Page 6

I jack-knifed up, the glass dropping from my nerveless fingers, liquid sloshing onto me, onto the sofa, onto the carpet as I scrambled to my feet.

I stared down at the discarded manuscript.

I Know What You Did.

My heart thundered in my ears. Black spots floated in front of my eyes.

This isn’t real.

I stared wildly around the softly lit suite, half-expecting… What? Someone to step out of the shadows?

This can’t be happening.

Was I dreaming?

I waited for a few moments, waited for some revelation, waited to wake up.

From down the hall I heard the distant ding of the elevator. I strode to the suite door, peered out the tiny peephole. I had a distorted view of the empty hallway.

I started to open the door, but stopped.

Was that caution or paranoia running rampant? What—who—did I imagine would be out there?

I turned. The manuscript lay where I’d left it. The room looked absolutely normal, but that in itself felt frighteningly wrong.

“What is happening ?”

My protest, jarringly loud in the silent room, snapped me back to reality.

I walked slowly back to the sofa, picked up the fallen tumbler and set it on the glass coffee table. I picked up the manuscript, studying the contact details at the upper left of the title page.

U.N. Owen

My lip curled. Someone knew their Christie.

I read the address.

U.N. Owen

1926 Old Stage Road

Steeple Hill, California

[email protected]

(650) 699-5033

Steeple Hill.

My legs felt shaky. I sat down abruptly on the sofa.

Okay, but that made sense. That would follow, wouldn’t it? Only someone from Steeple Hill could possibly know—

But, no, it didn’t follow, because the only two people in Steeple Hill who knew anything about the night Dom died were me and Milo. And Milo…

That had not been Milo today.

I couldn’t quite visualize the man who’d shoved the manuscript into my hands.

I’d barely had a look at him, and maybe that had been deliberate on his part.

I had changed. Milo would have changed. But despite the silver hair, U.N.

Owen was too young to be Milo. Too young to be a contemporary of ours. That much, I’d noticed.

I stared down at the pristine printed pages.

This was not Milo.

For one thing, Milo knew what had actually happened.

But so did U.N. Owen.

Sort of.

Enough.

Enough to paralyze me.

How?

Had Milo told someone?

Impossible.

And why would someone wait twenty-three years to come forward?

Come forward ? Was that what this was?

Following that first flight or fight response, my heart began to calm. My hands were almost steady as I began to flip through the manuscript. I was still afraid. Still completely bewildered. But my brain had kicked in. I had questions. Many questions.

Questions that mounted as I speed-read my way to the first blank page.

I turned to the next page. Blank.

After the first chapter, it was all blank pages.

“What in the hell?” I murmured.

Just a partial manuscript. No note. No cover letter. No explanation. No actual threat, beyond the very existence of this “book.”

This was not a serious book proposal. So, what was it? Blackmail? What did U.N. Owen want?

I stared at the phone number.

Why not ask him what he wanted?

Because one thing for damn sure. I was too old for games, mind games or any other kind. Too old to live in uncertainty and doubt and fear. Better to know the worst up front—and plan accordingly.

I thumbed in the numbers on my cell’s key pad.

1926 Old Stage Road…

Was it even a real address? If I was remembering correctly, Old Stage Road was about a block from “downtown” Steeple Hill. In the old days that area had been surrounded by ranch-land, open spaces, farms, state parks, and beaches.

The phone on the other end jangled loudly.

Once.

Just once, and then I realized what I was doing, the mistake I was making. My heart stuttered in alarm. The phone nearly slipped from my suddenly perspiring hands as I jammed the red disconnect button so hard, the screen flexed.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Even now, even though no one had picked up, it was possible the call could be traced. My number might show as a missed call or turn up logged on Caller ID.

Jesus. What was the matter with me? I made my living editing crime novels, and yet my first move was to slip up on something elementary.

I hastily opened the Recents list, tapped and deleted the outgoing call to U.N. Owen, removing it from my call history.

I expelled a breath. There. Gone.

But not entirely. Not if someone really wanted to find it. Knew how to find it. Had the authority to access phone carrier records.

Better to make the call from the hotel lobby.

No. Better to call from a payphone somewhere well away from the hotel.

No. Better not to phone at all. Better to go in person and find out exactly what the score was.

Yes.

I needed to look U.N. Owen in the eyes when I asked them what they wanted. When I asked them what they intended to do.

No phone calls. No emails.

And speaking of emails, what the hell with the demand for the private message? Who the hell was this person?

Safe to say, I would not have the answer tonight.

Tomorrow…

I mentally reviewed my schedule. Steeple Hill was about a ninety-minute drive one way.

Losing three hours out of the first day of the conference would be tricky to manage.

But if I left immediately after Finn’s Q it was obvious how I felt, and Finn sounded a little winded too as he said, “I thought it might be easier for both of us.”

I couldn’t say anything. I stared at him. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might be having a heart attack. I could barely find the strength to keep treading water.

But as he stared back at me, something flickered in his face. His mouth curved into another of those odd, sardonic smiles.

“Losing the books hurts. Not the other,” he observed.

“It all hurts,” I flung at him. “I can survive losing…the other. Losing the books, losing you off my list, means my job .”

He looked shocked, but then protested, “Come on. You have plenty of authors making good money for Millbrook—”

“ They’re trying to get rid of me !”

And if that didn’t sound totally paranoid, I don’t know what would. In my defense, I was dealing with a lot that morning.

Finn was trying to be reasonable in the face of my borderline hysteria. “Come on, Keir. What sense would that make? Lila spoke very highly of you during our meeting.”

I dunked below the water, counted to five, surfaced, shaking the water and tears from my eyes.

“I’ve had a meeting, too. With Lila and Vaughn.

Where they discussed dividing my list between Lila and myself.

They already think I’m overpaid—I currently earn more than Lila, per Lila—and that I’ve been running my little kingdom without any oversight for way too long. ”

Finn’s expression hardened. The line of his mouth was grim and straight. “Okay. I didn’t know that. I’ll tell her no. I’ll tell her the truth. I’m good where I am.”

But now I was almost beside myself with hurt and anger and bitterness.

“No. You know what, Phineas, you’re right.

It will be easier on both of us. And it probably is time for you to spread your fucking wings.

We’ve been working together so long I’m probably not challenging you enough, probably not pushing for your…

your creative evolution the way I should.

” I had to stop for breath. “And if Lila gets you , maybe she’ll leave me and the rest of my list alone. ”

He was stone-still, as if he was seeing me for the first time. As if he was seeing a stranger.

But no. He was seeing the real me. In all my fucked-up glory.

After a second or two he snapped out of his trance and rose.

“You got it,” he said, and walked away.