Page 40 of If I Stopped Haunting You

There it was: the truth. No books. His creativity had been sponged from a floor covered in the guts of his stories, and he was hungry for scraps. For anything, really. He was starved for creativity.

“Neil,” she said softly.

“Tabitha, I’ve got this figured out.”

A third pause.

“I heard Penelope Skinner is there.”

“How on earth—” Gritting his teeth, he lowered his voice, glancing toward the hall. “How do you know that?” he demanded.

“Eh, just have an inkling—”

“Tabitha.”

“Daniela Mitchel, okay!” She sighed into the phone. “She’s been posting nonstop since you arrived. I spotted Skinner in the background. Including,” she said, voice raised, “photos of your triptothe castle.”

Neil squeezed his eyes shut, running a hand over his face.Of courseDaniela had posted about it. He’d seen her a few times with her phone, snapping selfies, typing furiously across the small screen.

He just hadn’t known she’d included him and Skinner.

“Tabitha,” he started.

“Neil,”she snapped on the other end of the line. It was coming; it always was. He braced himself. “This could be good! No one has seen you two together since Book Con—”

“Listen,” he started, switching his phone to his other ear as he crossed to the journal and snatched it off the floor. “I’m working on something, and it’s going great. I just need to get together a proposal; a synopsis and a few chapters.”

He hoped it would turn out great, hell, he hoped it would turn out at all. At this rate, he had maybe two sentences to work off of and it involved a girl running through a fucking hall.

“You are? What are you working on?”

Neil searched the room, scanning the bookshelves. “A period piece.”

“You know how they feel about period pieces. I thought we talked about this. You said you were going to work on that gruesome horror you told me about instead. The one with the antlers?”

Neil worked his jaw, eyes skimming over the room once more, taking in the upholstery, and the décor. “I’m thinking gothic, so around early to mid-nineteenth century.”

“Thinking about? Neil, have you or have you not started it?”

“Tabitha.” He dropped the book on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, tamping down his anger. “We already talked about this. I’m writing the gothic.”

“They don’t want a period piece from you, Neil. We already tried.”

“Then let’s workshop it! My sales are stellar. We could go to another publisher, someone open to something new.”

Even he knew it was futile. After the Incident, he’d approached Tabitha with a book he loved that he’d shelved previously. When they were happy with it, they’d prepped the proposal, then sent it to his publisher. It didn’t take long for them to send back the dreaded “no.” His ideas were too niche, or not original enough in an already crowded market. Not to mention, Neil Storm was abrand.

But what if his brand wasn’t working for him? Neil had once turned down a path full of untold stories, Native characters, and hard truths, and publishing had steered him down another. He wished he’d seen the signs. And now, he was tired of catering to everyone else, of feeling like his books no longer deserved their spots on shelves when people like Penelope Skinner were writing from their hearts.

If he didn’t get his shit together fast, it would be his first time in six years uncontracted. It made him feel like a failure. His newest book,On the Backs of My Ancestors,was set to release in nine months. After the last rejection, Neil was beginning to wonder how much more he had in him at this pace. Authors used to take their time and space out their releases, but if an author wanted to stay relevant in the modern era, a book a year had become the new minimum, and he just didn’t have it in him.

“You have a contract, Neil. And you have a reputation at this publisher. Do you really want to burn that bridge?”

He sighed, tilting back his head. “I’ve gotta go, Tabitha.”

“Neil—” she began, tone serious.

“I’ll check in with you after the retreat,” he promised before swiping down the screen and ending the call. He pocketed his phone and turned to go, then paused. Skinner stood a foot away, her eyes going from the book on the desk to him.