Thirteen

K ate and I hopped on the next train and were lucky enough to snag two seats next to each other. “I can’t wait to dig in. I’d love to check out her wardrobe. Do you want to start tonight?”

The man sitting on the other side of me had an extreme case of manspread and smelled of old cheese.

“I need a few days. First I need to get some actual writing in. I have to finish this book. The deadline is unforgiving. So the cleaning will have to wait.” I shifted my leg a little more to the side of the manspreader. Move over, bucko, you only get one seat.

“Just let me know when you’re ready,” Kate said as the train was halting.

“How about Saturday?”

She stood. “This is my stop. I’ll check my calendar and get back with you.”

I watched her waltz off the train.

A man took her seat and turned to me. “Miss Donovan?” A whiskey-gravel voice said.

Was it me he was asking about or another Miss Donovan? I wasn’t acquainted with him.

“Charlotte Donovan?” His eyes caught mine and I couldn’t turn away. I was trapped between him and the cheese-smelling manspreader. The train started back up.

My face must have shown my shock and concern.

“I’m sorry. My name is Severn Hartwell. I’m sure Justine must have mentioned me,” he said.

Hartwell. What was he doing here? Didn’t he live in California? Had he come to town for Justine’s memorial?

“Yes, Mr. Hartwell,” I said.

“I’m so glad I ran into you.”

How did he know who I was? How did he recognize me? Was he at Justine’s service? My heart raced and a wave of nausea nearly overcame me.

He went on. “I may be hiring an assistant in a few months and was wondering if you’d be interested.”

This man was Justine’s biggest competitor. I sat there remembering all of the dirty tricks he’d tried to use against her to attempt to ruin her career. There was the time he’d sent fake documents to her, hoping to fool her into writing the biography of Norma Shearer on a completely false note. There was also the time he’d hacked her social media accounts. Oh, I could go on. The train car lurched and rumbled.

Justine had been dead a week and he was already scoping me out.

“I don’t think so,” I said, attempting to smile politely.

“I’m sure you don’t have a very good impression of me,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. But I do need help, and Justine used to say you were the best assistant she’d ever had.”

A chill moved along my spine. I doubted Justine had ever even spoken with him. What was he about? Did he just happen to find me on this subway train? Or had he been following me?

My heart thudded against my ribs. My breath was shallow. My hands balled into fists in my lap.

“I’m making a bid to finish the Harlow book, you see. My agent is in negotiations with Justine’s publisher,” he said with his thin lips glazing over perfect teeth. “By all rights I should be writing that book.”

Wasn’t there any air in this train? Sweat pricked at me as I wondered how anybody still breathed.

I drew in what oxygen I could find. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hartwell. I’m finishing the Harlow book. I think you’ve been misinformed.” I smiled a stiff smile at him. I stood as the train came to a stop. It wasn’t where I would usually exit, but I needed to get some air—and shed this man.

“Pleasure meeting you,” he said as I walked off. The words didn’t match his menacing tone. I never turned back. A wall of ice felt as if it were sliding up and down my back. Why was he making a bid on the book? The contracts were all signed and ready to go.

Unless Justine’s agent had it wrong?

I moved with the crowd and slipped into a coffee shop as soon as possible. I searched in my purse for my cell phone and lifted it, surprised by my trembling hands.

“Natalie, this is Charlotte Donovan,” I said, not even giving her a chance to say hello. “I ran into Severn Hartwell on the train and he said he’s bidding to finish the Harlow book.”

“What? Calm down, Charlotte. Okay?”

I drew in air. “I think he must have followed me from Justine’s lawyer’s office. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“He followed you?”

“I think so, and he offered me a job,” I said.

Natalie laughed. “What makes him think you’d work for him? Listen, the last I heard of him is that he’s writing another Harlow book. He’s been trying to sell it. Nobody will publish it.” She quieted. “Did he threaten you?”

“Not in so many words,” I said. “But he must have followed me.”

“I’m slapping an injunction on his ass. He has no business anywhere near you.”

No wonder Justine thought so highly of her agent.

“If he wants to publish a book on Harlow, he’s going to have to indie publish. Justine was very highly thought of. Believe me. No publisher will touch his project,” Natalie said. “Now, how much have you gotten done?”

Damn. I didn’t think she’d ask me that question. “Not much.”

The silence on the other end of the phone spoke of disapproval. Then, “You need to get cracking. I know it’s hard on you, with Justine’s death and all. But get those words on the page.”

Of course I would. I could. I’d been way too busy with mundane details like memorial services and meetings with lawyers. Plus spotting a Jean Harlow twin around the city.

A sigh escaped me. “Yes,” I said. “I hear you.”

I was fine. I was going to write this book. No matter what Hartwell said. Or thought. I owed it to Justine to finish it and do the best I could do. I needed to focus on writing. But first, in the spirit of cooperating with the police on Justine’s murder investigation, I called Den. He needed to know about this “impromptu” meeting.