A novelist. After all the lost years, all the sporadic fits and starts, he was back at it again. Which could only mean he needed his head examined. There were guys who were born with the Midas touch, the Stephen Ludlows of the world, karmic alchemists who despite breaking all the rules never failed to turn dross into gold, who with little or no effort enjoyed fame, fortune, and the adoration of millions. Not to mention getting the girl—the kind who stood by you no matter what. And then there were guys like him, who walked the straight line and kept their noses to the grindstone, but always seemed to end up at the back of the line.

Hell, maybe it was time to pack it in and go back to New York, reclaim his reputation as one of the city’s premier journalists. Except there really wasn’t much to go back to. He’d quit his job and lost his wife pretty much in one go. As for Ludlow, that was ancient history. Holding a grudge about something that happened twenty years ago had been a handy excuse, but it was time to own the choice he’d made all those years ago to walk away from his writing. And so he would stay in this place, where he’d spent every summer of his childhood fishing with his grandfather, and do what he’d come here to do. Win or lose, he would finish the book and take his shot.

Staring out over the lake now, he thought of his grandfather, of sticky afternoons spent on the water, waiting for something to bite. The old man was gone now, God rest his soul, and the cabin belonged to him, though it had been empty for more years than he cared to count. It had been strange at first, being back. He’d spent the first three months getting the place in shape, updating fixtures and appliances, bringing the plumbing and wiring up to code. It was comfortable now, in a barebones, back-to-the-land sort of way. Best of all, there was no television, no phone, and no Wi-Fi. Other than the cell phone he kept for emergencies or an occasional conversation with the mailman, he was blissfully cut off from the world. And that was exactly how he liked it. If there was a blizzard on the way, his phone would alert him, and if it was the end of the world, he’d just as soon not know.

The wind was picking up, swirling the dun-colored leaves at the corners of the deck into papery little tornadoes. To the west, the slow, brooding clouds that had lingered over the hills most of the day had darkened to an ominous shade of pewter. It would storm soon, and he was fine with that. He had nowhere to be and nothing to do, and he wrote better when it was raining.

He had just turned to head back inside when he heard his cell going off. It rang so rarely these days it took a moment to register what he was hearing. Stepping in off the deck, he grabbed the phone from the top of the fridge, expecting it to be Justin saying he was on his way with the cord of wood he had ordered last week.

“Wade! Buddy! How the hell are you?”

Okay, not Justin. Wade scrambled to connect the voice with a face, finally landing on Glen Hoyt, Week in Review’s top crime beat writer. They had teamed up on a few pieces—dirty politicians, contractors lining their pockets on the city’s dime. When it came to digging up dirt, Glen was everybody’s go-to guy. He had also tried to talk him out of leaving Review.

“Glen. What’s up?”

Glen barked out a laugh, and for a moment, Wade could see him leaning back in his chair, battered wingtips propped up on his desk. “Yeah, it’s me. Just calling to see if you’re ready to rejoin the rat race.”

“Let me guess, Killian put you up to calling.”

“No, but I’m sure our beloved editor in chief would kill to get his hooks back in you. Though after the way things went down, I’m guessing that’s not going to happen. You, uh . . . you gave it to him pretty straight.”

“Someone had to.”

“Maybe, but Jesus, man—calling the guy a blackhearted bastard in front of the whole newsroom? That’s a little over the top, don’t you think?”

“Truth in reporting.”

“More like burning your bridges.”

“You only need bridges if you’re planning to go back, and I’m not.”

“Okay, I get it. But you can’t blame me for trying. Place isn’t the same since you left. Killian’s gone through three guys trying to replace you. The last one was the worst yet. Bastard couldn’t lock down a story with both hands and a lug wrench.” A brief silence fell. Glen cleared his throat. “So . . . have you heard from Simone?”

Wade winced at the mention of his ex-wife’s name. He’d been preparing himself for the question, but it caught him off guard, like a punch you saw coming that still knocked the wind out of you. “Why would I hear from Simone?”

“I don’t know. Old times, I guess. She left right after you did.”

“No,” Wade said flatly. “I haven’t heard from her. We don’t have much to talk about anymore. The judge tied everything up nice and neat.”

“Damn. That sucks. I was hoping you guys would patch it up, though I heard a while back that she was seeing someone.”

The silence yawned as Glen’s words sank in. Seeing someone. Yes, of course she was. It wasn’t Simone’s MO to fly solo for very long. She needed a wingman, an alter ego to feed off, someone to fill in her blanks. He’d been that for a while.

“What Simone’s up to is none of my business, Glen.”

“Sure. Sure. I just thought you might, you know, be carrying a torch.”

“No. No torch.”