Killing Monica

Henry sighed. “I suppose I have as much invested in her as you do.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re an angel,” Pandy declared. She started to head up West Broadway.

“And where,” Henry demanded, starting after her, “do you think you’re going?”

“To the Pool Club, to see Suzette and the others,” Pandy said innocently over her shoulder. “Now that I’m Pandy again, I’ve got a whole lot of explaining to do.”

“I would like to remind you that now that you’ve sold your Lady Wallis novel, they’re going to want another one. Immediately. Which means it’s a school night.”

&n

bsp; Pandy stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Now listen, Henry. I told you, I’ve had enough. I’ve been rejected, blown up, blown off, and most of all, I’ve had to pretend to be you. And as much as I love you and as far as I’m willing to go to keep your secret, I want a night off.”

Henry paused. Then he shook his head and laughed. “That old secret? The next thing I know, you’ll be claiming that I’m the reason you did all this.”

“You are one of the reasons”—Pandy paused for effect—“Hellenor.”

Henry sighed. “Hellenor was such a long time ago.”

Pandy rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that long ago. Okay, maybe you’re right. It was twenty-five years ago when Hellenor went to Amsterdam—”

“From whence I emerged,” Henry said proudly. “You have to admit it is silly,” he added, taking her arm. “You pretending to be me. And then trying to kill Monica. It’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done.”

Pandy laughed, looking over her shoulder at the Monica billboard. Jonny had been removed, and Monica at last had her leg.

“In any case, I’m not looking for my happy ending anymore. In fact, I think I’d like to avoid endings of any kind for a while.” Pandy reached the corner and sniffed. Smelling the sweet childhood perfume of cotton candy, she exclaimed, “It’s the San Geronimo festival.”

“Don’t tell me you just noticed. Oh no,” Henry said, balking at the corner like a mule.

“Why not?” Pandy insisted. “I want to go. And remember, you still owe me.”

Henry sighed. “I suppose I could accompany you. As long as I’m not dragged to that dreadful watering hole known as the Pool Club.” He shuddered. “Compared to that, I suppose having my craw stuffed with cotton candy is preferable to being forced to listen to the caw of those crows you call your friends.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘crones.’ Come on, Henry.” Pandy laughed. And possessed of that spirit in which one could take as many acts as necessary to complete a full life, she grabbed her former sister’s arm, and together they went into the glittering neon lights.

Acknowledgments

There were many people who helped me along the crazy creative journey of writing Killing Monica. Thanks to everyone who sat tight and waited patiently as my imagination ran wild…

Thanks to the brilliant Heather Schroder of Compass Talent, my tried-and-true agent and partner in literary crimes, who trusts her guts and instincts and always believes. This book would not be possible without you.

Thanks to Deb Futter for her sure-handed guidance and for knowing what, where, when, and most of all, how to get there.

Thanks to Leslie Wells, whose deep wisdom and grace helped us steer this boat back up the river and safely into the harbor.

Thanks to Jeanine Pepler of AKA LIFE, whose bright spark of positivity and unwavering belief in any possibility is forever inspiring.

And to Jeanine’s team at AKA: Laura Nicolassy, Brooke Shuhy, Marina Maib, Allison Meyer, and Chloe Mills.

Thanks to Matthew Ballast, our very own “Henry,” along with the other terrific folks at Hachette: Brian McLendon, Elizabeth Kulhanek, Anne Twomey, and Andrew Duncan.

Thanks to Richard Beswick in London and Ron Bernstein in LA.

A huge thanks to Dawn Rosiello, who makes order out of chaos.

And a special thanks to my intern, Jennifer Foulon, who put up with all the zaniness and bought her first pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

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