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Eliza Tate: But I didn’t need help. I’ve always taken care of myself. I knew what I was doing.
Defense: Did you tell her that?
Eliza Tate: I didn’t get the chance. Because somewhere along the line, feelings got involved, and that never ends well.
TWENTY
Six Months Before
August 2018
I have to tell you, Marguerite, I am so looking forward to your next project.” A man stuffed into a boring black suit extended a meaty hand toward Marguerite. “I’m Henry David, editor for the Los Angeles Literary Magazine. It’s a small, independent, digital-only magazine I run from my blog. Any chance I could steal a few moments of your time?”
Eliza tuned out the mundane conversation, sweeping her gaze across the rest of the partygoers. The attendance was quite impressive. The food was perfection. The ambiance was on point. So why were Eliza’s nerves ragged?
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Marguerite said, digging an elbow into Eliza’s side. “Don’t you agree?”
Eliza forced a smile onto her face, trying to rack her brain for remnants of a conversation she’d actively tuned out. “Sorry, which idea?”
“Book clubs.” Marguerite’s annoyance was thinly disguised. “What if we provided advanced copies of my book to book clubs across the country? We could get them to tweet and post about it on Instagram. Better yet, it would help get some early reviews up.”
“Absolutely,” Eliza said. “I’ve already got that covered.”
“You do?”
“Of course. The first book club event is slotted for February. We should have advance copies of Be Free printed by then. It will be a great opportunity to snap some photos of the book in the wild.”
Marguerite noticeably cheered, looking intrigued at the mention of a photo op. “Is it local? I’d love to swing by in person. Sign some copies, hear how the book was received.”
Get your picture taken, Eliza thought harshly.
“It’s local,” Eliza confirmed. “I’ll update your calendar with the details.”
“Very good.” Marguerite turned, satisfied, back to the blogger. “Stay tuned for photos. You can run them in your magazine with the article.”
Eliza raised a hand, biting her nail as she contemplated the logistics of throwing together a book club event that would impress Marguerite Hill. She’d lied about the whole thing—there was no local book club. There was no book club at all.
“I’d love to attend, too.” The reporter turned his gaze on Eliza. “Snap a few photos of my own.”
“Great idea,” Marguerite said. “Eliza? Where is it being held?”
“It’s…uh…it’s actually at my house,” Eliza said, shooting the reporter an apologetic smile. “Sorry, closed to the public.”
“Good idea,” Marguerite muttered. “Good idea.”
It was a stroke of good fortune that Eliza’s good friend Dominic Schroeder strolled by at that moment. Eliza grabbed his elbow, thrust him toward Marguerite, and threw introductions at them to avoid any more questions about this nonexistent book club. Marguerite raised her eyebrow curiously at the well-groomed, handsome gentleman.
“This is Dominic, film and television agent,” Eliza rushed. “He’s the best of the best. Sold the latest Annie Shefflin books to Warner Bros.”
“Annie Shefflin?” Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “Very impressive. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Dominic interrupted. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marguerite. Are you at liberty to share some details about Be Free? I’m wondering if there’s any hope of adapting it for the big screen. With the success of Take Charge, I’m sure the studios would be hankering for a look at a pitch.”
Eliza smiled to herself and ducked out of the conversation. The two would occupy one another for the next half hour easily. The slightest mention about film rights to Marguerite, and she melted into a sugary-sweet mess. Likewise, whenever Eliza dangled a New York Times bestseller in front of Dominic Schroeder, his mind rang up dollar signs like an ATM.
Still beaming from her matchmaking efforts, Eliza meandered through the guests. She paused when she spotted Roman and Penny nose-to-nose in the center of the ballroom, speaking in low tones while the chandelier dripped sparkles of light over them. Eliza’s throat went dry as Roman handed Penny something that resembled a credit card. A room key.
Penny seemed to be in shock as Roman turned on a heel and disappeared from the ballroom. She stood stock-still, alone in a sea of people, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared down at the key. Her cheeks grew progressively pinker. Eliza could see her expression change as she digested the meaning of the plastic slip in her hand.
