Page 77 of The Words We Lost

“Which is why I was surprised to discover that you are in the possession of a manuscript written by our late, best-selling author Cecelia Campbell.” She takes a breath. “A manuscript it seems you collected the day after you arrived there.” Her implication is as clear as the fake-nice voice she’s still trying to maintain. “Now, as I’ve already assured our legal team back in New York, I know you must have a perfectly valid reason for why you chose not to disclose such a critical piece of information to me in your update reports, but I shouldn’t have to remind you of the binding, contractual agreement Cecelia’s manuscript is still under.”

I rub my lips together once and aim to match her unassuming tone as if she hadn’t just casually slipped in the wordslegal team. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, SaBrina, butThe Fate of Kingsis still missing. I don’t have it.”

“But youdohave a manuscript written by Cecelia Campbell in your possession, correct?”

I hesitate. “That’s correct, but—”

“Then I expect to see a copy of it in my inbox for review by the end of business today.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Her sugary veneer quickly dissolves.

There’s no time to think strategically on what I should or shouldn’t say to my boss. But I’m not new to the publishing industry or to the contractual agreements we initiate as an editorial staff. I’ve negotiated dozens and dozens of them over the years. And though each one is as individual as the authors we represent, I know SaBrina doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to intellectual property that has yet to be negotiated. The manuscript in question belongs to a trust, in whichonlyJoel and I have named access.

“Because the manuscript in my possession is not under contract with Fog Harbor Books,” I reply.

SaBrina’s exhale is unnervingly long. “I wish I could believe that, Ingrid, but unfortunately, this is hardly the first time your integrity has been called into question in regards to your work ethic.”

“Myintegrity?”

“How many months would you say you’ve been passing off your assistant’s work as your own? Seven, eight? I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for me to figure out. Chip can actually be quite helpful when the right carrots are dangled in front of him.” She waits for my response, but I don’t take the bait. I have no doubt thecarrotsshe dangled were actually threats.

“And then, of course, there’s your more recent indiscretions. I’m sure your pity-struck coworkers would be surprised to learn that yourexhaustive searchforThe Fate of Kingsthis last year was nothing more than a ruse, given you’ve known exactly where that manuscript has been since Cecelia’s death: sitting in a trust with your name on it.”

A punch of air escapes me. “That’s not true—”

“Which part? Hiding behind your assistant or hiding a manuscript from your employer?” Her voice is unflinching. “If your plan is to try and run out the clock on Cecelia’s contract, then you’re a fool. Don’t think for a moment you’ll be able to shop it around without submitting it to mefirst—not without severe legal consequences, which we are prepared to fight to the fullest. We’ve already fronted a considerable sum in advances to own the rights of the Nocturnal Hearts series, not to mention the film rights that are still pending on their completion. That manuscript belongs to us.”

“I know Fog Harbor owns the rights toThe Fate of Kings—but what we have isn’t it.” Panic brews inside me like a storm. “It’s not even a work of fiction.” The instant it’s out of my mouth, I want to take it back. I don’t want SaBrina knowing anything about this memoir.

“If that’s true, then you should have no objections sending it over to me so I can verify that for myself.”

Sickness sloshes in my gut. How many times had I thought nothing about asking an author to do that very thing—to send me the story draft they’d hemorrhaged all over by whatever date I specified, usually the week following a writing conference. I’d sit with dozens of writers over the course of a weekend, each hoping for their big break, while I knew only a fraction of them would ever make it to acquisitions.

Requesting a manuscript from an author willing to sell their soul for a chance to be published by a reputable house had become a normal part of my job. And yet the paralyzing fear of turning any of the pages in my possession over for SaBrina’s entertainment makes me want to retch. I may not be the one who penned these words, but my blood is splattered on each and every page.

Right then, a detail I would have sworn I hadn’t heard during the exchange in Marshall’s office surfaces in my mind. I force it out with as much backbone as I can muster. “The trustees have to be in unanimous agreement before any action can be taken on the intellectual property.”

“And just how soon can I expect you and Joel to make such a decision?”

I grit my teeth at her mention of Joel, at her knowledge that it’s just the two of us who have the authority to make such a decision. As I work to construct an answer, I imagine again just how quickly SaBrina could ruin a reputation in our industry with no more than a single wave of her manicured hand. “I really can’t say without conferring with him first.”

“Well, I advise you two to come to a decision quickly. This is the kind of information that tends to leak out one way or another, and I’d hate to see the chaos that would be unleashed upon Cecelia’s family for a second time if her fans find out about thissecret manuscript,” she enunciates. “As you know, many of them were extremely agitated by the way Cece left the cliffhanger inThe Twist of Wills. But news like this would revive even the most frustrated of fans. They’d all flock right back to that little seaport town of hers—set up their candlelight vigils and share their conspiracy theories abouthow their favorite author staged her own death as a publicity stunt all over again. You’ve heard that one, haven’t you? It’s right up there with how Cecelia’s publishing house posted a reward for anyone who brought inThe Fate of Kings. Suppose that’s what happens when teenagers are given free rein of the internet ... their influence is power.” Another pause. “Don’t underestimate them, Ingrid. Secrets like this only keep for so long.”

I’m shaking by the time the call drops, SaBrina’s last line echoing in my brain. Was that a threat? Was she actually threatening to out the manuscript in my possession to the public?

Allie is already loading my bike into the back of the club car as if she knows what my next words will be before I speak them. “I ... I need to get to the hotel, Allie.”

She nods. “I’ll text Joel and tell him we’re on our way.”

Allie has us out of the maze of storage units in a matter of seconds, her gaze darting to me several times. I don’t know what all she heard, but it’s pointless to pretend she hasn’t pieced the gist of it together by now.

As we hurry down the hill, every possible landmark mentioned in Cece’s chapters—the lighthouse, the marina, the tattoo parlor, even the liquor store on Fifth and Chambers—points to a memory I’d rather die than hand over to SaBrina.

I replay her final words to me. The threats hidden inside so many other threats. The resurrection of fans hosting vigils and the chaos that will ensue on the Campbell family if this secret is outed makes me unable to take in a full breath. As does the idea of having to tell it all to Joel.

I close my eyes, sick at the thought, which is why I know I can’t go into this conversation blindly. I need to know what actually happened in the months following Cece’s death. In the months Joel’s only alluded to when it comes to his aunt.

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