posters that had then adorned my walls. Later, I’d spent hours staring at it, trying to figure out why it was worth ten grand.
Grabbing my phone with the intention of calling Constable Neri, I saw the call I’d missed had been from my agent. Gigi was based in New York, a consummate Manhattanite, complete with the all-black wardrobe and fast talk.
I checked what time it was in her home city. Far too late to call most people, but Gigi was a night owl.
“Aarav, how’re you doing?” Gigi asked in her throaty chain-smoker’s voice—except that she was a health freak and the voice was genetic. “The news just hit—it’s all over not only the publishing-related media, but general entertainment sites, too.”
“I figured.” Vivienne wouldn’t have held off on her exclusive. “How bad taste is it?” With Blood Sacrifice my marquee title—my only title—I could guess at some of the headlines blazing across the gossip sites.
“You don’t want to know, kiddo. Look, we need to talk about your next book.”
“Thanks for the sympathy, Gigi.”
A pause. “You want some?”
The tension snapped, a laugh breaking out of me. “No, it wouldn’t seem right coming from you.” Gigi was a shark; she dug in her heels and negotiated the hell out of contracts for her clients. But she wasn’t exactly a people person. We got along great.
“Where are you with the book?” she demanded. “Finch is calling me saying you’ve gone AWOL. Have you even checked your emails?”
“I had a car accident, Gigi. My fucking leg is in a moon boot.”
“Why the hell do you Kiwis call it a goddamn moon boot? Anyway, your brain still works, right? Your hands still work. And the remains weren’t found until a few days ago? What’ve you been doing since you got out of the hospital?”
Right. Gigi didn’t do sympathy. “I’ll email Finch the first few chapters.”
“When?” Gigi didn’t back down. “I know you got a shitty advance for that initial two-book contract, but right now, you’re a golden pretty boy with talent who doesn’t mind publicity—you couldn’t get any better. Just satisfy the terms of the contract by turning in another book that isn’t total bull crap and I’ll get you an eight-figure deal for your next book.”
I shoved a hand through my hair. “I’ll do it right now.”
“Cc me.” Gigi was no rookie. “Here’s the deal, Aarav—you’re the big new thing for about five more seconds. You can either ride that wave into a massive career, or you can crash and burn and be that has-been one-hit wonder. Don’t think the latter looks good on you.” Then she hung up.
Gigi knew me. I was too arrogant to accept being labeled a one-hit wonder.
Hauling myself out of bed, I tested my foot by putting a little weight on it. It still hurt, but not as bad as yesterday. I went to the bathroom first, then to my laptop. Pulling up the file for my next book, I saw I had about eighty pages. I was about to email my editor when I had a moment of clarity and realized I might be assassinating my own career.
Instead, I emailed the partial to Gigi, writing:
Read this and tell me if it’s shit.
Then I picked up the notebook again and, after skimming over my final notes, put through a call to Constable Neri.
She answered after three rings. “Aarav.”
“Constable Neri, I’ve been thinking about the money.” There was some information I just couldn’t get without official help. Sure, I could ask my father to flex his business muscles and contacts, but I hadn’t forgotten that scream. Of all the people who could’ve hurt my mother, my father remained at the top of the list.
“Yes?” she said, when I paused.
“Two new local businesses started up in the year after my mother’s disappearance.”
“Flex Gym and the Corner Café.”
“Touché. Do you know where they got the money?”
“I can’t divulge that information.”
I ignored the hint that was her curt tone. “How much luck are you having with the residents of the Cul-de-Sac?”
“We have our methods. I suggest you don’t attempt an investigation of your own. You may have done some research, but you’re no professional.”
Oh, ouch. “I might be a hack writer,” I drawled, “but I’m also Nina’s son. She never gave up and neither will I.”
“You realize you could be contaminating the investigation?”
“I’ll do my best not to tread on any toes.” I didn’t care about a court case—I cared about justice. An eye for an eye. A death for a death. Whoever had