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“ Kit !” J.X. exclaimed.

Adrien gave Christopher a Seriously? look.

In apparent response to Adrien’s look, Christopher said, “ This is why I suggested it would be a good idea for you to stay in the bar with Jake.”

In fact, the comment was addressed to J.X., who retorted, “And this is why I didn’t stay in the bar.”

Adrien, abruptly switching sides, said, “I think Jake would appreciate the company.”

To which J.X. retorted, “I think Jake would appreciate your company.”

Finn said—loudly, “What in the hell is going on?”

And Kyle said, “I’d love a drink.”

There was no official bell, but that was the end of round one.

I said, “You think I killed someone?”

Our guests looked apologetic, but no one seemed to be backing down.

“You think I committed murder ?” Before they could answer, I said, “Just out of curiosity, were that true, how do you imagine you could help me?”

Adrien said with touchingly misguided sincerity, “Keiran, it’s obvious something’s really wrong. You’ve looked sick with worry for days. It’s more than the merger.”

“Buy-out,” Kyle corrected.

“And there’s that body in the swimming pool,” Christopher said.

“That’s it? I look worried and there’s a body in the swimming pool, ergo I committed murder?” I looked at Finn. “I think we do need drinks. I definitely need a drink.”

“The body of Troy Colby,” Christopher pointed out.

I drew a sharp breath and said, “Please. Don’t stand on ceremony. Sit down. Share your thoughts.” I gestured expansively to the elegant seating arrangement.

Adrien, Christopher and Kyle took their places in front of the fireplace. J.X. hung back.

“The more the merrier,” I said.

“I’m truly sorry,” J.X. said. He did look truly sorry. “They’re determined to help you.”

“Here.” Finn thrust the empty ice bucket at him. “Make yourself useful.”

J.X. headed for the door. Finn and I exchanged long looks.

I moved over to the chair nearest the fireplace, sat down and leaned back, casually crossing one leg over my knee in a show of relaxed confidence. “Okay, tell me what you imagine is going on.”

Adrien said, “At first, we did think you were stressed out about the merger.”

“Takeover,” Kyle interjected.

Christopher said, “And then we thought it was that pompous little prick Hayes Hartman and you know…” He moved his head meaningfully in Finn’s direction.

“I never thought that,” Kyle said. “At no time did I think that.”

“I’m right here, Christopher,” Finn said. “I can both see and hear you.”

Adrien said, “But it’s obvious Finn—”

“Is crazy about you.” Finn said to me.

Our gazes locked and I smiled at him, although I think it was kind of a wavery smile, because that instant, open affection caught me off guard every single time.

“Exactly,” Kyle said. “And vice versa I knew it the first night we went to dinner.”

“Right,” Adrien said. “In fact, it became obvious that Finn was also sick with worry—about you .”

I said, “You’ve used that phrase twice and I object. It’s cliché. Vague and physiologically nonspecific. It’s faux-vivid. It reads like placeholder emotion.”

“ Ouch ,” Christopher and Kyle murmured.

Adrien was unmoved. In the meantime, Colby had been dropping hints about how he couldn’t wait to hear from you regarding his recent submission based on an actual still-open cold case that occurred in Steeple Hill some twenty years ago.”

I didn’t move a muscle. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Finn standing motionless by the wet bar.

“What he didn’t realize,” Adrien said, “is that we had insider knowledge.” He looked at Kyle.

Kyle met my eyes, his expression contrite. “Sorry, Keiran. I only know of one cold case in Steeple Hill. The disappearance of Dominic Baldwin and Milo Argyros. It happened about twenty years ago. You still lived here then. You’d have been the same age, gone to school with them, probably.”

I said, “I’m aware of the case—cases.” The penny dropped. I gaped at them, stammered, “W-W-wait a second. Are you doing a summation gathering on me ?”

“What’s a summation gathering?” Finn’s frown transferred itself from the others to me.

“It used to be called the drawing room reveal. It’s a Golden Age mystery trope. The sleuth gathers their suspects in a drawing room—well, any room. It could be a train car or-or a ship’s cabin—”

“This is why I hate Golden Age mystery,” Finn said.

At the heavy knock on the door, we all—well, not Finn—but the rest of us, jumped like Cub Scouts listening to ghost stories around a campfire.

Finn growled, “That’s J.X., you menaces to society,” and went to answer the door.

Kyle said, “We’re not doing a summation gathering on you, Keiran. We’re doing it with you. Because if you were involved in those disappearances, but you didn’t kill Colby—”

“I did not kill Colby,” I said. “I haven’t killed anyone. So far.”

“See, that’s the thing, though,” Adrien said. “If you’re just a witness, then you’re in a hell of a lot of danger. That drowning wasn’t accidental. The police aren’t giving out a lot of information, but we did get that much.”

“Jake got that much,” Christopher said, and Adrien nodded as if it was the same thing.

Maybe it was.

Finn opened the suite door, J.X. handed over the ice bucket and called, “Kit, I’ll be in the bar when you’re done torching your career.”

“Save me a seat,” Christopher called back.

Adrien said to me, “What you’re not doing is denying receiving a manuscript from Colby. Or denying that you were a witness to…something.”

“A witness to something,” I said. “That narrows it down.”

The clink of ice cubes dropped in glasses filled the sudden silence.

Christopher said, “Let’s not forget. Keiran’s not the only person at the conference Colby was obsessed with. He kept trying to attach himself to TM.”

“Theodore Mansfield?” I had a sudden uneasy memory of Rudolph wandering in from the pool the night Colby had been murdered.

Granted, Finn had spotted three women heading out to the hot tub after that.

Still…I hadn’t noticed the body immediately. It would have been dark. They’d probably been drinking.

Kyle clarified, “T. McGregor.”

Somewhere in the distance I heard Christopher saying, “Now there’s someone who reads his own PR. What an ego. J.X. doesn’t think he was even on the force.”

“Maybe he worked Dispatch,” Finn drawled. “With that personality, he’d be a natural.”

Christopher snorted.

“He does have a very weird accent,” Adrien remarked.

“His bio says Outer Hebrides.” That was Kyle.

“Outer space maybe.”

“That’s right. Your mother’s English?”

“He’s got the weirdest, coldest eyes,” Christopher commented.

“They’re contacts,” I said. “Opaque color contacts.”

It was like listening to them underwater. I could hear their faraway muffled voices, but the words no longer mattered.

“Excuse me.” I rose.

Finn reached me as I picked my way through the ottomans and side tables. He handed me a drink. “Okay?”

I took the drink, knocked it back in a gulp, and handed him the glass. “I’ll be right back.”

“What do you mean, you’ll be right back?”

I opened the suite door as Finn called, “Keir?”

I stepped into the hall, letting the door close heavily behind me.

Shock is not a plan.

I didn’t have a plan.

I was moving with purpose, but the purpose was simply to get to that door, to knock on that door, to look him in the eyes.

I had no thought beyond that.

I knocked on the door of the Cannery Row Suite. Knocked again.

The floor creaked and I knew he was standing on the other side of the door, eyeing me through the peephole.

I stared stonily back at the at the small glass eye.

The deadbolt clanked, the lock clicked, the door opened, and I saw him as he really was.

A few months older than me, medium height, thicker than he’d been as a boy.

That beard. It should have been my first clue: thick and carefully groomed in that trying-too-hard hipster style that suggested I Know Exactly Who I Am while obliterating recognizable features.

His hair had thinned a bit, that was real enough.

His eyes were the giveaway, though they had not given him away at first.

It wasn’t just contextual blindness. He’d changed a lot. Just as I had. He probably wouldn’t have known me, either, if we’d happened to bump into each other on the streets of Manhattan.

I stared into his too bright, too blue eyes.

“How could you do it?” I asked. “How could you do that to me?”

Milo let out a pained sigh, scrunched up his face in an expression that, despite the beard and the lines, was unexpectedly familiar.

“I knew it. I knew you were going to figure it out. I could feel you starting to analyze in the elevator yesterday.”

Had it only been yesterday?

If I had started to figure it out, it had not been consciously. I’d bought the whole eccentric author act. Plenty of authors were eccentric.

He stepped back into the large tiled foyer. I walked into his suite. He let the door swing shut behind us.

Low-slung modern furniture in soft grays and coastal blues.

A gas fireplace flickered beneath a wall-mounted flat screen.

The windows looked out over the bay, the waves lapping almost directly beneath the suite.

To the left, Cannery Row unfolded in all its quirky, tourist-tangled charm—shuttered windows, weathered brick, and the ghost of Steinbeck in every salt-bleached sign.

One large suitcase already stood next to the door. There were stacks of books going into boxes. Empty gift shop bags were scattered around. He was packing for his flight home.

The door to the master suite was closed.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked. “Why did you leave like that? I thought you were dead.”

“ Dead ?” He looked astonished. “Why would I be dead?”

“Because you vanished without a trace. Your family filed a missing persons report.”

“Well, they had to.”

“Because you vanished .”

“Well, I had to.”

I suddenly remembered what an ass he could be in an argument.

“How much did you tell them?”

Milo’s expression was blank. He said evasively, “Only what I had to.”