Seeing Morris up there, preening and even flirting with Miss Social Media made him sick. He’d forgotten to bring his cookies, so he wasn’t sure whether it was his low blood sugar again or just being in the same room as Morris. Even if the room was a tent.

As he listened to Morris talk ad nauseam about the amazing work of agents and how to write a good query letter, William dug his nails into his skin. When he recognized the pain, he opened his hands to discover in his palms little crescents marked with blood.

William should be up there on stage offering an alternative point of view. The truth. The conceited liar made everything sound hunky dory, so easy and exciting. But that wasn’t the worst thing he did.

Then he mentioned Orelia.

Not just dropped her name in passing, no, he sprouted accolades and tall tales of how her book leaped from the slush pile. Talent like hers destined always for discovery. Same trash as that article.

What slush pile was he talking about?

William had handed her manuscript Back to the Start to Morris. That wasn’t the original title, either. She’d called her novel A New Hope, until he’d pointed out that was the subtitle of one of the Star Wars films. Who didn’t know that pop culture gem?

He leaned forward, barely breathing, wondering if Morris would mention him too, which would go part-way toward his ex-agent’s redemption. If he was nice and respectful.

But he said nothing about William. For ten minutes his focus was Orelia’s brilliance, her talent and, the real kicker, what a wonderful person and so humble too. What a package!

William couldn’t help himself; a cough tickled its way up his throat. Once started, there was no stopping. His throat felt scrubbed with brush bristles and his breath stolen. Those nearby stared, and he realized being recognized could be a danger. So he bit down into his palm to stave off the convulsions. Through sheer will he calmed his heaving chest.

All eyes returned to the magnet of their owner’s adoration: the person on stage who possessed the ability to make all their dreams come true.

What they didn’t know was this agent wouldn’t be available to read through any more slush piles or manage any of their careers. The man speaking to the rapt crowd now had only one destiny.

Death.

27

After Lacy died, Nem grew desperate to find a way to make amends. The guilt climbed on top of her; the weight heavy and suffocating. If Peg and Ray ever discovered what she’d done, she worried they’d no longer want her. How could anyone love someone who’d done what she did?

“The parents are devastated,” Peg said, when she dared ask what would happen to the family. “Nothing eases the loss of a child. Another baby possibly? Still sadness will follow you until the day you die.”

Another baby.

Nem’s mind wrapped around that thought. Her spirits lifted, thinking that she may have hit upon a way to make amends. She excused herself and raced back to her room to pull out the diary. Her palm smoothed over the green cover and the tingle she always experienced when touching it, shivered through her hand.