“My editor said it was too late.”

“Fuck.”

Willow appears out of nowhere, more like a ghost rather than a zombie. It’s clear she just heard her mother.

“Geez, what’s your problem?” she asks.

“Nothing.” Cora sucks in a breath and holds it, as if trying to ground herself. After she releases it into a sigh, she says, “How’s trick-or-treating?”

“Lame. I’m too old for this.”

“But you were planning to do this very thing with your friends,” Cora says.

Willow shrugs. “That’s different.”

“Well, why don’t you hit a few more houses? Your aunt and I need to finish a conversation.”

“Whatever,” Willow says. “Sorry to intrude.” She turns and walks away into the street and away from the houses, and it strikes me how vulnerable my niece is. That she’s too young to be dressed like that and just walking away into the night. I want to call her back, tell her to stay with us, but I don’t. I watch her drift away as Cora launches another volley at me.

“Maybe you’re not understanding all this, so let me break it down for you.” Cora stops walking and pulls my arm so I turn and face her. Her breath fogs my face as she talks. “There are rumors about how your husband might have died because of a scene in your current book. Those rumors are now viral in this town because a cop is talking to you about Riley.”

“I said it was nothing.”

Cora bulldozes over my comment. “And now your next book comes out in a few months, and in that book, there’s a scene in which a teenage boy dies in the house of two teenage sisters. At the base of the fucking stairs. And you don’t think that’s a problem?”

“You’re overreacting,” I say, not because it’s true but because I know it’ll piss her off even more, which I can’t help but want in this moment.

“Either you’re an idiot or playing the part exceptionally well,” she says.

Something shifts inside me where I no longer care about crafting a perfect argument. I don’t want to hurt Cora with words. I want something more. I reach down and grab her wrist. She tries to pull away, but my grip tightens, squeezing her bones through my glove as hard as I can.

“Ow, Jesus. Let go.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” I say. “I’ve had enough of you telling me what to do.”

She yanks again and gets nowhere. I keep my fingers in their vise grip, and I know it still hurts, though she’s not giving me the satisfaction of admitting to it anymore.

For a moment, I think she’s going to hit me. I can see it in her face, her darting eyes full of fight-or-flight indecision. And in this moment, I want her to. I want her to take a swing, because I’ll take her down. I will take my sister right to the ground, and I won’t shed a tear.