Page 103 of Trip Me Up

“And that’s why I’m here,” Mother said. “To protect Samantha’s interests.”

“My interests?” The only thing I was interested in was stopping what Paul Swift wanted to do.

“That publisher took advantage of you, Samantha. Even John did.” She looked down her nose at him.

My adviser cringed. “Now, Audrey—”

“You knew about Sam’s”—she flicked her eyes to Paul Swift—“struggles. And yet you asked her to sign a contract. Without consulting me or my legal team. And then you sent her off with that—that—farmer.”

I untwisted my ankles and stood. “Farmers grow food for the rest of us. And Niall Flynn is the most upstanding, honest, noble person I’ve ever met. I love him.” Though it seemed cowardly to admit it only after he was gone from my life.

“No, Samantha, you can’t possibly. A writer. From the”—she pursed her lips like the word tasted bad—“Midwest. I know he’s your son, Paul, but really.”

Paul shrugged.

Farming and art were two things I hadn’t thought about before the book tour. Now I saw the value in both. I wished Niall was there to use his words, so much better than mine, to fight the battle.

Novels written by CASE wouldn’t need editors. Formatters. Expensive book tours. Publicists like Qiana. And why pay a writer like Niall when they’d already sunk costs into CASE and could get a hundred times his annual output, even if it wasn’t a quarter as good? Anyone could do the math and find CASE’s financials appealing. But at what cost to human creativity?

I swallowed. I couldn’t do this to Niall. To Qiana. To all the people who’d toasted Niall and me with champagne in the Happy Troll offices six weeks ago.

I turned to Paul. “Niall is a writer. Don’t you worry about him? About his livelihood?”

“Technology is advancing human civilization faster now than in any other period in history. If Niall can’t get on board with it…” He shrugged.

“Samantha,” Martell said gently, the way he’d speak to a small child, “CASE will create new jobs. Installers, programmers, maintenance workers, quality checkers. Some of the redundant workers can be retrained for these roles.” He shrugged. “They said the same thing when computers came on the scene. Typists became data entry specialists. Time marches on. You, of all people, should understand that.”

Paul said, “Don’t you agree, Audrey?”

She’d married two men who loved books. She supported a literacy foundation. My mother had to see the situation the way I did. My hope must have shown on my face.

She blinked. “I do. Samantha, this is your creation. It could make you a very wealthy woman. I can’t believe you’d consider throwing it away.”

“Some things are more important than money.” I lifted my chin. Niall and Qiana and all the people who’d supported me were more important than my personal comfort. Than even my future. “No.”

All three of them stared at me. Martell said, “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

I sucked in a breath. I missed the bookstores, their smell of fresh paper and old leather and furniture polish. My adviser’s office held only a faint electrical scent, overlaid by my mother’s lavender perfume. He didn’t have a single book in his office.

“I won’t do it. I won’t work on CASE.”

“Samantha, don’t be ridiculous.” Mother gripped the chair’s armrests, her knuckles white.

Dr. Martell studied me. “Are you sure? This seems unusually rash. Consider the implications. I can’t approve your dissertation without further development. Plus”—he clicked the mouse and then tapped out a series of keystrokes—“plenty of other graduate students can take this work and finish what you started.”

“I have to agree,” Paul said. “SwifTech’s developers can’t wait to get their hands on this. While I’d much prefer to have your expertise on the project, it’s not necessary.”

A knock came at the door, and Kyle, my officemate, popped his head in. “You needed to see me, Dr. Martell?”

Martell raised his fingers from his keyboard and stared at me. His glasses reduced his irises to ball bearings. “Do we need Kyle’s assistance?”

I sank into the chair. “No. I’ll do it.” I didn’t have to do it fast. Or well. I’d drag out the work until I could figure a way out of this mess.

“We’ll review your first iteration next Friday.”

Ten days from today. Well, shit.

“Good girl,” Mother said. “And William Winford has been calling. I’ve invited him to brunch on Sunday.”

“No.” The word rang out like a shot in Martell’s office. “I’ll do this thing for him”—I nodded at my adviser—“because I have to. But I’m not meeting anyone. And I’m not coming to brunch.” Somehow, I stood, despite the disappointment that weighed me down. “Not if you don’t support me and what I want.”

I strode to the door and put my hand on the doorknob. “Good-bye, Mother. Dr. Martell, Mr. Swift, I’ll have something next Friday.”

I had no idea what that something might be.

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