CHAPTER 1. I’m Going to Kill Him
Rome
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I want to commit a homicide.
Why, you ask? Bear with me for a second, and I’ll explain.
I write books for a living. But the thing is, I never meant to write a book in the first place. I know that sounds nuts—who writes an entire novel by accident?—but that’s what happened. Ten years ago, after a life-changing trip to Italy during a crisp January, I wrote a book.
And okay, I know what you’re thinking. Didn’t Elizabeth Gilbert do that already? Was it some kind of Eat, Pray, Love knockoff?
I want to say no, but the truth is—kind of?
I mean, there were thefts, detective work, and even a murder. But there was also lots of travel, a love story, and pasta.
I’ll get to all of that.
What you need to know right now is that when I got home after a whirlwind month of adventure, I had an overwhelming urge to write down what had happened, and it spilled out of me in a feverish rush. How I met Connor Smith, how we got embroiled in solving a series of robberies that ended in a murder, how we fell in love—I sifted through everything we’d experienced and out came When in Rome.
And the things that happened in the months after that—getting an agent, selling the book at auction, being flown to New York to meet my publishing team—felt like a continuation of a dream I couldn’t seem to wake up from.
My wake-up call came six weeks before the book was scheduled to launch that November.
Because I’d forgotten one tiny detail.
I never told Connor I was writing about him. I just invited him to meet me in New York and didn’t tell him why.
If I’m being honest—and that’s what this is about, right? Confession—I thought that when I told him, he’d pick me up and twirl me around like in a scene from a movie.
That’s not what happened.
Instead, I got, well, not blackmailed exactly, but something blackmail adjacent.
Because once Connor understood that he was soon to be the star of a true-crime novel—that I’d changed everyone else’s names, including my own, to protect the guilty, but not his—he wanted 10 percent of my advance. It was that or—he told the publisher with an élan I had to admire—he’d see us in court.
Even though he didn’t have a legal leg to stand on,1 my publisher didn’t want to take the chance.2 And there was a clause in my contract that said if we went to court, I’d be on the hook for the legal fees.3
I didn’t remember even seeing that clause.
I mean, does anyone read twenty-page single-spaced contracts?
I was going to from now on, obviously. But in the meantime, what if I gave him the cut of my advance he wanted, my publisher asked. That would make it so much simpler for everyone.
So I paid.
One book, I thought. One book, and then I’d be rid of him.
Everyone who’s ever been blackmailed in the history of blackmail probably thinks that. I’ll pay once, and that’ll be enough. Spoiler alert: It’s never enough.
Not for Connor.
Because When in Rome sold beyond everyone’s wildest expectations, and Connor was there for all of it. Slipping his arm around my waist in countless photos. Showing up everywhere. Basking in the fucking glow. And then my publisher offered me an enormous amount of money to write a sequel. Maybe I could write something else someday, but for now, more Connor, please! And could you be a darling and get it done in six months so you publish a book a year? Of course you can.
Anyway, when Connor got wind of the offer, he insisted I take it. I wouldn’t want certain information about me to go public, would I? No, he didn’t think so.
He took 20 percent of my advance that time.4 And when Murder in Nice was almost as successful as the first book, my publisher wanted another. And another. And another.
I tried pitching something else, but all they wanted was Connor. With his blue eyes and charming smile—“like Captain America with a smirk,” I’d written, because I was twenty-five and an idiot.
And now it’s ten years later, and I feel like I’m stuck with him forever, like Agatha Christie was with Poirot or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was with Sherlock. They eventually killed off their main characters, and that’s what I’m going to do.
I’m going to kill him.
I just need to find a way to get away with it.
“… Ma’am? This is all very interesting, but I can’t absolve you of a crime you haven’t committed.”
Oh, shit. Did I say all of that out loud? To an actual priest? Looks like it.
I lean back in the confession box, resting my back against the worn wooden frame. Though my thick, dark hair is up in a topknot, the tendrils that have escaped are hot against my neck, and this seat is murder on my back.
“So,” I say to the small screen in the wall, “if I ask for forgiveness after the fact, you can give it, but not before?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Shouldn’t it be ‘signorina’?”
“I’m visiting the parish from America, ma’am.”
The one church I visit in Rome, and I get an American priest?
“Oh, yeah? Where from?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about ourselves.”
“It’s Texas, right?”
“… I’m from Dallas.”
I smile in satisfaction. I’ve always been good at accents. “I knew it.”
“Ma’am?”
“It’s Eleanor, I told you.”
“Do you want to pray on your thoughts about…”
“Connor Smith?”
“I’ve found it helpful to pray on my anger. It soothes the soul.”
Praying isn’t going to help me get rid of Connor, though, which I knew when I came in here. But it was very hot out, and the worn marble church sitting on the corner of the piazza looked so cool and inviting, I couldn’t help myself.
Once I was inside, I gazed around the incense-infused space and the mahogany-paneled walls. I was drawn to the small booth tucked into a corner. The confessional, I realized when I stepped past the bloodred velvet curtain. I’d always wondered what they were like. Turns out: small and stuffy. But before I could leave, there was a cough through the wall and a soothing voice suggested I unburden myself. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I don’t know how to get out of this conversation.
“Eleanor? Are you in here?”
Oh, thank God.
Oh, um, I mean, thank you, God.
I pull back the curtain. My younger sister,5 Harper, is scuttling down the aisle with a worried expression on her beautiful face. She’s wearing a white poplin dress that shows off her long, tanned limbs and complements her chestnut hair, which, like so many things, is one shade better than mine.6 She’s wearing it braided and wound around her head, a look that suits her but would make me look like Princess Leia’s less attractive sister.7, 8
“I’m here!” I wave my hand so she sees me.
Her face relaxes. Her eyes are a shade better than mine, too—a perfect cornflower blue framed with heavy, dark lashes. Mine are washed out, and my lashes are almost invisible without mascara.
“What are you doing in here, El?”
I step out of the booth. “Confessing my sins?”
“You haven’t been gone long enough for that.”
“Ha ha.”
She plucks a piece of lint from my navy dress. It’s made of the same material as hers, light as a feather. She found it for me on a shopping trip to New York. Besides being my sister, she’s the best personal assistant anyone could ask for.
I wish she didn’t resent me for it so much, and I’m terrified she’s going to leave me at the end of this trip. She hasn’t said it explicitly, but she’s dropped enough hints about me doing more stuff on my own that it’s clear where she’s headed.
Away from me.
“You don’t need to do that,” I say, catching her hand.
Do I even need to tell you that her manicure is a perfect ballet pink, while I’ve long stopped bothering with getting my nails done? No, right? You’ve got the picture.
“We need to get going,” Harper says.
“What’s next?”
“The Colosseum.”
“Must we?”
“They want us to get some shots there to start hyping Roman Holiday Gone Wrong.”
“I haven’t agreed to that title.”
“Regardless.”
“Okay, fine. But I need ice cream if I’m going to be back out in that heat.”
“It’s called gelato.”
“I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Being the stupid American tourist?”
“Kinda.”
“Sorry, sis.” I rope my arm around her neck and pull her close. She smells like lemons and home to me, a slight variation on my own scent.
“I saw a gelato shop around the corner,” Harper says.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“You get any insight in there?” She points over my shoulder.
Oh, crap, I left Mr. Texas alone without saying goodbye. “Hold on.”
I step to the confessional and pull the curtain back. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Go with God.”
“Okay, thanks.” Okay? Okay? Do I go directly to hell now, or do I at least get to plead my case at the pearly gates? “Thank you for listening.”
“You can leave an offering in one of the boxes.”
“Oh, right, sure. Will do.”
But wait. Wasn’t he supposed to give me rosaries to say? A penance? Something that will wash away the sin of wanting Connor Smith dead, even if it’s just on paper?
Copyright © 2024 by Catherine Mack
