The Murder Games

CHAPTER 1

In the lobby of The Grand Theater, I consider what I'm about to do as I wait for Cara to return from the restroom. My pulse races and my stomach churns. Beneath my hair, sweat trickles down the nape of my neck. My wool coat and scarf trap body heat, and with all these people pressing around, it makes it hard to breathe. Not to mention the perfume of the woman next to me. Smells like Chanel No. 5, as if a floral garden exploded with scents of rose, jasmine, and vanilla. Pierces right between my eyes and blurs my vision.

I take a deep breath, bringing my surroundings into focus. The red rope and the gold stanchions channel everyone through the double entrance into the enormous lobby. This is the moment I've been waiting for since I started writing as a teenager. Trouble is, the competing forces amplify my social anxiety—and my allergic reactions. Back then, I had suffered loss and needed a way to cope. So, why not pick up a pen and let it all out?

That's when Cara's friendship became the one thing I could count on through high school, college, and getting my business started. Still, I can't believe she talked me into coming to New York. The Mystery-Thriller Conference is the pinnacle of all events to meet literary agents and pitch stories. But my nerves and pessimism create boundaries I'm not eager to test.

Cara appears beside me and elbows my ribs. "You can't give up, Remi. Get a grip. One day, you'll get your book published. Your stories are phenomenal, and besides, it makes a great backstory for your bookstore customers."

That, I can't deny. "I've always been a sucker for a good backstory."

"You might have an agent when this is all over."

I offer a weak smile, tainted with a wince, and nod to the side of the room. It's early. Maxine Smithers, the premier literary agent in the book world as far as I'm concerned, won't be up to talk for another hour, so I have time to make a few pitches. Once we're away from the perfume in more of an open space, the fresh air soothes my nerves and the stab between my eyes. The headache and the jitteriness aren't altogether gone, but it fades into the background chatter as the other hopeful writers set their sights on the mingling agents.

After I remove my scarf and coat, I hand them to Cara, clinging only to my purse.

I can't help but believe my mom would be proud of me for taking such a brave step. Putting myself out there. Trying, at least. Even if it took my best friend to push me out of my comfort zone.

"Let's start with number ten on your wish list," Cara says.

"That would be Sandra Jackson."

"You've done your research. She worked for Maxine Smithers but decided to venture out on her own."

"A startup agency for a confidence builder. Might be a smart move."

"It is." Cara nudges me toward the literary agent and off I go.

Jackson's lips curl up as I stop in front of her. Her dark hair frames her full cheeks, cut short and flaring out at her jawline. A white scooped-neck blouse and a red skirt add to her air of acceptance, which calms my anxiety under her warm gaze.

For a change I'm so confident I fail to introduce myself, launching right into my pitch. "Bree Blackstone is an amateur sleuth who gets invited to an Island Resort in the South Pacific. It's a murder mystery." My face flushes with heat and I glance down, then up again. My mouth parts as I wait for her response. The second part of my pitch feels forced, making me hold my breath for a few seconds. By the time I find it, she replies.

"I love a good murder mystery. But I prefer the author's name as an icebreaker to start."

My eyes widen. "Oh, I'm Bree, I mean I'm Remi Penwright. Bree is my main character."