“What’s the saying?” Victoria asked. “If a tree falls in the forest but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? In publishing, if you write a book and no one reads it ... are you really a writer?”

“Of course you are,” Cameron said, with a soft encouragement to his voice. “A writer is someone who writes, not just someone who sells published books. I’m dying to hear about your manuscript. When can I read it?”

“Oh, Lord, never,” Victoria said.

“She won’t even let me read it,” Jasper said. “We’ve been married eight years and I’ve never read a sentence from any of her manuscripts. How many is it now? Five or six, at least.”

“Five,” Victoria said. “And even with Cameron’s recommendation, his literary agency rejected my query. To date, over one hundred literary agents and editors have politely declined my work. The last thing I’m going to do is let my husband or friends read my manuscripts when I can’t even find an agent to represent me.”

“It’s all subjective,” Cameron said. “What one agent hates, another loves. Don’t give up, Victoria.”

“Timing too.” This was from Tessa, who put her hand out to rub Victoria’s knee. “The market might not be ready for your stories now, but someday it will.”

“Okay.” Victoria raised her hands in surrender. “Let’s change the subject.”

She reached into the ice bucket and pulled out a bottle of wine. “This is a Happy Canyon Blanc from Santa Ynez Valley. Jasper and I picked it up on our vacation last fall.” Victoria poured everyone’s glass full.

“To friends,” she said. “And, to Cameron’s new book coming out this summer.”

The four friends reached their glasses together and touched them lightly.

Cameron looked at Victoria. “To literature, in all its shapes and sizes.”

CHAPTER 17 - Manhattan, NY Friday, June 25, 2021

CHAPTER 17

Manhattan, NY Friday, June 25, 2021

WALT LAY ON THE HOTEL BED WITH ONE ARM BEHIND HIS HEAD AND the other holding pages from the Cameron Young file. He’d been reading for an hour, and the details of the case and its players were coming back to him. He put the pages down and reached for the glass of rum on the nightstand. He took a long swallow, knowing he’d need the rum to get him through the pages he was about to read. His stint at the FBI never brought him face to face with murder and death the way his time as a homicide detective had. It was something he didn’t miss. But today he would venture back to that time. He set the glass back on the nightstand and began reading the autopsy report.

THE CAMERON YOUNG INVESTIGATION