Lydia Crane.
The subject line read:
You may want to step outside before midnight.
My hands went cold.
Lydia had been the first person to tell me my writing mattered. She had run the small literary fellowship I attended after college, the one Nicholas called “summer camp for adults.” Then, without warning, she disappeared from the publishing world. No explanation. No goodbye. Only a rumor that she had taken a private position with a powerful family.
I opened the email.
There was no greeting.
Only three lines.
Jenna,
Emmett Stewart is not the only person in that ballroom because of your work.
Your brother’s wedding was never the real reason I arranged the invitation.
I read the words twice.
The room blurred around me.
Attached to the email was a document titled:
THE MERCER LETTERS – AUTHORSHIP REVIEW.
Mercer.
That name meant nothing to me at first.
Then I heard Emmett inhale softly beside me.
I turned to him.
His face had gone still.
“You know what this is,” I said.
He looked at me, and for the first time since I had known him, he seemed unsure of what he was allowed to say.
Before he could answer, the ballroom lights dimmed for the cake cutting.
Allison turned toward the head table.
Nicholas said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the sudden rush of blood in my ears.
My phone vibrated again.
Another message from Lydia appeared.
This one was shorter.
Ask your mother why she kept your first manuscript.
I looked across the ballroom.
My mother was already staring at me.
And in her expression, beneath the practiced smile and carefully arranged pearls, I saw something I had never seen before.
Fear.