“Whatever. The point is, this is really happening. You heard the Gifter: we’re stuck here until it ends.”
“This is ridiculous,” sighs Grant. “I can’t just abandon all my responsibilities to play fugitive. I have a life to get back to.” He rubs a hand over his weary face. I can’t help but notice he seems less than thrilled by the prospect.
“Well, you took a vacation from it the moment I jumped into your Uber,” I say. “Which, I’ve got to say, was a pretty cool moment.”
“Yeah, I didn’t feel so cool at the time,” Grant says, his head in his hands.
“I meant me,” I clarify. “Pulling a guy out of his car,Grand Theft Autostyle? By far the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”
Grant lifts his head slowly and looks at me, his mouth pressed into a flat line. The way the sun catches his russet-brown eyes, it’s like I canseethe fires of bewilderment in them.
I cringe apologetically. “Are we not ready to acknowledge that?”
“You’re insane,” he says. “Absolutely insane.”
I wave a hand, disregarding him. “Fine. Let’s focus on the big questions. Like what happens next.”
I look at him, waiting patiently for any useful tidbit of his vast knowledge, and he looks back. It’s like staring at a mirror until his eyebrows fly up in realization.
“Oh, me? How should I know?”
“You’re the genre expert! Come on. I’m not asking for an exact prediction. But what should we be anticipating right now?”
He scoffs, and it irks me a little. It’s not like Iwantto be here, pestering him with questions about plot conventions. It may be my fault he’s involved, but I didn’t ask for this either.
Eventually he sighs. “I guess … things have been relatively quiet since last night. So next there would probably be some kind of rising action. Something to up the stakes.”
Higher stakes. Fantastic. “So we’re not exactly safe.”
“No,” he says. The dark smudges under his eyes are even more pronounced in the harsh morning light. “We’re not exactly safe.” He huffs out a rough, humorless laugh. “Although according to the barista from hell, you’ll probably be fine.”
“Almostprobably,” I correct. “And we don’t know that. Anna Matthews is clearly reveling in chaos with this one. Who knows what she’s planning?”
I used to admire Anna’s ability to surprise her readers, even within the trustyI love you, you love me, let’s live happily ever afterrules of romance. It was one of my favorite things about her writing. Of course, that was before she went off the rails, dragging me and Grant helplessly along.
Unless we stop the train.
Make Anna Matthews stop writing it, the Gifter said.
Riding a wave of determination, I pull out my phone.
I race to Instagram and find it distressingly notification-free. Anna probably hasn’t even seen my comments from last night, let alone responded. So I make a mad dash to my inbox. The time has come for sliding into DMs. One way or another, we are going to reach Anna. She willnotfinish this story.
Hi Anna—my name is Roxie Mitchell. This is going to sound insane, but I’m trapped in your current novel. Could you please contact me at your earliest convenience? Thanks.
I read it back and add:
(It’s urgent.)
I stare at the screen for a few seconds. Somehow, sending that message off into the void didn’t feel as productive as I’d hoped. Less of a blazing SOS fire from a deserted beach and more like a tiny match fizzling out in the darkness.
Then I go to Anna’s profile and find a new addition.
It’s not a photo but a solid background with text—two dates, two times, two bookstore names—and a caption beneath.
Hello, my darlings! Thanks for all the love. After a rough few years, I’m having the time of my life writing this one—nothing like a grisly murder story and the support of thousands of you to lift one’s spirits. About to go off the grid in drafting exile but will be creeping out of my cave on two occasions this month to visit The Lost Plot and Bramble Books, where I’ll talk writing and sign some of my previous books—and maybe give a sneak peek of KISS OF DEATH. Hope to see you there! x
I’m enthusiastically smacking Grant’s arm before I even finish reading.
