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I was shivering when I climbed out of the pool.

The truth was, it was too cold for swimming. But it wasn’t the gray skies or wind off the ocean that had me shaking as I clumsily toweled off. I fumbled into my jeans, nearly over-balancing, dragged on my sweatshirt, slid my glasses on. They immediately fogged up.

Business is business. You can’t fall apart every time something doesn’t go your way.

What Lila told Finn was true. Most authors don’t stay with their first editor throughout the entire course of their career.

Some do. When you’re lucky enough to find right combination of personalities and creative vision— It takes time to develop that partnership.

But fair enough. If Finn believed someone else could help him reach The Next Level—whatever he imagined that might be, because he’d already reached a level of success most authors fantasized about—that was that.

I sure as hell didn’t want him feeling he had to stick with me out of loyalty if he no longer thought working together was in his best interests.

And, although I’d believed it in the moment, I didn’t know for a fact that anyone wanted to get rid of me.

It’d be pretty stupid. I was a good, experienced editor.

Did they want to get me under control? Oh, hell yeah.

It had been clear in my meeting with Vaughn and Lila they thought I was all but running amuck at Millbrook House.

If there was a funny side to all this—well, there wasn’t. But it was ridiculous that I was as upset about Finn as I was over someone trying to blackmail me. Or threaten me. Or whatever it was that U.N. Owen was trying to do.

I’d been awake since three o’clock in the morning trying to figure that out.

I’d tried some Google-Fu, and come across several non-Christie references to U.N. Owen.

According to Wikipedia, “U.N. Owen Was Her?” was a theme song composed by ZUN for the sixth Touhou Project game Embodiment of Scarlet Devil.

No. Me neither.

And according to a wiki Fandom, U.N. Owen was the newly created organization by Ludger Cherish and his brother Hans, created after Ludger destroyed the Red Society and started a Cooperative with the other three organizations (Black Rose Woman, Circus, and Old Kids).

Not ringing any bells.

I did come across a U.N. Owen who had self-published a fantasy novel in 2016.

Sadly, that writing career appeared to have ended as the majority of writing careers did.

It was hard to watch all that initial hope and excitement—the genuine passion for words and worlds—fade away through his many socials.

I hoped he’d love the writing itself because so often that’s the only reward for the hard work.

A quick scan of the Read Inside sample on Amazon convinced me that this Owen was a completely different writer from the author of I Know What You Did .

And that was pretty much it.

A dead end.

Then I’d tried researching Owen’s address in Steeple Hill.

Through the property’s sale and tax history, I was able to see that it had been a rental for the last decade. Through Redfin’s Homeowner’s Tools dashboard, I was able to get a list of names of possible previous owners.

Warren & Sherri McClendon

Blaine R. Adler

Maria E. Campos & Hector S. Ortega

Judith A. Latham

The Devlin Family Trust

None of the names meant anything to me. In any case, I wasn’t planning on contacting the owner for the name of their tenant. I’d have that information myself once I drove to Steeple Hill that afternoon.

It was cold inside the hotel—the lobby being climate controlled for 600 conference attendees—and colder inside the elevator.

I should have settled for the coffee maker in my room.

But it was still early enough—or people had been drinking late enough—that I didn’t run into anyone I knew.

By the third floor, I was on my own again.

On the fourth floor, we lurched to a stop, the bell dinged as the doors began to open, and Lila stepped inside the car.

She was a short, big-boned woman of about fifty. Her brown eyes were wide set and her wiry black hair had a dramatic, natural streak of silver through it. She still favored red lipstick, chunky jewelry, big scarves, and stylish flats. The uniform of NYC legacy publishing lady editors.

She did not look at me. She was staring down at her phone, frowning.

“Good morning,” I said.

She jumped, exclaimed, “Oh! Keiran. I’ve been texting you all morning.”

That sounded all too familiar. Before I could respond, she peered at me doubtfully, taking in my wet hair and the damp towel over my shoulders. “Were you swimming ?”

“Every morning.” It was barely eight o’clock, so when had she started texting? I asked pleasantly, “What’s up?”

Besides Lila, who, three cups of coffee in—assuming I remembered her work habits correctly—was already bouncing off the elevator ceiling.

“I don’t remember you being a fitness nut.”

“Just a nut?” I inquired, deadpan.

“ Ha . That, yes. Listen, I thought we should have breakfast together.”

I blinked. That would have been an unappetizing idea even if I’d had a good night’s sleep. I could already feel the heartburn.

Not that I disliked Lila. We had never been friends, but we went way back and I respected her.

She was smart, hardworking, and very good at her job.

Also, very ambitious. She had not been easy to work for, but we got along fine once I was promoted to editor and we became equals.

In fact, we were almost friendly during Steven Krass’s tenure at Wheaton & Woodhouse.

Lila and I were the ones who coined the nickname Satan. We’d hated Krass’s guts.

I said regretfully, “I’m meeting someone for breakfast, but we could have coffee afterwards?”

Her scarlet mouth turned down. She looked troubled. “Is it with an author? Because that’s really why I wanted to get together.”

Was she serious? Of course I was having breakfast with an author. That’s what meals at conferences were for. Did she think I was so far gone I planned on eating for my own pleasure?

In fairness to Lila, meeting with this particular author was a little problematical, given that Christopher Holmes was not yet, technically, on my editorial roster. However, if I knew Rachel Ving (and I did) that detail would be rectified before the conference ended on Sunday afternoon.

If, in the meantime, a little hand-holding was required, well, that was part of my job description: making authors feel seen and valued—and well-fed.

I said, “You want to get together to discuss having breakfast with authors?”

“Well… Well, yes! I think it’s important that we’re all working from the same script.

There’s bound to be anxiety over the merger, and we want to be sure we’re delivering the right message.

We don’t want to worry anyone with the transmission of negative information.

We need—it’s imperative —we retain the right talent. ”

I said mildly, “That’s a lot of corporate-speak to digest before coffee.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Same old Keiran.”

“They say no one ever really changes.” I studied her. “Unless you know something I don’t, we’re working from the same script. It’s as important to me as it is to you that Millbrook retains our top talent.”

In fact, it was a hell of a lot more important to me than to her, given that my job security undoubtedly relied on it. I’d already taken one body blow that morning, losing Finn Scott from my list. I couldn’t afford any more poaching.

Had she already spoken to Finn? Was that what this was about?

“Right,” Lila said, although her tone sounded more like wrong! “Yes. I know you understand that. However, I feel it would project a more unified picture if we met with your authors together. As a team.”

I absorbed that, weighed and considered my immediate response, then considered and weighed my alternative response.

When I thought I could answer without choking, I said mildly, “I see. And are we meeting with your authors together? As a team?”

Her cheeks turned pink. I’d rarely seen Lila miss a beat, but she seemed flustered as she replied, “What! Why ? What sense does that make?”

The problem was, for all my telling myself that Finn’s decision to work with another editor was, for many reasons, the right choice and the best thing for both of us, that wasn’t how it felt.

It hurt like hell on every possible level.

I was still too raw, too upset, after our poolside chat, to be as diplomatic as I should’ve been.

I laughed none too nicely, and said, “I see.”

And now, Lila was also upset. She bristled. “I’m not sure what that means. What do you imagine is happening here? This is standard operating procedure, Keiran. It’s about projecting a united front. It’s about…it’s about team building.”

Only if getting torn apart in the same arena by the same lions counted as teamwork.

Anyway, we both knew this was all total bullshit.

It wasn’t about team building. It wasn’t about projecting a united front.

It wasn’t about reassuring authors that everything would be okay in the end, and if it wasn’t okay, it wasn’t the end.

This salvo was strictly about giving Lila an opportunity to introduce herself to my authors, the better to cherry pick my list.

Maybe Vaughn had some vague idea that Lila and I would sit down together, put our egos aside, and try to figure out a way to match authors according to our own strengths and weaknesses.

But I was pretty sure Lila’s view was that she would decide who was expendable on her list and anyone and everyone on mine was up for grabs.

I was pretty sure, because I felt the same way about my list.

I got myself back under control, even managed a tight smile. “I’m all for team building, Lila. And you’re right. There’s a lot of unease and anxiety about the merger.”

“Exactly. We should be thinking of what’s best for our authors —”

I kept right on talking.

“Just like you, I’ve spent years building relationships with my authors. They know me. They trust me. What message do you think it sends if I show up to a meeting where they’re hoping I’m going to listen to and address their concerns—and I’ve suddenly got a corporate s-sidekick listening in?”

She said coldly, “I’m not and will never be your sidekick, Keiran.”

No. And my first word choice had been stooge . That would have gone over even better.

“No, you’re not. You’re the senior editor with a publishing house they don’t know, didn’t submit their work to, and maybe haven’t heard the best things about.”

Her brows formed a straight and forbidding black line across her forehead. “At least we’re solvent. At least our authors will get paid.”

I ignored that. Millbrook had never not paid its authors. Some of the staff had been paid late this last year. Not the authors.

“If you don’t trust me, then sure. You’re welcome to sit in on breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with every single one of my authors.” I winked. “Especially, if you’re going to pick up our meal tabs.”

She was not amused. But then, neither was I.

Lila said, “I had no idea you were so paranoid.”

I retorted, “Neither did I.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, but then, as we reached the fifth floor and the bell dinged , she finally noticed the elevator was going up not down. She gaped at the floor indicator panel. “Where are we going?” She turned to me. “Did you book a luxury suite? Is Millbrook paying for your suite ?”

“I paid for my own room.” I got off the elevator, glanced back at her tight face. “Paranoia must be catching,” I said.

Satisfying in the moment, but stupid. Stupid to antagonize her.

I had enough problems without going out of my way to make enemies.

More enemies.

Soaping my chest and underarms beneath the steaming rainfall spray in the oversized marble walk-in shower, I mentally ran through the day’s schedule.

Breakfast with Christopher.

Coffee with Lila? Doubtful.

Cherry, my PA, was arriving around eleven. It was her first conference, so we’d need to go through some things.

Lunch with Connie and Gwen Dove, the sister writing team who did the Bookmobile & Beyond Mysteries.

Greta Merriweather delivers books—and uncovers bodies!

That one would be difficult. W&W felt sales had been soft for the last three books in the series.

They’d already decided not to pick up the option on the next book.

Depending on how things went with the ladies, I hoped to catch Scottish crime writer Thomas McGregor’s interview. If necessary, I could skip that.

Finn’s interview with Rudolph was at three-thirty. That one I could definitely draw a line through, which meant I could leave for Steeple Hill right after the McGregor showcase. Or even after lunch.

The W&W banquet was scheduled to begin at seven—well, cocktails at seven, the dinner itself was eight, which gave me…

not a hell of a lot of time to be poking around Steeple Hill before I had to make the drive back to Monterey.

But how much time would it take to hear what a potential blackmailer had to say?

The important thing was to stick to the schedule. It was imperative to stay on track. Imperative to do nothing that appeared out-of-character or drew unwanted attention.

I listened to the echo of those thoughts and realized it sounded like I was prepping for the role of villain in Poker Face or Columbo .

I wasn’t the villain of the piece. I had zero intention of doing anyone harm, let alone committing murder. But I also had no idea what I was dealing with. No idea what U.N. Owen wanted. Nothing good, seemed a safe assumption.

Maybe this situation could be resolved through open dialogue.

Probably not. Open dialogue would have likely started with…dialogue. Not a fake book submission.

Blackmail?

Blackmail was the obvious answer. I kept coming back to blackmail.

And, if this was indeed an attempt at extortion?

I wasn’t going to be blackmailed. That was for damn sure.

But was I really prepared to go to the police? Confess my part in Dom’s death?

The wave of cold nausea that swept over me answered that question.

And if I wasn’t willing to go to the police—or give in to blackmail—what were my options?

Limited.

At best.

Had Milo received one of these… Well, he wouldn’t have received a book submission. He wouldn’t have received anything because how would anyone find him? I’d tried for years without success.

Unless Milo was the one behind U.N. Owen?

No. Once again paranoia was waving hello from the fun house. There was no way Milo could threaten me without putting himself in jeopardy.

No, Milo was not U.N. Owen. If not outright paranoia, the idea was surely wishful thinking.

Because Milo was almost certainly dead.