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I was swearing softly under my breath as I let myself into the Grand Bay Suite.

But really, how was it helpful to sit around feeling sorry for myself all night? This was a much better use of my time and energy.

I tossed the binder to the desk in the little alcove off the living room.

At seventeen hundred square feet, the suite was ridiculously large for one person. I’d booked it with Finn in mind of course, but also, I planned on hosting cocktails for my authors on Sunday evening to address their questions and concerns with the merger.

Dragging the conference neck lanyard over my head, I left it draped with my blazer on the back of the sofa that formed part of the seating arrangement around the marble fireplace.

I walked into the private bedroom, which had another, smaller, fireplace, a king-sized bed with wood parquet headboard, a few pieces of tasteful coastal art—starfish sculptures and watercolors of old Monterey—and a fresh flower arrangement.

As I undressed, I stared blankly out the large windows at the blue dazzle of the bay.

The sunlight was fading. Soon the fog would roll in. Normal for May on the coast, but a little gloomy. The California sunshine was one of the things I’d been most looking forward to on this trip.

One of the things.

I did not let myself think about how much I’d imagined Finn would enjoy this room, this view, this giant bed…

Not useful. Not productive.

I strode into the oversized bathroom with its double sink vanity, soaking tub, separate shower, and yes, more breathtaking views of blue water and silver edged clouds.

I popped my contacts out, splashed cold water on my face, and considered my dripping reflection bleakly.

I decided I didn’t give a fuck about the five o’clock shadow.

I dried my face, took a swig of Listerine, swished it violently around my mouth, spat, and returned to the bedroom to dress in jeans and a Knicks sweatshirt.

As far as I was concerned, I was off-duty tonight.

And after tonight, I’d be too busy to think about anything but work, so…just get through tonight.

I transferred my wallet from my trousers, slid my glasses on, and threw myself a cursory look in the mirror hanging on the far side of the bed. A tall, lanky dark-haired man with colorless eyes and a blank white face stared back at me.

“You’re fine,” I told him.

I didn’t wait for his answer. I grabbed my phone and went downstairs to meet Kyle.

Kyle stood in the lobby talking to Finn and a small, slight, blond person.

My heart sank. Really? Was I going to spend this conference running into Finn every thirty minutes?

The three of them were talking and laughing, oblivious to my approach. Finn and the blond waif appeared to be on their way out—the blond wore a heavy turtleneck Aran sweater and Finn wore his favorite brown suede racer jacket.

But, I mean, how did I know if it was his favorite jacket?

He wore it at the conferences we’d attended together, and that amounted to less than a fraction of both our lives.

The truth was, I knew as little about Finn as he knew about me.

So, let’s not pretend this had ever been anything more than a semi-regular hookup.

Finn glanced away from Kyle, spotted me and just for a second his expression was unreadable. He was still smiling, though, so maybe I was looking for subtext where there was none.

I lifted the corners of my mouth, crinkled the corners of my eyes as I joined their little circle.

The blond, who was indeed male and older than he’d looked from afar (which was about thirteen) nodded coolly.

He had fierce blue eyes behind wood square glasses.

His thick hair was platinum blond, cut in a trendy men’s fringe haircut that I couldn’t help thinking made him look a bit like Howl Jenkins Pendragon.

Finn was saying, “Keiran, do you know Hayes?”

I was pretty sure I’d seen Hayes’s photo in Publisher’s Weekly , but I couldn’t quite place him. Edgy-crime-writer-wunderkind-prone-to-violent-excess would have been my first guess.

I said, “I’m not sure…”

“No.” Hayes cut across the polite tergiversating. His voice was flat.

Kyle, who I suspected lived a sheltered life, looked taken aback.

I quirked a brow at Finn, said lightly, “No.”

There was a flicker of amusement in Finn’s gaze. He made the introductions—he was a social and civil guy—which you don’t really expect from cops or even ex-cops. Although, Joseph Wambaugh was about as nice a guy as you could hope to meet.

“Keir, this is Hayes Hartman. Hayes, Keiran Chandler is senior editor at Millbrook House.”

“I know,” Hayes said, still cool, still flat. “He’s your editor.”

I almost said, out of curiosity, w hich of your manuscripts did I turn down? But that would have been bitchy, and there were plenty of other reasons Hartman might have taken a dislike to me. Like the one he was currently brushing shoulders with.

Well, in the interests of accuracy, his head only reached Finn’s shoulder.

I shifted my gaze from them. We were positioned right across from the lobby bar, and I spotted Rachel.

She’d successfully tracked down Adrien English, but instead of hauling him off to dinner, she’d joined the group that now included Christopher Holmes, J.X.

Moriarity, and Mindy Newburgh. Their laughter floated across the lobby.

Finn said, “Hayes is up for an Edgar. Best First Novel by An American Author.”

“Excellent!” I said.

Hartman curled his lip.

What was with this kid? Was he teething?

I said, “Kyle’s up for Best Paperback Original.”

There was a little twinkle in Finn’s eyes. “I know.” Finn was also up for Best Paperback Original. He added to Kyle, “My money’s on you.”

Kyle spluttered a laugh of protest.

“Are you attending the banquet?” Hartman asked him.

“No.” Kyle said, and I sighed, which brought that humorous glint to Finn’s eyes again. That easy sense of humor was one of the things that had had attracted me to Finn’s writing. It was one of the things that had attracted me to Finn.

“Me neither,” Hartman said. “I can’t stand the whole obsession with bullshit celebrity PR. If I win, I’m going to return the statue with a rejection letter.”

“Who’s your publisher?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Black Fig Editions.”

Ah, yes. I knew the name if not the catalog. Their advertising tagline was: Decadent. Disruptive. Noir.

Because, of course it was.

Finn’s cell buzzed as a black sedan pulled up outside the lobby glass door. Finn checked his phone, said to Hartman, “That’s us.” To Kyle and me, he said, “Where are you headed? Did you want to share an Uber?”

Nothing on earth could have persuaded me to climb into a car with Finn and Tiny the Terrible. Besides, I like to walk and I didn’t have a place in mind. I figured we’d decide while we strolled around Cannery Row.

However, I said to Kyle, “Up to you.”

“I like walking,” he said, to my relief.

“Right,” Finn said. “We’ll catch you later in the bar.” He turned to follow Hartman, who was already stalking out the glass doors.

“Later,” I agreed, though I knew I would not be there.

Nor would I be missed. Clearly.

I smiled at Kyle. “What are you in the mood for?”

He smiled back. “Really, anything.”

“I love Monterey. I haven’t been here in a long time. I’m thinking seafood.”

Although he lived just a few miles up the coast and was probably looking forward to Mexican for a change, he said easily, “I love seafood.”

We walked out through the glass doors, stepping out of the hotel’s warm golden glow into the cool-toned hush of early evening. The air was salty and cold. I drew a deep breath and felt immediately better, centered.

“He seems genuinely nice,” Kyle commented, and I had no doubt as to which he , he meant.

“Yep. Finn’s both genuine and nice.”

The light had faded to a lovely shade of steampunk lavender, but I could feel the warmth of the sunbaked sidewalk beneath the soles of my trainers. Flecks of mica glittered on the damp pavement.

Neither of us said anything for a minute or two.

As the moist breath of the Pacific curled around our feet, I was wondering if I should have brought a jacket.

Spring evenings by the ocean could be chilly.

Streetlights flickered halos in the thickening dusk, and the distant clang of a buoy bell sounded muted and otherworldly through the fog rolling in off the bay.

“When was the last time you were back in Steeple Hill?” Kyle asked.

The question startled me, until I remembered I’d mentioned having grown up in Steeple Hill the first time we spoke on the phone.

“Two months ago,” I said. “I came back for my father’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kyle said quickly.

“It’s all right. We weren’t close. In fact, that was the first trip back in over twenty years.”

“Right.” His tone was neutral, but I knew what he was thinking. Twenty years didn’t sound like we weren’t close . It sounded like estrangement. Which was what it was.

Our footsteps whispered softly against the damp pavement. The air smelled of seaweed and distant woodsmoke. Very different from New York. But everything about California was different.

The old-fashioned shops along Cannery Row were dark and quiet. In the apartments above, windows glowed cozily behind drawn curtains. The streets were surprisingly empty, but most conference attendees would be eating inside the hotel tonight.

“Is your mother…?” Kyle began tentatively.

“No. My mother died when I was four.”

“I’m so sorry…”

I could see he was wishing he’d never brought up what he’d surely imagined was the innocuous subject of my ties to the area. I gave a short laugh. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago.”

After a moment, Kyle said, “My mother died when I was three.”

I hadn’t known that about him. But I didn’t, in general, know a lot about the personal lives and histories of my authors unless it was relevant to their work—or made the evening news.

“That must have been difficult,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Like you said, it was a long time ago.”

This was getting depressing. I changed the subject. “Tell me about your next project.”

That’s a question guaranteed to stimulate at least an hour’s worth of conversation from any writer. To my surprise, Kyle hesitated.

I glanced his way, and his expression was uncharacteristically somber.

“Are you taking a break?” It wasn’t great timing, but it wasn’t the end of the world, either. Better a break than burnout.

“No. No, I have a project in mind. I want to do a standalone.”

I said briskly, “A standalone is a great idea. A standalone could be the breakout book we’re all expecting. Have you started it?”

“Yes. I’m about halfway through.”

“Okay. Well, when you’re ready to send it over—”

“Keiran,” he interrupted. “We’ve worked together for a few years and I feel like if I ask you to be honest, you’ll…be honest.”

I blinked, said, “I’ve never not been honest with you. I will never not be honest with you.”

“My agent is thinking this merger with W I had no idea. But I smiled. “So, tell me about this breakout book.”

We resumed walking, and Kyle told me about his book, which did sound like maybe this would be the one.

Eventually, I spotted a painted restaurant sign swaying gently in the damp breeze—a laughing seagull with what appeared to be a surprisingly cheerful shrimp in his beak.

By then, I was cold, tired, and more than ready for a drink. I rested my hand on Kyle’s shoulder, guiding him toward the restaurant door, heading for that warm pool of light, just beyond the shadows.

“How about this?”

“Sure—”

I opened the door and scooted him in.

A cheerful looking girl wearing a sailor’s cap came to greet us. “Two for dinner?”

We nodded, and she led the way through the half-empty dining room to a table next to the windows overlooking the water.

We settled at the table and the waitress chirped, “I’ll be back with the drinks menu!”

“Perfect,” I shook out my napkin, picked up the dining menu.

Kyle turned his head to gaze out the window. I glanced past him, past a blond bob at the table right behind him, and stared into Finn’s candlelit eyes.