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I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Assess the new situation.

So, my mystery editor only went through the first chapter.

Well, then, I have two options. Strike out on my own, trusting my—clearly blind—intuition to guide me. Or—

I gulp, already knowing what I have to do.

Ask for help.

And hope I get an answer back.

Chapter 8

Dear Mystery Editor and Intruder into My-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room,

If you are reading this . . .

Help.

It’s been three days. Or, as my mind prefers to think of it, 4,320 minutes. Four thousand three hundred twenty excruciatingly long minutes since I left the Post-It note on the manuscript in my hidden little sparrow room and waited for an answer. I live this way now. In minutes.

Lyla is convinced I have a urinary tract infection. I “visit the ladies’ room” about fifty times a day, and then, when I escape our shared office and smile and give a little stroll-by wave to the others whose doors are propped open down the hall, I turn the corner and all but sprint up the tiny, twisting stairs for the attic. I’ve done it so much these days I’ve met my daily step goal each day and lost three pounds.

(But seriously. Three pounds. Olivia is thrilled.)

And now, this Wednesday, I sit in my office chair by the window, chewing my nails to the nubs (a disgusting habit, I know), while I do what I do every Wednesday morning for our editorial meeting. I click on Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day and try my best to focus on the task at hand and not the looming deadline and the desperation in my heart. I read the large, bold word: bailiwick.

Hmmm.

1. Bailiwick: law enforcement: the office or jurisdiction of a bailiff.

That’ll be tough to include naturally in conversation. Let’s see . . .

“And what makes this particular subject of the history of Russian philosophy from the tenth to eighteenth centuries so unique, Ms. Pennington, is how the bailiwick are so often referenced in . . . with unique symbolism . . . to . . .”

No. Moving on.

2. Bailiwick: the sphere in which one has superior knowledge or authority: a special domain.

Now there’s something I can work with. Super knowledge. Authority. Let’s see . . .

I’m just scrolling down to see some examples of bailiwick in a sentence to make sure I’ve properly grasped it when Lyla pops her earbuds out of her ears and stands. “C’mon, Sav. I wanna get there before all the doughnuts are gone.”

My body says, Good point—I only like the chocolate frosted ones, while my mind stays steady.

Above Lyla’s head, a utilitarian clock hangs on the wall. Nine fifty. And I still need to read through these examples and be sure I’ve got it.

“You go on ahead,” I’m at the cusp of responding when Lyla says, “Not to mention, the new boss is back and will probably be watching for the stragglers so he can cut them.”

I drop my hand off the mouse and stand up so abruptly my knee knocks painfully on the corner of the desk. “Okay,” I agree and catch sight of my face in the decorative mirror above Lyla’s workstation. My dark hair is a mess. The pale-gray sweater I put on today looks bulky and shapeless. And is that—I peer into the mirror more closely. Is that a grotesque pimple right above my lip no female in this publishing house had the decency to inform me of?

So much for sisters-in-arms! I cry out in my head, grabbing for my purse.

It’s all that sugar. All that stupid sugar I’ve consumed in the form of Twizzlers and ice cream and Diet Coke till the wee hours of the morning to keep me awake while I try desperately to figure out how to fix my manuscript.

I pull out a tube of concealer and start dotting at the spot.

A small crease forms in the middle of Lyla’s perfectly spotless forehead, and she crosses her arms.