Page 60 of Ghostridden
“Sorry. I’m sorry. But I— I need a minute.”
“Sure. Take all the time you need.”
After he vanished, I took a breath, rubbing my chest to ease the pinch there.Damn. What a thing to hit you on the same day you discover you were murdered and that some asshole stole your last book.
Except…
I stared down at the scatter of torn pages. That wasn’t exactly true, was it?Borderlinewasn’t his last book. It wasn’thisbook at all, but therewasanother one. Avi had told me about it. Identity theft. Gaslighting. Undercover at the spa. A mud room scene. The last real last Jake Fields book.All In.
And the only person who’d had a copy was Oren.
The way Avi had spoken of it had sounded as though he’d sent Oren a physical copy—something that could potentially be lost during a move—rather than an electronic version.
Well, who just happened to haveallof Oren’s possessions, right here, right now?
“That would be me.”
I jumped to my feet and raced for the pantry. If there was half a chance I could do this for Avi—find his last book, maybe turn it in to his agent for posthumous publication to salvage his reputation—then I’d do it.
Even if it meant sorting through every. Freaking. Box.
Whatever can be said about the people who packed up Oren’s effects—and the ability to logically group like articles was not one of them—they were stellar labelers. After playing an intense round of box-Tetris, I hit the mother lode. At the bottom of a stack of six legal-sized banker’s boxes was one labeledLeft Nightstand. Halfway down its list of contents that includedbox of tissues,eyeglasses with case,antacids (partial package),phone charger,drafting pencils (3), was what I was hoping for:
8-1/2 x 11 spiral-bound book, no cover, approx. 350 pages
That was it. Had to be. Oren was an architect. He wasn’t likely to have a lot of other spiral bound books lying around for a little light bedtime reading about electrical codes or building material stress tests, but he was devoted to Avi. I could totally picture him wanting Avi’s work close to him.
I briefly considered waiting until Ricky got back so I’d have assistance rearranging the boxes, but I didn’t want to wait. Besides, I didn’t want Ricky to think I was only interested in himfor what he could do for me, such as lugging things up and down stairs, shuttling my cat around, or bringing me dinner.
With silent thanks for Avi’s spectral housekeeping talents—the same activities at the Manor had me covered in dust from curls to toes—I rearranged the boxes until I could free my target and lug it out of the pantry.
I set it on the island almost reverently and had just lifted its lid when my phone vibrated in my back pocket. Lid in one hand, I pulled it out to see a text from Ricky:
R: Ok if dinner’s delayed by 30?
I shot back a quickNPand set the phone aside because there it was, right on top.
All Inby Jake Fields.
Just seeing those words on the blue paper cover sheet wasn’t what had me clutching the sides of the box, gulping against tears. No, that would be the Post-it fixed to it, right next to the title:
Just a few notes, mostly fanboying. Best thing you’ve ever written. And I’m not saying that just because I love you. —O
Avi had been worried about Oren’s reaction to the book, and I knew from professional experience that even writers as successful as Avi could still suffer from impostor syndrome. Now he’d have validation from the most important person in his life.
I touched the little green square. Would it make Avi feel better or worse? He was already devastated by the news about Oren’s proposal plans, about their acrimonious final conversation, so it could go either way.
However, I had no right to gatekeep, for either Avi or Oren, so I left the note where it was, atop the last Jake Fields book.
But… did ithaveto be the last Jake Fields? Avi was still here, after all, and he could use the Smith Corona. Heck, if he wanted to dictate another book, I’d transcribe it for him. Taryn could probably figure out how to handle posthumous publication.Maybe Avi would want to set up a foundation or something with the proceeds. There had to be a way to—
The cell danced on the countertop with another text.
R: Make it 45?
I frowned at the screen. I had no problem waiting, but if something had come up, I didn’t want Ricky to feel obligated. I hit the text and called him, putting him on speaker.
“Hey. It’s me. Is everything okay?”
