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“Milo is going to have to dig his own way out of the mess he created for himself,” Finn was saying when we walked through the doors of the Monterey Plaza Hotel.

“I’ve got zero sympathy. Not only did he leave you holding the bag— his bag—he knew you were being blackmailed, threatened, and he didn’t lift a finger.

He was only too glad to let you play decoy. ”

It was nearly five in the evening on Sunday evening and the hotel lobby was largely empty. The exodus of conference attendees had started early that morning, readers and writers alike returning to the “real” world, and now only a few die-hards or people with late flights remained.

I said, “I’m only concerned that Milo’s story—or lack of a story—is liable to suck me back in.”

“No. Colby’s murder falls under the Monterey Police Department’s jurisdiction.

As far as they know, there’s no connection to a twenty-year-old missing persons case in Steeple Hill.

It was never their case. If Milo’s smart—well, if Milo continues his usual self-serving pattern—he’ll stick to the story that a drunken and distraught stranger forced his way into his hotel room and held him hostage for most of the day while he tried to convince the man to surrender to authorities. ”

“I don’t see how his story can possibly hold up. Even if Geo goes along with it—”

“Geo’s guilty. He’s not being asked to confess to something he didn’t do.”

“Right. True. But nobody’s going to believe that Geo was in this hotel for a mystery convention. I doubt if he’s ever read one of Milo’s books.”

“Lucky him.”

“I’m not even sure he can read.”

“It doesn’t matter. If they both stick to their stories, they might get away with it. Either way, it has nothing to do with you.” Finn put a hand on my arm, stopping me. “Do you want to grab an early dinner? Or did you want to go upstairs and…”

“Nap?” I suggested innocently. “I haven’t had much sleep recently, that’s true.”

He grinned.

A sharp shrill whistle cut across the cool silence of the lobby; a sound mostly heard by Border Collies herding stray sheep—or felons fleeing English bobbies through foggy London back alleys.

We looked around in surprise.

“Yo!”

The preemptory shout seemed to be coming from the lobby bar.

I stared into the gloomy, empty interior, stared harder, and sure enough, over by the far windows, a couple of comfy chairs and another table had been dragged together to create a larger seating arrangement. Several gentlemen—well, authors—seemed to be trying to get our attention.

“Oh no ,” Finn said. He didn’t bother to lower his voice.

“Keiran! Finn!” Adrien English, Christopher Holmes, J.X. Moriarity, and Kyle Bari beckoned to us.

“Have they been drinking all day?” Finn asked.

I shook my head. “Shall we?”

Finn sighed, rested his hand on the small of back. “We may as well get it over with. Now that they know you’re here, there’s no escape.”

I chuckled and we headed into the bar.

As we reached them, Adrien said, “We decided to have the cocktail party anyway. Unfortunately, only we were able to attend.”

“Where have you two been for the last twenty-four hours?” Christopher demanded, as room was made around the tables for us.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

Adrien said, “We want to hear it.”

Introductions were made. The tall, slender man with dark, curly hair was Adam, Kyle’s partner.

“I didn’t realize you were attending the conference,” I said as we shook hands.

“I wasn’t. But Kyle called on Friday.”

“He’s attending me,” Kyle joked, but the look he gave Adam was pretty much adoring. And it seemed to be mutual, given the way Adam smiled and linked hands with him.

The tall, blond man with eyes the shade of a tiger’s and a muscular arm around Adrien English’s shoulders, turned out to be the notorious former-cop-turned-PI Jake Riordan.

We shook hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said.

His grin was sardonic. “Likewise. Especially over the last forty-eight hours.”

“What’s everyone drinking?” Finn questioned, moving toward the bar.

That they were—and had been—drinking for most of the afternoon was no longer in question.

“The Red Herring!”

“Smoke & Mirrors.”

“The Femme Fatale.”

“The Plot Twist!”

“Harp.”

“Make it two.”

Finn sighed. Looked at me.

“Plot Twist,” I said.

He nodded and departed for the bar.

“Has anyone seen Grace Hollister since the banquet?” I asked suddenly.

Adrien said, “She left this morning. Cherry drove her to the airport.”

“So, she got off all right. Good.”

Kyle was staring at me with amusement. Christopher demanded, “Are you going to tell us or not?”

“Well, you must have heard by now. There was a drunken fight by the pool—”

They all made loud Nnn and buzzer sounds.

Adrien said, “We know that someone is being held in connection with the drowning death. And we know that T. McGregor took off for Scotland like a bat out of hell this morning.”

“His wee wifey’s giving birth in some undisclosed location.” Christopher’s accent was nearly as bad as ‘McGregor’s.’”

I blinked but managed to say nothing.

Kyle said, “And he’s not signing with Wheaton & Woodhouse after all.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Zero interest,” Adrien observed to Christopher.

“I noticed.”

Finn returned from the bar, wisely tucking his credit card away. He sat on the edge of my chair and rested his hand on my shoulder. I smiled up at him. He smiled down at me.

Kyle said to his fellow snoops, “I don’t think we’re going to hear the real story. I suspect it all worked out in the end.”

I laughed. All at once I felt completely, blissfully relaxed. It was a beautiful afternoon. In a little while, Finn and I would go upstairs and talk and laugh and make plans for a future I’d never really believed in until now.

I stared out the giant picture window at the long rollers crashing against the beach, and knew a moment of perfect peace.

Or maybe it was just simple, unadulterated happiness.

Either way, it was something I felt I could get used to.

I studied their faces, the expressions varying from curious to quizzical.

“Speaking of Wheaton & Woodhouse,” I said slowly. “I might just have an idea…”