I shot bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and blinking, roused from sleep by a sudden loud buzz. This was it. They were coming to arrest me. I started, clutching my blankets to my chest as my cell phone vibrated across the nightstand. Sylvia’s number glowed in the dark. I fell back against my pillow, waiting for my heart to slow. Not the police. Just my agent.
I reached blindly for my phone and checked the time, unsure if it was quarter to six in the morning or at night. I’d stayed awake for most of the last three nights, working through the list of Harris’s victims, determined to figure out who’d killed him, and I’d still only managed to narrow the list from seventeen possible suspects to nine. Exhausted and no closer to solving the crime, I’d quit and fallen into bed an hour before dawn.
“Hello?” I grumbled into the phone.
“I hope you sound tired because you’ve been writing all day.” Night then. I rubbed my eyes. “Are you sitting down?”
“Not exactly.”
“I read your manuscript.” I threw an arm over my face and braced for the worst. “I sent it to your editor last night. She’s prepared to make you an offer.”
I sat up slowly, my mind groping for a scrap of sense. “An offer? But I’m already under contract for the book.”
“Not anymore.”
I clapped a hand over my eyes. This was worse than I’d thought. The offer was probably a re-payment plan. Not only had I lost my contract, but I’d have to return the advance. And Sylvia’s commission. And then she would probably drop me as a client. I didn’t even want to think about what Steven would say when he found out. “Sylvia, I’m sorry. Isn’t there anything we can—”
“I told her I was buying you out of your contract.”
I shook my head, certain I’d misheard. “You did what?”
“I told her I knew this book was going to be a huge breakout hit, and they weren’t paying you enough for it. I told her I would personally pay back your advance, and I wanted your rights back.”
I flipped on the lamp in case I was still sleeping. My watering eyes narrowed against the light. “What did she say?”
“She read your draft. And she agrees with me. She thinks you’re on to something big with this one.”
“She does?”
“It’s a fabulous setup—the timid wife hiring someone to kill her horrible husband, the plucky heroine and the hot young lawyer … They have great chemistry on the page, by the way. I mean, it’s sizzling, Finn. Your best work yet. I’m dying to see who the killer is.”
A dark chuckle slipped past my lips. “Me, too.”
“Your editor’s offering a preempt if you promise not to take it anywhere else. She’ll increase your offer to two books, raise your advance, and give you an extension to finish the draft.”
“Raise my advance? To how much?”
“Seventy-five thousand per book.” I’m pretty sure my jaw was somewhere in my lap. My editor was going to pay me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For the story of Harris Mickler’s murder. In which I’d described every detail of the crime. Which was currently under investigation, and which I was secretly a party to. “Finn? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I croaked. “Can I have a few days to think about it?”
“Believe me, Finn.” Sylvia’s voice was honeyed butter. “I know exactly how you feel. The same thought crossed my mind.”
I choked back a slightly hysterical laugh. “I seriously doubt that.”
“I get it. I do. And you’re right. The pitch is strong enough that we could probably buy out the contract, take the manuscript to a few other big-name editors, and maybe it would go to auction. But this is a bird in the hand, Finlay. And with your crappy sales record, we probably shouldn’t get too cocky. I say we take the money and give them what they want.”
“I don’t know, Syl—”
“Excellent, I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
“It’s not that simple! I can’t just—” Through the phone, I heard the swooshing sound of her computer sending an email. A moment later, a notification beeped on my phone.
“I’m sending you the revised terms, and I negotiated a few extras for you. Your editor thinks you should go out under a new pen name. We’re thinking Fiona Donahue has a nice ring to it. I told her you were thrilled. She’s already sent it to her people, and we should have the revised contract and the balance of your advance in a few weeks. You’ve got thirty days to get her a draft, so get to work. I’ll call you in a few days to check in.”
Sylvia disconnected. Numb, I fell back against the pillows.
Suddenly, I was rolling in money. More money than I ever could have imagined. Enough for a full-time sitter and a pricey attorney. Enough to fix my car, and, most important, save my kids. Enough to get Steven and Theresa off my back.
I didn’t know which was worse. That I was actually proud of myself for the first time in my life, or that every single penny I’d earned could put me in prison for the rest of it.
I was still hungover the next morning when Steven came to pick up the kids. Vero had insisted on celebrating the sale of the book over a bottle of champagne after Delia and Zach had gone to sleep, and there hadn’t been a drop left when we’d finished. She’d been so excited (and drunk) she hadn’t even minded when I told her I was going to contact Irina Borovkov and arrange to give back the advance. The champagne fog was the only explanation for the fact that I didn’t hear Steven slide his key into the lock and let himself in. By the time I made it downstairs, he was already stuffing Delia and Zach into their coats. I intercepted them, stealing quick hugs that made my insides ache.
“The doorbell works, you know.” I glared at Steven over the heads of our children.
“It’s cold outside and I didn’t feel like waiting.” He opened the door for Delia and Zach, nudging them through it. “Go out and wait in Daddy’s truck with Theresa and Aunt Amy. I’ll be there in a minute.” We both clamped down our arguments as they waddled out in their puffy coats.
“It’s my house, Steven,” I said as soon as the door closed behind them. “You can’t just barge in anytime you feel like it.”
“Sure I can. My name’s on the deed.”
Vero appeared in the opening to the kitchen behind him. She reached around him, snatched the keys from his hand, and promptly began unwinding my house key from the ring. Steven’s mouth fell open as she popped it off with a flourish. She carried it to the powder room, opened the door, and dropped it in the Diaper Genie with a satisfied smirk. His face turned a hideous shade of red as she turned the crank, making a poop sausage of his only copy of my key.
“What the hell is she doing here?” he hissed at me as she wiped her hands together and closed the lid. “I told you I’m not paying for your babysitter.”
“I happen to be Ms. Donovan’s accountant and business manager,” Vero interrupted, cocking a hip. “And your rent is already in the mail.”
“Not all of it,” Steven said smugly.
“All of it,” Vero fired back. “And let’s get something straight, Landlordy McLandlord. Just because your name is on the deed, it doesn’t give you the right to bust in here anytime you feel like it. Maybe you should read your rental agreement, specifically paragraph four, clause b, which explicitly states you have to notify your tenant of your intent to enter the property. Next time you come waltzing in here unannounced, you might accidentally walk in on something you wished you hadn’t seen.”
“Like what?”
Please don’t say a corpse. Please don’t say a corpse.
“Like Finlay’s hot new underwear model boyfriend.”
Steven’s eyes flew wide. I pinched Vero in the elbow.
“He’s not an underwear model,” I said.
“He just looks like one—”
“And he’s not my—”
“He’s really an attorney,” she finished. I felt a headache coming on. Or maybe that was the hangover. “I suggest next time you adhere to the terms of your lease, or I might have to hire him to provide Ms. Donovan with his full range of services.” Vero let her eyes trail down Steven’s body, unimpressed. “And if you have a problem with that, you can stick it up your arrogant, cheating—”
I pressed my fingers into my temple. “Vero is living with us, Steven.” Steven’s attention snapped to me, his face a mask of disbelief. Before he could open his mouth to speak, I said, “I’m paying her.”
“You’re paying her?”
“Let’s just say neither one of us was happy with your terms.”
Silence fell like a hammer. Vero batted her eyelashes at him with a closed-lipped triumphant smile. A vein bulged in Steven’s forehead.
“Paying her with what?” he asked, looking at us like we’d both lost our minds. “You have no money, Finn. You’re months behind on all of your bills. There’s no way you can afford that.”
“Ms. Donovan has plenty of money,” Vero quipped. “And matters of her financial solvency, beyond the rent she no longer owes you, are none of your concern.”
“What is she talking about?”
I glared at Vero. She scrutinized her manicure, picking at the polish as she pretended not to notice. Steven had me penned in. I had to tell him something, or he’d take his burning questions about my assets straight to Guy. “I sold a book.”
“Two books,” Vero corrected me. A lump formed in my throat at the pride I saw in her fierce dark eyes. No one had ever treated my job as … well … a job. No one had ever defended it, been proud of it, boasted about it. It had always been me, alone behind my desk.
“So what’d that get you? Three thousand dollars?” Steven’s lip curled, the implication dripping so thickly with sarcasm I could have lubed my van with it. “What about the maxed-out credit cards? And the van payments? And her…” he said, hooking a thumb to Vero. “She must be costing you—”
“Ms. Donovan’s revenue is also none of your business,” Vero said, getting up in his face.
“Bullshit!” Steven glared down at her as he pointed at me. “There is no possible way she made enough money from those crappy books to pay down all that debt.” The blow hit me square in the chest. It knocked me back with the same suffocating shame I’d felt every time I opened an advance check in front of him. He’d placate me with a pat on the back, making backhanded remarks about how we might have enough to pay for a few boxes of diapers, or, if we were lucky, maybe some groceries. He gesticulated behind him to the front porch, where all the unopened mail had been stacked. “Those bills have been piling up for months. She owes me a lot more than…” His face fell. His forehead creased and his arm sagged, his eyes swinging through the house like searchlights. “Where are the bills?” He shouldered his way past us into the kitchen and rifled through the thin stack of leaflets and coupons on the counter with Vero tight on his heels. I could hear them bickering as I bounded up the stairs to my office.
I was done being belittled and made to feel like what I did wasn’t important. That I couldn’t take care of myself or our children. I was done being made to feel like I didn’t belong on the top shelf with people like Steven and Theresa. I opened my email, shoved a piece of paper in the printer, and silently cursed Steven as it started humming. When it finished, I snatched the paper off the tray and stormed downstairs, where Vero and Steven were nose to nose, ready to claw each other’s faces off.
I reached between them, slamming the paper down on the table.
Vero eased back and folded her arms, the painted edge of her smile so sharp it was practically cutting as she raised her eyebrow at Steven, daring him to look at it.
“What’s this?” he asked, reluctant to pick it up.
“My offer letter. You want to know what my crappy books are worth? See for yourself.”
Steven swiped the paper off the table. His blue eyes skimmed it like a laser, and I felt a flutter of satisfaction when they burned a hole through the dollar sign somewhere in the middle.
“What’s that number?” he asked.
“That’s the amount of my advance.”
His mouth moved, but his tongue was slow to follow. It might have been the first time I’d ever seen him speechless. He handed it back to me as he cleared his throat. “It’s about time they paid you a reasonable wage. But it’s still not enough to—”
“Keep reading,” Vero said, shoving it back in his face. “It’s a two-book deal. She makes double that, plus extra when she sells media, film options, and translation rights. That’s all before she collects her royalties. Do you want to do the math, or would you like me to help you with that?”
Steven dropped the offer on the table. He glared at Vero and shouldered past her for the door. He didn’t look at me. Maybe because he couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to see me as anything other than a failure in years. It was as if he had forgotten how to see me as anything else.
“I’ll be back on Sunday with the kids,” he mumbled.
“Ring the doorbell next time,” Vero called after him.
He flipped her off without bothering to look back, and his dismissal of her pissed me off more than all the rest of it.
“Steven.” The command in my own tone surprised me. His feet paused just before the door. “You and Theresa might want to reconsider your custody suit. According to my accountant, we have the resources to fight it.”
The stubble on Steven’s jaw worked. He threw open the front door and slammed it behind him.
Vero put a hand on my shoulder as I watched Steven go. I heard the steps creak under her as she headed up to her room. “Why did you do it?” I asked.
She paused. “Do what?”
“That night. With Harris. You could have left me in the garage. Why did you bury him with me?”
Vero shrugged. “I liked your odds.” At my puzzled look, she said, “I did the math when you first hired me. I needed to know what I’d sacrificed that bank job for. As far as I can figure, your chances of landing an agent were about ten thousand to one. And your odds of landing a book deal were even worse. Somehow, you’d managed to pull off both. Getting away with murder had to be easier than that, right?” She started back up the stairs, then paused again, turning to look at me over her shoulder. “My mom was a single mother. She was resourceful and gutsy … like you. If I had to pick a partner to stake my future earnings on—and maybe my freedom,” she added with a wry smile, “I figured it was a safe bet to put my money on you.” She retreated up the stairs to her room, and for the first time in a long time, I knew when I sat down in front of a blank screen later that night, I wouldn’t be facing it alone.