Linwood Barclay - Too Close to Home

“Did he tell her who’d written it?”

“No. He didn’t say anything at all.”

“Do you have any idea what he was thinking at the time? When he sent it to Elizabeth? Was he thinking, if she loves it and can get it published, I’ll be able to take credit for launching Brett Stockwell’s career? Or was he thinking, if she loves it, I’ll tell her it’s mine?”

“I don’t know what he was thinking. I don’t even know whether he knew. There had to be something going on in the back of his mind. Maybe part of him was hoping Elizabeth would say the book was terrible, that it was unpublishable, because that would have been the end of it. He wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.”

“But that’s not what Elizabeth said, is it?”

“No,” Ellen said. “She said it was brilliant. That it still needed a lot of work, but it was brilliant. She said she wanted to try to sell it, that she wanted to represent the author. And she asked Conrad, ‘Who’s the author? Are you the author?’ To this day, I think, he can’t believe he said yes.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“That was when. .” And Ellen’s voice trailed off.

“When you were sleeping together,” I said. She said nothing. “He was sharing all this with you, these developments.”

“Up until the time that Elizabeth reported back that the book should be published. He stopped talking about it then.”

“Conrad didn’t want to admit to you what he was contemplating doing.”

“No. I know he met with Brett. I’d come to see Conrad about something, to his office, and the door was slightly ajar and I could hear that he was having a meeting with a student. So I just hung around outside, waiting for them to finish, and then I realized that he was talking to Brett, about his book.”

“What did Conrad say?” I asked.

“Conrad told him the book was not very good.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He told him it was amateurish, unbelievable, cliched. He piled on every negative adjective he could think of.”

Of all the things I’d known, and imagined, Conrad to have done, this seemed the worst. Trying to put aside my own issues briefly, it struck me that what Conrad had done to Brett, in that moment, was a far greater betrayal of trust than sleeping with my wife.

“I watched Brett come out of that office, his laptop slung over his shoulder, and he was absolutely destroyed,” Ellen said. “There were tears running down his cheeks. Can you imagine it? You hand over your book-your life-to this man you hold in such high regard, whose opinion means everything to you, and you get completely crushed. And maybe, maybe, you could defend something like what Conrad did if the book really stunk, that there was no sense misleading a kid into thinking he had talent when he didn’t, the whole Simon Cowell approach, but the thing was, Conrad was lying.”

Brett’s sadness, his overwhelming disappointment, reached through nearly a decade to take hold of me.

“I can’t believe anyone could do that,” I said.

“I confronted Conrad, told him I’d heard everything, asked him what the hell he was doing, that I knew he loved the book. And he was totally taken aback, flustered, grasping for an explanation. He said the book had its moments, but it was not that good, that the kid wasn’t going to make it as a writer if everyone went gaga over everything he did, and I realized at that moment what a horrible mistake I had made, what a despicable person Conrad Chase was, and I hated myself for involving myself with him, for betraying you.”

I said nothing.

“I asked Conrad what he was up to, why he’d say what he did when I knew that Elizabeth had thought the book showed so much promise. I asked him if he had any idea what he’d done to that boy, to Brett, how he’d left his office looking like he was ready to kill himself.”

It was like a lightbulb went on. “Oh my God,” I said. “So all this time that I’ve been thinking Conrad killed that kid, he really did commit suicide. Although, in a way, Conrad did kill him. By lying to him, by telling him his book was a piece of shit. That’s what drove Brett over the edge, what drove him to jump off Promise Falls.”

“No,” Ellen said quietly. “That’s not what happened. That’s not what happened at all.”

“So, wait a second,” I said. “So I am right. Conrad did kill him. He pushed Brett over the falls so he could get away with stealing his book.”

“No,” Ellen said again. “That’s not what happened, either.”

I don’t get it,” I said.

Ellen reached out and touched my arm, and said, “Just let me tell the rest of it, okay?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“I asked Conrad what he was up to, why he was telling Brett his book was crap when I knew he thought it was brilliant. And I knew Elizabeth had read it and liked it, and then it hit me, what he was planning to do. So I asked him whether he was planning to pass off Brett’s book as his own.”

“What did he say?”

“About what you would expect. He was offended, outraged, said I was losing my mind. But I kept pressing him, and finally he starts hedging a bit, says he wasn’t going to rip off the book. But maybe he could make some sort of deal with him. Tell Brett that because he was so young, just a student, no publisher would ever look at his stuff, but if he fronted the book for him, he could help him get published, and they could share the royalties. Or maybe he could buy the idea from Brett, make him a cash offer now, get him to sign something, relinquishing the property. He was spouting all kinds of nonsense, but I could see it in his eyes, that he’d made up his mind that he wanted this kid’s book, that it was his ticket to finally getting some recognition at Thackeray.

“I pressed him on what he’d told Elizabeth. Had he told her, I asked him, that Brett was the author of the book, and he said, not exactly. I told him I couldn’t believe that he was even considering something like this, especially after telling Brett his book was no good. The fact that Conrad would do this, it made me wonder. .”

“Wonder what?” I asked.

“I just. . I just wasn’t sure.”

“Were you thinking then that Conrad might actually kill him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know what I was thinking. But then he came out from around his desk, he came right up to me and said, ‘Don’t screw this up for me, Ellen.’ He was holding me by the shoulders, and he looked so, I don’t know, it was as though something had come over him. He just had this look. It scared me.”

I’d seen that look that day in the shed, when I confronted him with the news of the missing computer, and what was on it. And I’d seen it earlier this evening, when he’d gotten so angry at Illeana.

“But he didn’t scare me so much that I wasn’t prepared to do something about it,” she said, and shook her head sadly. “If only I’d just left it alone.”

“What?” I said. “What did you do?”

She put her hands over her face, like she was steeling herself for the rest of what she had to tell.

“I got in touch with Brett. All the students have these cubbyholes, so I left him a note, told him to meet me downtown the following night, at Kelly’s.” Where I’d had pie with Barry, where single mom Linda had last seen Sherry Underwood. “I was thinking we should meet off campus, where it was less likely we’d be seen. I said in my note it was really important that I talk to him about his book. He barely knew who I was, just that I’d been working with Conrad. We’d said hello a couple of times, but that was it. But I felt I knew this kid because Conrad had spoken about him so often, and when I saw him walk out of that office, humiliated and destroyed, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I felt, because I’d been having a relationship with Conrad, that somehow I was complicit, and I hated that feeling.”