Page 78 of Kill Your Darlings

“A bit.”

Rudolph leaned in conspiratorially.“But seriously.You’ve built something rare—authors who adore you, colleagues who respect you, and a near-legendary gift for extracting the gold from the dross.”

More applause and a couple of whistles from—I was pretty sure—my stable, who were crowded at the back of the room like the class troublemakers.

“Thank you.”I meant it sincerely.After the weekend I was having, any kind words were balm on an open wound.

Rudolph’s expression softened.“You’ve been at Millbrook how long now?”

“Ten years.”I added, “Six months, seventeen days, three hours, and two minutes.”

“But who’s counting, eh?That’s longer than most publishing houses stay solvent these days.”

That earned another laugh, though this one had more teeth.Now that the merger with W&W was more than rumor, opinions, anecdotes, and unsolicited advice were starting to circulate.Author anxiety was rising fast.It would be fever pitch by Sunday.

Rudolph’s next few questions were softballs: What’s your greatest strength as an editor—and don’t say you care too much!What’s your greatest weakness as an editor—and don’t say you care too much!”

I did my best to be honest but entertaining.“I think my greatest strength as an editor is my ability to view the work as a skilled objective outsider.My greatest weakness?I’m probably not alone in this, but I like what I like.And the older I get, the more set in my likes and dislikes I am.I don’t like gratuitous anything.I don’t like emotional pandering.I don’t like twist endings that don’t make sense.Oh, and I have a tendency to rant in public about things I don’t like.”

Rudolph chuckled.“Any regrets about passing on a particular manuscript?”

I couldn’t help wondering if Hayes had complained about my trashing his book to every single conference attendee.

“I’m not sure.Maybe not.If I pass on a book, it’s not necessarily that I don’t believe the book could do well.It’s more about what I think I can bring to the equation.Just as every book is not for every reader, every editor is not for every book.”

“That’s quite good,” Rudolph remarked.“Did I say that?”

The audience laughed, of course, and I said, “I’m pretty sure you did.”

Rudolph gave me another of those sly winks.Then he snapped his fingers and commanded, “Three author blind spots.Go!”

“Uh…Thinking ‘real’ equals ‘interesting.’Dialogue that sounds like dialogue.Plot that happens simply because the author says so.”

“Very good.”Rudolph turned to the audience.“He’s after my job!”

That got the biggest laugh yet.

I happened to glance at Lila.She was scowling as she scrolled through her phone.

The rest of the interview was mostly old war stories and humorous industry anecdotes.

Finally, Rudolph uncapped a silver water bottle and took a sip.“We have a few minutes left, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t turn things over to the crowd.Questions?Comments?Confessions?”

Laughter eddied through the ballroom.A few hands shot up.A volunteer with a wireless mic moved through the sea of chairs.

A tiny blonde in a ponytail and pink sweatshirt featuring a bespectacled rabbit and the slogan I STOP FOR PLOT BUNNIES took the mic.

“Hi, Keiran.I’m an aspiring author, um, an emerging mystery writer and, um, I guess I was wondering—what’s the one thing that makes you keep reading a submission past the first page?”

I smiled.“Hi.First and foremost, I’m looking for an authentic voice telling an interesting story.And by authentic, I mean a voice that doesn’t sound like everyone else—or AI.I’m looking for clarity, confidence, maybe a little restraint.The best writers don’t waste time proving they’re clever—they’re busy telling a story I can’t put down.”

I don’t remember what the response to that was.I don’t remember what the second question was or who asked it, because the third audience member who stood up and took the mic was Troy Colby.

I’d been so sure I wouldn’t know him if I saw him, but when a tall, silver-haired man near the side aisle slowly unfolded from his chair, my scalp prickled in alarmed recognition.

He was dressed in dark jeans and dark T-shirt and his conference badge was turned backward.I hadn’t noticed any tattoos when he’d handed overI Know What You Did, but he was covered in them.As if he wore ink long johns beneath his clothes.Despite the room’s soft, low lighting, he wore dark glasses.

Taking the mic, he said in a low, slightly raspy voice, “Keiran, do you think editors have a moral responsibility to their authors?Even after the contracts end?Or is it just business?”

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