Kill Your Darlings

KILL YOUR DARLINGS

Josh Lanyon

Chapter One

Regarding Adrien English…

I automatically glanced from Rachel—Rachel Ving, Ving the Merciless in New York publishing circles—to the panel discussion table where Adrien English was still chatting with Christopher Holmes.

What about him? I glanced back at Rachel and did a doubletake. Do you represent him? Because that would be news.

I do now. Rachel smiled. It was a cat that got the cream sort of smile, which surprised me. Nice for Adrien to finally have serious representation, but he wasn’t what one would call a heavy hitter in mystery fiction, the occasional tabloid-worthy film option notwithstanding.

I said wryly, Now I understand the reason behind the delays in signing the new contract.

"I told Adrien to sign nothing until we spoke."

Presumably Rachel meant until she and Adrien spoke. She and I spoke on a regular basis.

I said neutrally, I appreciate your steadfast commitment to your clients’ best interests, but we both know things are a little different now.

You mean with the merger between Millbrook and Wheaton & Woodhouse? Her shrug was dismissive.

I’d have loved to be able to shrug off that new reality, too. I said, "Despite the press release in PW, it’s more of a buy-out than a merger."

I hoped that didn’t sound as bitter as I felt—as bitter as we all felt now at Millbrook House.

Rachel’s dark eyes studied me shrewdly. She said softly, and with equally uncharacteristic frankness, "You’ll be all right, Keiran. Chin up."

Oh, hell yeah, I said as quickly as if I really believed it. I regretted saying as much as I had, but the fact was, W&W was already talking about trimming the fat from our lists.

Great panel! said a woman in the kind of hat you’d expect to see at Ascot—or maybe in My Fair Lady.

I smiled in reflex. Thank you.

On my right, Rachel was saying, As a matter of fact, you—and your editorial list—were probably a major incentive in W&W’s decision to bail out Millbrook.

My laugh was caustic. I doubt it. Given W&W’s neo-pulp, er, sensibility, that was pretty unlikely.

"Nonsense. While, he may have the literary taste of a Neanderthal, Vaughn Woodhouse is no fool. He wants W&W to start winning awards again. You’ve spent years curating one of the most respected author portfolios in crime fiction. You’d better believe he wants to get his hands on that list."

My list maybe. Not necessarily me. In fact, during my first official meeting with Vaughn and Lila Penderak, my counterpart at W&W, Vaughn had informed me the game plan was to divide my editorial list between Lila and myself.

Lila had all but licked her chops.

Was there a little bit of payback there? I’d started my career in publishing as an intern reading the slush pile at Wheaton & Woodhouse. I’d quickly worked my way up to editorial assistant to Lila, then assistant editor, then editor before I’d left to take the senior editor slot at Millbrook House.

Even when W&W does win awards, it’s largely thanks to you, Rachel was saying.

She was referring to the Miss Butterwith cozy mystery series which, after a brief lull, had brought home the Agatha Award for best novel at this year’s Malice Domestic. Christopher Holmes had been my discovery way back in the day, so Rachel was once again being uncharacteristically, unnervingly kind. She must truly think my days at Millbrook were numbered.

I said, I think Christopher gets the credit there.

"That goes without saying." Rachel cast a benign, if proprietorial, glance at her most successful client, now shepherding Adrien toward the exit, and—unless I missed my guess— the hotel bar.

He’s very much looking forward to working with you again.

Likewise, I said automatically.

In fact, before the ink had dried on Millbrook’s intellectual property and contract transfers, Christopher—well, Rachel—had requested that he be moved from Lila’s stable to mine. Which, come to think of it—and through no fault of Christopher’s—might actually have proved the inciting incident leading to that unpleasant orientation meeting with Vaughn and Lila. Four minutes in, Lila had joking-not-joking suggested she’d trade Christopher Holmes for Finn Scott.

And I’d joking-not-joking replied, Over my dead body.

Nothing against Christopher. I loved the idea of working with him again. But Finn was…

Not only had the Finn Scott releases kept Millbrook House afloat for the last two years, Finn was my—Finn was a friend and the closest thing I had to a regular sexual partner.

In fact, there had been a time when I’d worried he’d—well, anyway, lately we seemed to be on the same page as far as spending a little extra time together. Casual. Nothing complicated.

Starting with this weekend.

You’re going to want to read this! A tall, skinny guy with spiky silver hair, a lot of piercings and an assortment of colorful tattoos, materialized from the wall-to-wall carpet of conference attendees to shove what looked like a manuscript in a clear binder into my hands.

I opened my mouth to state the obvious: This isn’t how you do it. But he had already turned away and vanished in the milling crowd. A hit and run submission. I stared down at the title page—typed in Bookman Old Style font, no less.

I Know What You Did

Now there was a catchy title—back in 1973. Granted, the full title of Lois Duncan’s classic suspense novel was I Know What You Did Last Summer, but the abbreviated version had popped up in publishing at least a dozen times since then. You can’t copyright a title, which some writers mistake as encouragement from the universe to go right ahead and do what’s already been done to death.

And not just when it came to choosing titles.

"Keiran! Rachel’s protest was so loud, several people turned to look our way. Did you just accept an unsolicited manuscript?"

"I didn’t accept it, I said hastily, probably guiltily. I’m holding it, yes, but only because—"

"Get rid of it, she commanded in the tone of an epidemiologist trying to stave off a pandemic. Bin it."

Well, I mean… I glanced around uncomfortably. Several audience members were watching us.

Rachel was right, of course. Neither Millbrook nor W&W accepted unsolicited manuscripts. Only agented submissions made it over the transom. Unsolicited manuscripts went straight to the circular filing cabinet.

But it’s one thing to toss what amounts to junk mail when you’re behind closed doors—or, more accurately—to have your PA toss junk mail when she’s behind closed doors. It’s another to trash someone’s plastic-bound blood, sweat, and tears in front of a room full of hopeful authors.

I shrugged, said vaguely, It won’t hurt to glance through it.

Rachel looked flabbergasted, but was momentarily distracted by the ping of her cell phone.

Great panel, a bearded man in a denim jacket said in passing.

Thanks!

Like herding cats, Rachel muttered. I presumed she wasn’t talking to me. Or about me.

A tall, rangy figure in jeans and a black T-shirt with Cloak and Dagger bookstore’s logo, appeared in my peripheral. I turned quickly, smiling into arresting green eyes in a tanned, tough face.

Phineas—Finn to his readers—Scott.

He was a lean six foot two, with long, muscular legs and broad, powerful shoulders. His hair was a rumpled strawberry-blond, which he kept short and neat. Well, short anyway. He was handsome in a rugged baby-I-don’t-care way, but handsome wasn’t the first thought that came to mind. He looked like a guy who could handle anything—and as far as I knew, that had always been the case. Whether working homicide for five years or navigating the fame and fortune that came with the bestseller status most authors can only dream of, Finn handled himself with good-humored capability.

The crowd parted before him, murmuring recognition.

You made it, I greeted him. I was so happy—and even a little relieved, which was weird because there’d never been any question of his making it. This was his job. Just as it was my job.

"Hey. Finn squeezed my upper arm. I caught the last half. That was great." He grinned, maybe remembering some of the funnier moments on the panel—or maybe he was as glad to see me as I was to see him.

When did you get in? I was still smiling, still gazing into eyes the color of Montana sapphires.

Just after two. Finn was already backing up, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. I just wanted to say hi. I’ve got to meet someone.

"Oh. Right. Are we on for dinner?" I took it for granted we were—it was practically tradition by now, but to my surprise he grimaced in regret.

I’ve already got plans. How about tomorrow night?

It took a second to process. I said automatically, Tomorrow night’s the publisher’s banquet with Wheaton & Woodhouse.

Finn looked blank, but then said quickly, Maybe drinks afterwards?

Uh…yeah. Of course! It came out brightly with a preprogrammed smile. I was—surprised. A little confused. Disappointed for sure.

Of course, there was no reason Finn couldn’t, shouldn’t make other plans for dinner the night he arrived. He might be dining with his agent. There’d be plenty of opportunity for meals together over the next few days.

Opportunity for other things, too, presumably.

Hopefully.

No reason to feel…anything, really.

Except.

Except Finn hadn’t been—hadn’t seemed like—he’d seemed like meeting for drinks was plenty. All he required of me.

No. I was reading way too much into a ninety-second exchange. We were both in the middle of stuff, and he was—

Not interested in seeing me tonight.

I listened to the echo of that thought and understood why my stomach was tying itself into double and triple knots, as if there was something wrong. Because something was wrong. Finn wasn’t interested in making plans for after dinner, either.

And that was another disquieting first.

Usually, we spent pretty much every free minute of every conference together—not that there were so many free minutes because attending a conference was not the same as going on vacation. Though spending our down time together made them feel a little less like work.

Down time. There was a euphemism.

I realized Rachel had finished checking her phone and was talking to me.

I missed that, I said.

Hm? Oh. I said, I’m supposed to be having dinner with Adrien. He was right here a minute ago. She scanned the large conference room, which had nearly emptied out by then.

Try the bar, I suggested. I think he and Christopher were headed in that direction.

Of course they were. Rachel sighed. You’re headed over there as well, I suppose?

I had been, but suddenly, unexpectedly, I didn’t have the energy, the heart, for it. For any of it. The bright laughter and loud chatter. The crush of people. The pressure of all that…emotion.

I wasn’t ready to run into Finn, knowing what I now knew.

Jesus. Enough with the dramatics.

He made other plans for dinner. What was the big deal?

You know what the big deal is.

And yeah, I did. Knew it instantly and instinctively. No words needed.

But it wasn’t as if I’d imagined it was going to last forever, our…friendship.

Didn’t you?

Anyway, we were still friends. Still…partners in crime, as it were. Until Lila and Vaughn decided otherwise.

But I was going to need…

A few minutes to myself would be helpful.

Hell, was there a reason I couldn’t order room service and stay in tonight? It was the only night I had free.

I’m pretty jet-lagged, I told Rachel. I might make it an early night.

You?

Given Rachel’s astonishment, you’d think I was known for being the life of the party. But maybe that was just one workaholic judging another.

I joked—tried to joke, I’m not as young as I used to be. No lie, right now I was feeling every one of my forty years like boulders piled on a 17th Century crushing board.

I wouldn’t say that aloud, Rachel said darkly.

I laughed without humor. She had a point. The publishing world was subject to ageism just like the rest of the entertainment industry.

We parted ways outside the conference room and I headed toward the bank of elevators, nodding or smiling briefly as I passed familiar faces moving in the opposite direction down the long marble hallway.

It was still early enough in the conference that the elevator arrived in a couple of minutes. The doors slid open, I stepped inside, leaning wearily back against the mirrored wall, then snapping back to attention as a slim brown-haired man slipped in right before the doors closed.

I smiled automatically, then recognized Kyle Bari.

Kyle was one of mine. One of my authors, that is. He was young—barely thirty—and prolific. Thankfully, as talented as he was prolific. Which isn’t always the case.

Hello, again, I said.

He smiled back, but said nothing. I recalled that it was his first conference—and that, despite the fact that Noir at the Shore was in driving distance of home, he’d had to be coaxed into attending.

You did a great job on the panel, I told him, which was true.

Kyle had appeared on the Stranger Than Fiction panel with Adrien English, Christopher Holmes, and Grace Hollister. He’d been a little quiet, but engaging and self-deprecating. The audience had warmed to him right away.

He nodded in thanks, not agreement. He was eyeing the binder I held. "I Know What You Did?"

Effective, if not original.

Do people really try to give you their manuscripts to read at these things?

Occasionally. I grinned. I think agents probably have to deal with it more than editors.

Neither of us said anything for a moment. Then he smiled ruefully. Do you think it’s weird so many of your authors have real-life experience solving homicides?

Yeah. I sure do. We both laughed. I added, But it’s only you four, and Christopher isn’t even officially mine yet. I’ve got eighteen authors. The other fourteen leave the detecting to the professionals.

I’d proposed moderating a panel featuring mystery authors who find themselves involved in real-life homicides, and the event organizers had jumped at it. The Stranger Than Fiction panel had been very well attended, given that it was the first panel of the conference and late in the day. Most of the big-name attendees hadn’t even arrived yet.

Kyle pointed out, Finn Scott is one of yours. He was a homicide cop.

My throat unexpectedly closed for a moment at the mention of Finn. Not mine after all, as it turned out.

I said lightly, Finn was a professional detective, so that doesn’t count. You four are all writers. The sleuthing is just a hobby.

He smiled faintly, and I realized I could have phrased that more tactfully. Kyle’s sleuthing had involved solving the disappearance of his father, the artist Cosmo Bari.

This is me, I said as the elevator lurched to a stop at the fifth floor. This was the top floor of the hotel. Kyle didn’t move, so… Had he missed his floor while we were chatting? Maybe he was headed for the rooftop deck?

I got out, glanced back.

Something about the way he stood there, so quiet and thoughtful and self-contained, gave me pause. Did he want to speak to me in private?

He said nothing. Made no move.

Are you on your way to dinner? I asked.

Maybe. Kyle made a little face. It didn’t occur to me that everybody would already have plans.

Hell. New Kid on the Block syndrome.

I was just heading out to grab a bite, I lied. Why don’t you come with me?

His hazel eyes lit, but he was a polite kid—well, not a kid, but younger than me, for sure—and he hesitated. I don’t want to impose…

The door started to close. I reached out to block the sensors. You’re not imposing. I’d like some company.

He said, Well, if you’re sure—

I’m sure. I’ll meet you downstairs in—? I looked at him in inquiry.

Half an hour? he said tentatively.

I’ll see you in half an hour, I said, and let the doors close.

Chapter Two

I was swearing softly under my breath as I let myself into the Grand Bay Suite.

But really, how was it helpful to sit around feeling sorry for myself all night? This was a much better use of my time and energy.

I tossed the binder to the desk in the little alcove off the living room.

At seventeen hundred square feet, the suite was ridiculously large for one person. I’d booked it with Finn in mind of course, but also, I planned on hosting cocktails for my authors on Sunday evening to address their questions and concerns with the merger.

Dragging the conference neck lanyard over my head, I left it draped with my blazer on the back of the sofa that formed part of the seating arrangement around the marble fireplace. I walked into the private bedroom, which had another, smaller, fireplace, a king-sized bed with wood parquet headboard, a few pieces of tasteful coastal art—starfish sculptures and watercolors of old Monterey—and a fresh flower arrangement.

As I undressed, I stared blankly out the large windows at the blue dazzle of the bay.

The sunlight was fading. Soon the fog would roll in. Normal for May on the coast, but a little gloomy. The California sunshine was one of the things I’d been most looking forward to on this trip.

One of the things.

I did not let myself think about how much I’d imagined Finn would enjoy this room, this view, this giant bed…

Not useful. Not productive.

I strode into the oversized bathroom with its double sink vanity, soaking tub, separate shower, and yes, more breathtaking views of blue water and silver edged clouds. I popped my contacts out, splashed cold water on my face, and considered my dripping reflection bleakly. I decided I didn’t give a fuck about the five o’clock shadow. I dried my face, took a swig of Listerine, swished it violently around my mouth, spat, and returned to the bedroom to dress in jeans and a Knicks sweatshirt. As far as I was concerned, I was off-duty tonight.

And after tonight, I’d be too busy to think about anything but work, so…just get through tonight.

I transferred my wallet from my trousers, slid my glasses on, and threw myself a cursory look in the mirror hanging on the far side of the bed. A tall, lanky dark-haired man with colorless eyes and a blank white face stared back at me.

You’re fine, I told him.

I didn’t wait for his answer. I grabbed my phone and went downstairs to meet Kyle.

Kyle stood in the lobby talking to Finn and a small, slight, blond person.

My heart sank. Really? Was I going to spend this conference running into Finn every thirty minutes?

The three of them were talking and laughing, oblivious to my approach. Finn and the blond waif appeared to be on their way out—the blond wore a heavy turtleneck Aran sweater and Finn wore his favorite brown suede racer jacket.

But, I mean, how did I know if it was his favorite jacket? He wore it at the conferences we’d attended together, and that amounted to less than a fraction of both our lives. The truth was, I knew as little about Finn as he knew about me. So, let’s not pretend this had ever been anything more than a semi-regular hookup.

Finn glanced away from Kyle, spotted me and just for a second his expression was unreadable. He was still smiling, though, so maybe I was looking for subtext where there was none.

I lifted the corners of my mouth, crinkled the corners of my eyes as I joined their little circle.

The blond, who was indeed male and older than he’d looked from afar (which was about thirteen) nodded coolly. He had fierce blue eyes behind wood square glasses. His thick hair was platinum blond, cut in a trendy men’s fringe haircut that I couldn’t help thinking made him look a bit like Howl Jenkins Pendragon.

Finn was saying, Keiran, do you know Hayes?

I was pretty sure I’d seen Hayes’s photo in Publisher’s Weekly, but I couldn’t quite place him. Edgy-crime-writer-wunderkind-prone-to-violent-excess would have been my first guess.

I said, I’m not sure…

No. Hayes cut across the polite tergiversating. His voice was flat.

Kyle, who I suspected lived a sheltered life, looked taken aback.

I quirked a brow at Finn, said lightly, No.

There was a flicker of amusement in Finn’s gaze. He made the introductions—he was a social and civil guy—which you don’t really expect from cops or even ex-cops. Although, Joseph Wambaugh was about as nice a guy as you could hope to meet.

Keir, this is Hayes Hartman. Hayes, Keiran Chandler is senior editor at Millbrook House.

I know, Hayes said, still cool, still flat. He’s your editor.

I almost said, out of curiosity, which of your manuscripts did I turn down? But that would have been bitchy, and there were plenty of other reasons Hartman might have taken a dislike to me. Like the one he was currently brushing shoulders with.

Well, in the interests of accuracy, his head only reached Finn’s shoulder.

I shifted my gaze from them. We were positioned right across from the lobby bar, and I spotted Rachel. She’d successfully tracked down Adrien English, but instead of hauling him off to dinner, she’d joined the group that now included Christopher Holmes, J.X. Moriarity, and Mindy Newburgh. Their laughter floated across the lobby.

Finn said, Hayes is up for an Edgar. Best First Novel by An American Author.

Excellent! I said.

Hartman curled his lip.

What was with this kid? Was he teething?

I said, Kyle’s up for Best Paperback Original.

There was a little twinkle in Finn’s eyes. I know. Finn was also up for Best Paperback Original. He added to Kyle, My money’s on you.

Kyle spluttered a laugh of protest.

Are you attending the banquet? Hartman asked him.

No. Kyle said, and I sighed, which brought that humorous glint to Finn’s eyes again. That easy sense of humor was one of the things that had had attracted me to Finn’s writing. It was one of the things that had attracted me to Finn.

Me neither, Hartman said. I can’t stand the whole obsession with bullshit celebrity PR. If I win, I’m going to return the statue with a rejection letter.

Who’s your publisher? I couldn’t help asking.

Black Fig Editions.

Ah, yes. I knew the name if not the catalog. Their advertising tagline was: Decadent. Disruptive. Noir.

Because, of course it was.

Finn’s cell buzzed as a black sedan pulled up outside the lobby glass door. Finn checked his phone, said to Hartman, That’s us. To Kyle and me, he said, Where are you headed? Did you want to share an Uber?

Nothing on earth could have persuaded me to climb into a car with Finn and Tiny the Terrible. Besides, I