Page 236 of Darling Venom
Terry had insisted it stay, which led to a terse debate with Helen. I took Terry’s side, but only because it was also Kellan’s side. My gut led me there. And a heavy dose of logic.
As an economic writer, he wouldn’t have added the line without a reason. We couldn’t brush the fact aside just because he wasn’t around to make his case.
“No. It’s staying.”
“I know.” I scrolled to the passage in question. A streak of red highlighted the entire paragraph, courtesy of Track Changes. “Helen will need an answer she can stomach to justify the break in narrative consistency.”
“How about—I’m Kellan’s father, and I don’t want his words cut?”
“She’s not as sentimental as we are.”
“Are you? Sentimental?”
“Unfortunately.”
Terry snorted.
I reread the passage. “We still need a reason to offer to Helen.”
And this was where it went to shit. Where I broke my Do-Not-Bring-Up-the-Plagiarism rule. Which existed for everyone’s sake, including my own plausible deniability as Kellan’s agent.
“You’re a broken record, Miss Richards.”
“You can do better than cliché analogies, Mr. Marchetti.”
He flipped a page, not once looking at me. “Apparently not, according to David Arnault of the Literary Plague.”
“One—that is well-known to be the only negative critic review The Imperfections received. Two—there’s a reason it’s called The Literary Plague; they’re notoriously incapable of human emotions over there. Reagan blacklists them from advance review copies for half her authors. And three—technically, you didn’t even wri—” I couldn’t see them, but I knew my cheeks were turning a shade of red that would make Clifford jealous.
“I didn’t even write it.” Finally, he gifted me the full force of his attention. “That what you wanted to say?”
Unlike me, he didn’t turn a shade of red more suitable for a stop sign. But, for the first time, I detected something lurking beneath his surface. Not regret. That had always been there. Maybe…
I reared back, a little shocked at what I picked up.
Terry seemed less regretful.
It was such a roadblock in the progress I thought we’d made that I found it difficult to say anything to him
in the hours that followed, choosing to drop the subject forever. We worked at opposite corners of the island, hovered over two different halves of the manuscript—his printed, mine electronic.
I didn’t expect Terry to make negative progress on our last day working together, but the Marchetti family was nothing if not unpredictable. With only a few pages left, I found my mind drifting, teeth gnawing on the end of a cheap pen as I mulled over his reaction.
Terry frowned, tapping a section of the book with the back of his pen. “Did you forget to make the edits on this paragraph?”
I glanced at the passage, upside down, not really having to look to know which he was referring to.
It had to be the one on Tate.
What else could it be?
“I declined your edits on the paragraph.”
The highlighted lines blurred before my eyes came into focus.
The word hate glared back at me.
“Care to elaborate?”
