The Crimson Letter
And then, in soft disbelief, she whispered, “Is this a joke?”
But the chill uncoiling down her spine said otherwise.
Sloane Maren was twenty-six.
A rising literary star with one haunting, critically adored debut, a suffocating two-book deal, and a reputation that reviewers called “visceral,” “lyrical,” and “achingly intimate.”
But the truth? She hadn’t written anything real in nearly a year.