Chapter One
One Week Earlier
It wasn’t until the elevator doors were sliding open that Maggie realized she was about to come face-to-face with her three
least favorite things in the world:
Christmas. A party. And Ethan Freaking Wyatt.
For a moment, she just stood there, the cacophony of carols and chatter fading to a low hum as she stared through the open
doors at the smug look on his smug face—at his trademark leather jacket and the strand of twinkle lights wrapped around his
neck like a scarf. There was a Santa hat on his head and, of course, a copy of Silent Knight (“Now a #1 New York Times Bestseller!”) in his hands. The fact that it was just a cardboard cutout and not the man himself should have softened the
blow for Maggie, but it was all she could do not to punch him in his cardboard teeth.
At the very least she should have reached for the button and made the elevator doors close faster—and maybe she would have
if a voice hadn’t cried out, “Oh my gosh. You’re here!” Which was when Maggie knew she’d made a terrible mistake.
She should have slipped away when she’d had the chance, down in the elevator. Through the lobby. Then out onto the cold and
crowded streets of Midtown Manhattan seven days before Christmas. She should have gotten out of there—and she would have—if
Cardboard Ethan hadn’t distracted her. But now it was too late and two tiny but deceptively viselike hands were dragging her
off the elevator and into the big open lobby of Killhaven Books.
“Shellie bet me five dollars that you’d show, and here you are!” Deborah had to raise her voice to be heard over all the small
talk and laughter because, oh yeah. There was a party going on. A Christmas party. And Maggie had waltzed right into the middle of it. A tree was blinking and music was playing and the room was swirling.
Just a little.
“Maggie?” Deborah’s voice was closer. Softer.
“You know, it’s a miracle there aren’t more murders at Christmas.”
“Oh, here we go,” Deborah mumbled, but Maggie never took her eyes off Cardboard Ethan.
“Think about it. People who hate each other crammed together in hot rooms with too much alcohol. Scissors and strangulation
devices lying around.”
“Strangulation devices?”
“You know... Lights. Tinsel. I bet you could do some real damage with garland.” In spite of everything, Maggie felt herself
perk up at the possibilities. “Even mistletoe is poisonous.”
“To dogs,” Deborah said.
“In large enough quantities, everyone’s a dog,” Maggie pointed out as she slowly turned to face the woman beside her.
Deborah Klein was five-foot-one inches of power. Gray hair. Chanel suit. And eyes that had seen it all during her forty-nine-year
rise from the mail room to the most feared woman in publishing.
“I say all this because I am going to murder you .”
“Who? Me?” Deborah brought one tiny hand to her chest.
“Yes, you! It’s just lunch, Maggie. You need to get out of the house, Maggie. We need to talk marketing, Maggie. ”
“One, I don’t sound like that.”
“You sound exactly like that.”
“And two—”
“This is a party, Deborah. There is a tree made out of paperbacks right over there. Half the marketing department is singing
karaoke. And...” Maggie trailed off as she realized—“Lance VanZant is literally wearing a T-shirt that looks like a tuxedo.”
Deborah waved the words away. “Lance VanZant wrote one half-decent book nine years ago. No one cares about Lance VanZant.”
“What about him?” Maggie pointed to Cardboard Ethan and Deborah had the good taste to look guilty.
“I’m told it’s not exactly to scale.”
But then a thought occurred to Maggie. “Ooh. Can I have it when this is over? I’ve been wanting to learn how to throw knives.”
Deborah’s mouth was opening, slowly, like she couldn’t figure out what to say when a woman walked past, chiming, “Merry Christmas,
Maggie!”
She was new and Maggie thought her name was Jen. It was probably Jen. Statistically speaking, one-third of the women who worked
in publishing were named Jen, but Maggie wasn’t thinking very clearly because the room was too loud after a year of constant
silence. It was too crowded. And Maggie, who had never loved crowds or parties to begin with, felt her hands start shaking.
“Let’s get you something to eat.” Deborah had a hand on Maggie’s elbow. She could feel it through her Joan Wilder coat, puffy
and too hot in the crowded room. She’d always thought it was an excellent coat to disappear inside, but Deborah was still
there, whispering near her ear. “I’m sorry. It’s been a year and I thought... Stay five minutes. For me. I’m sorry I tricked
you into coming, but there really is something we need to talk about.”
Maggie was starting to waver. She’d already spent fifty bucks on train fare and taxis and lost a whole day of work, so it
might not be that bad. After all, she didn’t have to go to the party. She just had to walk through the party, and she could do that. She’d been walking every day for a year—for almost thirty years. She could make it to Deborah’s
corner office.
But then the elevator dinged. The doors slid open and a deep voice boomed, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” First, he spotted the cutout. “Well,
who’s this handsome fella?” Then he spotted her. “Hey! It’s good to see you, Marcie!”
And Maggie started looking for some tinsel.