“That is how I take it. Thanks for remembering.”

She ushers me into her private office, which boasts a spectacular view of the park. A fragrant flower arrangement rests on a table in front of several elegant bookshelves.

We sit down on her leather sofa. I can’t wait to tell her what I just heard on the radio. “Guess what? Agro is talking to the feds!”

“The creep who worked for Pearce?”

“Yep. And Tony Romero is going on trial in a few weeks.”

“Will you be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Marcia’s expression turns evasive. She starts wringing her hands.

I love Marcia, but I know her tells. “What did you do now?”

She blurts it out. “I sent out the first few chapters to a select group of editors. A little tease, just to test the waters. I had them sign NDAs, of course.”

“Marcia! We agreed. No leaks!” I’m mad for only a second. Then, of course, I have to ask: “What did they think? People like it?”

“They love it.” Marcia beams at me. “And I didn’t even mention the interviews with the president and Cole Wright. Trust me, when we go to auction, we’ll have publishers and film studios drooling.”

“An auction?” I ask, but Marcia keeps talking, so fast I can barely keep up.

“You and your book, my dear, are going to be the subject of a massive bidding war! I expect we’re looking at a price well north of a million.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, trying to take in the news. “But you know I have one condition. There’s one house that’s not allowed to buy, no matter how much they offer.”

“Let me guess,” says Marcia. “Nottingham.”

“Right. For the way they undercut you and the way they tossed Garrett and me overboard.”

Marcia grins. “Good. I’ll enjoy watching that English windbag Reginald Hamilton suffer the consequences!”

“One other thing. And this is important. Whoever we sign with, Garrett’s name comes first on the cover.”

Marcia nods, then reaches over and wraps her arms around me again. “He’d be so, so proud of you, Brea.”

I hug her back. “I hope so. I really do.”

I know I couldn’t be prouder of him.

CHAPTER
141

I’ve got one more stop to make today, and my heart aches just thinking about it.

After leaving Marcia’s office, I drive to lower Manhattan, where the grid system turns into a crosshatch of short streets and alleys. Slowly I make my way through the maze to Sammy’s Music Shop.

I park across the street and lift Garrett’s guitar case from the trunk. I walk through the door. It’s early afternoon on a weekday, and the shop is filled with tourists and customers admiring the rows of beautiful instruments.