“None of you have toured internationally or been reviewed in theTimes—SundayorNew York—or been a bestseller or a media darling or had adaptations actually made.”
Jaxon opens his mouth again, but she raises a hand.
“It’s hardly your fault. After all, publishing has never been and neverwillbe a meritocracy. So, on the rare occasion when chance holds out a hand like this, you should take it. What we’re offering today is as close to a guarantee as you’ll get in this business. A way out of the midlist. Which brings us, of course, to thesizeof the deal.”
A different kind of stillness settles over them then.
A held-breath, coiled quiet, a feeling Millie recognizes because she knows it all too well. Desperation. Sheneedsthis.
And she clearly isn’t the only one.
For the first time, even cool-guy Kenzo stands up straight.
Jaxon’s eyes are saucer wide behind his thick-framed glasses.
Sienna is shifting her weight from foot to foot, and Priscilla’s fists are clenched, her whole body taut as the editor, Rufus, breaks into a grin.
“The team at Merriweather Press is prepared to offer one million dollars for completing the book...”
A small gasp goes around the room. Millie does some mental math. That’s roughly a hundred dollars a word. Which is crazy enough, but then Rufus continues.
“Andanothermillion for the new deal.”
It’s like he’s gone and rung the gong again, the way the room goes still. Everyone sucks in air to speak, but it’s Malcolm who gets there first, all his bravado and his British accent slipping as he says, “Holy fucking shit.”
And he might as well have taken the words right out of her mouth.
Millie stops fighting the smile, and lets it bloom across her face.
It’s tragic, obviously, what happened to Arthur Fletch. But it’s not the end of the world, not for Millie Mitchell. It’s a chance at a new life, a brand-new chapter.
And she’ll do whatever it takes to win.
* * *
“YOU WANT ME TO DOWHAT?”
Millie clutches her cell like it’s an oxygen mask as she eyes the waiting safe.
A few minutes before, they’d migrated from the base of the stairs to Fletch’s office, where the writers proceeded to stand around, staring in wonder at the polished mahogany desk, so spotless it looks like it’s never been used, at the stained-glass windows behind it—four of them, each panel featuring the hero of a different series: Ashbolt, Creststone, Bellamy, and Petrarch—and at the shelves around the office, filled with trinkets, totems, and a row of trophies featuring the head of a weird, sad French-looking guy.
Turns out the weird, sad French head trophies weren’t French after all—they’re meant to be Edgar Allan Poe. “Somany Edgar Awards,” murmured Malcolm as he lifted one, almost lovingly, from the shelf. He was clearly in heaven, pointing out the bone-white ship in a glass bottle, one of the clues that helped Ashbolt break his first case. “That backlit map of London, there,” he said, “shows the underground network Creststone ferreted out. And that—that’s the dagger that finally felled Bellamy, and forced his protégé, Petrarch, to carry on his work.” His knowledge of Fletch lore is overwhelming—and intimidating. It’s got to be a major advantage.
“Wow,” Cate said, eyes wide. “It’s like something out of a movie.”
“I think I read somewhere that he didn’t actually write in here,” mused Kenzo, running a fingertip along the desk as if to check for dust. “He preferred to work in bed. But that doesn’t convey the same gravitas.”
Millie was thinking about the content she could film in here, the videos she could log sitting at this famous desk, the way it might help shift her stagnant follower count, when Eleanor cleared her throat and ushered them to a tall safe in the corner and instructed them to surrender their devices.
The safe is the size of a small wardrobe, glossy black metal with copper hinges that look vintage, a style marred by the clearly high-tech lock. Millie’s read about this safe, how Arthur Fletch would lock his phone away for hours while he wrote, setting the timer so even he couldn’t break in early, and horror washes over her.
They can’t possibly expect her toactuallygive up her lifeline to the outside world.
But that’s exactly what Eleanor’s just told her to do.
“A matter of discretion,” she says, “since news of Arthur’s death hasn’t been made public.”
“Besides,” adds Rufus, “it will give you all a chance to focus on the task at hand.”
