“The employee discount is great,” I say. “I can almost afford to shop there now.”

No one laughs.

I take a seat and another swig of wine. Most of them have a copy of my last novel in their laps, and I’m still amazed to see my book in the hands of strangers.

Cora asks me to tell the group a little about how I got into writing before we discuss the book. I give them my standard spiel about my journalism degree, my work at the Chicago Tribune, and my first stab at a novel. I describe the long search for an agent and then the subsequent rejections from a multitude of publishers and how I have several novels that never sold and likely never will.

They ask questions, mostly ones I’ve answered at other book clubs.

Where do you get your ideas?

How long does it take you to write a book?

What kind of research do you do?

Do you know how the book will end when you start writing it?

How did you come up with the name J. L. Sharp?

Cora is mostly silent, nodding and smiling. But I see her better than the others do. Her tight jawline, showing the tension in her face. Her fingertips reddening as she holds her wineglass, revealing her tight grip. I don’t think she likes the attention I’m getting right now. She’s the one who arranged this evening, suggested it even. But in this moment, as her friends are focused solely on me, I think Cora is jealous of her little sister. She’s not used to that.

In the smallest of lulls, she finally makes her move and shifts the focus of the conversation.

“So let’s talk about the book,” she says, holding up a copy of The Broken Child, the third book in the Detective Jenna Black mystery series. “I, for one, thought it was quite good. Kept me entertained while I was on the elliptical, helped pass the time, because those workouts can be so boring. Though I have to say I figured out who the killer was pretty early on.”

No, you didn’t, I think. Now it’s my turn to clench my jaw while offering no more than smiles and nods.

“I agree,” a waif of woman says. I think her name is Jenny. “I was pretty sure who did it. And I also wanted a little romance between Jenna and Bart. It seemed like you were going there, then pulled back.”

“I don’t write a lot of love scenes,” I say. “Violence is easier to write than sex. Though both are equally messy.”

Nothing. Not a single chuckle. These women.

“Her books are more on the dark side,” Cora says. “Though I have to admit, this is the first one I’ve read.” She throws me a hard glare. “And a little bit of her upcoming book. Haven’t finished that one yet, though.”

I shift my gaze away as I listen to them discuss my book. They’re mostly talking to one another now, and I’m just a spectator. A few remark that they liked the book, but there are several who comment it’s not the type they would normally read. Some didn’t finish it, and one didn’t read it at all. I guess she just showed up for the wine.