“I’m trying to help you avoid an expensive mistake.”She patted my knee.“I’ll give you some names.Trust me: once they know you’ve got an offer on the table, the feeding frenzy will begin.”
God, there was an image.
“And you’ll want to be careful to retain some say in the production.I had to fight to keep control ofMatron of Murder—they wanted to make her thirty years younger and give her a detective boyfriend who drove a Camaro.”She feigned a shudder.“That’s the kind of thing that makes people fall out of love with the work.And in the end, Dash, all we have is the work.”
I was speechless.Again.I was beyond shocked.I was gobstopped.Or gobsmacked.Or whatever the expression is.Finally, my voice sharp with what was, undoubtedly, the edge of hysteria, I said, “What are youdoinghere?What do youwant?”
Vivienne’s carefully sculpted blond eyebrows went up.“To get it back, Dashiell.”
“To get what back?The house.Not going to happen.”
“Not the house.All of it.I’m Vivienne Carver.And Iwillbe Vivienne Carver again.”She breathed out slowly.Smiled again.“And, my precocious young friend, I think we can help each other.”
I laughed—a real one this time, raw and shaky, but definitely me.“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Why not?We’re two of a kind, Dash.”
“Oh God, I hope not.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.We write, Dash.That’s who we are.And we find the truth.In our words.In the world.We help the innocent and punish the guilty—”
“Like Matrika?”
Vivienne sat back.Some of the neighbor-next-door cheer evaporated, and her jaw tightened.“Well, well, well.Kittydoeshave claws.”
“I guess so,” I said.“And if you don’t leave this kitty alone, I’m going to put you back in the litter box.”
(I regretted it as soon as I said it.Like,tremendously.Why hadn’t I said something smarter?Why hadn’t I said,I’m not a kitty?Why hadn’t I said,Keep messing around and you’ll get scratched?Why hadn’t I saidliterally anything else?)
But Vivienne either hadn’t heard me or didn’t care, because the cold mask of her expression didn’t change.
I opened my mouth to say something—quite possibly, an apology for that super weird comment I’d made—and then I stopped.
Because a woman was staring at us.
She was White, tall for a woman, with an upturned nose.And from the expression on her face, she knew who we were—or at least whooneof us was.
Vivienne followed the direction of my gaze, and when she saw the woman, the expression on her face grew—if anything—icier.She held herself stiffly.And then, in what could only be interpreted as a complete dismissal of the woman, she turned her attention back to me.
Rage thickened the woman’s expression, and for a moment, she tensed as though she were going to do something—scream, charge us,something.But then she gathered herself and stalked away.
“I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime,” Vivienne said.“You think people are excited about your book?Now, what would it be like with a major publisher behind it, pushing it into bookstores, getting it on shelves?You think people are excited about your story?How will they feel when they learn that we’re working together, Dash?Who else can do what we can do?Not just the writing.All of it.”
In a weird way, it was actually tempting.Who elsedidknow what this life was like—stumbling over bodies, solving murders, having friends and family get caught up in dangerous webs?There were so many questions I wanted to ask Vivienne.Like,Why does this keep happening?OrDoes it ever stop?OrWhat happens when you go on vacation?And Vivienne was right about my book; sure, it was selling well for a self-published book in a small Amazon category, but that wasn’t anything close to the big leagues.
I shook my head.“I appreciate the offer.And I know this is strange to say, Vivienne—maybe especially to you—but I want you to know how grateful I am that you hired me as your assistant.I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.But I’m not interested in working with you.And for both our sakes, I’d like you to stay away from me.”
She considered me.And then she took out a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and held it out to me.“Think about it, Dashiell.”
“Just Dash,” I said quietly.
The paper floated there between us until I took it.It was the conference program, and at the bottom, she’d written her phone number.“The offer does stand, though,” she said.“I hope you’ll reconsider.”
I nodded.But I couldn’t help asking, “What are you going to do?”
“Without you?”She laughed—pleasant and amused, as if all the ugliness had never happened.“Don’t worry about me.I’m going to be fine.I know exactly how to get back on top.”
“Uh, is thatsupposedto sound ominous?”
