He didn’t want to make it.
He wanted tohavemade it. To be appreciated, recognized, revered. He was always less interested in the writing itself than the accolades he assumed would inevitably follow. Malcolm didn’t dream of blank pages and fresh pens, of hours alone with new ideas. No, he dreamed of newspaper profiles, of magazine pieces, of headlining at big fancy festivals and being invited to literary salons like Arthur Fletch’s. In short, he didn’t want to be a writer.
He just wanted to be famous.
“Well,” mutters Malcolm, crossing his arms, “it’s better than makingPetrarchthe killer. Pffff.”
Sienna groans in sheer frustration, and the fact that he’s probably right. But it’s the only idea she’s had that’s even close to working. “There’ssomethingthere,” she insists, and there is—she just hasn’t cracked it yet. She tears a sheet from the notebook and casts it aside.
Malcolm bends to take it up. He squints, trying to read the words.
“Christ, Sienna,” he says, tossing it aside with a scowl, “you could at leasttryto make it legible.” And she could, but the truth is, she keeps it messy on purpose, so he can’t read what she’s writing. A tiny island of defiance that dates back to before they were married. In retrospect, that might have been a sign.
Hindsight, she muses with a small internal sigh.
Malcolm surges to his feet. “Aha!” he says.
“No one actually saysaha,” she mutters, but of course he isn’t listening.
“What if Julia finds a secret door, down into the tunnel—”
“She’s alreadyinthe tunnel,” says Sienna. “If you’d actually read the pages—”
“So sum it up for me.”
“Oh sure. While I’m at it, shall I recap the last four books? In case you forgot?”
“That would certainly be helpful.”
Sienna throws up her hands. “We don’t have time for this!”
“I don’t know what you want from me! Brainstorming is part of the process.”
“Maybe if you’d read the book instead of taking a goddamn nap—”
She flings a pillow at his head, but he catches it.
“You don’t have to be abitchabout it.”
Sienna rounds on Malcolm. He’s never called her that. Notever. She waits to see if he’ll flinch, apologize, but he doesn’t, and Sienna realizes she’s done.
“You know what? Fuck this. I’ll break the story on my own.”
She starts toward the door, but Malcolm grabs her arm. “We’re supposed to be a team.”
Sienna looks down at the fingers circling her sleeve. “A team?” she hisses. “We haven’t been ateamin years, Malcolm. Not since you started whining more than working and expecting me to pick up the slack. I’m sorry you don’t have the career that you want. But that isn’tmyfault. Now,let go.”
He looks down at his hand on her arm, as if he doesn’t know how it got there. His fingers twitch, then loosen enough for her to pull free.
“We’re done,” she says, glaring at the disheveled man who used to be her husband. “Penn Stonely is officially dead.”
His face darkens. “We had a deal, Sienna—”
“Fuck your deal. I’m done propping you up.”
“I’ll take the dog.”
“I don’t care what you do, Malcolm,” she snaps, realizing it’s the truth. He’s obviously bluffing—he really hates that dog—but even if he wasn’t, she’s so tired of playing by his ridiculous rules, of making herself small enough to fit inside his shadow. “From now on,” she declares triumphantly, “I’m writing alone.”
