On top of that, the conversation had strained my throat; it had registered only distantly at the time, mostly because of the mixture of adrenaline and intense focus that kind of, uh, interview brought out.Now, though, it hurt in earnest—a dull, scratchy throbbing that was like the worst strep throat in the world combined with a bruise.I grabbed a bottle of water and an iced coffee and hoped they’d help.
I took my time making my way across campus.The late afternoon had clotted into a not-so-creamy scum of clouds, with darker ones moving in from the west.Rain again, and not far off.Maybe not a lot, but more of the steady drizzle that was the hallmark of the Pacific Northwest.Without the sunshine, the day was colder, and the breeze cut through my jacket and made long, rushing sounds that wiped out everything else.A few other figures scurried across campus—several of them exhibiting that Oregonian trait: a complete imperviousness to rain and damp.(I swear to God, Bobby could go out in a monsoon and come back in dry as a bone, but those of us from warmer climes soaked up water like we were sponges.) And while cold water and iced coffeedidfeel great on my throat, they weren’t exactly ideal on a day that was well on its way to becoming blustery.
Whatever store of energy I’d tapped into, it ran out halfway across campus.Exhaustion settled into its place—physical exhaustion from the attack and a night of medicated sleep, and emotional exhaustion from all of it: Vivienne, Steven, Keme, and that brush with death.Cold sweat broke out across my forehead.When I reached the conference center, my legs were shaking.I found an empty chair in the long, windowed hall and sat with the clouds at my back.After a few minutes, I felt better.Well enough to think, anyway.And thinking was definitely preferable to getting up and moving around again, so I sat there and thought.
If Margauxhadkilled Robert—
“There you are!”The voice was jovial but scolding—ayou’re-in-trouble-misterthat didn’t quite land as joking.Spenser strode toward me, hands pumping energetically.Something about the stride made me think of a game show host approaching a fresh victim.Er, new contestant.“I’ve been looking all over for you.Oh my God, I heard what happened.You were attacked!Thank God you’re okay!”Then he laughed.“Otherwise I’d never get more Will Gower, right?”
I smiled weakly.“Not sure if that’s a bad thing.”
“Of course it’s a bad thing!Listen, I’ve been tellingeveryonehow amazing book one is.And we all agree that we can’twaitfor book two.”
“Uh huh.”
“We’re excited about it.”
My “Uh huh” was a little less charitable this time.
“We think Will Gower needs a new secretary.I hate to say it, but Ricky is alittleannoying.And we think you really need to—”
I take zero responsibility for what happened next.
“Who is ‘we’?”I said, and there was a little snap, crackle, and pop to the words.
Spenser blinked at me.“Well, all of us.The people who bought your book.We were wondering if you could do a teaser chapter.Oh, and a pre-order wouldn’t be too much to ask either so that we at leastknowthat book two is coming, because a lot of us don’t like to start series until all the books are out, so I think we’re making an exception for you.”
It was a high-ceilinged hall with a lot of glass.Voices rose.Echoes doubled everything.
“Really?”I said.“All of you think that?”
The question caught Spenser flat-footed, but a moment later, he was saying, “Absolutely.Now, I know it’s a big job, but I’d be happy to help.Oh, and who’s your cover designer, because we were thinking maybe it would help if you changed the covers so they looked more like, well, you know, a real book.We’dloveto see Will Gower on the cover.”
It wasn’t pain anymore.My throat felt tight.My chest, too.Yellow spots tinged with blue swam in my vision.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Well, we’re in the middle of a conversation—”
Halfway through the act of pushing myself to my feet, I froze.
Spenser must have sensed something because he started wringing his hands.“Um, that is to say, if you’re not feeling well—”
“I’m not,” I said.“Excuse me.”
Spenser took a step back and stumbled.Pain flashed across his face, and before he could stop himself, he reached for his leg.
His eyes met my eyes.
I turned, ducking my head, and hurried away.The crowd blurred around me—faces and bodies and voices.A mixture of perfumes and sweat and what was unmistakably way too much onion.The hallway tunneled ahead of me, narrowing in on itself.
It was impossible.
There was no way.
But whoever had been in Hemlock House the night before—whoever had attacked me—Keme had hit them hard.Hard enough to cause lasting damage.Hard enough that today, for example, they might be limping.
It didn’t make any sense, though.Why would Spenser have been in the house?Why would he have wanted to hurt me?He was a little too excited about the Will Gower books (okay, books, plural, was a stretch at this point), but that wasn’t an explanation for why he might have broken into my house and tried to kill me.
