Page 45 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

Emily gives her a tight smile. “Okay.”

“I’m not much of a reader. But I do want to write a book one day.”

Oliver catches my eye. “Ten minutes,” he says.

“A land speed record.”

“What does that mean?” Emily says.

“It’s just this game we, uh, used to play. How long it takes before someone tells us that they’ve always wanted to write a book.”

“She didn’t say it to you, though,” Emily says. “She said it to me.”

“Now, now, Emily,” Connor says. “Play nice.”

A look passes between them, and Emily narrows her eyes, then turns her head.

Holy shit.

They have met before.

The plot thickens.63

“My God, Connor,” Allison says with a laugh. “Is there any female at this table you haven’t slept with?”

He looks at each of us slowly as if he’s considering it. “No.”

“Is this necessary?” Oliver says.

“I don’t see what the problem is. Allison asked a question, and I answered it.”

“Can’t we just enjoy the meal?” I say.

“This?” Shek says pointing to his food. “It isn’t even pasta.”

I let out a long sigh, then stand up and tap my glass until I have everyone’s attention, like I’m about to make a toast at a wedding. “What’s wrong with all of you? We’re in an amazing restaurant, and the kitchen staff is staring at us because we’re complaining like a bunch of babies. Do you know how many people would kill to be in our position?”

Boom! There it is again.

I clear my throat. “If you don’t want to be here, go home. If you stay, then enjoy the meal, drink the wine, and try to make the best of it.”

There’s an odd silence after I finish speaking. I can hear the kitchen behind me, the clink of metal, the hiss of liquid as it hits a hot pan. Then Oliver raises his hands and starts to clap.

A small smattering of applause follows. Harper, Isabella, and, surprisingly, Guy join in. Then it stops, and I sit down feeling foolish.

But my little speech seems to have had the desired effect. Everyone finishes their first course, while Guy regales us with a story about an old case involving a widow who killed her husband for the insurance money.

We’re almost having fun when there’s a commotion just outside the room.

“But I’m invited!” a voice that I think I recognize says.

“Signora, the table is full. If you will just come with me.”

“No, I won’t…” There’s the sound of a scuffle, and then Cathy stumbles into the room. She’s lost the BookFace T-shirt and is wearing a black cocktail dress. She almost looks like she belongs at the table except for the wild look in her eyes. “You didn’t wait for me,” she says accusingly.

Harper stands quickly and walks to her side. “Cathy, I’m sorry, but this portion of the tour is only for the authors.”

“You’re not an author.”

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