She ran her fingers across the page over the writing. The word murderer ran in bold black alongside the name. And the name could be no coincidence.

Alan West.

14

William stood at the lectern gripping the stand’s side, staring into the empty room filled with an imaginary audience, remembering everything in crisp, clean detail.

One thing about Orelia, she was half true to her word. He did receive that first autographed book. The thing arrived, decorated with a plump pink ribbon, as though it was a wildly extravagant gift. Her book was published a whirlwind fourteen months, almost to the day, since he’d taken it to his agent.

Morris had loved the story eventually—took some persuading to get the man to read it—and he whipped up a bidding frenzy that saw five publishers desperate to own the book. Morris confided that he didn’t do much. All the editors adored the manuscript with a passion.

Seems they loved her image too. Everyone loved Orelia Mason.

He didn’t love Orelia Mason. Author Envy entered his mind for a matter of minutes. Well, maybe days if he was being honest. And maybe not entered, more like seeped inside his psyche, a gently rising tide lapping at the shore of his confidence.

They hadn’t spoken since the unfortunate incident in the café, which he didn’t want to think about at this moment. Just seemed so silly, pointless and annoying, considering if they were friends now that would be a big help to him.

Even though Orelia’s manuscript received a much higher advance than his first, he wanted to be a bigger man. He wouldn’t fall into the comparison game. That was a quick road to hell. The disparity in money was understandable, he’d rationalized. Their book genres, so vastly different, didn’t bear comparison. Stick romance in a story and your market broadened by millions. His more craft-driven work in modern literature could be considered for literary awards. Hers, only popularity prizes. Popularity prizes meant money though, and he could do with some of that about now.

His true desire was to write the American masterpiece, to be taught for years to come in schools and universities. The To Kill a Mockingbird of his era. He was William Faulkner to her Nora Roberts.

Morris soon became besotted by her as if he’d been the one to discover his star client and mentor her through the first book. The history of Orelia Mason’s success soon became manufactured without him. He didn’t factor a mention.

“Embarrassingly large,” Morris said, when William asked about the rights’ sale. “Ten foreign language rights sold too. Woo-hoo. Right?”

William pretended to be happy for her, but a nugget of something solid and knotty formed in his chest. That same feeling came over him at this moment as he imagined her standing on this stage instead of him.

“She’s planning a series,” Morris informed him.

“Writing a series is for hacks. Haven’t you always said that? What happened to handling true artists and not one-night stands?”