Chapter 17
-Corbyn-
The stylus sat on the desk next to the tablet Sadie had left behind, taunting Corbyn. He’d spent the last hour trying to ignore it, but every time he so much as glanced in the direction of the infernal device, he could hear Sadie’s voice in his head.
Humor me. Keep it overnight and give it a try. If you hate it, I promise never to mention it again.
She had said it so gently, without any of the usual condescension he had experienced from other editors when they had suggested a similar approach. When her eyes had met his, they were so caring, so full of encouragement, that he had very nearly caved and taken the stylus without complaint.
Slowly, as if it might bite him, he reached out and picked up the stylus. It felt cool in his hand, the sleek design fitting snugly between his fingers, much like his favorite pen; he could hardly tell the difference from the ones he used to scrawl his words on paper.
He eyed the tablet again; across the room, Riley heaved a sigh. The dog looked up at him from his spot by the fire, one shaggy brow raised in what seemed like judgment, as if to say, Get on with it, human, you’re being a daft idiot.
With a sigh of his own, Corbyn slid the tablet closer, turning on the screen and launching the application Sadie had shown him earlier.
The stylus hovered over the screen, ready and waiting for his words.
He knew he was being stubborn; she had taken more precautions to ensure the security of his work than he had with his own laptop.
Slowly, he lowered the stylus and began to write.
The contact was almost frictionless as he wrote a test sentence.
Detective Shaw stood at the edge of the building, watching smoke curl into the night sky.
His messy scrawl transformed instantly into clean, typeset text. He marveled at it for a long moment. There was no waiting for his left hand to stop trembling enough to type, no smudged ink on paper. Just his thoughts flowing directly onto the digital page.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, genuinely surprised by how easy the process was. He’d expected it to lag or horribly misinterpret his writing, yet his words were there, exactly as he had intended.
Riley lifted his head, ears perking up at the unfamiliar note in his master’s voice. The soulful eyes of the wolfhound tracked the stylus in Corbyn’s hand as he held it up to examine it.
“Don’t get excited,” Corbyn told the dog, his tone as dry as ever. “It’s just a fancy pen.”
Riley’s tail thumped once against the floor, clearly unconvinced.
Corbyn returned his attention to the screen, adding another line: The arson pattern had changed. The fire starter was evolving, becoming bolder, more precise.
Again, his handwriting flowed into perfect text. It was… efficient. Unsettlingly so.
He jumped, dropping the stylus when his phone vibrated with an incoming call.
Ellie’s name flashed on the screen, accompanied by an unflattering photo he’d taken of her mid-sneeze last Christmas.
He considered ignoring it, but capitulated on the fourth buzz.
She would only keep calling until he answered.
“What?” he growled, more out of habit than irritation.
“There you are!” Ellie’s voice burst through the speaker. “Thought you might be ignoring me again.” The screen lit up as she initiated a video call, her dark hair bobbing into the frame.
Side by side, there was no denying the fact that they were siblings. They had the same dark, nearly black hair and the same sharpness to their features. Yet where he had inherited their father’s icy blue eyes, Ellie had been born with their mother’s hazel.
“I considered it,” he replied, angling the phone to try to hide the tablet from view. “What do you want?”
“Charming as ever,” Ellie laughed, her smile widening as she took the opportunity to get in a dig. “Just wanted to check in. Edie says the book is actually making progress? I half-expected her to call for an ambulance when she told me.”
Corbyn scowled and said, “You two gossip too much.”
“It’s not gossip. We both worry about you,” Ellie corrected. “Besides, how else would I know what’s happening in your life? It’s not like you’re chatty.”
He grunted noncommittally, shifting in his chair to position the phone at a more comfortable angle.
“Wait…” Ellie’s eyes narrowed, a look he recognized all too well. She’d spotted something. “Is that what I think it is?”
Corbyn looked at the box containing his image and groaned. The tablet sat there partially visible at the edge of the frame. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and prayed for patience while he dealt with his well-meaning, but annoying, younger sister.
“It’s for work,” he said defensively, knowing it was too late to move it out of view.
“It’s an actual, honest-to-God tablet, isn’t it?
” she practically squealed in delight, making him cringe.
“In your technophobic presence? That editor you’ve been working with got you to try using a tablet?
” Her face split into a wide grin. “What sorcery is this? Did she hypnotize you? Blackmail? I need details immediately.”
Corbyn scowled, telling her stiffly, “It’s practical for the manuscript.”
“Mmhmm,” Ellie hummed, clearly unconvinced. “And how many editors have suggested ‘practical’ technology solutions that you’ve immediately shot down?”
“I’m just trying it out,” he protested, but even he could hear how absurdly defensive he was being. “Today was… difficult. She simply asked me to give it a try this evening.”
The admission hung between them, and Ellie’s expression softened at his moment of vulnerability, the teasing fading to something warmer.
“She understands the work is what matters,” Corbyn continued, the words coming easier now. “She wasn’t trying to change how I write, just… making it possible.” He stopped abruptly, aware he’d revealed more than intended.
“She sounds like she gets you,” Ellie said quietly. “That’s rare, Corbie.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped automatically, hating that she still insisted on using the childhood nickname. “And don’t make it into something it’s not. It’s a working relationship.”
With a slight smirk, she fired back, “I would never make assumptions about your personal life.”
“That’s literally all you do,” Corbyn said dryly.
Ellie studied him through the screen, her expression turning thoughtful before she wondered aloud, “You seem different. Less… prickly.”
“I’m exactly the same level of prickly,” he countered, which earned a genuine laugh. The last thing he needed was Ellie getting any sort of ideas regarding Sadie. She would undoubtedly scheme with Edie, and he would never have a moment’s peace.
“If you say so,” she laughed and then paused, her expression turning sly. “So… what’s she like? She must be a bloody miracle worker.”
Something in her tone made Corbyn tense; she was clearly fishing for information. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raising slightly as they regarded each other through their phone screens.
“She’s observant and annoyingly thorough,” he answered carefully.
“Just observant and thorough?” Ellie pressed, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and he knew he wasn’t going to get out of this with short one- or two-word answers.
Corbyn sighed, “She’s… perceptive. Doesn’t let me get away with lazy writing. Challenges the work without trying to remake it in her image. She’s good at her job.”
“I see,” Ellie said, her tone suggesting that despite the careful answer, she was already making plans he wouldn’t like. “And have you learned anything about her beyond her editorial skills? Where’s she from? What does she like? Whether she has a cat or a goldfish?”
“Why would I care about any of that?” Corbyn scoffed, though he immediately thought of all the little things he’d noticed.
Her preference for tea with honey rather than sugar, how she always had a book in her bag, and the fact that she had trusted him enough to open up about her ex.
The memory of her quiet voice describing the torn journal pages stirred a protective anger he hadn’t felt in years.
“Just curious if you’ve actually had a personal conversation,” Ellie pressed. “You know, like normal humans do.”
“She mentioned her mother had a hand injury,” he said before he could stop himself. “Similar to mine. She used to help with physical therapy.”
“Ah,” Ellie said, her eyebrows rising with interest. “So you have talked about things beyond commas and character arcs.” She leaned closer to the screen, not trying to hide her smile. “What else do you know about her? Is she married? Single? Originally from Mars? I need details, Corbie.”
“Don’t call me…” he began, but he cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Why do you care?”
“Because I haven’t heard you talk about anyone like this in… well, ever,” Ellie teased. “Not even Claire.”
The mention of his ex-fiancée’s name sent a familiar twinge through him, but it lacked the sharp sting it once carried. Claire was ancient history, and he had long ago accepted the fact that he was unlikely to find someone willing to look past the scars the car accident left behind.
“It’s not like that,” he insisted firmly.
He saw Ellie feign innocence, something she had always been good at, and she gasped, “I’m just curious about the woman who’s accomplished what an army of editors, doctors, and one particularly stubborn sister couldn’t. Getting you to try something new.”
Corbyn ran a hand through his hair, grumbling, “She’s American. Developmental editor. Early thirties. Temporary assignment. End of story.”
“Mmhmm,” Ellie hummed again. “And you’ve been working together for how long?”
“About a month.”
“A month,” Ellie repeated thoughtfully. “And in that time, she’s got you using a tablet, making progress on the book, and…” she paused, studying his face, “something else has changed. I can see it.”
“Nothing has changed,” Corbyn insisted, though the words felt hollow even to his ears.