“I was trying to get her to understand the feeling when you find something worthwhile. That punch-in-the-gut beauty of even a single line that makes the work promising, makes it something we want to spend a lot of time with before publication.” I eye him over my glasses again. “You’re not my boss, you know. What’s with the third degree?”

“I’m not your boss,” he agrees. “But I like to think I’m your friend.” When I dip my chin in a nod, he continues. “What’s going on with you? You haven’t seemed excited about this job in a while. Time for a career move?”

“This was the career move,” I mumble. When Casey doesn’t say anything, I finally give in. I wave at my computer screen. “There are some really good submissions here. But none of them are… They don’t strike me. There’s no connection to them. I just want to find a manuscript that makes me feel something.”

“Again,” he finishes my already complete sentence.

“What do you mean?”

“You want to find a manuscript that makes you feel something again. Because I know for a fact there have been feelings about manuscripts you’ve worked on in the past. But I’m going to tell you that you’re not likely to find that same feeling again, and you should probably stop chasing it.”

He’s right, of course. When words and books are tied up in bodies and souls to the point where you don’t know where one ends and the other begins, there’s not anything out there, no matter how good, that’s likely to bring that level of emotion back to my life.

Maybe that’s my problem. I got too high, and now nothing will compare. That’s certainly what it felt like, working on that book. Being with her. Like a drug, injected directly into my veins. And silly me, I let myself get addicted to the feeling, thinking there was nothing that could ever come between us. Nothing that could ever stop her words.

I was so young. Now I know better. Not just because of her, but because this industry can, and does, tear writers down more often than it builds them up. I should have seen it coming. No one can fly that high forever.

When I don’t respond, Casey inhales sharply, pushing forward in his chair so his elbows rest on his thighs and his hands meet between his knees. “I got a call from Trina McBryde today.”

Back when Trina was representing Scarlett, she used to send all her new manuscripts to me. Since Scarlett disappeared five years ago, she started working more closely with Casey. It hurts, but I can’t really blame her. In this business, loyalty is worth almost as much as a good book, and I know she will always be loyal to Scarlett, even if she’s long gone.