Before the murders, work was going well. My last novel, In the Dying Light, remained on the Times’ Best Seller list for 248 weeks. Everything you see on screen, from our seaside mansion filled with framed copies of my book covers, to our antique letter opener collection, I owe to my readers. I’m also devoted to my three suspicious children and grizzled husband with a substance abuse issue. His name is Keith, and he’s very unemployed. It hasn’t been easy getting here, but I’m proud to have built this life, page by gripping page.
Then the bodies started washing ashore. First was my son’s fiancée, who also turned out to be Keith’s mistress. Next came our maid’s uncle, known in the credits as Mobster #2—he seemed so dear but evidently got tangled up with the wrong crowd. Now, a network of scandals threatens to tear apart our bucolic town. Worst of all? I’m on deadline to deliver a manuscript that is, at the moment, a total mess. I haven’t strung together a decent sentence in eight episodes. Mitzi Dixon, my hotshot agent, is barking up my ass, and Hulu has just ordered another two seasons.
In an attempt to backstab Keith, I began an affair with my son’s former father-in-law-to-be, who might be the next victim, or perpetrator. Things are complicated, hence my need for solitude.
I don’t care who gets killed next; I need to carve out some time and space to write. I should apply to Yaddo or Byrdcliffe—a makeshift witness protection program where I can wear clogs and find my voice again. But I’m a flight risk. When I tried writing at night, police assumed I was staging a coverup. After telling them about my dedicated BookTok fanbase and desire to hear my plot’s internal resonances, they looked at me like I was insane.
Since I write thrillers, one would think these murders would be valuable research. Not so. Death on this film set is different than on the page. As Crime Scene Tech #3 bled out on the shore, I was struck by how eternal rest exists in the same liminal space as birth. We attempt to contain grief to a series of steps, yet it resists tidy narratives. But Mitzi says that kind of writing bombs on Goodreads.
Perhaps as a form of procrastination, I stumbled into another affair with my stepdaughter’s husband, the only person who cares if I’m hitting my daily word count.
Oh foo, Mitzi’s calling. She wants to do one of her walk-and-talk scenes. Comic relief for the viewer, a nightmare for me. Mitzi will opine about suspects, then slip into how my edits are coming. I could strangle Mitz, but then I’d have to start querying again—a fate worse than death.
Setting the phone down, I lurch into my office. Milky slabs of moonlight slash in through the windows. Keith, fingering our most expensive letter opener, swivels in my chair. “Killed any darlings today?” he asks. They switched showrunners, and this season’s dialogue has gone downhill. Keith turns to our commanding view of the sea. He slips the blunt silver knife into an envelope from Putnam, tears it open, sniffs the royalty check inside.
I raise a paperweight to his salt-and-pepper head and bring it down with a ding. Ah, it’s the Pomodoro timer I don’t use anymore.
Keith snarls. I grab his jowly face, noticing my hands are mottled with blood. No, ink. Impossible, I don’t write with a pen; I dictate everything to Assistant #4. What is this, barbeque sauce? Keith’s been grilling. How delicious.
We kiss. I push aside a double-spaced manuscript with one-inch margins in crisp twelve-point Garamond. As we make love on the pages, I wonder if they’re my words, if I’ve been in a delirium, writing all this time. Mitzi will be pleased. Then I realize it’s filled with lorem ipsum, a prop on the set of our lives.
End credits.