Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eleven Months Ago
“How are you doing, kiddo?” The call was bad news. It had to be, because Deborah was being nice. And Deborah was never nice.
“Are you taking care of yourself?”
It was three in the afternoon, and Maggie looked down at her oldest, softest pajamas, terrified Deborah might be able to see
through the line and know that Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair.
“I’m great!” Maggie lied. “So great. Just the perfect amount of greatness. If you’re calling about the new draft, it’s almost
ready. So close. I’ll have you something by the time I see you.” Maggie laughed, but the sound turned to ash in her mouth.
“I’m not getting on that train until it’s finished, no sirree.”
The loudest silence in the world is the one that fills the pause when something isn’t actually funny, and, instantly, Maggie
wanted to pull the words back, crawl in a hole—actually take that shower she’d been on the verge of taking for the last two
days.
“That’s not why I’m calling. And”—Deborah drew a heavy breath—“it also is why I’m calling. You know how I told you Betty’s Book Club had it narrowed down to you and one other author...” Deborah
trailed off, and, instantly, Maggie knew.
“No.”
“It’s probably for the best. You don’t need this kind of pressure right now.”
“Pressure is being an orphaned teenager, Deborah. Pressure is all your worldly possessions fitting into six cardboard boxes
and not having a permanent address. Pressure is realizing the world is a high wire and you’re the only person you know without
a net. This isn’t pressure,” said the woman who had just found a piece of popcorn in her bra and she’d run out of popcorn
three days ago.
But Deborah hadn’t called to argue. “It’s over, Maggie. It’s decided. Betty’s Book Club is going with the other Killhaven
author—”
“Who?” Maggie demanded.
“I fought for you, kiddo. But you’ll have other books, other chances.”
“Who?”
“Your plate is full right now. Between the lawyers and the deadline and... Has he even moved out yet?”
“I moved out.”
“Oh, Maggie...”
“I never wanted that house.” Which was true.
“But you paid for it.”
That was true, too, but Maggie wasn’t going to let her change the subject. “What author did they pick, Deborah?”
“Have you gone a whole day without crying yet?” Deborah sounded stern and tired—like a mother—and Maggie wanted to cry again
for all new reasons.
“Because I’m a woman, and everyone knows women are overly emotional and hysterical and—”
“Because you lost your husband and your best friend less than a month ago and it’s okay to grieve that. Let yourself grieve
that.”
But Maggie didn’t want to grieve. She wanted to win. “Who?” she snapped. “Who did they pick?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What book, Deborah?”
The silence was an ocean, dark and vast and deep enough to drown in. “ Thief in the Knight. By Ethan Wyatt.”