It’s not that she doesn’t love working on books. She does. She always has. She loves the way a well-placed word can shift an entire narrative, the way meaning hides between lines, the way stories can change lives, change worlds. She loves disappearing into them. She loves making them better. And sometimes, she even likes the people who write them.
But in a way, Cate was right. At least about one thing.
The industry is broken.
And she’s afraid it’s broken her.
Even Eleanor looks—well,tiredis the wrong word. Ava is sure the agent spends a great deal of money to look as well-rested as she does, close to what Ava clears in a year, just to wave away the constant praise that she looks “exquisite for her age.”
But Eleanor’s silence speaks for her. So does the long sip of vodka. And the sigh that slides through her lips as she sets the martini glass back on its coaster.
“Well,” she says at last. “That was—”
“—a clusterfuck,” Ava finishes for her.
“Of epic proportions.”
“I knew Holden was a mistake,” Ava mutters, fingers tightening on the stem of her glass. “ButCate—”
“Yes, that one was... regrettable.”
“Regrettable?” scoffs Ava. “She was a hack, a thief, and she tried tomurderme.”
Eleanor takes another sip. “How’s the foot?” she asks, with a politeness that says she doesn’t really care.
“It fucking hurts.”
“I bet. You’ve got to be careful, running around in the dark.”
“Yes, well, maybe if you hadn’t firedallof Fletch’s staff, someone would have cut the grass, and I would have seen the snare.”
Eleanor arches a tinted brow. “Be glad I did. This clusterfuck, as you so eloquently call it, would have been worse if we had witnesses to deal with.”
“None of this would have happened if therehadbeen witnesses,” counters Ava. “And honestly, how can you be so blasé? People are dead.”
Eleanor studies her glass. “I’ve been in this business long enough to bury my share of bodies.”
“That saying is usually metaphorical.”
Eleanor’s mouth twitches. She takes another pointed sip of her martini. “Regardless,” she says, voice tucked carefully beneath the current of the bar, “it shouldn’t betoohard to keep it out of the press. Their midlist status isn’t theonlyreason I suggested them.”
Ava shifts, maneuvering her cast between the table legs. “What do you mean?”
Eleanor waves her now empty glass toward the bartender, and moments later, another martini magically appears. “Well,” she says, “we had the NDAs, once they got to the island, but there was the time before to worry about. I’ve never met a writer who could keep their mouth shut—gossips, every last one. And since we had a veritable wealth of options, I made sure to choose candidates who didn’t have many... connections.”
And now, thinks Ava, grimly,ones that won’t be missed.
“Jaxon Knight’s parents are out of the picture,” continues Eleanor stroking the dog’s ear. “Millie’s, too—she had a sister, but it seems they weren’t close. Sienna and Malcolm had this little treasure,” she adds, stroking the dog’s ear. “Cate was estranged, but we did inform her mother. She was devastated, of course—but still managed to ask if I was open to queries. Kenzo—well, he may be private, but he had attachments. By all accounts he should have never made the list. But thankfully, that won’t be an issue now...”
Ava shakes her head in disbelief. And horror. And, perhaps, a grudging admiration. So many steps, gamed out, like chess. “You should be a writer,” she says darkly. She doesn’t mean it as a compliment, but Eleanor’s mouth twitches.
“That’s what I wanted to discuss. There is still, of course, the matter of the book.”
Ava groans and takes a large gulp of wine. “I should have just written it myself.”
In the ensuing silence, she glances at Eleanor and finds her staring back. She’s never noticed, but up close, the woman’s eyes are so gray they’re almost colorless.
“Well,” she says, slowly. “You still could.”
