by Rachel Kane
“It’s true,” he said sadly. “It’s all true. I’m ruined.”
I scowled. “What do you mean, what’s true?”
He waved at the papers. “It took me all night to find it. I couldn’t sleep. I looked through every single book I’ve ever written, every short story, every stupid poem I kept from high school. But I found it.”
In the center of this maelstrom of paper, in the eye of the storm, there was a set of pages lined up neatly on the rug, next to a book. Passages had been highlighted, circled.
“Talk to me,” I said.
He swallowed, blinked, looked away, as though the proof of his guilt was too awful to see. “My second book is called Wonton Cruelty. It’s…it’s a play on words. Someone is killed, and the only evidence is arsenic found in the dumplings. Katie and Roger have to figure out who did it.”
The cover to the book was lying torn on the floor. I picked it up. There was a plate of wontons, a pair of chopsticks. The steam rising from the dumplings formed a skull, like that picture that had been on his website.
“You’re telling me you copied this book?”
He stared down at the pages. “I wouldn’t have thought so. I was inspired by Eliza Fenning. You’ve probably never heard of her.”
I shook my head.
“She was a cook for a family called the Turners. This was London, the early 1800s. One night, she makes a dish of dumplings for their dinner. The entire family—including her—gets sick. Before she knows what’s happening, she’s arrested for trying to poison them all.
“The trial was a farce. They accused her of lacing the meal with arsenic. But there was no evidence of poisoning. The forensics didn’t exist back then to detect small amounts of arsenic, yet the prosecution insisted they had found the poison in the food.
“Worse still was that the family—all of whom survived, all of whom were fine—arrayed themselves as character witnesses against Eliza. She hadn’t rushed to their aid when they were sick, and that was even more evidence of her guilt…even though she was just as sick as they were.
“She was sentenced to hang, and they executed her. No evidence against her, just the grudges of a family who had a bout of food poisoning. It’s the sort of thing that sticks in your head. It’s so unfair.
“So I wrote a book about it. It was modern-day, of course. All the names changed. Maybe it sounds silly, but I felt like I was vindicating her. In my book, even though someone is trying to frame the cook, Katie and Roger discover she’s innocent, and they clear her name. Justice done.”
He crossed the room and knelt by the pages. He picked one up and studied it.
“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Secret Reader is coming after you because you referred to some ancient history? That’s it? Because that graffiti downstairs--”
“No, here’s where things get complicated. Because I did a lot of research for that book. I read the original history, yes, but Eliza became famous in her own way after her trial and execution, and a lot of writers used her story. Including Wilkie Collins. I see you don’t know the name.”
I shook my head. “No, sorry.”
“I’ll keep it short, then. Collins used Eliza’s case as the inspiration for his story The Poisoned Meal. He changes her name, makes her a French servant, and instead of dumplings, it’s a hasty pudding that is poisoned. But it’s the same story, a young girl accused of attempted murder, false evidence and grudges combining to convict her. But here is the problem.”
He picked up a page from the floor, a photocopy of a book. It was a copy of a single page, and at the top were the words The Collected Stories Of.
One passage was highlighted.
Upon this, Madame Duparc snatched up the saucepan without saying another word, turned to the dresser, stretched out her hand toward one of four salt-cellars which always stood there, and sprinkled salt into the saucepan — or (to speak with extreme correctness, the matter being important), if not salt something which she took for salt.
I looked up at him. “Okay…?”
Now he picked one of the torn pages off the floor, one of the pages of his own book. A paragraph was highlighted here, too.
“And right then, she snatched up the wok, without saying another word,” explained Marie. “She turned to the counter, stretched out her hand toward one of the salt-cellars we always had there, and sprinkled salt into the wok—or wait, let me correct that, it’s important to be clear—if not salt, something she took for salt.”
I took the two pages over to the window, as though having sunlight falling on them might reveal more. As though the similarity of the two passages was caused the shadows of the room.
“There are more like that,” Cam said. He waved his hand at other pages scattered on the floor.
I felt an old instinct click into place, something I hadn’t felt for a while. The satisfaction of having been right, of having followed a hunch.
Cam had been guilty.
He’d lied to me.
It made my thoughts so clear, like I was on steady ground again. Like the old days, when things were simple. I almost laughed, but I couldn’t do that, not with Cam looking so stricken.
“I’d only written one other Katie book by that point,” he said, “and I was still trying to find my voice, my style. I love Wilkie Collins, he’s such a queen, he’s practically breathless when he gets going. And I think, trying to mimic his style…I must have mimicked his words as well. Not on purpose! I wasn’t trying to copy him, you’ve got to believe that, I’m not a plagiarist—”
“I believe you,” I said.
Simple to say.
Harder to realize that I actually meant it.
It was the room itself that convinced me. The chaos, the pages. Cam’s sleepless red-rimmed eyes.
Habitual liars are under a great deal of strain. They might lie confidently, but they’re always having to work at it, with so many strands of falsehood to keep up with, that they can’t maintain it. When the truth comes out, they can finally relax, and they look at you, abashed and relieved.
Cam did not look relieved at all. That’s how I knew this was the truth. He looked even more frantic than he had back at Micah’s office. The truth had not set him free; it only plunged him deeper into guilt.
This was why I had felt so torn between whether he was lying or not.
“Listen,” I said. “We’re going to get you through this.”
For the first time, he made eye contact with me. “We?”
I told him what I’d found out about his numbers downstairs. He paled when I quoted the verse to him.
“My sins will…find me out? Alex, what does it mean? What’s this person trying to do to me?”
I felt on such steady ground. The past couple of years of uncertainty had dropped away. I knew what I was doing again, and it felt so different it was almost dizzying. I could have grabbed Cam right then, given him a kiss on his morning-stubbled cheek, for bringing me back to this.
No, you could not have done that. What are you doing, even thinking like that?
It was only a thought. Only the briefest flicker of thought.
I would punish myself for it later, yes. I knew what happened when you crossed the line, when you took a case personally…when you took a guilty party into your life. David Black had taught me that, and had made me see humanity as a dark and hopeless thing.
No hugging Cam. Not even thinking of it as a joke.
“This is someone who knows you,” I said. “Or someone who thinks he knows you. Someone here in town.”
“Is that…is that better?”
I shook my head, trying to hide the delight I felt, the renewed sense of being on the hunt, of being in control of a case again. “No, Cam. It’s much, much worse.”
7
Cam
I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t painfully aware of Secret Reader’s countdown. Even though my main question had been answered—now that I knew what I’d done wrong, and what was about to be spla
shed over the internet—I still felt suspense coiling in my stomach. I’d set a timer on my phone to match the countdown on the computer screen.
“You don’t have to read the whole thing,” I said to Alex, more to get my mind off the subject of those glowing numbers on the screen than anything else.
He had gone around the room, picking up my mess. Not the laundry or the pizza box, just the pages and books.
“This is step one,” he said. “Compile the known information. I need to read the book, need to read the story you copied—”
“Inadvertently copied.”
“Just so. And I need to call Micah. We’re going to be busy today. I may have more questions for you.”
May have more questions? I would think he’d have a thousand of them. I certainly did.
Or maybe one big question: What had I been thinking?
My friend Eli writes science fiction. Not my cup of tea, but I’ve seen him write before, and it’s a strange sight, just him and his computer. Everything’s in his head, until he types it out.
I’m different. I can’t write unless I’m surrounded by books and notes and charts. Reading mysteries is fun, but writing them, keeping track of when to show which clue, of when your detective can make certain deductions, it’s a lot of work! I could still picture writing Wonton Cruelty. I’d had that Wilkie Collins book propped up beside me, as well as my other research.
Had I simply typed in what I’d read? Caught certain phrases out of the periphery of my vision, and put them in the book? How had I not realized? How had my editor not realized?
My head was swirling with questions, but one thing was clear. My mistake was about to become public knowledge. Secret Reader had decided to become my judge, jury and executioner.
Take heart, I told myself. You have help. Alex certainly looked intent on helping. He was stacking the torn pages in order. He stole a pack of post-its from me, and was jotting down notes and sticking them to various pages.
It was a shame we’d gotten off to such a bad start. First impressions matter more we like to admit. He would always think of me as a liar now. A liar, a plagiarist, a schemer.
Or would he?
I believe you, he’d said.
That’s not a sentence I’ve heard much in my life. It’s always been the opposite. That can’t be true, Cam. You’re lying, Cam. You’re just trying to get your foster parents into trouble.
I shuddered. The worst part about all this was the way it had let my past creep back in. The plagiarism was nothing compared to the other dark things in my past.
I worked so hard to keep everything at bay. I want to be happy. I want the world to think I’m happy, that I have it together, that I’m in control.
When people think of me, I want them to see the intelligent, witty Cam, a little snobbish maybe, but understandably so, given my fine aristocratic features and bearing.
Oh he’s so stuck on himself…but we like him anyway.
That’s what I wanted people to think, when they think of Cameron Carlyle.
Not this. I don’t want them to think of me as a liar, a cheat, someone with a past.
“All right,” said Alex, gathering everything up. “I’m taking these to Micah’s—”
“Wait, what? You’re leaving?”
He nodded. “Nothing more to do here. I’ll call you if I run into more questions. I need to come up with a plan before Secret Reader’s countdown ends, so that the minute he posts his story, we’ll be ready. I’ll need to work with Micah and Jane to nail down our short- and long-term strategies, and—”
“But you’re leaving?”
He set down the books. “Cam. It’s going to be okay. Trust me. I’ve taken the case, see? What happens next…it’s going to hurt, yes, but it will all work out.”
I looked around the room as though I’d been locked in a cage. It was still morning. There was so much of the day left. I couldn’t be alone here, trapped in my apartment, watching that clock count the seconds down until my destruction.
“Can I come with you?”
He laughed. So confident. I needed him to stop being so confident for a minute. I needed him to let me take the driver’s seat. This was my fate we were talking about. He couldn’t just walk out.
“Look, can you call somebody? A friend?” he asked. “Someone to visit? I usually don’t have clients in my strategy meetings. No offense, but in my experience, it makes them panic. Or worse, gets them angry. They think they have to fight me every step of the way. So it’s better if you’re not there for those discussions.”
Anger was a sudden flame flashing up inside me. “I’m not a child,” I said. “You don’t have to secretly meet with the grown-ups to discuss me. This is my life at stake, my career. I think I should be part of it.”
Alex’s face hardened. I thought, Aha, this is a man not used to being disagreed with. This is a man used to being in control.
Too bad. My life, my rules.
“Cam—” he started.
“I’m going to get dressed now,” I said. “I’m going with you.”
He glanced at the laptop. “I don’t want to make a big deal about this, but you’re not going with me, and we’re running out of time.”
“We’ll definitely run out of time if you stand there arguing with me.”
You know what’s difficult? Being gay when men get on your nerves. I’d never met a man yet that didn’t want to jostle for control. It didn’t matter if he was smart or dumb, accomplished or useless. Every man thought he deserved to be in charge.
Nobody is in charge of Cameron Carlyle, except myself.
Certainly not some Big Daddy type, with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick forearms, as though trying to show off what a boss he was. I’m not impressed by muscles, any more than I am by silver flecks in dark hair. Strong square jaws are meaningless to me. It’s just a body, after all.
He gave me a hard, hard look. “I said no, Cam.”
“And I said yes. And you’re working for me now.”
“That’s what you think this is? An employer-employee thing?” He stepped towards me and by instinct I took a step back. He really was a big guy. “Let me tell you something, I’m taking this case because it’s interesting. Not because you’re interesting. You’re just another celebrity who got caught. Not even a celebrity. A writer. You fucked up, and now the world’s about to find out, and if you don’t get off my fucking back and learn to trust me, this isn’t going to work.”
If I had been mad before, now I was furious. “What you don’t seem to realize is, I’m done being pushed around. I spent the first two decades of my life being a victim, and I’m not doing that anymore. I will burn it all down, my life, my books, my reputation—before I let myself trust another man with my fate!”
I gasped, hearing my own words. I hadn’t meant to say any of that. It just came out.
I never talk about my past. Never.
If you were to speak to me in casual conversation, you would never know I had a past. You’d think I had sprouted up yesterday, fully formed, with all my parts and opinions. Never a child. Never a teenager. No drama, no trauma.
Where do you get your ideas, they would ask me at book signings. You’re so happy and bright, how do you write about such dark things?
And I’d just shrug and smile and offer a quip.
But now my facade had—ever so briefly—peeled back.
Alex was staring at me. Where before his expression had been all defensiveness and anger, something had softened.
Oh christ no, please don’t look sympathetic. I can stand anything but sympathy. Yell at me. Tell me I’m a fool. But don’t pity me.
“Well, hurry the hell up,” he told me, turning away to gather more papers. “Get dressed if you’re coming.”
It didn’t feel like a victory.
“The word I’m thinking about is homage,” said Jane. “What if we spin it that way? Cam, you love these Victorian mysteries so much, and you wanted to write an homage t
o them.”
I didn’t answer, I just looked at Alex. He tapped his pen against his chin and raised his eyebrows.
“Could work,” he said. “The copying was intentional, but for a good purpose. Maybe Cam puts it in the book, hoping true fans will find the original story it’s based on, and will enjoy it as much as he does.”
Micah nodded. “And we’re talking a story that has been in the public domain for decades. This isn’t ripping off a living writer, taking away their revenue. There’s no legal issue.”
Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. I should’ve listened to Alex and stayed home next to the computer.
“But…that’s a lie,” I said. “That’s not how it was at all.”
All three of them turned to look at me. We were gathered at one end of a long conference table. My pages and books were set out neatly, so everything could be taken in at a glance. Micah and Jane had added to Alex’s collection of post-its. It all looked so orderly.
“You can’t make me lie to my readers,” I said. “Jane, come on, I can’t believe you would suggest that—”
“We have to do something,” she said.
“But surely there’s some other way. Can’t I just confess that it was an accident?”
Alex scoffed. I glared at him.
“You said you believed me,” I told him.
“Oh, I do, but I’m not the problem,” he said. He pointed at the open laptop on the conference table. “They’re the problem. Once Secret Reader gets done with you, nobody is going to believe this was an accident.”
Micah slid a folder toward me. “Jane and I talked about this earlier. Take a look.”
My hand was hesitant as I opened it. Other writers, some I recognized, some I didn’t. Their book covers. Screen caps from webpages.
