Essie’s glasses slipped down her nose, so Liv could see her steely gray irises. “My writing room in ten minutes, please,” she snapped. She turned on her heels and left the room with the grace of a prima ballerina.

Liv’s palms were clammy as she tried to return the manuscript pages to their correct order. Essie employed a revolving door of personal assistants. As one exited, another one showed up. Liv had overheard her firing her last one, Matilda, and was never sure why she was the only employee left standing.

She couldn’t afford to lose this job. Her husband, Jake, was fighting to stop his family business from going under, and her son Johnny was joining his older brother, Mack, at university this summer. He needed enough stuff to fill a small truck. Liv’s wages were on the modest side, but every penny counted in the Green household. If she was going to be dismissed, she hoped it would be quick, like ripping a plaster off a hairy knee.

Returning the manuscript to its shelf, Liv’s eyes narrowed when she saw something glinting behind a trophy. She carefully reached up and plucked out a small label-less glass bottle. As she lifted it to her nose, the sweet smell of juniper made her stomach churn.

It was the fifth miniature gin bottle she’d found that week, not to mention the full-size vodka beside Essie’s bed. Liv sighed and pushed the bottle into the back pocket of her jeans. Really, where did Essie think they disappeared to when she left them around the place? She wondered if the author had been drinking while reading her own manuscript, and why.

Her pulse performed a quickstep as she padded along the hallway toward the writing room. She said a mental goodbye to the designer side table, books and huge display of lilies.

Before she entered the writing room, Liv clenched her fists. You’ve been through worse, she told herself, trying not to think back to her childhood when she was scared and alone in a strange bedroom clutching her Georgia Rory books for comfort.

Think. What would Georgia do?

Essie’s writing room looked like it had been transported from a cottagey holiday home, a contrast to the starkness of the rest of her apartment. Her desk was made of old oak, and there was a wall of dark wooden bookshelves displaying more editions of her books.

“Be seated,” Essie said, without looking up from her notepad. Her cut glass English accent had a slight American twang, which made Liv feel very ordinary. Essie was only ten years older than her yet their age difference felt like a generation.

Essie turned and steepled her long, slim fingers. “So?” she said.

Blood thumped in Liv’s ears, but she had a touch of Georgia’s bravery running through her veins. “I only read a few pages of your manuscript.”