Page 57 of No Words

I blinked. I couldn’t believe how wrong I’d been.

Not about everything, of course: Will Price really had been raised by wolves. But only one of them, and not exactly in the privileged luxury I’d always imagined.

Feeling like it might be appropriate to lighten the mood a bit, I said, “I can sort of relate. My dad is great, but he’s a musician. He’s still devastated I didn’t go into the family business.”

“Really?” Will glanced back at me and smiled. “Did he try to force you to learn the piano?”

“Worse: violin. Even with all my literary success, my dad is still holding on to the hope that someday I’ll come to my senses.”

“You do understand, then. Parental expectations can be... difficult.”

“Yes,” I said. “But look how well you’ve done for yourself.” I gestured widely at the boat. “Your dad can’t still think that you made the wrong choice.”

The smile disappeared as his gaze shifted moodily back toward the windscreen. “Well, I’ll never know. He died before I graduated university. Heart attack.”

For once I was the one rendered speechless.

I understood now why there wasn’t any mention of this in any of his bios. It was something every single journalist he’d encounter would want to ask him about: What was itlike to have suffered so tragic a loss at such a young age, then gone on to become so meteorically successful writing books about survivors of equally terrible loss? (Although Will Price would never allow a character to die of something so mundane as a heart attack. Being hanged for running over your lover’s husband would be more likely.)

Deeply regretting all the times I’d gouged out his eyes in photos in airplane magazines, I finally managed to stammer, “I... I’m so sorry, Will.”

So original. But then, what else were you supposed to say upon learning something like that?

Then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I added lamely: “My mother died when I was young, too.”

Oh, God,why? Whyhad I told him this?

Will looked startled. “I thought she was a homemaker who loves baking cookies for you and your dad.”

Now I was the one who was startled. “No. Where did you— Oh!” Comprehension dawned. “No, that’s Kitty Katz.Hermom is a homemaker who loves baking cookies and cupcakes for—”

“Kitty and her three little baby brother kittens. Right.” He was grinning again. “And Mr. Katz supports them all by working nine to five at Katz Savings and Loan.”

I gaped at him. What was going on? Will Price had read my books? Obviously I knew he was familiar with them. He must have seen the bits that Nicole Woods had stolen, since they’d been quoted in every article about her plagiarizing the two of us.

And since he was on the selection committee for thebook festival, he’d have to at least heard Molly talking about them. Or possibly his sister had leftKitty Katz #15: Kitty Quinceañera, lying around the house, and he’d picked it up and learned about Kitty’s best friend Felicity’s rockin’ fiesta de quince años.

But read one? Actuallyreada whole book of mine, the way I was (finally) reading one of his?

“But in your interviews,” he went on, looking confused, “you always say Kitty’s family is based on your own.”

“Yes. Well.” I twisted uncomfortably in the co-captain’s seat. Wait—he’d been reading my interviews, too? No. Chloe had probably read them to him over the breakfast table or something. That made more sense. “Sometimes it’s easier to say things like that when reporters ask you questions about your personal life, don’t you think? Because the truth is such a bummer.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “The truth about my upbringing, yes. But yours? It’s sad about your mother, but you seem extremely well adjusted... except for what you’ve done to your hair.”

I flung a hand defensively to my head.“What?”

“Don’t worry. I like the change. It suits you.” He was grinning again. “All I’m saying is that unless you have post-traumatic stress from being forced to learn the violin all those years ago, your upbringing seems quite normal. Why wouldn’t you want to talk about it during interviews?”

“Because I don’t want to share the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life with some stranger I’ve only just met. Why would I want to keep reliving the pain of my mom dying of cancerwhen I was fourteen, and how awful that was, and how my dad spent every penny he had—that he wasn’t giving away to his bandmates—trying to save her, all to promote a book? I knowyou’dcall that cathartic, but to me, that’s private. That’s not for public consumption.”

Why was I telling him all this? But he had just told me his darkest secrets, so I might as well admit mine.

He didn’t look the least bit fazed, however.

“Of course. Makes perfect sense. The part about your dad, though, you did mention in one interview. I believe it was last year. Your father had just broken his arm slipping on some ice.” At my shocked expression, he added, “I only remember because I was on a flight and I happened to pick up a magazine and—”

“Sure.” I was mortified. “Yes. I remember. It was right after it happened. The journalist called while I was in the hospital waiting room.”