Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ISLA

As I walked down the hallway, I debated exactly how scared I should be of my editor when she found out I had literally zero words in the Word document on my computer.

I should have been showing her a very rough draft of my latest novel, the one I was hoping would finally put me on lists I’d been desperate to be on for the last eight years, but alas, I had nothing.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. I had a very detailed outline, 78 open tabs in my phone with websites I’d been using for research, an old school folder full of information I’d copied from the university library in Evanston, and an inbox full of articles I’d scraped together online and send to myself for reference.

This should have been a piece of cake, but there was something holding me back from drafting the book. I couldn’t figure out the angle. Usually, I could pick an obscure mystery from one of the podcasts I listened to, put my own spin on the core of the story and churn out an eighty-thousand-word book in a few months.

But this case had struck something inside of me. I couldn’t figure out why my main character would be a university honors student with a successful, handsome fiancé, a powerful family— pretty much the life everyone fantasized about—and walk away from it all. Or more specifically, hike away from it all.

Elizabeth Rothschild left Chicago the first week of June in 1972, intending to hike the 72-mile section of the Appalachian Trail that cut through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and fly home from Asheville, NC two weeks later. She never returned. And when her father launched an extensive search to find his beloved Eliza, months later investigators were still baffled by her sudden disappearance.

When I’d heard the story on a podcast that often talked about cold cases from before the internet was invented, something had clicked inside my brain, and I couldn’t let it go. It also hooked me because I shared the same last name as Eliza. Or at least, my legal name—my pen name being Isla Childs.

And now it seemed until I figured out what happened to Eliza Rothschild, I couldn’t write this damn book.

My heartbeat sped as I turned toward Sam’s office. He’d replaced my editor about a year ago, and his now fiancée, Kristine, had taken over all my copy editing. Not gonna lie, she scared me at first; I was currently trying not to freak out as she caught my eye through Sam’s open door—I could do this. I was a professional; I had over a dozen books under my belt that were solid mid-list titles, and I had a social media following that was waiting for me to finish this book.

I could do it for them. I would do it for them. Because if I didn’t, I was afraid I’d never write another book again, and then I’d have to move back home with my parents when Vivid forces me to return the advance. If I didn’t release this book, I wouldn’t be destitute, but I was at risk of my contract getting dropped by my publisher.

I’d fallen into publishing accidentally. My first manuscript had been submitted to an open call at Vivid Publishing, and they’d optioned to publish it. And then when they’d offered a contract for a three-book series deal, it’d seemed like a good way to generate an income while I looked for a teaching job.

After five years of teaching Honors English to spoiled prep school kids, my writing income outpaced my salary, and I’d jumped headfirst into publishing. I supplemented my income with English tutoring, but mostly, I made enough to afford my small house in the northern suburbs of Chicago.

The last time I had writer’s block, I’d taken up marathon running, and until now, training had helped clear my head. It was also something else I’d had to bond with Kristine over, as she was also a runner. But I had a feeling our tenuous comradery would not help me.

“I’m going to hope that the blank document currently sitting on my laptop was a mistake, and you accidentally shared the wrong file.” Kristine wasn’t one for greetings, and the only reason I didn’t turn around and run was because of Sam’s casual smile.

“Kris, chill. I’m sure Isla will have an update for us today, but you need to let her in the door first.”

Walking forward, I had a distinct feeling they were going to go all good cop, bad cop on me, and I was about to get my ass chewed by the redhead following me toward the chairs in front of Sam’s desk.

“Actually,” I hedged, hoping my last-ditch idea this morning would get me the additional time I needed to write. “I was thinking I might need to go a little method on this one. I’m having a hard time with character motivation, and maybe I need to go walk a mile, or 50, in Elizabeth’s shoes.”

“Fuck,” Kristine sighed, settling into the chair beside me. “So, you don’t have anything.”

“Well…” I cringed as she leveled me with the look I was dreading.

She opened and closed her mouth, shaking her head as she crossed her arms.

“What’s your plan?” Sam asked, not looking as irate as his counterpart.

“I’ve been pricing out tickets to Asheville. I’m thinking I fly in, hike a section of the trail she disappeared on. I’ll be staying in a cabin rental I scoped out, to get out the first part of the draft. I’d be gone for a few weeks, at my expense, of course, and I’ll send you weekly updates as long as the internet cooperates. Then when I get back, I can put my head down and get the rough draft completed.”

“Can you have it ready for us in eight weeks?”

“Is that a firm deadline?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t unreasonable, but not wanting to run out of time. I’d written books in less, but this story was continuing to be stubborn.

“I can protect your advance for that long, but after that, I can’t make any promises. But if you think this plan will help you get the book done, Vivid will cover half the costs.”

Thank God. I was afraid I was going to have to transfer the advance money back today, so getting another two months was a tremendous relief.

“I can do it,” I promised, but I had a feeling that comment might come back to bite me in the ass.