Page 76 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“But that’s the problem, don’t you see? Your book life—it’s not only yours. It’s the way both of us make a living.”

“So, what? I have to keep writing something I don’t want to just to make you happy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s kind of what you mean, right? Just keep everyone happy. Dance, monkey, dance.”

“Give me a break, El. This is exactly the problem.”

“What?”

“You like writing those books. You like meeting fans and talking about your writing process and being funny on stage and the money and the accolades and all of it.”

“But what about Connor?”

“So, he’s annoying.”

“He’s more than that.”

“Whatever. Ignore him. Shut him out of your life.”

Harper thinks this is possible because she doesn’t know the truth. I’ve never told it to anyone.

“It’s not that easy.”

“But it’s not going to kill you, is it?”

And what can I say to that?

Death is all around us. That’s the only thing I know for sure.

Our hotel in Sorrento is a bright yellow building with a white trim nestled into a rock face at the top of a cliff that looks down into the sea. All of the rooms have individual stone balconies overlooking the water, and this time, we’re not all on the same floor.

I make sure to ask this at the front desk as we check in.

With everything that’s happened, I feel like I need to know where Connor is at all times.

“Just wait,” Connor said. “I’ll see.”

What does that mean? And what about Harper’s prediction that it’s not going to kill me to keep writing about him? He’s someone’s target right now. Being around him is dangerous.

Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that when there’s a murderer on the loose, it’s not only the intended victim at risk. The wrong person dies all the time.94

So, no matter what Harper thinks, I need to be free of him.

And why is she so sure I can’t write something else? That my only worth as a writer is connected to Connor? It’s something I’ve suspected for a long time but have never confronted her about. But the truth is, Harper thinks I’m not that great a writer.

She’s intimated as much before. Not directly, but it’s there in her comments about how so many New York Times bestsellers are mediocre. How quickly I write, while it takes her forever. That the way to get mass appeal is to be average.

Average. Average.

She thinks I’m average.

That word bounces around in my head because she’s probably right. I don’t write beautiful sentences about the way the world quiets down when the snow falls. I’ve never remarked on the way a leaf in autumn is a different thing entirely from one in a lush summer. I keep it pithy and page-turny and mysterious. I build tension through clue drops at the ends of chapters.95

I line up the suspects, then make them each seem plausible in turn.

It may not be pretty, but it gets the job done.

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