“It’s actually Elizabeth Tower that we’re seeing,” Grant says in his Grant way. “Big Ben is the bell inside.”
I’m so tempted to groan in annoyance from the wordactuallyalone. But something in the way he says it gives me pause. Makes me think he might not be trying to be an ass after all. He might just be a big nerd who can’t keep all the random facts in his head from leaking out sometimes. And I have to admit, I have learned alotof trivia from him.
“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly, and I don’t think he’s talking about being a know-it-all.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have sent those emails. I just panicked. I felt so helpless and desperate to get out of here that I went a little crazy and ruined everything. For you, too.”
I’m quiet for a second. I don’t think he should be the one feeling guilty. I just don’t know what to say.
I clear my throat. “Idobelieve I heard tell of a limerick, or a sonnet or something?”
Grant winces, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Like I said—desperate and going insane.”
“I don’t suppose you’d let me see,” I say, waiting for thatfuck offstare. But it doesn’t come. Instead, though he grimaces slightly, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through it, then hands it to me, looking away.
“It’s only fair,” he says.
I scroll through the neat little rows of messages, all eighteen of them, and begin reading. They start off sensible enough—well, as sensible as can be expected under the circumstances—but then it’s all downhill.
Dear Ms. Matthews,
I know this sounds unbelievable, but please hear me out: My name is Grant Hoffman and I’ve been kidnapped by your protagonist Roxie Mitchell. Somehow the things you’re writing are actually happening to us, and it’s clear we’re in grave danger if this story continues. Would you be open to a meeting to discuss further? We are in London (presumably because you set your book here), so I’m happy to accommodate your schedule, provided you don’t write us a murder event that conflicts.
Best,
Grant Hoffman
Ms. Matthews,
I know what you’re doing with this Harrods thing, but I won’t be bought. I need to get out of here so please, stop writing this now. You’re putting actual human beings in danger. I have a life. I have acat. Does that mean nothing to you??
Best,
Grant Hoffman
Anna: I DON’T WANT TO GET PULVERIZED. PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.
Best,
Grant Hoffman
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
An accidental secondary character in an unhinged crime disaster of a novel who just watched a guy LIGHT HIMSELF ON FIRE PLEASE END THIS
Best,
Grant Hoffman
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Get me the fuck out of here,
