Millie looks at Cate, mustering a smile that’s kind, if a little thin. “But maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe you’ll be the one they pick,” says Jaxon. “Write a good enough ending, and you’ll never have to deal with any of this bullshit. You’ll have the keys to the publishing kingdom.”
“And what happens to the rest of us?” asks Sienna softly, almost inaudibly.
But the words land like a blow.
It’s weird how easy it is to forget. To get caught up in the company, the ease of being around other people who understand the push-pull of art and business, the only ones who really know what’s it like, because they’re fighting the same fight, too easy to lose track of the fact that this weekend, they’re fighting against each other. So much of publishingfeelslike a zero-sum game—they won, so I don’t—and while, out there, it isn’t always like that—excitement in a genre can open doors, not close them—here and now, it’s actually true.
Only one of them is walking out of here with the prize.
Only one of them can win.
Desperation clouds the air, wafting off the other authors.
And Kenzo might notneedit, not like they do, but hewantsit all the same.
Suddenly Malcolm stands, an inch of red left in his wineglass, and Kenzo wonders how many times he’s topped it off. One too many, judging by the way he grips the back of Jaxon’s chair for balance as he lifts his glass.
“A toast,” he declares, looking around the table. “To a legend, and a friend, and an illustrious host, the man without whom none of us would be here.” His eyes shine with a mixture of emotion and drink. “To Arthur Fletch.”
The glasses go up, a medley of wine, and scotch, and soda. “To Arthur Fletch,” they echo. Malcolm nods somberly and says, “May he rest in peace.”
He downs the last of his wine. Priscilla takes a tasteful sip. The rest have the glasses halfway to their lips when Kenzo looks down into his drink and says, “Sure...ifhe’s really dead.”
The Thriller Writers
SIENNA CHOKES ON HER DRINK.
Malcolm and Priscilla scowl.
Cate and Millie are aghast.
Jaxon barks a nervous laugh and says, “Bullshit.”
“Oh, come on,” says Kenzo, looking around. “You had to be thinking it.”
“I certainly wasnot,” Malcolm says, glowering. Judging by the faces, neither was anyone else.
“You’re just saying that because you’re the horror guy,” says Millie.
Kenzo shrugs. “Maybe. But you have to wonder, right? I mean, sure, he could be dead. But what if...”
What if.
The two words that fuel and plague every creative mind.
Sienna and Malcolm share a look. A reminder that there was a time they didn’t fight, didn’t even need to talk to know what the other was thinking. Which, at that very moment, is about the man on the cliff. The one they saw from the boat. The one Malcolm was so sure was Fletch.
“We saw someone,” she says. “Up on the cliff, just before we docked.” She nods toward Malcolm. “You thought it was Fletch.”
“I did,” says Malcolm slowly. “It certainly looked like him, from a distance. He had that famous hat on. But it must have been someone else.”
“But Eleanor said—” squeaks Cate. “She said everyone else had left the island. She said we were alone.”
Kenzo shrugs. “Maybe she lied. People have been known to do that.”
“But if he’snotdead,” says Millie, “why would they invite us here?”
