Page 145 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“I shredded it,” Eliza interrupts.

My heart sinks. All I have are the rough notes I took.

Harold rubs his eyes, then in the coldest voice I’ve heard yet, says, “That’ll be all, Eliza. You have until the end of the day.”

With a mighty huff, she storms out of the office, the door banging shut behind her. Harold leans forward in his seat, looking exhausted.

“Miss Rodriguez, I’m so very sorry. You don’t—I don’t suppose you have a copy . . .”

I solemnly shake my head. “Not really, no.”

“But she’s practically written a book,” Dave says sitting forward.

“Dave!” I cry embarrassed.

“What? You have.”

Harold’s eyes turn into saucers. “A book?”

I push Dave back and shake my head. “It’s hardly a book. It’s just, I don’t know,” I say, pulling the brown leather journal out of my bag and flipping through it. “It’s just, after I thought the feature was down the drain, I simply couldn’t stop writing.”

“Writing about what?”

I shrug. “Everything, really. Meeting the band, the friendships I made, going on tour—all of it. Aside from a few bumps along the way,” I say, pausing to glance at a smiling Dave. “It was an incredible experience.”

Harold rises from his chair, rubbing at his chin. “Listen, I know we agreed on an article . . . an unpaid internship. But like I told you back in December . . . the magazine is failing. Partly, I think, due to Eliza shutting things down behind my back. I took over this position hoping to reviveEarworm. That means taking risks, trying new things. I wanted to make it comparable toRolling Stone, and maybe this is how I do that.”

My lips part. “I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

“What if,” he continues on, “instead of a single article, we did a serial feature over the next few months.”

My heart is pounding. “What?”

He holds his hands up. “Think about it. We could market it as a memoir and publish it in parts. If we can hook them with a kickass cover and the promise of a behind-the-scenes look into life on the road as rockstars, sales could fly off the charts. Then those people will want more of the story and subscribe to the magazine to get it.”

“But the readers you have won’t—”

“With all due respect, the type of readers we have now are living in the past. The same people who thought Elvis was controversial. Wait until they get a load of you guys.”

I press my lips together. This could be huge. It also seems too good to be true.

“You don’t seem convinced,” Harold says.

Smiling nervously, I look at Dave and then back again. “Sorry, I just . . . I’m scared to get excited. I’ve been burned too many times.”

“I completely understand. This time we’ll draw up a contract. We’ll pay you our standard junior writer rate for the hours you put in to get this finished, and you can keep the rights.”

My hand flies to my mouth. “Keep the rights?”

He nods. “Yes. That way, after all of the features have been published inEarworm, you can compose it into a novel and pitch it to a publishing house. Any agent worth their salt would pick that up. I should know; my brother happens to work in publishing.”

My gaze bounces around his face, trying to decipher his stare or find any cracks in his generous offer. But I don’t find any.

“Isabella,” he says, “help me save the magazine. And help yourself become the writer you were always meant to be.”

I turn and look at Dave. His smile is so warm, so open. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and a soft smile. When I turn back to Harold, he’s nervously tapping his fingers on his thighs, athin bead of sweat running along his hairline. Maybe he really does need this as much as me.

“Okay,” I say finally.

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