Page 43 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

“Because I don’t know who I want to be,” I said. “What is so hard to understand about that?”

Keme groaned.

Millie beamed at me.

Around us, the crowd of the Northern Noir writers conference milled and churned, moving slowly through the long, high-ceilinged gallery of Arcadia College’s Lorraine Mildred Cook Conference Center.

“You don’t have to wear a costume,” Keme said.

“But you can if you want,” Millie said.

“It’s a surf competition,” Keme said. “It’s not a Halloween party.”

“But you said it was Halloween themed ,” I said.

Keme did that neck-cracking thing he does when he’s about five seconds away from giving me a wedgie.

“And if it’s Halloween themed ,” I said, “and if I’m going to support you as your, uh, father figure, but also kind of an older brother, and maybe a little bit of a stern role model—like, what’s the less gay version of a Scoutmaster?”

“Never mind,” Keme said, “I don’t want you to come.”

“No, no, no,” I said. “Please. I’ll be so supportive, and I won’t talk to any of your friends, and if you don’t want me to wear a costume, I won’t.”

He was still clearly on the fence.

“You know who you should be?” Millie asked. “Fox!”

Okay, honestly, that was genius. Or was it suicidal? A part of me suspected that if I dressed up as Fox for Halloween, they’d have my guts for garters. (Or was I supposed to say stars and garters ? Gaits and garters ? I knew there was an expression for it.)

The grim severity of Keme’s face suggested I would be disinvited from the rest of his life if I went to his surf competition dressed as Fox.

“How about this?” I said. “How about I come, and I cheer—silently!—and I’ll be unbearably proud of you, but I won’t, you know, ever communicate it or approach you or, um, anything?”

“Fine,” Keme said.

“Yay!” Millie said.

“Tomorrow,” Keme said. “Don’t forget.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, “because it means a lot to me that you—”

With a sound of rising disgust, Keme headed for the doors.

“We’ve got to get to class,” Millie said. “And he doesn’t like being late.”

I was still adjusting to the concept of Millie and Keme going to college—let alone, going to class together—so I couldn’t help saying, “He was late every day of high school—”

“Bye, Dash!”

And with a quick hug, Millie darted away after her glowering, five-foot-three boyfriend. (He’s not five-foot-three, but one time I said he was the same size as a Care Bear, and I swear to God, he put me over his shoulder and tried to throw me off a cliff.)

I had about five seconds for a breather, though, before my ducklings came through the door.

Thatcher, AJ, and Charlie were students in my creative writing class, and they shared two standout qualities.

First, they seemed genuinely committed to their writing.

And second, they were willing to give up a weekend to attend a local writers conference.

(Unlike the rest of my class, who had silently pretended not to have heard my invitation or, in one case, packed up his stuff and left early.)

“Quick check-in,” I said as the ducklings reached me. “What’s our goal for this weekend?”

Thatcher, who had a beanie, a cardigan, and carefully curated chest hair, said, “Find an agent.”

I opened my mouth.

AJ, heavyset, head shaved, piercings glinting under the fluorescents, said, “Tell the world about my trauma.”

“Well—”

Charlie, lanky and pale and with a remarkable bowl-cut, was clasping their hands with glee. “Talk to Maggie McLaughlin. She invented Detectives and Dragons .”

I forgot what I’d been about to say because, let’s be real: Detectives and Dragons sounded amazing (whatever it was). But I recovered and said, “No. No. And no.”

The ducklings stared back at me with: a) the certain knowledge they were smarter and cooler than me (Thatcher); b) the certain knowledge that I was yet another part of the establishment trying to silence them (AJ); and c) confusion (Charlie).

This is what happens, I told myself, when you take your students out of their natural environment: a small, windowless classroom.

“We’re here to—” I began.

“We know,” AJ said. “Learn, network, and have fun.”

“Yes. But don’t say it like that. You should be excited! This is your first con, right?”

Thatcher didn’t answer, but then Thatcher probably wouldn’t have admitted to a first anything . But AJ mumbled assent. Charlie was still glancing around, eagerness painting their face.

“I learn best from a writer who has real experience.” Thatcher had been winding up to this all week, and I knew where it was headed.

“I mean, we all know that the only truth in writing comes from our willingness to go out into the world, to face death personally, so we can know what life means. Like you, Dash.” He adjusted his beanie and, almost absently, added, “These people all look like they came out of a basement.”

“That’s such a toxic, privileged view of writing,” AJ began. “Think about how women of color face death every day of their lives—”

“DETECTIVE DRAGON!” Charlie waved both hands at a woman across the room. (They could have given Millie a run for her money.) The woman gave Charlie a confused frown, and Charlie shook their head. “Oops, no, sorry.”

“Excuse me?” A man stood a few feet away—not quite close enough to intrude, but impossible to miss.

He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and thin in a wiry way.

He had a narrow jaw and an intent gaze, like he’d peeled off the top couple of layers and was looking at something deeper.

He wore pointy shoes, a crisp white shirt, and a raspberry-colored trench coat with a flared hem barely long enough to cover his rear end. “Mr. Dane?”

“Yes,” I said. “Hi, that’s me.” And then I said, “I’m Dash Dane.”

“Julian Haskell,” the narrow-jawed man said. “I’m so sorry to surprise you like this, but—” He gave me a surprisingly disarming grin. “—you haven’t been answering my emails.”

The name did ring a bell, although only faintly.

I’d received a handful of emails from readers about my novel, A Work in Progress , as well as a truly staggering amount of spam—people who wanted to help me make it into a luxury hardcover that would be printed in China, people who wanted to help me advertise my book on social media, people who wanted to narrate the audiobook version.

(Apparently I’d also gotten on some sort of wealth management list, because there were also a lot of spam emails about how I could find clients and grow their wealth.) Maybe it had been a mistake, in the end, to use my real name instead of a pen name?

“I’d like to talk to you about some ideas I have for—”

And then it came back to me, and the words popped out of my mouth: “The TV show?”

“A TV show?” Charlie asked. “Oh my God, Mr. Dane!”

I flapped my hands at the ducklings. “What are you doing here? Go! Confer!”

They moved off, but not before I heard AJ say, “Why would they make a TV show about him? Has he even had any trauma?”

In the wake of that little gem, Julian smiled. “Yes, the TV show. Actually, there are a number of things I’d like to talk to you about if you have a few minutes.”

“Well—” I began.

Julian gave me a smile that hovered between apologetic and conspiratorial. “I’m sorry again for catching you like this.”

“To be totally honest, I thought those emails were spam.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. Is there somewhere we could sit down?”

“Mr. Haskell, I don’t mean to be rude, but are you serious? A TV show?”

“Serious enough to fly out here so I could get you to talk to me,” Julian said.

“But—” I almost said, But I’m nobody . Instead, though, I said, “But A Work in Progress is just this little self-published book.”

“Mr. Dane—can I call you Dash?” When I nodded, he said, “Dash, the book is one piece of the puzzle. I’m interested in you . In your book, yes. But also in future work you might do. And you yourself represent a significant piece of intellectual property. Why don’t we find a quiet place—”

“Dash!” Thatcher walked up to us so quickly that he was practically jogging. The dazed look on his face was trying to be a smile. “I think I got an agent!”

I blinked. “It’s been two minutes—”

“Do you know Margaux Mendez? I have to research her.” Thatcher glanced at Julian and held out a hand. “Thatcher Galloway.”

“He’s not an editor or an agent,” I told Thatcher.

Thatcher turned his back on Julian. “She asked for my first three chapters. Should I send them to her? I should, right? This is an opportunity.”

“Let’s talk about it when I’m free—”

“I’m going to send them to her!”

He rushed off before I could answer.

“A friend of yours?” Julian began.

But at that moment, Charlie rushed up. Their eyes were manic, and they were holding an old, yellowed map. “I got it!”

“Got what?” I asked.

“The map from Detectives and Dragons ! And oh my God, Maggie McLaughlin is so sweet! She said my idea for castles that float on water is the best high-fantasy idea she’s heard in twenty years!”

“Charlie, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“Sorry, Mr. Dane!” And Charlie rushed off, map held over their head.

The expression on Julian’s face could politely be described as losing patience .

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m here with some students.”

“Not a problem,” Julian said. “Let me give you the quick version: Mr. Murder .”

“Sounds…dark.”

But Julian shook his head. “Like Matron of Murder .” And when I didn’t say anything, he added, “The TV show.”

I still didn’t say anything, mostly because Are you insane? didn’t feel like a great conversational move.

Matron of Murder had been a bestselling series of mystery books written by Vivienne Carver.

For those of you playing along at home, yes, this is that Vivienne Carver—the world’s greatest mystery author (according to her website), who had not only written bestselling novels and had a smash hit with the TV adaptation, but who had also traveled the world solving crimes in real life, using her expertise as a mystery writer to catch killers.

Of course, a lot of that turned out to be bunk.

Vivienne turned out to have manufactured at least some of the murders she claimed to have solved.

And she’d been a killer herself. Yours truly was the one who figured it out.

(I was particularly motivated since Vivienne first tried to frame me and then tried to kill me.)

“It’s perfect,” Julian said. “Vivienne Carver was the matron of murder, right? And now you’re here, in the same town where she lived, in the same house , and you’re a mystery writer, and you’re solving mysteries in real life. God, it gives me goose bumps.”

“But A Work in Progress isn’t a series.” (Yet. It turned out writing the second book was, apparently, even harder than writing the first one, and progress had been—to put it politely—slow.) “And I don’t think Mr. Murder captures the spirit of the book—”

Julian shook his head, waved his hands, and said over me, “Mr. Murder is you . Dash, you’re the story. What you’ve been doing up here. How you’ve solved all these murders—”

“Not solved,” I tried. “Helped the sheriff occasionally—”

“—and you’re young, you’re hot, you’re a star—”

My oh-so-charming case of social anxiety had reared its head at hot, and now I was having a hard time taking a deep breath. “Not a star” was all I could manage.

“—people are going to go crazy for this. Mr. Murder , Dash. And we’re not only talking about a TV show. We want you to write books to go along with the show, you know, tie-ins—”

“Excuse me.” He was a florid man with hair that looked like it had been superglued into place, and he was dry-washing his hands. “Are you Dashiell Dawson Dane?”

My social anxiety was trying to claw its way up my throat into a full scream—did everybody at the conference know me on sight? But somehow, I managed to say, “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he said, the words partially directed toward Julian—but he undermined them by gliding forward to interpose himself. Seizing my hand, he continued, “I loved A Work in Progress .”

“Thank you—”

“I mean, I loved it. How did you come up with Will Gower? He’s the most original character I’ve ever met.

And the plot! I never saw that twist coming—which one?

” He brayed laughter. “I never saw any of them coming. And do I detect a future romance with his secretary? Don’t tell me!

” One hand came up like he might have to stop me physically.

“But it’s a mystery, right? That’s what’s most important.

This is a mystery . I hope it’s not going to turn into a romance. ”

And then he stopped.

Like that had been some sort of question.

Julian was watching me with those dark, ultra-intense eyes.

“Uh, right,” I said, “it’s a mystery. I mean, there is a romantic subplot, but it’s primarily a mystery.”

(In theory, anyway. If I ever managed to write the rest of it.)

“Thank God,” the man said, still clutching my hand.

“Do you know what my favorite part was? It was when Will Gower was trying to find who took his favorite pen. And I loved when he got locked in the basement of that abandoned building. It. Was. Terrifying. But who am I kidding? Every part is my favorite.”

“Wow,” I said. (Which even to me seemed like a sad understatement.) And then I stopped because I literally had no idea what to say.

With a hint of a smile, Julian said to the man, “Excuse me, but would you be willing to let me interview you? I’m working on a secret project for Mr. Dane, and getting feedback from readers on some key points would be tremendously helpful.”

“Oh, I don’t know—” the florid man said.

To me, eyebrows arched, Julian added, “If you don’t mind continuing our conversation later? Maybe I could buy you a drink tonight?”

“Yes,” I said—and barely managed to avoid adding, Thank you .

“I’ll shoot you an email,” Julian said wryly.

“I promise I won’t send it to spam.”

“Let’s find somewhere to sit down,” Julian told the florid man. “I’d love to pick your brain about Mr. Dane’s book.”

They moved down the gallery, Julian with one hand on the man’s shoulder. The man twisted around to look back at me. I gave him the weirdest little wave and smiled. He didn’t smile back. If anything, his brows tightened, and what appeared to be genuine anger flashed across his face.

“You’ll want to be careful of that one,” a woman said behind me. “Readers like that can go rabid rather quickly.”

If you’ve ever had a scare—a real one—you know what it feels like: a gap, a space of nothing—because you’re still trying to process it, or you don’t quite believe it. And then a buzzsaw starts up in your chest, and your feet can’t find the floor, and the world starts to drift away.

But somehow, I turned around.

Vivienne Carver stood there, smiling at me.

The Vivienne Carver who had tried to kill me.

The Vivienne Carver I had put in prison. Where she was still supposed to be.

She smiled. “Hello, Dashiell.”