Page 9
Our fingers link together. The contact is warm and steady. She reaches for the second folder with her free hand. I don’t let go of the one still holding mine.
This folder is much thicker than the first. She sets it across her lap and glances at me one more time. Her thumb brushes my knuckles once.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod. “Whenever you are.”
She opens it.
Chapter seven
Harlow
The second folder weighs more on my thighs than the first. The cardstock cover is plain and thicker, the stack of pages inside dense enough that the edge digs a little into my leggings when I shift. Caleb’s hand stays linked with mine on the blanket between us, his palm warm, his thumb resting across my knuckles like he doesn't plan to let go. The fire has burned down low, but still throws steady heat against my bare feet and the side of my face. Outside, the wind moves through the maples in long, uneven gusts that make the porch boards creak, and the branch tick once against the kitchen window. I open the cover.
The top page is an email chain. Dates stacked tight in the upper corner. My publisher’s legal department copied on every single reply, their names in the header in small black type. I read the first message out loud.
“Counsel for the family of the convicted party has been formally retained. We are prepared to seek injunctive relief and any other available remedy should this manuscript proceed toward publication. A one-sided account will not be permitted to damage the family’s name further or reopen matters the court has already settled.’” My throat feels dry halfway through. I look up. Caleb’s eyes are steady on my face. His thumb moves slowly once across my knuckles. “This is the case in my upcoming book.”
“Yeah.” His voice stays even, low enough not to carry past us. “The one you told Marin was already with the publishers and attorneys.”
“It is. Once I finish editing and revisions, I won’t see the book again until advance reader copies are made and distributed. With actual living people involved, it’s a little different, and everything has to go through more due diligence. I’ve kept us with the victim’s sister since I interviewed her last spring.” I turn the page. Another email, shorter, the language tighter. Then a letter printed on thicker stock, the kind that feels expensive even as a photocopy. The letterhead is a law firm I don’t recognize. “They don’t want her version in print. They want the conviction treated like it never held. Like she made the whole thing up for attention.”
“Read the next one.”
I do. The formal tone drops. The sentences are shorter. If the book is released, details of your current location and remaining private schedule will be released with it. The market dates are already listed online. Confirming the rental vehicle and cabin arrangements was not difficult. Continued silence protects all parties involved. Continued publication does not.
My stomach pulls tight. The fire's heat still warms my shins, but my hands have gone cold around the page's edge. This isn’t Pike. Pike’s notes were cramped, obsessive, full of little arrows and margin questions, like he still thought he had a seat at the table. This message is cleaner, written by someone who knows how to sound measured while drawing a line.
“There’s a second person,” I say. The words come out quietly.
“There is.” Caleb doesn’t soften it or dress it up. His fingers stay wrapped around mine, solid. “Pike’s handwriting and cadence are all over the first folder. This is different paper, different rhythm, different intent. Marin thinks the family brought someone in once the manuscript hit legal review. Not enough for police involvement or a full-time detail. Enough that you shouldn’t be doing signings or checking into hotels under your own name until the lawyers finish their pass.”
I turn another page. The paper sticks for a second, and then I see a printed photograph of me at a signing three weeks ago. A thick black line circles my signing table, the line so heavy it almost cuts through the image. No caption. Just the circle and a date stamp in the corner. My own shoulder is half in the frame, blurred.
“They were watching me.”
“Or paid someone who was already in the crowd.” His thumb strokes my knuckles once more. The contact is small, but it still grounds me. “The lantern on the rental was Pike using your own lines against you. Everything in this folder is the family trying to stop the book before it prints. Two separate problems. One of them is personal and messy. The other has money, a lawyer, and a clear target.”
We move through the rest of the pages without rushing. I read the colder lines aloud, so they don’t stay trapped on the page. My voice stays steady even when my pulse doesn’t. Caleb marks every reference to the manuscript, the sister’s recorded interview, and the places I’ve been.
One page lists three recent speaking dates, with question marks handwritten beside the hotel names. Another is only two sentences: The sister already talked. You don’t have to. My knee stays pressed to his the entire time, heat bleeding through both layers of denim, the contact constant enough that I stop noticing it as separate from the rest of the room.
“I have to call my editor first thing in the morning,” I say, turning the last page. My throat is dry. I set the folder on the hearth beside the first one. The stack looks ordinary. It doesn’t feel ordinary. “And Kelli. Everything public has to come off the calendar.”
“Already in motion on the publisher side.” He closes the cover the rest of the way, leaves his hand on it for a second, then pulls it back. “Marin’s handling that. You stay here. Write what you can write. Let the lawyers do their job.”
I nod. The fear I braced for when I opened the folder doesn’t crash over me the way I expected. It sits, sharp and contained, right next to the solid weight of his hand still holding mine and the low, steady heat of the coals.
“Okay,” I say. The word is small. It still feels like a decision. “Okay.”
He stands, still holding my hand, and helps me up from the blankets. My feet are cold against the floorboards when I step off the pillows. We walk the short hall together. His thumb stays across my knuckles the entire way. My door is still open from earlier. The lamp I left on throws a low, warm pool of light across the bed and the foot of the dresser. He doesn’t reach for the switch.
“Will you lie with me for a few minutes?” I ask him.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
We stretch out on top of the covers without pulling them back. He lies on his back. I turn onto my side and fit my head against the slope of his shoulder, the cotton of his thermal soft against my cheek. His arm comes around my waist, heavy and sure, palm resting just above my hip. The contact is simple and settles something low in my chest that’s been tight since I opened the second folder. His breathing is even under my ear. Mine slows to match it without my permission.
