Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“This is cool,” Mia says as she slides into the booth across from me. Her eyes are already moving, taking in exits and sightlines. Journalist habit, maybe. Or something else. “Cozy little spot.”
“Best milkshakes in the city,” I say. “Trust me.”
“You keep saying that like repetition makes it true.”
“It is true.”
“And what if I’m lactose intolerant. What then?”
I study her face, unable to see if she’s joking or not. “Are you?”
She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a bottle of LactoEase, shaking it.
My eyes widen. “Why didn’t you tell me when I suggested it?”
“Because I like to live dangerously,” she says. “No, honestly, give me some water for the pill, and I’ll be fine. I’m not passing up the best milkshake in the world.”
“In the city.”
“We’ll see.”
I signal Katy—the same waitress who’s been here for thirty years, who doesn’t give a shit that I’m famous—and order waters, plus a chocolate milkshake and a strawberry one. They have more elaborate flavors, but simple is always best.
Through the windows, I can already see the crowd gathering. Phones out, faces pressed close. The price of being what I am.
“Does that bother you?” Mia asks, nodding toward them. “Living in a fishbowl?”
“Does it bother you that everything you write gets picked apart by strangers online?”
“Touché,” she says, taking off her jacket and bundling it up beside her. She’s wearing a fuzzy, off-the-shoulder sweater that shows off her golden skin and black bra straps. From the way she glances at me, I know I’m outright ogling her. “Still, I think my job might be a little easier.”
Katy places the water down, the perfection distraction, and Mia swallows back her pill before pulling out her recorder, setting it on the table between us. “So. No handlers, no conference room. What do you actually want to talk about?”
“Background,” I say. “Yours. I know your byline, your publication history. I did all the homework Julia tossed my way. But even though I approved you, I don’t know anything about you.”
“For good reason. This is supposed to be an interview about you.”
“Interviews go both ways,” I bargain. “You give me something real, I’ll give you something real. Tit for tat.”
She considers this, fingers drumming lightly on the table. I can almost see her calculating risks, weighing options, though her face gives nothing away.
“Fine,” she says finally in a clipped voice. “What do you want to know?”
Everything.
“Where are you from? Before London, before King’s College.”
A shadow passes across her features before it quickly dissolves. “Richmond, originally. Nice house, nice neighborhood. Parents who worked too much.” She pauses, rubbing her lips together. “My mother died when I was ten. Car accident. My brother too.”
The words land heavy. I know loss, know exactly what shape it leaves in you.
Hollow and yet no shape at all.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” she goes on, her voice carefully flat. “My father moved us to Canada afterward. A small island off Vancouver Island. He worked at a research facility there—very remote, very quiet. Good place to grieve and try to pick up the pieces. Start again.”
“And your brother…? He died with your mother?”
A pained look comes across her brow, enough that I feel sorry for pressing her. “Yes, though they never found his body. The river current was too strong. They searched for days.” She shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “I was home sick that day. A bloody fever. My mum was supposed to take us both somewhere, but I couldn’t go. So she just took Oliver.”
Oliver.
“You wonder,” I say quietly, “what would have happened if you’d been in that car like you were supposed to.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp with surprise. “Yes. For years. Maybe I still do.”
“Survivor’s guilt,” I say with a nod. “I know something about that.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me like she’s seeing something new. “Your sister. Emma. I read about her.”
The name still lands like a blow, and I have to swallow down the burst of pain. “What did you read?”
“That she was an activist killed during a raid in 2033. That the official report said she was armed, but no weapons were ever found.” Her voice is careful, neutral. “That you were deployed overseas when it happened.”
“In Syria,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Got the call at three a.m. By the time I made it stateside, she’d already been cremated. Expedited processing, they called it.”
She nods slowly, and I can tell she wants to say more, know more, the same questions I’ve had since I returned. All those suspicions, the whys. But instead, she says, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I pick up my water glass, turn it in my hands. “She was twenty-five. Beautiful. Smart. So smart. Valedictorian. Had a full scholarship to Georgetown. She wanted to change the world.”