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“Fourteen years ago, Keiran Chandler, senior editor at the boutique publishing company Millbrook House, began his career in publishing as an intern reading the slush pile at Wheaton & Woodhouse.”

The audience laughed at conference organizer Deb Rivera’s introduction.

“In addition to founding Millbrook House’s prestigious Prime Crime line, Keiran is the architect behind the Inkwell Award, establishing Millbrook House’s commitment to nurturing emerging mystery authors.

His enviable list includes numerous award-winning and bestselling authors including Finn Scott, Kyle Bari, Danica Dassault, Jo-Jo Bakewell, and Christopher Holmes. Please welcome Keiran Chandler.”

I couldn’t help wishing Deb hadn’t mentioned Christopher Holmes.

Since he still wasn’t officially on my list, that was liable to be a sore spot with Lila, who was sitting front and center in the first row.

But it was a very nice introduction and I got a generous round of applause as I made my way onto the stage and took the armchair opposite Rudolph.

Rudoph smiled with mischievous warmth and winked. I smiled back, adjusted the nearest of the matte black microphones positioned between us.

The ballroom was standing-room only. But interviews and panels with editors were always standing-room only.

Even in the era of self-publishing, we were still perceived by many as guardians of the gate, stingily clutching the keys to the magic kingdom.

That wasn’t entirely untrue, but there were many more kingdoms now. And fewer gates.

“Good afternoon and welcome to this year’s installment of Backstory,” Rudolph began in his smooth cultured voice.

“For those of you unfamiliar, this is our nineteenth annual chat with an editor acknowledged by their peers to be a leader within our industry. Today, that someone is my good friend, the esteemed Keiran Chandler.”

Murmurs of approval and another round of applause rippled through the room. I gave a wry grin.

“Say hello,” Rudolph prompted.

I said, “Good afternoon. I know half of you think I exist to crush your dreams, and the other half think I can magically make them come true. The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between.”

Rudolph smiled faintly, and asked, “Keiran, I’ve been dying to ask—what went wrong in your life that made you want to be an editor?”

This was the same question he started every Backstory interview with, but it never failed to get a round of laughter.

I said gravely, “Sadly, I failed to make it as a violinist. Editing had fewer splinters.”

It got a bigger laugh than it deserved.

“Come to think of it, there is a lot of violin-playing in publishing.” Rudolph mimed playing a tiny violin, and I laughed.

In fact, everyone laughed. Rudolph was rightfully one of the most beloved figures in our industry.

“A bit.”

Rudolph leaned in conspiratorially. “But seriously. You’ve built something rare—authors who adore you, colleagues who respect you, and a near-legendary gift for extracting the gold from the dross.”

More applause and a couple of whistles from—I was pretty sure—my stable, who were crowded at the back of the room like the class troublemakers.

“Thank you.” I meant it sincerely. After the weekend I was having, any kind words were balm on an open wound.

Rudolph’s expression softened. “You’ve been at Millbrook how long now?”

“Ten years.” I added, “Six months, seventeen days, three hours, and two minutes.”

“But who’s counting, eh? That’s longer than most publishing houses stay solvent these days.”

That earned another laugh, though this one had more teeth. Now that the merger with W&W was more than rumor, opinions, anecdotes, and unsolicited advice were starting to circulate. Author anxiety was rising fast. It would be fever pitch by Sunday.

Rudolph’s next few questions were softballs: What’s your greatest strength as an editor—and don’t say you care too much! What’s your greatest weakness as an editor—and don’t say you care too much!”

I did my best to be honest but entertaining.

“I think my greatest strength as an editor is my ability to view the work as a skilled objective outsider. My greatest weakness? I’m probably not alone in this, but I like what I like.

And the older I get, the more set in my likes and dislikes I am.

I don’t like gratuitous anything. I don’t like emotional pandering.

I don’t like twist endings that don’t make sense.

Oh, and I have a tendency to rant in public about things I don’t like. ”

Rudolph chuckled. “Any regrets about passing on a particular manuscript?”

I couldn’t help wondering if Hayes had complained about my trashing his book to every single conference attendee.

“I’m not sure. Maybe not. If I pass on a book, it’s not necessarily that I don’t believe the book could do well. It’s more about what I think I can bring to the equation. Just as every book is not for every reader, every editor is not for every book.”

“That’s quite good,” Rudolph remarked. “Did I say that?”

The audience laughed, of course, and I said, “I’m pretty sure you did.”

Rudolph gave me another of those sly winks. Then he snapped his fingers and commanded, “Three author blind spots. Go!”

“Uh…Thinking ‘real’ equals ‘interesting.’ Dialogue that sounds like dialogue. Plot that happens simply because the author says so.”

“Very good.” Rudolph turned to the audience. “He’s after my job!”

That got the biggest laugh yet.

I happened to glance at Lila. She was scowling as she scrolled through her phone.

The rest of the interview was mostly old war stories and humorous industry anecdotes.

Finally, Rudolph uncapped a silver water bottle and took a sip. “We have a few minutes left, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t turn things over to the crowd. Questions? Comments? Confessions?”

Laughter eddied through the ballroom. A few hands shot up. A volunteer with a wireless mic moved through the sea of chairs.

A tiny blonde in a ponytail and pink sweatshirt featuring a bespectacled rabbit and the slogan I STOP FOR PLOT BUNNIES took the mic.

“Hi, Keiran. I’m an aspiring author, um, an emerging mystery writer and, um, I guess I was wondering—what’s the one thing that makes you keep reading a submission past the first page?”

I smiled. “Hi. First and foremost, I’m looking for an authentic voice telling an interesting story.

And by authentic, I mean a voice that doesn’t sound like everyone else—or AI.

I’m looking for clarity, confidence, maybe a little restraint.

The best writers don’t waste time proving they’re clever—they’re busy telling a story I can’t put down. ”

I don’t remember what the response to that was. I don’t remember what the second question was or who asked it, because the third audience member who stood up and took the mic was Troy Colby.

I’d been so sure I wouldn’t know him if I saw him, but when a tall, silver-haired man near the side aisle slowly unfolded from his chair, my scalp prickled in alarmed recognition.

He was dressed in dark jeans and dark T-shirt and his conference badge was turned backward.

I hadn’t noticed any tattoos when he’d handed over I Know What You Did , but he was covered in them.

As if he wore ink long johns beneath his clothes.

Despite the room’s soft, low lighting, he wore dark glasses.

Taking the mic, he said in a low, slightly raspy voice, “Keiran, do you think editors have a moral responsibility to their authors? Even after the contracts end? Or is it just business?”

What the heck did that mean? The question was as vague as his bio.

I felt that the obvious answer— say, what? —would be walking into a trap, so I took a leaf from Colby’s book, leaning forward and letting forth.

“I think editors, good ones, understand that what we’re doing isn’t just transactional.

Books come from deeply personal places. We shepherd them into the world.

That doesn’t mean we always get it right.

But yes, I think we have a responsibility—if not to every author, then to the integrity of the work.

And maybe to the people we were when we said yes to it. ”

Blah. Blah. Blah. Sheer nonsense.

Rudolph tilted his head, as if intrigued. I stared over the sea of heads toward the back of the room where I knew Finn was. Was he getting this? (Whatever it was.) I couldn’t think how to signal him.

Thou art the man! Like Poe’s short story?

“One more question?” Colby suggested.

I looked at Rudolph, who understandably seemed like… uh, whatever .

“Keiran, how much of a writer’s life belongs in their fiction? If something happened to you but not only to you, is it still your story?”

“Your part of it is your story.” It was a lame answer. I was terrified he was going to give a specific and career-ending example.

I don’t think Colby even heard my reply. He wasn’t interested in answers. Asking the questions was the point.

“And do you think an editor’s personal history ever colors the way they respond to a manuscript, even if they don’t realize it? Like, maybe they reject something that hits too close to home?”

A tide of thoughtful murmurs. On the surface, it was a smart, nuanced question. In reality? Jesus.

I adjusted the mic.

“Whether conscious or not, writers draw from their lives all the time. However, the job of the author of fiction is not to write an autobiography. The goal of fiction is to write recognizable truth while making everything up. And as for editors... sure. We’re human.

We have blind spots. Sensitivities. We also have an instinct for the real thing.

Like an art critic, we know it when we see it. ”

Colby nodded, but didn’t smile. He handed back the mic and sat back in his seat.

Rudolph took a beat, waited for someone else to speak up and then finally said, “Friends, regretfully, this will be my final year hosting Backstory.”