Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

One Week Later

At first I think a mosquito has slipped between the screens on my windows, woken me from a dead sleep and is buzzing around my ear.

I open my eyes. It is still dark.

I flap my hand wildly around my head and give my ear a hard slap for good measure.

The sound stops.

A few moments later, the buzzing returns.

I roll over. My cell is flashing. It’s 5:07 a.m.

It is not a number I recognize.

“Spam,” I mutter, ignoring it.

It immediately buzzes again. I pick up and yell, “Stop calling me! It’s still the dead of night. I don’t want to take your stupid survey or save five dollars a month on my AT&T bill!”

I start to hang up when a man’s voice says, “Emma Page? My supersecret Solar Flare!”

My blood runs cold. I know that hiss.

Marcus Flare. He doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“First, it’s not the dead of night. It’s morning. We’re both on Eastern time. I’ve already done a five-mile run, showered, had breakfast, written four pages and answered emails. This is the time of day when highly successful individuals achieve the most. You must start your day with intention if you are going to work with me.”

I wake up quickly.

My intention is to gut you like a pig.

“Now is the time when most adults would say something in return,” he says condescendingly. “It’s called the art of conversation, a skill set your generation has lost looking at your cell phones all day and not actually speaking to a live human. The thing I look most forward to in our working relationship is your witty repartee. If I were you, I’d use your voice while you still had one.”

I sit up in bed now fully awake.

“How did you get my number?” I finally ask. “And why did you really ask to work with me?”

“I got your number from your parents. They’re so grateful to me for believing I’m saving their ass that they’d give me your social security number if I asked,” he says with a dismissive laugh. “They also believe that I can save your sorry ass.”

“They’re good people,” I say.

He laughs again, harder.

“No, they’re not, and you know that,” Marcus says. “They’re the worst kind of rich people. They did nothing to achieve their status except inherit their wealth.”

“No, they took great risk starting their own company,” I say, shocked that I’m now defending my parents with such fervor. “They could have just sat back and done nothing with their lives. They followed their passion.”

“The Pages think they’re untouchable and that nothing will ever knock them from their pedestal,” Marcus says. “Well, I brought a sledgehammer to the museum.”

My head spins. I want to tell him, I know everything, and I will destroy you! but I remember what Jess said: we remain elegant until we need to turn vicious in order to protect our own flock.

I take a breath.

“Why are you doing this? Just tell me so I understand. I deserve a little clarity, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. That would spoil the surprise ending, wouldn’t it?” he purrs. “I used to love O. Henry. But I will answer your question and tell you why I specifically asked to work with you. Do you want to know?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes, who?” he asks.

“Yes, Marcus?”

“I prefer Mr. Flare actually. Try it.”

My heart is in my throat. I feel sick.

“Yes, Mr. Flare.”

“Good job, Emma. You can obey like a toy poodle. I’d ask you to bark, but I know you prefer to bite, so I’ll limit my training to one lesson a day.” He exhales, quite pleased with himself. “Now for the fun part. Why did I ask for you, Emma?”

“Yes,” I say.

He doesn’t respond.

“Yes, Mr. Flare.”

I nearly choke on my words.

“I want you to help me find the absolute worst manuscript in the world for my new imprint,” Marcus says, his voice as chipper as a child’s on Christmas Day.

“What?” I ask. “Why would you want to harm your own imprint right out of the gate? It’s your name on the line.”

“You’re so slow,” Marcus says impatiently. “I thought you said Michigan was a good university.” He sighs. “Okay, let me explain. I want to torpedo any chance your parents have of saving The Mighty Pages right out of the gate. And the only way to do that is to hit them in the gut both financially and critically. You know how much your parents value their image.”

He’s got me there.

“They must be humiliated in business and embarrassed in the press.”

“But you can’t make the decision to publish unilaterally,” I argue. “There’s a team involved, and my father—for all his faults—knows a good book. He would not allow a bad one to be published intentionally.”

“He might hate it, but he won’t have a choice,” Marcus explains. “It’s my imprint, and—contractually—I have final say on what is and isn’t published. When the book fails, which I will ensure, I will say that I couldn’t get Piper and Phillip to change their rather stodgy literary ways, but I believe so much in what they started that I plan to step in and take over. They’ll need the cash just to get out of the hole they’ll have dug by then, and I will step in to buy and rename The Mighty Pages to Marcus Flare Books: Fiction That’s on Fire.”

Fire! I was right!

My heart races.

Stay cool, Emma.

“But a big publisher would likely step in and buy,” I say. “They would offer a good price and want to take on many of my parents’ established authors. You have no leverage against the big boys.”

“It’s part of my contract, sweetheart,” he says. “I get the first chance to buy before anyone else. Your parents agreed to nearly every single detail of my contract because they need saving that badly.”

He continues.

“I think you are forgetting exactly who you’re dealing with here. I am the world’s bestselling author, meaning I make my publisher millions of dollars every year. People don’t doubt what I say or do. They can’t because I am the closest thing publishing has to a home run with every book I write. Publishing is a business and a game, Emma. I can tell you right now which books you and the world will be reading next year and the next. I know before you know because I see where the money is invested, who the books are marketed to and, as a result, I can predict what readers will buy. When I say that your parents no longer understand what sells and that I’m stepping in to save independent publishing with my money, instincts and fame, publishing will believe me. When I take over The Mighty Pages, people will cheer. Now, do you have something handy to take notes?”

“Yes,” I lie, adding, “Mr. Flare.”

“Good. You seem a bit out of sorts. I talk fast, and I have three more calls before six. That’s when I cut off contact with the world until noon so I can write.”

When I don’t respond, Marcus asks, “Are you there?” in a clipped tone.

“Yes,” I say. I know what to add to soften his tone. “Sir.”

“Good. Here goes. Our new imprint has already received countless submissions since it was announced in the Times . Every major literary agent wants to publish with us. Every new writer in the world wants to be discovered by us. And you get to help decide who that will be…with a twist: Find me the worst book out there, one that is so poorly written, one that defies explanation, one that should be burned upon reading. Caveat, Emma—the premise and opening of this novel must actually be decent as that is all I will be showing your parents to win their approval. Think of the book as you do your mother. A beautiful face with a rotten inside.”

My blood boils.

“The writer you discover will become infamous.” Marcus is silent for a second before emitting a wicked chuckle. “Perhaps you should submit your own novel. It’s probably your only shot to get published.”

“I understand completely, Mr. Flare,” I say.

“Attagirl!” he says, his tone sounding pleased by my quick submission. “No pressure. It’s only a daughter working to destroy her own family behind their backs. It’s really everything you ever dreamed, isn’t it?”

How can this man be so evil and yet see our family weaknesses so clearly that he knows exactly how to prey on us?

“Now go find that golden ticket,” he says, quoting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory . “Good luck, sweetheart.”

He hangs up.

Silence.

His final word buzzes in my ear just like the make-believe mosquito.

Golden ticket.

Golden key.

I turn, and a soft golden glow grows on the horizon. The lake is waking up. The birds are dancing along the shore.

I focus on the soft lapping of the waves.

Just as my head begins to calm, my laptop dings. I open it. An email from Marcus, with all of the manuscripts attached in a zip file.

There’s no need to open the file because the world’s bestselling author just gave away a winning plot twist to an unpublished writer. He may have just saved us as GiGi saved him.

“Two of us can play this game,” I whisper to myself. “ Sweetheart .”