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Had I done something wrong in a previous life?

Right. Rhetorical question.

Finn raised his brows in silent acknowledgement. I nodded politely.

No fear of being asked to join them. Every author understands that editor-author or agent-author tête-à-têtes are sacrosanct. Granted, this wasn’t that meeting, but they couldn’t know that.

I stared down at the list of entrees. Hartman was in full discourse, and I could understand why Finn wouldn’t want to interrupt that flow of brilliance.

“The problem,” Hartman’s clear, carrying voice drifted over to our table, “is that so many of the legacy crime writers are still shackled to this rigid idea of plot over character. They treat motive like a checklist item—method, opportunity, motive—and forget that real crime, real human darkness, is messy and inconsistent. I mean, how many times can we read about a jealous spouse or a spurned lover before we all collectively roll our eyes? The genre has to evolve beyond formula if it wants to stay relevant. That’s why readers are gravitating to fresh voices—writers who understand that ambiguity is more powerful than resolution. ”

Was he practicing for his panel or having a conversation? Surely, Finn had heard all this before?

I bit my lip, focused all my strength of will on the dinner options before me.

Grilled sole.

Grilled salmon.

Blackened swordfish.

Actually, grilled salmon sounded perfect. I closed the menu.

“And don’t get me started on the pacing issues.

These so-called modern masters of crime fiction drag us through fifty pages of setup before anything actually happens.

They’re writing for an era of patient readers who no longer exist. I think part of the reason my work resonates is that I’m writing for now—the streaming generation, the swipe generation.

You have to grab them by the throat in the first scene and never let go.

The days of slow burn are over. Readers won’t wait for you to get to the point. ”

Finn murmured something noncommittal.

Adorable. Did he imagine input from him was needed to feed the engine? That was a self-propelled motor if ever there was one.

Maybe we could move tables?

Or would that be too pointed?

Across from me, Kyle woke from the trance of watching moonlight flickering on the water. His wide eyes met mine. His lips parted. I winked.

The waitress returned with the cocktail menu.

“Should we start with appetizers?” I asked Kyle.

“Oh.” Kyle smiled. “Sure.”

It’s not about the appetizers. I learned long ago that the point of the appetizers isn’t the food itself (though I like crab cake as much as anyone) it’s the demonstration that you are willing to spend money on frivolous food for your author.

I left Kyle to choose our starters, scanned the cocktail menu, and ordered a double Hochstadter’s Rock and Rye.

“It’s not that I’m trying to dismiss the contributions of the older generation—they had their time, and I’m sure they did the best they could within the constraints of their era.

But audiences are more sophisticated now.

They don’t need to be spoon-fed motives or have every plot thread tied off in a neat little bow.

” Hartman paused to take a sip of his drink.

Again, who was he talking to in that lecturing tone? Finn was right across the table. No need to project to the back row.

I couldn’t help glancing over. Finn was listening attentively. I knew him well enough to recognize that look of amused tolerance. He got that same look with me sometimes, when I was venting my take on writing and publishing.

In the midst of my reflections, Finn’s gaze moved from Hartman to me. His eyes were shadowy in the soft light, but it was a steady, serious, appraisal, and my heart picked up speed as though I’d unconsciously recognized some looming threat.

But I’d already identified the threat, so no adrenaline rush required. I’d been judged and found wanting. For whatever reason, Finn had changed his mind. About me. About pursuing anything further with me. Or apparently even spending an extra minute in my company.

Not to make a production out of it. Things changed.

But we wouldn’t have had to pursue anything more than what we already had. I would have been fine with that. I could have been content with that. I didn’t understand why that no longer worked for him, unless it had to do with the Boy Wonder pontificating at the next table.

“Fried calamari?” Kyle suggested.

I said automatically, “Sounds great.”

“I think what I’m doing—what my readers respond to—is respecting their intelligence. I don’t write puzzles. I write experiences .”

Right, kid. Because you’ve had so many at your age?

Okay. Not fair. Experience in all its variety—and brutality—struck whom and when it chose. As I knew very well.

Kyle added to the waitress, “And a glass of the Kendall Jackson chardonnay.”

I said a little abruptly, “Actually, I think we’re ready to order?” I glanced in inquiry at Kyle.

“ Yes .” He sounded a little vehement, and my mouth twitched.

“Cool!” the waitress said, and took down our entrée orders.

Hartman concluded, “Of course, that’s not something everyone can do. You do it naturally, instinctually. That’s a rarity in my experience. You have to be willing to challenge the conventions, and frankly, not everyone has the courage for that. But I think my numbers speak for themselves.”

Not unless 1,000 units was considered midlist at Black Fig Editions.

Finn murmured something too quietly for me to hear.

Hartman suddenly laughed; a relaxed, boyish laugh that seemed to come from another person entirely. “Maybe,” he admitted. And his cheerful admission that he was (I surmised) maybe full of shit was unexpected.

So, yeah, I got it. The charm of something new. Something—someone—young and fresh. Someone full of Big Ideas and with maybe a little case of hero worship?

A wave of weariness washed through me.

Maybe it showed. “How many of these do you do a year?” Kyle asked.

It took me a moment to think. “It varies. Typically, seven or eight—and then there’s the London Book Fair.”

He looked taken aback. “I didn’t realize you were living out of your suitcase.”

I smiled, but yes. I did just that during the spring circuit. I’d actually looked forward to those trips because Finn was traveling the same circuit.

I was going to have to figure out a new reason to enjoy…anything.

Suddenly, I was out of things to say.

Luckily our sailor girl shipped in with our drinks.

The alcohol helped—by the second round, Kyle and I were chatting like old friends (about what, I have no idea). The food was better than expected, and I was relieved because this very long day was coming to a close, and very soon I’d be able to escape to the quiet and privacy of my hotel room.

Unfortunately, my timing was off. In my rush to get us out of the restaurant, I’d forgotten Finn liked to take his time over meals. Even though they’d probably arrived half an hour before us, we ended up leaving the restaurant at the same time.

This time when Finn suggested we share an Uber, Kyle shrugged and looked to me for the deciding vote.

Of course, I wasn’t going to insist on our hoofing it back to the hotel. It was later, colder, and we both a had long and busy tomorrow ahead of us.

“Thanks, that would be great,” I told Finn, and the four of us crowded into the green Toyota Camry idling impatiently in front of the restaurant. I assumed Finn would take the front, but nope. Hartman announced he was prone to claustrophobia and slid in beside the driver.

Somehow, I ended up nested between Kyle and Finn in the backseat.

Three adult males—wide shoulders and long legs—were definitely a crowd in this mid-sized space, and God help us if we had to make an emergency exit.

I half-angled my shoulder to Finn, but it really didn’t help.

I was pressed against his chest, in a way that felt unnervingly familiar.

He got his arm free and reached across the back of the seat, resting against my shoulders.

Because I was tired and had had too much to drink, it—his warmth and nearness, his familiarity—was unexpectedly overwhelming.

The mingled scent of warm suede, Yamazaki 12, and an aftershave that reminded me of sea breezes, sunlit cypress, and driftwood.

Tom Ford Costa Azzurra. I had a bottle sitting in my bathroom back in New York.

He’d forgotten it when he’d stayed with me.

My eyes prickled unexpectedly and I imagined what would happen if I gave in to jetlag and depression, if I let emotion swamp me; imagined the reaction if I started crying in the back of this fake-pine-scented Uber winding its way through the foggy streets…

I laughed.

Kyle glanced at me questioningly. Finn’s breath was warm against the back of my neck. “Something funny?”

I shook my head, not turning, but yes, there was a certain dark humor to the moment.

We probably weren’t in the car more than five minutes before we reached the hotel.

Hartman hopped out, waiting on the sidewalk while Finn and I arm-wrestled over the fare. Figuratively. Though nearly literally.

“It’s already paid for,” Finn said as I tried to thrust a handful of bills at him.

“But we’re sharing, so—”

“So, it’s my treat.”

“But sharing means splitting—”

Kyle joked, “Don’t make me break you two up.”

“Too late,” I muttered.

Finn didn’t move a muscle.

“It was a three-minute drive,” Hartman bleated from outside the car. “I’m so done with all the macho posturing bullshit ,”

Inside the car, there was an astonished silence.

I withdrew my cash, retorted, “Droll, isn’t he?”

Finn spluttered an unwilling laugh, and we all crawled ungracefully out of the car, which departed in a cloud of exasperated exhaust.