Chapter Twenty-Nine

Whatever can be said about the people who packed up Oren's effects—and the ability to logically group like articles was not one of them—they were stellar labelers. After playing an intense round of box-Tetris, I hit the mother lode. At the bottom of a stack of six legal-sized banker's boxes was one labeled Left Nightstand . Halfway down its list of contents that included box of tissues , eyeglasses with case , antacids (partial package) , phone charger , drafting pencils (3) , was what I was hoping for:

8-1/2 x 11 spiral-bound book, no cover, approx. 350 pages

That was it. Had to be. Oren was an architect. He wasn't likely to have a lot of other spiral bound books lying around for a little light bedtime reading about electrical codes or building material stress tests, but he was devoted to Avi. I could totally picture him wanting Avi's work close to him.

I briefly considered waiting until Ricky got back so I'd have assistance rearranging the boxes, but I didn't want to wait. Besides, I didn't want Ricky to think I was only interested in him for what he could do for me, such as lugging things up and down stairs, shuttling my cat around, or bringing me dinner.

With silent thanks for Avi's spectral housekeeping talents—the same activities at the Manor had me covered in dust from curls to toes—I rearranged the boxes until I could free my target and lug it out of the pantry.

I set it on the island almost reverently and had just lifted its lid when my phone vibrated in my back pocket. Lid in one hand, I pulled it out to see a text from Ricky:

R: Ok if dinner's delayed by 30?

I shot back a quick NP and set the phone aside because there it was, right on top.

All In by Jake Fields.

Just seeing those words on the blue paper cover sheet wasn't what had me clutching the sides of the box, gulping against tears. No, that would be the Post-it fixed to it, right next to the title:

Just a few notes, mostly fanboying. Best thing you've ever written. And I'm not saying that just because I love you. —O

Avi had been worried about Oren's reaction to the book, and I knew from professional experience that even writers as successful as Avi could still suffer from impostor syndrome. Now he'd have validation from the most important person in his life.

I touched the little green square. Would it make Avi feel better or worse? He was already devastated by the news about Oren's proposal plans, about their acrimonious final conversation, so it could go either way.

However, I had no right to gatekeep, for either Avi or Oren, so I left the note where it was, atop the last Jake Fields book.

But… did it have to be the last Jake Fields? Avi was still here, after all, and he could use the Smith Corona. Heck, if he wanted to dictate another book, I'd transcribe it for him. Taryn could probably figure out how to handle posthumous publication. Maybe Avi would want to set up a foundation or something with the proceeds. There had to be a way to—

The cell danced on the countertop with another text.

R: Make it 45?

I frowned at the screen. I had no problem waiting, but if something had come up, I didn't want Ricky to feel obligated. I hit the text and called him, putting him on speaker.

"Hey. It's me. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. My mom sprained her ankle, and—"

"We need to talk about the definition of okay , Ricky, because that's not it."

His warm chuckle burred over the line. "She'll be fine. She's already home doing the whole RICE bit. I just have to step in until my cousin can get here to cover her shift."

"Really? Another cousin?"

"What can I tell you? We're everywhere."

"Listen, if you'd rather reschedule—"

"Nah. The good thing about having all these cousins is that there's always one to step into the breach."

"As long as you're sure?"

"Absolutely."

My gaze had remained riveted on All In while we talked, and now I reached in and lifted it carefully from its nest of bubble wrap. "You'll never guess what I'm holding right now."

"Uh, Maz? I'm in the middle of restaurant service. This isn't a good time for phone sex."

"What?" I squawked. "No. That's not— We don't— I wouldn't—"

"Relax." He chuckled again. "I know we're not there." His voice dropped. "Yet."

I swallowed a couple of times and refocused. "Yes, well, anyway."

"Tell me. What are you holding right now?"

"I can't actually believe it, but it's here. Oren had it the whole time. The last one. The last book written by the real Jake Fields."

"Jake Fields isn't real."

That sharp comment didn't come from the phone. It came from the family room behind me. I recognized the voice, though, and I probably shouldn't have been as shocked as I was.

I turned slowly, hugging the book to my chest and angling my stance so I blocked the cell's lighted screen. "Carson."

Carson's normally perfect hair flopped to one side, and he was scowling, breathing heavily as if he'd just sprinted for his airport gate, only to miss his flight. "Jake Fields isn't a person. It's a brand."

"You're half right. But putting that aside, I don't recall asking you over. How did you get in?"

"I'm not a vampire. You don't have to invite me before I can cross the threshold." Carson's tone dripped with derision. "The door was unlocked. Besides, I have a key."

"You… have a key."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head, clearly mistaking my aha moment for cluelessness. "Yes, Maz, I have a key. I've always had a key."

Heat built behind my eyes. "So you lied about your access the day we met. Have you been sneaking into the house all along? Ever since Avi died?"

"What? Of course not. I'm not a criminal . I'm a real estate agent . I fully respect property laws. As long as Oren was alive and the legal owner, I waited." Impatience flickered across his face. "Although Avi could have had the decency to leave everything to me in the first place. I am his only living relative, and it's not like Oren did anything with it." His expression darkened. "At least not with the house . And everything would have reverted to me anyway if they couldn't find Oren's heir."

"I don't think that's true. I'm not an expert on inheritance law, but—"

"No, you're not an expert on anything, are you?"

The scorn in his voice rocked me back on my heels. "Excuse me?" I really hoped Ricky was hearing all this and realized Carson was seriously off the rails.

"I looked you up." He scoffed. "Ghostwriter. What a travesty. You're victimizing real writers."

"Sorry. What ?"

"You ransom their words."

"I'm not sure where this is coming from, but I provide a service, just like you do with your real estate clients. I work with the writers who contract me. There's a dialogue. I assist them in telling their stories so they're ready to move on to editors and proofers."

"Exactly!" His scowl deepened, and he shoved a hand in his blazer pocket. "You take money from them. You shouldn't charge them. You should be grateful for the privilege of basking in their genius."

I thought about my clients, none of whom were professional writers but who nevertheless had a story to tell. Their work held the promise of being interesting and entertaining, but I'd never describe any of it as genius . No writer with real genius needed someone like me.

Then I remembered the conversation with Ricky, about Carson not placing value on professional services that didn't center around something physical, as well as Carson's insinuations about Avi's emotional abuse.

"Carson." I kept my voice as soothing as I could. "Was that the dream you abandoned? The dream to be a writer?"

"I am a writer. A real one!" Carson's tone was just shy of a shriek. "If Oren hadn't brought that ridiculous nuisance lawsuit, everyone in the world would know by now. I was ecstatic when I heard that he'd died—"

Suddenly Avi appeared behind Carson's shoulder, literal fire in his eyes. "What the fuck did he just say?"

"—because I thought it would finally get dropped, but then they found you and it all heated up again." He sighed gustily. "If you'd only dated me instead of Ricky, this would have been so much less inconvenient for me. However, despite your deplorable lack of taste, I suppose you had your uses." His gaze dropped to the manuscript I was holding up like a breastplate, and he extended the hand that wasn't jammed in his pocket. "Now, if you'd just hand that over, please, we can both get on with our day."