happen next, but this felt like the night I found myself trapped on a snowy mountain with Tom Brandon. This was big. “I’m not sure, but the first step is to find out where he is now and who’s managing his business.”
Chapter 8
T he trouble with obsessions is that by the time you know you’ve got one, it already has you by the throat. Chasing Evan Hall was like chasing a ghost. His publicist no longer had anything to do with him and he’d broken all ties with his agent years ago. The studio behind the Time Shifters films had stretched the nine original novels into as many movies as possible —without the author’s blessing after the first few —and now that was finished as well. Evan Hall still lived on his mountain above Looking Glass Gap, where, according to his business manager, he did not accept business proposals or business calls related to publishing.
Even Jamie thought I was nuts for continuing to pursue it. Have you lost your min d ? she’d demanded after four days of hearing me complain about dead ends. You’re brand new at Vida House, and this thing is a total long shot.
I knew she was right, but the story was haunting me. It was wrecking me in some strange way. At Monday’s pub board meeting, I couldn’t focus. All I could do was look around the room and think, Who knows about The Story Keeper besides me? Which one of them put it on my desk?
Hadn’t anyone else figured out the secret?
Hadn’t anyone else wondered about the rest?
Let it go, grasshopper, Jamie had warned as we walked together to the subway at the end of a long Tuesday. This is me, giving you some good advice. I’m counting on you and all that profit sharing at Vida House so you can float me a loan if the magazine crashes and burns.
Yeah, whatever. Not that I wouldn’t have done anything for Jamie, but I was struggling to scrape up the rent right now, myself. On top of that, tucked in Tuesday’s mail, I’d found a dog-eared envelope with a Towash, North Carolina, address, a cheery note, and first-day-of-school pictures. I knew what that meant. A request for money wouldn’t be far behind.
I was trying hard not to think about it. If I did, I’d want to climb into bed and stay there.
Given my present bank balance, one more unexpected financial hit would be the breaking straw. I should’ve been playing it safe at work, but I’d already decided to bring the manuscript back to Vida House, and not with the intention of returning it quietly to Slush Mountain. The beauty of my obsession with it was that it was almost enough to drive my sister’s note and the back-to-school photos from my mind. Almost.
Wednesday morning, I dressed and left for work early. Mitch had been coming in at the crack of dawn, poring over her war bride project. I needed to catch her while the office was quiet.
By the time I walked past the war room and Slush Mountainand turned into her office, I was focused completely on The Story Keeper and how much I wanted it.
Mitch was busy at her desk as I entered her domain. Her quarters looked like an episode of Hoarders Gone Wild . Every blank space was filled with ad proofs, cover comps, finished books, stacks of galley pages, proposals, and manuscripts of all shapes and forms —edge taped, spiral-bound, held together by plastic strips, bulldog clips, and rubber bands —pretty much everything but duct tape, and there was probably some of that under there too. The only clear space was a path from the door to the desk chair and from the desk chair to a credenza that was also hopelessly piled with manuscripts.
There was nowhere to sit, so I didn’t.
Sweat broke over my palms, making the folder in my hands feel like it had been left out in a morning fog.
Mitch didn’t look up at first. “Yes?” Polite, yet impatient.
“I need to ask your advice on a project.”
“Yes?” She was still scanning her computer screen. I waited until she stopped and looked at me.
“Something showed up on
Chapter 8
T he trouble with obsessions is that by the time you know you’ve got one, it already has you by the throat. Chasing Evan Hall was like chasing a ghost. His publicist no longer had anything to do with him and he’d broken all ties with his agent years ago. The studio behind the Time Shifters films had stretched the nine original novels into as many movies as possible —without the author’s blessing after the first few —and now that was finished as well. Evan Hall still lived on his mountain above Looking Glass Gap, where, according to his business manager, he did not accept business proposals or business calls related to publishing.
Even Jamie thought I was nuts for continuing to pursue it. Have you lost your min d ? she’d demanded after four days of hearing me complain about dead ends. You’re brand new at Vida House, and this thing is a total long shot.
I knew she was right, but the story was haunting me. It was wrecking me in some strange way. At Monday’s pub board meeting, I couldn’t focus. All I could do was look around the room and think, Who knows about The Story Keeper besides me? Which one of them put it on my desk?
Hadn’t anyone else figured out the secret?
Hadn’t anyone else wondered about the rest?
Let it go, grasshopper, Jamie had warned as we walked together to the subway at the end of a long Tuesday. This is me, giving you some good advice. I’m counting on you and all that profit sharing at Vida House so you can float me a loan if the magazine crashes and burns.
Yeah, whatever. Not that I wouldn’t have done anything for Jamie, but I was struggling to scrape up the rent right now, myself. On top of that, tucked in Tuesday’s mail, I’d found a dog-eared envelope with a Towash, North Carolina, address, a cheery note, and first-day-of-school pictures. I knew what that meant. A request for money wouldn’t be far behind.
I was trying hard not to think about it. If I did, I’d want to climb into bed and stay there.
Given my present bank balance, one more unexpected financial hit would be the breaking straw. I should’ve been playing it safe at work, but I’d already decided to bring the manuscript back to Vida House, and not with the intention of returning it quietly to Slush Mountain. The beauty of my obsession with it was that it was almost enough to drive my sister’s note and the back-to-school photos from my mind. Almost.
Wednesday morning, I dressed and left for work early. Mitch had been coming in at the crack of dawn, poring over her war bride project. I needed to catch her while the office was quiet.
By the time I walked past the war room and Slush Mountainand turned into her office, I was focused completely on The Story Keeper and how much I wanted it.
Mitch was busy at her desk as I entered her domain. Her quarters looked like an episode of Hoarders Gone Wild . Every blank space was filled with ad proofs, cover comps, finished books, stacks of galley pages, proposals, and manuscripts of all shapes and forms —edge taped, spiral-bound, held together by plastic strips, bulldog clips, and rubber bands —pretty much everything but duct tape, and there was probably some of that under there too. The only clear space was a path from the door to the desk chair and from the desk chair to a credenza that was also hopelessly piled with manuscripts.
There was nowhere to sit, so I didn’t.
Sweat broke over my palms, making the folder in my hands feel like it had been left out in a morning fog.
Mitch didn’t look up at first. “Yes?” Polite, yet impatient.
“I need to ask your advice on a project.”
“Yes?” She was still scanning her computer screen. I waited until she stopped and looked at me.
“Something showed up on
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