The humor drops like a sheet from Cate’s face. “Oh, don’t act so superior,” she says. “You think my book would ever have made it out of Eleanor Vandenberg’s bottomless inbox if it hadn’t walked a path already paved? You can pretend that publishing wants things that are new, but it doesn’t. It just wants more of the same.” Her knuckles are white on the book.
“What doyouwant, Cate?”
“Me?” she muses. “I want to get out of my shitty flat. I want enough cash to buy proper food, instead of living off coffee shop scraps. And I want to show my mum how naive she was. How meaningless, to waste all that time and energy, when the fact was, no one really cared.”
Ava swallows. “I know it’s hard to believe right now,” she says. “But publishing isn’t all bad. Some of us are really trying—”
“Oh please,” sneers Cate. “You can save that speech for someone who gives a shit.” She reaches for the desk chair and grabs Ava’s—well, Priscilla’s—pink satchel, looping it across her body. Ava can see she’s losing ground. Her mind races as Cate wrestles the golden book into the bag.
“You’re right, publishing is brutal. But you clearly have what it takes to survive.”
Cate pauses, seeming to consider. “You know, on second thought, maybe I will take the deal. Another two million, that’s icing on the cake.”
Ava holds her breath as Cate muses to herself, “Yeah, I mean, it won’t even be hard. Fletch is dead, but he wrote enough to feed the algorithm. I’m sure I can do a decent job of walking in his shadow.”
Ava nods. “Exactly,” she says, trying not to sound too desperate. “We can make this work together. No one else ever needs to know.”
She knows, as soon as the words are out, she’s tipped her hand too far.
Cate cocks her head, amused. “Thanks for the offer, Ava. But given all that’s happened”—she gestures down at Millie’s body—“I think it’s best if I start fresh.”
A new wave of panic rolls over Ava as Cate moves toward her, picking up the mace.
“You might get away with stealing other people’s work. But you won’t get away withthis. Look around, Cate. An island full of dead writers. That’s going to ring some alarm bells.”
The girl’s veneer cracks, just a little, and Ava quickly presses on.
“Forget the deal. Your best bet is to disappear with the golden book—it’s worth more than the contract, anyway—but for that to work, you’ll need it to look like you were never here. Which is going to be hard, considering your phone and laptop are still in the safe. You could sit around and wait for it to open, but Eleanor Vandenberg will be here by then, and if I were you, I’d want to be long gone.”
The cracks deepen, spreading across Cate’s face.
“But I can open the safe for you,” says Ava, which is a bold-faced lie. As far as she knows, there is in fact no way to override the safe. But Cate doesn’t know that. She watches the girl consider her words.
After seconds that feel like hours, Cate smiles. A cold, humorless grin.
“Well then,” she says, the mace wagging like a finger in Ava’s face. “Let’s go.”
* * *
AVA STARTS DOWN THE HALL, TOWARD THEstairs, empty hands flexing, desperate for a weapon, or a plan. Cate is silent behind her, save for the mace tapping lightly on the wall. Outside, wind slams itself against the windows. Thunder rumbles like a growl. The weather has grown from a storm into something wild and unwieldy.
Ava descends the stairs, Cate trailing like a shadow. She reaches the landing, starts down the second step, and lurches to a stop.
“Oh god,” she says, hand flying to her mouth.
It’s Kenzo.
At first she thinks he’s standing upright at the bottom of the stairs. But then she sees the way his head slumps forward, his body held up by the tangled bouquet of antlers sprouting from the table.
“Huh,” says Cate. “I guess he didn’t find his ax.”
Ava stares in horror. His black clothes swallow the color, but they shine wet, soaked through with blood, one pale bone protruding from his stomach.
“So gross, right?” says Cate, too close to her ear. “I mean, who puts sharp objects at the bottom of the stairs? You’re practically asking for an accident. What’s that called again? When it happens in a book.”
Ava swallows, barely getting the words out. “Chekhov’s gun.”
“That’s right!” says Cate brightly. “Whoeverheis.” She prods Ava with the mace. “Go on.”
