Page 6 of How To Plot a Payback

He makes a massively wide berth around us, pushing into others rather than enter our conversation. I cast a quick glance around and suddenly realize everyone around us has withdrawn a good five feet.

“You crime writers certainly have a way with insults,” he says.

“Mr. Goodwin,” I say, surprise clear in my voice. I give a quick nod. “This is an honor.”

“Finn Masters, is that right?” Goodwin replies.

I didn’t think Paula’s eyes could get wider, but there they are. Her contacts are going to fall out.

“Yes. That’s right.”

“I must say, I’m a huge fan of your work.”

The words hit me like a blow.

A tiny whistle escapes Paula’s lips.

For the first time, I’m finding it hard, very hard indeed, to give my patent reply.

“It’s . . . a joint effort,” I say after a moment. “Everyone in the writers room is essential.” After a long pause, I add, “Especially Paula here. She’s been on the team since the beginning.”

Paula, who’s turned quite wooden, teeters under my pat on her shoulder.

“Pleasure,” he says, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I’ve been following you for some time, Masters. You’ve left an imprint. A mark upon the show.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Obviously,” he answers with a slight flick of his brow, as though it was stupid of me to ask for reassurance.

“Well,” I say unsteadily. “Thank you. That’s quite the compliment.”

“Not a compliment. The truth.”

I see Goodwin is the absolute opposite of Mr. Henry. He’s the kind of man who speaks bluntly. Even at parties on a Friday night, he doesn’t waste time or words.

“I followed along the first two seasons because I like to keep my eye on the competition,” he continues. “Get a clear view of the landscape.”

He has to be joking.

Higher Stakes hardly counts as competition.

“But then something surprised me when I started the third season. Right after you were hired on.” His eyes grow steely. There’s a hardness in his voice as though what he’s about to say is of great and unfortunate importance. “I found I was starting to like it.”

“Th-thank you?” I say.

“I began to look forward to six o’clock, Monday evenings,” he adds with a frown.

Several seconds go by.

I’m not sure how to respond to this.

“And then one day,” Goodwin says slowly, voice dropping to a foreboding rumble, “I did something inexcusable. I found myself rescheduling a small dinner party.”

From cues alone, one would think I was supposed to display shock and cry out, “No!” Instead, I wait silently for him to continue.

“Why?” He presses an accusing finger on my chest. “So I. Could watch. Your show. You”—he taps on my chest twice—“hooked me on your show.”

My eyes flicker to Paula.