Page 62 of Without a Clue

Even her annoyed sighs are crisp and efficient. “In my bed like everyone else.”

“How long have you known Hugh?”

“You know that answer too.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Forty years.”

“And how long have you been working with Hugh?”

“You know.”

I grit my teeth. “Pretend I don’t.”

Jackie sighs in exasperation. “Forty years.”

“And would you say your relationship with Hugh has been . . .” I hesitate. Shoot. I’ve boxed myself in with a yes-or-no question. Rookie mistake. “A . . . good one?”

“Obviously.”

“You . . .” Shoot. I’ve done it again. “Like him?”

“Obviously.”

“How would you describe, in one word, your relationship with Hugh over the years?”

The little crease between her eyes deepens, and she purses her lips while she thinks. “Trying,” she says at last.

Both ways, I’m sure.

I type it down while saying, “Why stay a part of The Seven then? Why not leave?”

“For obvious reasons.”

I look up. “Jackie, anytime you find yourself wanting to say the word obviously, let’s just go ahead and use that moment for you to explain precisely what is obvious, alright? Let’s just assume that nothing is obvious to me.”

She drops her head back, as though I have just asked her to do something incredibly demanding.

“When Hugh found himself on that elevator with myself and the others, I was a twenty-six-year-old woman with two meager books behind me. I went to that writing event to meet my agent. To my chagrin, over lunch, that agent let me go. I wasn’t worth the invested time.”

Jackie rubs her nose.

“I got on that elevator with every intention of leaving writing—my dream—behind. And when it halted halfway down, there I found myself, trapped with six other authors. Packed like sardines. But”—she shrugs—“turns out I was packed with none other than Gordon Pesque and Hugh Griffin, and that wasn’t a bad place to be. Far less so six hours later when Hugh hatched his grand plan. I went into an elevator at the worst moment of my life and emerged at its peak.”

Well. It’s both sweet and sad to announce the happiest day of your life was forty years ago.

“What about Neena, Ricky, and the other two—”

“Patricia and Mark—”

“—who’ve retired now? Were they successful too?”

“Everyone except me on that elevator could have stood under the definition of successful. But even Neena’s sixty thousand copies sold on a book is a far cry from two million. Gordon and Hugh were the lions of the group.”

Fascinating. I knew Hugh was always right up there with having his face on a cereal box, but not Gordon.

“And why do you think he wanted you to join The Magnificent Seven?” I say. “If it wasn’t for the sales.”