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Something had happened to Lila in the years since we’d worked together.

Though never what one would call a smooth operator, she hadn’t been openly rude or deliberately unkind.

In my opinion, this was not the behavior of someone confident of their position or happy in their work.

Which was interesting. And not particularly encouraging.

I said mildly, “I don’t have anything officially scheduled until two. I thought I’d catch up on some work.”

“Vaughn and I were hoping the three of us could have lunch.”

I glanced at the clock notification tray on my laptop. Eleven-thirty. Nothing like waiting until the last moment. I wondered what had triggered this sudden need to break bread with me. My conversation with Millie the evening before? It was hard to picture Vaughn being outraged on Millie’s behalf.

I said apologetically, “I appreciate the invitation. The thing is, I had to leave the banquet early last night because of a migraine. I’m still a bit under the weather.”

Which was one-hundred-percent true.

“A migraine?” Lila sounded disbelieving. But then she said thoughtfully, “Is that what happened? Come to think of it, you did used to get migraines. Frankfurt 2016. I remember. You were a mess.”

Thank you for noticing?

I said, “As much as I’d like to meet with you and Vaughn, I don’t think I’m up to it.”

“Oh.” She seemed to brighten. “Are you not going to do the Backstory interview this afternoon? I can take your slot if necessary. I’ve certainly done enough of these in my time.”

I said, “That’s very kind. I think if I take it easy this morning, I should be okay.”

“Are you sure? You want to be at your best. You’re representing W&W now.”

Not really. The whole point of the Backstory interview series was to highlight the work and careers of individual editors. Very few editors spent their entire careers at one publishing house. I was no exception.

I said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I can never tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

I said honestly, “I don’t have the energy for sarcasm.”

She said, “I’ll tell Vaughn you can’t make lunch. Maybe he’ll want to reschedule. I’ll let you know.” She added grudgingly, “I’m sorry you’re unwell.”

“Thank you, Lila. I’ll talk to you later.” I didn’t wait for her reply. I clicked off.

When I finished answering emails, I jotted down a few notes for the Dove sisters.

I’d been thinking the best bet for their next project might be historical, notwithstanding W&W’s usual misreading of the market.

Nothing so far back in time that the ladies would have to do any serious research.

Maybe a series set in the 1950s or ?60s when they’d have been active and young.

A period they knew well and were comfortable with.

Actually, Lila had sparked the idea with a comment she’d made when the Doves and I returned from our lunch at Fandango.

Snoop Sisters .

Perhaps a series along the lines of the 1973 limited series on NBC?

The sisters certainly had the platform.

Having sketched out my general thoughts, I decided to find out whatever I could about Troy Colby—starting with the conference program.

Sure enough, in the attending authors section was a bio and slightly blurry photo that had to have been a selfie.

Troy Colby is a transgressive neo-noir fabulist whose work interrogates the porous boundaries between fiction, memory, and myth.

A self-described “archival provocateur,” Colby has been anthologized in numerous limited-edition chapbooks and was a finalist for the 2021 New Veritas Prize for Unclassifiable Literature.

In 2019, his experimental short story cycle Papers Without People was long-listed for the Folio/Fragment Award, and his microfiction suite A List of Things We Forgot to Bury received an Honorable Mention from the Mid-Atlantic Fiction Forum.

Though elusive by nature and design, Colby has led private writing salons in Prague, Montreal, and a disused railcar in Northern Vermont.

He is the founding editor of Palimpsest Engine, a quarterly zine devoted to post-genre storytelling, and his essays on semiotic absence have been “circulated informally” in graduate writing programs across the U.S.

Currently revising his first full-length novel, Everything True Is Dangerous , Colby declines to provide a publication date, citing “the collapse of linear time” as a mitigating factor. He lives off-grid and off-list.

“What. The. Fuck?” I said, “Prague, Montreal, and my ass. This guy cannot be for real.”

The photo was for real, though. Mid-thirties. Acid-washed hair. Assorted piercings. The slightly out-of-focus photo matched my slightly out-of-focus memory. Not to mention Colby’s slightly out-of-focus bio.

This was no one from my past. He wasn’t old enough to be a contemporary.

And, at first glance, he didn’t seem to have any connection to, well, Planet Earth.

I’d spent my adult life in publishing and I had no clue what most of that list of supposed accolades and accomplishments meant.

I didn’t think there was a verifiable publishing credit in the entire thing.

How could Colby possibly know anything about Milo, myself, or Dominic?

Was it possible Kyle knew him? Knew of him? I had no idea if Kyle participated in Steeple Hill’s local writing community, but I’d bet my bottom dollar that Troy Colby was a fixture.

I skimmed the bio again and couldn’t help thinking that Colby needed to meet Hayes Hartman. They’d probably get along like a house on fire.

The difference was, Hayes was talented enough to actually win an Edgar. Colby sounded like someone more in love with the idea of being a writer than the actual writing. Actually, he sounded like a complete poseur.

But even that was pure guesswork because there wasn’t a damn piece of real information in that bio.

In the midst of my reflections, I heard the electronic lock to the suite click open. I glanced over warily—I hadn’t bothered with the deadbolt since I was up and about—and relaxed as Finn opened the door.

He looked preoccupied—and then, when he saw me on the sofa—relieved.

“How did it go?” I asked.

He shrugged, came over to the sofa, and dropped a kiss on my upturned face. “What you’d expect. J.X. was funny and on point when he could get a word in edgewise. If T. McGregor actually spent a day walking the beat, I’m a romance writer. And as usual, Pat Robinson monopolized the airspace.”

I nodded distractedly and said, “Will you read something for me?”

He didn’t question it. “Sure.” Finn joined me on the sofa, his shoulder comfortably pushing mine. I handed him the folded-back program. “Troy Colby.”

His brows shot up. “This is the guy?”

“You tell me.”

Finn began to read. His brows drew together. He read the three paragraphs again.

When he’d finished reading, he looked at me.

“It’s a joke,” he said.