Today's Reading

(The copy in this email is used by permission, from an uncorrected advanced proof. In quoting from this book for reviews or any other purpose, it is essential that the final printed book be referred to, since the author may make changes on these proofs before the book goes to press. This book will be available in bookstores April 2024.)


CHAPTER ONE
Finn

Murder is just so tedious.

The blood, the weapons, the extravagant mess to clean up over and over and over. Does anyone even know how much bleach I've had to endure smelling over the years? Gallons. Truckloads. I've lost two pairs of shoes in the past three months to unfortunate missteps.

The desktop screen of my laptop is covered in folders meticulously organized into files labeled Poisons, Burn Phones, Cybersecurity, Brilliant Body-Hiding Spots, Run-of-the-Mill Body-Hiding Spots. And a fan favorite, Absolutely Bloody Pathetic Body-Hiding Spots.

I could make a killing—pun absolutely intended—selling this computer and all its contents on the serial killer black market.

I've been in the business of murder for eight years. Nothing to brag about in the grand scheme of things, but long enough that I've made a name for myself. A reputation.

And by the age of thirty here I stand, Finn Alexander Masters III, son of proud parents Mary and Finn Masters II of 202 Sommerhill Road, Welling, England, settled for life in the great land of Los Angeles, pigeonholed into the career of my dreams. Murder.

And all I want, the whole reason I'm here tonight, at this absurd party, talking to this man, is to use it somehow to get out of that career of my dreams.

"And then it turned out they all were in on it," sputters the man opposite me. Spittle blinds me in one eye. "Brilliant." While holding his appetizer plate, he motions with both hands that his head is exploding. Several sausages quiver and roll onto the rug.

My eyes flicker down to the white shag.

Mr. Henry doesn't seem to notice. "Were you the mastermind behind that—just—absolutely awesome twist?"

I crouch (which, mind you, is no simple task in the small, overstarched suit my cowriter Paula pushed into my hands this morning with a shh as she shut the wardrobe door behind her). As I collect the tiny sausages, I say what I always say in these moments: "It was a joint effort. Everyone in the writers room is essential."

But yes. I thought of that plot twist.

And yes, I am secretly quite proud of that one.

"Oh yes. A team effort," he says seriously, as though he knows every detail of life inside the writers room. "Your minds have to be in sync, so much so you're always finishing each other's sentences."

We never do that.

"That's a pat on the back for the Higher Stakes director who hired you all."

Executive producer.

"He had to know you could work together. I can just imagine him—"

Her.

"—throwing you all in a room together as he stood behind some great big mirror, seeing how his creation worked it all out."

We are not monkeys in a lab. She is not God. There is no mirror.

"And now look at you." He throws out a hand—and another sausage. "Writing as a synchronized team for the biggest murder mystery sitcom—"

Sitcoms are comedies.

"—on television today. The Backstreet Boys, so to speak, of Hollywood."

He finishes his monologue and stares at me with a smile that lasts several silent seconds. Then gives fresh attention to the sausages I've returned to his plate.

Pops one into his mouth.

Begins chewing.

Continues smiling at me, now while chewing.

As if at any moment I'm supposed to erupt with a Bravo! You nailed it.
...

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