Page 77 of Without a Clue

After we’re seated and some water is brought, I pull out my phone.

I’m anxious being alone with him here. Nash and I have always been friends, but never before would I have agreed to go so far (and he never asked) as having a meal alone together, whatever the pretext. Here? I have no excuse. No clear borders. But here we are.

I don’t quite know how to proceed when we don’t have The Seven hanging around as foils.

“So. I guess we ought to do the interview then.”

“Guess so.”

I pull out the Notes app on my phone. At this point, it’s a crutch, a baby blanket, but I need it. I need something else to look at every once in a while. Something to shift my attention to when this conversation feels too intense. I clear my throat. “As I was saying, where were you the night Hugh was murdered?”

“With you.”

I frown.

“Watching the meteor shower,” he continues.

“Wow. That was only a few days ago. Feels like a lifetime. After you dropped me off, though, did you notice anything unusual?”

“No, I just went to bed.”

“And what was your relationship with Hugh? How long have you known each other?”

“Four years. Hugh is . . . interesting. I appreciated my time with the man and the network he built up.”

I raise a brow. “But you weren’t close.”

“Not like the others, no.”

“Why is that, you think?”

Nash shrugs. “Some people are just not your type. Hugh was not my type.”

“He’s not Jackie’s type either, and yet they formed a close”—although, I note mentally, quite complicated and possibly backstabbing—“bond.”

“Everyone else had four decades with the man. I think that length of time with anyone will make you love them or hate them. And he provided something they all wanted, which wasn’t the case with me.”

“Which was?”

“Fame.”

I raise a brow. “And you’re telling me”—I lift up my phone—“on this very serious and official record, that wasn’t the case for you? You don’t want the fame?”

“No.”

“The sales?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Nash shrugs. “Everybody tries to hate on being in the middle of the list, but it has its perks. Success without notoriety. Success without the pressure.”

“Really?” I’ve never heard it put that way.

“Four years ago, I had my tenth book out. My sales were fine, nothing that left the publisher bragging, but not so low that I had to fear being cut loose. They weren’t thrilled with me. There wasn’t energy around my books like there was with Hugh’s. No adrenaline. But they were . . . content enough. And that sums up how I felt too. I had a rhythm; I kept to a pace. I got a contract and I began writing. I finished that book, got another contract, and kept writing. For a less-than-peaceful type of work, it was about as peaceful as it came.”

I set the phone down. “You know, I don’t think any author I’ve ever met has held the same view. It’s always more, more, more. The publisher wants more. The author wants more. That must feel kind of . . . freeing. Relaxing, not having to put that kind of stress on yourself.”