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“And you’re certain there’s nothing else you need to tell us?” Smith’s voice is harsh.
I stiffen, matching her tone. “I’m sure.”
With how certain they seem to be that I’m the perpetrator behind Austin’s death and Dr. Barrett’s disappearance, I doubt they even have Saint on their radar.
Even if I wanted to throw him under the bus at this point, they wouldn’t believe me. They’d assume I’m making up a story about some crazy stalker to cover my own ass.
“Thank you for your time, Briar. We’ll let you get back to your day.” Rosario smiles, leading the way back to the police cruiser.
“We’ll be in touch,” Smith threatens before following him.
Saint told me he’d make sure I wouldn’t go down for any of his crimes. As much as I loathe to do so with every fiber of my being, I have no choice but to put my trust in my stalker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SAINT
In my office,Derrik’s name lights up on my phone. My deadline to turn in this book came and went last week, but the final words are emerging on the screen as my fingers clatter across the keyboard.The Endis nearly in sight.
I swipe my thumb across my phone screen. “Hey, I’m nearly finished with the manuscript. This draft is remarkably clean. We should be able to skip edits and send it right to my editor?—”
“It’s already too late, Saint.” Derrik’s voice is flat, lifeless. “The publisher canceled your deal.”
My heart drops.No. This book was going to be my ticket to winning Briar’s heart. She’d read this one and know that it’s my best book yet because of her. Because I met her and I could write a love story greater than any I’ve ever imagined before. She’d read the dedication and become mine forever.
We met because of this book, and she loves S.T. Nicholson’s novels more than any other author’s in the world. She deserves another story from her favorite author.
“We can negotiate with them. Send them the manuscript now and reduce the advance payment?—”
“The contract is void. I’m sorry.”
My mind scrambles. There must be another solution. This book—our story—can’t end like this. “We’ll submit it to other publishers then. Someone will jump to publish another S.T. Nicholson novel?—”
“Maybe you can do that with another agent.” Derrik sighs. “Sorry, pal. I think you’re a great writer, I really do. But you need an agent who can better work with your...eccentricities.”
“You’re firing me?” A spark of rage as my clenched fist starts to tremble. “We’ve been working together for years.”
I’m his first bestseller. Having me on his roster has led him to land several more mid-career, bestselling authors. Now the first time I’ve ever screwed up, the first time I’ve lost a deal, he’s severing our partnership.
“You’re making a mistake,” I warn him.
“I wish you all the best in finding an agent who’s better suited to your career. I’ll send over the termination of our agency contract. Best of luck, Saint.” The words leave his mouth without a single ounce of remorse.
The email from Derrik arrives a minute later. He already had it drafted when he called me. I am now without an agent or a book deal.
I smash both fists down on my desk before calling Zayden. He picks up on the fourth ring. “Hey, mate,” he greets in a fake, posh English accent. He was born and raised in the Midwest.
“My agent just fired me,” I blurt, worried the phone is about to disintegrate in my hand before I can relay all the news to Zayden. “I lost my contract.”
“Shit,” Zayden hisses. A beat of silence. “Email me your manuscript. I’ll read it and send along notes. You’ll find another agent. No publisher out there would turn down a chance to publish S.T. Nicholson’s next bestseller.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, even though it’s not the contract or the agent I actually give a shit about in this moment.
It’s her. It’s always been her. My muse deserves this book. She deserves as many as I can write for her.
“I’ll send you that manuscript.”
I’ll be damned if I let anyone stop me from getting this book—our story—into her hands.
