Where do the ideas for your series come from? Do you plot out the whole series before you begin?
I love developing characters. As a reader, I pick up a familiar series to find out what happened to the people. The plot is secondary. My connection to the characters are what brings my back to book 7, 8, or 9. I’m invested in their lives.
For me, adding depth and complexity to my characters is a long process. My books generally take place over a short period of time, say four or five days. People don’t change that quickly. Writing a series enables me to challenge my protagonists over a much longer period of time. They have the opportunity to adapt and grow.
Many of my protagonists begin deeply flawed or traumatized. It takes time to overcome issues. For example, in Cross Her Heart, Bree Taggert is deeply afraid of dogs due to a childhood mauling. There’s no way she could realistically work through an issue that traumatizing in one book. In book ten, she’s made progress, but her fear still crops up from time to time.
My plot ideas usually come from news headlines and stories. This helps give the books a realistic and current feel. Readers can connect with characters that are facing current challenges.
I do not plot out a series before I begin. Usually, I don’t even know how many books the series will contain. I do, however, know how I want my characters to develop, and this is what I think about when I’m plotting the next book in the series. How can I challenge them to grow?
You worked in finance for many years before becoming a writer. What made you switch careers?
I despised banking and couldn’t wait to be free of it. After my kids were born, I stayed home for a few years. When I was ready to return to work, I knew I didn’t want to return to the financial industry. I’ve had my nose buried in books since grade school. I decided to try writing one. It turned out to be a great fit, and I was hooked on the process. I was nearly forty before I typed the first page of my first manuscript. It’s never too late to chase your dreams.
EXCERPT
Chapter Three, Excerpt from YOU CAN TELL ME by Melinda Leigh, text copyright © 2026 by Melinda Leigh, Published by Montlake
Olivia Cruz adjusted the handles of the coffee mugs on her kitchen shelf so each of her perfectly spaced mugs pointed in exactly the same direction.
The squeak of sneaker treads announced the return of her boyfriend, Lincoln Sharp, from his morning run—though there was nothing about Lincoln that looked boyish. His eyes roamed constantly. A former police detective turned private investigator, he had a gaze that matched his name—always assessing, always suspicious.
He tugged off his black-brimmed cap. As he toed off his sneakers, he ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair, as if his buzz cut were long enough to get mussed. He had the lean, hard build of a runner and was fitter than most people half his age. “I have a laser level if you want to make them exactly even.”
She turned back to her open cabinet. She didn’t need Lincoln’s comment to know exactly what her perfectly positioned mugs were—precise rows of tiny soldiers she used to battle the demons she couldn’t vanquish. She’d had enough therapy to know she controlled her environment when her memories made her feel powerless. With a deliberate movement, she closed the cabinet. She turned to face him and changed the subject. “How was your run?”
“Fine.” He crossed the kitchen to stand next to her and switch on the electric kettle. He reached past her, opened the cabinet, and selected a mug. After setting it on the counter, he added a green tea bag and looped the tag around the handle once. “Want to join me in a cold plunge?”
Olivia shuddered. “No, thank you. I don’t know how you bear it.”
He shrugged. “It’s good for inflammation.”
“Still a hard pass for me.” Olivia was mostly disciplined about diet and exercise, but she was never going to willingly submerge her body in ice-cold water regardless of its anti-inflammatory properties. She shivered again at the thought.
“Why don’t you let me go with you today?”
Olivia stiffened at the suggestion, not because the idea was abhorrent—no, the opposite. She’d love to take him with her. But it was far too easy to rely on Lincoln to ease her anxiety. She wouldn’t allow herself to become over-reliant. The more she let him be her protector, the more she would want it.
As it was, she struggled with being alone in her house at night. Prior to her abduction, she’d loved her little bungalow and had felt very safe in it. She’d moved to Scarlet Falls in upstate New York when she’d inherited the property from an aunt, at the same time she’d changed careers. The house was nothing like the modern loft she’d previously rented, but the little house had grown on her as she’d renovated and painted, made it her own—made it her home. Yet she no longer felt secure in it. Her kidnapper hadn’t taken her life, but he’d stolen a piece of her, and she was determined to take it back.
She forced her shoulders to relax. “I need to do this myself.”
He contemplated her for a few seconds, the deepening of the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes somehow making him even more attractive. “I appreciate that, but the offer stands.”
“You have a full schedule. Aren’t you and Lance tied up all day with your case?”
“Yes, but you come first. If you need me, I’ll cancel.” His tone suggested he regretted making plans with his younger partner, Lance Kruger.
Olivia’s heart warmed. So tempting. No! She mentally rolled her eyes. Do not give in to his charm. “Lance needs you to watch his back. I won’t be alone, and I shouldn’t need a security escort for a simple drive into the countryside.”
Lincoln’s gaze never wavered. “To the place where you were held captive.”
Her heartbeat stumbled, and she broke eye contact. “It’s been three years . . .”
“I don’t think that’s something you just get over.”
She raised her chin and met his gaze again. “If I never step beyond my comfort zone, I will never get over it.”
“I shouldn’t have made plans for today.” He’d been with her for the first two terrible anniversaries. But his current investigation had heated up over the past week, and he needed to stay on it or risk losing momentum.
“I told you to.” Olivia usually wrote about crimes inflicted on other people. She sympathized with victims and their families, but as an outsider, she could be objective, one step removed from the emotions, able to visualize them, but always at an arm’s length. Today, she would be on the other side of the interview, recounting her own experience as a victim for a friend’s true crime podcast—You Won’t Believe This. She hoped that going public with all the details—forcing herself to recount the trauma in a logical, clinical, and public fashion—would somehow purge it from her soul. No more secrets. No more holding back. No more wondering if the person she was talking to knew her truth. It would all be out there. “I need to do this—without you. I need to be independent. It’s something I have to prove to myself, that I can function—that he didn’t take something from me that I’ll never get back. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head. “I get it, and it makes sense.” He had more faith in her than she did. For a few seconds, she leaned into him, absorbing his body heat, as if she could borrow some of his confidence. But no, she needed to find it for herself. Some things had to be acquired the hard way.
“I haven’t been able to write since.” And there was her long-term fear.
He frowned down at her. “If you need money . . .”
“It’s not just about the money.” Her book sales hadn’t stopped, but they had leveled off, which was normal. “I won’t starve, and I inherited this house, but that’s not the whole issue. I’m a writer. It’s more than what I do. It’s who I am, who I’ve been my entire adult life. Even before that. I was the editor of my high school newspaper. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t looking for the truth and writing about it.”
“You’re more than any job.”
She pressed away. “Thank you, but I’m not ready to give it up just yet.” She wouldn’t let her kidnapper take away her career too. Though the fact that her abduction had been orchestrated by her literary agent as a PR stunt didn’t help. Olivia hadn’t even looked for another agent yet.
“So you’ll work it out, but even if you can’t, I’m here for you, for whatever you need.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes remained worried when he turned back to his steeping tea. He opened the fridge and gathered the ingredients for his morning green protein shake.
Her phone beeped from its charging stand. She grabbed it and unlocked the screen. Zoe had sent her a message the night before. Olivia kept her phone on the do-not-disturb setting at night to minimize disruptions to her already restless sleep. She opened the text. MEET AT 10. NEED TO TALK.
Olivia glanced at the time. “She wants to meet a half hour early. I’d better go.”
A memory seared her brain. Running barefoot over rough ground, tree limbs slicing her skin, her lungs tight. Not enough air. The flashback lasted just a few seconds but left her palms clammy and sweating.
Stuffing greens into the blender, Lincoln eyed her. “Are you OK?”
“Fine,” she lied. Then she wiped her palms on her jeans, crossed the room, and kissed him.
He kissed her back. He glanced down at her brown suede ankle boots and shook his head. “You’re wearing those into the woods? They’re heels.”
“It’s a low heel. Very practical.” For her. Olivia admired the soft chocolate-colored suede boots for a moment. The kitten heel was low, and she’d bought a crossbody bag to match. “And I won’t be traipsing through the woods in them. I’m bringing my hiking boots.”
He shook his head again but said nothing more. He owned one pair of dress shoes and wore either running shoes or boots on a daily basis.
Olivia checked the charge on her power bank and tossed it into her purse, along with her electronic tablet. Then she grabbed her extra jacket, the hiking boots, and her backpack. Before she’d turned to true crime writing eight years before, she’d been an investigative journalist. She always packed a change of clothes, water, snacks, and a phone battery charger. She also kept an emergency road kit and basic tool bag in her car at all times. Leads on a story could change in a heartbeat. She’d always liked to be ready to go wherever the trail led. Her true crime writing usually focused on old crimes. Research tended to be slower paced and planned—more predictable and less in the moment. But the habit had stuck.
Being kidnapped and nearly killed had only intensified her need for vigilance and preparation.
She slung her bag over one shoulder and left the house without a backward glance. She set her backpack in the rear of the Prius, next to her gym bag. Then she slid behind the wheel and drove. With every mile that rolled beneath her tires, she felt her heartbeat climb. By the time the lake came into view, she could feel her pulse thrumming through her body. No sign of Zoe’s Jeep. Olivia pulled to the side of the road. Her stomach twisted, and she regretted the small container of yogurt she’d managed to get down for breakfast.
He’s in prison. There’s nothing to fear.
She checked the time on her phone. A minute after ten. Where was Zoe?
Olivia stepped out of the vehicle and stared out over the water. September in upstate New York was usually pleasant, but the breeze warned of an incoming chill. A heavy, clouded sky reflected on the surface of the water, turning it a murky gray. The lake was U-shaped, and the road ran along the bottom of the U. On the other side, a peninsula jutted into the lake. The wind gusted, whipping the water into choppy, angry whitecaps. She shivered. The last time she’d seen the lake, she’d almost drowned in it. Three years had passed since her abduction, since she’d nearly died being held captive on that point of land. Would she ever be able to fully put the trauma behind her?
She paced, checked the time, and paced some more. No Zoe. Olivia pulled out her phone and checked the text. Zoe hadn’t suggested an alternative meeting location. Zoe was as punctual as a Swiss watch. When she was fifteen minutes late, Olivia sent her friend a quick message: WHR R U? No response. She waited another five minutes, then called Zoe’s number. No answer. Olivia left a short voice message. “Call me. I’m worried.”
The sound of an engine carried on the chilly wind. Relieved, Olivia looked beyond her Prius, parked on the shoulder of the country road. An SUV approached. She was expecting both Zoe and Zoe’s producer, Wendy Simon, whom Olivia had never met, since Zoe had hired Wendy recently. But when the SUV parked behind the Prius, it held only a single occupant. The woman who stepped out was tall, with a long auburn ponytail. Not Zoe.
“Olivia?” the woman called out as she walked closer, zipping her puffy jacket to her chin. “I’m Wendy Simon.”
Olivia accepted a quick handshake. “Where’s Zoe?”
“She should be here.” Wendy glanced over her shoulder, but no vehicles approached.
The small, unnamed lake was in Middle of Nowhere, Upstate New York. Not much traffic passed through this area. It could be hours before they saw a vehicle.
Wendy pivoted to face the water. The peninsula on the other side just looked like woods. The only sign of the original camp was a rough dock. “The property used to be a survivalist camp?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, not elaborating.
“It’s changed ownership?” Wendy asked.
Olivia nodded.
“We can start without Zoe,” Wendy suggested. “I have the sound equipment with me.”
“I’d rather wait.” Olivia and Zoe had discussed beginning at the road, where Olivia would recount the abduction from her home in the middle of the night. Then they’d proceed to the camp itself, where Olivia had been kept in a root cellar. She would walk Zoe—and her listeners—through the rest of her ordeal—suffocating asthma attacks, multiple escape attempts, being chased through the woods, and almost drowning in the lake—before Lincoln had found her. Olivia had obtained permission to visit the property from the current owners, a charity group that had purchased the land with the intention of repurposing it into a summer camp for kids from underserved communities. She wondered if they’d torn down the buildings. Would it look the same? Would it feel the same?
A shudder rocked her bones. She shoved her hands into her pockets and clenched them into fists.
Wendy squinted at her. “Is there some reason you don’t want to talk to me?”
I don’t know you? That sounded defensive, even if true. She’d been counting on her friendship and familiarity with Zoe to ease the way through the interview. They’d weathered the changes in journalism—and job losses—together. They’d supported each other on their respective career paths. Zoe understood things about Olivia no one else would. They had history. But Olivia didn’t want to explain.
She said, “I only want to do this once.” Which was also true.
She hadn’t told her story since she’d given her statements to the police three years ago. Her abductor had negotiated a plea deal and was currently in prison. There’d been no trial. Going over the entire ordeal one final time felt like the best way for Olivia to purge any remaining demons. With all the details out there, she should have no more secrets. In her previous investigative journalist career, when a story caught her attention, it held it. Telling that story was the only way she could get it out of her head. She hoped her personal trauma could be expelled the same way. She had no doubt she’d always carry the trauma with her, but the burden could hopefully be eased if shared.
But Wendy didn’t take the not-so-subtle hint. “How does it feel to be here on the three-year anniversary?”
Olivia didn’t answer. The producer’s attitude felt prickly, like cactus barbs. Olivia stepped away. “I’m going to call Zoe.” Again.
For the second time, her call went directly to voicemail. “Zoe, this is Olivia. Where are you? Call me, OK? I’m getting worried.” She lowered the phone. “I don’t like this.”
Wendy shrugged. “Zoe and I worked late last night after the show, prepping for today. Maybe she overslept.”
Ever-punctual Zoe was more than a half hour late, and she knew how important today was to Olivia. She knew Olivia would be on edge. Zoe and Olivia had worked tight deadlines together. Zoe was not the type of person who overslept when she had an important meeting.
“I’m going to call Dylan,” Olivia said. Zoe had married Dylan Sanders almost ten years before.
“I’d like to call Dylan,” Wendy muttered under her breath. “That man is fiiiine.” She fanned herself.
Olivia shot her a look. She didn’t know Wendy. Was she usually this inappropriate? Olivia had expected more professional behavior from Zoe’s producer. Feeling uncomfortable, she stepped away before dialing Zoe’s husband.
He picked up the phone on the first ring. “Hello,” he said in a rushed voice.
“Hey, Dylan. This is Olivia. I’m looking for Zoe. She was supposed to meet me this morning.”
“She didn’t come home last night.” Dylan sounded worried. “I can’t talk. I’m on hold with the police.”
“Are you reporting her missing?”
“Yes.” His voice was clipped. The line went dead.
Clutching her phone, Olivia turned back to Wendy. “Dylan doesn’t know where she is.”
“What time did she leave the house?” Wendy asked.
“Zoe didn’t come home last night.”
Wendy’s eyes widened. “Are they having marital problems?”
“Not that I know of.”
The producer shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a lot younger than she is.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he has someone on the side. Zoe does work a lot.”
Olivia didn’t respond. Speculating with little to no information was counterproductive. It felt intrusive, like gossip, a betrayal of her friend’s privacy. “What time did you finish up last night?”
“Around midnight.”
Olivia pictured the parking lot of their studio. It would have been empty at that hour. Zoe would have parked near the door, but still . . . “Did you see her leave the office?”
A hair blew across Wendy’s eyes, and she anchored it behind her ear. “We walked out together.”
“You’re sure her Jeep started?” Olivia asked. Zoe’s SUV was old.
Wendy nodded. “I saw her leave. I got a text from a man I’ve been dating. I answered him from behind the wheel. Zoe drove out of the lot before I did.”
“And she didn’t say she was going anywhere else?”
“No. I assumed she was going home.” Wendy’s mouth opened, then closed.
“What?”
“Nothing. She was just a little weird after the show. There was this caller that freaked her out.”
“In what way?”
“Nothing specific,” Wendy said. “He was just creepy. We get those sometimes.”
Olivia made a mental note to listen to the show. “Nothing else happened?”
“No.”
But something had happened to Zoe on the way home. Had her Jeep broken down? There weren’t any areas between the office and her house where she would have been out of cell service. If she’d gotten a flat, she would have changed the tire. If she’d had engine trouble that she couldn’t fix, she would have called Dylan, a tow truck, or an Uber. Maybe her phone had run out of charge. Engine trouble combined with a dead phone battery was possible.
She considered Wendy’s marital issues comment. If Zoe had been mad enough to check into a motel, her credit card would show the charge. Dylan could check their accounts. Though Zoe could have stayed with a friend, Olivia supposed.
Her mind churned with investigative steps. She’d reviewed missing persons cases in the past. “I’m going to start looking for her.”
“You don’t want to do the interview?” Wendy asked.
“I want to find Zoe.”
“She was fine at midnight.” Wendy frowned.
“Dylan is concerned enough to call the police and report her missing.” As was Olivia. As she’d expect Wendy to be.
But Wendy shrugged. “She’s an adult. If she doesn’t want to go home, then she doesn’t have to. Maybe give her more time before you start looking for her?”
“No. The warmer the trail, the better.” Olivia turned toward her Prius.
“Zoe will turn up,” Wendy called.
Olivia slid behind the wheel and shut the door. Through the windshield, she studied Wendy for a few seconds. She didn’t move. Her face was locked in the same irritated frown. Olivia had no proof that Zoe and Wendy had left the office at midnight. What if Wendy was lying? Zoe rented space in a Scarlet Falls office park for her small sound studio. Did they have surveillance cameras in the parking lot?
Olivia did a U-turn. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Zoe’s business partner jerked open her vehicle door, as if exasperated. Why wasn’t she more concerned?
A little voice inside Olivia said, Wendy was the last person to see Zoe.
