Page 40 of By the Book

In the silence that came after, my mom’s voice said, “I’m not unsympathetic to your situation, Dashiell. The creative process is…fraught. I know that better than anyone. But don’t you understand how lucky you are? You have this incredible opportunity—this combination of talent and connections and circumstances. People know who you are, Dashiell. You’ve solved murders. You put Vivienne Carver in prison. And you’regood. You’re such a good writer. But nothing lasts forever, and you’re running out of time. Bobby is very sweet, I’m sure, but explain your plan to me. Are you going to stay here forever and hope he can take care of you—”

The sneaker fell from my hand with a hollow clatter. I got to my feet. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My mom slanted a cool look at me. “Of course I do. I knowyou.”

I opened my mouth, and I wasn’t sure what was going to come out. Thoughts bubbled up—ragged sentences, barely words. I ate ramen for a week when I was eight because you were busy finishing a manuscript. When I came out, you asked if you could use what I said in your next book. You went to the Edgar Awards when I was in the hospital with pneumonia. You were never home. You don’t know me. You can’t even see me.

Before I could speak, though, a thump came from the door, and it swung open.

“DASH!”

Cue the world’s loudest cavalry.

Keme tried to come through the door first, but Millie pushed past him. She glanced around until her gaze settled on me, and then she said, “YOU’RE OKAY!”

By that point, Keme had joined her. He didn’t seem to share Millie’s relief, though. If anything, he looked like he wished the rest of us had stayed trapped for a little longer, leaving him alone with Millie.

Maybe Millie caught the vibe, because her excitement dimmed, and her volume dropped. “We didn’t know where you were. First, I broke the water fountain so Stewart wouldn’t realize it was a trick.”

“Wait,” Stewart said. “What?”

“Then Stewart tried to fix it. And then I tried to fix it, only I couldn’t because I’d broken it so well.” This little fact appeared to cheer Millie up. “And then Stewart snuck away when I wasn’t looking, and Keme and I couldn’t find you anywhere, and Bobby keeps calling, and I think he’s MAD. OH! And that was SO SMART to use the vents to carry the noise. How’d you know to do that?”

“Like everything else in my life,” I said as I pushed past her and Keme and out into the stacks. “I read it in a book.”

Chapter 10

I was halfway home, cycling through the shadowy wedge between spruce and pine and fir, when I finally processed the fact that I only had one shoe on.

It wasn’t comfortable. And it didn’t improve my mood.

As Keme had once pointed out to me, I lived a lot of my life in words. And right then, I had a lot of words running through my head. Words about my parents. Words you didn’t typically see printed on Mother’s and Father’s Day cards.

The synopsis.

The money.

The question.

I didn’t need Bobby to take care of me any more than I needed my parents, or Hugo, or—or anyone. (Except maybe Indira, because she figured out this way to cook carrots with maple syrup, and my vegetable intake had skyrocketed.) I was a self-sufficient adult. I was reasonably intelligent. (Although the last few days had called that into question.) I was personable. Ish. I mean, I could definitely be…I wanted to say a barista. But not at a busy coffee shop. Maybe one of those artisan places that only got one customer per hour. And it was mostly self-serve.

When I got back to Hemlock House, I put the bike in the coach house and went inside. I crossed the hall and headed for the stairs. I had a vague plan for moving all of my parents’, uh, shiz back into their RV. I did recall, though, that Bobby had lifted and carried a lot of heavy things, so maybe I needed to adjust my plan—I’d throw all their shiz out the window.

Then I stopped. Something registered in my peripheral vision, and I glanced over.

Movement in the living room.

The pocket doors were only partially open, which wasn’t normal. We always kept them open. Even when Keme said it was gross and child abuse that he had to see Bobby kiss me. Movement came again, visible through the gap between the doors. I had an impression of black. Someone dressedallin black.

An intruder. Or a mortician. Or Helena Bonham Carter.

Whoever it was, they’d picked the wrong day.

“Hey!” I shouted and stormed toward the living room. “Who’s in there?”

From the living room came a thump. Then the shatter of breaking glass. And then the patter of fleeing footsteps.

Oh no you don’t, I thought—with more rage than judgment.

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