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Ray sighed. “Thank you, Phillip. What’s your question, Bree?”

“To your knowledge did Duchaine, the company, ever use the services of a Massachusetts firm called Paladin?”

Duchaine’s director of marketing laughed. “Paladin. One of the dumber moves we made in the past few years.”

“How’s that?” Bree said.

Ray told her that Frances Duchaine and Paula Watkins had followed the advice of hedge-fund manager Ari Bernstein and hired Paladin to mine hard data to determine where to put new stores as the company expanded. “The demographics they came up with from their algorithms were solid on paper—proximity to wealthy towns, reasonable rent and overhead, things like that,” Ray said. “But they didn’t account for how devastating e-commerce was going to be for the fashion-to-wholesale-to-physical-retail business, which was our business model.”

Bree said, “Should Paladin have predicted it?”

“Ryan Malcomb’s supposed to be the big genius, spotter of trends, right?”

“You’ve met him?”

“Five or six times,” she replied as Bree’s own cell phone rang. “He, uh, em, uh … well, I think he uses the whole muscular dystrophy thing to his advantage.”

“Hold that thought,” Bree said, seeing who was calling her. She answered it as she walked from the kitchen. “Detective Thompson?”

“The docs say they’re going to bring Volkov out of his coma tomorrow evening,” Salazar’s partner said. “But they don’t think he’ll be coherent enough to answer questions until the following day. If you’re available, Rosella wants you there when we question him.”

“I’ll be there,” Bree replied. “FYI? Paladin did do business with Duchaine.”

“Good to know, I guess,” he said with little enthusiasm. “Gotta go.”

When Bree returned to the kitchen, Luster was pouring himself a second glass of wine. His phone was dark.

“Nellie had to go, unfortunately,” he said. “Her mother phoned. She said you can call her back tomorrow if you need to. Another round?”

He was holding the bottle up toward her. Bree felt odd about something Nellie had said but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. What is it? Does it matter?

“Why not?” Bree said finally, and held out her glass.

Luster gave her a generous dose. “How does organic Chinese sound?”

“Perfect,” she said. Her cell phone buzzed, alerting her to a text. She thumbed the screen, saw it was from Addie Wells, and opened it. It contained an attachment titled “Write Me a True Story, Family Man.”

CHAPTER 97

Washington, DC

AT TEN MINUTES TO nine on the morning of the auction, Lisa Moore lounged on a couch, sipping espresso and watching Suzanne Liu pace back and forth across the living room of the Airbnb Moore had been renting in Kalorama.

“Are you always like this before an auction?” Moore asked calmly.

Liu looked at her as if she were mad. “Of course. Everyone is when something is hot like this.”

“But you’re the agent now, not the editor,” Moore said, putting her coffee down.

“All the more reason to be biting my nails. This is my first time on the other side of the table, Lisa.”

Getting up and walking toward Liu, Moore said, “So you should be even chiller. You said it yourself last night—we’re holding an ace-high royal flush. Six different publishers said they intend to bid.”

The former editor shook her head. “You don’t understand, Lisa. Sometimes projects get too hot. For whatever reason, the suits start thinking the price is going to be too high for them to even bother bidding or that the writer isn’t seasoned enough to execute the narrative in a bestselling manner. In that case, we could get six different no-bids in the next hour.”

Moore came around behind her and started massaging her neck. “That won’t happen, Suzanne. I guarantee they’ll bid. How could they not? It’s too juicy, too delicious, the way it takes Thomas to his knees. Everyone loves to see the big man fall, don’t they? And besides, I’ll have you as an editor to guide me.”

Leaning back into her lover’s hands, Liu said, “Everyone does adore seeing an a-hole like Thomas brought low. And you’re right. You have me as a guide.”

“That’s my girl.”

Liu’s laptop dinged.

Liu pulled away from Moore, mild terror on her face as she hurried to the machine.

“You would have been terrible in combat,” Moore said, sighing.

“I’d have a nervous breakdown in combat,” Liu agreed and looked at an e-mail that had just come in. “Damn it!”

“What?”

Liu was trembling when she turned. “I told you it might get too rich for some people’s blood.”

“Which house?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, stalking away. “We need someone to believe in us here. We need someone to step forward so I can do my magic.”

“You’ll get it. We’ll get it. We haven’t gone through what we’ve gone through not to get the brass ring, Suzanne.”

“Publishing can be a fickle, subjective business. I’ve told you that.”

Moore gritted her teeth. “Have more faith. What’s the worst that can happen? We don’t get a deal and we self-publish on—”

Liu held up her hands in horror. “Don’t even say it!”

Ding!