Cate wavers, unsure, then looks at Priscilla, who’s slowly backing toward the desk. “Do what she says.”
And for some reason, Cate listens toher. Even now.
Unbelievable, thinks Millie, fingers flexing on the mace as Cate hurries out. She has no intention of using it, of course—she’snot a murderer—but the weight in her hands is reassuring.
She knows she feels a lot—jack-in-the-box, her boyfriend said, what an asshole, she really should have left him then and there—but Millie Mitchell has never been anangryperson. Frustrated, sure, bitter, overwhelmed, but not angry. A lot of the time she wishes she could feel that unfiltered rage she often gave her female leads.
It always seemed simple, pure.
But the way Priscilla is looking at her now, lips pursed, that narrow crease between her brow, makes Millie furious.
Because she’s so clearly not afraid.
Even though Millie is standing here, holding a goddamnmace. She is so fucking tired of not being taken seriously. And there’s that little voice again, Freya’s voice, so high and mighty as it points out that it’s what you get for always putting on a show, what did you expect, you can’t have it both ways, why don’t youGROW THE FUCK UP?
Millie grits her teeth and grips the mace more tightly.
Priscilla doesn’t even flinch. Cool as a fucking cucumber. Cold as ice. All the clichés, wrapped up in one pastel package. But Millie’s not falling for it now.
She is done being manipulated. By her parents, who spent eighteen years telling her she’d go to hell if she so much as looked at the wrong book. By her author friends, who smiled to her face and spread rumors behind her back. By her two-faced editor, who promised that her new series would be lead title, only to give the slot to avampirebook at the last minute, as if the market really needs another one of those.
Priscilla puts her hands out, palms up. “Millie, I need you to listen to me.”
How dare she treat her like a naughty child, or a misbehaving pet? “Put the weapon down,” Priscilla says firmly.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“You know what I think?”
The air slides between Priscilla’s teeth. “What?”
“I think you never went to the cottage to seduce Rufus. I think you’re the reason he disappeared.”
Priscilla shakes her head. “That’s not—”
“You were the last person to see him,” says Millie, gaining steam. “And then we all just took your word for it when you said he stole the boat and left, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe you killed him, and dumped his body on the yacht, and—”
“Why would I do that,” asks Priscilla, still maddeningly calm, “if I’m trying to win too?”
Millie falters. No, there’s a reason. There has to be a reason. It’s like a plot problem, a tricky bit she needs to wrap her mind around, and then she’ll get it. “Just—just let me think.”
“Go on, Millie, tell me,” presses Priscilla. “Why would I do it?”
“Juststop,” she snaps. “You think you’re so much smarter than everyone else. You think I’m so dumb.”
“I don’t think you’re dumb, Millie. In fact, I think you’re an excellent writer.”
Hollow praise. That’s all it is. And yet she feels a small traitorous flutter. How pathetic.
“I did read your pages,” Priscilla admits. “You have a gift for urgency, for emotion, and—”
“Shut up!” demands Millie. “Just shut up shut up shut up!”
Priscilla’s mouth tightens.
“Okay, you’re right, you didn’t have anything to gain by killing Rufus. But you sure took advantage of his absence. Did you really think you could get away with it? That he and Eleanor would come back to a house full of dead bodies and be like,Oh well, you’re the only one left, so I guess that makes you the winner?”
