With that, Marshall headed toward the stage.

The worst part was, he was right: my parents would be thrilled. And it would be awful.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Elodie said. Her tone suggested the contrary, but grudgingly, she added, “I met your parents a few months ago. They were lovely.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I guess I should give you this—”

As I held out the parcel, though, another hand seized it before Elodie could take it. Marshall had come back without my realizing it, and now he gripped the package a little too tightly, his hand tense, his fingers dimpling the paper. “I’ll take that,” he said. “I forgot they were sending it here. Thanks for being the mailman, Killer.”

And then he hurried toward the stage.

“Now, about tonight,” Elodie said, tapping her phone’s screen so quickly that her fingers seemed to blur. “We had drinks at a great microbrewery last night, but I understand there are a few local bars. You’re the expert; would you like to pick?”

“Let me think about it,” I said. “There are so many good options. Can I tell you after the reading?”

Elodie agreed, and I retreated to my seat.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is called thinking on your feet and seizing an opportunity.

“Dash, that was amazing,” Millie said. “You’re FAMOUS!”

“I’m not—”

“Did you talk about writing? Did he tell you you’re a good writer? Did you tell him it’s hard for you to write sometimes? OH! Did you tell him about your special meditation with your eyes closed and sometimes you have to put a pillow over your face?”

Don’t judge. Sometimes a guy needs a nap, and his wonderful, loving, well-meaning friends won’t. leave him. alone.

“Special meditation,” Fox said scornfully.

“I went by your studio last week,” I told them. “You were asleep on the floor behind the counter. The door wasn’t even locked.”

“That,” Fox said, doubling down on the scorn, “was different.”

“How?”

“Tell him, Keme.”

Keme gave each of us a long, withering stare.

“He doesn’t seem like a very happy man,” Indira said. And then, almost as a question to me, “But maybe he’s different when you get to know him.”

“No, that’s pretty much how he always is.”

“Is he always snookered?” Fox asked.

“Fox,” Indira said.

“Look at him; he can barely stand up straight.”

Up on the stage, Marshall did look a little…wobbly. He was drinking some of the Pippi water (God, it sounds so bad when I say it out loud)—he was drinking some of the water with Pippi’s face stuck to the bottle, and he was staring out into the distance, his eyes glassy. A moment later, Pippi joined him on stage. In contrast, she looked all aquiver for the event—and, also, like she’d found a hot minute to duck into the restroom and volumize her hair one more time. Mrs. Shufflebottom joined them, and she spoke first to Pippi and then to Marshall. Pippi took one of the chairs. Marshall didn’t, and it was clear, from how Mrs. Shufflebottom waited, that she didn’t know what to do. After another moment, Pippi stood.

“Is this how authors are supposed to act?” Millie asked me.

“Neurotic and awkward and crippled by self-doubt?” I said. “That’s kind of the baseline.”

“We artists suffer for our art,” Fox said. “That’s why I need a Ring Ding.”

“There aren’t any Ring Dings,” I said. “They have these chocolate imitation things that are supposed to be like Ho-Hos. They aren’t bad, actually.”

And of course, at that moment, Mrs. Shufflebottom approached the podium, and the room went silent, which meant everyone heard my opinion of the imitation chocolate cakes, or whatever they were called.

“If everyone is finished,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said crisply into the microphone.

“I want to catch one break,” I said under my breath. “Just one.”

“Mr. Dane?”

I mimed zipping my lips.

With a final, pointed look for the troublemakers in the crowd (i.e., me), Mrs. Shufflebottom cleared her throat and said, “Welcome, everyone, to the Hastings Rock Public Library. This evening, we’re thrilled to have two world-renowned authors joining us to read from their latest releases. Many of you know Marshall Crowe from his bestselling Chase Thunder series. Mr. Crowe has hit every bestseller list you can name, and his popularity only continues to grow with the release of the latest entry in this series: Thunder Clap.

“We’re also so pleased and grateful that one of our own could be here. I don’t have to introduce Pippi Parker to anyone from Hastings Rock—”

“You might remember me,” Pippi put in from behind Mrs. Shufflebottom, “from the Hastings High bake sales.”

For some reason, that made everyone laugh. Even Mrs. Shufflebottom.

“She’s been running them for years,” Indira whispered. “She’s an absolute tyrant. Won’t let me donate anything.”

“It’s not fair,” I whispered back. “If I chimed in like that, Mrs. Shufflebottom would have eviscerated me.”

Maybe Mrs. Shufflebottom heard me, because she gave me a steely-eyed look like she was considering some eviscerating right then. After a brief summary of Pippi’s own performance on the bestseller charts—which, Mrs. Shufflebottom was too polite to point out, had dropped off significantly in the last few years—Mrs. Shufflebottom announced, “And, of course, it comes as no surprise to anyone in Hastings Rock to hear that Pippi will be reading from her latest entry in the Aunt Lulu’s Laundromat series, Spin Cycle Secrets.”

“It comes as a surprise to me,” I whispered to Fox, who was trying to ignore me. “I thought that got canceled after everyone found out she’d hired Vivienne to do some ghost-writing on her teahouse series.”

“You mean after you revealed it to everyone,” Fox corrected—unnecessarily, in my opinion.

“Dash.” It was a Millie-whisper. “Dash. DASH!”

My “What?” sounded, admittedly, a bit strangled.

“Why didn’t they invite you to be in the reading?”

“Without further ado,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said, “let’s give a warm welcome to Mr. Crowe.”

I sank back into my seat—grateful for a chance to avoid Millie’s question—as Marshall approached the podium. Even though it was only a short distance, his steps were so unsteady that it looked more like a semi-controlled lurch, and he clutched the podium to steady himself. He bent too close to the microphone and spoke too loudly, and the slight scrape of feedback raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he said, and the words had the blurred edges of someone losing his grip. “Wonderful town. Charming town. You know, most places you go, they’re grateful to have a celebrity visit them. They feel lucky. They don’t try to shoehorn in a housewife with an overactive imagination.”