Chapter 1

"Do you like puzzles?"

I resettled my glasses and managed, "Um, yes?"

Okay, maybe not the strongest answer in what was technically a job interview. But cut me some slack; I had a lot going against me. In the first place, I was talking to Vivienne Carver. The Vivienne Carver. In the second place, I was operating on zero sleep because my cross-country drive had taken longer than I expected. I'd covered the last hundred miles that morning in a bleary-eyed sprint to reach this little town on the Oregon Coast. And third, in spite of everything that had happened, I was still (apparently) the same old Dash.

Which was why the next words out of my mouth were "Actually, yes. I mean, definitely." The words were like a freight train; I couldn't stop them as I blurted, "In fact, I love puzzles."

Vivienne's eyebrows went up. She looked like she does on TV, in case you're wondering. And in the author photo on her dust jackets. She was blond, like a lot of women of a certain age, her hair a medium length and layered and curled and styled until it was the size of a basketball. A red sweater—classic Vivienne. A pair of cheaters hung on a chain around her neck, but it was hard to imagine she needed them, because her eyes were a startlingly intense blue. She had great skin. Wrinkles, sure, but she could have passed for twenty years younger.

All right, ten.

"I think puzzles are the heart of a mystery novel," she said. "Don't you?"

"Well," I said, "yes."

Vivienne opened her mouth.

I tried to stop myself, I really did. But it was another blurt: "And no."

Vivienne closed her mouth.

"But mostly yes," I said. "I mean, yes. Absolutely. The heart of a mystery novel."

She opened her mouth again.

Sometimes, being Dashiell Dawson Dane was like being in a horror movie: you knew you weren't supposed to go down into the basement alone to check the circuit breaker, or you knew you weren't supposed to get freaky with the rude but cute jock in the backseat of his car at Make-out Point, or (just for the sake of example) you knew you weren't supposed to keep talking. But you just. couldn't. help yourself.

"It's just—the puzzle," I said, "and the human element."

Vivienne closed her mouth again. Her eyes really were stunning. That was, apparently, the kind of thing I could think while I was having an out-of-body experience.

But then she smiled and said, "Quite right, Dashiell. That's well put. The puzzle and the human element. Very well put. Not that I would expect any less from you. I read ‘Murder on the Emerald Express.' It was very clever. Quite the send-up of Christie, I think."

"Thank you."

"And your parents, of course."

And there it was. The whole reason I was here. Not because I'd written a couple of short stories that had eventually landed in Black Mask and Flying Aces. But because I was the son of Patricia Lockley (Mommy's Sleeping and Blind Furies and What the Laundress Saw) and Jonny Dane (the Talon Maverick series). Because, to put it bluntly, Vivienne was doing her colleagues a favor.

Not that I cared. At least, not too much. I needed to get away from Providence (and Hugo), and here I was—about as far as you could get.

"How are your parents?" Vivienne asked. "I haven't seen them in ages."

"They're all right."

"And what are they doing these days?"

"Oh, you know. Mom stays busy with the chickens, and Dad has his guns."

Vivienne laughed, and I tried to smile, fighting the familiar tightness in my chest.

"Portsmouth really is so charming," Vivienne murmured. "I've only been once, and your parents were such wonderful hosts. I'd love to see them again."

"I'm sure they'd be happy to have you visit." I dredged up another smile. "I hope you like skeet shooting."

That made her laugh again. She settled back into her chair—it was so massive that it was really more of a throne—and examined me more carefully. After a moment of that long, considering stare, I looked away. Her study, where we were having this interview, was exactly what a famous author's study should look like: a cavernous fireplace, built-in bookcases (filled with her own titles, of course—all the books in the Matron of Murder series, and translations into dozens of languages), a massive cherrywood desk. She had a laptop, a sleek little aluminum thing, but the typewriter that featured so prominently in the Matron of Murder TV adaptation still had pride of place. Posters from the show lined the walls. The actor they'd picked looked remarkably like Vivienne, even though the protagonist in the books, Genevieve Webster, was nominally fictional; I wondered if she'd had any say in the casting. Interspersed with the posters were photos of Vivienne. Vivienne with politicians. Vivienne with celebrities. Vivienne accepting honorary degrees and keys to various cities. Pictures of Vivienne when she'd been younger—glamorous, but not quite beautiful. Apparently, she owned (or had owned) a yacht.

"Tell me, Dashiell—"

"Just Dash." I rushed to add, "Unless you prefer Dashiell, that is."

She was silent for a beat. "Tell me about your writing, Dashiell."

"Well," I said. And that was as far as I got. That tightness in my chest worsened. "I'm very passionate—"

"Your ideas, Dashiell." She waved a hand. "Your plans. Yes, I understand that your position here will be as my administrative assistant. But we both know it's a bit more than that. You're a talented writer." She gestured to the desk, even though it was bare aside from the laptop and typewriter. "Your resume is impressive. You've attended top writing workshops. You've done some teaching yourself."

"Just as an adjunct."

"And you have publications."

"Two short stories."

"But good, Dashiell." She leaned forward. Her glasses swung on their chain. Her gaze seemed to spear me to my chair. "They're good stories. They're smart. Even better, they're true. I don't need to ask you about your references. I don't need to know that you can type and use a word processor and answer phone calls. I want to know who you are, and I think you know, Dashiell, that the way to know a writer, truly know them, is to know their stories. People lie all the time. But every story is an act of disclosure, no matter how hard we try otherwise." She waited, as though I might say something, and then sat back again. "So, let's hear them."

"Well," I said. I almost mentioned Will Gower. Vivienne genuinely seemed to want to know, and I'd lived with Will Gower in my head for so long, in all his various incarnations. But Phil, Mom and Dad's agent, had said no more Will Gower. He'd said I needed something high concept. Something with a hook. "I guess one of them is—have you seen 21 Jump Street?" The silence grew until I said, "Like that. Only gayer."

Vivienne blinked. "That sounds…timely."

The words loosened something in my chest, and I sat forward, talking more easily now. "Oh, and do you know Veronica Mars? That's another idea. But make it, like, super gay."

"I see."

Excitement made me speak faster. "Or Riverdale. And I know what you're going to say, but yes, we can go gayer."

"Uh huh." For a moment, her face was blank. And then she gave a rueful grin. "Are you going to be terribly disappointed if I tell you I have no idea what you're talking about?"

Then she started to laugh, and for some reason, I found myself laughing too.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can explain—"

"You'll explain later," she said, waving the words away. "I want to hear all about these ideas. I'm very impressed with what you've done, Dashiell. Very impressed. And I want to see more of it. You're very talented, and you're going to go on to do great things." She gave me a droll little smile. "And if I can offer a spot of advice here and there, well, I'd be happy to help however I can."

"Oh my God, that would be incredible. I—I've been struggling lately. With writing. Struggling to finish things. Struggling, um, to write anything, actually."

It was impossible to read her expression, but her voice was kind when she finally said, "I know a little something about that myself, believe it or not. We'll see if we can't shake something loose."

"That would be amazing."

"It would be friendly, Dashiell. This is a small town; being friendly is our way of life."

"I don't want you to think I expect you to, I don't know, do anything. You're busy, I understand that. And this is a job. I'm not asking for special treatment or favors or anything."

"I understand," she said gently. "And I'm telling you that I want to help you. I'm looking forward to it, actually. Life does get a little stale every once in a while. I believe you're going to be a breath of fresh air." Her pause had an unexpected quality to it—something I thought might be another kindness. "Your mother was distressed when she called me. I understand you made the decision to move rather suddenly."

"It might have seemed sudden to other people," I said. I fought to keep my voice easy and relaxed. "But I'd needed a change for a long time."

"I understand you've had some…difficulties lately."

Shaking my head, I said, "I'm fine. My parents are being dramatic."

Vivienne said nothing, but the raw intelligence of those blue eyes told me she didn't buy it. I waited for the thing I couldn't handle: questions about Hugo. Questions about why. The questions my parents had been asking for weeks.

I spoke first. "I promise, Mrs. Carver: I'm fine. The chance to work with you is an incredible opportunity. I'm excited to be here, and I promise, I'm not—" I almost said, I'm not running away from anything, but that would have been a lie. "—going to let you down."

In the distance, the surf crashed restlessly.

Then Vivienne nodded. "So, you'll take the job?"

A beat passed as I processed the words. "Yes, definitely, absolutely."

"Wonderful. We'll have some paperwork for you to sign later, of course. Non-disclosure agreements, tax forms, that kind of thing. Writing is a craft and an art, I don't need to tell you that, but it's also a business—most people are terribly disappointed when they learn that, but I'm sure it's something you learned growing up with your parents."

"I don't know if they've ever learned it," I said. The surge of relief at her offer—a job, a place to live, stability—was so great that the words slipped out before I could stop them. My face heated as I added, "They let their agent handle everything. And their accountant, I suppose."

"Then I see we have some work to do," Vivienne said as she came around the desk and took my arm. "If there's one thing I can teach you, it's business. Now, let me give you a quick tour, and we'll get you settled. I bet you want to rest after your early start this morning."

"How did you—" I cut myself off and grinned. This was, after all, Vivienne Carver. "Okay, how did you know?"

"A hint of stubble; you don't have a heavy beard, but it's there. And you missed a button on your shirt."

I fumbled at my placket.

"And you did seem a bit flustered as you came up the drive, dear."

Groaning, I shook my head. A bit flustered was putting it mildly.

Vivienne patted my arm and laughed gently. "It's all right. We'll get you squared away in no time."

She hadn't been joking when she'd called it a quick tour. Hemlock House—Vivienne's cliffside manor (there really wasn't any other word for it)—was enormous, and it was old, too. Fireplaces in every room, damask wallpaper in deep hues of red and green and blue, wainscotting, polished wood floors covered by thick rugs. And God, so many crystal chandeliers. Heavy drapes framed the windows, and as we walked, I caught glimpses of the sea cliffs and, below them, the slate-green waters of the Pacific. The briny smell of the ocean was familiar and not at the same time. I'd grown up in a seaside town, but in a very different part of the world.

"Hemlock House was built by Nathaniel Blackwood," Vivienne said as we walked, her arm in mine. "He made a fortune in the late nineteenth century, fur and timber and agriculture, and—this will be your room, dear—" She opened a door, and I caught a glimpse of an enormous canopy bed, a secretary desk, an oil painting of a horse, and what looked like a very expensive clock. Then we moved on. "—and he retired here with his much, much younger bride."

"Some things never change," I said.

Vivienne laughed. "No, they don't. And I'm sure it won't surprise you to learn that Nathaniel Blackwood was, to put it mildly, an eccentric."

"The Howard Hughes of beaver pelts."

"Something like that. He spent years working on the plans for Hemlock House. Years, dear. And he was unbelievably exacting in the construction. Spent an absolute fortune building it, making sure everything was exactly as he'd dreamed, and then died shortly after it was finished. He fell from the balcony and died on the cliffs. His bride, as you might imagine, went on to live a long, happy life with a parade of lovers."

"He fell," I said. "Right."

Vivienne gave me that droll little smile again, but it faded as she said, "She died the same way, strangely enough. A fall from the balcony."

"So, no going out on the balconies. Check."

"She was pushed by a younger man. He claimed he didn't do it, of course, but everyone knew—there'd been fights about money, fights about other women. The bride never had any children, and the estate was a legal morass for decades. Finally, the house was sold to a private investor who went to great lengths to preserve the historic aspects. Most of the furniture is original, although there have been updates for modern conveniences." In a guilty whisper, she added, "I couldn't live without cable."

"I couldn't live without coffee."

A grand central staircase led down to the main floor, and when I say grand, I mean grand. Think, Disney castle grand: a sweeping spiral of polished marble, with a crystal chandelier hanging in the open well at the center. I'd come this way when I'd arrived, of course, but I'd been so nervous about the interview—if that conversation, in hindsight, could even be called an interview—that the details had registered only peripherally. Now I took it all in: the oil paintings in gilded frames (more horses), the black-and-white checkerboard tile (more marble), the unmistakable spaciousness of it all, as though the house had been built for giants. And, I noticed, the person lying on the floor, splayed out like a body at a crime scene.

"Uh—"

"That's Fox," Vivienne said. "Fox, this is Dashiell."

"Just Dash," I said apologetically.

Vivienne studied Fox for a moment and said, "They're doing something with the wallpaper. I have to admit I don't really understand it. How's it going Fox?"

Fox was stocky, their dark hair buzzed and sprinkled with silver; I put them somewhere in their forties. In their ankle boots and paisley vest, they looked like they were striking a balance between hipster and steampunk. Without raising their head, they said, "Terrible. It's a disaster, and everything's the worst, and I'm dead."

"They're very dramatic," Vivienne confided.

"I'm not being dramatic. This project was a huge mistake. I'll never be able to do it. I'm a fraud and a sham. My life is over."

"They're an artist," Vivienne said, and then, a bit more loudly, "And an artiste."

Fox moaned.

"Something with sea-glass," Vivienne said as we continued down the stairs. For a lady in her sixties, she was spry—I'd read an interview she'd done in Ellery Queen, and she'd talked about running and bicycling and, I kid you not, her beloved mini trampoline. "Fox is very successful."

"Not anymore," Fox said from the floor. "I'm a huckster. I'm done."

"Dashiell is going to be joining us at Hemlock House, Fox. Do you have any words of wisdom for him as he settles in at Hastings Rock?"

"Never love or cherish or hope for anything," Fox said in a broken voice. "Life is a trap."

"And they're ever so much fun at parties," Vivienne murmured as she led me across the hall. We passed through a pair of pocket doors into the living room. It had the biggest fireplace I'd seen yet, with a pristine marble surround, a tarnished overmantel mirror, and a decorative tile-work hearth. Shiny brass fireplace tools and a matching screen. Maybe it sounds like I'm spending too much time on this fireplace, but it was enormous. You could have driven a hearse through it.

Like the rest of the house, this room had those lovely details and decorative elements that marked it as a product of another time (and another socioeconomic class). Cornicing, ceiling roses, more of those dramatic crystal chandeliers. Tufted sofas in brocade and velvet flanked by wingback chairs of aged leather. Mahogany tables cluttered with brass and glass curios (a telescope, a miniature globe, a bowl). Tall windows, their curtains held open with tasseled tiebacks to let in more of the day's cloudy light. And, of course, bookcases. These weren't Vivienne's books. These looked like they'd come with the house, with beautiful bindings that had weathered the perpetual seaside damp surprisingly well. Interspersed with the books were botanical prints and porcelain figurines and glass cloches that held taxidermy birds.

"I know, dear," Vivienne said. "Barbaric. I couldn't sleep for a week the first time I saw them staring down at me. The dining room is through here."

Another set of doors carried us through the dining room (a ginormous table, paneled walls, and yes, a fireplace). Vivienne pointed to a door across from us and said, "That's the sun parlor." Then she headed for a second, smaller door that looked like it was designed to be unobtrusive. "And the kitchen is through here."

As she opened the door, a woman's voice rang out behind us: "Mrs. Carver!"

I turned to look, of course. Just like Vivienne. But before I did, I caught a glimpse of a butler's pantry immediately behind the door and, through the open doorway on the far side, the kitchen: patterned tile, cabinets with slate countertops, big sash windows, an island covered with butcher block. It looked updated in a way the rest of the house didn't, with the Thermador fridge and the Viking stove and the LED lights. But that was probably for the best—most people wouldn't enjoy actually working in a Victorian kitchen, with a table and a wood stove and a "kitchen dresser" (yes, I put it in quotes on purpose) instead of, you know, modern conveniences.

All of that passed through my mind in an instant, though, because what caught my attention was the boy and the woman.

The boy was a teenager, with long, dark hair and a deep tan. He was small, swallowed up in board shorts and a baggy tee that showed a crab riding a surfboard, but he had a wiry build that said he was stronger than he looked. His features suggested he might have Native American ancestry. He was staring at me with a look that straddled the line between startled and panicked.

The woman was older; she might have been close to Vivienne's age, maybe a few years younger. She had dark eyes and generous laugh lines, and her mane of thick hair had a shock of white in it that made me think of a witch. Her hand was on the boy's shoulder, and I couldn't tell if the pose was possessive or defensive. Her expression had a grim, locked-down quality, like a woman ready for a fight. She met my gaze for a long moment, and I was distantly aware of Vivienne saying something to whoever had called her name. And then, without a word, the woman gave the boy a push, and he darted away.

"—is Dashiell," Vivienne was saying. "He'll be working with me at Hemlock House." I turned around in time for her to say, "Dashiell, this is Millie."

I had a single instant to take in the woman in front of me: early twenties, blond, a wide mouth and a scattering of freckles. She looked like five feet of flyaways and what Hugo had once called manic pixie energy.

"Oh my God," she squealed as she hugged me. "It's so nice to meet you!"

I tried to disentangle myself. "Um, yes, hi." The hug was ongoing, and she was surprisingly tenacious. "I'm Dash. Nice to, uh, meet you."

After one final squeeze, she released me and stepped back. "You are going to love Hemlock House. Isn't it amazing? You're going to love it!" And then, just for good measure, she bounced on her toes and clapped her hands. "It's amazing!"

"So amazing," I said because I honestly had no idea what to say.

"I do all sorts of things for Vivienne," Millie said. "I bring her coffee. Oh! I work at Chipper. That's the coffee shop. And I bring her sandwiches sometimes, only she doesn't always like how they make the sandwiches, so then she writes down a HUGE LIST—" I'm using capital letters because at that point, Millie got very loud and also used her hands to show me how big the list was. "—of how she wants them to make it, and then I take them the list, and then they make the sandwich exactly how she wants it, and it is so good, like better than any sandwich I've ever had. Oh! And the sandwich place is called The Mermaid's Gill, only it was supposed to be Grill, but they didn't make the sign right, and then Fred didn't have to pay for it." She stopped for breath and added, "Or not all of it, I don't think. Oh! And—"

"Millie, I'm giving Dashiell a tour—"

"Just Dash," I put in.

Vivienne powered on. "—so you'll have to excuse us."

"Of course!" Millie hugged me again and darted toward the kitchen, shouting back, "It was so nice to meet you!"

I wondered, as the silence settled back down, if this was how people felt after they got picked up by a tornado.

"She's very…" Vivienne began doubtfully.

Then Millie's voice carried from the kitchen. "Oh my God, Indira, have you met Dash yet? He's so cute. So, so, so, cute! Oh my God, he's dreamy! I think I'm in love!"

"…enthusiastic," Vivienne finished.

"Oh!" That was Millie again. Apparently, solid-wood doors and inches of lath and plaster weren't up to the task of quieting her. "Unless he's gay! Oh my God, that would be even BETTER!"

(The capitalization doesn't fully convey the experience.)

"Uh," I said.

Vivienne made a tutting noise and pushed open the kitchen door. "Nothing to worry about, dear. Hastings Rock is very accepting."

"That's not what I was worried about—" I tried, but Vivienne had already pressed on without me, so I followed her into the kitchen.

"This is Indira," Vivienne said, gesturing to the woman with the witch-streak of white hair. "Indira, this is Dashiell."

"Actually, it's—"

"It's nice to meet you," Indira said over me. She had a lovely, low voice. "Do you have any dietary restrictions?"

"No."

"What about preferences? Things you won't eat?"

"Uh, no?"

She smiled. "Don't worry; we aren't too adventurous, and I'll let you know if I'm planning something I think you might not like. I keep snacks in the refrigerator, so please help yourself. I do ask, however, that you not use the kitchen to cook. As I explain to all of Vivienne's guests, this is my workspace, and I hope you'll respect it the same way I respect your personal space."

There didn't seem to be anything I could say to that except: "Of course."

"If you have any special requests," Vivienne said, "Indira will be happy to accommodate you."

"Another thing I explain to all of Vivienne's guests," Indira said in that same, hello-we're-friends-but-don't-screw-around voice, "is that, although I live on the property, I am not an on-call employee. I have contracted hours when I work for Vivienne. The rest of my time is my own, so if you have a midnight craving, I suggest helping yourself to snacks and leftovers, or you're always free to bike into town." Another polite, no-nonsense smile. "I promise I won't be offended if you choose to eat out, but I do like to know, if possible, so we can avoid food waste."

"Sure," I said—because again, what else was I going to say? "Of course." And then, because it felt like I had to say something, I asked, "Was that your son?"

The sudden silence was suffocating. Vivienne turned her head slowly toward Indira, and one eyebrow came up.

Indira's expression was flat and unreadable.

"I thought we talked about this," Vivienne said.

"We did," Indira said.

"I thought the issue was resolved."

"It is."

"Wonderful," Vivienne said the way people say it when they mean a word you can't print in the newspaper.

Indira tried to keep up her end of the staring match. Then she turned and chopped an onion in half. One strong, swift schick of the knife. It sounded like the last thing Marie Antoinette ever heard.

Maybe Vivienne saw something on my face because her expression relaxed, and she motioned for me to follow her. She said in a low voice, "I'm sorry. A bit of an ongoing disagreement. Indira can be a bit…stormy, but you wouldn't believe what she can do in a kitchen."

Build a gingerbread house to lure children in, I thought as I followed Vivienne through another door. Roast them at 425 for about an hour, and the meat falls right off the bone.

We passed through what must have been, in the olden days, the servants' dining room. It was still set up with a table and chairs, gingham curtains in the windows. They looked out on the sea cliffs. The boy I'd seen in the kitchen had come this way, but I didn't see him here. Vivienne pointed to a door and said, "That's the rear entrance. There's also a side entrance just around the stairs. The Blackwoods had strong opinions, like other wealthy people at the time, about servants not using the same spaces as decent people. The cellar's down there—I don't suppose you have a lot to store? We could make room."

"Not really," I said. "But thank you."

"Then I'll show you the billiards room and the den," she said, pushing through another door, which carried us back into the main hall. We had made a full loop of the ground floor, I realized, and Fox now lay on the tile directly ahead of us, snoring lightly. Vivienne chuffed a laugh as she indicated another pair of pocket doors.

Before I could open them, though, footsteps rang out in the vestibule, and a door closed a little too hard. Hasty steps moved toward us, and a moment later, a man entered the hall. He was white, with the comfortable padding of a man in middle-age, his receding hair clipped almost to the scalp. His suit looked like something out of a mortician's supply catalogue. He started for the stairs, glanced at Fox, and continued—obviously unfazed, which really said something.

"Mr. Huggins," Vivienne said, "perfect timing. This is Dashiell—"

"Dash is fine," I said.

"—and we've just about finished the tour. Why don't you get set up in my study, and we'll complete the necessary paperwork?" In an aside to me, Vivienne said with a smile, "Mr. Huggins is a fiend for forms."

Huggins stared at me, as though he weren't really seeing me. Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he had an unhealthy cast to his complexion. "Vivienne, we need to talk."

Something changed in Vivienne's face—I wanted to call it surprise, but it wasn't quite that. Then it was gone. She squeezed my arm and said, "Dashiell, why don't you bring in your luggage and make yourself at home? I'm going to have a quick chat with Mr. Huggins."

"Oh, right. Sure. I, uh—I didn't know where to park, actually, so I left my car down on the road."

"Of course. Come right up the drive and follow it to the back. The coach house is technically the motor house, now, I suppose. You can let yourself in through the side and open the overhead door. We'll find you one of those remote thingies. Oh, please don't go poking around—Indira lives on the second floor, and she's protective of her space."

Why wouldn't she be, I thought. She's got all those children she's fattening up.

"That was your car?" Huggins asked, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. He finally seemed to have realized I was there. "Parked on the shoulder?"

"The Jeep," I said.

"You'd better get down there. We've got an overzealous deputy on the local force, and he looked like he was about to have it towed away."

I looked at Vivienne with what I hoped was an apology, and then I ran.