The best distraction from how screwed up things are with Gavin is to deal with the shitstorm brewing over my book. If I can deal with this myself, maybe I can figure out how to straighten things out with him. Time to make some calls.

The first one is to the dean’s office.

After I’m on hold for about ten minutes, a polite elderly-sounding woman tells me Dean Marshall wants to see me on Monday to discuss the allegations made by Wheeler. Her calm, perky demeanor is better suited for taking my lunch order at a 1950s diner than asking me to attend the Spanish Inquisition.

Daren’s legal firm hooks me up with top-notch representation, a woman named Kate Peterson. I can hear the disgust in her voice for Wheeler, and thank Jesus, Joseph and the Easter bunny that Daren got me an attorney who sounds like she might tear off my former professor’s man parts personally and enjoy it. She says she’ll start working on a slander lawsuit immediately.

Gathering up a little more courage, I call my boss Roger who chews me out for not letting him know about my alter ego sooner so I could do some in-store book signings. After grumbling about how his week is shot to shit because I can’t come in this evening, his voice softens.

“Look, kid, take the week off so you can deal with school, but you have to promise to do a few promotional events when you get back. That book of yours is a hit.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t call me that. You know it makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” I tease.

He laughs. He’s taking this really well. Guess I need to address the polka-dotted elephant in the room.

“Roger, I want you to know I didn’t plagiarize.”

Before I can say anything else, he cuts me off.

“Of course you didn’t. Any jackass knows that. Now hurry up and figure all this out so you can get back here and do next month’s schedules.”

I’m relieved not to have to explain more, and he wishes me luck, offering me more time off if I need it. I start to relax now that everyone in my small circle of friends has been so supportive.

My phone rings for the tenth time in the last hour, and although I’ve managed to dodge a couple of reporters so far, I know I have to make a statement soon. As if on cue, a familiar name flashes on my cell. I don’t get a chance to say hello before Maeve, my publicist, starts in on me.

“I don’t think I need to explain my job to you, Clementine, but I’m your liaison to the media. However, if I don’t know what the fuck is going on, I can’t do my job, which makes me very unhappy.” Her British accent sounds amazingly sophisticated even though she’s telling me off.

“It’s nice to talk to you too, Maeve.” I roll my eyes. She can be so dramatic. Of course, I’ve never made her job easy.

After listening to a few rounds of apologies, she’s quiet. “I hope there is no merit to the charges.”

“No, God, of course not!” I share what my attorney has said, which seems to assuage her ruffled feathers.

“Great. Now get yourself a few nice outfits.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Why?”

“You need to get in front of this. I made a few calls to the Sunday morning news shows. I’d love to get you out there this evening, but the story will resonate more if you issue your statement during a slow news cycle. So pray there isn’t a terrorist attack or natural disaster this week that messes with your PR.”

“You want me to do an interview?”

“Interviews. Plural. Or maybe one big one. I’m still working out the details.”

My mind floods with fears, but she’s right. I have to state my side. It’s like being on trial. If I don’t do the interviews, it’ll seem like I have something to hide. And I don’t. Not anymore.

“About that. I have one request.”

* * *

After being on the phone for two hours, I’m in a nearly vegetative state when my cell rings again. I should let it go to voice mail when I see that it’s an unknown caller, but I accidentally hit accept.

At first, all I hear is music. I recognize it as a Beatles tune, but as the lyrics become clearer, my hand starts to shake. It’s called Run for Your Life. The evil song about a guy who would rather kill his girl than watch her end up with someone else plays in my ear.

“Did you get that, love?” Wheeler asks with a snicker before he hangs up.

I’m still gripping my phone when I walk out into the living room and find Jenna, Harper and Dani watching an episode of True Blood.

“Is it weird that I think Eric Northman was hotter when he was a heartless asshole?” Dani asks.

Harper turns to her with a raised eyebrow, looking like she might launch into a clinical assessment when she spots me. The phone slips from my hand, crashing to the wood floor.

“I… I might need to take off for a few days,” I say before I break down, sobbing.