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“Regarding Adrien English…”

I automatically glanced from Rachel—Rachel Ving, Ving the Merciless in New York publishing circles—to the panel discussion table where Adrien English was still chatting with Christopher Holmes.

“What about him?” I glanced back at Rachel and did a doubletake. “Do you represent him?” Because that would be news.

“I do now.” Rachel smiled. It was a cat that got the cream sort of smile, which surprised me. Nice for Adrien to finally have serious representation, but he wasn’t what one would call a heavy hitter in mystery fiction, the occasional tabloid-worthy film option notwithstanding.

I said wryly, “Now I understand the reason behind the delays in signing the new contract.”

“I told Adrien to sign nothing until we spoke.”

Presumably Rachel meant until she and Adrien spoke. She and I spoke on a regular basis.

I said neutrally, “I appreciate your steadfast commitment to your clients’ best interests, but we both know things are a little different now.”

“You mean with the merger between Millbrook and Wheaton & Woodhouse?” Her shrug was dismissive.

I’d have loved to be able to shrug off that new reality, too. I said, “Despite the press release in PW , it’s more of a buy-out than a merger.”

I hoped that didn’t sound as bitter as I felt—as bitter as we all felt now at Millbrook House.

Rachel’s dark eyes studied me shrewdly. She said softly, and with equally uncharacteristic frankness, “ You’ll be all right, Keiran. Chin up.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” I said as quickly as if I really believed it. I regretted saying as much as I had, but the fact was, W&W was already talking about “trimming the fat” from our lists.

“Great panel!” said a woman in the kind of hat you’d expect to see at Ascot—or maybe in My Fair Lady.

I smiled in reflex. “Thank you.”

On my right, Rachel was saying, “As a matter of fact, you—and your editorial list—were probably a major incentive in W&W’s decision to bail out Millbrook.”

My laugh was caustic. “I doubt it.” Given W&W’s neo-pulp, er, sensibility , that was pretty unlikely.

“ Nonsense . While, he may have the literary taste of a Neanderthal, Vaughn Woodhouse is no fool. He wants W&W to start winning awards again. You’ve spent years curating one of the most respected author portfolios in crime fiction. You’d better believe he wants to get his hands on that list.”

My list maybe. Not necessarily me. In fact, during my first official meeting with Vaughn and Lila Penderak, my counterpart at W&W, Vaughn had informed me the “game plan” was to divide my editorial list between Lila and myself.

Lila had all but licked her chops.

Was there a little bit of payback there? I’d started my career in publishing as an intern reading the slush pile at Wheaton & Woodhouse. I’d quickly worked my way up to editorial assistant to Lila, then assistant editor, then editor before I’d left to take the senior editor slot at Millbrook House.

“Even when W&W does win awards, it’s largely thanks to you,” Rachel was saying.

She was referring to the Miss Butterwith cozy mystery series which, after a brief lull, had brought home the Agatha Award for best novel at this year’s Malice Domestic.

Christopher Holmes had been my discovery way back in the day, so Rachel was once again being uncharacteristically, unnervingly kind.

She must truly think my days at Millbrook were numbered.

I said, “I think Christopher gets the credit there.”

“ That goes without saying.” Rachel cast a benign, if proprietorial, glance at her most successful client, now shepherding Adrien toward the exit, and—unless I missed my guess— the hotel bar.

“He’s very much looking forward to working with you again.”

“Likewise,” I said automatically.

In fact, before the ink had dried on Millbrook’s intellectual property and contract transfers, Christopher—well, Rachel—had requested that he be moved from Lila’s stable to mine.

Which, come to think of it—and through no fault of Christopher’s—might actually have proved the inciting incident leading to that unpleasant “orientation” meeting with Vaughn and Lila.

Four minutes in, Lila had joking-not-joking suggested she’d trade Christopher Holmes for Finn Scott.

And I’d joking-not-joking replied, “Over my dead body.”

Nothing against Christopher. I loved the idea of working with him again. But Finn was…

Not only had the Finn Scott releases kept Millbrook House afloat for the last two years, Finn was my—Finn was a friend and the closest thing I had to a regular sexual partner.

In fact, there had been a time when I’d worried he’d—well, anyway, lately we seemed to be on the same page as far as spending a little extra time together. Casual. Nothing complicated.

Starting with this weekend.

“You’re going to want to read this!” A tall, skinny guy with spiky silver hair, a lot of piercings and an assortment of colorful tattoos, materialized from the wall-to-wall carpet of conference attendees to shove what looked like a manuscript in a clear binder into my hands.

I opened my mouth to state the obvious: This isn’t how you do it . But he had already turned away and vanished in the milling crowd. A hit and run submission. I stared down at the title page—typed in Bookman Old Style font, no less.

I Know What You Did

Now there was a catchy title—back in 1973.

Granted, the full title of Lois Duncan’s classic suspense novel was I Know What You Did Last Summer , but the abbreviated version had popped up in publishing at least a dozen times since then.

You can’t copyright a title, which some writers mistake as encouragement from the universe to go right ahead and do what’s already been done to death.

And not just when it came to choosing titles.

“ Keiran !” Rachel’s protest was so loud, several people turned to look our way. “Did you just accept an unsolicited manuscript?”

“I didn’t accept it,” I said hastily, probably guiltily. “I’m holding it, yes, but only because—”

“Get rid of it,” she commanded in the tone of an epidemiologist trying to stave off a pandemic. “ Bin it .”

“Well, I mean…” I glanced around uncomfortably. Several audience members were watching us.

Rachel was right, of course. Neither Millbrook nor W&W accepted unsolicited manuscripts. Only agented submissions made it over the transom. Unsolicited manuscripts went straight to the circular filing cabinet.

But it’s one thing to toss what amounts to junk mail when you’re behind closed doors—or, more accurately—to have your PA toss junk mail when she’s behind closed doors. It’s another to trash someone’s plastic-bound blood, sweat, and tears in front of a room full of hopeful authors.

I shrugged, said vaguely, “It won’t hurt to glance through it.”

Rachel looked flabbergasted, but was momentarily distracted by the ping of her cell phone.

“Great panel,” a bearded man in a denim jacket said in passing.

“Thanks!”

“Like herding cats,” Rachel muttered. I presumed she wasn’t talking to me. Or about me.

A tall, rangy figure in jeans and a black T-shirt with Cloak and Dagger bookstore’s logo, appeared in my peripheral. I turned quickly, smiling into arresting green eyes in a tanned, tough face.

Phineas—Finn to his readers—Scott.

He was a lean six foot two, with long, muscular legs and broad, powerful shoulders.

His hair was a rumpled strawberry-blond, which he kept short and neat.

Well, short anyway. He was handsome in a rugged baby-I-don’t-care way, but handsome wasn’t the first thought that came to mind.

He looked like a guy who could handle anything—and as far as I knew, that had always been the case.

Whether working homicide for five years or navigating the fame and fortune that came with the bestseller status most authors can only dream of, Finn handled himself with good-humored capability.

The crowd parted before him, murmuring recognition.

“You made it,” I greeted him. I was so happy—and even a little relieved, which was weird because there’d never been any question of his making it. This was his job. Just as it was my job.

“ Hey .” Finn squeezed my upper arm. “I caught the last half. That was great.” He grinned, maybe remembering some of the funnier moments on the panel—or maybe he was as glad to see me as I was to see him.

“When did you get in?” I was still smiling, still gazing into eyes the color of Montana sapphires.

“Just after two.” Finn was already backing up, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I just wanted to say hi. I’ve got to meet someone.”

“ Oh . Right. Are we on for dinner?” I took it for granted we were—it was practically tradition by now, but to my surprise he grimaced in regret.

“I’ve already got plans. How about tomorrow night?”

It took a second to process. I said automatically, “Tomorrow night’s the publisher’s banquet with Wheaton & Woodhouse.”

Finn looked blank, but then said quickly, “Maybe drinks afterwards?”

“Uh…yeah. Of course!” It came out brightly with a preprogrammed smile. I was—surprised. A little confused. Disappointed for sure.

Of course, there was no reason Finn couldn’t , shouldn’t make other plans for dinner the night he arrived. He might be dining with his agent. There’d be plenty of opportunity for meals together over the next few days.

Opportunity for other things, too, presumably.

Hopefully.

No reason to feel…anything, really.

Except.

Except Finn hadn’t been—hadn’t seemed like—he’d seemed like meeting for drinks was plenty. All he required of me.

No. I was reading way too much into a ninety-second exchange. We were both in the middle of stuff, and he was—

Not interested in seeing me tonight.

I listened to the echo of that thought and understood why my stomach was tying itself into double and triple knots, as if there was something wrong. Because something was wrong. Finn wasn’t interested in making plans for after dinner, either.

And that was another disquieting first.