Chapter 8
-Sadie-
The soft sound of a pen moving across paper and the patter of rain on the window were the only two things to interrupt the silence of Pearce House’s living room.
It seemed fitting to Sadie as she circled yet another paragraph in Corbyn’s latest chapter of Echoes of Ash, on a page that was already bleeding with red ink.
The mystery was turning into a gripping work featuring a burned-out detective investigating arson cases that mirrored his own tragic past. The premise was solid, and Corbyn’s prose could be devastatingly good, but his tendency to wander into tangents killed the pacing.
“The reader doesn’t need three pages on the butler’s childhood,” she muttered, scribbling a note in the margin. “He doesn’t even show up again until chapter twenty-four.”
It had been eight days since she first arrived in Great Missenden.
Most of those days included stilted morning check-ins with Corbyn, each a test of her patience.
Their first hour-long meeting about the manuscript had gone surprisingly well and miraculously concluded without raised voices or slammed doors.
She’d taken Edie’s advice, met his glare evenly, and offered a well-thought-out explanation as to why her advice should be taken seriously.
He’d growled and grumbled, but by the end, he’d muttered a grudging “not bad” that had felt like she had won something monumental.
She didn’t hold much hope for a repeat performance today.
She had been up until the early morning hours working on a freelance editing project for a self-published romance author.
She needed a new laptop to replace the one Nate had smashed, but it would take about three more projects to afford the one she had her eye on.
The peaceful atmosphere was broken when her phone buzzed suddenly on the coffee table. Her brow furrowed as the text showed it was from an unknown number, and curiosity had her unlocking the screen.
Miss you, babe.
Her eyes narrowed. There was only one person who could have sent that message. Nate had figured out she had blocked him and took it upon himself to get a new number.
And of course, because today was Valentine’s Day, the man who’d called her “unlovable” and a “waste of space” mere weeks ago was reaching out. She snorted, flat and humorless, as another message appeared.
I keep thinking about our first Valentine’s. Remember that workshop we went to about crafting the perfect love letter?
For a moment, her mind slipped back to that night all those years ago. There had been wine and laughter, and they had both crafted beautiful letters to each other. He had seemed so sincere at the time, and just thinking of it made her chest ache.
I found them in a box under the bed.
A photo popped up on her screen. Two letters, one in her neat cursive and the other in his somewhat messy scrawl.
She took a shaky breath, trying to will away the mix of emotions that flooded her at seeing those letters.
That had been a moment she had treasured, those letters an anchor to the early days.
It’s a shame these letters are here with me and you’re not.
Deep down, Sadie knew she shouldn’t have been surprised by the turn this conversation was taking. Nate was a master at manipulating situations and emotions so he ended up looking like the victim.
“Nothing says I love you like a holiday guilt trip,” she muttered, staring at the words.
I’m not doing well without you, Sades. I need you here, my writing isn’t the same without you.
She rolled her eyes. The last time she had tried to offer him any sort of suggestion, he had told her that she had been spending too long reading novels written by authors who had sacrificed true art to appeal to the masses. That her input only stifled the emotional depth of his genius.
She slipped the phone into her pocket, then leaned back on the sofa, rubbing her brow to ease the tension that had formed there.
She inhaled deeply, catching the scent of something rich and savory from the kitchen.
She could hear Edie moving about behind her, preparing dinner.
Deciding to seek out the housekeeper’s motherly presence, she forced herself to stand and move to the kitchen.
“You alright, dear?” Edie asked, turning to look over her shoulder at the sound of Sadie’s footsteps. “You look knackered.”
Sadie managed a smile, and sat on one of the stools at the island before answering, “I’m fine, just preparing myself mentally for another hour of grumbling.”
“He’s been muttering about your notes since this morning,” Edie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s good. It means you’ve gotten under his skin.”
“Are you sure?” Sadie asked, doubt creeping in. A moment ago, she had been able to ignore the uncertainty Nate’s text had conjured, but now she couldn’t help but wonder if he had a point. If he did, eventually Corbyn might also figure out she wasn’t the miracle worker everyone proclaimed her to be.
“Trust me, love, he’s obsessing over your feedback. That means you got through to him,” Edie said with certainty, waving her away. “Go on then. Best not to keep him waiting.”
When she reached the entrance to the hallway, she paused, preparing herself mentally for whatever was to come.
In the study, she found a fire crackling in the stone hearth, and Corbyn lounging on the worn leather sofa, a stray lock falling across his forehead as he wrote something in a notebook.
Riley lay at his feet, sprawled out in canine contentment.
The dog noticed her first, his tail thumping against the floor in lazy welcome.
Corbyn looked up, the cool blue of his eyes cutting through the fire-lit room.
The scarring on the right side of his face caught the firelight.
She had never spent much time looking at the scars that trailed down his jaw and neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
She had noticed early on that he had a tendency to turn that side of his face away from her as much as possible, as if to hide it.
Once she had noticed, she had gone out of her way to do things that wouldn’t add to whatever psychological discomfort her presence brought.
As she approached, she dropped the marked-up chapter onto the coffee table before sitting in the armchair opposite him. Riley stretched before padding over to her, his head landing in her lap as he demanded attention. She let out a breathy laugh before scratching behind his ears.
“Round two,” she said, looking up at Corbyn, who was watching her with what she hoped was curiosity. She was pleased that her voice emerged steady, despite the nervousness fluttering in her stomach.
A grunt was Corbyn’s only response, and he set aside his notebook to reach for the pages. He flipped through them, pausing at a particularly red-soaked section, and she saw his jaw tighten.
“This better not be a hatchet job,” he muttered, looking over her notes.
Sadie squared her shoulders, recalling Edie’s advice. Don’t back down.
“It’s strong, Corbyn,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Your voice cuts like a blade, and your characters stick with readers. Detective Shaw is compelling, and the arson cases are intricate and well-researched.”
His expression remained guarded, but something in his posture eased slightly even as he said, “But?”
“But,” she continued, leaning forward, “it’s bloated.
The pacing drags here…” she reached across as best she could with Riley’s head still in her lap to tap a heavily marked section.
“And this subplot with the mayor’s wife is a snarl of loose ends.
Streamline it, and the whole narrative hits harder. ”
She saw him bristle, his jaw ticking with tension, before he ground out, “It works perfectly well as is. The mayor’s wife subplot adds depth to the town’s corruption.”
“It adds confusion,” Sadie countered. “It’s too disconnected from the rest of the book. If you show how it directly impacts his investigation of his brother’s death…”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. For a moment, she felt her shoulders draw up toward her ears, but she forced herself to relax and ignored the phone, focusing on the page before her.
“This section here,” she pressed on, pointing to a crossed-out chunk. “Three pages of Shaw remembering his childhood. It takes away the tension you’ve built with the warehouse discovery. Cut it, and the tension spikes.”
She flipped to her suggested restructuring, letting him read her notes.
The phone buzzed again, and her hand twitched toward her pocket despite her resolve before she caught herself.
Corbyn’s expression became pinched, eyes motioning towards her hand before he asked, “Problem?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly, her voice was more of a squeak than she intended.
She tapped the manuscript again, hoping to redirect the conversation.
“Chapter three has a timeline hole. Shaw couldn’t have seen the fire chief at the station and then driven across town in ten minutes to meet his informant. The geography doesn’t work.”
Buzz. Another text.
Sadie clenched her jaw, but curiosity and dread won out. She pulled the phone far enough from her pocket to read what was on the screen.
Figures you’d ignore me. You always were spiteful, just like your mother.
You’re trying to punish me, aren’t you?
Never mind. I’m tossing those stupid fucking letters.
Her throat tightened. She tried to remind herself that this pattern was exactly why she had left. First came the charm, then the guilt and manipulation, and if that didn’t work, then it was anger.
Clearing her throat, her voice was a little less steady when she continued, “Fix the timeline, or the whole sequence unravels.”
Corbyn was watching her now, his gaze more intent. She folded her fingers around her phone to try to hide the slight tremor she was sure he noticed. His pen tapped a rhythm against the armrest of the sofa.
“You’re gutting it.”