Page 2 of He Sees You
Her smile is subtle, almost sympathetic, but her eyes hold something else.
A challenge, maybe.
My phone buzzes again.
A text this time, from Mark—the investment banker I've been seeing for three months:
Dinner tonight? That place you like with the truffle mac?
I delete it without responding.
The thought of sitting across from him while he talks about portfolio diversification and wonders aloud if my books are "a bit much" makes me want to scream.
"We need the manuscript by January fifteenth," Richard continues, seemingly oblivious to the tension threading through the room. "That gives you eight weeks. The streaming deal depends on book five delivering something spectacular. Netflix wants their nextYou, but darker. They want viewers sleeping with the lights on while simultaneously falling in love with a monster."
"I can't just manufacture darkness."
Juliette laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Of course you can. You've done it before. Your first book?Crimson Prophecy? I couldn't read it at night. That scene where hewatches her through her apartment window for six months before they meet? Genius. That's what we need again."
"Maybe," Richard says, pulling up another slide, "you should consider method writing."
My hand stills on my coffee cup. "Method writing."
"Immerse yourself in the world. Some writers spend time in prisons interviewing convicts. Others embed themselves with motorcycle clubs or?—"
"I know what method writing is."
"Then you know it works." Richard leans forward, his cologne aggressive in its attempt at subtlety. "When Daniel Craig prepared for James Bond, he learned to shoot, to fight. When Heath Ledger became the Joker?—"
"He died," I interrupt.
Silence crystallizes in the room.
My phone buzzes again.
Another call from my father.
This time, I see the voicemail notification pop up immediately after.
Then a text:
Call me back. It's important.
"I need a moment." I stand abruptly.
The room spins slightly—when did I last eat? Yesterday? "Excuse me."
I grab my phone and head for the bathroom, my heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown.
The executive bathroom is mercifully empty, all black marble and gold fixtures, trying so hard to be luxurious it circles back to feeling like a tomb.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection.
When did those shadows appear under my eyes?
When did my skin take on that grey city pallor that no amount of Drunk Elephant can fix?
I look like one of my own characters—haunted, hollow, waiting for something terrible or wonderful to happen.
