“You look skeptical,” Daphne says to me.
I lift my hands. “This man slammed a door in my face. My face. I try not to be all ‘do you know who I am,’ but . . . do you know who I am? People don’t slam doors in my face.” Even here, where they mostly act normal around me.
Past me might have found Graham’s apathy intriguing, and Beverly might have gotten her wish for me to fall for the uninterested author if . . .
Don’t finish that sentence.
“Welcome to Surrender,” Daphne says. “Where no one cares, and everyone’s a little unhinged.”
I laugh.
This plan is ridiculous.
Complicated.
Probably doomed.
I let out a breath. “Okay. Let’s do this. My life is in your hands.”
Chapter Eleven
Spencer
* * *
I flick the curtain aside and peer out the window. The street is dark and empty, except for a circle of light cast by a nearby light post.
I check my watch.
It’s nearly eight. Vivien has been getting in around seven over the past few days. Never this late.
I should call her. It’s not stalkerish, right? Just to make sure she’s okay. Her and Daphne, I amend.
Although if someone were to kidnap Daphne, I am not sure if I would feel worse for her or them.
They have been working hard over the past week getting the theater ready for an event this weekend and, apparently, doing their best to piss off Graham Deadwyler.
The whole town won’t shut up about it. Everyone is talking, making bets, guessing about this mysterious show based on his work, which is obvious bullshit, but that doesn’t stop them from speculating and calling me day and night for “help” when all they really want is to get details from me about my guest. The guest I’ve been doing my best to avoid so that I don’t think about her is all anyone wants to talk about when I’m around.
There was an article published in the local newspaper a couple days ago about the movie night, but Kevin only mentioned her involvement at the bottom as an aside. Probably to avoid my fist in his face.
What’s happening is obvious, to me, at least. Beverly is still matchmaking, even from the grave.
A hard ball forms in the pit of my stomach.
But it makes sense.
They are both celebrities—well, Graham is a reclusive writer, but he’s well-known, anyway. He’s celebrity adjacent. They are both beautiful, bright, and shiny . . .
If anyone can turn Graham’s head and pull him out of his self-imposed exile, it would be Vivien.
The power is finally turned on at Beverly’s house. Which means we can get it ready for her to move in soon, a few days max. I have to get a plumber out to check all the pipes and the water heater and whatnot to make sure it’s all functional.
Moe has experienced some delays with getting the parts shipped in for her car, but it should be fixed around the same time.
It will be much easier to avoid her when she’s not living in my home.
I look out the window again. Still dark and empty, just like it was five minutes ago. And five minutes before that.
