Connor’s not the only one I kept my writing from.
I never told Harper I was writing When in Rome either.
It was hard keeping the secret, but it felt necessary. Ever since we were kids, Harper wanted to be a writer. No, she was a writer. She wrote short stories and poems and even a novel, all before she graduated high school. It was her senior superlative—she was the girl most likely to write a New York Times bestseller.
That was Harper, not me. I was, to put it bluntly, the family fuckup. The girl who didn’t try hard enough in school because I got good enough grades to get by.
I mean, why bother studying when there were better things to do?
I don’t remember what those “better things” were right now, but you get the picture. I was the one my parents shook their heads over, wondering what they were going to do with me. “Why can’t you be more like Harper?” they’d ask when they found me doing something bad, lazy, or incomprehensible to them. “Harper would never…”
Sometimes it made me hate her, but that wasn’t her fault.
Sometimes I hated them, too.
Then they died in a senseless accident, hit by a car while they were crossing an intersection near our house. The driver had pulled an all-nighter and fallen asleep at the wheel. My parents were on their way to their anniversary dinner. I was home “babysitting” Harper, though she wasn’t a baby, she’d always say with a pout.
She was the one who answered the door when the cops came to tell us. She called my name, once, in a kind of primal scream, and when I got to the foyer, I knew. I just knew.
Everything was different after that.
I had to be an adult if we wanted to stay together. So that’s what I did. I became in loco parentis, childhood gone overnight.
One night, a few weeks after they died, we were sleeping in their bed, hiding under the covers, scared of the sounds the palm trees were making as they scratched against the side of the house in the Santa Ana wind. I was trying to soothe Harper, and myself, too, to be honest, and we decided to come up with a code, a word that only we’d understand.
We chose “pineapple” because we both hated it, even though it was Mom and Dad’s favorite fruit. We agreed: If one of us said that word, then the other had to stop whatever she was doing and put the pineappler first.
It was a simple rule. One I knew I’d violated by writing When in Rome. So I hid it. I hid it until I couldn’t hide it anymore.
No, wait. That’s not true.
The truth is I hid it until I couldn’t do anything about it. Until I couldn’t take it back.
The book had started as a simple exercise—trying to make sense of what I’d seen and heard and done. Trying to get it all down straight. Harper was away in Iowa getting her MFA, and I was alone in the house for the first time. I was supposed to start an entry-level marketing job at my dad’s company after I got back from my trip, but I never turned up. Instead, I sat at my mother’s old laptop and wrote twelve hours a day, barely stopping for meals.
When I finished it, I showed it to my best friend, Emma, because it felt odd just putting it in a drawer after everything I’d poured into it. Emma’s an actress who’s represented by a big agency, and without asking my permission, she showed it to her agent. Then her agent showed it to a colleague on the book side of their business. When Stephanie called me to offer representation, I didn’t even understand what she was saying at first. But then she started raving about Connor, and I got it.
She’d fallen in love just like I had.
It all happened quickly after that. The book sold at auction in what publishing calls a “major deal,” and how was I going to say no to that? I didn’t have a job and I’d spent the last of my inheritance on Italy. The house was paid off when my parents died, but there were still property taxes and running costs. All this to say, I needed the money.
But I also wanted my book to be seen and read. I thought it was good. And all the excitement around it felt good, too. So right before the advance reader copies were sent out, I took Harper to our favorite restaurant on Abbot Kinney, ordered all our comfort foods, and told her. I watched her face react to the news as realization hit that I’d done it.
I’d stolen her dream.
“Pineapple,” she said when I’d told her the half of it.
And then, for the first time, I broke our pact. I didn’t stop. Instead, I shook my head and said I was sorry and made a bunch of empty promises about how it would be good for both of us.
But she knew better because, like I’ve told you before, she’s always been the smart one.
I’d stolen her dream, and that meant she couldn’t get it back.
That was the first time I realized I’m not as nice a person as I thought.
Not a nice person at all.
“This is a famous restaurant, right?” I say to Harper when we meet in the lobby at eight. I’ve changed into a sparkly dress and strappy sandals, and my hair is still damp from the pool because it was too hot to blow it out, even with the air-conditioning turned up on full.
Harper tut-tuts at my question like I’m a bad child. She’s wearing a pale green dress that accentuates her slender figure, and her hair is in soft, silky waves to her shoulders.
“What?” I say. “I read the itinerary, I swear.”
“It has two Michelin stars.”
“Is that a lot?”
“It’s not a book review. One star is impressive, and three is the best.”
“I hope so. Because if someone tagged me in a two-star review,50 I’d commit a homicide.”
“News flash, it happens every day.”
“That’s why you’re the only one allowed to check what I’m tagged in.”
She tugs on my sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”
“We’re walking?”
“It’s only a few blocks.”
I look down at my impractical heels. I don’t usually care about shoes, but I’m having dinner with Oliver. My dress is my nicest—a dark blue shimmery number with colorful flowers—and I put on the only pair of Jimmy Choos I have, black and slinky. “You should’ve warned me.”
“You want me to get you some flip-flops?”
“Distract me by updating me on everyone else that’s going to be at this shindig.”
We leave the hotel. It’s still hot, but bearable now that the sun’s gone down. There are lights in the dark green umbrella stone pine trees that line the street, and the air smells like lemons and garlic.
“I thought you read the itinerary?” Harper says.
“I did. I meant, give me the goss.”
“The goss? Okay, Grandma.” She laughs. “Well, Guy’s going to be there. Nothing new to report about him that I know of. Emily, Oliver, and Shek.”
“That asshole.”
“Be nice.”
“Why? He’s refused to blurb me a million times, and his review of Highland Killing in the New York Times called it ‘derivative.’”51
“Amazing how good your memory is when it has to do with insults.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I almost trip on the sidewalk, then right myself. “I should’ve worn something else.”
“You look nice.”
“You too.”
She smiles, but she’s terrible at taking compliments. “Anyway, I hear Shek’s about to get dropped by your publisher, so maybe you can muster some sympathy.”
Last I checked, Shek had sold twenty million books over the course of his career. Was no one safe in this industry?52
“Really?”
“His last two books tanked.”
“So how’d he get on this tour?”
“He still has some suction in certain quarters.”
“Right.” I sigh. This dinner’s going to be painful. “Anything else?”
“There’s always Connor.”
“The ‘victim.’”
“You don’t believe him?” Harper says.
“I believe that he got himself involved in something shady, for sure, but murder?”
We pass a group of men in their mid-twenties.
“Ils sont jolis,” one of them says in a Parisian accent. Tourists like us.
“Je baiserais la grande,” his uncouth friend replies, clearly referring to Harper since I’m two inches shorter than her. Not like us, then.
“J’ai compris,” I say to them, letting them know I understood their desire to debase my sister.
Harper’s face is aflame. “Leave it,” she says.
“Why? They’re assholes.”
“Ah, les Americaines,” the uncouth one says. He’s tall and gangly, like he hasn’t stopped growing yet.
“Shove it, jerk.”
One of his friends puts his hand on the skinny one’s shoulder, muttering something about being late for their reservation. He lets himself be pulled away, but not before he throws out a last “C’était un compliment!”
“Compliments are something people appreciate!” I shout back.
“El, please stop.”
“Shouldn’t have downed that second spritz, I guess.”
“You mean fourth?”
“You’re counting my drinks now?”
She puts her hands up. “Hey, I’m not the enemy.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“I guess it’s better if you get it out before dinner.” Harper tugs at my sleeve. “Why have you been so distracted all day?”
“Besides the obvious? I want to end the series.”
“You weren’t joking at the pool?”
“No. It’s time.”
Harper stops walking. “Wow, okay. How are you going to do it?”
“Not sure yet, but Connor’s going to die. Maybe the person who solves the murder will be the new protagonist.”
“That’s not what the publisher wants.”
“I know. But thanks to Connor and ten years of busting my ass, it doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t you want to keep writing?”
“Yes, but not at the price of my sanity. Not anymore.”
“Is it so bad?”
“You know it is.” I blow out a long breath. “Are you ever going to tell me what he did?”
She starts walking again, looking straight ahead. “He just … He was being difficult. Complaining about the size of his hotel room, and that he didn’t get turn-down service. Stupid things.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
“No, I…” Harper hugs herself even though it’s not cold. “Doesn’t the idea of doing this scare you? He’s dangerous, El.”
“He’s a petulant man-baby who’s had his way for far too long.”
“But he did some crooked things before you met him.”
“And since then, too. So much so that he thinks it’s worth killing over. But what are you saying? You think if I kill off Book Connor, he’s going to hurt me?”
“He might.”
“Harper, no. He’ll pout and he’ll threaten, but that’s it. This book is the last on my contract, and he can’t force me to write another. He’ll realize that eventually, and then he’ll be out of our lives for good.”
We arrive at the entrance to the restaurant.
“And you’re truly not concerned about the consequences?”
“I worry about everything. But if you had to lay a bet on who’d end up dead at the end of this, your money should be on Connor.”
“Should I be worried?” Connor says behind us, making me jump in my Jimmy Choos.
“Connor! You scared me.” My heart is beating at a frantic pace, pushing hard against my rib cage.
“My apologies.” He’s wearing a perfectly cut black suit with a light blue tie that matches his eyes. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine shoot, and—
Wait. Stop. No.
Your heart’s racing out of fear, you moron, because he startled you. You do not have unresolved feelings for Connor.
“How long were you behind us?” I ask, trying to steady my voice.
Connor gives me a deep stare. I feel like I’m being x-rayed with his eyes.
Can he tell that I put on my sexy underwear?
Not for him, obviously. And not for Oliver either, though a girl can dream.
“Why? Did you say something you didn’t want me to hear?”
“I don’t have anything to hide from you.”
“Oh?”
I pull in a deep breath. “Can we not? Please?”
Maybe it’s the “please” that does it, but Connor softens. “I wanted to … About earlier. I do need your help, Eleanor. This afternoon proved it.”
“That was a mugging.”
“I don’t think so.”
“So, let me get this straight. Someone’s trying to kill you, and instead of doing that, they pushed you to the ground and stole Harper’s purse?”
He makes a low growl in his throat. “You’re not asking the right question.”
“What’s the right question?”
“What did they want that was in Harper’s purse?”
Ugh. I hate it when he’s right.
“Okay, say that’s what was behind the mugging. There wasn’t anything about Connor in your purse, was there, Harper?”
“Ahem, well…” Harper says. “I realized earlier…”
“What?”
“I have a master key. To our rooms. Mine, yours, Connor’s.”
“How did you get that?”
“I always have one.”
“So, the thief can get into my room?” Connor says. “Fantastic.”
“But wait,” I say. “Those cards are blank, right?”
I fish in my purse and pull out my room card. I’d noticed it earlier. It doesn’t have the hotel’s name on it. It’s just a shiny black card with a silver logo.
“See, there are no identifying marks other than the logo. Which, frankly, looks like the logo of a million hotels. They won’t know where you’re staying.”
“I also had a full paper itinerary with all our hotel details.”
That stupid itinerary again. The bane of my existence.
“So, they know what hotel we’re staying at and have a key to all our rooms, Connor’s included?”
“Looks like it.”
I work a spot on my lip. “But wait, that still wouldn’t mean they know which room Connor’s in. Were our room allocations on the document?”
“No, I only got that once we arrived.”
“Okay, good. And the hotel’s pretty big, six floors at least. They can’t try all the doors. That would draw too much attention.”
“They wouldn’t have to, though,” Connor says. “They know what floor I’m staying on.”
“How?”
“Because the person trying to kill me is on this tour.”