“Is that true?” said Sam. “I’ve never done that before.”
“It is true.”
“Says the man who switches genres with every book.”
“How do you think I get away with that?” William said. “I tell them I’m going to write one thing, and then I write another. Nobody has ever said boo.” His hands began to rove. “I bet your editor won’t even notice.”
Sam thought this was untrue; Patricia would almost certainly remark on the fact that her gold miner had morphed into a rumrunner. But it wasn’t a bad idea. “Are you sure?” she said. “It’s kosher for me to just kill this darling?”
William had been tiptoeing his fingers between Sam’s thighs, but now they stopped. “Do not use that malapropism around me, please. I loathe it.”
“What?” said Sam, confused. “Kosher?”
“No. Kill your darlings. Did you know that most common piece of writing advice is also stolen? It was originally murder your darlings. Billy Faulkner appropriated it.”
“I never heard that,” said Sam. “Who said it first?”
“The fellow’s name escapes me now,” said William. “Which only proves how easy it is for one’s literary legacy to be obliterated once somebody else purloins it. My greater point being, I hate a thief.”
“Okay,” said Sam, thinking, Now there’s a trigger. “Noted.”
William’s hands recommenced their stealthy southward slide. “What if we work on this new book idea together? I’ll help you. I’ll be your writing Sherpa and sex toy.”
“You’re so generous,” Sam said.
“I’m a giver,” he agreed. “Let’s give it a try, what do you have to lose?”
Matters progressed. The chair rolled dangerously beneath them. William stood and turned to set Sam on the desk, then dumped her suddenly on her feet.
“What is this?” he said, bending to retrieve a greeting card from therug. The card featured Hemingway at his typewriter, above the caption:I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen. That was not what William was asking about. He held out the paper that had slid from the card, which said:
YOU’RE NOT LISTENING, SIMONE. WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU LISTEN? STAY THE F*CK AWAY FROM WILLIAM CORWYN.
“Oh,” said Sam. “That.”
“Yes. This. What is this, Simone?”
“It’s nothing,” said Sam. “It was taped to my apartment door when I came home last week.”
“It wasinside?”
“No, no. The outer door. It’s fine.” Although the thought of the Rabbit waiting in the bushes outside Sam’s building like a rat and then darting in behind some delivery person was not pleasing.
“It is in no way fine.” William set the note on the desk and began to pace. “I hate that she’s targeting you.”
“So you think it’s the Rabbit too.”
“Likely.”
Sam watched him stalk her study. “Then that’s okay, right? Because you said she never does anything. Just leaves notes.”
“She never does anything tome,” said William. “Who knows what she’s capable of with someone else.”
He came to Sam and took her hands.
“There is one other possibility,” he said. “I had... a complication a month or two ago. Not a relationship, although she seems to think it was. I thought we were just having some saucy fun. But when I broke it off, she was wildly angry.” He sighed. “I’m not proud of myself. I crossed a boundary. She was from the Darlings.”
“Oh, William,” Sam groaned.
