Page 37 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year

And then all Maggie could do was scream and storm away.

She could still hear his footsteps crunching behind her, but she didn’t feel anything. Not anymore. Hopefully never again. And she walked faster, sinking in snow that was fresh and deep. It didn’t matter that she was numb from her knees down. She had to keep moving forward. Then. Now. Always. If she stopped moving forward, she would die, so Maggie just walked faster.

“Why do you hate me so much?” he called.

She hated him because he was handsome and charming and they lived in a world where a man didn’t have to be anything else.

She hated him because life was graded on a curve and he was the kind of guy for whom a seventy-six would always be an A.

She hated him because he was universally adored and even the people who were legally obligated to love Maggie had shrugged and saidmaybe not.

She hated him because she was aloneand afraid and nothing. She was nothing.

And Ethan...

Ethan hadn’t even known her name.

“Because we hate each other!” she shouted back. “We’ve spent years hating each other. It’s kind of our thing.”

Ethan darted out to block her path, but it was the look on his face that stopped her. His chest rose and fell in the chilly air, like he might start sweating despite the cold. Like he was in the fight of his life, and he was losing. “I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. And so help me I tried,” he mumbled as the snow started falling in a thick white wave—like they were inside a snow globe and fate had given them a good, hard shake.

For a moment, he was quiet. Pensive. And when he spoke again, the words were nothing but a whisper of frosty breath. “Just tell me. Please. What did I do?”

And Maggie tried very, very hard not to remember.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Eleven Months Ago

“How are you doing, kiddo?” The call was bad news. It had to be, because Deborah was being nice. And Deborah was never nice. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

It was three in the afternoon, and Maggie looked down at her oldest, softest pajamas, terrified Deborah might be able to see through the line and know that Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair.

“I’m great!” Maggie lied. “So great. Just the perfect amount of greatness. If you’re calling about the new draft, it’s almost ready. So close. I’ll have you something by the time I see you.” Maggie laughed, but the sound turned to ash in her mouth. “I’m not getting on that train until it’s finished, no sirree.”

The loudest silence in the world is the one that fills the pause when something isn’t actually funny, and, instantly, Maggie wanted to pull the words back, crawl in a hole—actually take that shower she’d been on the verge of taking for the last two days.

“That’s not why I’m calling. And”—Deborah drew a heavy breath—“it alsoiswhy I’m calling. You know how I told you Betty’s Book Club had it narrowed down to you and one other author...” Deborah trailed off, and, instantly, Maggie knew.

“No.”

“It’s probably for the best. You don’t need this kind of pressure right now.”

“Pressure is being an orphaned teenager, Deborah. Pressure is all your worldly possessions fitting into six cardboard boxes and not having a permanent address. Pressure is realizing the world is a high wire and you’re the only person you know without a net. This isn’t pressure,” said the woman whohad just found a piece of popcorn in her bra and she’d run out of popcorn three days ago.

But Deborah hadn’t called to argue. “It’s over, Maggie. It’s decided. Betty’s Book Club is going with the other Killhaven author—”

“Who?” Maggie demanded.

“I fought for you, kiddo. But you’ll have other books, other chances.”

“Who?”

“Your plate is full right now. Between the lawyers and the deadline and... Has he even moved out yet?”

“I moved out.”

“Oh, Maggie...”