“OK, that much I got,” I say, putting the cup down. “We're writing a book.” “We are?” Evelyn nods. “You and I,” she says. “I’ve read your work. I like the way you communicate clearly and succinctly. Your writing has a nononsense quality to it that I admire and that I think my book could use.” “Youre asking me to ghostwrite your autobiography?” This is fantastic. This is absolutely, positively fantastic. This is a good reason to stay in New York. A great reason. Things like this don’t happen in San Francisco. Evelyn shakes her head again. “I’m giving you my life story, Monique. I’m going to tell you the whole truth. And you are going to write a book about it.” “And we'll package it with your name on it and tell everyone you wrote it. That’s ghostwriting.” I pick up my cup again. “My name won't be on it. I’'ll be dead.” I choke on my coffee and in doing so stain the white carpet with flecks of umber. “Oh, my God,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly, as I put down the cup. “I spilled coffee on your carpet.” Evelyn waves this off, but Grace knocks on the door and opens it just a crack, poking her head in. “Everything OK?” “T spilled, I’m afraid,” I say. Grace opens the door fully and comes in, taking a look. “T’m really sorry. I just got a bit shocked is all.” I catch Evelyn’s eye, and I don’t know her very well, but what I do know is that she’s telling me to be quiet. “It’s not a problem,” Grace says. “I'll take care of it.” “Are you hungry, Monique?” Evelyn says, standing up. “T’m sorry?”