Page 22 of Kill Your Darlings

“But you wouldn’t have regained control of the series because W&W still holds the backlist.And the sales had been soft on the last—”

I cut in, “That’s not always the fault of the books or the author.Millbrook was prepared to give Miss B.some actual marketing support.”

Christopher brightened.“And that’s why I love working withyou,” he said.“You’re the only editor I ever knew who was willing to admit that the fault in our stars doesn’t always lie with the books.”He took a bite of an almond croissant, hastily wiped away all the buttery flakes, and added, a little thickly, “Maybesentimentalisn’t the right word, but I always thought you were pretty soft-hearted for this business.”

I only hoped the Dove sisters agreed after we had our lunch that afternoon.

“I don’t think Lila is going to kick too hard about losing you from her list.Most publishing houses will accommodate author preference when and where they can—”

He interrupted, “She’s not going to kick at all.The Butterwith books bore her to tears and sheclearlydoesn’t expect my standalone to set the world on fire.”

I thought he was right, but refrained from comment.Cutting off a bite of my spinach and roasted tomato frittata, I asked, “Haveyou been giving any thought to the standalone?”

“Er…no.”

I laughed.Classic Christopher Holmes.

“You know, it’s been a busy year!”he pointed out.

“I know.”I was still grinning.

“I had to solveanothermurder.And, even more stressful, I got married!”

“I know, and I’m very happy for you on both counts.Marriage becomes you.”

As did solving murders.

No lie.I’d known Christopher a very long time.I’d been twenty-four when I’d fished Miss B.and Mr.Pinkerton out of the slush pile.That lady botanist and her clever cat had launched my career right along with Christopher’s.The Christopher Holmes who sat before me, with the expensive highlights, tiny and tasteful gold ear piercings, and stylish jeans and white Cloak and Dagger T-shirt beneath a black blazer bore little resemblance to the cute but rumpled Christopher Holmes I’d first met all those years ago.But he was still the same funny, smart, and slightly irascible man.

Knowing we’d be working together again was the first real bright spot in what already felt like another very long day.

“You get used to it,” he said casually.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He considered me for a moment and then turned his attention once more to his crab eggs Benedict.

On our walk back to the hotel, we mostly chatted about the conference, the weather, and, of course, the next Miss Butterwith novel.By then, more conference goers—ye shall know them by their neck lanyards and Google Maps apps—were out and about, looking for somewhere to have breakfast.

The last trails of early morning fog dissipated as we neared the hotel.The sun shone brightly in the blue sky.It was going to be a beautiful day.

We were walking along the overlook behind the hotel when I glanced down and spotted a solitary figure on the beach below—broad shoulders, wind-ruffled hair, long, familiar stride.Even from this distance—well, I’d probably recognize Finn from outer space.

On impulse, I rested my hand on Christopher’s arm.“I just want to have a quick word with someone.You know your way back from here?”

“Yeah, of course.”His gaze was curious.“Thanks for breakfast—and for hearing me out.”

I smiled.“You’re welcome.As for hearing you out, we’re on the same page.I’m not in position to make promises, but I’m confident it’s going to work out.”

“I am, too.If Rachel has anything to say about it.”

I nodded distracted agreement, and peeled off to follow the cement walkway past the succulents and windswept cypress.Eventually, I found the shady narrow public path that curved alongside the hotel, and then descended toward San Carlos Beach.

Several yards ahead of me, Finn was still striding across the sand, head down, seeming lost in thought.I picked up my pace, crushed shell and gravel crunching beneath my shoes, all sound swallowed by the steady crash and retreat of the tide.

I didn’t give myself time to reflect because if I stopped to think.I’d have turned around and headed back to the hotel.This had nothing to do with the books or anyone’s career—his or mine.The simple truth was I didn’t want—couldn’t—leave things as they’d ended that morning.

The low retaining wall gave way to a short set of concrete stairs, edges slick with damp moss and sea spray.I took the steps quickly.

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