Page 9 of Kill Your Darlings

By then, I was cold, tired, and more than ready for a drink.I rested my hand on Kyle’s shoulder, guiding him toward the restaurant door, heading for that warm pool of light, just beyond the shadows.

“How about this?”

“Sure—”

I opened the door and scooted him in.

A cheerful looking girl wearing a sailor’s cap came to greet us.“Two for dinner?”

We nodded, and she led the way through the half-empty dining room to a table next to the windows overlooking the water.

We settled at the table and the waitress chirped, “I’ll be back with the drinks menu!”

“Perfect,” I shook out my napkin, picked up the dining menu.

Kyle turned his head to gaze out the window.I glanced past him, past a blond bob at the table right behind him, and stared into Finn’s candlelit eyes.

Chapter Three

Had I done something wrong in a previous life?

Right.Rhetorical question.

Finn raised his brows in silent acknowledgement.I nodded politely.

No fear of being asked to join them.Every author understands that editor-author or agent-author tête-à-têtes are sacrosanct.Granted, this wasn’t that meeting, but they couldn’t know that.

I stared down at the list of entrees.Hartman was in full discourse, and I could understand why Finn wouldn’t want to interrupt that flow of brilliance.

“The problem,” Hartman’s clear, carrying voice drifted over to our table, “is that so many of the legacy crime writers are still shackled to this rigid idea of plot over character.They treat motive like a checklist item—method, opportunity, motive—and forget that real crime,realhuman darkness, is messy and inconsistent.I mean, how many times can we read about a jealous spouse or a spurned lover before we all collectively roll our eyes?The genre has to evolve beyond formula if it wants to stay relevant.That’s why readers are gravitating to fresh voices—writers who understand that ambiguity is more powerful than resolution.”

Was he practicing for his panel or having a conversation?Surely, Finn had heard all this before?

I bit my lip, focused all my strength of will on the dinner options before me.

Grilled sole.

Grilled salmon.

Blackened swordfish.

Actually, grilled salmon sounded perfect.I closed the menu.

“And don’t get me started on the pacing issues.These so-called modern masters of crime fiction drag us through fifty pages of setup before anything actually happens.They’re writing for an era of patient readers who no longer exist.I think part of the reason my work resonates is that I’m writing for now—the streaming generation, the swipe generation.You have to grab them by the throat in the first scene and never let go.The days of slow burn are over.Readers won’t wait for you to get to the point.”

Finn murmured something noncommittal.

Adorable.Did he imagine input from him was needed to feed the engine?That was a self-propelled motor if ever there was one.

Maybe we could move tables?

Or would that be too pointed?

Across from me, Kyle woke from the trance of watching moonlight flickering on the water.His wide eyes met mine.His lips parted.I winked.

The waitress returned with the cocktail menu.

“Should we start with appetizers?”I asked Kyle.