Page 7 of Kill Your Darlings

Finn’s cell buzzed as a black sedan pulled up outside the lobby glass door.Finn checked his phone, said to Hartman, “That’s us.”To Kyle and me, he said, “Where are you headed?Did you want to share an Uber?”

Nothing on earth could have persuaded me to climb into a car with Finn and Tiny the Terrible.Besides, I like to walk and I didn’t have a place in mind.I figured we’d decide while we strolled around Cannery Row.

However, I said to Kyle, “Up to you.”

“I like walking,” he said, to my relief.

“Right,” Finn said.“We’ll catch you later in the bar.”He turned to follow Hartman, who was already stalking out the glass doors.

“Later,” I agreed, though I knew I would not be there.

Nor would I be missed.Clearly.

I smiled at Kyle.“What are you in the mood for?”

He smiled back.“Really, anything.”

“I love Monterey.I haven’t been here in a long time.I’m thinking seafood.”

Although he lived just a few miles up the coast and was probably looking forward to Mexican for a change, he said easily, “I love seafood.”

We walked out through the glass doors, stepping out of the hotel’s warm golden glow into the cool-toned hush of early evening.The air was salty and cold.I drew a deep breath and felt immediately better, centered.

“He seems genuinely nice,” Kyle commented, and I had no doubt as to whichhe, he meant.

“Yep.Finn’s both genuine and nice.”

The light had faded to a lovely shade of steampunk lavender, but I could feel the warmth of the sunbaked sidewalk beneath the soles of my trainers.Flecks of mica glittered on the damp pavement.

Neither of us said anything for a minute or two.As the moist breath of the Pacific curled around our feet, I was wondering if I should have brought a jacket.Spring evenings by the ocean could be chilly.Streetlights flickered halos in the thickening dusk, and the distant clang of a buoy bell sounded muted and otherworldly through the fog rolling in off the bay.

“When was the last time you were back in Steeple Hill?”Kyle asked.

The question startled me, until I remembered I’d mentioned having grown up in Steeple Hill the first time we spoke on the phone.

“Two months ago,” I said.“I came back for my father’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kyle said quickly.

“It’s all right.We weren’t close.In fact, that was the first trip back in over twenty years.”

“Right.”His tone was neutral, but I knew what he was thinking.Twenty years didn’t sound likewe weren’t close.It sounded like estrangement.Which was what it was.

Our footsteps whispered softly against the damp pavement.The air smelled of seaweed and distant woodsmoke.Very different from New York.But everything about California was different.

The old-fashioned shops along Cannery Row were dark and quiet.In the apartments above, windows glowed cozily behind drawn curtains.The streets were surprisingly empty, but most conference attendees would be eating inside the hotel tonight.

“Is your mother…?”Kyle began tentatively.

“No.My mother died when I was four.”

“I’m so sorry…”

I could see he was wishing he’d never brought up what he’d surely imagined was the innocuous subject of my ties to the area.I gave a short laugh.“It’s all right.It was a long time ago.”

After a moment, Kyle said, “My mother died when I was three.”

I hadn’t known that about him.But I didn’t, in general, know a lot about the personal lives and histories of my authors unless it was relevant to their work—or made the evening news.

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