“Unless,” says Jaxon, pointing down at the table, “it’shere.” He throws himself back in his chair and spreads his arms. “They’ve got us here, doing all this work, when we could just find the treasure.”
“You go right ahead,” says Kenzo.
Jaxon studies him, squinting in a way he probably thinks makes him seem intimidating, but really just makes him look like he needs better glasses. “Yeah,” he says, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you? One less person to compete with.”
“That would be true,” says Kenzo blandly, “if I saw you as competition.”
Sienna snorts. Jaxon scowls.
“Besides,” says Kenzo, “according to your story, the killers came here to steal the golden book and murdered Fletch in the process.”
Jaxon deflates a little, then rebounds, twice as bright. “Unless they couldn’t find it! It could still be here... hidden somewhere.”
Sienna rolls her eyes. “I’m with Priscilla. It sounds like the kind of thing a man would make up.” At least, Malcolm would.
Her husband is currently leaning back in his chair, eyes glassy and unfocused. No doubt dreaming of a world in which Penn Stonely’s name is written in precious gems. A hush has fallen over the table, and she wonders how many of them are thinking of the golden book. Or just the one they have to finish. The wind seems to have gone out of everyone’s sails. Probably a combo of jet lag and liquor.
“Well...” says Jaxon with an exaggerated yawn. But he doesn’t get up. No one does. As if they’re caught in a game of chicken, each waiting to see who will go first. Surely none of them actually plan to write tonight, Sienna thinks—or rather, hopes.
She looks to Kenzo, who’s slumped in his chair, making a slow migration to a horizontal state. Millie’s rubbing her eyes, and Cate yawns, covering her mouth behind an oversize sleeve, and Sienna has started thinking of the tartan bed, the soft down pillows, and it’s silly, isn’t it, this odd little contest, she knows it’s silly, and yet she doesn’t stand.
In the end, it’s Priscilla who breaks the stalemate.
“I don’t know about you all,” she announces, pushing back her chair. “But I am beat.”
With that, everyone else seems to come unstuck. A murmur of yeses, and yawns, and then chairs scrape across the hardwood floor, and dishes are ferried into the kitchen sink, a problem for another day as they trudge toward the stairs. They pass a suit of armor in the hall—a prop, Malcolm informs them all, from the latest TV adaptation.
“Good night, knight,” says Millie, patting its metal head.
They drift past the office, and Sienna glances at the numbers on the front of the safe.
61:34:12.
The group climbs the stairs, hits the landing, and splits, half to one wing, and half to the other.
When they reach their room, Malcolm doesn’t even get undressed. He goes down like a felled tree, arms and legs stiff as he topples into bed.
Sienna briefly considers soldiering on alone, but when she looks at the pages, the words seem to blur. Better to start fresh, she decides, first thing in the morning.
Brains are funny little engines, always turning. She doesn’t have a solve for the ending, not yet, but who knows, maybe a good idea will come to her in her sleep.
That happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Of course, it’s never happened to her. Not yet.
But it could, she thinks, sliding beneath the duvet.
It could.
The Debut Writer
THE CASTLE HAS GONE QUIET.
It’s late, and in the kitchen, Cate’s alone.
Just her and the kettle and the light over the stove.
The tartan throw from her bed, pulled like a shawl around her shoulders. The only sounds the quiettickof water heating, the tap of her fingers as she waits. Watched pot, she knows, just like she knows it’s probably a bad idea to make herself a cup in the middle of the night.
