Page 74 of Bombshell

I pick up the title page and turn it over, making a new stack. What if I hate it? What if she wrote about us? I’m pleased to discover chapter one written at the top. It still takes effort to read the first line. Summer always brought a fresh wave of tourists, making every foot of the small island loud. There was no escaping the noise, so like most, she avoided all the places she usually loved.

By lunchtime, I’m halfway through. I’m so absorbed that Trish has to tap me on the shoulder.

“Want anything from the place around the corner? You look like you’re going to skip lunch,” she says.

“I’m good.” I flash her a quick smile, tapping my pencil on my desk.

“You are an editor,” she says with a laugh. “I can’t pry you away from a story.”

She disappears along with most of the staff, leaving only those of us with our noses buried in books behind. Today, I’m not stuck in Nashville. I’m on a small island off the coast of Washington state, puzzling over the toxic romance developing between two such vividly painted characters that I feel like I know them.

My mom wasn’t just a writer. She was a great writer. The discovery leaves me equal parts excited and sad. It’s bittersweet to find this piece of her that she never showed to anyone. I tumble back down the rabbit hole of her story until a shadow falls across my desk.

“I’m really not going to starve,” I tell Trish past the pencil I’m biting between my teeth.

“You can’t keep avoiding my calls,” a cold voice replies, and I look up to discover my brother glaring at me.

“I’m at work,” I say, shuffling mom’s book to the side so he can’t get a glimpse of it. I doubt Malcolm would approve of me reading it or making notes in it or flirting with the idea of publishing it.

“We need to talk,” he ignores my reminder entirely and takes the chair opposite me. My stomach flips over.

About what? There’s so many things we need to say to each other—few of them pleasant—but Sterling was clear that I should avoid my family until we settle things.

“Malcolm, I’m busy.”

“Reading books?” he says with a sneer. Of course, he wouldn’t find any value in that.

“Editing books,” I correct him.

“Perhaps,” he hisses in a low voice, leaning forward, “you could go to work on a different story. The press is having a field day digging up dirt about Mom’s death. It makes us look bad.”

“It makes Dad look bad,” I say flatly.

“It makes all of us look bad.” He grips the edge of my desk until his knuckles are white. “You can’t just ignore this. We need to find out who leaked that story and get it under control.”

I already know who leaked the story. Sterling told Sutton and, well, Sutton doesn’t like me very much. I’m not about to tell Malcolm any of this. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Our father did, and he’s dead, so he can’t even pay for it.”

“You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?” Malcolm releases the desk and settles into his chair with a grim smirk. “What kind of daughter wishes her father had gone to prison?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” I think of Trish’s mug. My bitch switch has definitely been flipped.

“I want you to give a damn about what’s happening to this family!” he roars. The other editor who skipped lunch looks up from her book with a frown before returning her attention to it. She clearly cares more about being interrupted than what we’re fighting about.

“Why should I?” I ask slowly and carefully. I want him to answer. I want to hear his shitty, self-serving logic from his own lips. It will make all of this easier.

“You aren’t the only one who stands to lose out if more damage is done. Ellie’s inheritance is at stake. Not that I expect you to—”

“Do not presume anything where she’s concerned,” I cut him off. “It’s not your place.”

“It’s not?” he repeats. “You can’t rewrite history, Adair.” He pushes to his feet, an accusing finger flying my direction. “You fucked up. You paid the price.”

“Is that how you sleep at night? Telling yourself that I deserved it? I’ve always wondered.” I’m on my feet now. My fingers twisting around Sterling’s clover charm like a talisman.

“We did you a favor,” he spits back, “and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

“A favor?” I repeat. “Fuck you, Malcolm.”

I want to scream at him to get out. I want to threaten him. I want to tell him that she’s mine, and I’m taking her back. But I don’t want to see her dragged into the middle of this. I want to protect her from the worst of it. I always have.