A widow.
How was that even possible? Marriage had never been part of her plan. Far from it, in fact. She’d grown up hard and fast, the way most children of addicts did, and had learned a thing or two along the way. At ten, she learned that no address was permanent, at twelve, that no promise was sacred, and at sixteen, that there was no such thing as safe. There were other lessons too. Lessons that were still etched in her mind—and her flesh.
She dragged back her coat sleeve, and stared at the trio of scars on her wrist, shiny and pale, like a constellation of tiny moons. Her badge of survival. Yes, she’d learned a thing or two growing up, including what happened when you trusted the wrong people.
And then she met Stephen. He was handsome and charming, a rising star in the publishing world. But even more appealing was the fact that he hadn’t batted an eye when she informed him, quite emphatically, that children weren’t part of her long-term plans. In fact, he’d seemed pleased. He was career minded and so was she. At least that was the excuse she’d given. They were married six months later. It wasn’t a storybook marriage by any means, but then she’d never really bought into the whole happily-ever-after myth. Like most whirlwind romances, the early days had been about newness and chemistry, but over time their relationship had evolved into a kind of arm’s length alliance, symbiotic and safe, steady. Or so she thought.
She glanced at the clock on the dash. Nearly five. How was it possible that so much could change in the space of three hours? And yet it had. Everything she knew—or thought she knew—about her life and her marriage had suddenly been turned on its ear. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the headrest, waiting for the tears to come. Instead, her head filled with images—a ghost-white face caved in on one side, violet eyes staring at nothing.
Who was she?
But she was too numb to ponder that question right now, too sick and too weary to wade through scenarios that all seemed to point to the same terrible conclusion. Exhausted, she dragged her purse from the passenger seat and slid from behind the wheel.
There was a moment of disorientation as she stepped into the kitchen, as if she had accidentally wandered into someone else’s home. She was used to the house being empty. For the last few years, Stephen had rarely been home for more than a week at a stretch. There was always somewhere he needed to be, another book tour, lecture, or talk show appearance. But this emptiness felt different. As if with Stephen gone, the house had lost some of its life force.
But then, it had always been Stephen’s house. He’d become obsessed with the idea of living in the house Warner Brothers had used to shoot the ending of Victim’s Rights, his third novel and the first in a series of grittier-than-life box office smashes—so obsessed that he’d made an offer on the place without bothering to consult her. That had been four years ago, about the time she started to realize what a small role she actually played in her own marriage.
She collapsed onto the sofa and unwound her scarf. The sun would be up soon, the morning news hitting the airwaves, newspapers landing on doorsteps. There were calls she needed to make: Stephen’s agent, their lawyer, the insurance company. At least there were no family members to contact. Like her, Stephen had been an only child, and both his parents were dead; his father of a heart attack while Stephen was still in school, his mother of a cerebral hemorrhage two years ago. It was a terrible thing to be grateful for, but knowing what she did, she couldn’t imagine having to tell his parents about the accident—or face them at his funeral.
She was in the process of unlacing her boots when the kitchen phone rang. By the time she got to it, the call had gone to voice mail. She waited for the recorded message to play out, then picked up when she heard Stephen’s agent on the other end.
“I’m here, Gary.”
“Tell me it’s a mistake, Christine. Tell me what I just heard on the news isn’t true.”
“It isn’t a mistake. Stephen’s dead.”
“What the hell happened?”
“The police said there was ice on the bridge. His car skidded into Echo Bay.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Christine. This is . . . I can’t believe it. I thought he was on his way to New York for a signing at the Strand. What the hell was he doing up near Echo Bay?”
Christine’s grip tightened on the phone. She wasn’t going there. Not now. Not ever, if she could help it. “He must have finished early and was trying to beat the weather home. Does it matter?”
“No. I suppose it doesn’t. Are you sure there hasn’t been some kind of mistake, though? Sometimes the police—”
“I saw him, Gary. They made me go down and identify his body.”
“Jesus, God. I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”
“It was.”
“There are things—” He broke off. There was a brief stretch of silence before he went on. “Look, I’m not trying to be a bastard or anything. Stephen was a friend. But there are things we’re going to need to talk about. Details.”
“The medical examiner has to finish up before they can release Stephen’s body. They didn’t think it would be more than a few days. I suppose I could—”
There was an awkward clearing of his throat as Gary cut her off. “I wasn’t talking about funeral arrangements, Christine. I meant contractual details, how things work when an author dies. Part of the advance for his next book has been paid out, and now—”
“Now he’ll never finish it.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care about any of that, Gary. I never have. You know that. Just take care of it. Whatever needs to be done, do it.”
“All right,” he said, willing for the moment at least to let the subject drop. “We’ll talk again when you’ve had some time. I didn’t mean to get into this today. I just wanted you to be aware that there needs to be a conversation at some point, not that I have anything to tell you right now. I haven’t spoken to anyone at Lloyd and Griffin yet. I’m sure they’re still digesting the news like the rest of us, though I do expect my phone to start ringing any minute. My guess is yours will too. Tragedies sell, and the media’s going to eat this one up with a spoon, Christine. Just remember, you don’t have to talk to anyone until you’re ready. Or ever really. Your grief isn’t anyone’s business but yours. In the meantime, I’ll review the language in Stephen’s contract about editorial control, and of course the royalties, which, as you know are fairly sizable. I do know he named you as his literary executor.”
Christine was too fuzzy to digest what he was saying. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you decide how Stephen’s work is handled going forward; copyright issues, movie rights, that sort of thing. But it’s nothing you need to worry about right now. Right now, you need to take care of yourself and get through this. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, I want you to pick up the phone. I mean it, Christine. Anything.”
She was numb as she ended the call. She had only digested about half of what Gary said and wasn’t sure she cared about the other half. The truth was she’d never had much of a grasp on how and when Stephen got paid. It had been hard enough when there were only three books. Now there were eleven, not counting A Fatal Franchise, which was set to release in eight weeks. The truth was she had no idea how much money Stephen had.