Page 9

It’s true. No good deed goes unpunished.

Not that all my deeds had been good ones. Even in the moment, I’d never kidded myself about that. But I sure as hell had never intended to do bad deeds. I had never acted out of malice.

Did Finn think I was a sociopath? In addition to the other things he thought about me?

Maybe.

Would I know if I was a sociopath?

Maybe not.

What I did know was that I needed to stay as far away from former San Clemente homicide detective Phineas Scott as humanly possible. No more apologies or explanations or efforts to stay friends. Finn was now a threat to me. A clear and present danger.

But was he? Or was that my mounting paranoia kicking in?

He didn’t know anything. And without having at least a starting point, there was no way of his ever finding out more than he’d already guessed. That I had a past. Secrets. That there were things in my life I preferred keeping to myself.

That was it. That was the extent of what he knew. Okay, and I was reserved, I had trust issues, and a fear of intimacy. Oh, and yes, I’d been hurt.

In short, your typical forty-year-old American male.

I mean, talk about trust issues: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Finn Scott!

There was no reason to think he was going to start poking around in my past. He wasn’t a cop anymore.

There was nothing for him to gain by starting his own personal investigation.

I believed him when he said he was grateful to me for the help I’d given throughout his career.

He was not going to go out of his way to try to ruin me.

He had enough going on in his own life without expending time and energy sifting through the rubble of mine.

All I’d ever wanted was peace and quiet and a life spent safely folded between the pages of books. And I’d had that for two very short decades. And then, foolishly, I’d begun to want more, to think that more was possible.

But it wasn’t possible. At this point, I would be beyond lucky to find my way back to the sanctuary of that peaceful, quiet life I’d built for myself.

The bar in the lobby was mostly empty when I arrived back at the hotel.

Cool, quiet, and mostly empty was exactly what I needed, and I sat down to browse the small menu card of signature conference cocktails.

Today was the first full day of panels, which explained the relative calm on the ground floor.

I spotted Hayes Hartman and several other of the young guns of neo noir huddled in one of the cozy seating arrangements near the huge windows overlooking the bay. They were laughing too much and too loudly, and I surmised they were priming the pump before their panels.

The waitress appeared and I ordered the Red Herring. Vodka, Aperol, blood orange, lemon juice, and a splash of sparkling water—garnished with a twist of orange peel.

Citrus, so…practically breakfast juice. Not that I was a big day drinker. I wasn’t a heavy drinker at any time, really, but I had a long afternoon ahead—and there was no point pretending I wasn’t shattered after the heart-to-heart with Finn.

Anyway.

I glanced at my watch, tried not to listen to Hayes sharing more literary insights from across the room.

“The thing is,” Hayes was saying, his voice perfectly modulated for projection, “neo-noir isn’t about shadows and trench coats anymore.

That’s aesthetic window dressing. What we’re really talking about is existential rot in the age of late capitalism.

The femme fatale isn’t a woman now—she’s the algorithm.

The detective? He’s a ghost. Or a gig worker.

If your protagonist isn’t actively losing his grip on reality, what are you even doing?

That’s not noir. That’s just... crime fiction in a hat. ”

Had anyone asked him?

Thankfully, my drink arrived to numb the pain.

It was nice. The cocktail, that is. Bright and playful but with a sneaky kick. I was three sips in when a cheerful female voice said from behind me, “Reporting for duty, sir!”

I managed not to jump, pasted on a smile of welcome, turning in my seat.

“Cherry! How was your flight?”

Cherry Bing, my PA, was a small, twenty-something Asian-American woman.

She wore black jeans, black T-shirt, black blazer, and black ballet flats.

The uniform of the young NYC legacy editor.

Her hair was piled on her head in one of those deliberately messy I-ran-my-hand-through-it-while-reading-something-brilliant styles.

She’d been working for me for about six months, and I already considered her indispensable.

Her excitement and enthusiasm for the business was a daily reminder of why books, why fiction, still mattered in a world dominated by technology.

“It was great! I got to sit with Amelia.”

“That’s nice.” Amelia was our romantic-suspense editor. I’d already heard from Lila that W&W considered RS in decline, and as they already had their own romantic-suspense line, they would have trouble justifying a second.

“She’s so nice,” Cherry agreed.

“Would you like a drink?”

Cherry’s eyes widened. “Sure!”

I nodded to the waitress, who came in for another landing. Cherry ordered a Cosmo. I ordered a second Red Herring, as a preventive measure.

Cherry told me all about her flight, and I nodded and murmured encouragement when she paused for breath. In the background I could hear the constant refrain of Hayes.

“And don’t get me started on these nostalgic callbacks. Noir isn’t a mood—it’s a mirror. If your story isn’t holding up a cracked reflection of the cultural moment, then you’re just dressing up trauma in a leather jacket and calling it edgy.”

Good luck getting a word in edgewise to anyone on a panel with Mr. Hartman.

What in the hell did Finn see in that guy?

But then again: insightful.

What did that even mean ?

Our drinks arrived. This round, I paced myself.

“I’m a little nervous,” Cherry confided, two sips in. “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do .”

“No, no. Don’t be nervous. That’s for authors.

In fact, that’s how you need to look at it.

You’re basically here as a liaison for our authors.

I’ve emailed you a list this morning with every attending author, their assigned panel topic, and when their panel is.

It’s your job to get in touch with them before the panel and make sure they have what they need—”

Her lips parted. I said, “They’ll have what they need, don’t worry about that. Well, maybe someone will need a safety pin or a pen or a shot of bourbon.”

She giggled. “A safety pin ?”

“A hat pin?” I winked. “I don’t know. Basically, you’re just letting them know that we’re here to support them. We appreciate them getting out and promoting the books, which is what a conference boils down to. The better they do, the better the books do, the better we do.”

“Am I supposed to go to the panels?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” She looked ridiculously delighted. Had she never been to one of these before?

“Yes. Really.”

“What if there are two different—”

“Split the difference. Unless we’re talking a top tier author. I won’t be able to get to Finn Scott’s panel, so you sit in on that one. He’s an old hand at this, but check in with him and make sure he’s got whatever he needs. He will. Don’t worry.”

“You’re not going to Finn’s panel?” Cherry looked astonished.

Finn and I had not been nearly as discreet as we should have been.

“No. Another thing, if during the Q&A, our authors aren’t getting questions, throw them a couple of softballs. That’s probably not going to happen. I think I’ve seen it once in fourteen years. Oh, and at the end of the panel, remember to go up and tell them they did a great job.”

“I can’t believe I get paid to go to panels!”

“Well, it’s the usual stuff as well. You’ll be checking my e—”

“Your email?” She nodded.

“Actually, no. Don’t worry about my email this weekend. Don’t worry about phone messages. You’ll have your hands full coordinating everyone’s schedules and meetings.”

“But I’m your PA”

“This weekend, you’re everyone’s PA Don’t worry. I’ve been doing this practically as long as you’ve been alive. I’ve got it down to a science.”

She spluttered another of those cute giggles. “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Oh.”

I laughed. “Any questions, any problems, come to me .” I checked my phone. “I’ve got to go. I’m taking the Dove sisters to lunch.”

“ Ohhh .” She looked sympathetic. Whether on my behalf or the Dove sisters, I wasn’t sure.

I rose. “I’ll pay for our drinks at the bar—and I’ll see you tonight at the banquet.”

She nodded, hesitated, then said suddenly, urgently, “Keiran?”

“Hm?”

“About the merger.”

I automatically glanced around the room, said, “What about it?”

“Amelia was saying on the plane that she heard from someone at W&W that they don’t have PAs. They have two editorial assistants to fill that role for all their editors and assistant editors.”

Having been one of those editorial assistants, I could confirm the grim truth of that. At least back in my day, I’d mostly only had to contend with Lila.

Cherry’s voice wobbled a little. “Amelia said I should start looking for something else now. She thinks she’s going to be let go, too.” She swallowed, said, “I just really… I love my job. I can adapt.”

Be careful what you wish for, kid.

“Of course you can,” I said. “We’re all going to have to adapt, one way or the other.”

Judging by her expression, that sounded bleaker than I intended.

I said, “It’s supposed to be a merger. In theory, we’re combining the two businesses and keeping what works best from each house.

They make more money. We make better books.

I’m going to fight for the things that go into making better books, which includes our people.

But I’m not going to win every battle.” I admitted, “I can’t predict the future.

I don’t want to lose you. It might not be my choice. ”

She considered, frowned, then beamed at me and said brightly, “But it might be!”