Which was, I was mature enough to admit, pretty lousy on my part.

  Eventually, though, you have to stop crying. (Even if you’re alone in a Class V haunted mansion). And I was alone. I’d lived in Hemlock House long enough to know the familiar sounds: groans and moans and clanks and creaks. And I knew what it sounded like when it was empty.

  In the past when Bobby and I had gotten into one of these fights—if fights was even the right word—or before we’d gotten together, when we’d been trying to find our way to each other, one of my friends had been there for me. Not tonight. And in a weird way, it felt like I hadn’t seen my friends in ages. It wasn’t true factually; I’d seen them all the night before. But in that moment, they felt far away.

  I could have called them, I suppose. And told them what? How badly I’d messed up with Bobby? No, thank you.

  Anyway, this was the way life was going. If Bobby didn’t break up with me, eventually it would be just the two of us. Fox and Indira had their own lives. Keme and Millie would find an apartment. I wanted to start crying all over again at the thought of everyone moving on. But I didn’t. Because that was part of life; everyone moved on eventually.

  Lying in bed all night feeling sorry for myself did sound appealing, but somehow, I got up and went downstairs. I wasn’t hungry, but Bobby had gone to the effort to bring home takeout, and I didn’t want it to go bad sitting out on the counter overnight.

  When I reached the kitchen, delicious smells met me: ginger and garlic and lemon. Bobby had laid out the carryout containers, rather than leaving them stacked. He’d even opened a couple of them so that the steam could escape. It was the kind of thing Bobby would think of, and it made my eyes sting all over again.

  I packed up the food in Tupperware containers and stored it in the fridge. I put the empty takeout containers in the trash. I was vaguely aware that I hadn’t eaten since—God, I wasn’t sure. Did coffee count? I gave the counters a quick inspection, because Indira liked to keep the kitchen clean, and moved toward the door.

  And that’s when I saw the folder. It was standard manila, and on the front, a sticky note had my name written at the top.

  I picked it up.

  Dash, We found this, and I thought you’d want to take a look. Acosta.

  Had Bobby brought this home? Or had the sheriff dropped it off? It didn’t matter, I supposed. I opened the folder and found myself staring at a photocopy of a handwritten letter.

  Dear Dashiell—

  I stopped because I recognized the handwriting. I flipped to the next page to be sure, but the letter was incomplete and unsigned. Cold trickled down my spine.

  It was Vivienne’s handwriting.

  She had written me a letter.

  I went back to the first page and considered it again. The stationery said ROCK ON INN at the top, and Vivienne had dated the letter for Thursday—the day she’d approached me at the conference. The day she’d died. I carried the letter into the servants’ dining room and dropped into a seat. And then, for several seconds, I stared at the page of script, not seeing it.

  Should I read it? Throw it away? Burn it?

  But this was only a copy; the sheriff had the original. And she wanted my opinion.

  And who was I kidding, anyway?

  Dear Dashiell,

  I should say Dash, I suppose, because you’ve corrected me enough times, but I love the name Dashiell, and I think it is particularly fitting for you. I hope you’ll pardon me this small indulgence.

  You may wonder why I’m writing to you. I find myself at loose ends, in a way. I am about to embark on a dangerous course, and for the first time in many years, I feel the need of someone to confide in. This letter is something of a failsafe; I hope, should the worst happen to me, it will make its way to you, because I know you, and I know you will do what needs to be done.

  Do you find it strange that I’ve chosen you and not the sheriff? Or that I would write to you at all? I hope not. I hope that you feel, as I do, a sort of kinship. We have a great deal in common, although it may not please you to hear it. We are both intuitive and analytical. We share a love of writing—and if I may flatter both of us—we have a talent for it. We are inveterate snoops, to borrow a word the former sheriff preferred—and, to the chagrin of professional law enforcement everywhere, we are unbearably good at what we do. There’s something a tad grotesque in saying that you are the child I never had, and I would never subject you to it. But I do feel that I understand you. And, as you have proven, you understand me. To your credit and my detriment, as it turned out.

  If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to suggest we share some not-so-admirable traits as well. We are difficult people, in our own ways. We are obsessive. We are driven. And we are ambitious. Traits of genius, I’m tempted to say, but considering the trajectory of my life, events seem to have proven the contrary—although I hope that the next few days may bring a change in fortune. They say there are no second acts, but perhaps, in my case, I may craft for myself a third.

  I want to congratulate you on your success with A Work in Progress. It’s a wonderful book. Incisive, clear-eyed, and yet somehow gentle. It’s not a book I could write; maybe that gives you some comfort, knowing that there is, in that way, a fundamental difference between us. But it is a book that I am glad exists in the world.

  At the risk of overstepping, I hope you’ll permit me a moment to offer you some advice—a few bits of wisdom I have accumulated over the years in a profession that is neither gentle nor necessarily clear-eyed.

  You have struck gold with your first book, and it’s to your good fortune, I believe, that you self-published it, because this gives you a degree of freedom I never had. I imagine that in the future, you will find no shortage of offers and opportunities. If I may, I’d like to suggest that you be wary. One phrase that comes to mind is “the golden handcuffs.” And the other is “the baited hook.”

  Writing is a craft and an art. Publishing is a business.

  I think you will find—hopefully, forewarned by this letter—that business abhors a risk. There will be plenty of people who assure you that they can grow your career and make you money. They will not tell you the cost.

  The cost, Dashiell, is steep. It might be everything. Someone once said that when you choose to work with a publisher, it might be the last choice you ever make. There is some truth to that. A publisher, should you choose to work with one, will want you to produce a product they can sell. This is only fair, since they are a business. The problem is that you, Dashiell, are not a product. And the danger is that you will let yourself—and your writing—become one. The pressure will be to produce more. And to produce more of the same. And perhaps this will satisfy you, but I believe, from what I know of you, that you will find what it means is being less of yourself every time you write.

  And this isn’t only true about the publishing industry. I know little about self-publishing—perhaps, if this weekend goes as I plan, you’ll be generous enough to teach me. But I do know something about readers. And I think you will find that your readers, in their own way, will exert a similar pressure. Not out of any malice; rather, out of love. But it is equally dangerous, and as much a threat to your art as any marketing team.

  Everyone must choose who they are going to be.

  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.

  Chapter 23

  The sound of Bobby’s truck jolted me awake, and for a moment, I didn’t know where I was or why my back hurt or how the clock could possibly read three in the morning. And then it all came back to me. I was in the billiard room. In the dark. I fumbled around for my phone. Then I realized I’d lost my glasses, and I had to scrounge them up from the floor. By that point, the whole process had taken entirely too long. I hammered out a text to Bobby that said, I’m sitting in the dark like a creep. Please don’t shoot me. And I hit send as the front door opened.

  His phone dinged. Clothing rustled. And then Bobby let out a breath that was dangerously close to a sigh, and I realized he had to be tired. He had to be beyond tired—exhausted and still hurting and frustrated and stressed and a million other things.

  Bobby’s steps moved toward the billiard room. He stopped in the doorway, paused as though listening or trying to peer through the gloom, and said, “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “Like a creep,” I said. “You have to include that part. And the answer is so I can dramatically turn on a lamp, like this.”

  Bobby shaded his eyes at the bloom of light. He didn’t look impressed. He did look like he might be seriously considering turning around and heading straight upstairs, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

  But instead, he took a few weary steps into the room.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  “It’s technically tomorrow,” I said. “Well, it’s technically today, but you know what I mean. And I didn’t want to go to bed without talking.”

  His silence was measured out by the distant sound of the waves. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I’ll be quick, I promise.” When he didn’t say anything, I continued, “Do you remember why I left Hugo? I left—I ran away—because I was scared that I was going to make a mistake. And the mistake would be something like this: I was going to stay with Hugo because it was easier than taking a risk. I was going to stay with him because it was safe, even though I wasn’t sure I loved him—not the way I wanted to love someone. I was going to stay with him because I didn’t know if love was even real, or if it was something made up for books and TV. And I was terrified that I was going to wake up one day, thirty or forty years down the road, and realize I’d given up a shot at the life I wanted because I was too afraid to take a chance.” I drew a deep breath. “And then I met you.”

  Bobby put his hands on his hips, but it didn’t last long. He rubbed his eyes again.

  “I love you, Bobby. I love you in ways I never thought were possible. I didn’t know I could be this happy.” A lopsided grin fell out. “When I’m not making us both miserable.”

  “You’re not—Dash, I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. Because I’m so proud of you for expressing yourself. And because I want to know when I cross a line, when you need me to show up for you, when I let you down. Because I want to do better. And I want to acknowledge that I’ve been, I don’t know, wrapped up in this TV thing. It is exciting, Bobby. This is what authors dream of. It’s not a career-maker—it’s a level-up. It’s a whole different game. And my writing is important to me. My career is important to me.”

  “And it should be. You worked hard for it. I never want you to feel like I don’t support you, or like I don’t want you to get everything you deserve.”

  I waited for him to finish before I said, “But it’s not more important than you. And do you know what I realized tonight? I haven’t told you that.”

  “You don’t need to tell me; I know.”

  “But I should tell you, Bobby. I want to tell you. And I’m going to do better.”

  Bobby wiped his eyes. “Dash, it’s okay. Really. I know.”

  I smiled at him. I could feel the seconds ticking past. Finally, I forced myself to say, “I also haven’t told you how scared I am.”

  Voice thick, he asked, “What? Why?”