Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Everyone reacted differently to these four words. Lisa’s hand went to her mouth. I could see her jaw quivering, eyes wet. She would have had approval over the cover design, but she clearly hadn’t seen the final version and was duly overwhelmed. Royce’s hands curled into fists and clawed up his knees. His mouth was set in such a thin line he’d probably cracked a tooth. Wolfgang hadn’t even bothered to turn around. Majors had her eyes set on Lisa, an expression in them I couldn’t figure out. It wasn’t quite jealousy but lacked the warmth of Happy for you.

McTavish was the easiest of all to read: he had a well-fed belly-slapping smugness to him.

Of course he did. Of the four words, two of them were his.

“A firecracker.” Henry McTavish

An endorsement from the man who never blurbed. And from where it sat on the cover, unmissable in size and brightness, it would definitely sell books. Lisa’s cheeks bunched like she was about to cry, and clearly afraid of doing so in front of everyone, she stood up and hurried back toward the train.

People in the crowd followed her cue and started to stand and break off. Wyatt stood up and came over to McTavish, wrapping one hand around McTavish’s good shoulder. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw McTavish laugh in response to something Wyatt said. I headed quickly for the train, as I’d seen Simone start to rise. I did want to talk to her, but I didn’t have the energy just then to be properly mad at her and wanted to do it right.

I hurried back into the bar, where I ordered a Stella, served in a tall bulbous glass with the foam sliced off the top with a knife, and sat by the window, taking a miniature booth all to myself, waiting for the plume of dust to signal the returning buses. I was looking forward to complaining to Juliette—all-inclusive drink in hand, plush seat beneath me, as our first-class train continued on its world-famous journey—about how hard done by I was.

My position turned out to be fortuitous, because otherwise I might not have seen Alan Royce, dawdling behind the other guests, guiltily looking around until he was sure he was alone. I swear he looked right at me, but the glare of the sun on the window must have made me invisible.

Which meant he didn’t know I saw him glance around one last time, and then punch a fist straight through Lisa Fulton’s cover.

Chapter 8

The first beer didn’t touch the sides, but the buzz of alcohol helped my hands stop shaking. Writers are, universally, far more polite than what I’d just experienced. But there was something about this festival in particular that had us all at each other’s throats. Was it the isolation, the locked-off feeling of the train—no live-streaming, no journalists—implying we were on our own and therefore our actions might not follow us back to the real world in some kind of bizarre Lord of the Flies satire? Or was it simpler: S. F. Majors had clearly selected a combustible cocktail of writers. They all had their links, their grievances and their arguments, which, adding ego and cooking under the desert sun, baked into nothing less than a resentful quiche. Except for me. This was my first time meeting every one of these writers. So why was I here?

I told myself I was overthinking it and got up to get a refill, but when I came back the husband-and-wife team, Jasper and Harriet, had commandeered my table by the window. I looked around. The bar was filling up. The boisterous flock of older women had a spare seat at their table but I didn’t think I could handle them. McTavish had a stool at the bar, elbows keeping him upright, where he could mainline fluids, and though there were spare stools beside him, I didn’t think that was a much better option. No one else I knew was in the carriage, as many had retreated to their rooms. I must have hovered long enough that Jasper noticed.

“Sorry, mate. Did we pinch your spot?” He slid over, and I sat down. “Jasper Murdoch, good to meet you.”

His blackberry-dark hair contrasted with the Gatsby-lantern green of his eyes. He was wearing a T-shirt belted into a pair of jeans. I shook his hand, which bore the hardened fingertip calluses of a tradesman, and turned to his wife. “And Harriet, right?” This caught her off guard; she brushed a tendril of hair behind an ear. “I heard you talking during the panel. I’m not a stalker or anything. Ernest.”

“The adverb guy,” Harriet said. It was a warm insult, an alliance in thinking Wolfgang had been a bit harsh.

“That was all quite lively, wasn’t it?” Jasper said.

“That’s one word for it.” I sipped my beer, looking out the window at a staff member picking up the collapsed easel from the dirt, scratching their head at the lack of wind to knock it over. “I don’t think I realized what I was getting myself into.” I laughed. “But you’re the guests. Money’s worth for you, at least?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Jasper said. Harriet nodded.