Sienna shakes her head. “Hard to believe that the most famous author in the world would fake his own death.”
“Is it?” Kenzo gives her a weighted look. “You’ve never dreamed of starting over?”
Sienna’s mouth opens, but before she can say too much, she shuts it again, forcing her attention back to the model house. Her gaze drifts up to the second floor, both wings laid bare. She recognizes the bedroom she shares with Malcolm, draped in yellow, as well as Millie’s, awash in blue, and what must be Jaxon’s, the only room rendered white. She gets her first look at the rooms on the other wing as well. A cozy green nook—that must be Cate’s. A room in shades of pink, for Priscilla. And a room as purple as a bruise. Kenzo’s.
It feels voyeuristic, being able to see inside the other writers’ rooms, to reach in and touch the beds, part the tiny curtains. Which is silly, since they aren’t really theirs. And that’s the model’s failing. This is the house as it belonged to Fletch, not as they’re currently inhabiting it. The rooms are there, but not the typewriters or their stacks of colored paper. Not Cate’s oversize cardigans, or Priscilla’s fuchsia-colored suitcase, or the giant bag she heard Jaxon lugging up the stairs.
Sienna watches Kenzo pull back the violet curtains in his model bedroom, moving so carefully, as if a sideways breath might upset the whole thing, and she finds herself saying, “I can’t believe you write horror.”
He glances up at her, one black brow lifting slightly.
“It’s just,” she adds, “you seem so... normal.”
Kenzo shrugs, prodding the model sofa in the model drawing room, the one that was trying to swallow him when they arrived. “Maybe I just get all my demons out on the page.”
“No deep dark secrets then?” She knows she’s fishing, but she can’t help it. Kenzo strikes her as the type who keeps his cards close to his chest.
“What can I say?” He gingerly lifts a miniature crossbow from its mounting in the model foyer. “I just like scaring the pants off of people.” But Sienna can tell it’s more than that, and sure enough, after a moment of studying the tiny weapon, he goes on. “Reading horror is like hitching a ride with a stranger. You’re on edge, guessing all the things that could happen, but never knowing if or when they will. Butwritinghorror means being the one behind the wheel.”
“So it’s all about control?”
He considers. “Mostly. Not all. I also like the fact that anything can happen.” He replaces the crossbow on its hook and withdraws his hand from the model. “Horror isn’t just jump scares and haunted dolls. It’s myth, and lore, and family secrets. It can be scary, sure, but good horror doesn’t happen without heart. And sometimes there are monsters, but those are just constructs, foils. At its core, horror is about humans. What we’re capable of. And what we’re capable of surviving.”
Sienna smiles. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just a great answer.”
“Did it sound too rehearsed?”
“Not at all.”
“Good.”
“Was it?” she asks.
“Entirely.”
Sienna laughs.
“But it’s still true.” Kenzo nods at her. “Your turn. Why did you choose thrillers?”
Sienna hesitates. “I didn’t really choose,” she says. “It was just what Malcolm wrote. And then I started helping him, and changing course never felt like an option.” She hears the words as they leave her mouth and hates them. “Don’t get me wrong,” she adds, trying to salvage her pride. “I liked the challenge, and the work was fun.”
Until it wasn’t.
“It’s not too late to change course. We’re all just works in progress.”
She gives him a look.
“Too cheesy?”
“Way too cheesy.”
Kenzo chuckles. “I mean it. If you could change now, which you totally can, what would you write?”
She studies the mini marble squares on the foyer floor. One corner of the little rug beneath the foyer table is rucked up, and she smooths it down. The truth is, she doesn’t know. She likes novels in all shapes and sizes. She’s always read widely—unlike Malcolm, who won’t even look at other genres—always cared less about where a story’s shelved than how it makes her feel. She doesn’t think it matters what she writes, so long as it excites her.
