“A scene what?”

He probably already knows this, but I tell him anyway.

“A scene in my last book where a husband is murdered by his wife. He dies the same general way Riley died—overdose. That’s why the detective was out here asking questions.”

“But that’s just fiction.”

I look at him, flames searing my guts. “Is that a question or a statement?”

“A statement, I think. I mean, that’s just fiction, right?”

“Of course,” I say.

“So that doesn’t sound like any kind of real evidence.”

“It’s not,” I tell him. “And I didn’t do anything anyway. Which is why the detective went back to Wisconsin without me. But now the gossip is spreading and I don’t know where it’s going to end. Max doesn’t know about it, but that’s probably just a matter of time.”

Alec leaves the neighborhood and heads in the general direction leading back to the restaurant.

“Hell,” he says, “maybe there’s an upside. Maybe your book will start taking off.” He tells me this with the lightest chuckle attached to it, and I know he’s trying to be helpful, but Alec doesn’t understand that’s not a potential upside. The idea of selling more books because people think I’m a murderer is horrifying. I think of Clara Tomson, the past she had to fight to leave behind, and yet her truth is forever attached to each and every one of her novels. I don’t want notoriety. In this moment, I don’t even want success. I don’t want anyone to have ever heard of me, and I want The Child of the Steps pulled from publication.

But I know there’s a current here, a powerful one sweeping me out to sea. If I do nothing, it will take me. I can’t swim against it, but I can swim with it and at least try to make it to some distant shore.

I need to be an agent of change in my life, not just a victim of its forces.

This realization is so suddenly forceful that it ripples through me, causing me to shake. Here, in this car, crawling the streets of the town where so many lives have changed, I realize I’m doing nothing to change my own. I’m just letting everything happen to me.

I vow to myself that starting now, I take control. I don’t even know what that means, but I’m ready for a transformation.

I never respond to Alec’s comment about my book, and he glides his sedan gently into the restaurant parking lot, where my car sits. He pulls into a space but doesn’t turn off the engine. Soft heat from the vents huffs at my face.

“Do you want to go back in?” he asks.

“No,” I say, then turn to him. I unbuckle my belt. “Right now, I just want this.” I lean over and kiss him, which is so unlike me it’s as if I’m watching a movie. He’s surprised, his mouth stiff, but after a second, he kisses me back, powerfully, his lips full, his mouth taking in mine. A wave of heat washes over me, much hotter and stronger than what’s coming through the air vents. It’s dizzying and doubles the impact of the drinks in my system. His lips are the first I’ve tasted since Riley’s, and the first in a long time where I feel actual passion. A connection. Maybe even a future.