Melanie Joan asked Spike if there was a computer in his office. He said yes. She said, “Take me there. Now.”
Spike did as he was told.
One of the dog-averse women at the next table said, “Excuse me, are you Melanie Joan Hall?”
“You’re my favorite author,” said the other.
Melanie Joan ignored them. This was shocking to me. I’d known her for more than a decade, and no matter how distracted or busy or in danger she was, Melanie Joan Hall always made time for her fans. Not now, though, apparently. Without so much as a glance at the women, she followed Spike, her shoulders squared, Louboutins clacking. “Come along, Sunny.”
I barely had time to attach Rosie’s leash.
—
Once we were in Spike’s office with the door closed and locked, Melanie Joan took off her hat, but not her sunglasses. She collapsed onto his leather desk chair. “I’m doomed,” she said.
“How so?” I said.
She emitted a sound—a bloodcurdling mash-up of sigh, groan, and scream.
Rosie growled. I picked her up and shushed her.
“Doomedis a serious word,” Spike said.
She made the sound again. I held Rosie close. Spike and I stood there, on the other side of his desk, waiting for her to elaborate.
Yes, Melanie Joan Hall was a drama queen—a condition that had become a good deal worse as she’d grown older and more catered to. But when the woman said she was doomed, I knew enough to take her seriously. Our paths had first crossed when she hired me to protect her from her ex-husband, John Melvin, a psychiatrist who made Hannibal Lecter look like Dr. Ruth. More recently, she’d retained my services to track down yet another stalker, whose threats to derail her career and her life made both of us yearn for Melvin.
“What’s wrong, MJ?” Spike said.
Just as I was about to call 911, Melanie Joan snapped out of her paralysis. “This,” she said.
She turned on Spike’s computer and clicked away at thekeyboard. When she found what she was searching for, she made that awful sound yet again.
Rosie squirmed in my arms. Spike kept a dog bed in the corner of his office, just for her. I put Rosie down on the floor and she scurried over to it, hopped inside, and curled up like a giant pill bug. I couldn’t say that I blamed her.
“Look at this,” Melanie Joan said. “Justlook at it.”
Spike and I moved around his desk and focused our attention on the screen.
“Hmmph,” Spike said.
It was a one-star reader review of Melanie Joan’s upcoming book,Stronger Alone. I skimmed it. I’d seen a lot of press about the book, which was set to come out in late fall—her very first memoir. In an interview withThe Globe, Melanie Joan had described it asthe most difficult and important project I’ve ever undertaken. But the reviewer had used language that was, shall we say, not as flattering.
I looked at Melanie Joan. This was what she’d interrupted my lunch over? A one-star review by some rando on a site called…I looked at the name again. “What is ReadAnon?”
Melanie Joan let out a massive sigh. “ReadAnon is the most important website in the publishing business.”
I glanced at Spike.
“It’s a book review site, like Goodreads, only it’s all anonymous,” Spike said. “Think 4chan, but for people who are able to read.”
“How do you know about this?” I asked. “You hate the Internet almost as much as I do.”
“Flynn loves ReadAnon,” Spike said. “He can post cookbook reviews and be as honest as he wants without anyone coming for him on his Instagram.”
“What’s his screen name?”
“If I told you, he’d have to kill me,” Spike said.
