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Usually, we spent pretty much every free minute of every conference together—not that there were so many free minutes because attending a conference was not the same as going on vacation. Though spending our down time together made them feel a little less like work.

Down time . There was a euphemism.

I realized Rachel had finished checking her phone and was talking to me.

“I missed that,” I said.

“Hm? Oh. I said, I’m supposed to be having dinner with Adrien. He was right here a minute ago.” She scanned the large conference room, which had nearly emptied out by then.

“Try the bar,” I suggested. “I think he and Christopher were headed in that direction.”

“Of course they were.” Rachel sighed. “You’re headed over there as well, I suppose?”

I had been, but suddenly, unexpectedly, I didn’t have the energy, the heart, for it. For any of it. The bright laughter and loud chatter. The crush of people. The pressure of all that…emotion.

I wasn’t ready to run into Finn, knowing what I now knew.

Jesus. Enough with the dramatics.

He made other plans for dinner. What was the big deal?

You know what the big deal is.

And yeah, I did. Knew it instantly and instinctively. No words needed.

But it wasn’t as if I’d imagined it was going to last forever, our…friendship.

Didn’t you?

Anyway, we were still friends. Still…partners in crime, as it were. Until Lila and Vaughn decided otherwise.

But I was going to need…

A few minutes to myself would be helpful.

Hell, was there a reason I couldn’t order room service and stay in tonight? It was the only night I had free.

“I’m pretty jet-lagged,” I told Rachel. “I might make it an early night.”

“You?”

Given Rachel’s astonishment, you’d think I was known for being the life of the party. But maybe that was just one workaholic judging another.

I joked—tried to joke, “I’m not as young as I used to be.” No lie, right now I was feeling every one of my forty years like boulders piled on a 17 th Century crushing board.

“I wouldn’t say that aloud,” Rachel said darkly.

I laughed without humor. She had a point. The publishing world was subject to ageism just like the rest of the entertainment industry.

We parted ways outside the conference room and I headed toward the bank of elevators, nodding or smiling briefly as I passed familiar faces moving in the opposite direction down the long marble hallway.

It was still early enough in the conference that the elevator arrived in a couple of minutes. The doors slid open, I stepped inside, leaning wearily back against the mirrored wall, then snapping back to attention as a slim brown-haired man slipped in right before the doors closed.

I smiled automatically, then recognized Kyle Bari.

Kyle was one of mine. One of my authors, that is. He was young—barely thirty—and prolific. Thankfully, as talented as he was prolific. Which isn’t always the case.

“Hello, again,” I said.

He smiled back, but said nothing. I recalled that it was his first conference—and that, despite the fact that Noir at the Shore was in driving distance of home, he’d had to be coaxed into attending.

“You did a great job on the panel,” I told him, which was true.

Kyle had appeared on the Stranger Than Fiction panel with Adrien English, Christopher Holmes, and Grace Hollister. He’d been a little quiet, but engaging and self-deprecating. The audience had warmed to him right away.

He nodded in thanks, not agreement. He was eyeing the binder I held. “ I Know What You Did ?”

“Effective, if not original.”

“Do people really try to give you their manuscripts to read at these things?”

“Occasionally.” I grinned. “I think agents probably have to deal with it more than editors.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment. Then he smiled ruefully. “Do you think it’s weird so many of your authors have real-life experience solving homicides?”

“Yeah. I sure do.” We both laughed. I added, “But it’s only you four, and Christopher isn’t even officially mine yet. I’ve got eighteen authors. The other fourteen leave the detecting to the professionals.”

I’d proposed moderating a panel featuring mystery authors who find themselves involved in real-life homicides, and the event organizers had jumped at it.

The Stranger Than Fiction panel had been very well attended, given that it was the first panel of the conference and late in the day.

Most of the big-name attendees hadn’t even arrived yet.

Kyle pointed out, “Finn Scott is one of yours. He was a homicide cop.”

My throat unexpectedly closed for a moment at the mention of Finn. Not mine after all, as it turned out.

I said lightly, “Finn was a professional detective, so that doesn’t count. You four are all writers. The sleuthing is just a hobby.”

He smiled faintly, and I realized I could have phrased that more tactfully. Kyle’s sleuthing had involved solving the disappearance of his father, the artist Cosmo Bari.

“This is me,” I said as the elevator lurched to a stop at the fifth floor. This was the top floor of the hotel. Kyle didn’t move, so… Had he missed his floor while we were chatting? Maybe he was headed for the rooftop deck?

I got out, glanced back.

Something about the way he stood there, so quiet and thoughtful and self-contained, gave me pause. Did he want to speak to me in private?

He said nothing. Made no move.

“Are you on your way to dinner?” I asked.

“Maybe.” Kyle made a little face. “It didn’t occur to me that everybody would already have plans.”

Hell. New Kid on the Block syndrome.

“I was just heading out to grab a bite,” I lied. “Why don’t you come with me?”

His hazel eyes lit, but he was a polite kid—well, not a kid, but younger than me, for sure—and he hesitated. “I don’t want to impose…”

The door started to close. I reached out to block the sensors. “You’re not imposing. I’d like some company.”

He said, “Well, if you’re sure—”

“I’m sure. I’ll meet you downstairs in—?” I looked at him in inquiry.

“Half an hour?” he said tentatively.

“I’ll see you in half an hour,” I said, and let the doors close.