(She used to practice in the mirror, so she wouldn’t look weird in the candid photos that made the rounds after every YA festival, but over time it just became a kind of habit, whenever other authors were around. Lights on, showtime. Millie Mitchell, charming, happy, sweet. A little ditzy, maybe, but hey, it’s better to act dumb and be smart than the other way around.)
Kenzo’s still looking at her.
And something about it makes her go cold. Maybe it’s the casual way he’s holding the ax, the wooden handle hanging from his fingers. Or maybe it’s the fact that two people are dead, and he doesn’t seem that bothered. Or surprised. What was it he said at dinner?
I get to kill people, for fun.
“Millie?” he asks again, with just enough concern in his voice that it makes her wonder if he practiced in a mirror, too.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I guess my head was somewhere else, and I was rushing down the stairs, and I just—I forgot. Isn’t that weird?” She nods down at the stain. Kenzo looks at it too, and as he does, she studies him, searching for any sign of guilt. But there’s nothing. She pushes a little harder. “How can you forget something so awful...” She trails off, frowning at the typewriter under his arm. “Re-creating the crime scene?”
Kenzo shakes his head. “Didn’t feel safe up there. All alone. Thought I’d set up in the kitchen.”
“Good idea,” she says, even as she takes a step away from the stain—and from him.
“Careful,” she adds. “It’s still wet.”
Kenzo’s head bobs. “It takes a while,” he says. “For that much blood to dry...”
“Spoken like a crime scene analyst. Or a horror writer.”
One corner of his smile tilts. “You should see my search history.”
She laughs. A bright, nervous sound.
And then she turns and escapes, as calmly as she can, down the stairs.
Chapter Three
THE BLINKING RED HOURS ON THE FRONTof the safe tip from24to23as Millie passes Fletch’s office. The house is weirdly quiet. No laughter echoing down the hall, no sound of cooking in the kitchen. It feels... hollowed out. And sure, they are two down from where they started, but it feels like more.
She reaches the library, and bursts in, accidentally startling Cate, who’s over by the dollhouse.
“Oh my god.” Millie gasps, her own heart surging in surprise. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Cate lets out a shaky laugh, puts the same hand to her chest. “Sorry! I’m a little jumpy after... well...” She gestures vaguely, at the room, the house, the, well, everything.
Millie blows out a breath. “I don’t blame you. It’s been... a lot.”
Cate bobs her head, tucks a chunk of dark hair back behind her ear, her eyes glassy with tears.
It hits Millie then: Cate is only a year or two older than Freya.
No wonder she’s struggling to cope.
She thinks of hugging her, but then she remembers that the British are allstiff upper lip, no touching please, emotions, how untoward.
(She learned this the hard way after meeting one of her favorite authors at a festival last year, a British literary legend, and when Millie went in for the hug, the woman looked at her like she was a wild animal and backed quietly out of reach before offering a limp hand, and Millie definitely cried in the elevator after.)
So instead, Millie pats Cate gently on the shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
Cate chews on the inside of her cheek and tugs at the hem of her cardigan. “I... I honestly don’t know.”
Millie’s been keeping her distance out of—not jealousy, exactly, though it would have been, if Cate had chosen young adult, which loves nothing more than anactualyoung adult to hype up, even if they don’t have the chops. The younger the author, the bigger the budget, all that pressure and promise, until the shine wears off (which it always does, eventually, the machine moving on to the next big thing, leaving the author to pick up the pieces... or a pen name).
No, it’s more that Millie doesn’t know quite how to perform around Cate. Which version of herself to be. Now she wonders if she should just... be herself.
“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed.”
