Chapter 22 #2
Perhaps it is too great an irony for me to be the one to say this.
Or perhaps it is fitting; I can’t tell. Regardless, it is true.
The beauty of writing—the beauty of art—is that it lets us be more human.
It enriches our lives. It magnifies our experience of the world, connects us with other minds, reveals to us those parts of ourselves we do not fully understand.
You can choose to be the kind of writer who makes things that you care about, things that you are passionate about, things that are meaningful to you.
Or you can choose to be the kind of writer who peddles widgets.
It is all too easy to let the lure of success and respect and prestige lead us away from the kind of person we think we are, the person we want to be.
As I mentioned above, I am aware, here, of the irony. But perhaps you will simply consider that, in this case, I speak from experience. Is it too much for me to say that I hope, for my sake as a reader, you will continue to write the things that you love? Because the world is a better place for it.
Enough of that; you didn’t ask for my advice.
To the matter at hand:
In the event that this letter does reach you, you should know that I made a mistake many years ago in one of my investigations. I plan to rectify this by—
And that was where the letter ended.
I stared at it in disbelief.
A page and a half of unsolicited advice—about not being a sell-out, of all things—and then she stopped before she wrote down anything that could actually help me.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I said to the empty room.
I scanned the letter again, looking for something—anything—that might hint at what Vivienne had planned. But all I found was the same trite advice about, what? Not letting success change you? Writing from the heart? It was the kind of thing amateur blogs were made of.
Fighting the urge to scream, I shoved the letter away.
Sure, Vivienne couldn’t have known she was going to be murdered her first night at the convention. Obviously she had assumed she had enough time to finish the letter before the real threat showed itself. And she had been spectacularly wrong, which at that exact moment was zero consolation.
And the—the gall of that woman. She wanted to warn me against selling out?
When Vivienne’s entire life had been a carefully executed climb up the ladder?
Everything she’d done—everything, from the beginning of her career when she framed Matrika Nightingale for murder, all the way to the end when she tried to frame me for murder—had been about helping herself, making sure she got everything she wanted.
And then to turn around and tell me I needed to follow my heart and let art be my guiding star and all the rest of that hogwash.
Who the heck did she think she was?
After a few more deep breaths, though, the anger faded into a mixture of weariness and bleak amusement.
It was definitely my luck that Vivienne had left a letter outlining her master plan to confront a killer—and then failed to fill in anything actually, you know, helpful.
I slid the letter back into its folder. I’d call the sheriff tomorrow and let her know that no, the letter didn’t contain a secret code revealing the identity of Vivienne’s killer.
Unless, of course, it was somehow supposed to prove that I was the killer—like, maybe I’d murdered Vivienne mid-sentence, before she could finish the letter.
(Which honestly sounded like something Agatha Christie would do, and even though I was in a real grump, I loved it.)
I knew I needed to go upstairs and go to bed. I knew I needed to call it a night, get some real sleep—not that awful, drugged hospital sleep from the night before—and start fresh tomorrow. With a huge apology for Bobby as item number one on the list.
But I was so. dang. tired.
It was the kind of tired that turns on all the blacklights in your head, and you start seeing all the stains and spots—all the things you’ve done wrong, all the ways you’ve messed up, all the times you’ve fallen short.
It wasn’t only Bobby. It had been Keme, too, when I’d gotten sidetracked by that stupid phone call instead of going to his competition. And I’d done it with Thatcher and Charlie when Julian had first approached me.
A less exhausted, gentler me might have argued that it was a few moments of bad judgment, and there’d been a lot going on, and blah blah blah. But sitting there, drained and empty and with those blacklights shining in my head, I thought maybe Vivienne was right.
I mean, my God, I was acting like a jackhole to the people I loved because somebody said they might make a TV show about me.
The fact that I was starting to agree with Vivienne was a sign that I needed to call it a night. I dragged my keister upstairs and into the bathroom. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Here’s the thing about being an amateur sleuth: it’s not exactly a nine-to-five kind of job. And sometimes, when you think you’ve finally gotten your brain to turn off, a neuron fires, and then it’s all hands on deck again.
Bobby was patient.
Bobby was understanding.
Bobby was kind and sweet and gentle. And his reaction tonight—while totally legitimate—that hadn’t been Bobby.
And that was because Bobby didn’t act like Bobby when he was scared. Bobby didn’t act like Bobby when he was out of control. When he was desperate to get a handle on things, frantic not to feel helpless, determined not to be powerless.
Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been about me being late for dinner. And as the snoop at the back of my brain raised his head, I started to suspect it hadn’t even been about Bobby being afraid I’d been hurt—at least, not entirely.
And I remembered, after he’d gone into his room, the sound of a drawer slamming shut.
I spat. I rinsed out my mouth. I looked in the mirror and told myself, No. Absolutely not. I was tempted to wag a disapproving finger.
Five seconds later, I was in Bobby’s bedroom, opening drawers.
Guys—especially guys like Bobby, who are basically straight boys but with better underwear—don’t have a lot of imagination sometimes.
It was in his sock drawer.
And it was a small velvet box.
For a moment, I went back two years. I’d been living in Providence, in the apartment I’d shared with Hugo. I’d been putting away laundry. And I’d found a box like this.
I suddenly felt lightheaded. I wanted to put one hand on the dresser to steady myself, but I needed both of them to open the box.
And inside, a gold ring caught the light like fire.