TRAILER

https://youtu.be/4qU3agseE1Y

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EPIGRAPH

"How fragile we are, between the few good moments."

Jane Hirshfield

"We make each other alive. Does it matter if it hurts?"

Ingmar Bergman

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SYNOPSIS

           Rowan Underwood wasn't looking for his big break. In fact, all he wanted was peace and quiet and money on his bank account—that's why he says he accepted this damn job as a ghostwriter for the chancellor of a too prestigious university. That and how he must have been out of his mind when he dragged himself all the way over to Canada.

          The job pays well, though, so he really couldn't care less about missing nights of sleep to work on a book no one will know he wrote—all he really cares about, at the end of the day, are the dollar bills weighing down inside his wallet and how his book appears to mirror events that have haunted the town for several years (they say it's on purpose. Rowan is not too certain of that).

          That and how some things he writes end up becoming reality—weeks, even days after he writes them.

          If there's anything Rowan is hoping for, it's to not have anything to do with the body that washes up on the beach—even though other people seem to think he does, even his own handwritten notes.

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DEDICATION

         To Simone, for obvious reasons. Thanks for always believing in me.

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CONTENTS

this book and 'project oxygen' are linked and share characters, frequently referencing each other, but can be read as standalones

references to twin peaks. you don't HAVE to watch the show, but there will be spoilers

canadians

coffee addicts

character deaths

an unreliable, pretentious and sometimes dislikable narrator

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COPYRIGHT & DISCLAIMER

          DISCLAIMER: my characters' opinions don't necessarily reflect mine.

          This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, corporations, establishments and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

          COPYRIGHT © 2017 CATERINA GEORGE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

          No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author. Feel free to quote it, but give me the proper credit.

STORY AESTHETICS

FRANK DILLANE as ROWAN UNDERWOOD

CAMILA MENDES as ISLA GUERREIRO

DUDLEY O'SHAUGHNESSY as CHASE FOWLER

LOGAN BROWNING as JOANNA POTTER

JOSEFINE FRIDA PETTERSEN as MUSE

ROSS BUTLER as MICAH O'NEILL

MARGARET QUALLEY as NATALIA WINTERS

MARGOT ROBBIE as JASPER ST. CLAIRE

CHAPTER ONE

GHOSTWRITER

( — a person who writes one or numerous speeches, books, articles, etc., for another person who is named as or presumed to be the author. )

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          "I THINK THIS IS A GREAT OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU."

          Rowan, making sure to get out of the pool as slowly as possible—mostly because the gusts of wind return exactly when he steps out of the water and it makes his hair look good—narrows his eyes, despite knowing his father can't see them behind his sunglasses. They call it a nervous habit. Rowan calls it being in control of his own damn life, thank you very much.

          No, seriously, just look at this damn house: he bought it for his parents with his own money He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, no matter how poor they might turn out to be at times, and he doesn't need other people to try to live his life for him.

          "Writers don't usually earn that much just by writing," they say.

          "That's because they're not writing the right thing," Rowan points out, winning the debate, and allows himself to dive back into the pool because it's ninety-five degrees outside—in New Hampshire.

          "Rowan," Timothy Underwood insists, for what feels like the millionth time, and Rowan falls to a recliner, not being a particular fan of hearing despair cloud his own father's voice. It's not what he was raised to be, just like Justine Underwood makes sure to constantly remind him, and it's unnerving to see and hear their frequent hypocrisy. "Come on. It's not like we're suggesting you do something you've never done before."

          "Has anyone ever told you you're sort of pretentious, Rowan?" Justine questions, stepping into the back garden and carrying a tray with three tall glasses of pink lemonade. Her sunglasses hang on the crown of her head and her hair, having been bleached more times than Rowan can count on two hands, glows platinum under the sunrays. "Frankly, honey, I don't know who you get that from."

          "Oh?" Rowan blabbers, slumped on the recliner as if it was a divan, a la Oscar Wilde, and props himself up on an elbow, ignoring the sudden jolts of pain shooting up his arm. "I wouldn't call myself pretentious. I'm a man of expensive tastes."

          Timothy rolls his eyes, with a thin layer of sweat covering the dark skin of his chest. "No, you are pretentious. Ever since you started writing for other people"—Rowan's lips involuntarily twist into a smug smile as he takes one of the glasses of lemonade and stirs the beverage with a straw—"you've become . . . I don't know. It feels like you think you're entitled to every good thing that can possibly happen without ever making an effort."

          Rowan places a hand on his chest, right above his heart (or whatever's inside your ribcage, Jasper used to say, back in the day, because I'm beginning to think all there is in there is a black hole). "You say that like it's a bad thing. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it has had mostly good consequences for the three of us so far, has it not? Look at this house. Look at our bank accounts."

          Timothy raises a finger. "You're twenty-five and you only put effort—real effort—into something when it only brings good consequences for you." Another finger. "You don't take risks ever"—he raises a third finger—"and, when you do, we find you giving up on what you had started hours later."

          "Your point is?"

          "Our point is," Justine intervenes, "you have plenty of growing up to do. We expected you to mature a little bit after the break-up"—Rowan's jaw is clenched so tightly he's seconds away from hearing the bones crack—"but all you've done is spend money on things you don't need, like that new Jeep of yours, and the Twin Peaks merchandise. Seriously, honey, why do you care so much about a show that aired before you were born?"

          "Season three aired last year." Rowan stands up, putting his t-shirt back on, and places his hands on his hips. The dry air outside has done wonders in such a short amount of time and he knows he shouldn't be happy about it, as it's almost October and there's not a single rain cloud in sight. Both his parents look up at him. "Besides, who cares where I spend my money? I earned it fair and square."

          "Just send your damn application, Rowan," Timothy dryly orders and Rowan huffs, making his way back inside the house with his chin held high, like a child who was denied some candy. He makes sure to stomp his feet, though it doesn't quite have the dramatic effect he thought it would, as he's wearing flip-flops, and it only manages to piss off his parents even more. "And quit acting like a spoiled brat!"

          "I have pretty darn good reasons to be spoiled," Rowan yells, taking the first step on the staircase and disappearing upstairs. He even slams the door leading to his room because he clearly hadn't messed things up enough by storming out of the back garden.

          His laptop lies open over his bed to taunt him, as he had stupidly been checking adverts of people requesting a ghostwriter's services. He feels pathetic when he does it, remembering how people insist he should try to write his own stuff instead of doing it for other people and only publishing seemingly mediocre articles for seemingly mediocre local newspapers every now and then, but it's not that simple. It never is.

          They forget about how hard it is to get a contract nowadays. If you're a celebrity, writing a book is so much easier because they're expecting you to do it at some point, but it's considerably more difficult to do when you're a regular person from New Hampshire who's not critically acclaimed. There's plenty of competition and Rowan knows he has what it takes to make it into the publishing world if anyone ever gives him a proper chance—and if he decided to show off his best writing samples to publishers looking for young blood instead of putting all his energy into ghostwriting, but that's a story for another time—but, realistically, the odds of that ever happening are low.

          Rowan wouldn't even consider himself to be particularly realistic, let's be honest, but there comes a time in your life when someone knocks you off your pedestal and reminds you you might not be as good as you thought you were. Jasper was the one who did it to him, thinking it would be helpful—in her own twisted way of being helpful, that is, but Jasper has never been much of a team player; then again, neither has Rowan—but he knows it was simply her way of eliminating the competition.

          That might explain why she got the damn contract two years ago and published a best-seller under her own name, while he's stuck begging people to let him write for them while keeping all the credit for themselves.

          "You can't tell me it doesn't look fancy to have Jasper St. Claire plastered on the cover," she told him, stroking a hardcover copy of her debut novel as if it was a lap dog. "I'm looking forward to seeing you do the same someday."

          It's ridiculous.

          "I think this is a great opportunity for you," Rowan mocks, in a mutter, even though he's alone in the bedroom. He then double-clicks on the space bar to make the screen light up.

          He knows exactly what his father was talking about and why he so desperately wants him to send an application. There's a particular advert, one that looks awfully formal—and borderline pretentious, hence why Rowan's parents thought it would be an eye-catcher—with its serif fonts and black and burgundy text, belonging to some rich dude from Canada who's looking for a ghostwriter to write about the mysteries of their port town.

          Rowan doesn't particularly care. The man can't write it because he's the Dean of some university and is super-duper busy, but so is Rowan, as his brand new Jeep won't drive and show itself off on the streets by itself. It's not like he's in need of any money and he certainly doesn't want to go through the absolute hassle that is traveling all the way to Canada just for an interview—submitting the application is the easy part of it all—knowing exactly how it will end.

          When it comes to rich, busy men, they have a type. They want young writers, which Rowan is, but, for some absurdly racist reason, they mostly want white young writers, which Rowan is not—only half of him is, with his father being Afro-Jamaican. They want writers who care about what they do, which Rowan does, but who also won't give up when faced with a minor inconvenience, which Rowan doesn't do.

          The first order of business is to Google the man. A quick search lets Rowan know Gabriel Guerreiro is Brazilian, which does nothing to help him decide whether he's in this or not, but it also tells him he's the chancellor of Crowcrest University, which nearly makes him close the tab. It's been all over the news, thanks to the prestige of their research and some Social Psychology experiment they announced a few days ago; it's called Project Oxygen, though Rowan doesn't know and doesn't care why they called it that. It's also the type of place Rowan doesn't wish to associate himself with.

          His damn luck, let him tell you.

          Nevertheless, the man isn't the type of person Rowan is used to writing for, always showing up with bright grins on every photo there seems to be of him, including the ones with his wife and daughter, and there are recommendations from other ghostwriters, ones Rowan knows in person—including Eric Young, Rowan's friend from college, who was the only other biracial kid in his dorm floor—which weighs heavily on the scale.

          Sighing through gritted teeth, Rowan decides to email the man, sincerely hoping he won't regret it.

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          "I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU," Rowan announces, three days later, at the dinner table, unable to not miss the peace and quiet of his apartment. Spending the summer with his parents has been fun, generally speaking, but there are always too many people in this house—his parents' friends, the maids, the butler, the security guards—and he misses having his personal space, since not even his bedroom here is off limits from his cousins.

          There's mashed potatoes running down his t-shirt, courtesy of his cousin Brett, who's sitting in front of him and snickering at it, and Rowan tries to not think about the gravy staining his jeans.

          Looking around the table, Rowan's smile drops, realizing no one looks the slightest bit interested in what has to say, and it makes his blood boil in his veins, especially after his parents were the ones who pushed him to do this in the first place. It's how it has always been with the Underwoods, though, so it should be no surprise; they either care too much or not at all, even when they end up contradicting themselves.

          Rowan clears his throat. "I said—"

          "Just spill it out already," Timothy retorts, refilling his glass with red wine. "If it really was a big deal, I doubt you'd be able to hold it in for so long."

          "The rich guy looking for a ghostwriter emailed me back," Rowan clarifies, trying to keep his voice steady enough to make them think they're not getting to his head. All he needs is some damn validation coming from his parents, and they can't give him that, not even after all he has done, both for himself and for them. Nevertheless, this makes them lift their heads and finally look at him. "He wants to meet up with me for an interview because he might be interested in working with me; I mean, I'll be working for him, but he can't exactly say it directly to my face without running the risk of having me sue him. You know, the usual rich men drama."

          "You're going to Nova Scotia?" Justine questions, and Rowan nods, still not particularly ecstatic over it. "How are you traveling? Plane?"

          "Ferry, through Maine," he corrects. "I have vertigo."

          "So you're spending extra money on a bus and a ferry when you could simply catch a plane?"

          Rowan exhales. "I have vertigo. I'd rather spend my money on extra travels than have a panic attack during a damn flight." Justine rolls her eyes and he curls his fingers tightly around his silver cutlery, not expecting a different reaction from her. "I thought this was what the two of you wanted, right? You wanted me to send my application to that guy, which I did. You wanted me to go through to the next round, which I did—and, let me tell you, there were dozens of applicants and now there's just me and two other people. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

          "We wanted you to finally be responsible," Timothy says, "and, if this is what it takes for you to grow up and get your work out there, then you have our full support. From both of us"—he shoots Justine a warning look and she forces herself to nod, but Rowan knows she'll never be a fan of his ghostwriting business—"so go pack your bags and prepare yourself for that interview because I refuse to hear you say you didn't get the job. And do something to your hair, for Christ's sake."

          Rowan knits his brows together. Despite knowing they have never been particularly enthusiastic to see him let his hair grow freely, it's not like it's that long. It's thin and only reaches his chin, making it so he can't even pull it back—and he has an unnerving tendency to lose bobby pins—but he supposes he can slick it back for that interview.

          Writers tend to be messy people as it is, but ghostwriters take it up a notch. They're the shadows of the writing world, doing the dirty job for other people and getting their hands bloody sometimes, so Rowan tries to blame it all on the career he chose. It's not like he went to college thinking this is what he'd be doing with his life—God knows how badly he wants to sign a damn contract that asks him to write for himself and not for someone else—but it has paid off, so he'll take it.

          "Thanks for having my back," Rowan eventually mutters, and, deep down, he knows he means it. Despite this being a dysfunctional family at times, it's still his family and it's home, even with the mashed potatoes and gravy sliding down his clothes to the wooden floor of the dining room.

          Timothy raises his glass. "Cheers, kid. You're gonna go far. I know you will."

CHAPTER TWO

MUSE

( — the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like. )

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          ROWAN MUST HAVE TRULY BEEN OUT OF HIS MIND.

          He knew sending his application was a terrible idea, much like he knew accepting to travel to Nova Scotia for an interview was even worse. Though traveling by land and by sea is certainly better than passing out on a plane thanks to his abominable vertigo, the bumps on the road and the bile rising up his throat certainly give it a ride for its money.

          Hell, someone even pukes on the bus as it travels from New Hampshire to Maine, where he'll have to take the ferry. Poor Rowan has a sensitive stomach, not to mention a solidary one, meaning he's highly prone to throwing up as soon as the strong smell of vomit reaches his nostrils. He gags as soon as he hears it spill all over the floor, truly wishing there was a way of opening the window on his right, grabbing his suitcase and throwing himself to the road instead of having to deal with such things, but he's pinned to his seat.

          The woman sitting behind him is joined by her son, who seems to be around four or five and has taken a particular liking to kicking Rowan's seat. Rowan himself feels on the verge of tears, desperately wanting to run back to his apartment and pretend the past week has never happened. If he turns back now, it would mean he'd be proving his parents' point—and, to an extent, Jasper's—when they said he always gives up on things.

          That's not entirely true. There are things he doesn't give up on, such as this ghostwriting business, but it's mostly because it pays well enough to sustain his . . . eccentric ways, as his parents like to put it. He knows he should enjoy what he does, especially considering how far he's willing to go for a job (and going to Nova Scotia certainly classifies as a drastic measure), but it's draining and, quite frankly, Rowan has realized it has also become sort of . . . monotone.

          There's nothing wrong with wanting to spice up his life a little bit, Rowan thinks. Though he'd rather not do it by nearly throwing up in a bus full of people who just want to either a) get to their destination, which happens to be the same as him or b) annoy the hell out of him during the entire trip. Either way, both things make him lean forward, resting his forehead against the seat in front of him, and close his hands into fists to control his gag reflex.

          The kid behind him laughs. Rowan whimpers, sincerely hoping he'll have enough self-control to prevent him from turning around to yell at the boy and counts down the seconds until it's over. He risks getting slapped by the kid's mother, who certainly won't allow anyone to piss off her preciously annoying son. Rowan partially wishes his mother had been more like that as he was growing up instead of letting others step over him to 'toughen him up'.

          He loses count around two hundred seconds because someone throws up again. Through a rare spark of luck, it's not him.

          Thus, when he stumbles out of the bus by the port, he can barely stand upright on his feet and everyone around him must be thinking he has had a little bit too much to drink as he stumbles towards the ferry and almost loses it in the process. He flashes his ticket just in time to not watch the boat leave without him and decides the first order of business shall be drowning himself in a bucket of coffee before he vomits.

          It's a terrible trip, let him tell you. It's one of the worst things he has ever forced himself to endure, and it's torturous, even, and he forces himself to refuse lunch when a crew member approaches him. Arms swung over the railway, Rowan stares down at the ocean water, letting the sea breeze blow back his hair (there's a bottle of hair-gel in his suitcase because he never goes anywhere unprepared), and, for a split moment, he feels able to handle anything Nova Scotia throws his way.

          That is, until the little boy snickers again and kicks his calf, nearly making him plummet down to the floor.

          "Asshole," Rowan mutters, massaging his muscle. "You little asshole."

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          ONCE HE HAS FINALLY SET FOOT ON DRY, SAFE LAND, ROWAN GIVES IN TO TEMPTATION. He has never been much of a fan of diners, as too greasy food makes his skin crawl and he doesn't want to think it will also begin to break out because, God, it would certainly flush his chances of getting the job down the toilet. Considering he hasn't eaten since breakfast and doesn't want his stomach to be rumbling all the way throughout the interview, he drags himself to the nearest one.

          It's quick, it's simple and it's cheap. Though money is clearly not an issue for any of the Underwoods, fortunately for them, Rowan finds himself to be a little scared of diners, especially small ones in strange, foggy cities. Hell, he saw how that worked out for the citizens of Twin Peaks, and he's definitely not letting these people turn him into some sort of Laura Palmer pre-season three. Plus, he wouldn't want to be caught dead in a place like this by Gabriel Guerreiro, who certainly wants nothing but the best and the most sophisticated ghostwriter he can find.

          Rowan doubts the two other ghostwriters he's competing against hang out in creepy diners. For all he knows, they might be older and a lot more experienced than him, choosing to spend the hours before their interview preparing themselves for it instead of waiting for a cheeseburger and fries and sipping a large mug of coffee.

          Fortunately for Rowan, he's doing neither of those things. He's still standing in line, waiting to be directed to a table, but the place, being as small as a matchbox, is packed and all the available waiters are available to people who aren't him. He's not the type of person to tap his foot against the tiled floor as he waits for someone to give him the time of day, knowing very well these people are just doing their job and he's no celebrity or deserving of any special treatment, but he still wishes they'd do it a little bit faster.

          When they finally quicken their pace, Rowan finally breathes of relief. There are still three hours to go before the scheduled time for his interview at Crowcrest University, but he wants to spend as much of that free time as possible practicing for it in front of a mirror in his hotel room to ensure he won't make a fool out of himself. Doing it in this diner sort of defeats the purpose of appearing sure of himself and well prepared, but, if that's what it will eventually come down to, Rowan will have to suck it up and deal with it.

          His waitress, a tiny little thing who has pulled her curls up into a tight ponytail, tells him there's only one booth available and it's because the person occupying it isn't really fulfilling the role of a customer. Rowan, with a grumbling stomach, briefly glances at her name tag—it reads Brooklyn—pinned to her light-pink and white uniform, and reluctantly nods. He'd take any booth if that meant he'd finally be allowed to eat something, even if there are some places where he'd draw the line.

          With a small sigh, she walks him to said booth, her sneakers squeaking across the floor, and Rowan feels the sweet scent of strawberry bubblegum emanating off her as her ponytail swings from side to side.

          The person sitting there doesn't raise their head when he approaches the booth, but Rowan recognizes them instantly from the photos he saw online earlier this week. With black hair twisted into a messy bun, a pencil stuck between the locks, and textbooks scattered around the table and keeping a safe distance from a steaming mug of black tea, Isla Guerreiro is the spitting image of her father . . . with more feminine features, that is.

          She continues to ignore him even when he sits down and orders his lunch, but she still pulls her stuff closer to her to give him more space at the table without him even opening his mouth to ask her to do it. Her glasses slide down the delicate curve of her nose bridge and she often pushes it up with her index finger, though Rowan wishes he weren't staring. Better yet, he wishes she'd stop moving in the corner of his eye and, consequently, catch his attention.

          Before his food ever gets a chance to arrive—his glass of ice-cold Diet Coke takes a lot less to do it, thankfully—Isla fills two pages of her notebook as she tries to solve a Math exercise. Though he did his research on her father, he stayed away from her and her mother, as they have nothing to do with the reason why he's here . . . or so he hopes. There are only so many rich people Rowan can deal with at a time and that's including him. He still tries to keep his eyes away from her, knowing how creepy it can be to have someone constantly staring at you.

          She looks too old to still be in high school, despite her round features and doe-like eyes, and Rowan vaguely remembers reading in an article about Gabriel she's also a student at Crowcrest, which comes as no surprise. Only the best of the best are admitted to that university and this is the chancellor's daughter, which must have weighed a considerable amount as her application was being discussed.

          Rowan eats his burger and onion rings in silence—and quickly realizes ordering onions wasn't the best idea he could have had, meaning he'll have to brush his teeth extra hard and drown in cologne before the interview—with Isla blabbering on the phone about someone called Rhiannon. Even though he had been hoping their eyes would never meet, that happens when she finally hangs up the call.

          Her eyes, so dark Rowan can barely distinguish the pupils from the irises from where he's sitting, are blazing when they lock eyes with one another. It immediately makes him sit up straight, suddenly too aware of his hunched posture, and her shoulders stiffen as if he had done something wrong.

          Rowan fears he might have. He knows he's awful, pretentious, and spoiled, but, if there's one thing he refuses to be is the type of man who feels entitled to a woman in any way. He's not particularly interested in being around her for any reason she might think of and more, especially if he doesn't get the job and has to run into her again after being denied that coveted spot as her father's ghostwriter, but he thought he wasn't looking so . . . predatory.

          "What?" she asks, taking off her glasses. "Cat got your tongue?"

          "Not at all," Rowan replies, wiping his mouth with his napkin, and watches her clean the lenses with a tiny cloth. When she's done, the first order of business is to pull the pencil out of her bun, letting her hair fall into soft waves around her face. "I'm here for an interview and I'm sort of nervous."

          "Hmm." She purses her lips together, bringing the cup of tea to her lips and leaving a red stain on the white porcelain when she sets it back down. "Good for you. Though I'm not certain how that concerns me in the slightest."

          Rowan's mouth has been sewn shut. He knew nothing about her, but didn't expect her to be firing snarky comments, one after another, and, if this is the sparkling personality she has chosen to show the world, he's dreading what he'll find in her father's office. For all he knows, the man might be some sort of tyrant who's looking for someone to do his dirty work for him.

           Perhaps coming here was the worst idea he could have had—it even beats having ordered a burger and onion rings after such a hellish day, hours before the interview with said man. If he leaves now, that might make a difference between returning home alive to his parents and having his body be found days later, wrapped in plastic.

          "I know who killed Laura Palmer," Rowan finds himself stupidly muttering, when Brooklyn approaches their booth to take his plate, and both she and Isla knit their brows together.

          "As far as I know, she's not dead," Brooklyn states, balancing the plate and the cutlery on the round plastic tray she's carrying. "That's not a nice thing to say."

          Rowan's eyes widen, with his heart skipping a tiny beat. "Did you watch it?"

          "Watch what?"

          "Twin Peaks. On season three, Laura Palmer technically—"

          "Yeah, no, we don't do that here," Isla retorts, closing her notebook and textbooks before stuffing them inside her backpack, while Brooklyn's lips tremble with laughter as she walks down the aisle and returns to the kitchen. "Laura Palmer is our friend. She goes to the same university as us and she's clearly not dead, not when I was just talking to her on the phone." She stands up, throwing her backpack's strap over her shoulder, and the gelid breeze coming from outside enters the diner through the ajar window to Rowan's left. "It's not funny."

          "Hey, no, I wasn't—" Isla begins to walk away and Rowan stands up, stumbling over his own feet, as he sees what could be his last hope leaving this place. "Isla, please—"

          She stops in her tracks, briefly turning around, and her pink lips form an O. "How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?"

          Taking a deep breath, Rowan runs his hands through his hair, glad he had bothered to clean them beforehand. "I'm here for an interview with your father. And, as much as I hate doing this"—she narrows her eyes, with some people glancing at them—"I think I might need your help."

CHAPTER THREE

ORIENTATION

( — the ability to locate oneself in one's environment with reference to time, place, and people. )

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

          ROWAN REGRETS HAVING ASKED FOR ISLA'S HELP AS SOON AS HE DOES IT. Though she doesn't answer him, at least not right away, that period of silence gives him enough time to think about what he said—which he rarely does before opening his mouth—and it's the perfect opportunity for his own brain to remind him he shouldn't be asking for help. His opponents certainly haven't thought of asking their potential future boss' daughter for help with the interview because they know what they're doing—they know they can beat him.

          Isla places her hands on her hips, eyebrows furrowed, and Rowan steps back. Though he certainly wouldn't hit her, he's pretty sure he could easily overpower her if things ever reached the point of turning into a fist fight. She's considerably shorter than him, being around five foot two, and her backpack looks so heavy it would turn into a nuisance, only holding her back.

          Sweat runs down the nape of Rowan's neck and he clenches his jaw, as he wasn't counting on showering for the second time today, but he can't exactly waltz into the man's office drenched in body fluids. Anything that could possibly go wrong today has gone wrong, proving, once more, the veracity of Murphy's Law, and Rowan thought he was immune to it, always coming out on top . . . when he dedicated enough effort to do so, that is.

          Hell, he's the best out of every ghostwriter he knows; your level of success as a ghostwriter isn't measured by the number of books you write, but by how they're received. Granted, people might buy the books at first because they think they were written by someone they admire, or something along those lines, but what's written on those pages is what matters the most, at the end of the day, and that's what they'll be reviewing—not the name plastered on the cover.

          Rowan has proven his worth, time and time again, and it's not some random girl that's going to take that away from him by staring at him in disbelief as if he had said something completely otherworldly. He thought Canadians were supposed to be nice and eager to help, but maybe he has found himself on the wrong side of the country.

          Sighing, he grabs his jacket from the booth and puts it on in a swift gesture, patting his pockets to make sure his wallet and phone are still there. "Yeah, never mind. You won't be of much help if all you're going to do is stand there and stare at me in silence."

          "I don't like you," Isla simply says. Brooklyn, who's busy cleaning a table nearby, chuckles.

          "You don't know me."

          "I don't need to know you to know everything about you screams superiority complex." She steps forward, arms firmly crossed in front of her chest. Rowan can't help but wish this place was emptying so there wouldn't be these many witnesses watching him get humiliated by a tiny stranger . . . who just so happens to be related to the man who might give him a big break he's not that interested in. Truth be told, he's doing this mostly for his ego, which needs to be well-fed. "I don't know what you're doing here or how you know my name"—she keeps walking and Rowan can't do anything but walk backward, fearing she wouldn't stop even if he did—"but what my father does doesn't concern me in the slightest."

          "I'm not here to make friends," he retorts, being awfully close to one of the walls of the diner. "I'm here to be your father's ghostwriter."

          Isla stops, eyes widening, and her facial expression instantly softens. "You could have said that sooner." She laughs when he scowls. "That happens to be something I can help you with, if you're still interested."

          "In you?"

          She tilts her head to the side, clearly amused. "In my help." Rowan's scowl gives place to a grimace, which isn't that much better, let's be honest. He'd be lying if he said she isn't getting on his nerves—and she seems to be doing it on purpose, finding ways of pushing his buttons while knowing next to nothing about him. "If you're freaking out about the interview—"

          "I am not."

          "—you should know no one in my family likes to be interrupted. Ever." He shuts his mouth. "If you follow my directions, then I guarantee you'll get that job. Frankly, I hope you do. Papa met up with the two other ghostwriters earlier today and, God, the only way you won't get the job is if you decide to punch him in the face, or something." Isla throws him a bright grin and Rowan thinks maybe, just maybe, she isn't as much of a brat as she seemed earlier. "They went there with all their research done because they thought they'd impress him, but Papa is looking for new blood. He doesn't need to be reminded of all he's done and he certainly doesn't enjoy empty compliments."

          Rowan's lips twist into a forced smile as he tries to ignore all the pages of information he wrote down about Gabriel Guerreiro. "How can I be sure you're not playing me?"

          "Because"—she fixes her backpack's strap and starts walking towards the exit, with Rowan rushing to hand Brooklyn ten dollars on his way out so he won't get left behind—"I've had enough of hearing him blabber about how he can't find a goddamn ghostwriter to write that book for him. If it takes me and some American guy to get him to shut up, then so be it."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

          "I'M LIKE A CARRIE UNDERWOOD SONG," Rowan announces, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket's pocket, rolling down the window on the passenger's side of Isla's car. She throws him a quick glance from the corner of her eye before staring back at the road ahead of them. "Once I get inside your head, I'm never getting out."

          "Let me guess"—she reaches out a hand to turn up the heater, though it doesn't do much to warm up the inside of the car when there's an open window—"you're also incredibly annoying as well?"

          Rowan hates that he does it, but he finds himself laughing at that comment. She was kind enough to give him a ride from the diner to his hotel so he could check in, drop off his suitcase and get ready, but also reminded him he had to hurry up if he wanted a ride to Crowcrest. Public transportation is a lot more environmentally friendly than a car, but, after the day he has had and the hassles thrown at him, Rowan would much rather ride with her.

          It's a one-time occurrence, anyway. If he gets the job—and Isla seems awfully confident he will, but he fears it's only a matter of time before he screws everything up, as always—he fears he'll have to deal with her a lot more than he wishes he had to, but that's not even the worst part of it all. If he stays in Nova Scotia, in this little town they call Vofield, he'll inevitably run into her and try to ignore the smug looks she'll throw him, knowing she's the reason why he got the job in the first place. It's not a fun thought and Rowan refuses to let it bother him as much as it's determined to, but that grows harder to do with every minute he spends by Isla's side.

          He doesn't know why she follows him inside the hotel, patiently waiting by his side as he waits to receive the keys to his room. She hums along to the faint melody of the song playing in the lobby and, as Rowan stares at everything but her, the hairs on the nape of his neck rise at the sight of a long, empty hallway. The only things missing are the creepy twin girls and the flickering lights, which are strong enough reasons why he wants to get the hell out of this hellhole as quickly as possible.

          "You booked a single, correct?" the receptionist asks him, eyes darting between Rowan and Isla. "One bed."

          "The room is just for me," he dryly clarifies, yanking the keycard from her hand, "thank you very much."

          The receptionist sighs. "Aren't you a charming young man?"

          "Absolutely," Rowan agrees, making his way towards the elevator and dragging his suitcase behind him, the wheels sliding swiftly against the polished floors.

          Isla keeps a safe distance between the two of them, but refuses to be left behind, so walking on his right it is. Rowan sees it as a way of having her invade his privacy, as he came here to be left alone and not have her pester him, as her 'tips' can wait until after he showers, changes clothes, and does something to his hair, but she steps inside the elevator before he can press any buttons.

          "Why are you following me?" he asks.

          "Just trying to make sure you're the real deal," she nonchalantly explains. "You might be some sort of a creep, and I'm not going to force Papa to deal with that."

          "I'm not a creep." The silver doors of the elevator slide open after a bell rings and they step out, looking for room 325. "Besides, what would someone your size do? I'd overpower you in no time."

          "I know a guy."

          "Sure you do."

          "No, really, I do. He goes to Crowcrest and is pretty good with a baseball bat, so I wouldn't try anything, if I were you. Plus, you don't know what I keep in my glove compartment or inside my backpack and I'm almost certain you don't know how deadly a TI-Nspire calculator can possibly be." Rowan rolls his eyes, sliding his key card into the lock and pushing open the door with his foot. "Besides, how do you know I'm not the killer you think I could think you are?"

          "Killers don't tend to be annoyingly talkative. You've been wasting precious time with small talk when you could have killed me in the car or in the elevator."

          Isla throws herself to the only bed in the room, crossing her legs over the duvet. The room looks pretty plain, yet tidy, with the bed, a dresser, a bedside table, and a plasma screen being the only pieces of furniture. "I rest my case. You should hurry up, by the way. If you don't mind, I'll be checking out your TV."

          Rowan lets her check out the damn TV and do whatever the hell she wants because she's quiet when she's distracted . . . or so he thought. She raises her voice to let him hear her while he's in the shower and he feels like repeatedly slamming his head against the tiled walls of the bathroom. She tells him she talks a lot when she's nervous, which is something she shouldn't be admitting, but all Rowan wants is some peace and quiet.

          She gives him some hints as to how he should behave during the interview, but they're vague enough for him to not feel like he's owing her something if he gets the damn job. Look confident, but try to not sound like you're bragging. Talk about your strengths, but don't forget about your weaknesses because he'll try to exploit them to test you.

          She thinks he'll do just fine. As she drives them to Crowcrest, he can't say he's too certain of that, his doubts growing by the minute. There's a high chance she's playing him and he wouldn't be too surprised if she was, as her father might have already made a decision and he'll only be making a fool out of himself when he steps inside the doors of that goddamn office.

          Everything about Crowcrest University gives off an aura of superiority and, coming from someone like Rowan, that has to count for something. Fallen crusty leaves cover the gravel pathways, with a few students sitting on the dry grass, and the fog is lower than Rowan had ever seen, covering the entire campus in dark clouds and drawing a still straight from a horror movie.

          They're waiting for him, which doesn't make it any easier. In the waiting room, where the offices are located, the air is considerably warmer. Rowan, his slicked back hair, his jeans, his pressed white shirt, and his combat boots aren't big fans of it, as he can't allow himself to start sweating again.

          A tall girl—nearly as tall as Rowan—is what catches his eye. Her dark hair falls down to her mid-back without a single wave and she shivers under her leather jacket, staring down at her Converse sneakers, while the other people in the room stare at her. She easily stands out against the burgundy armchairs and the beige walls, with everything looking so calm and collected while she appears to be on the verge of tears, but Isla isn't oblivious to what's going on.

          "Rhea," she calls, taking matters into her own hands, and the girl lifts her head, bottom lip trembling, when Isla is close enough to gently rub her arms. "Hey. What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

          "I'm . . ." she blabbers, shooting Rowan a brief glance, and he immediately looks the other way. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I was just waiting for you."

          "You could have waited for me in our room." Rhea looks up at the ceiling, eyes glistening like stars, and Gabriel's secretary chooses that exact moment to let Rowan know he's allowed to go inside.

          Gabriel is even taller in person, rivaling Rowan's own height, and his handshake is unsurprisingly firm. Rowan tries to remember everything Isla told him and everything he decided he'd do and say—sit up straight, hands folded over his lap to prevent himself from running his fingers through his hair and leaving them covered in greasy gel—but he finds himself stumbling over his own words and forgetting his rehearsed answers.

          They keep telling him to be himself, but being himself won't get him any jobs he wants. If anything, it will warrant him a ticket back home.

          "I'll have to say I'm impressed," Gabriel confesses, fingers interlaced over his mahogany desk. Next to him, there's a framed photograph of his family, with Isla being in the center. "The other two I interviewed were too pretentious for my taste."

          Rowan lets out a nervous laugh. "Yikes."

          "Yikes indeed. Listen, Roman—"

          Rowan shifts in his seat. "Rowan."

          "Sorry. I'll go ahead and say it; it's truly refreshing to see someone as young as you be interested in what I and this town have to say. It's not often we get visitors." Rowan can't possibly guess why not; though everyone he has met so far has been relatively welcoming, the city itself would creep tourists out in the blink of an eye if there were any. "The folklore and the mysteries are, modesty aside, frankly interesting, and I can't wait to let the world know about them. Unfortunately, I'm a busy man"—a crimson flush covers his cheeks—"and I wouldn't turn to a ghostwriter if I could, but please don't assume I don't value what you do. I think it's admirable and I'm willing to reward you as you see fit . . . as long as it fits certain requirements, of course."

          "So you're telling me I got the job? Just like that?"

          Gabriel sighs. "It's either handing you the job and knowing you'll do a great job or giving it to one of the other two and nearly die of embarrassment by having my name associated to them in any way. Their work is great, trust me, but it's just their personalities that turn me off."

          "Fine."

          Gabriel's lips twist into a grin so bright it could almost be a beacon. "Great. Welcome aboard. It will be a true pleasure to work with you."