Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

cried. “And what about that boy from Tessa’s village? The one she grew up with? I thought she’d end up with him. She thinks about him all the time when she’s homesick.”
    Harris sighed in frustration. “None of that matters if both races are in danger.” He turned to Millay. “Tessa can’t let the injustices to her people go unpunished. As a reader, I feel like I know her by now and I don’t think she can move past what happened to her family. It ticks me off to think some hot prince could make her forget what defines her.”
    Rawlings nodded. “I see what you’re saying, Harris, and I don’t believe Millay’s going allow Tessa to move ahead without obstacles. Change is difficult. However, this is a young adult novel and there’s something in me that wants to see peace between these clans. Isn’t that what we’ve struggled to achieve in our own world? Isn’t that our hope?”
    “But that hasn’t happened for us either,” Harris argued. “What about the racial slurs on the Locklears’ cars? And the way people treat Millay? The hate and the bullying didn’t end for her in high school. Not everyone in Oyster Bay thinks she belongs in our town, and she’s put all that anger in here, into this book. Tessa’s choices have to mesh with what Millay feels or it’s going to be so transparent to the reader.”
    Laurel patted Harris on the leg. “But this is fiction, Harris. Millay can create whatever outcome she wants.”
    “It’s done, actually,” Millay said before anyone else could speak. “The whole book is done.” She glanced at Rawlings. “I want to believe it’s possible to leave the things that haunt us behind. I’m sick of thinking about that crap. I want to be over it, but after being near Talley—after what they did to her—I know I’m not over it. I’m as pissed as I ever was. Maybe more. And I can’t believe in peace for Tessa or anyone else unless we make what happened to the Locklears right.”
    The Bayside Book Writers fell silent, nodding in mutual agreement. On Monday, they’d all return to their regular schedules. They’d go to work, run errands, and try to act normal. The powwow would be over with nothing left to show that a young man had lost his life, nothing to mark the moment when his sister nearly died too.
    “Let’s call it a night,” Olivia suggested. “We need to come at this fresh and clear-headed tomorrow.”
    “We’re running out of time, aren’t we?” Laurel said, speaking to no one in particular.
    Harris sighed in exasperation. “There’s that word again. Time, time, time. The killer’s used time to their advantage, but it’s totally working against us. And we have to use that word now. Killer.”
    “We still have a trump card,” Rawlings said before Harris could get too worked up. “Talley’s alive. The killer’s plans for her failed.”
    “And we won’t give the bastard a second chance.” Millay raised her bottle in a toast. “To Talley. A fighter. A survivor.”
    They all looked at Millay, who’d risen to her feet and, for a moment, had transformed into the warrior maiden from her novel. Fierce, beautiful, and brave.
    “To Talley!” The friends clinked bottles, cleaned up after their meals, and disappeared into the night.
    Alone with Rawlings, Olivia relocated to the couch and patted the cushion next to her. The chief got up from his club chair with an exaggerated groan and joined her. They pressed against each other, drawing strength from each other. Rawlings’ arms wrapped around Olivia’s waist and their fingers intertwined. They sat like that for an hour, listening to the surf and watching stars bloom in a field of indigo through the cottage’s windows. And then Rawlings lifted Olivia’s palm to his lips and kissed it softly.
    “I have to go,” he whispered, explaining that he couldn’t sleep without reviewing his notes another time and that he needed to be at his own place if he wanted to focus on his work.
    Olivia knew he’d read every fact, random note, and wild theory over and over again—that he’d finally nod off sitting up in his bed, the lamp on the nightstand burning, papers scattered across the blue comforter. She thought of how his glasses would slip down his nose as his head sank against his chest and he’d begin to snore, his hands refusing to let go of the pen, which he’d been using to circle names or dates.
    She pictured all of this and loved Sawyer Rawlings for it. And yet, she didn’t