QUEEN OF HEARTS

A HITCHCOCK-STYLE DOMESTIC SUSPENSE THRILLER

HEATHER DAY GILBERT

Praise for Queen of Hearts

“This psychological thriller is one wild ride of a book, laced with a mix of realities and mental illusions. Cleverly plotted with creepy twists and eccentric turns that will keep readers white-knuckling the book, hoping the beloved leading lady can make it to the last page.” 

— Catie Cordero, author of historical mystery Where Legends Die

"A dark, secluded cabin seems just the place to escape a stalker...unless your stalker is closer than you thought. Queen of Hearts employs the best elements of classic Hitchcock to spin a thrilling psychological suspense."—Janyre Tromp, award-winning author of Darkness Calls the Tiger

"This smart and captivating thriller hooked me from the first page to the last, not least because Alexandra Dubois is the most refreshingly original and likable character I’ve come across in a long time."—Karin Kaufman, author of the Juniper Grove mysteries and Teagan Doyle thrillers

Queen of Hearts

Copyright 2024 Heather Day Gilbert

Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey of Elizabeth Mackey Graphics

Published by WoodHaven Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Subject: Thrillers/Psychological; Domestic Suspense

Author Information & Newsletter: http://www.heatherdaygilbert.com

From the Back Cover:

Her readers love her...

but one has gotten a little too attached.

Alexandra Dubois, a NYT bestselling author, has made a name for herself by crafting twisted serial killers in her romantic suspense series. When threatening notes from an "invested reader" escalate into violence, Alex has to admit she's not safe in her own home. Although her autism makes any changes to her routine difficult, she reluctantly accepts her editor's advice to fly to his sprawling vacation home in West Virginia so she can focus on her looming deadline.

Fighting paranoia that the stalker has discovered her mountain hideaway, Alex still forces herself to write several chapters in her novel. But when a thunderstorm leaves her stranded and she hears a knock at her door, she's about to discover that life truly is stranger than fiction.

Fans of Alfred Hitchcock, Mary Higgins Clark, and Misery are sure to be hooked by this clean, fast-paced domestic thriller by RWA Daphne Award-winning author Heather Day Gilbert.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

As I wrote this novel, it was important to me to portray Alex's high-functioning autism (previously referred to as Asperger's) in a respectful way that reflected reality. To this end, I consulted my adult daughter about many of Alex's scenes, since she is also on the spectrum.

As we all know, no two autistic people are completely alike, even though they share a group of identifying traits. While Alex can't possibly exemplify every autistic behavior, I hope that if you are on the spectrum, you will feel a connection with her, and that you will feel seen.

You are a wonderful creation, and you bring such richness to the world.

And a huge thanks to both of my older daughters for helping me brainstorm the villainy afoot in this story. We're a dangerous pack, aren't we?

PROLOGUE

The wet leaves give way beneath my sock feet, but I can't slow down, even as another crack of lightning splits the dark sky. I clench my jaw and push my body to move faster, despite the jagged pain ripping through my lacerated heel.

The rain-sopped woods press in around me, but I refuse to give up. I will not accept the fate that's coming for me. I might not be a fighter, but I'm a survivor, and that's exactly what I plan to do.

The story I've been pulled into won't have a happy ending, but I'm determined to write it my way...or to die trying.

ONE

Wednesday, One Week Earlier

Natasha shifted uncomfortably on the rock floor of the icy cave, shoving her gloved hands under her armpits to keep warm. Her thoughts were getting fuzzy, so she forced herself to walk through the events that had brought her to this remote part of Alaska in the dead of winter.

Ambrose had baited his trap perfectly, working behind the scenes to fund the archeological team that had turned up artifacts that were now shaking the historical world. Viking tools had been discovered in a cave on the northern tip of Alaska.

No one had dreamed the Nordic explorers could have sailed so far, but, with her advanced degrees in Climatology and Archaeology, Natasha had already guessed as much—even written articles on it. In the age of Viking expansion, the climate had been warmer—there were even trees in Greenland, it seemed—so it followed that the dauntless Vikings continued pushing west, even after abandoning their encampment in Newfoundland. This cache of tools had only proved her theory, so of course, she had to fly to Alaska to see things for herself.

Ambrose had counted on her eagerness, and had made plans accordingly. Carson Edwards, lead on Project Loki, had met up with her after her arrival to catch her up to speed on the latest developments. His team had identified what they believed to be a coveted Ulfberht sword, in which case, there would be no denying that early eleventh century Vikings had used it as a storage trove.

Once Natasha and Carson had arrived at the empty snow mound atop the cave, he'd assured her his team would arrive in the next couple of hours. They were late risers—college students, he joked. He'd led her into the wooden-braced entry door in the snowy hill. Together, they'd walked the slanted path down into the buried cave, and Carson had used his high-powered flashlight to illuminate each find.

But someone had charged them from behind, shooting Carson on the spot. Natasha hit the floor and killed the light, so she didn't get a view of the killer before he backed out of the cave. It was only as she heard the click of a door lock that she realized she was trapped in a non-heated space. Hypothermia wouldn't take long to set in.

She shivered, rubbing her frozen hands up her arms. Her extremities would go first, but her brain was struggling to offer solutions as to how to escape. She'd tried clawing and beating at the door, then throwing her weight at it, but it had only resulted in battered hands and severe bruising along her sides.

Archer's face floated into her mind...his smiling blue eyes, and his thick, messy blond hair that she loved to run her fingers through. She'd told him she was flying here, but he was in New England, giving a lecture series on

I abruptly stop typing, fingers hovering above my laptop keys. A lecture series on what? And who even cares what Archer's giving lectures on? Suddenly, Archer seems like the most boring man in the world to me. Even his dazzling good looks can't redeem him, and that's a problem when I have to write him as Natasha's number one love interest.

The entire scene isn't working. Natasha's sitting there mooning around over Archer, when she needs to be using her final lucid moments to find a way out of this cave.

I push my rolling chair back, then stand and stretch. "Natasha, you're going to have to give me some direction, girl. You aren't freezing to death today." It's a good thing I live alone, since I talk to my fictional heroine like she's standing in the room. Which she basically is, since I can see her shivering on the cave floor, her long, dark hair tucked into her coat, with her inquisitive green eyes looking up at me for direction.

The kitchen timer clicks away on my desk, showing I have ten minutes of writing time left. Keeping to a daily word count schedule helps me stay on track, but since I just started this final book in my series, I'm not even sure I'm dropping in at the right place. Should I position Natasha in the cave right away, or ease her into that scenario, letting her discuss things with Carson at the hotel before they head to the site?

Unable to see which way to go next, I stop my timer. Sunlight filters into my bay window, and I recall my therapist's suggestion to get outside more. It seems as good a time as any to brew a fresh cup of coffee and take the short stroll to my mailbox.

Summer sunshine heats the dark crown of my head as I scan the reader letter that somehow found its way to my mailbox. The left-hand corner says "From a devoted fan," but it isn't linked to a return address.

Suspicion makes my pulse race, but I carefully tear off one end of the envelope, then pull out a printed note. I'm hooked before I can look away, because my mysterious reader lays it on thick. He (or she?) owns all six books in my Lipstick and Lies romantic suspense series, and he knows everything and everyone in my fictional small town—maybe even better than I do. He assures me that I've earned my title "the next Mary Higgins Clark," and then some.

But he has a bit of a bone to pick, he says. My longstanding love triangle needs to be wrapped up in the right way when the final book releases next year. I'd do well to take his well-informed advice on the matter.

He explains that my heroine, Natasha Summers, absolutely cannot marry the most obvious hero, Archer Hart. No. She must have her happily-ever-after with the rogueish Matteo Cesari. It's destiny. Archer is as pretentious as his name, and readers want Natasha to settle on someone more real, yet far more exciting, like Matteo. I only need to read my reviews to see which way my public is leaning (I have, and they prefer Archer by a long mile).

I should dismiss this letter as the rantings of a rabid fan...but the next line gives me serious pause.

"If you don't pair Natasha and Matteo together, you'll destroy my happily-ever-after. Therefore, I will be obligated to destroy yours, as much as I hate to do that, Alexandra."

He's signed off as "Invested Reader," with a capitalized "R" to show he means business.

I take a deep breath as a light breeze toys with the letter between my fingers. The reader is clearly trying to get under my skin by using my first name to make me feel personally threatened. Since my friends call me Alex, I suppose I can take some small comfort in the fact that he's not likely someone I've met.

Yet he's managed to discover my home address, even though I've made a point of using a P.O. Box for all my online business. How could anyone get hold of that?

With some corner of my mind still stuck in an Alaskan cave, I cling to the letter and walk back to my front porch. My mind feels like it's been hijacked, forced to deal with a real-life threat versus the fictional ones I come up with on a daily basis.

After pushing my turquoise door open, I step into the shady coolness of the living room and try to reason with myself. There's nothing unique about a disgruntled reader. All authors get them, sooner or later. I've already received my fair share of hateful reviews and e-mails.

These pestilential people choose their barbed words carefully, calculating their blows to inflict the most damage possible. They hope to undermine the authors they dislike, or—even better—make them give up writing altogether. They break author spirits on the altar of their personal whims.

I pull the tainted letter out of my pocket, dropping it to the floor like it might infect me. Then I head straight to the bathroom so I can wash my hands thoroughly. To further ease my mind, I grab my toothbrush and line it with toothpaste.

Since my autism diagnosis last year, I've stopped guilting myself for many of my obsessive behaviors. Tooth-brushing serves a dual purpose—it soothes me, but keeps me from having cavities, as well. Sure, I have to buy toothbrushes in bulk, but it's a small cost for a personal comfort.

Once I've dried my lips on a towel reserved for that express purpose, I retreat to my wraparound couch, where I've built a nest for myself with pillows and my weighted blanket. After pulling the blanket up to my chest and turning on my nearby diffuser, I reluctantly pick up my phone and text my agent, Gwen Jameson. Hopefully, she'll know how to handle the note, because I'm not currently handling anything.

To my dismay, Gwen calls soon after I send the text. I typically shun phone conversations, especially when I don't have any grip on my nebulous emotions, but Gwen prefers to connect that way since she works in New York City. She likes to talk things out, and while I sometimes appreciate that, I know I'll probably clam up.

"Hi, Gwen, how are⁠—"

"Alex, cut the malarkey. What you just texted me is disturbing. I know you're not okay. We need to deal with this."

Gwen can come across as blunt and domineering, but I know she has a heart of gold. More than once, she's fought for me, getting deadlines pushed or making sure I keep a higher royalty share. She's proven she has my best interests at heart. I can tell she's upset that my relatively peaceful author world has just been rocked.

"You need to tell the police and Micah," she continues, referring to my editor at the publishing house. "Thorvald Media Group needs to know what's going on so they can weigh in on this weird demand and work with the cops to see if it's some kind of death threat."

I focus on the oil painting on the wall in front of me, tracing its comforting celestial whorls and orbs. Alaskan skies would be incredibly clear, I'd imagine. I'll need to work that into the book.

With effort, I pull myself back into the moment, trying to verbalize a response to Gwen. "I'm sure it's nothing so drastic. I'll text Micah and let him know."

She sighs, and I can almost see her rolling her dark, cat-lined eyes. "Alex. You can't text Micah and be done with it. You need to talk with him, figure out what the protocol is. The police might need to get in touch." She hesitates. "You want me to call them for you?"

I'm unable to string two coherent thoughts together, which is a bad place for an author to get stuck in. My smartest move would be to let someone competent like Gwen take this burden off me. "Sure. Would you mind doing that?"

"I'm on it."

Before I can say thanks, she ends the call. To some, that would come off as rude, but to me, her boundless efficiency feels like a merciful relief.

I've managed to rub an indecent amount of lotion into my already-soft hands when my phone rings. Flipping the screen over, I see it's Micah, so I grasp the phone in my slippery hands and say hello.

"Hello, Alex. I spoke with Gwen. Please try not to worry. Bestselling authors like you sometimes attract stalker types. Trust me, it's nothing Thorvald Media hasn't dealt with in the past. We're sorry you've become this reader's target, but I promise we're going to do everything we can to alleviate your worries. I've already alerted the Greenwich police, and they said to use gloves and place the letter in a plastic bag. Then you can drop it off at the station, so they can run it for prints."

His unruffled, masculine reassurance speaks to my soul in ways Gwen simply couldn't. I've always been more comfortable around men than women. Women tend to wrap their feelings in nuance and subterfuge, while most men will say it like it is. As a person who takes things at face value, I value transparency above all.

I've only met Micah Brennan once, when I left my safe Connecticut haven to take the train into Manhattan for a party in my honor. From his rumpled clothing to his long-haired, dark-eyed brooding vibe, my editor is just the sort of enigmatic Mr. Rochester type I'd have a wild crush on, if I hadn't recently emerged from a messy divorce.

"Thank you so much," I manage.

"Sure. Listen, I'll be visiting my family in Honolulu this week, but I'll let one of my friends in the F.B.I. know about your letter. He can get the details from the police and see if this kook fits any existing celebrity stalker profile in their database." His voice deepens. "Alex, do you have any kind of security system on your house? Cameras, that kind of thing? I know Greenwich is a pretty safe town, but it wouldn't hurt to be on the safe side, since this reader's somehow figured out your real address."

I shiver in the air conditioning, pulling my blanket tighter. "I have double locks on my doors, but that's about it. If you think it's wise, I could get some kind of security cams installed."

"Yes. I'd recommend you do that as soon as possible."

"Okay." I try not to consider how distracting it will be to have an installation crew tromping around the house during my writing sessions. I close my eyes and Natasha blinks up at me from that freezing cave floor.

I pull away from her, into the now. I have to voice the concern that's utmost in my mind. "Did Gwen tell you what the letter said? The stalker wants me to pair Natasha with Matteo in the end. They basically threatened me to write it that way, or else. Do you think I should shift the love triangle in Matteo's favor?" I toy with this option for a moment. "To be honest, I care more about my safety than about the direction of Natasha's love relationships. If you think I could change it, I'll get a new synopsis to you this week."

He hesitates. "Your current synopsis is outstanding—a perfect wrap for the series. I'd hate for you to have to change direction, because I suspect you'd disappoint your most devoted fans. Have you already started writing?"

"Yes. But I'm not even a chapter into it. I can push her either way."

He lets out an extended breath. "I have an idea. I'll ask my assistant to run a program comparing the number of positive Matteo to Archer reviews. That'll give us a solid idea of which way the public is leaning. But you and I both know who's going to come out on top. Matteo's always been a dark horse, too unpredictable and pushy for the bulk of our readership. I think it's best to keep going in the Archer direction for now. We can't let this note undermine your original vision for this series."

I'm relieved he's given me permission to wrap up the final book the way I'd planned. "Okay, I'll stay the course. And I'll get those security cameras as soon as I can."

The moment he says goodbye, I start hunting online for a nearby security firm. When I find one that sounds reputable, I contact them and briefly explain my situation. Although they don't seem to comprehend the reason for my urgency (a crazed reader is threatening you?), when I say I'll pay more for fast service, they promise to get someone out tomorrow.

Price is rarely an object for me these days. I'm the multiple New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Alexandra Dubois, for goodness' sakes. As a newly single woman of thirty-six, I have all the money I could ever need and then some.

But money can't buy peace of mind, and that's exactly what will be required to complete my long-delayed last-in-series novel. And now Invested Reader has showed up and stolen that peace from me.

TWO

The sky's a heavy shade of gray when the security team shows up to install a new system, but it suits my mood. I'll be gloomy until I'm certain someone can't sneak up on my house, which is my one safe spot in all the world.

I don't have parents to run home to. Dad died of cancer when I was in college. Once I graduated, Mom headed to Alaska with her fisherman boyfriend, and she's lived there ever since. I've suggested I could fly up to see her, but she always says Alaskan life is unpredictable and dangerous in ways I couldn't handle. I overthink things, she says, and in the wilderness, you have to live by the seat of your pants.

Recognizing Mom's barbed insult, I've closed myself off to her. When she called the day they announced my book was a Reese's Book Club pick, I let it go to voicemail. She called again when I was interviewed on Good Morning America, but I hung up on her.

My own mother doesn't realize I despise talking on the phone. It's like she's never known me at all.

Still, I've made good on all my father's dreams for me, even though Mom didn't think I'd succeed in any measurable way. I live in the posh town of Greenwich—home to old money, business tycoons, and media darlings of all stripes. My renovated stone cottage looks like a mansion compared to the two-bedroom, low-income house I grew up in.

The only goal I have left—the one I don't even speak out loud—is to form a close relationship with someone who cares enough to show up for me when life gets hard. Someone who will be the one person I can count on. My cousin Emily is always there for me, but she's a married nurse who never slows down. She makes time for me, of course, but I want someone I can spend hours with, talking about conceptual things and tossing around captivating book ideas. Someone who doesn't back away as they get to know my quirks.

At one time, I believed that my husband, Renard, was that person. My person. I wanted it so much, I based my character Matteo on him—even down to his tall, dark, and handsome looks. But once my eyes were opened to Renard's emotionally abusive ways, I distanced myself from him completely, both in real life and in my writing. Now he lives outside my bubble.

Or maybe I'm the one on the outside—I can never quite be sure.

A rap sounds on my front door, so I scramble off the couch and peek out the window. The head security guy is standing on my porch, so I open the door, returning his friendly smile.

"We got you all set up, Ms. Dubois. Cameras around the porch, like you asked, and an alarm system." He steps inside and starts pushing buttons on the control panel, trying to show me how it works. But I find it impossible to focus with a stranger standing in my home—especially since he reeks of cheap aftershave.

"Would you mind writing the instructions for me?" I ask. "I do a lot better when things are written down."

"Well, sure. Actually, all you need to know is in this little booklet here." He hands it over to me. "I've written your code on a sticky note inside the back cover. Try to memorize it, then get rid of it. I know it's longer, but we have to make sure it's impossible to guess."

I give a thoughtful nod, as if the nuances of computer systems are child's play to me. In reality, even Excel spreadsheets leave me shaking my head. It's a good thing word processing programs are simple.

Once the men leave, I try to familiarize myself with the new alarm. I have no desire to find out how loud the blare sounds unless there's a verified break-in happening, but I force myself to set it before driving to the grocery store, since I'm completely out of my favorite foods.

As I pull out of my garage, I avoid looking at my mailbox, which has become offensive to me. It's a conduit for a threat that could cripple my writing.

Like any author, I've suffered from occasional writer's block. My first few books were written by the seat of my pants, and they often got hung up in the dreaded "saggy middle."

But over time, I discovered that my writing flows faster if I first work up a lengthy synopsis detailing all the plot points. I'm not locked into anything, but the characters and plotline are completely fleshed out before I write the first sentence.

Tapping along to the intense music flowing into my headphones, I decide not to give any more mental ground to Invested Reader. He'll just have to invest himself in someone else, because I plan to write my story my way. It's my prerogative as the creator, isn't it?

After eating a comfort meal of dinosaur nuggets and spicy fries that would make my mom cringe, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and settle into my couch nest. Flipping on the TV, I decide to indulge in one of my special interests—a survival show set in Alaska, of all places.

This spring, out of some misguided attempt to connect with my mom, I got sucked into the first episode. Then I found myself unable to stop watching. The show features a family determined to live off the land, in spite of interference by bears, wolves, and the hostile natural environment. They seem genuinely supportive of one another, and their life-and-death scenarios have inspired numerous scenes in my books.

I've made it halfway into an episode when Emily calls. She's close to me, not only figuratively, but literally, because she lives right down the road in Rye, New York. She's made a habit of checking in with me every other day.

"Hey, cuz," she says in her subtle Jersey accent. "Jeff was thinking about grilling on Saturday, and we wondered if you could drop in."

By Saturday, I'll likely be ready for a break, since I'm planning to really dive into my writing tomorrow. Jeff always grills buttery smooth, grass-fed steaks, and nothing calls to me like my favorite foods.

"I'd love to. Let me know what I can bring."

"Just yourself and maybe your favorite chips," she says. "What's new with you?"

Sensing this was the best opportunity to bring her up-to-date on my stalker letter, I fill her in.

After gasping at regular intervals during my recap, she says, "I'm so glad you got that alarm system. What's this world coming to? Who would want to threaten you, Alex?" Her voice turns dark. "I wish I knew where that joker lived. Jeff and I would drive right over and set him straight."

I've always appreciated that Emily can't bear to see others hurt, especially me.

"I'll be okay." I try to inject conviction into my words.

"Stay safe," she warns. "And text me every night. We'll see you Saturday at seven."

Midway through the third episode of my show, my eyelids start drooping. I consider the effort it would take to go down the hall and get ready for bed, and decide it's not worth it. Instead, I turn off the lamp next to me and snuggle deeper beneath my blanket. I might as well try to get as much sleep as I can before diving into my writing in the morning.

The sound of glass shattering jolts me awake. It's closely followed by the shriek of my house alarm. Flailing my arms free of my blanket, I grab my phone, only to find it's nearly midnight.

After grabbing a hoodie and pulling it over my head to muffle the ongoing racket, I slide to the floor. The house is blanketed in darkness, but I don't mind, because it gives me a certain playing field advantage. I've trained myself to move easily around objects in my house, even in the dark. Mom used to say it was downright OCD with the way I memorized where our furniture was. I didn't have to be blind to know the number of steps from one thing to another.

Maybe my little quirk is finally paying off.

I crawl to another corner of the living room, keeping myself as low as possible. The smell of night air hits my face—which is all wrong, since my house is closed up tight with air conditioning. After allowing my eyes to adjust, I can tell the window on my kitchen door doesn't look right. It's ragged and open around the top.

Someone must've broken it.

Which means they also could've reached in, unlocked my door, and stepped into my home. They might be inside right now, even though I don't hear any movement.

I sit like a frozen lump, my dark hoodie pulled tight over my head. I can't shift position, much less check my phone to see if the house alarm has done its job and notified the police.

As the wailing continues, I reason with myself. Surely an intruder would've made a run for it the moment they heard all the commotion.

I rise onto my hands and knees, preparing to speed-crawl into the bathroom, where I can lock the door and wait until the police arrive.

Before I can make a move, the doorbell rings. I glance at the front windows, but don't see any flashing blue lights in the driveway.

This could definitely be a ruse, a clever way to lure me outside. I write romantic suspense, so I'm no idiot to criminal machinations. I stay in place and hunker lower to the floor, in case someone shines a flashlight in the window.

During one of the alarm's pauses, my neighbor's muffled, insistent voice sounds outside my wooden door. "Alex?" he shouts. "Alex, are you okay?" He pounds on the door.

Relief floods me. Thomas is in his fifties, and he and his wife, Patty, have spoken with me several times. He's the kind of person I can trust.

I hurry to open the door, beckoning him to come inside. Once he's safely standing in my darkened living room and I've locked the door behind him, I explain, "Someone tried to break in. Would you mind staying until the police get here?"

"Of course. You've already called them?" He sticks his fingers in his ears and raises his voice. "Why is it so dark in here? Did your power go out?"

I throw a glance toward the kitchen. "I'm keeping it dark so no one can see me. And my alarm system was supposed to notify the police, although I don't know why they haven't gotten here yet. Let me check my phone. Maybe I can figure out how to shut off the alarm, too."

With Thomas' presence bolstering my confidence, I grab my phone and pull up my security system app. It tells me that the police have been notified of a disturbance and should arrive soon.

"Soon" isn't soon enough for my liking.

I enter the code to shut down the screeching noise. The thick silence that drops on us is somehow more deafening than the alarm.

Thomas speaks up. "Maybe we should turn on the light and check for anyone in the house. I can look around."

Taking my time because I'm not convinced Thomas' idea trumps my lights-off plan, I reluctantly flip on the lamp near the couch. Just as Thomas heads down the hallway, a police car pulls up.

Relieved, I call out to him. "Wait! The police are here. Why don't we let them search?"

Two officers jog up to the porch, and I open the door for them. After giving them the rundown, I point them toward the kitchen.

They promptly begin a sweep of the house. Thomas and I sit down in the living room, waiting in anxious silence.

As one officer heads toward the hallway, the other approaches the visibly damaged kitchen door. He pulls gloves from his pocket before picking something up from the floor. He holds it up for me to see and says, "It looks like they used this to break your glass, Ma'am."

It's a large brick.

Thomas shoots me a horrified look as the officer strides to my side, notebook in hand. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

My thoughts fly to Renard. Would he try to hurt me, even though our divorce had been finalized last year? He knows where I live. I'd certainly had some choice things to say when he managed to swindle me out of thirty-five percent of continuing royalties on the books I wrote when we were together. My lawyer was still shocked the judge had ruled in Renard's favor on that particular asset.

The only other option would be my letter-writing stalker, but there's no reason he should act on his threat until my final book comes out next year. Only then will he discover that I'm not closing the love triangle the way he demanded.

The officer turns the brick over in his hands, and before I can articulate an answer, he says, "There's a little note taped to the bottom."

He cautiously unfolds it, then skims the contents before extending it for me to read.

It's another printout, but this time the font is huge, like the author chose a header setting on Word.

It reads, "There will be repercussions if you don't do what I asked. I'll be watching closely."

This time, it's signed "Highly Invested Reader," leaving me with no doubt as to who threw that brick. My stalker has just raised the stakes, letting me know that physical violence isn't out of the question if I don't take him seriously.

With a concerned look, the officer asks, "Do you know who this person might be?"

I shake my head. I don't even have a decent guess.

THREE

After nailing a sheet of plywood onto my gaping window frame, the police finally head out around 2:15. Thomas lingers behind, probably to give me some peace of mind, which I appreciate.

"I've told Patty what happened, and we'd both feel better if you'd stay at our place tonight," he offers.

It's a thoughtful gesture, but adjusting to an unfamiliar sleeping arrangement would only intensify the panic I'm already feeling. I'd rather my neighbors didn't see that desperate side of me. Since I'll get little to no sleep at either place, I might as well stay home and try to get back into my writing routine as soon as day breaks.

"I'll probably stay here, but thank you. It should be okay now. The police have been crawling all over the place, which should repel anybody lurking around." I try not to ponder the possibility of someone hiding behind cars or in bushes, just waiting for me to walk out my door.

His forehead crinkles, and his eyes fill with concern. "I don't feel comfortable leaving you here alone. Would you want me to stay on your couch tonight? I can let Patty know."

Some small sense of relief flows over me, and I can't stop myself from accepting his offer. "Actually, I'd appreciate it if you could stick around." I glance at my messy kitchen, trying to think through the next steps I should take. "Let's see. I've set the alarm again, and I have some knives if you need them." I trudge toward the kitchen counter, gesturing to the knife block before sliding two large ones out for myself. "I'll stay in the bathroom tonight."

Thomas raises a curious eyebrow at my choice of sleeping arrangements, but nods. I try not to interpret his look as some type of disapproval. My therapist tells me that I need to set more boundaries for myself, even if the neurotypical people in my life can't possibly understand the reasons for my parameters.

After depositing the knives on the bathroom sink, I grab a couple of blankets from my hall closet and hand them to Thomas, who's talking on the phone with his wife. I retrieve my weighted blanket and pillow and make my way into the bathroom, where I lock the door and settle onto the full-length bench seat in my spacious shower. It feels like the most protected spot in my house.

I'm still a bit wary to have a practical stranger on my couch, but his wife knows he's here. Besides, it's incredibly thoughtful of Thomas to position himself as the first line of defense, should another attack come.

Some deep emotional exhaustion practically shoves my eyes closed. Before I can fight it, I'm drifting off to sleep.

I wake up with a kink in my neck, thanks to my crunched-up position on the shower bench. I give a long stretch before grabbing my phone, only to see that I've slept in until eleven.

As I make my bleary-eyed way down the hallway, I veer toward the kitchen, where Thomas is firing up the coffee maker.

"I decided to stick around until you woke up, since I wasn't sure how to set your alarm system when I go out," he says apologetically.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't get up sooner." I scrounge around for proper small talk. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" I offer.

He shakes his head. "No, thank you—I'm not much of a coffee drinker these days, but I figured you might want some. It's good that you got some extra sleep." He gestures toward the door. "I'd better get on back to Patty, though. Please promise you'll give us a call if you need company tonight."

I offer him an appreciative smile. "Thank you, but I'll be talking with my cousin today. She's over in Rye, so we'll figure something out. Thank you so much for your help last night."

His look turns surprisingly serious. "A young woman like you, living all alone in this nice house...you might want to get a dog or something. If you were my daughter, I'd be concerned."

I'd be grateful to have a parent who thought like Thomas. Unfortunately, that's not at all what I have. "That's kind of you, but I'm not really a dog person," I say.

Once Thomas has gone and I've reset the alarm, I make myself a giant cup of coffee, which I savor with half a leftover blueberry scone. Before I get to work, I need to let Emily know what happened last night.

I type out a text that hopefully doesn't sound as rattled as I feel. I can't stop throwing glances at my boarded-up window, which casts a dark shadow across my normally cheery kitchen.

Questions race around in my mind. Should I stay here? Would that even be wise? One of the officers suggested I might want to visit friends or relatives while the investigation was underway.

Emily and Jeff have a lovely home, but it's cozy to the point of feeling crowded. Their guest room is a renovated closet with a pull-out couch, and they only have one bathroom. Plus, they might not understand that I take extra-long showers to decompress. Things would get cramped and awkward if I moved in with them for any length of time.

My best option would probably be to book a nice hotel room, maybe in a neighboring town. But if the hotel is loud, as hotels tend to be, it might interfere with my writing routine. It seems that every time I book an overnight room—no matter how expensive the hotel—I'll hear heated arguments through the walls or children screaming in the hallways. And the temperature is never easy to control. Once, I stayed at an inn where the temperature was locked in at seventy-one degrees and the heat was pumping—only it was the middle of summer. I couldn't reach anyone on the inn's phone line, so I wound up turning on the air-conditioning unit to allow myself the chance to breathe again. I had to sleep on the floor, right under the unit, so I didn't pass out from the heat.

Even though the police are reviewing my security cam footage in hopes of a solid lead, they might not find anything. Tracking down an author's stalker can hardly be at the top of their priority list. So I might be looking at an extended stay somewhere.

I make a fresh cup of coffee and heave a weary sigh.

I've researched stalker behavior for my novels, and I know full well that celebrity stalkers—because that's what I have, if I'm being honest—can be incredibly dedicated to tracking down the object of their obsessions, often shadowing and threatening them for years on end.

Since my stalker threw a brick through my window and threatened to harm me, he's upgraded himself into the "threat of bodily harm" category, which is the one the police have to pay attention to. But if they can't find any fingerprints, how long before the investigation's urgency wanes, leaving me stewing in terror in my cottage?

After jumping to my feet to shake off the jitters, I pace up and down my hallway. Getting a big dog like Thomas suggested would add to my security arsenal, but I'm too apprehensive around canines. I'm far more comfortable with the quiet ways of cats. In fact, I was planning to visit a shelter to look for one, just before the stalker weaseled his way into my life.

I should probably ask my editor for suggestions, since he's assured me that Thorvald Media will have my back with this stalker situation. Keeping in mind that he's now on vacation, I email his assistant Robin about last night's events, hoping she might have some helpful suggestions.

I force myself to gather clean clothes and head into the bathroom, knowing a steamy shower will restore me before I start writing. It's the one place where I can sing at the top of my lungs and let my worries slide off me, right along with the water. I'm aware of what a luxury it is to be able to relax under my rainfall showerhead for as long as I want.

Once I'm finished, I take time to towel off my thick hair before checking my phone. I'm surprised to see that I've already gotten a text from Micah, telling me to call him back immediately.

I call back and he picks up quickly, but his voice sounds groggy. "Alex?"

Did I wake him? "I'm sorry, but you said to call you immediately," I explain.

He seems to pick up steam. "That's fine—that's what I wanted. The sun hasn't even risen here, but I got Robin's message and I didn't want to leave you hanging." His voice deepens. "I know you must be feeling on edge, and that is not conducive to effective writing sprints. I've been talking with Mr. Schneider, the president of our media group, and he's also concerned for your welfare. As I told you, a couple of our authors have had stalkers in the past, but things didn't escalate to violence like this."

Goosebumps run up my arms. Yes, things have now escalated, but I'd rather not linger on that fact.

"To that end, we've considered several secluded places where you couldn't be followed. Mr. Schneider suggested a writing retreat we've only used a few times, and I don't know why I didn't think of it first, because it actually belongs to me. Back in 2020, like everyone else in Manhattan, I wanted to prepare for the worst, so I bought some wooded property in West Virginia and built a cabin there, just in case I had to evacuate the city. The place is very private and only accessible by a small bridge across a creek. I keep a P.O. box there, so the physical address is only listed for emergency services."

"West Virginia?" I've never visited the state.

"Yes, it's down in the southern part, in a sparsely populated town called Cedar Gap. Mr. Schneider is right—there's no safer place for you to finish your last book. It's peaceful, hidden from the public eye, and you'd be welcome to stay there as long as you need to, completely free." He stifles a yawn. "In the interests of full disclosure, I will tell you that there was an unfortunate accident on the property, so we haven't done any retreats there since late 2021. But the house has been well-maintained—I have an on-site caretaker who keeps an eye on things. He's a bit of a recluse, so he won't bother you."

I'm curious as to the nature of the unfortunate event, not to mention the reclusive caretaker, but it's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. A private cabin with minimal human contact sounds perfect for meeting my writing deadline. "That's a great idea. I'll let you know in the next day or two."

I'd like to hold out hope that the police will quickly track down my stalker, although even if they catch him, I'm not sure what he'd be charged with. It seems unlikely he'd get a prison sentence for throwing a brick. Maybe I'll have to get a restraining order, but after years of research, I know that'll be a joke when it comes to a committed psycho.

Micah's voice fades a bit, giving away his exhaustion. "Sure. If you're interested, call Robin, and she'll give you directions and the keycode. She can line up a first-class ticket for you to fly there, courtesy of Thorvald Media." He yawns again. "I'd better get some more sleep. I'm supposed to be celebrating my mom's birthday this afternoon."

"Oh, okay. Thanks so much." I feel awful for interrupting his vacation. "I'll be in touch."

"By the way," he adds, "Please have someone stay with you tonight. You'll need your sleep to create your most amazing story ever."

I give a hoarse chuckle. "We can only hope."

As I hang up, I consider his advice. Having someone stay over would be easy—if I actually had friends. The only person I've ever really opened up to is Renard, and, as it turns out, he was the wrong person to trust with my deepest thoughts.

When we got married, I poured all my energy into turning myself into the wife he wanted. I never wore my hair up, because he commented that my ears were on the bigger side. I let him answer questions when we had company, because he said I tended to ramble. I felt like a human-shaped shell, hollowing myself out for my husband so he could fill me with his own likes and desires.

I make a mental note to myself—find some real friends.

Emily calls as I'm eating a carb-heavy lunch of ramen noodles and Ritz crackers.

"I'm sorry I didn't respond to your text earlier," she says. "I'm working a shift today, and it's been crazy in the maternity wing. The full moon always does that. Anyway, I've talked with Jeff, and we're coming over to keep you company tonight, okay? I'll bring my poppyseed chicken casserole, so you don't have to cook."

I'm touched that Emily is willing to come over without my having to ask. Maybe that's what family is for, when family's working properly.

"I'd appreciate that." My voice wavers, so I hurry to cover it up. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do in the long haul. I have a security system, but clearly that's not enough." I'm getting more choked up with each word.

Emily adopts a soothing tone, probably similar to the one she uses with expectant mothers. She's the kind of person who was born to be a nurse. "We'll figure things out when we get there. But just sit tight and don't go anywhere until then, okay?"

"Sure. I hadn't planned to go out."

Although it's tempting, I know hermiting myself in the house won't be a good long-term solution. While agoraphobics certainly find ways to do it, getting groceries and supplies delivered directly to their doorways, it's not healthy for me to operate that way. I need to observe people, to see how they react to things—not only to develop rich characters for my books, but to give myself the best knowledge base to work from. Since autism demands that I mimic others to camouflage the ways I don't fit in, I require in-person interactions. I can only pick up so much from TV shows.

"Good. We'll be there by eight. See you then, honey," she says.

Every time Emily calls me honey, I feel completely disarmed. I know it's simply a term of endearment, but coming from her, I also know it means that she sees me. Maybe she doesn't know everything about what makes me tick, but she does seem to like me, and that goes a long way in my book.

After talking with Emily, I decide to bake something to thank her and Jeff for coming over. I scrounge through my cabinets, finally landing on a box of red velvet cake mix and a container of cream cheese frosting. I crank up calming songs on my kitchen speaker and get to work making cupcakes.

But defeatist thoughts creep in as I work. I should've gotten the first chapter of my book written by now. Now that my stalker has robbed me of my sense of security in my own home, my focus will be shot.

On top of that, I've wasted precious years on a narcissist husband who's managed to completely destroy my view of myself. Sure, he has a new girlfriend, but I can still hear his simpering voice in my head, telling me I'm not fit enough, or smart enough, or just enough.

And why does he have to be so hateful? It makes no sense. During our six years of marriage, I bought him everything he needed so he could piddle around with go-nowhere jobs and take trips to all the exotic locales he dreamed of—all on my dime.

As I take the cupcakes out of the oven, I try to steer my thoughts in a more helpful direction, coming up with tangible things to be thankful for. My cottage (even though its security is now blown to smithereens), my income (even though my upcoming revenue relies heavily on the success of a book I haven't written yet), and my health (even though I haven't prioritized exercise because I hate going to the gym, and now my heart's taken to pounding out of my chest thanks to my stalker situation).

When my thankfulness therapy session falls flat, I scoop out a glop of icing, spread it on a warm cupcake, and take a bite. If nothing else, I'll always be thankful there are red velvet cupcakes in the world.

FOUR

Emily, Jeff, and I stuff ourselves on poppyseed chicken, salad, and cupcakes before settling onto my couch. I insist that they pick the show we'll watch, so we start in on a TV series they've been bingeing.

The show is humorous, although it's nerve-wracking for me to watch the main characters argue. I'm not a casual debater, so constant strife of any kind gets under my skin.

An almost tangible exhaustion falls over me, and I slouch deeper into the couch. I can feel my eyelids drooping.

Emily throws a glance toward me and her gaze sharpens. "It's nearly ten-thirty, Alex. You must be exhausted after last night. You should hit the sack."

I give her a reluctant nod. "I guess so. Did you two get all set up in the guest room? Do you have everything you need?"

"We're great." Jeff leans in, giving my arms a reassuring squeeze. "Now listen, I plan on staying up late here on the couch, but don't mind me. I'll turn the TV down. I'll feel better being in a central area where I can keep an eye out."

I shoot him an appreciative smile.

"Your security system is on?" Emily asks.

I stretch my feet and stand. "Yes. We're all locked up. If anyone gets close, the alarm will go off and it'll notify the police."

"Have the cops found anything on your security footage?" Emily asks. "I know you said they were reviewing it."

I shake my head. "Officer Lester called me back today, and he said the intruder wore a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. His eyes were hidden by his hooded jacket." I don't want to elaborate on it, but that means that either the man came dressed to do harm, or he guessed I had outdoor cameras. Either option is disturbing.

Emily grabs my hand and pats it. "They'll get him," she says firmly. "I know it. Now please get some sleep. Your Muse must be toast."

After plodding into my room, I drop onto the bed and pull my blanket up to my chin. Even as I drift off to sleep, I'm acutely aware that tonight's situation is just a temporary fix. The vast majority of celebrity stalkers are mentally unhinged.

These human hunters do the unexpected, the unthought-of, because they have no incentive to feign sanity. They're classic lone wolves who don't get close to anyone, since their attention is laser-focused on making contact with their celebrity obsession.

I shudder to think what kind of contact my stalker will attempt next.

Emily shakes my shoulders, and I blink up at her. "What time is it?"

"It's eight in the morning." She looks apologetic. "I wouldn't have woken you, but something came up."

I jolt into a sitting position, my adrenaline pumping. "What happened? Are you both okay?"

She joins me on the bed. "We're fine. It's just that around seven-thirty, Jeff woke to a clunking noise at the kitchen door. He grabbed a knife and checked out the kitchen window, but he couldn't see anyone, so he called the police. They're on their way." She takes a breath. "When he finally decided to step outside, he saw multiple dents along the window board, like someone was trying to pull the nails out and get in."

I sink back onto my pile of pillows. "How can this be happening? Why would anyone be so invested in my books...or in me? I lead such a boring life."

Emily's eyes soften, and she places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You might not realize this, but you're beautiful, Alex. With your buttercream skin, blue eyes, and silky dark hair, you're a regular knockout along the lines of Liz Taylor. These weirdos can get fixated. Honestly, I'm thinking you should get out of town for a little while. I know you're not up to visiting your mom in Alaska, although that would be a great place to lie low. I could ask my brother if you could stay with him and his family in Georgia, if you want. They'd be happy to see you again, and my niece Callie would be in heaven to have a real live author in her house." She grins.

Shards of sunlight pierce through my closed blinds, casting a hypnotizing pattern on the floor. I trace the lines of light with my gaze like they're some kind of lifeline. I don't want to integrate into someone else's family life, trying to adapt to their complex rhythms and forcing them to adapt to mine. I need solitude and silence to have any hope of writing my book.

My only solution is staring me in the face. "Thanks for the offer, but my publisher's offered me a house I can stay in for awhile," I say. "I'll call and book a plane ticket as soon as the police leave."

Once police have verified that someone did, indeed, try to pull the board off, they dust it for prints. With a solemn look in his eyes, Officer Lester informs me it would be best to stay elsewhere, since the threat is ongoing.

I don't waste any time in calling Robin. Every time I speak with her, she reminds me of a kindly grandmother, which is the antithesis of the expected New York City persona.

When I explain why I'm anxious to get going, she says, "Oh, dear, yes. You've been through the wringer. We'll get you down there in a jiffy."

True to her word, she calls back two hours later, letting me know that a car service will pick me up and take me to the Westchester County airport. I'll be flying first-class, with a layover at O'Hare. When I arrive at the Lewisburg airport in West Virginia, I'll find a rental car waiting for me. Robin assures me she'll email directions to Micah's cabin, as well as the keycode and a list of shops in the area.

As I rummage around for clean jeans and hoodies—my writing uniform of choice—I give Emily a call. After trying to convince her that I'll be just fine, I load up a carry-on bag with my lavender oil rollerball, my mini salt lamp nightlight, my weighted blanket, and my toothbrush and toothpaste—all necessities for adjusting to a new locale. I shove in some undies and a tee shirt, just in case my luggage gets lost, but the creature comforts are far more important to me.

Suddenly recalling that I'd promised to keep Thomas posted, I shoot him a text to let him know I'll be moving out while the police search for my intruder. He responds quickly, saying that if I need anything sent to my new place, I can let him know.

The distrustful side of me bristles. Surely he isn't fishing to find out where I'll be staying?

I talk myself down. I'm starting to see villains everywhere. Thomas didn't directly ask for an address, and there's no reason to be suspicious of him.

As I continue with my packing, I consciously avoid looking at the kitchen. It's a fixed reminder of why I have to leave.

Some nut wants to break into my house and scare me into doing what he wants, and I'm completely powerless to do a thing about it.

FIVE

Once I get settled into my rental car, I quickly discover that West Virginia is nothing like I'd expected. I had assumed the landscape would be similar to Pennsylvania, which is the farthest south I've gone.

Instead, there seem to be clusters of houses tucked between—and even on the sides of—mountains. Of course, I've heard about the Appalachians, but hearing about them can't prepare you for how ubiquitous they are in this state, much less for actually driving across them, which seems to be a requirement to get from one city to another.

On back-and-forth roads that occasionally narrow to one lane, I manage to maneuver my way to Cedar Gap. Micah was right when he said the place isn't exactly packed with people. There are plenty of open parking spaces along the main street, and when I see a bookshop with a clover green door called Page Turner, I whip into a spot, acting on impulse to stock up on light reads while I'm here. If the cabin is extremely rustic, I might not be able to stream my regular shows to unwind.

Perusing the New Reads section, I choose a couple of rom-coms that will hopefully keep my mood light. When I walk up to the counter, a young woman takes the books, giving me a quick glance before ringing them up.

Recognition sparks in her eyes. "Wait—you look just like that author—Alexandra Dubois. Are you her?"

In situations like this, when asked a direct question, I automatically tell the truth. It's my fallback, my non-scripted answer. There's no room for lies in my world.

"I am," I say. "But I'd rather keep it quiet." I insert my card into the reader to pay for my stash.

She gives me a serious nod. "Sure. But would you mind if I told my manager really quickly, though? He's one of your biggest fans. He'd kill me if he knew you'd visited and I didn't tell him."

I turn to scan the shop, but it seems I'm the only customer there. "Okay, but I can't stay long."

"Of course." She hustles toward the back room. As I take a deep breath to brace for the inevitable impact, a man in his late fifties strides out. He adjusts his glasses as he approaches, as if he can't believe he's looking at me.

"It's such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dubois." He extends his hand to shake mine. "This is quite the thrill. I've read your entire series, and I can assure you that readers keep asking for your next one." He gestures toward a nearby bookshelf. "In fact, if it's not too much trouble, could you sign our shelf copies?"

The cashier pipes up. "I'll set up a display table for them. Trust me, our customers will snap them up. People in this town love your books. We're always selling out."

How can I refuse, when she puts it like that? An author will naturally migrate toward her adoring fans. I take the pen she offers and follow the manager to the shelf.

"I'm Quincy Gates." He stacks a pile of my books in his arms, then hands them to me, one by one, to sign. As I pass each one back, he gingerly replaces it on the shelf, like it's made of glass.

"I opened Page Turner a couple of years ago, but I never dreamed an author as well-known as you would grace its green door," he says, his voice awestruck. "Though we've had a few authors here over the years," he hurries to add.

"That's great," I say stiffly. Anxious to get going, I flip the cover shut on the final book and meet his wide, pale blue eyes. "I would really appreciate it if you didn't mention I'm around. I'm trying to keep a low profile while I'm here."

The chatty cashier speaks up. "We won't tell anyone. Are you staying in town, then?"

Quincy shoots her a silencing look before turning back to me. "I assure you, we will be the souls of discretion." He gives an urgent tilt of his head toward the register.

Picking up on her manager's unspoken request for privacy, the cashier heaves a frustrated sigh as she walks back to her post.

Lowering his voice, Quincy says, "I wonder if you're familiar with a New York City editor who also visits our shop. He's built a place not far from here. His name is Micah Brennan."

I don't want to give him any hint that I'm staying in Micah's house. Drawing myself up to my full five-foot-six height, I offer a casual nod and avoid answering his question. "You've been so helpful, but I should really get going. I hope these books sell like hotcakes for you."

He seems to take my hint. "Of course, of course. And just know that we would be honored to set up a signing for you someday, if you're interested." He pulls a leather case from his pocket and hands me a card for the shop. "My email is on the bottom there. I'd be happy to chat with you anytime, Miss Dubois."

"Thank you." I grip my bag and bustle toward the door.

"Nice to meet you!" the cashier shouts behind me.

My rental car is white, and since several white cars are parked along the curb, I have to click my key fob to figure out which one is mine. It gives a helpful blink of its lights, guiding me quite a few spaces to the right.

After tossing my bag into the passenger seat, I sit down behind the wheel. Why do I feel like I'm on display for everyone in town to see, even though no one is looking at me?

I suppose that just like my fictional heroine Natasha, I'm being hunted. Even though I've flown down to the middle of nowhere to be safe, that's no guarantee that my Highly Invested Reader couldn't follow me.

And if he's clever enough, he might not have personally hurled that brick through my window. Instead, he could have hired some lowlife to do it.

Which means he could reside anywhere on earth.

Wishing my mind hadn't gone down that path, I back the car into the street, then drive toward the small mom-and-pop grocery store I noticed on my way into Cedar Gap. This time, I take the precaution of pulling my hair into a ponytail and donning oversized sunglasses so I won't be recognized.

Feeling uninspired as far as meal ideas, I pick up a loaf of Italian bread, some eggs, and milk. I make my way toward the freezer aisle, hoping Micah's cabin has a microwave.

A man with a nametag reading Barry McGinnis, Owner appears at the end of the aisle. He catches my eye and gives me a wide smile.

"Are you Miss Dubois?" he asks.

I'm at a loss for words. "Why do you ask?" I finally manage.

He comes closer, so I take a healthy step back. "I'm Barry—my wife and I own this store. Micah Brennan contacted me to let me know you'd be coming. I assured him we could set up online grocery delivery for you, so you wouldn't have to come into the store each time."

With a relieved exhale, I offer him a small smile. "I'm Alexandra Dubois, yes. And that would be so helpful."

"Great—sounds like a plan. On your way out, you can drop by our office. It's just past the checkout, through the door on the left. My wife Hope will set that up for you."

He gives me a friendly nod and moseys off. I grab several frozen entrees, toss a few more items in my cart, then make my way toward the checkout. Once I've gathered up my bags, I head toward the office door and give it a knock.

A freckled redhead opens it right away, giving me a model-gorgeous smile that crinkles the corners of her brown eyes. She's probably in her late forties, but she strikes me as the young-at-heart type that never seems to age.

"You must be Alexandra. I'm Hope McGinnis, and I'm so pleased to meet you. Any friend of Micah's is a friend of ours." She ushers me toward a seat next to her desk. Opening her laptop, she says, "I'll just need a few details to get you all set up to order groceries through our online app." As she taps in my information, she gives me a conspiratorial look. "I recently picked up one of your books from our library. I couldn't put it down."

I appreciate that she doesn't pin me with an expectant stare or ask probing questions about my writing process, because I don't even feel like being Alexandra Dubois today.

"That's nice," I say. I still haven't figured out a natural-sounding response for readers who gush over my books.

She angles her head toward me. I get the fleeting impression that she can see straight through my awkwardness and into my scattered—and fearful—thoughts.

Her gaze softens. "Micah mentioned that you're interested in keeping your whereabouts private while you're here. Rest assured, either my husband or I will personally deliver your groceries. No one else will know who you are or where you're staying."

"Thanks."

She falls silent as she types something in. Is she waiting for me to explain my need for anonymity?

"There's no need to share why," she says, as if reading my mind. "I'm silent as the grave when it comes to my friends' secrets, and I hope you'll come to see us as friends while you're staying in Cedar Gap." She picks up a paper from a small stack on the desk and hands it to me. "This has all your login information and instructions as to how to place your online orders. We deliver after seven, every night except Sundays."

Barry walks into the office. "You get everything squared away?"

Hope nods, then turns to me. "Do you know how to get to the cabin? It's a little tricky to see that turn-off."

"Micah's assistant gave me thorough directions," I say. "I think I can find it."

Barry looks thoughtful. "It's a unique place. Huge as all get-out."

I'd guessed it was big enough for a small group of writers, given that Micah had told me they'd done author retreats there, but Barry was making it sound like a mansion. Incredulity must show on my face, because Hope quickly chimes in.

"It really is gorgeous—more like a resort, really. It has five bedrooms and baths, and all kinds of amenities."

I should've guessed that a New York City editor wouldn't have settled for a mere shack, but Micah had given me no indication his place was so rigged out. "What kinds of amenities?"

Barry clears his throat. "Well, there's a movie theater room, from what I understand, and an enclosed gazebo. I think there's a pool table as well, and some whirlpool-type tubs."

"There's a sauna, too," Hope adds quietly.

Barry cuts a sharp glance toward his wife. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then seems to think better of it.

"Be careful up there all alone." Hope's dark eyes meet and hold mine. "I might as well tell you, since you'll hear it anyway if you stay any length of time. A woman died in the cabin, a year after it was built."

SIX

Iblink rapidly, trying to assimilate this information. The accident Micah mentioned was actually a woman's death?

Hope rushes to explain.

"The house was set up to be a vacation rental. Everything was going well, and guests seemed to like it. Occasionally, a writer's group would come in to brainstorm. Micah had us stock the house with groceries beforehand, since the writers didn't get into town much." She shakes her head. "Unfortunately, with this particular guest, the latching mechanism on the sauna locked up, and she wound up suffocating. The police found that she'd cranked the heat up way too high, plus she'd been drinking beforehand, so those things, coupled with the door malfunction, led to her death. It was one of those senseless accidents. She was only twenty-seven."

"Micah was devastated," Barry says. "He told me he'd never rent the place out again. It's a waste, if you ask me, that huge place sitting vacant. He comes in maybe a couple of times a year, sometimes with friends or family, but he's leaving a lot of income on the table for something that couldn't have been helped, and I told him that."

It sounds like Micah is pretty close with Barry and Hope, which puts me at ease around them. Plus, Barry's affectionately rubbing Hope's shoulders as he speaks, which tells me that their marriage is solid, too. Renard never would've done something like that for me, even if I'd asked for a massage to ease the tension of a particularly grueling writing day. He would've told me to hire someone, since I could afford it.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say.

"Just be careful since the cabin is so secluded," Hope reiterates. "The sauna door was replaced, and I'm sure it's been used many times since then, but maybe test the door first."

Barry squeezes her shoulder. "I've told you, there's nothing to worry about, hon."

She places her hand on his. "I've always had the heebie-jeebies about it, that's all." In a cheerier tone, she adds, "I'm sure you'll have a great visit."

"Thank you for your concern," I say. I appreciate anyone and everyone who's looking out for my safety right now. "I'll place an online order as soon as I get my grocery list together. Thank you both so much."

Hope rips off a piece of paper, writes something on it, and presses it into my hand. "That's my cell number. Call me if you have questions about anything. I'm happy to help."

"Will do." I slide the paper into my jeans pocket.

As I tote my bags out to the car, my spirits lift. I don't feel as nervous in this town, now that I've met Barry and Hope. They seem invested in my safety, which will give Emily and Jeff some peace of mind.

On my drive along the back roads, my imagination shifts into overdrive, readily supplying me with a gruesome image of a woman suffocating in the sauna. Trying to ignore the visual, I roll down the window and take a deep breath of the leafy green foliage outside. It turns out that late summer in West Virginia has a definite smell to it, and it's lush and intoxicating, with hints of dead leaves, fresh grass, and wet rocks. Black-eyed Susans and goldenrod spires edge the sides of the mountains, along with some purple flower I don't recognize. I should've packed my allergy medicine, but I'm sure I can add it to my upcoming grocery order.

As the sun lowers behind the shadowy, rounded peaks, I'm able to barely make out a beat-up, crooked sign for my road—Dogwood Lane. I pull onto the gravel drive and continue for about three minutes, until I see a fork in the road. After stopping the car and reading over Robin's directions, I decide I need to veer left.

On the right, the lane dead-ends in front of a lone white house, where there's a man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. I squint to get a better view. He has wide shoulders and curly dark hair, and he seems to be looking at me. I throw my hand up in greeting, but he doesn't make any move of acknowledgment. He simply continues to stare.

He must be the reclusive caretaker Micah told me about. I put the car in gear and drive for a couple more minutes, holding my breath as I clatter across a rickety bridge over a fast-flowing creek.

Once I've rounded a gentle curve, the house comes into view. The sheer vastness of it is breathtaking. Barry and Hope tried to explain what a huge place it was, but I simply had no mental construct for a rustic-styled cabin of this size. The upper A-frame section is wrapped with windows, top to bottom. The sides of the house sprawl in both directions, and a raised deck runs the length of the cabin. There's a screened-in gazebo off to one side, along with a seating area circling a fire pit and grill. Fully-established flowerbeds line every walkway.

If I wanted to design the perfect writing retreat, this would be it.

I roll to a stop in front of the house. After locating the lower-level entry door Robin said I should look for, I pop the trunk and grab my rolling suitcase. I head over, punch in the keycode, and open the metal door. Light filters in through an upstairs window, but the downstairs floor is mostly dark. I manage to locate a nearby light switch, then flip it on.

I glance around the room and my eyes widen. The deadly sauna sits directly to my right.

Taking a deep breath and tightening my grip on the suitcase handle, I roll it forward, forcing myself to scan the rest of the spacious room. The bottom level has clearly been built for entertainment, from the pool table to the sauna to the hot tub on the end of the deck. I move farther into the space and find a door that leads into a home movie theater.

An elevator is positioned near the theater, but I don't know if it works. After flipping on another light, I finally catch sight of carpeted stairs leading to the upper level. I bounce my suitcase up one small flight, then turn to go up the other.

The main living area sprawls out before me, lit by a wooden lamp in the corner. It features a white, wood-beamed cathedral ceiling and an open kitchen that could have come straight out of a home design magazine. I walk over and feel the island's swirled white countertop, which is cool like marble.

Like the proverbial kid in the candy shop, I rush down one hallway, opening each door. I find three huge bedrooms, each with an adjoining bath. Making my way down the opposite hall, I find two more bedrooms and baths. I choose the smallest bedroom for my own, since I prefer dark, cozy spaces, and deposit my suitcase in it.

Realizing I've left the groceries in the open trunk, I head downstairs. As I glance out the wide back window, a jolt runs through me. The man from the rocking chair is now standing by my trunk, draping my bags on his large arms. His four-wheeler is parked nearby.

He's built big, with wide shoulders and long legs—probably well over six feet tall. White hairs are woven in with his dark curls, placing him somewhere around my age or a little older.

What on earth does he think he's doing, rummaging around with my groceries? I'm not about to go out and greet him, even if he is the caretaker for this place. It's weird that he would follow me over and voluntarily unload my car.

I guess the best thing to do is pretend I don't see him. I go back upstairs, heading into a bedroom with a window overlooking the driveway. The man makes short work of his chore, then heads back to his four-wheeler.

He throws a look over his shoulder, giving me a clear view of his face. Heavy brows frame his wide-set eyes, and he has a short, graying stubble beard. In fact, he resembles a tan, bearded Edgar Allan Poe. I should know, because Poe is one of my special interests. I own an astonishing number of his biographies, and I've probably seen every photo in existence of him.

He revs his engine and tears off, bouncing across the bridge as if his four-wheeler is on fire. The devil-may-care Poe lookalike hasn't even bothered to wear a helmet.

Realizing I don't even know the man's name, I text Micah and ask for it. When the text doesn't go through, I move to another room, only to realize I don't seem to have any kind of signal. I should've asked Robin for the Wi-Fi code.

After roaming around the kitchen, I'm finally able to get my text through, presumably on a cell signal. I send Micah a follow-up text asking for the Wi-Fi code before traipsing downstairs.

The caretaker has positioned my bags just outside the doors, so I haul them inside. I head over to the elevator, figuring I might as well try it out. When I push the button, the elevator roars to life and its doors slide open, revealing a small, wood-paneled interior. What a handy luxury. Micah has certainly done well for himself.

Once I've unloaded the food bags into the capacious cabinets and fridge, I glance down at my arms, realizing the rayon sleeves of my shirt have been flopping up and down in a way that's irritating my skin. I should've gotten rid of it years ago, but hate to feel I've wasted money on clothing purchases.

Renard was always urging me to buy more stylish clothing, but since I stay inside writing most of the time, I've never seen much reason to invest in my wardrobe. My go-to writing outfit is a pair of bootcut jeans and a frayed hoodie I've had since high school. I've packed them at the top of my suitcase, anticipating I'd need them soon after arrival in the new place.

After changing, I dig into the outer suitcase pocket and retrieve my beat-up, fleece-lined boots, pulling them on over my socks. Unlike my mom, I don't walk around the house barefoot, because I can't stand the cringey feeling on my sole when it contacts a stray crumb or a clump of dirt. Socks are a constant in my indoor life, unless I'm in the shower or in bed.

I feel a thrill of anticipation to explore the grounds around the house. Both my front and back yards in Greenwich are tiny—basically squares of grass I hire a neighborhood teen to mow. Here, nature seems big and unknowable, and, to my surprise, it doesn't terrify me. Maybe my Alaskan reality show has somewhat prepared me for the wilds of West Virginia.

Along that vein, it would probably be wise to carry some kind of weapon around. Since I write suspense, I've become acutely aware of the numerous ways things can go wrong in the great outdoors. I've read there can be bears and coyotes in the Appalachians, so I want to be prepared, if the need arises.

Padding down to the kitchen, I glance around. Chef's knives line a magnet strip on the backsplash, but they're far too long and sharp to tuck into a hoodie pocket.

I shift direction and head toward a maple-colored roll top desk in the living room. It's no stretch to imagine Micah sitting here, editing novels like my own. I give the roll top a tentative push, but it's been locked. So much for writing at this desk.

But in one of the unlocked side drawers, I discover a petite pair of scissors with keen blades. I shove a paper towel into my hoodie pocket, then ease the scissors in with their handle facing out. Then I jog downstairs, open the back door, and let the golden August air envelop me.

As I follow the stone pathway toward the gazebo, fireflies drift up from the neatly mown grass. I brush against a droopy bloom on a sprawling purple bush, sending a couple of blue-and-black butterflies fluttering. Glancing toward the thick treeline that edges up behind the cabin, I can make out a family of tawny deer browsing under a row of apple trees. Although they freeze and stare at me, they don't run away. Some piece of me seems to unlock, opening up in response to the natural beauty around me.

After taking a moment to appreciate the perfect symmetry of the wooden gazebo, I step inside. A stone fireplace is situated on the wall directly opposite the door, and screened windows line the top half of the other walls. Low bookshelves flank the fireplace, so I walk over to examine them.

There's a healthy collection of Dr. Seuss and Little Golden Books, but not many adult reads. Adding to the kid-friendly dynamic, there's a basket of plastic blocks and toys tucked into a bottom shelf. Maybe Micah has extended family with small children who come to visit periodically, since he's no longer renting the place out.

A dinged-up table sits under a window with a retro kitchen chair shoved under it. Given the careworn look of its bare tabletop, it's safe to say it's not immune to the elements, so I make a mental note not to leave my laptop on it if I work out here.

It's hard to tell if the table's narrow drawers would be big enough to hold my pens and notebooks, so I step over and slide open the middle one. A typewritten, binder-clipped sheaf of slightly yellowed papers has been stuffed inside. I pull it out and read the title page, which is written in a giant, playful font. The story is called The Visitor by Jordan Larson.

I smile, picturing a teen girl holing up in the gazebo on her vacation, earnestly typing up her first "book." I did the same thing at age thirteen, when Emily's family took me along on their annual beach vacation. My mermaids-in-space tale has never seen the light of day, of course, but it taught me what it meant to put my hand to the plow and finish a book, even though it was only about 25,000 words long—what would be considered a novella today. Although I never edited it, it gave me the confidence I could actually complete a book. Once I got home and proudly announced my feat to my mom, she dismissed the entire thing, declaring that writers had to live hand-to-mouth. Hadn't I ever heard of a starving artist?

I guess I've proved that doesn't have to be the case.

The story in my hands looks to be the same length as that beach story. I flip open the curled papers, which look like they've absorbed too much moisture in the gazebo. Above the last chapter heading, someone—presumably Jordan—has scrawled a handwritten note. Given the way the rounded letters slant, I'm guessing she must be left-handed. But my smile fades as I make out what she's written:

I don't think I'm going to make it out of this sauna alive.

SEVEN

Curled papers rattling in hand, I sink onto a cushioned rattan armchair. I slowly close my eyes. Maybe when I open them, those hideous words will have disappeared. Perhaps I just imagined them.

Slowly blinking my way back to reality, I try some grounding techniques. I notice how the dark sky is pressing against the fading pink ribbon of the sunset. I soak in the comforting noise of the chirruping frogs in the creek. I run my fingers along the rough texture of the chair arm.

Some distant part of me understands that I should get inside before it gets dark and that I need to eat because it's time for dinner. But my brain is slow to process physical cues like "My stomach's rumbling, I must be hungry," or, "I have a headache, so I should take ibuprofen."

Right now, my mind is zooming down a one-way track, fixated on the story in my hands. It would seem that The Visitor wasn't written by some starry-eyed teen. It was written by the woman who died in the sauna.

I tuck the book under my arm and hurry inside, unwilling to look at it again until I get some food in my stomach. My therapist is always telling me to note when my last meal was, and, as it turns out, the last thing I ate was a cinnamon toaster pastry during my layover at O'Hare.

I arrange my chicken tenders and frozen rolls in even rows on a cookie sheet, which I slide into the oven. To add to my comforting carb intake, I throw a bag of herbed rice into the microwave.

Once my food is ready, I carry my plate over to the bench-style dining table. Jordan's book sits on the opposite end, practically daring me to pick it up again. I squeeze an inordinate amount of ketchup into a bowl, then shoot a glare at The Visitor. My curiosity about its morbid introductory comment has hijacked any thoughts I could spare for my own in-progress manuscript.

Is this some kind of sick joke? Did someone who stayed here after the sauna death decide to scrawl a phony note at the top of their own manuscript, then steam the pages to add shock value? That seems like a fairly convoluted process, and a far-fetched one, at that.

The most likely solution also happens to be the most horrifying: that Jordan herself was the woman who'd died, and for some reason, she'd taken her manuscript into the sauna. Then she wrote a note at the top to explain things to...whoever.

But why hadn't the manuscript been discovered alongside her body? Had someone taken it before the police came?

A text interrupts my thoughts, and I see it's from Micah. "My caretaker's name is Henry Basham. He cleans the cabin, does repairs, and keeps the yard up. He and his mother live in the small house on the other side of the creek, and she's in bad health. If you have any issues while you're there, he's the one to ask. I'm sorry, but there's no Wi-Fi at the cabin, since I wanted it to be as off-grid as possible. Try the gazebo for a stronger cell signal. I hope you're getting settled in."

Inconvenient, but the lack of Wi-Fi will probably help me to focus on my writing. I return to my previous line of thought. Since Henry is responsible for housecleaning, maybe he found Jordan's sheaf of clipped papers and shoved them into a drawer, not realizing their significance. It doesn't seem possible that he'd miss her desperate note, scrawled in plain view, but if the papers were turned over and he didn't even give them a second glance, I suppose he could have.

Or maybe the police had already found the manuscript and examined it. They could've returned it to the cabin. But they should have turned it over to the family, along with her other possessions.

Utterly confused as to how a dead woman's story came to be in my possession, I stand and slide The Visitor toward me. Trying to ignore the handwriting at the top, I start to read chapter one.

Jordan describes a naive, small-town writer who's moved to New York City in hopes of getting picked up by a publisher. The protagonist, who bears the rather Bond-like name of Aquarius, meets up with a more established author she's met in a critique group. As they discuss her upbringing in Iowa, she not-too-subtly delves into a recitation of her numerous childhood traumas. Although the writing style is a bit overwrought, my breath catches as I read the realistic description of her father talking down to and manipulating her mother.

I make it to the end of the first chapter, where Aquarius gets a job at a coffee shop and royally botches her first cappuccino. Objectively speaking, the beginning of the book doesn't have as much punch as it could. The author's made the classic mistake of sharing too much backstory at the front end. She could've worked any of these details in as the story went along, keeping her main character in the now.

But these are things authors learn with practice. My early books were abominable—murky swamps of poetic language that would bog readers down immediately. Thankfully, my first publishing house had a ruthless editor. Heather tore into my manuscripts, pulling my stories into focus and jettisoning my pretentious phrases until the plotline shone through. With Heather at my side, Natasha Summers was born.

Now Micah was keeping Natasha afloat. If only he could've gotten hold of The Visitor, the book might've had a chance to go somewhere. Jordan, the ingénue author, would've had her big break with a New York editor, just like Aquarius in her story. Art would imitate life, or vice versa.

I take a bite of lukewarm rice and force myself to eat it. I need to keep my strength up for my own writing tomorrow. Now that I've started reading Jordan's book, it doesn't feel so ominous. The note on the first page is off-putting, of course, but that could've been some kind of morbid joke. Maybe she wasn't even the one who'd died in the sauna. It could've been someone else. Maybe Jordan wrote the note later, as some kind of black humor. I never get black humor because it's so incongruous. Maybe I'm old-school, but I don't like joking about death.

With fresh resolution, I shove the book aside and pick up my plate. Time to solidify some kind of nightly routine in this house. After finding storage bowls for my leftovers and stashing them in the fridge, I wash my dishes, then head into the bedroom, giving myself a moment to take in its tasteful, nondescript decor.

The walls are a soothing gray-blue shade, and the matching furniture set is dark wood. The white and gray blankets look fluffy and inviting, and the tasteful oil paintings on the walls are filled with blues and greens. The overall effect of the room recalls a stormy day by the ocean. Micah's interior designer did a stellar job, and I realize I couldn't have chosen a color scheme more fitted to my sensibilities.

As I roll my clothes and stack them in the drawers, something pushes its way into my consciousness. The father in The Visitor. The way he acts toward his daughter and wife...gaslighting them and toying with their emotions for his own twisted pleasure—those behaviors hit too close to home.

I try not to let it stop my forward progress, but I can't seem to draw in enough breath. Renard did some of the same things to me.

I hadn't been able to recognize his narcissism for what it was, and on top of that, my autism compelled me to mask and pretend that everything was just fine. No wonder I was exhausted all the time—I spent every moment pretending to be someone other than myself. Someone less intense, less reflective. Someone Renard would find appealing and fun.

Things had all come into sharp focus one Sunday when we visited Emily's house for a cookout. Renard and Jeff were chatting, but then Renard lifted his head and asked—no, told—me to go inside and get the ketchup. How was he supposed to eat a hot dog without ketchup? Then he made some joke about how he knew I wouldn't want to do it, because the sloth was my favorite animal.

Emily drew her eyebrows together, but didn't say a word. Instead, she stood, placed a hand on my shoulder, and walked into the kitchen alongside me.

"Why does he think he can boss you around like that and insult you to your face? Calling you a sloth—are you kidding me? You're the least sloth-like person I know, writing your butt off all the time," she said. "If anything, he's the lazy one, plopping down at the table and demanding that you serve him. Mooching off your income so he can swan around like the king of the world."

"I hadn't really thought about it." I pulled the ketchup from the fridge. It was an honest answer—I didn't let myself think too deeply about how my husband treated me. Otherwise, I would despair.

"He's a jerk," Emily said simply. "This isn't the first time he's talked to you like this. Jeff mentioned it after your last visit."

"I thought Jeff liked him," I said.

"He tolerates him, like I do. But if there were to be some kind of a throw-down, just know we'd back you up wholeheartedly. Renard is a leech, and he flirts with other women, too. To be honest, he's flirted with me. And he's probably jealous of your success, so he hurls insults at you. But it's not right, Alex." She placed her hand on my arm. "You have to see that."

"I...I don't⁠—"

"Don't try to explain it away. You need to open your eyes, Alex. I don't like seeing my cousin treated like trash." She grabbed the ketchup bottle from my hand and put it back in the fridge. "He can get his own danged ketchup, and I'll tell him as much. You are going to stay in here with me and eat some ice cream."

And that was that. Renard eventually made his way into the kitchen for his ketchup. Emily watched him get it out of the fridge, one eyebrow raised as if daring him to say something sarcastic to me.

He didn't.

On the way home, he didn't speak to me, but from that moment on, he treated me worse. Although he knew he'd made a bad impression on my family, he didn't seem to feel any remorse over it. Instead, he amped up his belittling techniques.

Unwilling to mentally review any of my arguments with Renard—all of which he'd instigated—I pull on my softest pajamas. Next, I carefully arrange my salt lamp, my new books, and several of my "comfort rocks"—small, polished agates with swirling turquoise and cinnabar-colored veins—on the bedside table. The rocks fit perfectly in my hands, bringing a sense of comfort when I'm overwhelmed. I always set them out in a three-one-three pattern, knowing the exact shapes of each one. The wolf's head shape goes on the top left, like a protective talisman, although I don't believe in that kind of thing. The heart shape goes on the bottom right.

Then I turn off the lights and do a quick walk-through around the bed, making sure I can find my way to the door and windows in case of fire. I don't plan to leave the nightlight plugged up in the bathroom, because it'll keep me awake.

Taking the pillows and comforter off the bed, I make a nest for myself on the plush rug in the darkest corner of the room. Once I've turned off the light, I make my way over and settle onto the comforter, pulling my weighted blanket over me. Occasionally, I use a noisemaker app to drift off, but the frogs peeping outside my cracked window have the same effect, so it doesn't take long until I'm asleep.

My recurring dream of driving on an endless interstate is cut short when I'm awakened by a distinct clicking noise. I blink my eyes open in the pitch blackness, disoriented for a moment until I remember I'm sleeping on the floor in the cabin.

My habit of mapping darkened rooms once again plays in my favor. Grabbing my phone, I crawl swiftly toward the door. Surely my stalker hasn't followed me to West Virginia—there's no way that would be possible, over two separate flights.

Taking a deep, centering breath, I decide to tackle things head-on. I probably imagined the noise. Maybe I left something precariously positioned and it toppled over.

One by one, I flip on the lights, moving from room to room until I'm certain no one is upstairs. When nothing strikes me as amiss, I grab a knife from the kitchen, then creep downstairs. As I hit the bottom step, I flip on the overhead light, illuminating the recreation area.

The back door is completely shut, presumably still locked. I step toward the pool table, which looks untouched. The pool sticks stand neatly arranged in the wall holder, just as they were when I arrived this afternoon. But my eye is quickly drawn to the one thing that's off-kilter.

The sauna door is standing slightly ajar. I'm positive it was closed earlier today.

I've seen enough horror movies to know that this is the moment where the lead character would recklessly move toward the danger and get herself killed. I'm no idiot, so I inch backward, toward the steps. Using my phone camera, I zoom in on the glass sauna door, trying to make sure no one is crouching inside.

The interior of the sauna is clearly empty, save for a piece of clothing sitting on a wooden bench. Its familiar light green shade is enough to chill me to the core.

Setting the knife down, I take a careful step closer, forcing my camera to bring the clothing item into view. The moment I see ivory buttons, I'm left with little doubt as to what it is: my ex-husband's Ralph Lauren linen jacket. I bought it for him on our honeymoon.

I'd recognize it anywhere, with its distinctive pistachio color and ivory buttons. Renard looks amazing in that shade of green, and he knows it. He wore that jacket to many high-society functions—most of them without me—during the time we were married. He probably considers it a chick magnet, and he's never above flirting with chicks.

He's also worn it numerous times on his social media sites, where he's trying to build a following as a luxury brand representative. It's an expensive hobby, influencing, but he's never been one to concern himself with trivialities like funding.

He gets all he needs from my royalty payouts.

But how would he possibly manage to follow me here? Has he covertly hidden some kind of tracking app on my phone? He's always been the techie in our marriage, so I let him handle all the computer and phone issues. Maybe he took advantage of my ignorance and installed something back when we were together.

It wouldn't be beneath Renard to throw a brick through my window just to torment me. Although I can't see how he could've broken into this cabin, I'm sure he could find a way. There are plenty of rooms I haven't yet explored, plus I noticed a large, connecting garage outside.

It also makes sense that he would want Natasha to end up with Matteo. I'd once made the mistake of telling him I was modeling Matteo after him, which, ironically, had finally inspired him to pick up one of my books. He skimmed it, then preened around, knowing he'd been immortalized in my readers' hearts. "What an outlaw that Matteo is," he'd say afterward, a superior grin on his face.

I don't want to text Micah about this strange sighting, since I have no clue what time of the day or night it is in Hawaii.

Even though I saw Henry's cell number listed on the laminated sheet of emergency numbers in the guest folder, I hesitate to call him so late. Is this really an emergency situation?

I return to the bottom stair, picking up the knife and turning it idly in my hands. Staring at the swaying glass door, I try to talk myself down. Sure, the door was closed earlier today, but I'd hardly gotten close enough for a thorough examination. Maybe the jacket was inside then, and I didn't notice it. It could've been left behind by some guest, or even by Micah himself...although it doesn't seem his style at all. He's more of a black turtleneck and vintage tweed kind of guy.

The house has definitely cooled off, so there's also the possibility that the temperature shift caused the door mechanism to release. That would explain the faint click I heard.

I'm about to write the whole thing off when a scent drifts my way. It's a distinctive men's cologne—cloying and sweet—and I've smelled it before. It's Renard's signature scent. And it seems to be close by. Maybe around the corner of the stairwell?

I dart upstairs, fumbling in the guest folder for Henry's number. I quickly plug each digit into my phone, then hit the call button. Henry picks up before I've even planned out what to say.

His bass voice rumbles like a bear that's come out of hibernation. "Henry here."

I haltingly tell him who I am, then share my fear that someone's gotten into the house and placed a jacket in the sauna—maybe my ex-husband. "I'm not sure if Micah told you much, but I'm an author, and a violent stalker found my home in Connecticut. That's why I'm staying here for awhile," I explain.

A hefty note of concern charges his southern-accented words. "Stay upstairs. I'll be right over to check on things."

I sit down on the leather couch, placing the knife next to me as I wait. I force myself to think about something other than the cologne smell that's started to make me queasy.

At least I know I can make outgoing calls, even with the spotty cellular service. This is supposed to be a safe haven, a place where I can hunker down and write my next book. Thorvald Media has already assured me that book seven will be a bestseller, given the staggering sales of book six.

The four-wheeler whips up the drive and comes to an abrupt stop. The porch light clicks on, and a couple of moments later, Henry opens the door.

He shouts, "I'm here, Miss Alexandra." He immediately starts banging around, checking on things. The sauna door clicks a few times in rapid succession.

It's strange to hear him call me by my full author name. If I would've had time to think things through, I would've come up with a pseudonym to use in Cedar Gap. It could get awkward if townspeople get a whiff that the Alexandra Dubois is staying nearby. I suppose I could get my hair colored turquoise, since it's a wish I've been harboring for months. But my hairdresser has warned me it's a lengthy process for brunettes, and I can't bear the thought of sitting for hours in a salon chair, trying to keep up a stream of chitchat.

Henry abruptly stops rummaging around, and heavy footsteps pound up the stairs. The tall man comes into view, wearing ripped jeans and a rumpled red Henley. It looks like he donned the first outfit he grabbed. His brown eyes are liquid-dark, and his wide, bushy brows are quirked upward. He's wearing a frown, but seems reluctant to say anything.

His eyes play over my face and hitch on my lips, as if he can't quite process what he's seeing. I've gotten this reaction from men before, but it always irritates me. I don't need this, tonight of all nights. After all, this isn't a social call.

"So what's going on with the sauna?" I ask, a bit too sharply.

Snapping out of his reverie, he says, "I checked. The door was shut." He lets out a prolonged whoosh of breath. "There was nothing inside."

EIGHT

Istare. "What do you mean? I just saw that green jacket. You told me it wasn't here when you cleaned the place." I sniff at the lingering scent of cologne in the air. "And do you smell that?"

He sniffs, then shrugs. "It smells like...potpourri? Is that yours?"

"No, it's not potpourri, and it's not mine. It's a men's cologne. Someone else has been in this cabin tonight."

He shoots me a dubious look, which only adds to my exasperation. If he knew me better, he'd know I'm not lying.

I stand and march toward him. I try to project authority, like I've seen Emily do. "I want you to take me down there and show me."

With a slow nod, he turns and leads me downstairs. Together, we make our way to the sauna, which is closed up tight, with no green jacket in sight.

To his credit, Henry doesn't gloat. He just opens the sauna door, allowing me to glance around the confined space. The wraparound bench is bare.

"I swear the jacket was sitting right there." I point. "And the door was open. I wouldn't have called you over otherwise."

He leans against the sauna's wooden exterior, and once again, his eyes roam over my face. With a thoughtful nod, he says, "I believe you."

I sigh. "Then where does that leave us? What happened here?"

"I'm not sure."

I wait for him to say more, but he stays quiet. Trying to nudge him into some kind of action, I ask, "Do you think we should call the cops about something like this?"

"There's nothing for them to find. I suppose they could dust for fingerprints, but we can't really prove anything happened."

"I guess you're right. But what am I supposed to do, just go back to sleep like nothing happened?"

He gives this some consideration. "I could call my mother's backup caregiver, then I could stay on one of the downstairs couches tonight, if you're worried about someone breaking into the place."

I'm not sure what my face does, but it must indicate that he's not sleeping inside, because he rushes on. "Or I could get my sleeping bag and camp out in the gazebo. It's nice out, and my bag's really comfy."

"Okay...that would work." I'm reminded of what I found in the gazebo. "Henry, have you ever gone through the desk drawers out there?"

He looks confused. "Sure, I dust them regularly, if that's what you mean."

"I'm not questioning your cleaning prowess—I just wondered if you've ever noticed anything unusual."

After reflecting a moment, he says, "I once found a stash of chewed-up gum stuck in the bottom of the trash can, but I can't think of anything else out of the ordinary. Why do you ask?"

I'm not ready to share about the manuscript I found, at least not until I've read through it. If, by some perverse twist, The Visitor is autobiographical, Jordan might have hinted at who killed her in the sauna. I should probably skip to the end as soon as possible, just to be sure she didn't point to the man standing right next to me.

Trying to come up with an adequate motivation for my offbeat question, I say, "I looked around for books to read, but couldn't find many for adults." That much was true.

"Is that really so unusual?" he asks, clearly stymied.

I shrug, unwilling to elaborate on my half-truth.

He waves his hand upward. "You'll find adult books in the far bedroom—the one that's set up like an office. We have a collection of novels and some classics, as well."

I hadn't really noticed the office space, but it sounded like a good place to write if I had to work indoors. "Thanks—that's helpful," I say.

He gives a brusque nod. "Okay. I'll get Cleo over for Mother, then I'll come back. You have my number if you need anything."

As he walks out, the outdoor light comes on. I'm guessing it has a motion sensor, which gives me some level of comfort that I'll be alerted to anyone approaching the back door.

Without warning, tears well up. This entire day—from my hasty flights to the necessary interactions with complete strangers to the angst of catching sight of Renard's jacket—comes crashing down on me, and I'm incapable of processing it. I hurry upstairs, ready for the darkened cave of my temporary room, which currently seems like the only place on earth where I can get even a scrap of mental peace.

At this point, I don't even care if someone's stalking me. Sleep is the only thing that'll restore me, and if I don't get it, I'm heading for a total meltdown—which isn't the best direction when I'm staring down the barrel of a book deadline.

Feeling equal parts relief and apprehension to know that Henry will be sleeping outside the cabin, I close my eyes. Scarlett O'Hara's mindless mantra jumps to mind—"Tomorrow is another day."

If I make it till tomorrow, it will be. That's good enough for now.

A loud, warbling birdsong wakes me, and cool morning air wafts in through my cracked window. The inexplicable events of last night rush to mind, but I refuse to dwell on them. Instead, I go about giving my concentration a boost, heading straight for the kitchen and turning on the coffeemaker.

The house is completely still, and the greenery outside the front wall of windows is breathtaking. It's like I'm sitting in some kind of eagle's nest, surveying my own personal spread of full-leafed trees.

I grab a toaster strudel from the freezer, crank the toaster darkness level up, and pop it in. Then I wander down the hallway to my right, checking for the room that's set up as an office. Sure enough, during my cursory inspection, I missed an adjoining workspace off one of the master bedrooms.

In the cozy office, bookshelves frame a wide desk that sits behind a floor-to-ceiling window offering an unobstructed view of the back yard.

I step closer to peruse the book spines, impressed with the selection. I'm surprised and satisfied to see several of my titles lined up at eye level. It's as if Micah is proud of my books, which brings a thrill to my writer heart.

I pull out Book One in my Lipstick and Lies series, Breathless Night. After opening the cover, I realize it's one of the signed copies I did at my very first book event. Those particular signatures are distinctive, because my novice publicist had handed me a non-permanent marker that streaked every time I shifted my hand. From that time on, I've brought my own reliable pens to signings.

I'm not sure how Micah managed to get this copy, because he wasn't my editor at that time. At this stage in my career, what are signed editions of my first print run going for? I make a mental note to send him personalized copies of all six books in the series.

I shelve my book and glance over the desktop, which is empty, save for a barometer and a pen holder. It's wide enough to hold my laptop, notes, and coffee, which is all I care about.

As I head back into the kitchen to grab my strudel, my phone buzzes with a text from Henry. "Just letting you know I'm heading out to work soon. Any problems last night?"

I don't know why it should come as a surprise that he has to go to work, but it does. Of course he doesn't just stick around all the time, caring for his ailing mother and the property.

"I slept well, and hope you did, too. Thanks for the help," I text back, then wait to see if he responds. Maybe I should have specifically thanked him for giving up sleep to stay over here last night.

But there's no response, not even an emoji of acknowledgment, which brings a reluctant grin to my face. It almost seems as if Henry is as disinterested in social formalities as I am. In a perfect world, I'd never take phone calls, and my texts would be every bit as clipped as my conversations with my dentist.

As I sit down to eat, The Visitor calls to me from the end of the table. But I'm focusing on my own book today. Turning away from Jordan's manuscript, I force myself to scan the trees for birds. It doesn't take long to spot a blue jay and a cardinal, which is a rare treat, since I typically have mourning doves and sparrows at my Greenwich feeder.

Once I'm finished, I brew a fresh cup of coffee, retrieve my laptop bag, and head into the office.

After sitting at the desk for two hours, I manage to get half a chapter finished. That's not bad, given that I tend to self-edit as I go, but it's certainly not my speediest work. Deciding it's time for an exercise break, I head downstairs and pull on my boots.

Like a pied piper, dappled sunlight pulls me outside. I meander through the flowerbeds and peer into the gazebo, noting that Henry left it just the way it was yesterday. I make my way down the driveway, toward the creek. The bridge seems rickety, but it holds the weight of my car, so it can certainly hold me.

Once I reach the edge of the woods, the turnoff to Henry's place comes into view. Feeling a sudden (southern?) urge to be friendly and introduce myself to his invalid mother, I march toward the front porch before I can think better of the idea.

But the moment I knock on the faded blue door, a deep groaning noise starts from inside. Concerned, I try the doorknob, and it opens.

Unsure what I'm walking into, I take a tentative step into the living room, which is empty. "Hello?" I call out.

Footsteps shuffle toward me, and a woman emerges from what must be the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on a dishtowel. She doesn't say a word, but gives me a questioning look as if to say, "What are you doing in this house?"

"I let myself in," I explain. "I'm staying in the cabin up the way. I heard someone groaning like they were in pain."

"Cleo?" a croaky voice calls from a side room. "Do we have a guest?"

"Yes, ma'am." Cleo gives me a thorough but kindly once-over, then says, "Follow me."

She leads me into a small side room that was clearly an office at one point, but has now been repurposed as a bedroom. A tiny elderly lady lies on a hospital bed, swallowed up in blankets and quilts. The droning click-hum of an oxygen machine sounds nearby, and a clear tube is connected to her nose.

The woman who must be Henry's mother turns toward me, and her watery blue eyes lock on mine. Something akin to hostility flashes in them, forcing me to take a wary step back. Before I can come up with an excuse to leave, she clears her throat and speaks.

"You've met my boy, have ye?" she croaks.

"Yes." Her icy demeanor seems to freeze my brain, and I can't think of anything to add.

Cleo beats a hasty retreat from the room, and I wonder what I've gotten myself into. All my movie-version ideals of Southern hospitality fade, and once again, I have to face the unbearable reality that people can be cruel. Even mothers.

The older woman shifts on her bed, but her probing eyes never leave my face. "My Henry's a good boy. Says you've had some kind of trouble at the cabin. Is it because you're some kind of writer?"

Is she blaming me for my stalker troubles? "It could be," I say, an edge creeping into my voice.

She squints up at me. "You know, that girl who died up there was a writer, too. God rest her soul. It was a terrible way to go. My Henry never could understand how that sauna door got stuck. It never gave any trouble before that."

The news comes like a punch to the gut, even though it confirms what I already suspected. Jordan must have been the one to die in that sauna. Still, I force myself to confirm it. "Do you know what her name was?" I ask.

Tilly falls into a spasm of coughing, and Cleo hurries in. After adjusting the older woman's nasal cannula, Cleo says, "You've been talking a mite too long, Miss Tilly." She gives me a sympathetic look, as if I should take this opportunity to leave.

I give her a nod. "I'll head home now. I'm sorry to bother⁠—"

"Jordan," Tilly rasps out. "Jordan Larson. We won't soon forget that name."

NINE

Ilet that information soak in—that Jordan had died in the sauna, exactly as she'd predicted in her note.

I glance at Cleo, who's now hovering by my side as if waiting to jump in and physically bail me out. Tilly might be prickly, but I want to ask her one more question before I leave.

"You said she's a writer. Why was she visiting this area—do you know?" I ask.

She coughs. "She was some kind of newspaper writer, Henry said. Came in for the grand opening of the bookstore in town. She was close with the owner, Quincy."

Quincy Gates. Maybe that's why he asked me if I knew about Micah's place. Hopefully, he won't guess I'm staying in the cabin now, just like his friend Jordan did.

Tilly pulls an embroidered handkerchief from her nightgown pocket and coughs into it. As she struggles to catch her breath, Cleo steps closer.

"I'm afraid Miss Tilly might be needing a breathing treatment. This humid air's been oppressive on her lungs."

Tilly darts a sharp glance at me, just before Cleo fits a nebulizer mask over her mouth.

I give the ladies a polite wave and head out the front door, hesitating for a moment on the porch, where something familiar catches my eye. My own book is sprawled open on a glass-topped table next to one of the rocking chairs I saw Henry sitting in yesterday. Heartless Truth is book five in my series, so someone in the house must be reading through it. Maybe Henry himself? He didn't mention that he recognized me, though.

It's surreal to discover that one of my neighbors—a person I didn't even know existed before I came here—is getting to know the same characters that walk around in my mind. From creation to edits to marketing, each book has demanded more from me than I thought I could give.

As I walk down the porch steps, I wonder again if readers would find Natasha so relatable if they knew I'd built her to combat my own fears and insecurities. They might feel like they know her, but a good chunk of her is me...only the me I want to be. She overcomes her trauma to take risks and reach into the lives of others. Most of the time, my daily routine takes up all the energy I have, so I keep myself to myself. I have nothing more to give.

The leafy green forest embraces me as I step into it. There's definitely something to be said for living closer to nature. I'm glad I've decided to set Natasha's final book in Alaska. After all, I've done plenty of indirect research by watching my show.

Emily recently suggested that we book a cruise to Alaska, so I could be sure to write my setting correctly. But, to no one's surprise, I had to decline. I've become all-too-aware of the various ways cruise ships can turn into death traps—after all, one of my novels was largely set on one. Besides, I doubt that cruise-goers get to see the gritty reality of living in the Alaskan bush.

With the urgency of my impending deadline pressing on me, I hurry across the bridge, punching in the keycode I've written on my hand before stepping inside.

Once I've gathered a few snacks and made myself another coffee, I head into the office and open my laptop. I pull up my second chapter and close my eyes, only to see Natasha, racing along in maroon ski pants on a snowmobile. I'll have to get her out of the cave first, so she can move into a snowmobile chase scene.

Before I'm able to type a word, a text comes through from Micah.

"Just giving you an update on your letter. The police didn't find fingerprints on it. The postmark was blurred, but they've determined it was mailed from New Haven, Connecticut."

I know only one person who lives near New Haven, and it's Renard. A shiver runs through me, and I force myself to read on.

"They haven't gotten anything on the brick, and my F.B.I. friend hasn't found anyone in the database who fits the profile for this person. I've discussed things with Mr. Schneider, and he says he'd feel best if you stay put until police are able to turn up something more definitive."

I suppose if my publisher wants me to stay, I have to stay, even though I can't be sure of my safety here. After all, I've seen Renard's jacket and smelled his cologne in this house, but I can't really share that with anyone, since I don't have the jacket to prove it. It just sounds paranoid.

With shaky hands, I text back, "Please tell the police my ex-husband Renard lives just outside New Haven. They might need to look into him." At least that might point them in the right direction.

I turn off my phone and flip it over, wishing I didn't have to think about any of this. But I can't shake the truth that my stalker letter was mailed from New Haven. On top of that, Renard might have been in this house...unless I was dreaming the whole thing up.

I'll be the first to admit that I can get caught up in my imagination, but I've never broken the bounds of reality by seeing or hearing things that aren't there—excluding my rich writing world, of course. But I'm under an incredible amount of stress right now, which might trigger delusions.

Not to mention, The Visitor is taking up far too much of my headspace. How am I supposed to write my own book when I have questions about where Jordan's storyline is going? I suppose that's a coup for the author, since she managed to pull me into her tale.

Maybe I should take a small break and read a little more, if only to see what happened to Aquarius after she took a job at the cafe. Were things about to get ominous, or was The Visitor some predictable YA read with plenty of introspection and little action?

I grab my empty coffee mug and walk down the hallway. I'll eat my cheese and crackers while reading a chapter of Jordan's book, just so I can see where it's heading.

My one chapter turns into six. I can't stop reading as a handsome yet mysterious older man named Max comes into the cafe and makes an instant connection with Aquarius, based on their mutual love for modern sculpture (a bit far-fetched, but Jordan has clearly researched the topic well). Max invites her to have dinner with him the next night and see his art collection.

As Aquarius drives onto his sprawling, gated grounds, she laments that she chose to go casual with jeans and a white blouse. She should've dressed up to fit the high-class vibe of his place. But when Max answers the door, also wearing jeans, her mind is put at ease.

While he's preparing their meal, she wanders around his living room, admiring his high-end artwork. When she spots a photo of him and another little boy sitting on a side table, she asks him if it's his brother.

Max immediately clams up, saying he's "just a childhood friend." But Aquarius senses there's more to the story.

After dinner, she goes to the bathroom, only to hear deep moaning noises coming from the basement. She locates the door that must lead downstairs, but it's locked. When she returns to the dining room to ask Max about it, he's nowhere in sight.

Then all the house lights go out.

I force myself to put the manuscript down. Why am I so entranced by this sophomoric attempt at a book? The lack of dialogue tags makes it difficult to follow who's saying what. The simple wording could be geared toward a middle school level. Yet the plot itself has taken off like a runaway train.

It's an escape, that's what it is.

I've read journal articles condemning fiction that can't be deemed a mentally enriching literary experience. Yet, when you drill down to it, many of today's classics were the pulp fiction of their day. Short stories that would now be overlooked once dominated the reading scene—tales like The Christmas Carol or The Gift of the Magi, with themes that have inspired plenty of movie and TV spinoffs. Authors like Agatha Christie, Louis L'amour, or Mary Higgins Clark, the one writer I'm constantly compared to, defined their niche by writing tight, propulsive reads that appealed to a wide swath of readers.

Jordan's book might not be erudite or deeply insightful, but it provides entertainment, pure and simple, and I need to be entertained. I need to dive into another world and forget the strangeness of my own.

Although part of my strange world includes the fact that this book's author died in this very house.

I glance at the clock and my mood plummets. It's already three. This day has shot past, and I hardly have any words to show for it. Determined to make a dent in my word count, I put my empty plate in the dishwasher, reheat my coffee, and plod into the office.

As I dive back into Natasha's cave scene, I prepare for Matteo to show up. He's already in Alaska, unbeknownst to her. In his typical outlaw way, he plans to scoop more Viking artifacts for himself. He's arranged for private access to the cave, where he plans to do some digging on his own. Of course, he'll have to save Natasha first.

Suddenly, I feel weary to death of Matteo. I want him out of the picture, out of the book, out of my life. It wouldn't be too difficult to come up with a memorable way to off him. Has my Invested Reader's insistence that Matteo come out the victor propelled me even more firmly in the opposite direction? Maybe.

I spin out the possibilities in my head. Maybe Matteo has been bad all along...a liar and a manipulator who's working for Ambrose. All this time, he's been trying to gain Natasha's trust, only to use it against her. He's a narcissist who finds her compelling, but is ultimately unwilling to sacrifice his own goals for hers.

I take a gulp of coffee, energized by this brainstorm, which I'll admit is heavily based on Renard's behaviors toward me. "Write what you know" has never been so personal.

Natasha needs to discover Matteo's duplicity and become proactive. She has to do what she does best, which is to stop the bad guys, and he is Bad Guy Number One.

No one else can step in and help her deal with Matteo. In fact, I'll drive the stakes higher than high—maybe Archer's life will hang in the balance.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, coaxing out the story I want to tell. By the time the light dwindles outside my window and I realize I'm having hunger pangs, I've completed three chapters.

Three chapters of sheer misery for my Highly Invested Reader.

I close my computer, trying to figure out my next step. I don't want to cook, because I'm too brain-dead to think up a decent meal plan. Recalling seeing a small pizza shop near the bookstore, I decide to head into town and pick something up.

I pull into an empty space beside a cherry red Tesla. I grin, wondering how many charging stations the driver will be able to locate in this rural town.

A definite effort has been made to play up the quaintness of Cedar Gap, from the black iron lampposts dotting each sidewalk corner to the colorful awnings adorning shop entrances. I pick out the green one above Page Turner and walk that way.

The pizza shop, which is simply called Luigi's, sits under a red-and-white striped awning. A woman puffs on a cigarette at the lighted outdoor table, her single slice practically untouched. When the smoke drifts my way, a short cough erupts from my mouth and I try to stifle it, which only makes things worse.

The woman cuts an irritated look my way. When I get a full view of her—the cropped blonde bob, the aviator shades, the pale blue sheath dress that's totally out of place—I startle. I've seen this woman before, I'm sure of it. But where?

TEN

Pushing through the door to move out of the woman's sights, I try to focus my attention on the menu. I finally settle on a medium pepperoni pizza, so I'll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

As the cashier rings me up, I dart a glance out the window. The mystery woman is beating a hasty retreat, sliding her cigarette pack into her ivory quilted Chanel bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She shoves her paper plate bearing the uneaten pizza into a trash can, then walks straight toward the red Tesla, her high heels teetering.

Of course that's her car—it's as out of place here as she is. Unless she's gotten all dressed up to go to church, which I doubt.

The cashier hands me my pizza box, so I grab it and speed out the door. There has to be a reason I'd recognize someone in the middle of West Virginia—something significant. But by the time I step onto the sidewalk, she's pulling away. Someone drives right up behind her, so I can't catch her license number.

The second car whips into the vacated parking space, and a woman gets out. I take a closer look at her curly red head, only to realize it's Hope from the grocery store. She looks weary, but the moment she catches sight of me, she waves.

I smile and continue walking toward my car. She's probably here to get her own dinner at Luigi's.

She hurries my way, beaming as if it's a delight to see me, which I fail to understand. She strides alongside me, gesturing toward the box in my hand. "They have some of the best pizza for miles," she says.

That wouldn't be a hard feat, since I doubt there are many towns in that radius, but I give a polite nod. I'm not sure why she's chatting me up.

She continues, "Our book club is meeting here to discuss fall reads. It would be a delight to have you sit in on it, if you aren't too busy."

I'm busy, all right. Busy being a recluse. But something tells me that Hope isn't going to take no for an answer.

"We'll feed you pizza, of course," she says. "And it's just a small group. Actually, Henry Basham will be here—he lives right next to your cabin."

I nod. "Yes, we've met." I'm unable to formulate a coherent excuse, and, like a complete traitor, my stomach gives a loud rumble. "Sure, I'll take you up on it, but only for a little while. I do need to get back to writing."

As she smiles and leads the way into Luigi's, I wonder if I've taken leave of my senses. It's completely unnatural for me to accept an offer to eat with a virtual stranger, much less interact with a group of them. Some deep and dormant part of me seems to be steering the ship, telling me to feed my curiosity about these townspeople...namely, the handsome but rather monosyllabic Henry.

I take a bite of garlic breadstick, letting my gaze roam the length of the table. Hope sits in the head seat, since she's the club leader. She's holding an empty chair next to her for Barry, who will arrive after he closes the store, she says.

A couple of peppy young women sit between us, talking amongst themselves. I get the feeling they know who I am, even though Hope hasn't introduced me yet. Thankfully, they don't ask me any awkward questions.

Unfortunately, Quincy, the bookstore owner, has settled into the chair right next to me. His pale stare seems to follow my every move—I can feel it, even when I'm not looking directly at him.

Hope wanted to wait until Henry arrived to start the discussion, but since it looks like he's not going to make it, she asks Quincy to read last month's minutes. I wasn't aware that most book clubs even kept minutes, but apparently this one does.

With Quincy's attention thus diverted, I'm finally able to take a few bites in peace. But before long, he mentions that there's a world-famous author in their midst. He asks me if I'd like to say anything.

I feel betrayed. Doesn't he remember our bookstore discussion about keeping my visit quiet? Some "soul of discretion" he is.

Hope notices my reaction. "Please, just continue with the minutes, Quincy. Alexandra is here as a guest. She doesn't want to be put on the spot."

He gives a confused nod. "Oh, I thought she'd be speaking to us?"

"Not tonight," Hope says firmly.

I feel a presence looming behind me, so I make a slow turn, only to see that Henry has walked up. He motions to the seat across from me. "Empty?" he mouths.

I nod. He sits, taking a plate and placing a couple slices of supreme pizza on it. Quincy drones on about some kind of Halloween raffle the club will be doing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Henry looking my way. His glimpses are nowhere near as irritating as Quincy's relentless stare. Instead, Henry seems to be taking timed peeks out from under his dark lashes.

As Quincy finishes his report, Hope says, "That's great, thank you."

Quincy shifts to gaze at me, clearly proud of his thorough minute-reading. I try to hide my irritation that he basically threw my privacy under the bus.

Hope continues, "Now we need to discuss book choices for September. Henry, I know you had a hankering for a classic." Her eyes quickly shift from Henry to her husband, who's arrived and is moving her way.

Once Barry has taken his seat, he helps himself to a couple of breadsticks. "Go on, Henry—sorry to interrupt."

Henry nods, his mouth full of pizza. After finishing his bite, he says, "I had thought of something like Kidnapped, by Stevenson. I've wanted to read that for years, and I watched a great movie version of it."

One of the younger women sighs. "Isn't that a heavier read, with some Scottish brogue in it?" The brunette casts a desperate glance at Hope. "It's just that y'all know I'm home with two under two right now, and I can hardly find a few minutes to rub together. I vote for something simpler—a faster read."

Hope gives her an understanding look. "Of course, Lindy. Maybe a more popular book?"

The young mother darts a look my way. "I've read one of your books. It was amazing. I vote for your latest—what's the title?"

I clear my throat. "Uh—it's Silent Beauty."

Quincy pipes up. "I have a wonderful idea. What if we do a book signing at my shop for Alexandra? Then everyone can pick up a signed copy of her latest there! What a delight, to be honored by such a lovely author." He blinks at me, as if willing me to go along with this plan. In a tone of unabashed admiration, he adds, "You look exactly how I pictured Natasha Summers."

Great—is he hitting on me now? And I can't grasp how he's completely forgotten my entire "lying low in town" spiel. "Well—I'm not sure how long I'll be here," I sputter.

Quincy waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't worry about it. I have a big shipment in now, and I can rush-ship another, just to be sure we'd have enough books. I could arrange a signing in a couple of days—how's that?"

Henry notices my distress. "You're being pushy, Quincy. She doesn't even know her schedule yet."

I appreciate Henry trying to give me an out. But the young mother and her friend are looking at me like I've hung the moon. It's easy for me to downplay my fame, but when I see it there, shining in my readers' eyes, it's hard to dismiss out of hand. They want to get to know the woman behind the books, and what's wrong with that? My signature means something to them. And they aren't my stalkers.

"Sure...okay. I can do a signing on Tuesday," I say.

Quincy rubs his hands together like a gleeful young boy. "We'll do it up right. Classy. Understated."

"Okay, okay—now back to the reading schedule." Hope reins in Quincy's jubilance. "What are we thinking for October? Suggestions?"

I throw a glance toward Henry, who is giving me a rather smoldering look. Is he upset with me for folding to Quincy's demands? Or is there something else there?

As he holds my gaze, he doesn't smile. Yet something about his downturned lips is more captivating than any open show of friendliness. His serious look says that he's concerned about me. He's already showed me as much by staying overnight in the gazebo and standing up to Quincy.

Still, I know better than to allow a few acts of kindness to break down my barriers. My mom manipulated me that way—suddenly turning on the charm to get what she wanted—and Renard did, too. The only difference is that they always used words.

I constantly have to remind myself not to take what people say at face value. People can lie, but their actions tell the truth.

I glance over at Henry's clasped hands, his set jaw. So far, his actions have told me he is a concerned caretaker, and no more. I need to let it go at that.

When the meeting closes, I stand to leave. Henry walks over to chat with Barry, so I retrieve my takeout pizza box and head toward the door. Quincy follows me onto the darkened sidewalk, inspiring me to walk faster.

But he keeps up with my pace. "Thank you so much for doing a signing at Page Turner," he says breathily. "I'll make sure you have a great turnout."

That's the exact opposite of what I want to hear, but I give an agreeable nod, hoping to shut down any further conversation.

"I was serious about you looking like Natasha," he continues. "Although she has green eyes, and I noticed yours are blue."

He's getting way too personal, too fast. I hurry my stride and click the button to unlock my car. "Thanks," I say vaguely, leaving the car door open as a barrier between us.

He gives me an unreadable smile as I set the pizza box on the passenger seat. I slam the door and start the engine, so he finally gives up and skulks away.

As I pull out, my thoughts return to the woman with the Tesla. I try to picture how she would look without the oversized sunglasses. It's not difficult, because her face shape was distinctively long and narrow, kind of like a horse's face.

Her platinum bob seemed too perfect...almost like a wig. What if I juxtaposed her face with red hair? Or brown?

Long brown hair and a rectangular face. An image swims to mind, of someone I know. Someone from Greenwich? No, that doesn't fit.

I stop at a light, my mind whirling. Maybe it's someone from the writing world? That seems more likely. Maybe an agent? Or an author.

And then it hits me. Yes, the woman is an author—and one who hates me. In my early days, we'd joined the same online critique group. When we swapped manuscripts, she told me to "do my worst" when I edited hers.

I took her literally, not catching the nuance behind her words. So I was completely unprepared for the reaction my thorough and somewhat scathing critique would have on Mariah Cloud. She was using a pen name, even then.

The car behind me gives a soft honk and I glance up, only to see that the light has already turned green. How long have I been sitting here?

I speed up, mulling over the mistakes of my past all the way to the cabin.

I labored for weeks on Mariah's manuscript, while she shot mine back in a matter of days. She'd only made about ten suggestions. I should've taken her lackadaisical critique as a hint and laid off my scrutiny of her story, but I was already in too deep, determined to do right by her and give her the kind of serious edit I believed would land her a book contract.

She hit the roof when I sent her manuscript back. I really can't blame her, because I had basically rewritten the entire book, from plot to characters, in the form of helpful suggestions. Not to mention, I'd corrected every instance of her sloppy grammar. Each page had anywhere from fifteen to forty helpful suggestions in the track changes section. Looking back, I don't even know how she could've possibly gone through and integrated everything I suggested.

Yet I sent it to her, attached to a thoughtful email encouraging her that her romance novel would surely be picked up by some NYC editor. I had done my duty, raising the standard for Mariah Cloud, illuminating all the errors she couldn't see on her own.

She blacklisted me to the entire critique group, sending me a hateful email response and CCing everyone else. She said I was spiteful, holier-than-thou, proud, and a host of other names. She said she hoped I would rot in hell for what I did to her book.

She also said that if she ever saw me in real life, she'd have to resist the impulse to strangle me.

As the years went by, I'd shoved her venomous email out of my mind. I got picked up by a publisher, and, shockingly, so did she. I realized she probably didn't recognize me as Alexandra Dubois, since I'd gone by my maiden name of Winters in the group (it was an inside joke when I'd bestowed the last name of Summers on my heroine, Natasha).

Why on earth would Mariah be hanging out at a pizza joint in Cedar Gap? Does she live here? If so, she hasn't made any effort to blend in with the locals.

The mountain road back to the cabin doesn't have any turnoffs, so I don't have to consult my app to make sure I'm going the right way. It's satisfying to intuit which way the serpentine pavement will curve next, almost like West Virginia is playing a strategy game with me. I've never been in a place that feels this alive, and I'd imagine Alaska would feel the same way for Natasha.

My headlights cut the darkness as I cross the bridge. I let off on the gas, gripping the wheel to be sure I'm steering in a straight line. If my tires slip off either side, I'll wind up in the creek. The only way in and out seems incredibly precarious.

I pull into the driveway and grab the pizza box. The outdoor light flicks on as I approach the door, and I manage to remember the keycode and head inside.

I head upstairs, flipping lights on as I go. After setting the pizza on the counter, I decide to ask Hope if she's seen Mariah around. If she's in town, she's likely visited the grocery store at some point or another.

I send her a text. "Does a woman with a pale blonde bob named Mariah live in town, do you know? She's in her thirties, like me."

Hope's response is quick. "I don't know anyone by that name, and there actually aren't a lot of blondes around. Since the town is largely Scotch-Irish, there are tons of brunettes like you. Trust me, redheads and blondes tend to stand out."

So much for my theory that Mariah might live here. "Okay, thank you."

She texts back, "Thanks for coming tonight. I'm sorry if Quincy made things awkward for you. He's a bit star-struck, I think."

"It was enjoyable." That is definitely a stretch, but I did enjoy the pizza, as well as my observations of Henry.

"See you at the signing," she responds.

ELEVEN

Istart placing the slices of my uneaten pizza into individual sandwich bags. I can't handle cramming them all into one large bag, because the cheese on top will sog up the crispy crust.

My phone rings, so I glance at the screen. Once I see it's Emily, I quickly wash my hands and pick up.

My cousin sounds peppy, as if she might've had a day off. "How's the writing, hon?"

"I've gotten several chapters done, and it seems to be rolling along."

"And how's life at the cabin?"

I explain that it's more like a mansion, and Emily oohs and ahs as I briefly describe the place. "You'll have to watch a movie in the theater room," she says. "Maybe have someone over for popcorn. Have you met anyone nice?"

I think of Hope, who's the only one I'd feel comfortable watching a movie with. I have mixed feelings about being alone with Henry.

I dutifully tell Emily about the jacket sighting, although I omit the tragic backstory of the sauna. She doesn't need to know about Jordan's untimely demise or the manuscript she left behind, since that would only fuel her worries.

She gets unusually quiet. "How did that make you feel, seeing Renard's jacket?" Without waiting for my answer, she continues. "He was such a bully. I can't believe he went straight into the arms of that floozy, though I guess he got as good as he deserved."

I try not to think about the brainless yet incredibly fit twenty-something Renard picked up after our divorce—or maybe before it, for all I knew. I really wish Emily would stop bringing her up.

"Yeah, right." I don't elaborate.

Emily accordingly changes the subject. "I wanted to let you know that Jeff went over to open your place so the window repairman could get in. He stayed the entire time the guy was fixing it, which didn't take too long. He said your back door looks as good as new."

That's a relief. It'll be one less thing I'll have to worry about when I get home. "Tell him I said thanks."

"He picked up your mail, too." Her hesitation alerts me that she's leaving something out.

I force myself to ask, "What was in it? Anything weird?"

She sighs. "It's another letter, I'm afraid. But Jeff took it straight to the police. Maybe they'll get some prints this time."

"What did it say?"

"They told me not to bother you about it."

I feel a flare of irritation. "It's my mail. They can't withhold it from me."

"Makes sense to me. You have the right to know." Her voice got louder as she moved the phone closer. "It was actually pretty mundane this time. It said, 'I hope the writing is going well. Remember Matteo.' It was signed by the Highly Invested Reader again."

"He must think I'm still there, working in my home," I say. "That actually eases my mind. I've been paranoid that someone might've followed me here."

"Good. You know they're going to catch this guy, sooner or later. And when you do come back, Jeff and I can stay with you until things blow over."

I'm convinced that Emily would take a bullet for me. Blood loyalty runs deep for her, and she seems to view me more as a sister than a cousin. She is one of maybe two people who have loved me for who I am. My dad was the other one.

"Thanks, Emily. I hope I can get back up there soon."

Once we've said goodbye, I decide to relax with the most recent episode of my favorite Alaskan show. I manage to get my phone to cast to the TV, although my cell coverage keeps coming and going, causing the program to restart several times.

When it finally gets rolling, sunlight sparkles along the frozen river as the narrator describes the sub-zero temperatures the townspeople will have to endure going ice fishing. The footage flashes to a scene where one of the boys will be setting traps for various winter animals, including wolves, lynx, wolverines, and foxes.

Over the course of watching this show, I've discovered that trapping fascinates me. The idea that people can tie snares in certain ways or make contraptions to catch and even kill dangerous animals seems one of the most fundamental skills on the planet. To research an escape scene in one of my books, I whittled the spring mechanism for a trap, then attached it to a snare wire and tried it out on an old stuffed animal. I was surprised and slightly horrified when it actually worked.

But the traps they're setting on the show today involve designing a cubby with sticks, placing meat where the predator can get to it, then disguising a metal claw trap in the snow beneath. It hardly seems a useful skill for my day-to-day existence, but it's utterly engrossing to watch.

An unfamiliar electronic chime rings out, startling me. It seems to be coming from downstairs, so I grab a shorter knife from the kitchen, sliding it into my back jeans pocket before creeping down the steps. So what if I feel in survival mode after watching my show? I have no idea what that chime means. If a washer or dryer is dinging, I certainly haven't used it.

The motion sensor light has flicked on, and in its circle of light, I can see a woman standing at the back door. She's wearing a tan trench coat with the hood up, and she's focused on something on the ground. The moment I flip on the interior light, she jerks her head upward and peers inside.

As she does so, her hood flops off, and dark hair spills around her face. Her long, horse-shaped face.

Mariah Cloud is standing outside my door, and I have no idea what to do.

TWELVE

Mariah's lips twist into a scowl. She bangs on the window with her fist, shouting, "I need to talk to you!"

My questions root me to the spot. How...why? She's found me here. It's not even possible. How did she drive up without my hearing her?

An off-kilter possibility presents itself. Maybe Mariah's my Highly Invested Reader. She might be trying to steer my career off the rails in retaliation for my unfavorable critique. It's practically guaranteed that if Matteo wins Natasha's heart, the readers will revolt. Every author's worst nightmare is wrapping up their most iconic series the wrong way.

There's no way I'm opening the door, despite her continued pounding. Thank goodness it automatically locked behind me. I glance at my phone, contemplating calling Henry. He's intimidating enough to kick Mariah out, so I wouldn't have to deal with her, and he's probably gotten home by now.

Deciding that's my best course of action, I turn away, walking toward the staircase to make the call. But Mariah amps up her efforts to hold my attention.

Her muffled shouts carry through the window on the door. "You need to watch out!"

I jerk my head around, unable to believe she's standing right outside, threatening me. She wildly jabs her finger, her lips tight. It looks like she wants to kill me.

I call Henry, holding my breath until he picks up. Edging farther into the stairwell and out of Mariah's line of sight, I describe Mariah's unsettling appearance to him. I briefly share that she's a fellow author who might harbor some kind of grudge against me. He assures me he'll be right over, just as soon as he fires up the four-wheeler. I turn and jog upstairs, so I can keep an eye on Mariah from a safer distance.

The only problem is, when I look out the front window onto the back porch, she's no longer there.

A car whips out the drive, and I feel sure it's Mariah's Tesla. Several minutes later, Henry's four-wheeler zooms toward the cabin. As the outdoor light clicks on, I rush downstairs to open the door for him.

"She's already gone," I say. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or irritated that we didn't confront her first.

He frowns. "I'm sorry—I saw the car go past, but my four-wheeler was running on fumes, so I had to gas it up first. What did she want?"

"I don't know. She kept saying she needed to talk to me, but there was no way I was going outside." I take a deep breath, knowing this is the moment to explain my cause for concern. "I'm not sure how much Micah told you about the reason for my visit, but my stalker in Connecticut actually threw a brick through my window."

Alarm fills his gaze. "Then you have every right to be worried. Are you afraid that woman is your stalker? You said she's an author, too?"

"She is. I'm not sure if she'd go so far as to send me threatening letters or throw a brick through my window, but it's highly unnerving that she showed up here in Cedar Gap, of all places. We had some...bad blood, I guess you'd call it, and she's probably still upset with me."

His eyebrow arches. "Bad blood? I find that hard to believe. You aren't the type that stirs up trouble." He says this as if he's an old pro at spotting mischief-makers.

I wish I could explain that he only sees the mask I present to him, but I stay quiet. He's right to assume that I never deliberately inflamed Mariah. I did exactly what she asked me to do.

He walks back to his four-wheeler and leans on his handlebar. "How about this—I'll text you if I see anyone else driving up. That'll give you a heads-up, at least."

I don't point out that he won't be watching the driveway 24-7, which makes it a flawed plan, but I thank him anyway.

"Should I tell the police at this stage?" I ask.

He stands up straight, and I realize once again how tall he is. My head is level with his chest. "I guess not, since she didn't really do anything. Just lock up tight and let me know if you hear or see anything strange. I'll come right over." He sits down on his four-wheeler.

I'm impressed by how seriously he takes his caretaking responsibilities for the property. "I'm sorry for taking you away from your duties with your mom. How is she doing?" I ask.

Slapping a hand to his thigh, he says, "I meant to tell you at the book club meeting, but I didn't get a chance. It was kind of you to check in on Mother." He falls silent a moment, like he's choosing his wording. "She's having more trouble breathing these days, but I'm just glad she survived her bout with pneumonia this spring. She had a stroke last year, and it...well, it sent her into some kind of early dementia. Cleo said she was a bit touchy with you—I'm sorry about that."

"You don't have to apologize," I say. "I'm the one who invaded her house. I heard her groaning and I burst in the door, like an idiot."

"That was thoughtful of you. Unfortunately, Mother can be downright mean nowadays. She was nothing like that when I was a kid."

I want to tell him he lucked out to have some happy years. Instead, I bite back my sassy remark. "Trust me, I understand. It's nothing you can control."

He peers up at me, and it's hard to make out his features in the dim porch light. "I've been reading your books," he offers quietly. "I'm sorry Quincy backed you into that book signing, but I'll definitely show up for it. I've been reading your stories to Mother, and they seem to lighten her spirits. She doesn't know you're the one who dropped in on her, but I'll tell her at some point."

I have to chuckle. "Once she finds out I'm such a nosy neighbor, she might give up on my books entirely."

"Even if she does, I'll keep reading them." His words are charged with honesty. "I need to see what happens to one of my favorite characters."

"And who might that be?" I ask, genuinely curious as to who would appeal to him most.

"Diana, Ambrose's assistant. I'm convinced she only works for him because he's holding something over her. She's too good to be with someone so evil."

Something flutters in my stomach. Diana is a side character I introduced at the end of the first book. She's an amalgamation of all my weaknesses, although she occasionally displays moments of bravery. For instance, I've had her leak the word to Natasha when Ambrose hatches particularly deadly plans. She's the fly in his ointment, and one he's completely unaware of. I'm eager to see where her character arc will end up, and, like Henry, I'm hoping she'll get into a position more worthy of her.

"That's interesting," I say, trying to cover the bubble of emotion that's welled in the center of my chest.

He nods. "Yes. I also wanted to tell you that I notice you get your weapons right. That makes a big difference to readers who are familiar with them, like me."

"You're very kind. To tell you the truth, sometimes I try out the weapon I'm describing before writing it. One of my favorites was the crossbow." On impulse, I ask, "So, who do you prefer for Natasha—Archer or Matteo?"

His dark eyes seem to absorb the outdoor light, and I can't make out his expression. He stays silent so long I wonder if he's even heard my question. Finally, he says, "Neither."

Although I'm a bit stunned, I'm glad he didn't couch his answer in flattery. "Why?" I ask.

He revs the engine. Maybe he wants to make a fast escape from what he's about to tell me.

"Because neither one of them puts her first," he says. "She deserves better." With a dip of his head, he peels out, tossing gravel as he goes.

I step into the house and close the door, but my brain is working overtime. Just like that, I'm holding onto the invisible thread I've been grasping for in this final book. The fact is, neither Archer nor Matteo have ever been good enough for Natasha. Henry is dead right.

Did I know it all along?

I'm going to have to disappoint not only my Highly Invested Reader, but every existing fan of the series, as well. I need to bring in someone new for Natasha—a man who values her for all that she is, not just for a few facets of her, which is unfortunately the dynamic I've created in both her relationships.

I need to give her a real man. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what that even looks like, up close and personal.

I don't wake until eleven on Monday, and my head feels too groggy to write. It took hours for me to get to sleep, and when I finally took a melatonin pill to doze off, it gave me nightmares.

I throw on my hoodie to ward off the house's early-morning chill and pad down to the kitchen. I make a mental note to order groceries for tomorrow, since I'll be running low.

As I pour water in the coffee machine, I try to squelch the question that won't leave me alone—when will it be safe for me to head back to Connecticut? Will the police ever find the brick-throwing stalker, or will I have to take my chances and return to my cottage, possibly investing in more safety measures beforehand? Will Mariah follow me there, as well? And what is she doing in West Virginia?

Stepping onto the top deck, I breathe deeply of the morning air. A cat's cry sounds somewhere near the woods.

Does Henry have a cat?

When I hear another plaintive meow, I slip on my boots and head around back of the house. A fluffy-haired orange cat stares at me from its perch on a pile of firewood. I stand still, wondering if it needs food.

As if in answer, the cat fixes its golden eyes on me and lets loose with another yowl, but it doesn't approach me. Smart kitty, not to trust random humans.

Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I text Henry to see if he's missing a cat. His response comes fairly quickly—he doesn't have one, and he didn't realize there was a cat on the property. Maybe it belongs to the distant neighbor who lives out past the back woods.

He recommends that I don't feed it, but that's going to be a hard no. I picked up a couple cans of tuna, so I can surely spare one. I jog up the deck stairs and open a can, then return to the yard and inch my way toward the woodpile. The cat skitters off the logs and vanishes, but I call to it, placing the can on the woodchips lining the ground.

By the time I've reached the deck to resume my lookout, the cat's face is shoved into the tuna and it's chowing down. I walk inside and add "cat food" to my grocery list. The orange kitty is a welcome diversion. I was never allowed to have pets growing up, since the places we rented had pet restrictions. Maybe this kitty came into my life for a reason. I ponder names for the cat, only to realize I don't know whether it's a he or a she.

Glancing at Jordan's manuscript, I figure I might as well read one more chapter. When I left off, the power had just gone out on Aquarius, and she had no idea where Max was in the house.

Tension builds as Max speaks to her out of the darkness. He says he's going out to the garage to start up the generator.

I get the feeling that Jordan was trying to fill a word count requirement with her overdone description of the tension Aquarius feels in the unfamiliar house. When the lights flip on, she moves toward the side table to examine the photo of the little boys again—only to find it's not there.

The reader is left hanging while Jordan jumps into a scene with Aquarius and Max eating the meatloaf (meatloaf?!) he'd cooked for their dinner. Nothing else really happens—no hints of mystery, no more moans from the back room. Before Aquarius takes her leave, she gives Max a peck on the cheek, then races for her car to head home. She determines she'll never see the older man again, given his strange house with its strange sounds.

The Visitor is starting to feel like an unwieldy attempt at a ghost story, and it's kind of losing me. It's inconsistent that Aquarius would voluntarily give Max a peck on the cheek about the same time she's determining she'll never see him again.

And why did Jordan choose that title? It sounds like there's going to be some kind of alien invasion. I hope the book's not going in that direction.

I abandon the manuscript and head back to the deck. After stepping into a space shaded by an overhanging maple limb, I glance at the woodpile.

The cat has vanished, but I'm pretty confident it'll return the moment I set out more food. A movement near the woods' edge catches my eye, so I turn in that direction.

I blink. Am I seeing things?

A man is slowly weaving between the trees, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. There's something incredibly familiar about his hair and build.

The way those wide shoulders narrow to that slim waist. The shoulder-length, wavy black hair. And his walk...that confident stride, as if he rules the earth and can keep it spinning, too.

My breath hitches. My worst suspicions are founded. Renard has followed me to West Virginia, and he doesn't care if I know about it. He will casually invade my privacy here without thinking twice.

I have no idea what I should do next. It'll sound crazy if I tell anyone about this, and that's how he wants me to feel. It's Gaslighting 101.

I don't want to call Henry back over, because it's just getting ridiculous at this point. First Mariah makes an appearance, and now Renard. The poor caretaker will believe I'm losing my mind.

But someone needs to know that my safety is tenuous here. Since it's Micah's cabin, and since his F.B.I. friend is looking into possible stalkers, Micah could ask if Renard or Mariah might fit the profile for one.

At the very least, Micah might have some suggestions, since he said this wasn't the first time Thorvald Media authors have been stalked.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the spot where Renard disappeared into the woods, I pull out my phone and text my editor.

"Not sure I'm safe here. We need to talk."

THIRTEEN

Ilock the sliding door behind me as I head into the living room. Shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket, I walk a loop around the couches, repeating the circuit until I've calmed down a little.

As my thinking clears, I realize that Henry never texted, so the man in the woods probably didn't drive past him. Of course, Henry does have a life, so he can't possibly catch everyone who goes by. But my driveway is currently sitting empty, save for my rental.

Did Renard somehow waltz into the back yard on foot?

I grab my mug and reheat my coffee. A brazen idea hits me—I could just text Renard. I pull up my last message to him, which was sent in early February last year, soon after the divorce was finalized. A flood of uncomfortable emotions hits as I recall my determination to retrieve the top-of-the-line espresso maker I'd bought after I'd gotten my first royalty check. It marked a memorable occasion for me—the moment when I realized I could leave my secretarial job and pursue writing full-time. Once I'd explained its significance to the judge, he had agreed I could keep it, thus offering me a drop of kindness in a sea of incomprehensible pain.

It felt like groveling, asking for Renard's permission to retrieve something that was rightfully mine. His response to my carefully constructed text had been brief.

"You can drop in around eight. I'll be here."

And that was the final text communication we'd had. Due to icy roads, I'd arrived a little later than planned, which turned out to be a good thing, since Renard informed me that his girlfriend had left for her hot yoga class just five minutes before I arrived. No doubt he'd harbored the perverse hope I'd run into her on my visit, so he could compare the two of us and remind himself what a sweet deal he got with her—no commitment and a hot yoga bod.

Stuffing my phone into my back pocket, I walk into the kitchen and peer through the window overlooking the woods. The shaded grass is a vivid shade of emerald, and translucent yellow apples dot the fruit trees. I have a sudden desire to sink my teeth into one.

"Maybe I will," I promise myself, all the while knowing I won't go out back until any threat of bumping into Renard is gone. I might even lure the cat to the main door, so I can shove its food into a bowl before locking myself in the house.

But I don't want to be a recluse. It's not fair. I should be able to go out and enjoy the grounds, the creek—even the apples, for the love of everything. I'm earning in the top percentage for suspense authors. Why should I be forced to cower inside, even in such a secluded place?

Once again, Renard has sucked the joy out of my life.

I palm my phone, pulling up his blasted text again. The irony of it all is that on that icy night, I'd left without my espresso maker.

I have never contacted him to demand my property. Thankfully, he's followed my lead and remained incommunicado.

Do I really want to open that dark door again by asking him why he's hanging out in a back yard in Cedar Gap?

My phone rings with a harsh, metallic tone, startling me into dropping it. Thankfully, it thuds onto the navy Persian rug beneath my feet and not the hardwood. I snatch it up, only to see my agent is calling. She's probably wondering how things are going, and I don't relish the thought of filling in the blanks for her.

"Gwen!" I try to sound like the friendly kind of author she can't help but love, not the kind of unhinged trouble she'll wish she never picked up.

"Alex. Glad I caught you. Listen, I can only talk for a few minutes, but I wanted to touch base and make sure you're okay with doing a book signing there. Some bookstore owner named Quincy ordered a rush shipment of books from the warehouse, and he told them you were planning on doing a signing in West Virginia. What's that all about? Did he somehow get his wires crossed?"

Gwen never hesitates to go to bat for me. She's the first to field my event invitations, making sure I'm up for them before agreeing to anything. My contact form emails go straight to her, so she can sift through the good, the bad, and the ugly reader responses for me.

Most agents don't handle such menial tasks—that's usually a job reserved for virtual assistants—but Gwen insists that she be the one to tackle it, just in case I receive anything important like a movie offer. She thinks a V.A. might not be able to tell the real from the fake. After giving me the caveat I can never breathe a word to anyone, she's gone so far as to tell me I'm her number one priority in the agency.

And now she's rightfully concerned her first-priority author might be doing a book signing when she's supposed to be lying low.

"It's okay," I say, trying to convince myself. "It's a really small town. I'll probably be flying out of here soon, anyway, so I'm not worried about it. Quincy told me my books are really popular here. Besides, you're always encouraging me to build ties with independent bookstores."

She sighs. "Using my own words against me, are you? Okay, Alex, but you have to promise that you'll watch for anyone who seems off. Maybe have the bookstore people keep an eye out for any berserk fans, that kind of thing. I'm going to assume that since Thorvald Media has placed you there, they've vetted this town as a safe place." I hear her long nails clicking against the keyboard. "I have to run now, but if you have second thoughts, give me a call and I'll handle this bookstore guy."

"I will." It's great that Gwen always has my back, but I feel this is something I have to do, since I agreed to it in the book club meeting. Those busy young moms tugged at my heartstrings, I suppose. It certainly wasn't the pushy and overly appreciative Quincy who'd convinced me.

My left pointer finger slips, drawing my attention to the 1-2-3-4 pattern I've been tapping out on my thumb for who knows how long. It's one of my regular "stimming" behaviors—repetitive physical movements that calm me. Like the aura preceding a migraine, my stims can also be a flag to tell me something's off.

"You're right," I say to myself. "I need a nap."

Mom always used to scold me for talking to myself, saying I should never ever let anyone hear me doing it.

But for the outcasts like me, the ones who don't fit the box, the only words that remind me I'm human are my own.

So I listen to myself and head toward the darkened sanctuary of the ocean-blue bedroom. I'll rest a little while, then I'll get up and deal with life.

I wake to a droning buzz. Glancing down at my blanket nest, I realize I must've left my phone on the bedside table before collapsing into sleep. I struggle to my feet, letting the firm mattress support me as I make my way around it.

Micah sent a brief response to my text about an hour ago.

"What do you mean, you aren't safe? Have you had any threats? I don't know how that would be possible. Call me—I'll be around for the next couple of hours."

I need to shake off some residual lethargy before calling my editor. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I head toward the kitchen to brew a fresh cup of coffee. The house has gotten considerably darker, due to a bank of charcoal clouds that's drifted over the sun.

As I throw an idle glance out the kitchen window, I'm pleased to see that the deer have returned for more apples. Their arrival heartens me, because surely they wouldn't be so bold if someone were lurking in the trees nearby.

I rehearse what I'm going to tell Micah, even going so far as to tear a sheet from the fridge notepad to write down a few salient points. Point one is that I've seen two people on the property who don't belong here—Mariah Cloud and Renard. Point two is that no, I haven't lost my marbles. Point three is that even though I plan to do a book signing tomorrow, I'm not sure how long I should stick around after that. Maybe I should just book some random hotel down here until I get the all-clear from the Greenwich police.

I move a pillow on the couch, squeezing into a tight corner before I call Micah. When he picks up, I tell him what's been going on, even though I know it has to call my sanity into question.

After all, what's the likelihood that my writer nemesis would show up at this undisclosed location, banging on the door and demanding to speak to me?

Or what's the probability that my ex-husband, who hasn't spoken to me in over a year, would suddenly decide to make his way to this completely concealed hideaway, only to hide a jacket in the sauna, spray his cologne, and take a casual jaunt through the woods?

It's next to zero, that's what.

But, to his credit, Micah seems to take it all in stride. He doesn't freak out, which Gwen likely would have done if I'd given her the complete lowdown.

"You've let Henry know about these intruders, I take it?" he asks.

"Yes. I told him about Mariah, and he knows about my ex...just not this most recent visit."

"Okay. Well, Henry will know what to do. I know he can come off as brusque, but he's thoroughly familiar with the property—even more so than I am. In fact, he was once an Army sniper. I'd suggest you tell him where you think you saw Renard. He can check things out to put your mind at ease."

Although I appreciate his reassurance that Henry can handle anything, I'm not completely convinced we even know what we're up against. "Shouldn't we get the local police involved at this stage?" I ask. "Let them know I had a stalker in Connecticut and that I'm seeing menacing people here?"

"Oh, definitely, but you can leave that part to me. I'll let my friend Roger know—he's the town sheriff. He'll know what to do. But in the meantime, please update Henry about seeing Renard." He pulls the phone away and murmurs to someone in the background. "I'm afraid I have to go—I'm joining my family on a helicopter tour around Oahu. I grew up here and I've never gone, and my cousins are giving me all kinds of grief about it."

At least he's having a relaxing break from the city life. I should have chosen some little-known island for my forced writer's retreat. "Have a great time," I say.

His reply carries an undercurrent of concern. "Take care, Alex."

It always gives me a little thrill to hear him say my name, but I don't have time to sit with the pleasantries. I get down to the business at hand—that of keeping me alive—and call Henry.

FOURTEEN

Henry shows up about five minutes after I call. I don't know what his day job is or what hours he even works. How would a former Army sniper choose to stay busy, I wonder?

As he climbs off his four-wheeler, I realize what a compliment it was for him to tell me how realistic my weapons scenes are. He should know.

When Henry's reserved gaze meets mine, I recall Micah's remark that his caretaker can come off as brusque. I haven't seen that side of Henry—just his tendency to fall silent rather than filling gaps with mindless chatter. I find his direct approach refreshing.

"I'm sorry to bother you," I say. "Were you at home?"

"Yes, I am. Most days, I do construction work here and there—my schedule is pretty flexible. If Mother's in a bad way, like today, I stick close by."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that she's not doing well."

"She has severe COPD, so she's having one of her regular emphysema flare-ups. I gave her a breathing treatment, and now Cleo's come over to give her a sponge bath once she feels up to it. I hope to squeeze in a little drywalling later this afternoon."

"I'll try not to take up too much of your time." I gesture toward the back of the cabin. "I didn't get to explain much on the phone, but I'm pretty sure I saw my ex-husband walking in these woods. I'd appreciate it if you'd check on things for me." I lead him around the side of the house.

Henry's boots clomp along behind me, but he doesn't say anything. I rush to fill in the silence.

"I know this must sound paranoid, after asking you over so many times already." A tinge of desperation creeps into my voice. "I swear I'm seeing these things."

With one long stride, he moves directly to my side. Glancing down at me, he says, "I've already said I believe you. Stalking isn't something you should ignore. Tell me what this ex looks like."

The serious way he asks for Renard's description tells me he's gearing up for a clash. I'm beginning to gather that even though Henry is a man of few words, the few he chooses are loaded with meaning.

After describing my ex, I show him where I noticed the cat on the woodpile. Again, he cautions me not to feed it, but I'm not making any promises. It might be foolish for me to make the cat dependent on me for sustenance, given that I won't be staying here, but if an animal is clearly hungry and I don't feed it, what kind of a monster am I?

He strides toward the middle of the treeline, peering around. "Where did you see him?"

I try to picture where Renard was in relation to the apple trees, then point Henry in that direction. Instead of asking me to stay back, as I expect, Henry motions for me to accompany him.

"You should get a feel for these woods," he says. "Just in case."

He doesn't elaborate, but I get his meaning. Just in case I have to stay here longer. Just in case they can't catch my stalker.

I trudge along behind him, and the trees seem to close ranks around me. "It's so quiet," I say. "Where are all the birds?"

"Smells like rain." He holds a branch aside so I can walk through a narrow space between trees. "They're probably holing up at the moment."

A tiny creek rolls along beside us, and I hear a rush of water in the distance. "What's that?"

"Little waterfall," he says, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary.

We pass a red, broken-down shack with a sagging roof and a rotting door that stands ajar. "What's that place?" I ask.

"Old chicken coop. My kinfolk used to have a barn where the house sits, and they kept some chickens and pigs, too." He shakes his head. "I kind of miss having fresh eggs. There's a difference in taste."

I have no idea what that difference is, but I nod as if I've eaten many a farm-fresh egg.

"The farm was our life for years," he continues. Our walk seems to have loosened his tongue. "When Dad died, Mother didn't want to sell. She still despises Micah for swooping in to buy the property, but the truth was, we couldn't afford to keep it going. I had to put it up for sale."

I could only imagine what a difficult decision that was for him. I want to ask about his dad, or if he has any siblings, but he seems lost in thought.

As we approach a rocky section of the creek bed, the waterfall comes into view. It's on the small side, lined with flat rocks on top. The fall tumbles into a wide, mottled green pool.

"Used to swim here as a kid. It's deep enough to dive into." Henry jerks a thumb toward a side ledge, where a rope has been knotted over a tree limb. "It's cold as ice in the middle, but it warms up in the shallower part, under the waterfall."

The idyllic cove would be a welcome retreat in the heat of summer. Maybe that's why Micah didn't have a pool installed along with his numerous amenities.

"I'm sure you could use it," he adds. "I'm honestly not sure if Micah even knows it exists. He stays mostly in the cabin when he comes in, editing. It's a shame he doesn't get out on the property."

Tilly might not be the only one who resents Micah. It sounds like Henry views him as a city boy, unequipped for the realities of life in West Virginia. Does he think of me in the same way?

Light raindrops sprinkle my head. "Renard must be long gone by now," I say. "We can head back, if you want."

He nods. "The woods peter out a ways past the waterfall, and they form the border of Micah's land. The nearest neighbor's field backs up to the woods—his house is a couple thousand meters past the crooked oak at the treeline."

I'm guessing he's so specific about the distance due to his sniper training. That's actually quite a trek. Did the orange cat hike all the way across fields and woods to drop in on my back yard? Hopefully, it's managed to make its way back to its owner, whoever that is.

Looking thoughtful, Henry adds, "Trust me, no one could creep onto Old Man Cochran's land without him noticing. He watches things like a hawk. I honestly don't know where your ex could've parked to get over here. I would've seen him driving past my house, since I had a clear view out the front window all morning."

Before I can think up a way Renard could've crept into the back yard, the rain grows heavier. Tugging my hoodie over my wet hair, I follow Henry as he takes a barely noticeable path back toward the house. Long-discarded autumn leaves form a slippery carpet beneath our feet, and I have to grab for tree trunks to keep from sliding in several spots.

Once we get to the back door, I punch in the code and walk inside. Henry wordlessly steps in after me. Running his wide hand through his chunky, rain-tightened curls, he says, "I don't know what to tell you. I can't figure out what's going on."

I try to project a confidence I don't feel. "It'll be okay. I'll be careful if I go outside. Thanks for taking the time to check the woods."

His brows knit together. "I don't like that people are creeping around the property. You told Micah about this?"

I nod. "He's going to let the sheriff know, but I'm not sure what he'll be able to do about it, anyway." I glance at the sauna door, which looks firmly closed. "I'll let you get back to your mother."

"Okay. I'll probably head over to drywall soon." Without another word, he strides out the back door, pulling it firmly shut behind him so it'll auto-lock.

Henry's definitely not one to elaborate. Given his more introspective reflections in the woods, I'm guessing he feels more in his element in nature. In the same way that I avoid eye contact, he seems to avoid lengthy conversations. Maybe we're both better off walking while we talk.

I take a final glance at the back door, and an unexpected wave of anger makes my cheeks flush. If Renard thinks he can make me a prisoner here, cowering in fear instead of writing the book I have to write, he's dead wrong. There's a difference between being careful and being afraid, and I'm sick of being afraid.

I stomp up the steps, then down the hallway, where I grab my computer and notes from the office. Ignoring the kitchen and its shiny array of knives, I walk downstairs, locating an umbrella before making my way to the gazebo in the mild drizzle. When I step inside the screened building, I'm relieved to see that rain only dusted the right side of the floor. The desk is dry, so I set up shop there and plop into the vinyl-cushioned kitchen chair.

I feel like shouting, "Come and get me, you fool!" Because a fool my husband is, and he always will be. No matter how much he threatens me, even cloaked as Highly Invested Reader, he'll never stop me from ending this series the way it needs to end.

I turn on my laptop, pull up my file, and start typing furiously.

FIFTEEN

My cathartic writing session in the gazebo unlocks some deep well of creativity, allowing me to crank out over four thousand words. Once darkness starts to fall, I head inside to get my evening meal ready.

Discovering I'm already nearly out of milk, I place a quick online grocery order for tomorrow. Then I get busy making a quick meal of spaghetti and microwave meatballs.

As the noodles cook, I call the bookstore to confirm that Quincy has scheduled my signing for tomorrow night. A young woman answers—presumably the same employee I'd met before—and she confirms that Quincy's set the signing for six. I'm welcome to come early if I want, she says, but they'll have the book table and display already set up for me. I won't need to make change, since all purchases will be done at the register.

That comes as a relief, since I haven't even located a bank where I could withdraw cash, and I don't want to drive into town.

Once I've dished up my food, I waffle between reading more of Jordan's book and watching my Alaskan show. Although my interest has waned, I should probably read more of The Visitor, just in case Jordan dropped any meaningful hints about her time in this cabin.

I set the manuscript on the couch beside me, flipping to the last page I've read. Aquarius is now back at the coffee shop, working her little heart out, and she catches sight of Max lurking by his black Audi outside. Is he stalking her? She decides he must be, since he doesn't come in for coffee.

I wonder how an incredibly wealthy businessman like Max would find the time to stalk a young woman in a coffee shop, but I suspend my disbelief and continue reading.

Hours pass, and Aquarius loses sight of Max and his Audi. She assumes he's gone home. After saying goodbye to her coworkers, she heads into the back parking lot and gets into her car.

But Max has somehow jimmied the lock, and he rises up from behind the driver's seat. He demands that she hand over her phone and drive to his house. She refuses and opens her door to escape. Max pulls out a gun, repeating his order that she drive, and this time she does.

It seems way too early in the book for Jordan to reveal that Max is the villain, much less a kidnapper, but maybe the bulk of the story will be comprised of her trying to escape his lair.

I sigh, setting the manuscript down on a side table. I don't know where Jordan was going with The Visitor, but I'm not invested in Aquarius enough to care. Nor does Max seem to have any three-dimensional qualities. One of best ways for authors to hook readers is to make them feel something for the main character. They have to relate to them. Thus far, Aquarius seems unrelatable, mostly because we don't get a strong sense of who she is or what her motivations are.

I jump up to sprinkle more parmesan on my spaghetti, then turn on my Alaskan show. It's far more distracting than Jordan's book, and that's just what I need at the end of this long day.

Waking from a deep sleep, I roll over on the floor and check my phone, only to see it's one fifteen in the morning. A familiar smell assails my nostrils, and I bolt upright.

Once again, the scent of Renard's high-end cologne permeates the air. Woodsy, with hints of mango and tobacco, it's an unusually sweet scent that's far too gourmand for my tastes. It seemed like everyone around him was supposed to eat it. I wound up opening windows each time he sprayed it.

But now the sickly smell is filling the room like a heavy cloud, suffocating me.

I reach up to flip on the night table lamp, and my gaze hitches on my agates.

They've been completely rearranged.

The heart-shaped rock has been shoved haphazardly into the row above it. The wolf-shaped rock has been switched to the bottom row. Now the stones form a random three-two-two pattern.

With shaky hands, I push the rocks back into their proper places. I never touched them. My pattern was intact before I went to sleep.

Wildly scanning the room in the dim light, I see no one. Yet I know, beyond doubt, that someone has been here.

I reach for the kitchen knife I slid under my pillow earlier. As the smell starts to dissipate, I try to convince myself I've dreamed the whole thing up. I don't want to call Henry over again. He's going to think I'm nuts, or worse, playing the damsel in distress. Maybe I did somehow jostle those rocks before I settled under my covers. It's probably best to just check things out on my own.

Taking a page from my survival show, I grip the knife and step toward the doorway. If I run into Renard, I'll be ready.

Moonlight pours through the huge living room windows, allowing me to see all the way down the hallway. There are no unusual shadows, so I turn the hall light on.

I'm getting tired of being alone in this gigantic house. I can't keep tabs on the entire place at any given time, which makes me vulnerable. I don't even know how many rooms are in it.

And I can't very well ask Henry to camp out in the gazebo every night.

At the very least, I need to make sure no one is hiding downstairs. With my knife in hand, I flip the light and head down the staircase.

The sauna door's shut, so I search the other rooms first. Finding each one empty, I trudge toward the sauna, just to rule out the possibility that someone might've tampered with it.

Once I open the door, it's clear there's nothing inside, even though I'd half-expected to find Renard's Omega watch or his blue Hermes tie lying on the bench. Something to remind me of how very self-absorbed he is...enough to follow me to West Virginia and take pleasure in frightening me.

My phone buzzes, and I fumble to pull it from my pocket. Surely it's not Renard.

But Henry's name pops up on the screen, surprising me. In a sleepy voice, he asks, "Everything okay over there?"

I don't know whether to feel heartened or alarmed by his watchfulness. "Yes, but it's past one. Why are you calling me now?"

"I got up to give Mother a breathing treatment and I saw your light on. I figured it wouldn't hurt to call, since you aren't usually up this time of night."

He's paid attention to when I turn my lights out? "I didn't realize you could see my lights through your woods," I say testily. It's the middle of the night, for crying out loud.

"I have binoculars." He answers as if there's nothing strange about observing your neighbor's sleeping habits from afar.

It's annoying that he's secretly put me under observation, like I'm some kind of science project. "I might've been up writing," I retort. "There was no need to call."

He falls silent for a moment. "Oh, of course. I don't want to bother you. But the house was dark before. I assumed something had woken you."

His assumption is correct, but I'm not about to tell him that. Yes, I was roused from a dead sleep because my room reeked of my ex-husband's sweet cologne, then I was further alarmed because my night table had been disarranged. But now I've made the rounds, and no one seems to be lurking inside.

I can't bring myself to share yet another inexplicable nighttime disturbance with Henry.

"I'm fine." I make an effort to soften my irritation. He's just keeping an eye on the cabin, which is basically what he gets paid to do. I can't fault him for doing his job. "I hope your mother starts breathing better. Thank you for checking in."

"Sure," he says curtly, then hangs up.

As I start flipping downstairs lights off, I feel bereft, like I've shut off communication with my greatest hope for survival. I don't like being watched like a goldfish in a bowl, but at the same time, Henry has proven that he's there for me, any time of the day or night.

Using my phone light, I head toward the stairs, trying to think through angles as dispassionately as possible. After all, I craft twisty plots and calculated killers for a living.

Has my stalker tracked me down and finagled his way into this cabin? It seems fantastical. Yet I don't know the methods at my stalker's disposal. Maybe he has enough money to fly from one state to another at the drop of a hat. Maybe he's a hacker, who can follow my movements via my phone.

Or maybe he's simply my ex, determined to scare me so badly I can't write. He always did like to play mind manipulation games, knowing that those are the kinds of games I can't possibly win. My first instinct is to believe what people tell me, even though I know, through years of disappointments, that they might be lying to me.

Leaving my overhead light on, I move to my nest of blankets. I don't care whether my windows are lit up for Henry to see. I won't be sleeping tonight.

The smell of the cologne lingers in the air, so I crack a window and turn on the ceiling fan. It should be comforting to know I wasn't imagining the scent before, but where does that leave me? With an inexplicable home invasion, that's where.

I consider moving to another room, but I don't want to mess up another space that Henry will have to clean once I'm gone. It's getting old fast, being a squatter in someone else's house.

I determine to call the Greenwich police first thing in the morning and push for answers. They have my letters and the brick, so they should be able to figure out where they came from. I want to get home as soon as possible, even if it means moving in with Emily and Jeff until my house is deemed safe.

But no matter where I wind up, I have to finish writing this book. Renard or Mariah or whoever is stalking me cannot be allowed to block me from completing that goal.

Tuesday morning, I wake with one arm asleep under my side and one leg half-covered by my blanket. Though I've managed to squeeze in some sleep, a brewing headache threatens an even bumpier start to the day.

To top it off, I have a last-minute book signing this evening. That means I'll likely waste an hour rummaging through my limited clothing supply, trying to figure out something that says "established author" as opposed to "author with no sense of style." Then I'll spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make my hair and makeup look presentable.

I'm all for supporting smaller bookstores—in fact, I donate to several financially—but I don't like being presumed upon. And showing up in the public eye is about the last thing I want to do right now, even though I'm in a secluded town far from Connecticut. But I made a commitment, even though I was under pressure to do so, and I plan to keep it for my reader fans.

The doorbell chime rings, yanking me out of my story world. I glance out the window, only to see that an unfamiliar silver car is parked in my drive.

My phone gives a buzz, so I flip it over. "This is Hope McGinnis. I have your grocery order outside."

Relieved that Mariah or Renard weren't paying me a visit, I hurry down to meet Hope. She's standing behind her raised trunk, plastic shopping bags lining each forearm.

"Let me help you," I offer.

She gives me a warm smile. "I've got it. Trust me, this is a small order compared to some. You want me to bring these inside?"

"That would be great." I jog over to hold the back door open so she can enter, and she places the bags on the floor.

She whistles as she looks around. "Micah has the best taste, doesn't he? I'd forgotten how modern this place is." Her gaze sweeps to the sauna, and her lips flatten.

I try to reassure her. "I haven't gone in there, and I don't plan to."

"Smart woman." She looks at me. "But then again, of course you are. You're an author." She gives me a conspiratorial smile. "I'm looking forward to your book signing tonight. I've gotten hooked on your Lipstick and Lies series. Barry's a little annoyed that I've been staying up so late to read straight through it, but I can't stop myself."

Hope represents the very reader demographic I want to target, so it's reassuring to know that my books are landing the way they should. Well, except for reeling in one psycho stalker fan.

"I'm so glad to hear that."

As her eyes flick over the pool table, I feel the weight of silence and scramble to fill it. "Would you like to tour the house?" I offer.

She turns to me. "Oh, that's okay—I've seen it before. We delivered sandwiches to the construction workers back when it was getting built, and they'd give us tours. But I'd actually love a glass of water, if you wouldn't mind. This humidity gets to me, you know?" Pulling a hair elastic off her wrist, she twists her red curls up into a makeshift bun.

"Oh, sure. Come on upstairs. We can use the elevator." I grab my grocery bags before she can offer to help.

With a nod, she follows me to the elevator door. "It was no easy feat installing this thing, as I recall," she observes as I push the button.

As the door slides open, I step inside, only to see that a typewritten note has been taped over the gold control panel.

It reads, "Did you enjoy my visit? It won't be my last."

SIXTEEN

Ifall silent, unwilling to touch the sheet of printer paper. It might have fingerprints on it—those of the person who's been coming and going from this house whenever they want.

Hope reads it aloud, then says, "Who's this from? It sounds threatening." When I don't answer, she gives my shoulder a light touch. "Alex, are you okay?"

I find my voice. "I have a stalker. I don't know how, but they've managed to get inside. Probably more than once."

Her eyes fill with concern. "That's awful! Do the police know?"

"Micah said he was going to tell the sheriff. I'm not sure if he's gotten a chance to do that."

She glares at the paper. "This isn't right. Do you have a chain lock on your door?" Without waiting for my answer, she says, "I'll have Barry bring one over and install it. Maybe some previous renter kept a copy of the keycode, although that would've been years ago and I would've thought Micah would've had the sense to change it periodically. Still, he's not out here often. Do you want me to go ahead and call Roger? He could pick this note up and check it for prints. He's my husband's cousin."

A smile tugs at my lips as Hope's words tumble out in a steadying stream. She reminds me of Emily—protective and conscientious of how much this situation has disturbed me. "Sure, if you could call Roger, I'd appreciate it," I say. "But maybe let him know I'll be at the signing tonight, so I won't be around this evening."

She nods, carefully slipping her finger under the paper to press the elevator door button. She hoists the grocery bags over her wrist as the door slides open. "Here's an idea. I think we'd better just walk upstairs this time."

Once we reach the kitchen, she offers to help me put groceries away. After we're done with that chore, she first calls her husband, then Roger. She uses an urgent tone that would galvanize anyone into action. When she slides her phone back into her pocket, she says, "Barry will come over in a couple of hours to install the lock. He'll bring Roger with him to get the note. That'll give you some time before your signing to eat and collect your thoughts."

"You're very kind. Thank you." I ease onto a kitchen stool so I can feel something solid beneath me. I'm sick of having my world upended.

She leans over the counter, her eyes as troubled as my own must be. "You just concentrate on your readers tonight. We have a flyer up in our store, and several people have already told me they're planning to come."

I raise an eyebrow. "You made flyers?"

"No, Quincy dropped one off. He's been handing them out in town."

I have to hand it to the man—for better or worse, he's determined to let everyone know I'm in Cedar Gap. I really shouldn't find his behavior offensive. If I weren't in such a strange undercover situation, my publicist would be all over this opportunity to forge bonds with a small bookstore.

Anyway, it's one last-minute signing that will last maybe two hours, tops. The likelihood of any stalker finding out about it and then showing up at Page Turner is practically zero.

Hope observes me in silence, then gives me a brisk nod. "Right. I'm sure you would appreciate some time to prepare for tonight, so I'll head out. But please be sure to lock your doors after me. Barry has a green SUV, and like I said, he'll be over in a couple hours with the sheriff."

"I can't thank you enough for helping me out," I say.

She gives me a baffled look. "That's just what we do in Cedar Gap. While you're here, you're like family."

As she walks down the stairs, I consider my own family and how they would treat me in this situation. My mom would likely tell me I was making a mountain out of a molehill, and that I should just suck it up and get my book written. Emily, like Hope, would step into the trenches with me, ready to do battle on my behalf.

I can hear Emily's voice in my head, telling me I should think through the options of who might be breaking into my house. Renard seems the most likely culprit, since I've spotted his jacket and smelled his cologne. But Mariah is another very real—and vindictive—possibility.

If she's staying in town, surely someone would know about it—most likely her agent. On a whim, I pull up her website. Her author photo is front and center, and she's giving a coy look to the photographer. Her long dark hair spills over her shoulders, and her makeup is professionally done. I scroll around until I find a contact page. Her agent's name isn't listed, so I wonder if messages go to Mariah herself.

After composing a note in my head, I type it into the box: "Hi, Mariah. I was surprised to see you in West Virginia. I'm sorry I was unable to greet you the other day. If you are still interested in getting in touch, please email me." I type in my email address and click send.

With my stomach churning after finding the note in the elevator, I decide to skip lunch. Instead, I head down the hallway to get a shower before the men get here. At least I'll be clean to attend this author event I never asked for.

When Barry and Roger finally arrive, I jump up from the couch, where I've been sitting and staring out the front window for the past forty minutes. I jog downstairs, opening the door before they can even reach it.

"Hi, there." Barry gives me a hearty greeting, pumping my hand like we're old friends. He's gripping a beat-up metal took kit in his other hand. Gesturing to the heavier-set man who's struggling out of his SUV, he says, "That's Roger. He's here to collect that weird note you got in the elevator."

Once I've greeted Roger with a smile that probably comes off like a grimace, I let both men inside. As Barry sets to work installing the chain lock, I lead the sheriff to the elevator and open the door.

"I didn't touch the note," I say, as it slides open.

Roger nods, slipping an evidence bag from a leather satchel and snapping gloves over his hands.

I hold the door open so he can step inside. My gaze falls to the exposed control panel at the same moment he says, "And where would that note be, Miss Dubois?"

The note has disappeared, and with it, any shred of my remaining calm.

"It was right there." As I point, my finger shakes. "Hope and I both saw it."

The sheriff rubs his chin and glances around. "That's odd. Maybe Hope picked it up as she left and forgot to tell me?"

I give a violent shake of my head. "No, that's impossible. She walked downstairs with me, then I closed the door behind her. It locks automatically, so no one could've come in after that."

Roger gives me a long, probing look. "You're sure about that?"

Is he questioning my truthfulness? Or worse, suggesting that I might've taken it myself?

I can hardly conceal my frustration. "The note was there. And it said they would visit me again. I guess they did." I gesture wildly at the control panel. "You could dust that for prints."

"I will," he assures me. "But I just want to be sure of what happened. Can you walk me through it?"

Slowly, I go step-by-step through our experience in the elevator. When I finish, he mutters, "Mm-hm," like I've said something wrong.

I sense that he doubts my story, but I shouldn't have to convince him. His own relative saw the note along with me.

Thankfully, he busies himself with taking his dusting equipment from his satchel. "I'll go over this now. Miss Dubois, have you had any other experiences like this?"

"Experiences like someone breaking into my house and threatening me, you mean? Didn't Micah Brennan tell you about my stalker in Connecticut?"

"He did. I was talking about anything in this cabin, though."

How do I explain my sightings of Mariah and Renard? Of the jacket in the sauna or the cologne in my room? Of my neatly ordered bedside rocks being rearranged?

It all seems so nebulous, so impossible to pin down. There's no proof that anyone else has been here. It's like I'm dealing with a ghost.

My face must reflect my uncertainty, because he says, "I need to be fully aware of the situation here, ma'am."

The way he says "situation" speaks louder than his words. He thinks I'm dreaming this all up.

An unbidden memory flashes into my mind, of Renard, telling the judge I was delusional. "She talks to herself," he said. "Sometimes she doesn't even realize I'm in the house."

It was all a lie, though. I knew he was in the house and I deliberately avoided him. And I only talked to myself while working out my book scenes aloud.

More than anything, I hate for people to look at me as "other." I work hard to say the expected things, make the right facial expressions, and smother any stray thoughts or actions that will brand me as different. Yet here stands the sheriff, practically accusing me of concocting my stalker story.

Barry is running his electric screwdriver, so he hasn't heard Roger's insinuation. Unable to come up with a scathing response, I say, "I trust you'll let me know if you find any unusual fingerprints." I stalk out the door and up the stairs before he asks me to elaborate any further.

Because there's no good way to explain the things I've seen here, and even if I tried, it would probably sound crazy.

After spending nearly an hour going through and trying on most of the meager wardrobe I've packed, I decide on an ivory short-sleeved sweater and a pair of black jeans that are relatively wrinkle-free. Once I put on lipstick and mascara and don my leather slides, I should look professional enough for the signing.

If I were at home, I would've had my stylist ship an outfit to me. One of the perks of being wealthy is outsourcing all my loathsome tasks, although I give myself boundaries with handing off chores. Otherwise, I'd never leave my house. To continue writing convincing fiction, I have to get out and observe people in real life. They're far more unpredictable than any characters I concoct.

Once I'm ready, I check to make sure every light in the house is off, because far be it from me to rack up a high power bill for whoever is covering this stay. Then I grab my leather tote bag and head downstairs to examine the new chain lock. Barry did an admirable job with the installation, but the thing will only work when I'm inside the house. I ponder various ways to booby-trap the door in case someone—the same someone who has clearly managed to get in before—tries to break in while I'm gone.

I've researched trip wires and hand grenade traps, but obviously, those are impossible here. I need something that would stop an intruder, not just give them pause like a water or balloon trap. Yet it can't be deadly.

Recalling seeing thumb tacks in a kitchen drawer, I head back up, grab a handful, and arrange them in a wide spread on the rug just inside the door. I'll have to remember I've put them there, which might be the tricky part after a long signing.

Grabbing a pen from my bag, I write a note on my palm that reads Tacks. Mom always used to scold me for writing on my hand, saying it makes you look like you can't afford paper, but I haven't found a better way to visually remind myself of something important.

I close the door behind me, then head to the car. The creek looks higher as I drive over the wooden bridge. Barry's warning comes to mind, about not crossing if the water gets up to the bridge. Hopefully, we won't get more rain.

The town is quiet when I drive in, but all the parking spots are packed outside Page Turner. In fact, a line of people snakes outside the shop's green door. Hope stands toward the front, chatting with one of the young book club mothers.

Throwing a harried glance at my clock, I see that I've arrived a full thirty minutes early. Am I missing something? Did Quincy bump the signing time back without notifying me?

Though it's terribly cliché and I hardly feel like a celebrity, I pull on my sunglasses and slip out of the car. I walk toward the line, trying to keep my head down. But Quincy opens the door, his elated voice cutting through the din of the crowd. "Alexandra! Do come right in!"

People turn and gawk. Did I miss the memo that the signing started at 5:30?

Thankfully, Hope sees my distress and helps clear a path. "Out of the way—the author's here," she says, giving me a wink as she ushers me toward the door.

Quincy gives my hand a vigorous shake then walks me inside, firmly closing the door behind us. He's dressed preppy in a plaid button-down and chinos, and his glasses must be new, because they're trendier than I remembered.

He makes a sweeping gesture toward a rectangular table laden with piles of books. It looks like he's stocked at least twenty of each of my Lipstick and Lies novels.

"I can't wait to get book seven on my shelves," he says earnestly. "Now please, have a seat. I've set out several pens for you. I think Lori's mentioned it to you, but we'll handle all transactions at the register."

I throw a smile at Lori, who's standing rigidly behind the counter as if poised for battle. She gives me a smile back.

I turn to Quincy, who's watching me like a hawk. "Uh...did I miss something?" I wave toward the line outside. "I thought the signing was scheduled for six."

He frowns. "Oh, no, it's still at six. People around here go places early, in case they run into any roadblocks. Mountains generally don't have short cuts, so if you get stuck, you have to sit and wait."

I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to release some tension. I've been to numerous signings, but usually I'm the first to arrive. It's flattering to see how dedicated these readers are, though—leaving plenty of time to spare so they can be sure to meet me.

Once I've given Quincy the thumbs-up that I'm ready, he opens the door, allowing people to make a beeline for the table. Young and old alike stand in the crowd, which makes me feel like I've done something good with my career. My books are accessible to a wide range of ages, like those of Agatha Christie or even the queen of suspense herself, Mary Higgins Clark.

Quincy hovers by the table, making me uncomfortable. When Lori calls him over to the register, I become conscious of the fact that I've been nervously bouncing my foot the entire time I've been here. I halt the motion by planting both feet firmly on the floor.

Although Quincy has been nothing but amiable, I keep thinking of Jordan's fateful visit to Cedar Gap for the opening of this very shop. Tilly told me that Jordan was friends with Quincy, but what was the nature of their friendship? She must've been half his age.

By seven thirty, my book piles have been completely depleted and people are searching the shelves for more stock. It's been one of the most successful signings I've ever had—and that includes my New York City signing. People here seem eager to meet an author and get the inside scoop behind my inspiration. Two people asked how I was going to wind up the love triangle, but both seemed more concerned that Natasha finally defeat her nemesis than that she wind up with Archer. It gives me hope that I'm moving in the right direction by snipping the existing romance threads.

By eight, the crowd has dispersed. Quincy and Lori come over to take down the empty table, so I stand to peruse the bookshelves. I wander by the romance section, noticing a title by Mariah. Was that there the last time I visited?

I pull it off the shelf. It's a flashy cover, with gold cursive lettering and a shirtless, kilted hunk. I flip through the pages, relieved to see that she has a good editor.

The shop door opens, and I glance around. Henry comes in, wearing his boots and weathered jeans. He looks like he's come directly from construction work, given the white specks dusting his curls.

As I walk toward him, he gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry I'm late. I was doing a little drywalling. I was hoping I could get a signed copy of Silent Beauty for Mother."

Book six had been the first stack to sell out. "I'm sorry. They've cleared those out," I say.

Quincy walks our way. "Hi, Henry. Looking for something in particular?" His glance travels between Henry and me, as if trying to figure out the nature of our relationship.

Henry shifts on his feet. "I was hoping to get a copy of Silent Beauty," he repeats.

Quincy gives a brisk nod. "I've stashed a few copies in the back. Let me grab one."

I'm relieved to know that Tilly can get her copy, even if she's still blissfully unaware the author is the same person who invaded her house the other day.

As Quincy heads to the back room, Lori walks our way, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She must be in her twenties, but her eyes are shining as she approaches Henry. I realize with a jolt that she's interested in him, even though he's quite a bit older than her.

"You doing all right, Mr. Basham?" she asks with a smile. "How is your mother doing? I haven't seen her in town lately."

"She's been more bedfast of late," he says.

Her glance rakes over his tall form, lingering on his drywall-dusted curls. "I'm sorry to hear that. You let me know if I can pick up any books at the library for her. Or for you," she adds, giving him a significant look. She turns to me. "Mr. Basham is a real classics reader. What was your latest read—Journey to the Center of the Earth?"

Henry gives a quick nod as Quincy emerges from the back. As he hands Silent Beauty over to me to sign, Lori returns to her conversation with Henry.

"We just got a volume of Poe stories in." She says this as if she's received a shipment of illegal goods. "He's such an unusual writer, wouldn't you say?"

Henry gives another wordless nod, and I try not to grin. Lori's best attempts to draw him into conversation are failing. Besides, "unusual writer" doesn't quite capture the essence of Poe. Maybe something more like the "Poet King of the Romanticized Macabre."

Quincy injects himself into the one-way conversation. "Poe's stories are so unbelievable. I'd recommend The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson over Poe."

"I've already read that," Henry says dismissively. "Talk about unbelievable. All those scary things were just in her head." Under dropped eyelashes, he shoots me a contrite look.

I blink back surprise. Does he feel I'm similar to the protagonist in The Haunting of Hill House? Could he believe that everything going on in the cabin is only in my head?

I hand the signed book over to him. "Thanks for coming. I hope your mother enjoys it." Suddenly weary of everything, I turn to Quincy. "And thank you for a wonderful signing. My agent will be delighted to hear how well it went."

As Lori walks Henry over to ring him up, I realize this might be my only chance to ask Quincy a few questions. "I understand you were friends with Jordan Larson," I say quietly.

He cocks his head, but his look is curious, not hostile. "Yes, we were quite close."

"It's tragic that she died so young," I say. "Did you get to visit with her in the cabin at all?"

His gaze sharpens. "You're asking because you're staying there, aren't you?" When I don't answer, he taps a finger to his lip. "Let's see. I went over for a meal there one night—she'd made a chili-sauce meatloaf, as I recall. I brought sweet tea and a chocolate pudding pie for dessert. This was in early summer, when the bookstore opened." He glances toward Henry, who's still stuck at the counter. "He's the one who found her in that sauna, you know," he whispers. "I hate to admit it, but I'm glad it wasn't me. I would've had a breakdown. She was like a daughter to me."

I hadn't expected that he and Jordan had that kind of dynamic, but it did make sense. After all, she had traveled to see his bookstore opening, so he must've been special to her. "Did she mention any problems with someone bothering her, like a jilted boyfriend?" That would track with the creepy character of Max in The Visitor, although it was odd that she'd served meatloaf to Quincy that night, just like Max did in her book. But maybe she'd just really liked meatloaf.

Quincy sends a covert look toward Henry, who's now walking our way. "There was an issue, but I'll have to tell you later," he breathes.

Henry proudly holds up his book bag. "Mother's going to love this, and I'm sure I'll enjoy it, too." He positions himself by my side. "You two having a good talk?"

SEVENTEEN

"We are," I say quickly. "But I should get back." I don't want to discuss Jordan with Henry, at least not now. Not until I get a better grip on what Quincy was insinuating when he mentioned that Jordan had an issue with someone. "Thanks again for setting up the signing."

"Take care." Quincy's tone is loaded with meaning. Is he telling me to watch out?

I shoulder my bag and head for the door. Henry trails along beside me, like he's not quite sure I want him around. I'm suddenly not sure, either. I've never really considered the significance of him being caretaker when Jordan was there. Had he been interested in her, maybe even had some kind of altercation with her? Could he have been the mysterious older man she'd modeled her creepy character Max on?

He pushes the door open for me, and as I step onto the sidewalk, a red car backs up and edges onto the street. I take a closer look. It's a Tesla.

Did Mariah know I was doing a signing? If so, I'm surprised she missed her chance to publicly confront me. Why didn't she come in?

Henry gives me a questioning look. "Everything okay?"

"Yes. I'm tired, that's all. It's been a long day." And so it has. From the ominous note to the sheriff's dismissal of it to the unsolicited book signing, I've gotten overstimulated beyond all regulation. What I need is to enjoy some good, rich food while watching shows that won't disturb me.

As if intuiting my needs, Henry says, "Cleo's made a ton of pork barbeque and slaw, if you'd like some. I have slider rolls I can bring over, too."

Even though I feel conflicted about Henry's motivations, I can never say no to home-cooked food. It's my Achilles' heel. Trying to let my voice reflect gratitude as opposed to hesitation, I say, "Sure. I'd be grateful if you wanted to share."

He offers the hint of a smile, and I feel strangely pulled toward him, as if he's the only person I could count on if the world suddenly blew up. I've never experienced this feeling with a man before, so I'm guessing it's just illusory, false. How could I ever trust my own judgment after my complete failure of a marriage?

I pull my focus back and unlock my car door, which he promptly opens for me.

"I'll call when I get the food ready." He ambles toward a black truck I assume must be his.

As I make my way onto the darkening, winding road leading to the cabin, I wonder where Mariah shot off to. Is she staying in town? If I see her red Tesla at my place, I'll lock myself in the car and wait for Henry to bring the food over.

My tires rattle over the wobbly bridge. I have a sudden, strong vision of how my car could plunge into the creek, and my stomach twists. The high water isn't enough to drown me right now, but what's the protocol for getting out of a car when it's even partially submerged? Presumably, pressure would force the doors shut and the water would short out the electrical system, making the windows inoperable.

As I roll over the last board, I let out a long breath. A flooded river scenario might be the perfect obstacle for Natasha to encounter up in Alaska, since the stakes would be higher due to icy water. I should do some research about ways to escape a submerged vehicle—not only for Natasha's sake, but for my own. Just in case.

Once again, my overactive imagination comes through in a pinch, leaving me full of deadly ideas I hadn't anticipated at the start of the book.

Thankfully, there's no car in the driveway, so I pull right up next to the back door. As the car light comes on, I catch a glimpse of my written-on palm, which reminds me that I've placed thumb tacks on the interior rug.

With my phone flashlight at the ready, I plug in the keycode and open the door. The thumb tacks look undisturbed, so I flip on the overhead light, then get down on my hands and knees to pick each one up.

After lowering my head to floor level to make sure I didn't miss any, I finally head toward the stairs. I don't even glance at the elevator, which I can only hope has been fingerprinted.

Once I've changed into my hoodie and jeans, I go into the living room, where I curl up in a plush armchair that gives me an unblocked view out the front windows. It shouldn't take Henry long to bring my meal over.

In my experience, men vastly underrate the power of offering food to women. Renard never cooked for me, and he rarely suggested taking me out to eat. He said I was introverted and that he understood that being in public for long stretches wasn't my thing, which sounded thoughtful on the surface. But then he'd go out and party it up for hours with his friends, leaving me to eat and go to bed alone.

I should've seen the red flags earlier in our relationship—the way he couched his disinterest as concern for my welfare, the way he always put his other relationships over ours, and the way he dismissed my opinions as if they were yesterday's garbage.

I'm deep into reading about escaping a drowning vehicle when Henry texts that he'll be bringing the food over. I hurry down to unlock the door.

As I stand inside watching for him, he arrives on his four-wheeler. The regular noise of the machine hurtling up the driveway is growing on me—a forceful reminder that I'm not completely alone here. Whether or not I can fully trust Henry, I don't know, but his initial gruffness seems to have melted into something more positive—protective, even. I wish I could lean into it, but Quincy's words niggle in my mind.

Helmetless as usual, he slides off the seat and unstraps a bag from the rear cargo basket. I open the door, and he carries the food over to me.

"This barbeque will blow your mind," he says. "Cleo spends hours making it—it's an old family recipe. I keep telling her she ought to market the stuff, maybe open a restaurant, but she says she'd much rather spend time helping people like my mother."

"Admirable," I say, and mean it. Working with Henry's mother can't be a walk in the park, but someone has to do it.

He falls silent, a dusty curl falling over one eye. The dim twilight has created a thin fog that drifts across the driveway.

A strange desire to spend more time with Henry possesses me, forcing me to speak. "Would you like to join me?"

It's a foolish move, but one I can't take back. As he nods and we walk inside, I try to understand what hijacked my good sense and drove me to ask him in. I slide the chain lock behind us and follow him upstairs.

I do want to ask him about Jordan and push for details on their relationship, if any. But, more importantly, I seem to be craving more of his thoughts on my Lipstick and Lies series. He was the one to recognize the true nature of my side character, Diana, and he also instinctively understood that neither Archer nor Matteo would be good enough for Natasha in the end.

In short, he's got a knack for seeing the big picture for my series, which is often difficult for me. I'm too close to it.

In the kitchen, Henry methodically starts setting out plates, forks, and glasses. He knows the place far better than I do. I try not to picture him creeping into the elevator or spraying cologne in my room, even though he could've easily slipped into and out of the house without my knowledge. He has the code, after all.

Yet my every instinct is screaming that this man would not do something like that to me. He doesn't take pleasure in others' pain, like Renard did.

I stare at the side of his tan face, because I can't seem to look away. His resemblance to Poe is undeniable. There's something similar around the eyes and the slim, aristocratic nose.

He turns to me, so I busy myself with carrying the pork and coleslaw to the table.

"Cleo says the key to good slaw is how fine you chop the cabbage," he says, walking my way. "She uses a food processor."

It's just the kind of awkward thing I'd say—giving too many facts while ignoring the charged atmosphere—and I appreciate it. However, I'm not the right one to entrust with this information, since I'll likely never make coleslaw for any occasion.

I look at the coleslaw in the dish. "Cleo definitely nailed it."

"Oh, yes. Mother approves of all of Cleo's cooking." He gives a chuckle.

I used to be repulsed by Renard's laughter, which always seemed to come at my expense, but there's something warm and good-natured about Henry's laugh. Something that sees the best in others, even if they're hard to deal with.

I find myself smiling in response. Sitting down, I say, "Let's eat. My stomach has finally settled after the signing."

"You get nervous?" His tone is incredulous, as if I should be in my element at such events.

"Every single time," I say.

As I load pork onto a homemade yeast roll, his gaze roams toward the side table and lands on Jordan's manuscript, which I've left sitting out.

"Book seven?" he asks hopefully, spreading butter on his roll.

"That's not my book." My quick answer sounds a little testy, but I realize he's given me an opening to find out more about Jordan's visit. "Actually, it belonged to someone who stayed here before. I found it in a gazebo drawer. I'm surprised you didn't notice it when you were cleaning out there. That's why I asked if you'd noticed anything strange."

His eyebrows tighten, but he doesn't seem to take offense. "Yeah, you're right. I should've come across it when I was cleaning. Whose is it?"

I'm about to drop the pièce de résistance. "Jordan Larson," I say casually.

His pupils darken, appearing to merge with his dark brown irises. "You don't say." He raps on the tabletop.

"You knew her?" I ask.

"Of course I did—she rented this cabin once." He gives me a confused look. "I thought you talked with Mother about her."

Tilly must've informed her son about our conversation, which I should've expected her to do. She probably wondered why I was asking so many questions.

I take a long, deliberate bite of the juicy sandwich, waiting to see if he gets uncomfortable. Instead, he seems to take a cue from me and loads his fork with coleslaw.

"I did talk with her, yes." I catch his gaze again. "That's why I was so worried when I found out that someone had been messing with the sauna, placing the jacket in there. I'd heard the story." I put a forkful of coleslaw into my mouth, taking a moment to savor the explosion of flavor playing at my taste buds. "That is remarkable," I blurt out. "It's nothing like the kind I get in Connecticut."

"Kind of like the sweet tea up there, I'll bet," he jokes.

Sensing that we're building a solid rapport, I push into that connection. "What can you tell me about Jordan? I'm trying to figure her out by reading her book, but it's a little difficult."

He stares. "You're saying that's a book she left behind?"

I nod. "It's on the short side, but it's a book nonetheless."

"She told me she worked for a newspaper back in Ohio. I didn't realize she was writing a book, too." Absently, he takes a huge bite of his slider, leaving only a small corner behind.

"It's an interesting story," I say. "About a murder."

He looks genuinely startled. "You think this book might have something to do with her death?"

Even though it's difficult for me to read people, I could swear that Henry is just as blindsided by Jordan's book as I was. If he didn't see it in the gazebo, which he'd cleaned before I came, then when had it been placed in that drawer?

I pick up my slider. "It's hard to say for sure if they're even linked. In Jordan's story, an older guy is preying on a young girl—maybe like her—but I haven't gotten to the end yet." I give a phony laugh, but it comes out hoarse. "I have to prioritize writing my own book first."

"Of course you do." He draws himself up, wiping his fingers with a napkin. "Well, I'd better be on my way so you can write. I appreciate your letting me join you, though."

I'd hoped to talk with him about my plotline, but I must have inadvertently signaled that I had to get back to writing. "Sure," I say. "Thanks for bringing the food. Tell Cleo it was wonderful."

He stands, towering over me. "I will. She'll be delighted you enjoyed it." He gestures toward the half-empty storage bowls. "Just get those containers to me later—there's no rush."

I feel foolish for using my time to question him about Jordan, when what I needed most was his reader viewpoint. I shouldn't have let Quincy's sinister words blur my vision of who Henry actually is—a helpful man who's supported me at every step.

He leads the way downstairs, slowing as we approach the back door. He stares straight ahead and points, so I quickly halt by his side.

The back porch light has come on, and the wind is toying with a note that's been taped to the outside of the door glass.

Henry gives me a questioning look, and I nod. "Just don't touch it," I say.

In three giant strides, he moves toward the door, throwing it open so we can both read the note. A strip of duct tape has been affixed to the top of a sheet of notebook paper.

The outdoor bulb bathes us in a stream of harsh light as we struggle to make out each word.

"I'm a fan of your books," Henry reads. "It's a pity my star didn't rise as high as yours." He squints at the signature scrawled on the bottom. "Is that Mary? Or Matilda?"

I peer closer, and a current of recognition shoots through my body. "Mariah," I say. "It has to be Mariah Cloud, the woman who showed up at my house the other night. I thought I saw her car in town today, too. I'm afraid she might be my stalker."

EIGHTEEN

Henry silently opens the back door, gesturing for me to step inside. Once he's joined me, he slides the chain lock. Taking up pacing by the pool table, he says, "Didn't you tell me that Mariah was an author, too? Why would she destroy her own career by stalking you? Doesn't she know she'll be all over the news for something like that?"

As I try to work through his jumbled questions in my head, his comment about the news strikes a chord. "Maybe that's the point," I say slowly. "You'd be surprised at the lengths authors will go to in order to be noticed. Have you heard of review bombing? Some authors drop scathing reviews of their competition at online reader sites. Others have publicly attacked readers who've given them low reviews." I take a deep breath. "Then there's the mystery writer who bragged online that she could kill someone and no one would ever know. When her husband suddenly up and died, it didn't take long for the police to figure out she'd murdered him."

"Remind me not to run in author circles," Henry says wryly. "Should I really be hanging out with you?"

I could ask myself the same question of him, but I tamp that thought down. "I know those are extreme cases, but I'm worried Mariah might fall into that category," I continue. "She reacted in a hostile way when I gave her an honest critique years ago. Maybe she's been harboring resentment all this time."

"But if she's your stalker, how could she have gotten inside to mess with the sauna or tape that note in the elevator?" he asks.

Recalling Hope's assumption that the cabin's keycode would be changed periodically, I ask, "You reset the keycode regularly, don't you?"

He looks chagrined. "Truth be told, I haven't changed it since they installed it. I keep meaning to make time to do it, but since he's not renting the place out, I didn't figure it was top priority."

I shake my head. "Maybe Mariah got hold of the code from someone...possibly someone who stayed here. This cabin is used for author retreats, right?" I was jumping from one wild conjecture to the next. What implausible string of events would allow Mariah Cloud to foresee that I'd travel to this very cabin, or to get in touch with some random author who'd once come here?

I suppose Mariah herself could've attended an author retreat, but that wouldn't make any sense, because she wasn't even with Thorvald Media.

Pressing my hand to my head, I will my thoughts to still.

Henry gives me a concerned look. "Listen, I don't want you sitting here worried, because then you won't be able to write." He leans against the edge of the pool table. "Tell you what—I'll call Roger about Mariah's note. I can stick around if he wants to drop by and pick it up tonight."

Despite my irritation that he never reset the keycode, I'm thankful for his offer. Mariah could be lurking around in the darkness, even though her car is nowhere in sight. "I'd appreciate that," I say slowly.

My gaze shifts to the paper flapping in the night breeze. A staggering sense of relief washes over me. "You know what? Mariah signed the note, so we finally have a name to put with my stalker. I can't figure out how she managed to track me down in Greenwich, much less follow me to West Virginia, but I've seen her in Cedar Gap at least three times now. This note seals the deal—it's an open-and-shut stalker case. I should let Micah know, so he can update his friend at the F.B.I. who's looking into things."

"Good idea." Henry pulls his phone from his pocket. "I'll stay out here and call Roger, and you can go into one of the rooms down here and call Micah. Then we can figure out the next steps." He gives me an intense look. "And I don't plan on leaving you alone for one minute, even if I have to sleep on this pool table."

Micah sounds relieved when I tell him about Mariah's note. He assures me he'll point both his F.B.I. friend and the Greenwich police in Mariah's direction. "I'm sure you'll be ready to get home soon," he says. "Robin can book your return flight—it's getting late there, right? You can just call her in the morning. We'll send you business class, all expenses paid by Thorvald Media." His voice roughens. "Alex, I'm so sorry you've had to go through this. I wouldn't wish a stalker on any of my authors."

The way he calls me by name and refers to me as one of his authors touches me. I've heard that some editors keep their authors at arm's length, but Micah has always been fully invested in me—not just in the books I can create for him, but in my overall career.

"Thank you." My voice sounds robotic, even to my own ears. I wish I could project my gratitude through the phone, but until I process the overwhelm of the past week, it will be impossible to channel any of my emotion into words.

I head out of the theater room just as Henry is pocketing his phone.

"Roger said he'll be over first thing in the morning," he tells me. "He said to use gloves and bag the note, so it doesn't get all ripped up in this wind." His dark eyes meet mine. "Alexandra, I meant what I said about staying over. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I'd be negligent if I left you alone when we don't know where Mariah is. I'll be happy to sleep down here, where I can keep an eye on the door."

I don't even try to hide my relief. "You can call me Alex," I offer, realizing he hasn't really called me by name until now. "I hope Cleo will be able to stay with your mom?"

He nods. "She's basically on call."

I glance around, uncertain if there's even a bedroom downstairs. "I don't know where you can sleep."

His eyes dart toward the sauna. "I know one place I won't be sleeping," he says darkly. "But don't worry about it. There's a kids' room down here. It has bunk beds, but I think I can fit on the bottom one."

Though I hate to imagine him crunching his tall body into a bottom bunk, I would feel better if he stayed downstairs, a safe distance from my own sleeping nest. I know he's not my stalker, but I've taught myself not to place blind trust in anyone. Renard taught me that.

Once he's bagged up the note, Henry gives me an amusing demonstration of how he can squeeze onto the narrow twin mattress. Although he can't fully extend his legs, he seems comfortable enough. I invite him to come upstairs and get some extra blankets and pillows.

As we pass the kitchen, I realize I'm still hungry. Luckily, Hope delivered a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of white queso that are calling my name. When I ask Henry if he'd like to join me for a snack, he agrees, so we load our bowls and settle onto the couch.

With a glance at the large TV gracing the wall in front of us, Henry asks if there are any shows I particularly enjoy.

I tell him about my Alaskan fixation, and he nods in understanding. "Pretty realistic," he says. "I can see how you'd like that show. I remember that scene in one of your books—was it Stolen Tears?—where Archer ran into a bear in a cave. I was glad to see that he thought on his feet."

Flattered at his recall, I say, "I actually got in touch with a guy who'd had that same experience, only in his case, the bear wound up tearing his arm off. He told me what he would've done differently, given another go-round."

Henry's eyes widen. "At least it was just his arm. That's some good research."

"Yes, his friend created an opening for him to escape by banging a pot on the rocks," I explain. "I love getting a firsthand viewpoint like that."

Henry plunges a chip into the white cheese, then bites it into two neat halves. He munches thoughtfully for a moment, then says, "It must be fascinating to come up with those dangerous scenarios. I'm interested to see what you'll do in book seven, even though I need to read through book six first."

I nod, a bit fixated on the way one of his curls dangles by his ear. "Is there anything you'd like to watch?" I ask.

"Don't laugh, but Mother got me hooked on Dallas," he says. "Who shot J.R. and all that."

"I've only watched the first few episodes, but I'm willing to watch another." I grin. "So you're a soap opera junkie."

He shakes his head. "It's the power struggles that intrigue me."

"You keep telling yourself that." I turn on the show, feeling strangely content. Mariah can prowl around all she wants, but the chain lock will keep her out. And tomorrow, when the police take her note, she'll be the one who has to go into hiding.

I sleep better than I'd expected behind my locked door, only waking around nine when Henry calls to me from downstairs.

"Roger's on his way," he shouts up.

After forcing myself to choose an outfit without first determining if it suits my mood, I brush my teeth before making my way downstairs. Henry stands at the back door, looking toward the driveway. He gives a prolonged yawn and stretch, turning around as I walk in. "You sleep okay?"

"Surprisingly well." I cock an eyebrow. "Looks like you didn't, though."

"Nothing a little coffee can't fix," he says.

Before I can offer to make some, a police car pulls up. Roger and an officer get out and stride toward the house. I take a deep breath, hoping this interview won't go as poorly as my last one.

Henry opens the door, greeting Roger with a friendly clap on the shoulder. He hands the bagged note over.

The sheriff instructs his officer to sweep the house and yard. Once the other man has taken his leave, Roger turns back to us, asking if we'd mind chatting a little.

For the most part, Henry fields his questions, although Roger does ask me for a rundown of stalking instances that have happened since I got here. As I elaborate on them, I sense he's less incredulous than he was on his last visit. It definitely helps that Henry is right here to nod at everything I'm saying.

Once the officer returns from his investigation, the sheriff meets my anxious gaze. "Thank you for your help, ma'am," he says. "You say the F.B.I. and the Greenwich police have been updated in regard to this note?"

"Yes." I don't elaborate, because I'm ready for this interview to be over. I need to call Robin and book my plane tickets.

"I'll touch base with them, then." Roger extends a hand to shake mine. "I'm thinking it won't take long to apprehend this author woman, especially if she's driving around in that red Tesla you told me about. That kinda ride gets noticed in this town. Now, I'd recommend you keep a sharp eye out around this place, just in case she comes back."

"I'll help her with that," Henry says.

Roger shakes Henry's hand, then ambles toward his vehicle.

Henry takes a step closer, but not so close as to make me uncomfortable. Concern wreathes his features.

"You doing okay?" he asks.

It's a predictable question after such an ordeal, but he asks it like he knows how I'm feeling. Inside, I'm a ball of tightly-wound nerves.

I force a slow nod. "I'm fine. I'll be okay now that they've checked things out. You're welcome to come in and get some coffee, but I'd better get back to writing."

His glances toward the sky, then points upward. "See that black cloud bank? I've only seen that a few times in my life, and it always brings severe storms and buckets of rain." He glances toward the creek, which is peacefully burbling along. "If we get too much rain too fast, the creek's liable to flood. You'll need to watch out for that."

"Okay. Well, I'm not planning on going anywhere today. Will you be home?"

"Cleo will be heading out soon after sitting with Mother last night. So, yes, I'll be around."

It's impressive that he's so dedicated to his fractious mother. I could use some of his compassion when dealing with my own mom, even though her nastiness doesn't come from dementia. She seems to have been born with it.

Henry is probably ready to get back to caring for his mother, so I decide to spare him further niceties. In a nudge to get him to move, I ask, "Did you want to come in for coffee?"

"No, I'd better get back." He extends his hand, letting it hover over my arm for a millisecond. Then, as if scalded by the very thought of touching me, he lets it drop discreetly to his side.

I pretend I didn't see his almost-contact. "Thanks for being there for me last night," I say.

"Of course." He strides toward his four-wheeler. "Take care," he says awkwardly, then drives off.

NINETEEN

Late in the afternoon, after I've managed to write a couple of chapters, I realize I've completely skipped lunch. Once I've eaten a quick sandwich, I head outside to get some fresh air.

With the black clouds still looming above, I walk to the creek bank, settling my gaze on a swirling area where water rushes over an oversized flat rock. For countless years, the creek has worn that rock down, rushing over its surface and forcing its jagged edges to smooth.

It reminds me of my unhealthy relationships with my mom and Renard. Pieces have been chipped off me—qualities I didn't want to lose, like innocence and trust—and, like Humpty Dumpty, I can't see a way to put myself back together again. I don't feel whole, and I'm not sure if I ever was in the first place.

Thunder rumbles over the closest mountain ridge, as if the very skies have heard me calling. I can smell the rain coming—that misty scent of water hitting dry ground.

Turning, I take a long look at the cabin. Even though the house is tastefully designed and boasts natural tones from roof to siding, it looms against the woods like some kind of misshapen, misplaced eyesore. It hasn't been a haven for me, although the people here have been welcoming enough. Henry, in particular, has grown on me, but I can't let myself get attached. When I get close to people, I give them the power to wound or even leave me. I refuse to invite that pain into my life again.

Feeling loath to head inside, I stroll toward the gazebo. Maybe I can get a little space, surrounded by nature, to think through the next scene in my book. I need to be far more productive for the remainder of my day, since Robin has booked me a ticket to leave tomorrow. She was so thrilled to hear that my stalker problems had been resolved, telling me she knew it was a direct result of her fervent prayers. There's a sweetness about her that's touching.

I don't think I'm procrastinating, exactly—more like trying to find a way around the mental roadblock of having a real-life stalker. It makes sense that Mariah would pull something like this, knowing it would derail me. She can't bear to see me succeed, and her note said as much. At least I can comfortably enjoy the yard surrounding the cabin, now that the police have checked things out.

I sit in a hard-backed chair and close my eyes, reveling in the woodland sounds. My hearing is tuned differently, so I can make out small noises that no one else can. I can often hear someone breathing in another room, or make out book pages being turned in the library. My therapist calls it hyperacusis, and it's not abnormal for autistics to experience it. Most of the time, I try to block it out, but sometimes, those small sounds take over my airwaves.

Right now, above the ambient sounds of birds chirping, wind pushing on the leaves, and cars on the distant roadway, I hear something else. It's a faint crackling that's coming from behind the house. I leave the gazebo to check on it, walking through the grassy yard to peer around the corner.

The orange cat marches across the leaves, straight toward the empty tuna can. In all the hubbub this morning, I forgot to replace it.

I jog into the house and up to the kitchen, where I hurriedly open another can of tuna. Before I can dash downstairs, something on the couch catches my eye.

It's a framed photo. How did that get there?

I inch closer, tuna can outstretched as if it'll ward off danger. There are two children in the photo—small boys, it looks like. They're standing in front of the ocean, big grins on their faces.

The boy on the left is tan, with dark hair, and the boy on the right has blond hair that glistens in the sunlight. Given their knee-length neon swim shorts and bright green kickboards, the photo must've been taken in the eighties.

Something about it seems familiar, but why? I can't place it.

How did the photo wind up on the couch, anyway? Did the police officer pick it up in his house sweep, then forget he'd left it sitting out?

The urgency of the cat's hunger weighs on me, so I turn from the photo to deliver the tuna can. I use the deck stairs, which are the quickest way to get to the woodpile.

The kitty stands near the empty tuna can, which has been knocked sideways on the ground. Every ounce of food has been licked out.

Fixing its golden eyes on me, the cat meows loudly. Given its need for nourishment, I'm guessing I might be able to get a little closer this time.

I edge toward it, keeping my eyes to the ground so I'll seem less intimidating. Placing the fresh tuna on the woodchips, I allow myself to take a side glance.

The fluffy feline has moved closer. As it steps toward the can, its feathery tail flicks against my leg. I don't know cat language, but it seems to be telling me it's okay to pet it.

As it dives into the food, I lightly rest my hand on its back. When it doesn't startle, I run my fingers down its long fur. To my surprise, it leaves off its gobbling and shoves its head under my palm. A loud purring rumbles beneath its stomach.

I crouch down beside the cat. It presses against my knees, dipping its back and curling its tail as if begging to be petted. "You're a friendly baby, aren't you?" I ask, warming to its unabashed friendliness.

There's a sudden boom of thunder, and lightning slashes the darkened sky. In the same moment, a sheet of rain lets loose, instantly drenching us. The wet cat darts toward the top of the woodpile, where I assume it'll be protected, so I race for the deck.

On my way up the slippery wooden stairs, I glance at the driveway, then blink rain from my eyes to make sure I'm not seeing things.

A car sits parked out front—a black sedan.

I pound into the house, locking the sliding door behind me. Without slowing, I run into the bathroom, yanking a thick towel off the shelf. I wrap it around my dripping clothing and traipse into the living room.

I wish I'd only imagined the car, but when I look out the front window, I see it sitting there, parked next to my own rental. I pull back so I'm out of view, checking my phone to see if Henry's alerted me to any visitors. But there are no calls or texts.

Maybe he missed the car's approach. Maybe the storm drowned out the noise of the approaching vehicle.

An extended doorbell ring sounds, as if someone has already pressed it several times and is now starting to get impatient. My unwanted visitor must be getting drenched, because the deck is the only overhang for the back porch, and its spaced boards aren't flush with each other.

I'm not going to do the cowardly thing, which is to call Henry. For all I know, his mother could be having a health emergency. It's faster to grab a kitchen knife and see who's outside. I don't have to open the door to anyone, and if Mariah has returned on the scene, I'll call the police.

I ease down the stairs, knife in my back pocket. As the doorway comes into view, I'm surprised to see Quincy standing under an umbrella, gripping one of the bright green plastic bags from his bookstore. The bottom of his thin cotton jacket has darkened with the rain, and he looks miserable.

Even though I know Mariah is my stalker, I'd be a fool to open the door to him. Yet it feels wrong to ignore him, especially since he's already spotted me and is waving.

I move toward the door, thankful for the chain Barry's installed. I open it a crack, letting the chain stop it from going wide.

"This is a surprise," I say.

Quincy holds the bag out. "In all the bustle, I forgot to have you sign my books. It occurred to me that you might be leaving town soon, so I wanted to get your signature first." He throws an anxious glance over his shoulder. "When I crossed your bridge, there was a huge puddle in the middle of it, but now that this deluge has started, I'm honestly afraid to drive back over. Would you mind if I came inside and dried out a bit?" His glasses glint in the overhead light, obscuring his eyes.

I surely would mind. I'd mind very much. I can't let this man inside my house, even if he'd made an innocent mistake by crossing the bridge in the first place.

I stay in a safe position, a couple of steps from the door crack. "I'm sorry, but there have been some worrisome things going on lately, so the police have told me to keep my doors locked." It's not one hundred percent true, since Roger had only specifically told me to be watching for Mariah, but it sounds truthy enough to ward off my unwanted visitor.

Quincy shifts his head, allowing me to see the disappointment in his eyes. "Oh, of course." Brightening, he holds the bag higher. "Maybe I could leave these here and you could sign them—to me, please—then drop them off when you leave town? Would that work for you?"

His request isn't unreasonable, and it makes sense for someone who seems like such a devoted—although hopefully not psychopathic—fan.

"Okay." I extend my hand. The plastic rattles as he eagerly shoves the bag through the narrow crack. Given its heft, I'm sure it holds a couple of books like he said, but my author brain is only too happy to supply me with unsettling scenarios involving our transaction. Maybe he's placed a homemade bomb inside. Maybe he's laced the books with cyanide. Maybe he's got a gun and he's going to force his way in.

But he merely stands there, his now-empty hand dropping awkwardly to his side. As the rain drips from his umbrella, he adjusts it, shoving his empty hand in his pocket. Thunder booms, and he casts another fearful look toward the creek. The rushing water sounds way too close, so I'm sure it's risen to its banks.

Quincy is right. Driving his car over the makeshift bridge would be dangerous—possibly even deadly. I've heard too many stories of people who thought they could ford water with their vehicle, only to lose all traction and get swept to their deaths. Wary as I am of Quincy, I can't very well send him away in good conscience.

Lightning snaps, and I try to peer across the creek. I can just make out some lights in Henry's house. So why hasn't he come over to check on things? It isn't like him to ignore possible fallout from a storm like this.

Thunder sounds again, forcing me to make a decision. I don't have time to ask questions. I have a man on my doorstep, looking for shelter in a nasty storm.

I can't let him into the cabin, but where else could he go? I try to visualize the house from the outside, thinking of my options. There is a garage, but I'm not sure how to open it, and it might give directly onto the house. There's the gazebo, which is likely getting soaked with this driving rain, but it's a shelter, nonetheless. Then he has his car.

"Uh...you could stay in the gazebo, over there," I offer. "But it's probably getting wet, since the walls are partially screened. It does have a fireplace, though, if things get too damp. Or you're welcome to sit it out in your car, although that might be uncomfortable. I'm afraid I can't ask you in."

He nods, "I understand. You can't be too careful. I'll be glad to stay in my car. I'll just pull it up closer to your back door, if you don't mind. If that creek jumps the banks..."

"Good idea," I say quickly. "That'll be fine." I can't stop myself from asking the question I never asked Henry. "Oh, and I was wondering what kind of issue Jordan ran into when she stayed here."

He gives a delicate backward shake of his umbrella. "She was really shaken up about it when she came to my bookstore opening. She told me that someone rummaged through her bathroom things the night before. She said she'd asked Henry about it, but he denied it." Thunder booms again, and he inches closer. "Later on, Henry's mother Tilly cornered Jordan and reamed her out for casting aspersions on her upstanding son." He gives a huff. "Trust me, I mentioned that little incident to the police after Jordan's death, but they did nothing about it."

I stare at the soaked man, unable to articulate a response. Jordan felt sure that someone went through her bathroom belongings. In a similar way, I know that someone shifted the agates on my bedside table.

But Jordan suspected Henry of doing it. So where does that leave me?

Lighting strikes over the mountains, and I pull myself together. "Thank you for your help." Feeling a burst of compassion toward the reader who's gone so far as to set up an impromptu signing at his bookshop, I ask, "Could I set out some food, or maybe a travel mug of coffee for you?"

He blinks. "It looks like it'll be a long wait, so, sure, that would be nice." He turns away, sidestepping a puddle to splash toward his car door.

Once he's climbed into his car, I grip the plastic bag and head upstairs. I'll need to figure out how to get the food and drink to Quincy. I don't have his cell number. I suppose I could set things on the ground outside the door, then flash the lights and gesture for him to come over, but I'll need to make sure everything is protected from the rain first.

I gently set the book bag on the kitchen counter. After taking a peek to make sure it actually holds books, I slide the contents onto the marble countertop. Sure enough, Quincy brought books five and six for me to sign. I crack the brand new spine on Silent Beauty, thinking of all the hours that went into crafting the story, which was partially set in a casino.

I'd only made one visit to Las Vegas, but that was enough to help me visualize the action sequences I'd built my story around. I'd flown there to speak at a suspense conference, my flight and lavish room booked and paid for by Thorvald Media. They'd even gone so far as to offer a ticket to Renard, so he was delighted to accompany me.

Yet once we were there, his true colors leaked out. He spent all his time at the gaming tables, gambling the generous funds I'd given him away. He'd flooded his social media pages with photos afterward—only I wasn't pictured in any of them.

Shaking off my dark memories, I rummage in the fridge for something to offer Quincy. He'd probably enjoy some of Cleo's barbeque on a roll.

After preparing two small sandwiches, I place them on a plate in the microwave. As I punch in the timer setting, thunder booms. A blaze of lightning overtakes the sky, practically blinding me, so I scramble to pull its large plug from the wall.

I guess Quincy will have to eat the food cold. I step toward the coffeemaker and unplug it, too. There's no way I'll be brewing a cup in this storm. A water bottle will have to do instead. I take one out of the fridge, glad I ordered enough to share.

That's when it hits me—the glaring truth I should have recognized the moment I saw Quincy standing at my back door.

Only my neighbors, the sheriff's department, and Hope and Barry know I'm staying at Micah's house while I'm in town. No one else.

So how had Quincy known to come here to get his books signed?

TWENTY

Jarred to my core, my arms start shaking. When I get this upset, there's only one way to talk myself down, and that's out loud.

"Get a grip," I warn myself. "So Quincy guessed you were here. It's not rocket science. Maybe someone like Hope or Henry let it slip during book club. Or maybe he put two and two together, since he knows Micah's my agent. It makes sense that I'd stay in his empty cabin." I tap my fingers to my palm—one, two, three, four. "Just because he figured things out doesn't make him my stalker." I tap the fingers on my other hand to complete the pattern.

After waffling between giving Quincy the promised food or withholding it, I finally decide to get it to him in the most cautious way possible. I'm a person who keeps my word, and it's anyone's guess when he'll be able to cross the creek again.

I slide the sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a water bottle into the bookstore bag. Ever cautious of the knife in my back pocket, I head downstairs with the food. Once I hit the final stair, I look toward the back porch, only to see that it's fallen into darkness now that the sun has set.

I let out a slow breath. Since the motion sensor light is off, that means Quincy can't be lurking around outside. As I'd hoped, he's wisely stayed put in his car. I can't be the only kid who made a mental note that vehicles are second only to buildings for safety in lightning storms.

Without wasting a moment, I move to the door and slide the chain open. I manage to finagle the lumpy bag through the crack and onto the pavement outside, triggering the porch light. After firmly closing the door, I head to the inside light and flip the switch several times, signaling so that Quincy will pick up his food.

But he doesn't appear. Maybe the lightning obscured my blinking, but he should've at least noticed the porch light. I flip the switch harder, over and over, hoping to see his interior car lights activate as he opens the door.

There's no movement. I try to make sense of this. Maybe he went to the gazebo after all and found a dry spot to hunker down before darkness fell?

I try to squelch the thought that he could be trying to break into the house another way, but my stomach gives a rebellious lurch. This is a huge cabin. There could be unlocked windows in any of the tons of rooms. If Quincy tried every one...but who would be so dedicated, in this awful storm?

A crazed stalker, that's who.

But Mariah's my stalker. She trespassed and left me a note—more than one, probably—that she basically wants to be me. Plus, she's always seemed unstable.

Overwhelmed by the uncertainty of it all, I check the chain lock before turning off the light and heading upstairs. I'm not waiting around for Quincy to show, even though the food is liable to get soaked, regardless of its protective bag.

There's no way I can wind down for bed in this state. I check for messages from Henry, but none have come through. I'm only too aware that I have no Wi-Fi and that my cellular data is spotty, but I try texting Henry nonetheless.

"Quincy brought books over and got stuck this side of the creek. He's in his car. Not sure how to get him out of here." My words are brief, but I'm hoping Henry will pick up what I'm putting down, as Gwen says. I won't have any peace of mind until I get Quincy out of here.

I stare at the phone, willing him to send a response text, but none arrives. I'm hoping I'd still be able to call emergency services if the need should arise, but, given the state of my cell service, I'm not one hundred percent sure.

Feeling ridiculously isolated even though Henry is just a flooded creek away, I force myself to find something completely distracting to do. There's no way I could watch TV with all the lightning, so I decide to read Jordan's book. Maybe I can finally dig down to the meaning of the title. Who visits whom, and why?

The cabin is well-stocked with battery-operated candles, so I place a grouping of those on the side table to avoid using electricity. Once I've set the knife on the table and settled into the corner of the couch, light glints off a cushion. I realize it's the framed photo.

In my haste to feed the cat and take shelter from the storm, I'd forgotten all about it. A prickly awareness intrudes into my thoughts. I make a slow reach for the photo, allowing myself a long moment to stare at the two boys on the beach.

Now I realize why it seems so familiar. Jordan mentioned a vanishing photo of two boys in her book.

Maybe Jordan's art had indeed imitated life. The photo I'm looking at is exactly what she described.

Driven by curiosity, I flip the frame over and work it off, hoping someone took the time to write the boys' names on the back. Jordan could've been inspired by this very photo. Maybe she'd brought it with her and tucked it away in a drawer. The police might not have known it was hers when they investigated her death. Henry, too, could have assumed it was Micah's when he cleaned the place.

Sure enough, two names have been scrawled along the top in spotty ink. Given the precipitous slant of the letters, I can hardly make out the writing, but the first name seems to be Christopher.

My gaze slides to the second word, and I struggle to make it out. The first letter is either an unattached cursive A or an H.

It's only when I determine it's an H that I realize what I'm looking at. The second name is Henry.

I can't work through the implications fast enough.

Henry was caretaker when Jordan visited. She'd accused him of going through her bathroom things.

What if he'd given this photo to Jordan while she was here? I grab her manuscript, flipping wildly to find my place. I need to keep reading so I can understand.

But I can't ignore the question that's starting to burn in my brain: where is Henry this very moment? I shift sideways, peering into the darkened hallway.

"He's at home with his mother," I answer. "He's not in this house."

Saying it aloud doesn't make it true, but I have to continue.

"He can't get past the chain lock. And he can't get across that bridge now."

Unless he came over before the flooding started...maybe walked over so I wouldn't hear the four-wheeler.

I shiver. Surely I'd pick up on it if someone else were in the cabin right now. With my painfully receptive hearing, I would notice.

A languorous roll of thunder rumbles across the lead-colored sky, reminding me there's been a ceaseless racket that could've easily covered the small movements I'd normally pick up on. I press my back into the couch cushion, wishing I could derive solace from its pressure.

I'm tired of feeling like a fish in a barrel, just waiting for the final blow to be struck. Ever since my Highly Invested Reader sent that letter, I've been unable to live my life. Most likely, that was the intended effect, so it logically follows that my stalker would be someone with an axe to grind, like Mariah or even Renard.

Yet here sits Henry's childhood photo, clearly linking him with Jordan.

And Jordan's death wasn't an accident—I'm convinced of that. While the police determined that the sauna door had locked due to a flaw in the mechanism, I couldn't believe it. Jordan was likely murdered, but I have no idea how or why. She said as much in the scrawled note in her book.

I resolutely stare at the page in front of me. Though I can't possibly determine who my stalker is, I might read something in Jordan's book that would motivate the police to open a fresh inquiry into her death. My time in hiding won't be wasted, outside of the few chapters I've managed to write, and maybe I can bring some posthumous justice to the young writer who died here.

As the storm falls strangely silent, I turn my attentions to Aquarius, who's driven to Max's house at gunpoint. He forces her inside, then leads her into the basement.

Which is where she discovers she's not the first person he's kidnapped.

As Max shoves Aquarius into a small closet, another woman cries out from an enclosed space nearby.

I hunch closer, cradling the manuscript as if it's a hot potato. Was Jordan covertly trying to share a secret? Maybe to expose some kind of psychopath she'd run into, someone who'd stalked women before?

Surely she wouldn't be hinting that Henry was one and the same with Max.

Dissociation is something I'm particularly good at. I've been doing it since I was small. Every time my mom told me I was a loser, every time she blamed me for something I didn't do, I'd take a break from my battered thoughts and feelings and pretend I was somewhere—and someone—else. I compartmentalized my pain, but never dealt with it.

As I got older and more pain came my way, I got more adept at dissociating. I could lock on my smile and come off as highly sympathetic, but deep down, I was miles away.

After my divorce, I started examining this tendency with my therapist, who suggested I work out ways to ground myself in the now. She didn't want me retreating into my mind's labyrinth the moment things took a turn for the worse.

Aware that my traitorous feelings about Henry might throw me out of myself, I launch into my 5-4-3-2-1 technique.

Step one: name five things I can see. The dark, cloudy sky out the window, the jade green tufts on a couch pillow, the crinkly white paper, my unpolished fingernails, and a hole in my black sock.

Step four: name four things I can feel. The chill from the damp weather, a slight craving for more caffeine, the heaviness of hair that needs to be washed, and the cool leather of the couch cushion.

Step three: name three things I can hear. The rush of the creek, the shift of my legs on the couch, and...some strange noise downstairs. Something I can't put my finger on. Something I don't want to think about.

I breathe deeply. It's probably nothing. Maybe Quincy is picking up his food. Maybe he was hunkered in his back seat where I couldn't see him, and he realized I'd put things out for him to eat. Maybe he tried to open the door, only to find it was locked.

I force myself to go on. Step two: name two things I can smell. The scent of heavy rainfall that has somehow clawed its way through windowsills and doors.

But there's something else.

Something familiar, something sweet. A scent wafting down the hallway...or up the stairs?

Renard's cologne.

My final step is to name something I can taste, and I couldn't evade it if I tried. As a creak sounds downstairs, fresh electricity charges the house, and it has nothing to do with the storm. In the flickering light of my numerous battery candles, I taste fear.

Someone is in the house, and I need to hide.

TWENTY-ONE

Going out the back door isn't an option. Someone might be downstairs, and Quincy is—or at least was—right outside.

I try to make a call to emergency services, but unsurprisingly, my phone won't connect. I ease the kitchen knife into my hoodie pocket and ease to my feet. The last time I smelled Renard's cologne was in my room, so I veer down the opposite hallway. Whoever is in the house now might've been here before, so they'd know where I slept.

I cautiously enter one of the larger bedrooms and position myself behind the door, where I won't be expected. My stalker is probably well aware that this scenario could've come straight out of one of my books.

But once again, I'm left wondering who is behind all this.

I work my way through my suspect list, trying not to focus on the careless noises I hear drifting up the stairs. I know Henry and Quincy are close by. And since Mariah had taped a note on the door this morning, she might've stayed on this side of the creek, too.

Then again, I've seen Renard going into the woods, smelled his cologne, and spotted his jacket in this house.

Any one of them could've figured out a way in, although I'm unsure how.

On the wall facing me, a wide mirror hangs over the dresser. For one split second, I see Renard in it, staring at me. He's giving me his signature cocky smile, showing his brilliant teeth. His eyes dance over my face, and he seems amused at my terror.

I close my eyes and clench my fists. When I look again, Renard is gone. My mind must be playing tricks on me. But the scent of his cologne seems stronger. I can almost see it, like some cartoon cloud, inching along the hallway until it oozes around the doorway and hovers under my nostrils.

My phone dings, ripping through the house's eerie stillness like a cannon fire. Fearing it's given my position away, I yank it from my pocket and stare at a text from Henry.

"Can't come now. Stay inside where you are safe. I'll be there as soon as possible. Will come in basement door so don't unlock chain."

Of course there's a basement, just like there was in Jordan's book. The place where Max kept his prey. And Henry can get into the house that way, circumventing the chain lock.

My body starts shaking. It must've been Henry all along. My stalker in Connecticut could've been anyone else—Mariah, Renard, some crazy reader—but here, it's all been Henry.

He's been coming and going as he wants. He could've sprayed my ex's cologne to scare me, then placed a jacket the same color as Renard's in the sauna. It would've been easy to remove the jacket before I came downstairs, making me think I was seeing things. He could have also crept in and removed the note from the elevator while Hope and I were upstairs.

And he still lives with his mother. There's nothing wrong with that, and I've chosen to see it as a strength, but what if he has some warped motivation, like Norman Bates? What if he can't stand to live apart from her? Maybe he's angry that Micah bought the family farm. By killing the women who come to stay here, he could run Micah off, giving himself a chance to buy back the property.

The fact that he told me to stay inside, on his own familiar turf, only reinforces my line of thinking. He will do to me what he did to Jordan.

And his recent text has cleverly given away my location. With trembling fingers, I turn off the ringer on my phone so it can't happen again.

I don't want to move, but force myself to edge out behind the door. Peering down the hallway, I determine that no one is in the upstairs hallways, even though it's hard to be sure in the flickering candlelight.

Summoning my courage, I scurry into the bedroom across from me and kneel behind the door. I tune in to the cabin itself, trying to pinpoint the location of the person who's been moving around.

I hear a distinct clicking sound coming from downstairs. It takes me a second, but once I realize what it is, my blood freezes.

Someone is repeatedly opening and closing the sauna door.

It's a threat.

Henry is coming for me.

Darkness has enveloped the room, and I struggle to recall its layout. Does this one have a door giving onto the back deck? I flip on my phone light, scanning the curtained windows lining the wall until I make out a small white door. It does, thank goodness.

Regretting that I can't possibly leave this room to retrieve my shoes, I pad toward the door in my sock feet. I don't want to throw myself into the black wetness outside, but if I'm forced to, I will. I flip the deadbolt, preparing for a quick escape.

With the saccharine scent of cologne still hovering in the air, I listen. Where is he?

If he comes my way, I'll run outside, but then what? Does the small back deck even have stairs, or is it entirely enclosed? I didn't really pay attention.

Even if I do make it to the ground below, where will I run to? Quincy's car? Sure, he might jump in to help me, but if he can't drive us across the creek, we'll just be sitting ducks, and I'm guessing Henry won't attack without a weapon of some kind.

Thinking of Henry this way—as the villain in this story—seems all wrong. Everything in me screams out against it. The man brought me food, stood up for me with the sheriff, and acted protective of me at every turn. And he'd had every chance to harm me—like when we were alone in the woods. Maybe his valiant act was part of his cat-and-mouse game?

I hate not knowing who to trust. Over the years, I've taught myself not to fall for what people say, but to notice what they do and how they treat me. Have I set the wrong standard for myself? Why wasn't I gifted the same kind of gut instinct neurotypicals seem to be born with, the one I've given Natasha Summers in spades? My fictional heroine can sniff out evil, so why can't her creator?

Footsteps thud on the stairs, uninhibited by any need for disguise. He has the upper hand, and he knows it. I might have a knife in my hoodie pocket, but I'm no match for his size.

As steps pound down the opposite hallway, I decide I have to take this chance. If I don't get outside now, I won't be able to later.

Besides, I can't smell anything but Renard's cologne, and I can't take it anymore.

I crack the wooden door and ease onto the deck. Silently closing the door behind me, I hope I've bought some time before Henry realizes I've bolted.

Water soaks through the bottom of my socks, but I can't stop to worry about it. I flip on my phone light and run it along the deck railing. My heart sinks as I realize it's entirely enclosed—a little Juliet balcony, not an open deck with stairs.

I flip the light to the ground below, trying to judge the distance if I have to jump. There's a low-lying hedge just under the balcony, but I can only guess that its branches would poke or even stab me if I fell directly onto it.

It seems better to ease over the railing and let myself down slowly. One thing I have going for me is that I'm relatively limber. Also, I'm highly motivated, because someone has walked into the bedroom—I can hear them through the cabin wall.

I grip the damp railing and flip myself over it, letting my feet dangle beneath me. The darkness hides everything below, so I pretend the drop won't be as steep as it looked. Maybe I won't even have to go through with it.

But the door clicks open, and moonlight hits the form of the person who steps out. It's a man, and he's wearing a black ski mask, which removes all doubt that he has nefarious intent. He glances to the left, and before he can spot me, I let go and plunge into the bushes below.

TWENTY-TWO

Asmall, poky branch rips into my foot as I land with a tremendous thud. Steps thump overhead, and the man shines his light directly on me. He says nothing.

Even though the wind has been knocked out of me and I can feel the gash in my heel, I have to get up and move. This man wants me dead, I'm sure of it.

But where should I run?

As a fresh round of thunder sounds, I thrash around, trying to extricate myself from the grasping twigs. Once I'm clear of the hedge, I form a hasty plan. Since the flooding has blocked off the creek and bridge, there's only one direction I can go in—toward the woods. And I need to get under tree cover as soon as possible, where the man's roving flashlight can't light me up as a target.

Darting behind fruit trees, I enter the forest, trying to feel my way to the cleared path. I can't turn my flashlight on again and risk him spotting me.

While it would be smarter to avoid using the pathway, it's still the fastest way to move through the darkness. I can always veer away from it if he gets close.

I can't hear him behind me, but I make a wild scramble through the underbrush until it lets out on an opening that must be the path. Lightning cracks overhead, giving me a sudden visual of the trajectory I need to follow. I stumble forward, unsure how much distance I've put between me and the cabin.

The middle of my heel throbs. I'm probably losing blood through the deep cut, but at least I'm able to limp along at a relatively quick pace. The rain has mercifully softened the leaves, so my movements are quiet.

I pull out my phone. On the off-chance I've come within range of a cell tower, I could call for help. But I have no bars, and my screen is far too bright. I don't have time to fool with toning it down. I turn my phone face-out toward the path, only to see that I've wound toward the old chicken coop.

Thunder booms and lightning races along behind it, pressuring me to get out of the elements. There's no phone light trailing behind me, so I wonder if Henry has looped around the front of the cabin, assuming I'd go that way.

If he has, Quincy might become an obstacle in his path.

Another lightning bolt streaks up ahead, and a split-second later, a branch cracks off and drops to the ground. I'm running the risk of getting electrocuted out in the open, and I can't run much farther on my heel. I need shelter, and fast, so I flip on my phone light and dart in the direction of the coop.

But once I've nearly reached the door, my phone dies. Of course I didn't charge it. I'm a notorious non-charger.

Shoving my useless device into my back pocket, I push the door open, recalling only too late that it had previously stood ajar. Someone must've been in the woods after Henry and I were—or even in this coop. Maybe Henry himself had come here, to stew in his bitterness that they no longer had chickens or a farm to keep them on.

I hesitate on the doorstep, picturing Renard walking into the woods that day we went to search for him. Could I be wrong in thinking the masked man is Henry? Could Renard be the one who's stalking me? It seems overly dramatic for him to don a ski cap and hunt me down in a violent storm, but maybe he's turned maudlin in our months apart.

If it is Renard, it would actually be a relief. I could probably talk him down from whatever rage he's feeling, since I've been nothing but generous to him.

Buoyed by the slim possibility that it's merely a ticked-off ex chasing me down as opposed to a deranged murderer, I step onto a creaky floorboard. The space feels tight and reeks of mildew, but on top of that, it's heavy with the stench of a rotting dead animal. The dilapidated building probably has a regular parade of wildlife running through it. At least the animal I'm smelling is dead, not watching me in the darkness.

I feel for a wall and gingerly pick my way forward, hoping no rusty tools have been discarded on the floor. Rain blows through cracks along the doorframe, chilling me. I need to find something to wrap my heel with, since I can still feel it bleeding. Luckily, I haven't lost enough blood to make me pass out.

When thunder booms, I stop, anticipating that lightning might illuminate the building. Maybe there's a chicken feed bag or some kind of material lying around, so I won't have to tear up my sweatshirt for a bandage.

Lightning flashes, drawing my attention to an oversized lump lying just in front of me. It looks like a person taking a nap.

Only no one could nap in a storm like this. I sink into a crouch, willing myself to stay calm, even in the face of the hideous revelation that there's a dead body in this building.

The coop door flies open, and in the thin moonlight, I can make out a man's build. Given the thickness around his head, he's the one wearing a ski mask.

There is no hiding for me now.

The white-blue beam of a flashlight streams onto my face, forcing me to shade my eyes. I slowly ease out of my crouch, into a standing position.

"You found her," he says.

I can't place the man's voice, but he sounds unnaturally euphoric. Is he high? I haven't run into enough drug users to know.

"Who is she?" I ask, fighting the surreal feeling I could be conversing with some benign stranger on the street. This man is not my friend. He has killed this woman.

Yet his jovial tone holds. "You know who she is. She's your stalker."

Mariah? Surely not.

"You want to see what happened to her?" He sounds like he wants to demonstrate a new gadget for me.

I shake my head, but he ignores me, striding my way. I shrink against the wall, my heel still pounding. If he walks past me, I might be able to dart out the door, which he's left open.

Thunder rolls in again, shaking the flimsy walls. This must be the longest storm in the history of storms. It swirls away, then back again. In this particular moment, I hate it.

I try to see the man's eye color as he passes by. Is he Henry? Quincy? Or even Renard? Surely I'll recognize his eyes. But they're cloaked in shadow since his flashlight is angled toward the ground. He stops short just in front of me. If I try to run, he could grab me before I'd get anywhere.

When he shifts the beam onto the body, I can see that Mariah has curled into a ball, as if shielding herself from blows. Did he beat her to death? Her long brown hair has spilled onto the dirty floorboards, disheveled and matted with dark blood. I don't want to think about what might have happened to her.

"She was a feisty one," he says, almost dreamily. "Once I realized she was determined to warn you, I had to catch her." He chuckles. "She didn't get far."

He keeps his back to me, observing his macabre handiwork. He's wearing black jeans and white leather sneakers. The last time I saw Quincy, he was wearing khakis and loafers. There's no way he would've brought along a change of clothes. I strike him off my possibility list.

I try to guess at his height. He seems to be shorter than Henry, but the floor dips beneath him, so he's not on even footing with me.

I have to know who I'm dealing with. "Renard?" I ask, my voice cracking.

He turns his head toward me and cocks it. "You think so?"

With a click, he turns off the flashlight, plunging us into darkness.

I take my chance, because I'm sure I won't get another one. With my eyes struggling to adjust, I run toward the door. He makes a quick grab for my sleeve, but I'm ready for him, using my knife to stab into his hand as hard as I can. With a hurt yelp, he releases his grip, allowing me to hurtle toward the moonlit doorframe. I regret losing my only weapon, but I'll have to flounder along without it.

Once I've burst out the door, he trains his flashlight on me. I tear away from the path, plunging deeper into the woods. Hopefully, I can gain enough ground that I can duck behind trees or underbrush and wait him out.

My hair is sopping from all the rain, so I pull up my hoodie. It offers little defense against the continuing downpour.

He shouts out, "You can't get far, Alex. Listen to your Highly Invested Reader."

The truth finally comes out. This man—not Mariah—is my real stalker, the one who tracked me down in Greenwich.

I don't let myself turn to see if his light has found me. Instead, I stumble forward, willy-nilly, over the forest floor.

The wet leaves give way beneath my sock feet, but I can't slow down, even as another crack of lightning splits the dark sky. I clench my jaw and push my body to move faster, despite the jagged pain ripping through my lacerated heel.

The rain-sopped woods press in around me, but I refuse to give up. I will not accept the fate that's coming for me. I might not be a fighter, but I'm a survivor, and that's exactly what I plan to do.

The story I've been pulled into won't have a happy ending, but I'm determined to write it my way...or to die trying.

TWENTY-THREE

Itry to envision scenes from my Alaskan show, since I've been plunged into a survival scenario. What move should I make next? Find a weapon? Drop to the forest floor and hide? Make an about-face and run toward the cabin?

Do the unexpected, a voice says in my head. It sounds like Natasha Summers herself.

Counterintuitive to my every instinct, I slow down. Without making an effort, I'm suddenly able to get my bearings. There's a low rise to my left, where the flooded creek rushes past. Just beyond the creek, I hear the ponderous surge of water coming from a higher level.

It has to be the waterfall.

A light plays on the trees behind me, and I know he's getting close. It would be insane to head toward the waterfall in a lightning storm, but I'm about to pull my insanity out and sit with it for a minute.

I take off, heading toward the top of the waterfall. He'd never think to look for me where I'd be most likely to get hit by lightning. Running in the near-dark is incredibly risky, but enough moonlight glints off the top of the water to light my way.

Yet he gives a grunt just a short distance behind me. "Why'd you have to stab me, Alex? I only want what's best for you. I always have." He pants. "I didn't really care whether you chose Matteo or Archer for Natasha, by the way. That was just a red herring."

A red herring to what?

I push myself to keep moving, but a heavy lethargy has started seeping into my bones. Hell itself seems to be dragging me down, and I'm only halfway up the hill to the waterfall.

As if guided by some savage instinct, my stalker starts to gain ground behind me. His flashlight beam has now locked in on me, showing I'm next to the rock ledge Henry pointed out days ago. Surely this can't be that same Henry, running me to my death.

I don't have a chance, but I have to try to live. "I'm going to survive," I say out loud, veering onto the flat ledge.

The man jogs up behind me, and I make the mistake of turning around.

With the flashlight trained in front of him, he peels off his mask with a slow, dramatic move. His longer hair falls loose around his shoulders. As his dark eyes meet mine, I'm unable to move, frozen in place by the shock of seeing my editor standing right in front of me.

"It's time for me to explain." Micah's tone is beguilingly gentle. "I know you will understand. Just don't make any sudden moves." With his free hand, he pulls a pistol from his jacket pocket and levels it at my chest.

Before I can take a deep breath, the weight of suppressed memories plows into me like a wrecking ball. I crumple to my knees, no longer aware of Micah looming in front of me. Instead, a heavy snowfall blurs my vision, just like it did that fateful night.

I nearly skidded off the road a couple of times, but my tires finally found a spot to grip the icy pavement. I pulled into a guest space outside Renard's townhouse, hoping I wouldn't run into his girlfriend Tiffany, who resembled a Barbie doll.

I rang the bell and Renard threw the door open, smelling like he'd drenched himself in cologne for the evening. He smiled at me with teeth so whitened, they glowed. He wore a fitted tee and tight jeans, and he'd pulled his wavy hair into a short ponytail. His slippers looked like real leather.

"Alex." The word came out like "Ah-lix," because he was using his affected accent. "How delightful of you to show up. It's too bad you missed Tiffy. She just headed out to hot yoga." I didn't know which was more repulsive—his childish nickname for his girlfriend, or his smug look insinuating that I rarely worked out when we were together.

I looked closer. His nose was unusually red. "You catching a cold?" I asked. He didn't sound stuffy.

He gave a sniff. "No." Without elaborating, he reached onto a nearby table, then extended my unwieldy espresso maker toward me. "Here you go." His lips curled. "The only thing you really wanted out of our relationship, apparently."

I struggled to balance the weight of the machine. I didn't have to explain myself to him, ever again. I needed to cut my losses and walk away without a word.

But words were the only playground I had left. For so many years, Renard had wielded insults like swords against me. Now it was my turn.

I met his watery eyes. "You're a spineless, loveless coward. You're a parasite." With each word, I felt my strength building. "You'll die alone, because you can only take, never give. Tiffy's just a flash in the pan. The minute you run out of funds, she'll run out of your life."

He gave a growl. "How dare you, you⁠—"

I raised the espresso maker like a barrier between his hatred and me. "You don't know how to make a woman happy. In fact, you can't handle a real woman, with opinions of her own. At least I'm walking out of this marriage with my pride. All your friends know what you did, and they support me. They think you're a selfish pig. Good luck holding onto your shining online image—I have my author interview with The New York Times next week, and I plan to lay your infidelity bare."

Having thus informed him of the wrath to come, I pulled the machine closer, then picked my way across the icy sidewalk, toward the parking lot. Sticky snow fell, coating my head and clothing, but I didn't really feel it. I couldn't feel much of anything.

He cursed, then slammed his door. The next thing I knew, his slippers slapped along the pavement behind me.

"Stop right there. You are not going to do some kind of raunchy expose on me. I won't let you."

I turned my head. "You can't hurt me anymore."

I stalked forward, but felt his arms wrap around me. "Don't make any sudden moves," he said darkly. "You wouldn't want to get hurt on this ice. Now, give me back that espresso maker so I can put it in the dumpster, where it belongs. Just like those stupid novels you devote your life to."

He grappled for the appliance, but I held fast, diving into a deep well of strength I didn't know I had. I'd earned the espresso maker, fair and square. It was proof that my writing was valuable. I couldn't give it up.

I clenched it tight to my chest, as if to ward off Renard's ill-will. He continued wrestling with me, his feet sliding around in his slippers. My own rubber-soled boots maintained their purchase.

"I...said...no sudden moves!" he shouted, yanking the top of the espresso maker free.

But as he spun away, he lost his footing and crashed to the sidewalk. The heavy espresso maker flew out of his hands, then somehow landed directly on his head.

He gave one long, low groan against the ice, then fell silent.

Fearful of the worst, I knelt down beside him. Horror spread through me when I saw blood seeping from his head and discoloring the pale concrete walk.

I glanced back at the townhouses next to Renard's, thinking I could ask someone for help. But there were no lights on, and no one appeared to be watching what was going on. The parking lot was empty.

I was on my own, just like I'd always been in this marriage.

If I touched his neck to make sure he was breathing, my prints would be on him. Instead, I carefully lowered myself to the concrete beside him and placed my ear next to his mouth. If he were alive, I would hear his breathing.

But no air was moving, in or out.

Now that I was level with his face, I sucked in a breath and turned to look at it. Oh, those hideous, glassy eyes—I still see them in my dreams! They stared blankly at the dark sky, as if he'd been utterly shocked at the way things had turned out.

So was I, but I had no time to lose. Making the snap decision that protecting myself was more important than making some heroic post-death effort for an ex who had made no effort for me in life, I inched to my feet. Moving onto the crunchy grass, I walked quickly toward the parking lot and slid into my driver's seat. After throwing one final look at the tangled heap of my abandoned espresso maker and my dead ex-husband, I drove away.

Five words ran in a loop through my head all the way home: "No one has to know."

And, even after the police investigation into Renard's death, no one did. It didn't take long for them to uncover Renard's heroin addiction, which I'd known nothing about. It explained why he'd gone through my income like water.

They questioned Tiffany, of course, but she'd been witnessed in her hot yoga class at the time of Renard's death.

They found Renard's text to me, but I explained that I hadn't been able to get out in the icy weather since I didn't have my snow tires on yet. I would've been crazy to risk driving over that night just for a fancy coffee machine.

When they told me he'd died with my espresso maker nearby, I made the tentative suggestion that it would have been just like him to throw it out to spite me. The female detective verified that there was a dumpster nearby, then she clicked her tongue and said, "I know the type."

That was the end of that line of questioning.

I forced myself to forget, shoving down the hatred Renard had continued to level at me all the way up to the end, when he'd threatened to trash my espresso maker.

Then my neurodivergent brain whipped out a tool to help me move on. My therapist called it "dissociative amnesia." What this meant, and what I was now realizing as I stared down the barrel of a gun, was that time had actually frozen on that doomed night. In my reconstructed reality, Renard hadn't died—he'd just fallen silent and refused to text me. That's why I'd assumed he could be my stalker. Hadn't I felt the whispers of his spiteful presence all over the cabin?

TWENTY-FOUR

I'm suddenly aware of Micah's intense eyes boring into mine. "You're waking up, aren't you? Your therapist told us we couldn't say the words: 'Renard is dead.' We couldn't let you know, or your break from reality might break you." The flashlight beam plays on his face, showing that his eyes are glistening.

"But isn't it better to be awake?" he continues. "Fully awake, and able to comprehend what actually happened? You killed your husband. And I want you to know that I understand. Mariah isn't the only person I've killed."

I struggle to focus, what with the snow falling around me. Or is it water? "You killed Jordan?" I ask.

He gives me a fatherly smile. "Of course. I thought she was the same as you, but I realized too late I'd misjudged her. She was weak, and not a fighter for justice. I thought she'd killed her pedophile brother, but she swore she didn't have a hand in his fatal drunk driving crash."

After taking a deep breath, he says, "Yet now I see her death was part of the greater picture, a thread woven into my tapestry of recompense. I had to pretend to be a stalker to get you to my cabin." He smiles. "See, I've been here the whole time, in my hidden basement room, waiting for you. And now your eyes have been opened to Renard's death, just as I'd hoped. You can start to understand that your purpose, like mine, is to right wrongs; to bring justice into the world with your own hands. It's what you've always written about, isn't it?"

He bends down, placing his slim hand on mine, and the sweet scent of Renard's cologne wafts toward me. Ever since I've been here, he's been leading me down the garden path, making me think Renard was after me. But I keep my hand still, because I don't want to anger him.

"I've read between the lines of your books," he says. "I know you, Alexandra. You have the spirit of an avenging Fury, although you have the softness of a confused child. I want to take you to the next level, show you what you are capable of. I was young when I discovered my ability to deal with evil." His hand tightens around mine. "I was one of those boys in the photo—I just wrote Henry's name on the back to confuse you. The other boy mocked my family for being poor, so I thought I'd teach him a lesson. I held him down until he slipped into the ocean...it was an accident. But then I started to see that it was so much more. The universe was offering me the power to rid the world of hateful people." His eyes narrow. "People like your Renard."

Something about his words pierces through the snowy fog of my mind. When lightning gives an abrupt flash, I'm offered a glimpse of the rope swing dangling by Micah's side. He's unaware of it, fixated on convincing me I'm a stone-cold killer.

Maybe I am.

I plunge forward, grasping the knotted end of the rope before he can anticipate my intention. Using all my strength, I pull the thick knots toward me. The rope strains against the back of his calves, pulling him off balance. He slams backward onto the rock, his flashlight clattering to the ground and his gun skidding along the ledge. It falls into the swimming hole below.

But I'm not done yet. I give the tightened rope a firm yank, letting it drag him toward the edge of the rock. Though he scrambles to roll over and dig his nails into the smooth, wet surface, he doesn't have a chance.

I hear a splash as my stalker drops into the shallow water below.

I grab the rolling flashlight and scramble toward the hill, making a break toward the cabin even though I can hear Micah flailing around. I'm unsure if I've incapacitated him, but I can't wait around to find out. Thankfully, the storm finally seems to have spent itself, and the sky has cleared up. Thin moonbeams drape the tops of the trees and flicker into the woods.

It seems to take forever for me to reach the chicken coop. I give it a passing glance, regretting that I fell for Micah's setup that Mariah was my stalker. Chances are, when she banged on my door that night, she'd come to warn me. Somehow, she'd discovered Micah's twisted motivations toward me and tracked me down to let me know.

And then there was Jordan. What had he done to her, simply because he'd discovered she wasn't the murderer he hoped she was?

I had bought my reclusive editor's supportive act. He'd pretended to be in Hawaii, but all the while, he was staying in the cabin. He probably crept out of the basement each night to watch me as I slept, spraying Renard's cologne around to confuse me. I cringe, thinking of such a malevolent force in my bedroom.

He was the one who'd placed the jacket in the sauna, and he must've been the person I saw walking into the woods. He could've left the notes for me, including the final note that was supposedly from Mariah.

When I'd first come to Thorvald Media, Micah had asked if I had any bad relationships in the writing industry, so he'd be aware of where to tread lightly. I told him about Mariah, explaining that it would be best if I kept my distance from her. He was so understanding, telling me it wasn't my fault she'd taken my critique badly. Then he'd used that information as a weapon, making me suspect my stalker was a woman who only wanted to help me.

He also knew about my strained relations with Renard. I kept him updated throughout the divorce proceedings, because he said he needed to know the kinds of external pressures I was dealing with.

But he was leading a double life, storing up my problems to use against me. Luring me—and who knows how many others—into his cabin to...what? Craft us into killers in his image?

A rogue branch scrapes against my face. I shove it away, refocusing the dimming flashlight beam on the path. There's an opening in the trees some distance ahead, so I must be nearing the cabin.

How many people has Micah killed? The boy in the ocean, Jordan, Mariah...but have there been others?

In retrospect, I can see that Jordan was pointing her readers to Micah all along. Max even shares the same initial. He, too, is a brooding, wealthy man with a mysterious house where bad things happen. And Jordan had even mentioned the basement rooms.

The fictional Aquarius must be the "visitor" Jordan was referring to in her title, so it follows that Aquarius represents Jordan herself. She had come to visit this place.

And the visitor winds up dead.

Now I'm the visitor at the cabin who is slated for death. But Micah has given me an advantage. Now I know, beyond a doubt, that Henry is trustworthy. If I can get to him, he'll make sure I'm safe.

My bad foot lands on a rock, and it presses against the cut on my heel. I fall to the ground, unable to keep walking in these thin, wet socks. The woodshed and the cabin are finally in view, but I'll have to hop the rest of the way in.

Do I even want to go into the cabin? Will it become a death trap for me?

I turn the flashlight behind me, listening for movement, but there is none. Cautiously, I peel the sock off my injured foot, groaning as it comes unstuck from the wound. It's still bleeding, but the flow has largely stanched, so I take off my sweatshirt and rip off the hood. I use that to pad my heel, then manage to stretch the sock over it.

Hesitant to return to Micah's house, I limp around the cabin instead, toward Quincy's car. Maybe he has some cell coverage.

But when I shine the light in his car window, I don't see him. I try his driver's side door, but it's locked, and so are all the others.

I go to the gazebo next, since I'd suggested he could stay there in the storm. As my light plays around the back of the enclosure, it catches on the green bag atop the fireplace mantle. The water bottle and food container sit next to it, apparently untouched. Quincy's been here.

Ignoring the nervous clench of my stomach, I tell myself he must've fallen asleep. But as I turn the light to the low bookshelf on the right, my spirits sink. Quincy is lying on the floor, his arms splayed out at an odd angle. His eyes are closed, and his jaw is sideways. He's obviously been hit with something hard, and there's no life left in him.

My brain makes a hard pivot.

This isn't real. Quincy isn't real, and neither is Micah or Mariah. This is all just part of the book I'm writing—an all-new series idea. What a twist, that the editor is the murderer!

Things are starting to make sense. I'll walk out of the gazebo and Quincy will disappear, back into my imagination. Where did I come up with that name, Quincy? It's a bit retro. Wasn't it an old TV show?

I should go inside and write everything down—from the unremitting storm to the crazy chicken coop scenario to the waterfall showdown. I give a sudden chuckle, realizing I've basically written myself into the story as the heroine who has to save herself. The whole book concept is an analogy for how I had to separate myself from Renard's toxic behaviors and emotional abuse.

Something pushes against my line of thinking, something about Renard, but I slam it down, hard. I don't want to think about Renard anymore. I want to strip my wet clothes off, drink some coffee, and type up this story. It feels so personal, I'm sure my readers will gobble it up.

Letting the gazebo door slam behind me, I limp toward the back door of the house. I'm aware that the creek water is raging, but I ignore it. I'm probably imagining that, too. Didn't my mom say my daydreaming would make my life extremely difficult someday?

With the motion light triggered, I punch in the code I've now memorized and open the door. I glance at the sauna as I step inside, but don't let it get under my skin. This isn't some kind of lair where women are killed. It's simply a writer's retreat gifted to me by my publisher, in hopes that a change of scenery would help me complete the final book in my Lipstick and Lies series.

And that's what I've been dutifully working on this whole time.

I ignore the pointless chain lock and boldly take the elevator, anxious to clean my sore heel. After plugging my phone in, I head to the bathroom and pour half a tubful of warm water. Once I've tugged off the sock and the material around the wound, I ease my foot into the tub. Dried blood discolors the water, and I scold myself for going outside in my sock feet. Of course that wasn't smart. All the research in the world isn't worth running around shoeless in the woods.

Going outside in a blazing storm was also risky, but now I knew what it felt like. I wouldn't have gotten this opportunity in Greenwich, in my small yard.

I take care drying my foot, then retrieve an antibiotic ointment from my bathroom tote and slather it on the cut. The bleeding has stopped and it's starting to look better, so I use a wide bandage to cover it.

I shouldn't need stitches, which is a good thing. After all, how would I explain this to a doctor? I fell off my deck into a shrub, pretending that someone was after me?

Because the whole chase scenario was pretend. Imaginary.

Maybe Renard had seen something coming in me, some break with reality, and that was why he'd wanted out of our marriage. Though he had pushed me to it, treating me like trash, as Emily had said.

I'm filled with sudden nostalgia for my cousin and her husband. If only she could've come here with me. She gives me the unconditional love my mom can't find it in her heart to give, and she's always in my corner. Emily is the best kind of friend, and one I can't wait to get back to.

I let out a long sigh, making a conscious effort to relax my muscles, starting from my weary feet and working my way up. I'm too exhausted to get a shower, but I wet a washcloth and clean up before heading to my room for fresh clothes.

Once I've changed into pajamas, I head toward my blanket nest and arrange my weighted blanket so it will evenly cover my body when I curl up under it.

As I'm fluffing my pillows, my gaze travels to the nightstand and hitches on the framed photo of the two boys. Someone has placed it where I'll be sure to see it.

And next to the photo is a dark blue bottle with a clear top. It's Renard's cologne.

TWENTY-FIVE

Ismile. I've really set this thing up well. I can't remember where I found the photo of the boys to work into my book, but I must've snagged Renard's cologne before he moved out. A memento, I suppose. A reminder that our marriage had been real.

Continuing my sleep preparations, I turn on my salt lamp and look at my phone. A text finally came in from Henry, sent an hour ago.

"Are you okay? Is Quincy still there? I can try to find a way over if you need me."

I've gotten him all worked up over nothing, just my silly storyline. I don't know how to explain that Quincy was never here. I certainly don't need him risking life and limb to check on me for no reason. I'm safe in this cabin, and I always have been.

"I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about. Things are okay here." I text back. After hitting send, I wait to see if cell service has resumed after the storm. An orange exclamation point pops up, telling me my message has failed to send.

So much for that. I just don't care anymore. I can't even explain what happened tonight to myself, much less rehash it with Henry. I can only hope he doesn't do anything stupid and try to ford the flooded creek.

I need sleep more than anything, so that's exactly what I plan to do.

I rub lavender oil on my wrists to cut the still-lingering smell of cologne. In the morning, I need to trash the bottle. I've been too sentimental, collecting things to remind me of Renard. I'm sure my therapist would tell me it's unhealthy.

Shutting off the overhead light, I pull the weighted blanket over me and close my eyes. When my mind refuses to stop circling around my cooked-up adventures of the night, I pop a melatonin and hope for sleep.

In the middle of a fuzzy dream, something wakes me. I uncurl my body and open my bleary eyes. In the dim peach light of the salt lamp, I try to see into the dark hallway. Listening for some noise that might've interrupted my much-needed slumber, I turn to glance at the deck door.

And then I see him.

Micah is crouching right next to my blankets. The damp smell of his wet clothing drifts toward me, even as water drips on the floor. This time, he didn't even bother to put his mask on.

Before I can scramble to my feet, his hand shoots out and grabs my arm. "I'm sure it shook you up to hear that Renard is dead. But you didn't have to go and try to kill me."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "This is just a dream," I say aloud.

He gives a loud cackle. "Hardly. I knew you had a powerful mind, but this...this is beyond the pale, Alexandra. You have to acknowledge what happened on that snowy night. You have to accept that you killed your husband. Only then can you move forward."

Flashbacks of Renard's final night dance freely through my mind. The way he chased me down on the icy sidewalk. His desperate grappling attempts for the espresso maker and his threats to get rid of it, simply because he knew it meant something to me. His final selfish command for me not to make any sudden moves.

Mustering up more confidence than I feel, I say, "He was my ex-husband. And I didn't kill him. I don't care what you say. I know the truth."

"The truth." He chuckles, tossing his wet hair so droplets splatter my face. My arm is still in his warm, tight clasp. "The truth is that you might as well have shoved Renard onto the pavement and hit him with that coffee machine. You hated him that much."

I try to yank my arm away, but he tightens his grip. "I never hated him."

"Admit it," he demands. "Hate is a powerful motivator."

Am I really sitting here, having a conversation with my editor about my past? I force myself to stare directly at Micah's face. It's not blurred, like it would be in a dream. And his claw-like grip feels real enough.

He relaxes his grasp and sinks onto his knees. "You're confused, aren't you? I don't want to make this hard on you, Alexandra."

"Stop calling me that," I command.

His gaze softens. "You're frightened. I understand. You saw what happened to Mariah and it scared you. You must have stumbled onto Quincy, as well. He was such a weakling."

Disgust fills me. "They're not real. Neither are you," I say. "Get out of my head."

"Oh, but I belong in your head. I'm part of you."

"No, you're not." I'm waking up, thanks to the adrenaline coursing through my body.

His amused smile flattens into a grim line. "In fact, maybe you killed them yourself. You're capable of it. You have so much anger stored up."

Considering the ruthless way they were killed, I know that's impossible. Unless there's a side you've been hiding from yourself, an insidious voice whispers.

If this is some kind of dream, I could easily escape him. I could bend his actions to my will.

I push back and jump to my feet, and he follows suit, his dark eyes following my every move. "You want to run?" His voice is slow and thick. "This is my house, remember?"

The roar that comes out of my mouth sounds inhuman. "No. You're in my house. My head." I take off running for the hallway. He launches forward, clawing at my bare foot, but I kick him hard and scramble forward.

Where should I run? If this is a dream, maybe I can ford the creek now. There may have never even been a storm in the first place.

I pound down the steps with Micah so close behind, I can hear his heavy breathing. After jumping the last two stairs, I bolt out the back door. The motion light clicks on, illuminating the wet driveway and Quincy's car, still sitting where it was parked.

This is a dream. I can cross that creek, even if it looks flooded. Without a backward glance, I race toward the rushing water that's covered the bridge. Some survival instinct sets off alarm bells in my head, screaming that I'd be an idiot to swim across.

But tonight, I'm doing what I want. I'm writing this story now.

Certain that my feet will slip and I'll get swept away if I try to run across the bridge, I take a deep breath and plunge into the creek itself. Muddy water flows over my head, but I hold my breath and kick against the swirling current that wants to suck me under. The creek is so loud, there's no way to tell if Micah has jumped in behind me.

The porch light clicks off, leaving me swimming in darkness, but I kick harder, dragging my arms around floating sticks and debris as I try to propel myself toward the opposite bank. It feels like it's a hundred miles away, given how little progress I seem to be making against the water's force.

It would be easier to stop fighting the current. Maybe it would sweep me off to someplace safe. But from my research, I know that any number of dangerous things could be floating downstream alongside me. From logs to human waste to downed power lines, it's unwise to stay in flood waters for long.

Suddenly, my injured foot strikes some kind of muddy underwater ledge. Could I be nearing the opposite bank? I kick myself up and forward, and my palm lands on a flat, leafy surface that must be the opposite bank. The current makes it impossible for me to plant my feet, but I grasp wildly at the leaf-strewn ground, hoping for a handhold.

My arm seems to be losing all its strength when my fingers finally snag on a protruding tree root. I curl both hands around it and slowly drag myself up to ground level, which is basically even with the crest of the creek. I force myself to move a safe distance from the creek, then collapse into a heap. Even if Micah has, by some miracle, managed to follow my treacherous route to safety, he can't possibly see where I've wound up, since the moon is now covered by clouds.

I slowly raise my head and peer in front of me, trying to get a feel for where I am in relation to Henry's house. But there are no lights in sight.

I should've guessed that he wouldn't leave his house lit all night, unless, by some miracle, he's kept an outdoor light on. If so, I can't see it. Plus, the creek must have dragged me quite a way downstream.

Desperate to get to the one person I know I can trust, I drag myself to my feet. Ignoring the pang in my injured heel, which is now exposed since the creek peeled off the bandage, I shuffle away from the flood waters.

Walking in what I hope is a fairly straight line, I feel my way between tree trunks. There's no sound of movement behind me. Maybe I've managed to shake Micah...or maybe my dream is ending.

I push myself to go on. Now that my adrenaline has crashed, the melatonin has taken hold again. My steps are sluggish, and so is my mind. Is there any break in this infernal woods? Surely it must give way to an opening soon.

As if hearkening to my wishes, the trees seem to part. I glance around, catching sight of a dim pinprick of light maybe a quarter of a mile to my left. If that's Henry's place, I was swept further downstream than I'd guessed.

I attempt to run toward it, but can't stop tripping on the low rises and falls of the open ground. Surely the driveway is around here somewhere.

I'm so tired of it all—this dream, or this horrible nightmare, as the case may be. Are Mariah and Quincy really dead? Is Micah actually here, instead of in Hawaii? Am I even awake right now?

One of Emily's favorite movies is Inception, but its core concept terrifies me. It's not hard to imagine being trapped in a place of my own design—after all, haven't I escaped into my mind all these years, each time life overwhelmed me? Haven't I created my own safe constructs, my own stories to live through vicariously? I've bestowed all the social graces and the adventurous spirit I lack on my fictional heroine.

I'm about to fall onto the soft, wet grass when I hear him call out. The heavy air has turned foggy, so it's impossible to tell which direction his muffled voice is coming from.

"Alexandra. You have to stop running. You can't lose me."

I dig deep and press toward the light. A silver band of daylight peeks from behind the misty mountains. How long did I sleep? Can it nearly be dawn?

I need to make it to Henry's porch. If I pound on the door, he'll be sure to come running. I might wake his mother, but I'm desperate at this point. I can't keep going.

My steps falter and I can sense Micah gaining ground. A dim light on an outdoor building guides me toward the porch. Just as I clamber up the first step, Micah grabs my leg and drags me, face-down, to the cold ground.

There's nothing for it. I angle my head toward the house and scream.

TWENTY-SIX

My cheek grinds against the mud as Micah gives me a firm yank backward. He straddles my back, grabbing a fistful of hair. "Keep quiet," he breathes into my ear.

Although he's not heavy, his weight keeps me pinned down. I let out a groan, but still myself beneath him. What kind of a plan could he possibly have?

And where is Henry? Not one light has come on in the house. Fear roils in my stomach as I realize Tilly's oxygen machine is so loud, it might've drowned out my cry.

Are these my final moments? Given the brutal way he killed both Mariah and Quincy, Micah doesn't need his gun to kill me. Beating people to death isn't a stretch for this psychopath.

I struggle against him, then give voice to one final shout. He quickly shoves my face into the wet grass, cutting me off.

He leans in, and Renard's scent floats around me. "You need to give it up, since it's all over. I've told you far too much. I thought you understood my motivations, but it turns out you're a coward, just like Jordan. I⁠—"

His head topples down next to my face, even as his fingers slip from my hair. The minute his closed eyes line up with my own gaze, I shove my feet and hands into the ground, rolling him off me as I twist around.

Henry stands behind me, a shovel gripped in his hands.

"What was he doing on you?" he asks. "What is he even doing in town?"

I try to steady my racing heartbeat. "You mean you can see him?"

"Large as life," Henry confirms. "I just knocked him out with this shovel."

I suck in a deep breath and close my eyes. "Then I can finally go to sleep."

When I wake, pale sunlight frames the curtains and I take a moment to place myself. I'm in my blanket nest at the cabin, with my weighted blanket tucked under my chin. Usually it takes some time for me to connect with any aches and pains in my body, but my head is pounding from Micah's violent hair pull and my foot feels heavy. The cozy smell of coffee drifts down the hallway, and my empty stomach gives a responsive growl.

I struggle out from under the covers. My phone is lying face-up on the night table, but it's dead once again. I have no clue how it got there, much less what time of day it is.

Using the bed to help me rise, I cautiously stand up. A lightheaded sensation sweeps over me, nearly knocking me over. My first move, besides coffee, should be taking some ibuprofen.

I cautiously move down the hallway, pressing my palm against the wall for support. Someone's moving around in the kitchen. As the island comes into view, I see a dark, curly head of hair.

Movie-like memories unspool, blinding me to the here and now. Renard's death. Mariah in the chicken coop. Quincy, lying on the gazebo floor.

Strong arms suddenly wrap around me as I teeter on my feet. In a rumbling, deep voice, Henry says, "It's all over. You're okay now. The water went down enough that I was able to walk you over the bridge."

I pull myself into the moment and look at his concerned face. Those downturned dark eyes that seem to hide a thousand unspoken thoughts. That hesitant smile, slow to come, but dazzling when it turns on me.

He awkwardly releases his grip, then wraps an arm around me. He leads me toward the table, where he pulls out a chair and helps me sit down.

As pancakes cook on the griddle, he moves toward the stovetop, grabbing a spatula to flip them before they burn.

"I thought you'd appreciate some restorative carbs," he explains. "I brought some local maple syrup and some bacon, too."

"Thank you." As I say those two words, I start to release all the murkiness and uncertainty of the past week. Here, at this mountain retreat I never wanted to come to, I've become whole again—with all my memories, both pleasant and terrifying, at peace in my mind.

Renard is dead, yes. But it wasn't my fault. And Mariah traveled here, placing herself in danger, to try to protect me. She hadn't hated me, like I thought.

And Quincy. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, plain and simple. If he hadn't crossed that creek to get his book signed, he wouldn't have ended up in Micah's way.

I place a steadying hand on the white countertop. "Micah?" I ask.

Henry keeps his sturdy back to me. "The sheriff came to my place. He took Micah to get him stitched up since the shovel gave him a big gash. He also got a concussion. But he'll survive to go to prison." His voice darkens. "I've also let Roger know about Quincy, so he'll have officers drop by soon. I found Quincy when I brought you back over—what a senseless death."

"I'm sorry I couldn't stay awake. I—I'd gone through a lot with Micah, then I had to cross that creek to get to your house." I force myself to breathe, trying to quell the vertigo that's toying with my head. "Listen, Quincy isn't the only one Micah killed. He left the writer, Mariah, in the chicken coop."

He whirls around, plastic spatula in hand. "No. Why?"

I heave a weary sigh. "She came to warn me about him. Somehow she'd found out he was a killer." I try to organize my thoughts. "He admitted to killing another boy when he was just a kid. Maybe she somehow stumbled onto information about that and suspected him. But I'm thinking it's more likely she was friends with Jordan."

"Jordan," he repeats. "What about her? I always felt like there was something wrong about the way she died, but the police said it was just the sauna malfunction."

"He told me he killed her, too," I say quietly. "He was crazy, Henry. I think he was trying to recruit fellow murderers, like some kind of Charles Manson."

"And he was after you?" He flips a pancake, turning its perfectly golden side upward. "He thought you would join him?"

I stretch my arms flat against the cool marble, trying to decide how much to tell him. No one really needs to know that I was there when Renard died, because I had nothing to do with it.

"I do write suspense," I say finally.

He gives a thoughtful nod, but in that nod, I get the feeling that he'd still see the best in me, even if I did have some killer potential.

He busies himself with buttering the stack of pancakes. After artfully drizzling maple syrup over them, he adds a couple of fresh strawberries and hands me the plate, along with a fork.

"Coffee? Cream and sugar?" he asks.

"I'll take it black." I'm thankful he's let the subject drop. I'm sure the sheriff—or even the F.B.I. that Micah had likely never notified of my stalker—will have plenty of questions for me soon.

I take several drinks of coffee, which jump-starts my senses. By the time I've eaten several bites of the perfectly-buttered pancakes, I feel more steady. Maybe my lightheadedness was a result of low blood sugar. I pushed my body to the breaking point and beyond last night, and I went hours without food or drink.

Henry gets quiet as I eat, turning to look out the kitchen window.

"You should get some pancakes for yourself," I offer.

He turns my way and shakes his head. "I'm not hungry yet. Seeing Quincy...it's thrown me. But I knew you would need food. You were in bad shape."

"Thank you," I say, taking another bite.

As he looks out the window again, he says, "There's that cat you mentioned, skulking around the woodshed. I guess it doesn't belong to anyone."

With newfound clarity, I say, "Actually, it belongs to me now."

TWENTY-SEVEN

When I finally cajole the cat into coming into the house, I'm able to determine that she's a girl. I decide to name her Poe, in honor of my writer obsession. I'm able to set up a vet appointment for Friday, so I ask Robin to push back my return flight until Saturday, which she's only too happy to do. She can't stop apologizing for believing that Micah was in Hawaii, but I tell her it was an act that would've fooled anyone.

He certainly fooled me.

Hope comes over with a cat crate for me to borrow for the plane. She brings me a warm plate of raspberry scones and somehow manages to get me talking about my terrifying night with Micah.

"You know, sweetie," she says, her West Virginia accent particularly heavy, "you survived all of that for a reason. Maybe you can use that whole thing in one of your books, then you'd get to have the last word."

I like the way she thinks, but right now, I can't imagine plunging back into the events of that night. Still, I know better than to compartmentalize the entire thing and pretend it didn't happen. I want to try to work through it, just like I plan to work through Renard's death with a new therapist. I need one who will help me to face my life as it is, not as I'd imagine it to be.

Henry brings his four-wheeler over every day to check on me. He never pushes me to chat, but I find myself talking with him about my upcoming book, Poe the cat, and even my mother. When he tells me that his own mother was delighted to discover the Alexandra Dubois had dropped in on her, I decide to head over and say goodbye to Tilly and Cleo.

The older woman peers at me as Cleo leads me into the room. The oxygen pump funnels air into her cannula, which she adjusts before speaking. "Good to see you again, Miss Alexandra," she whispers.

"And you," I answer, throwing a quick look at Cleo. Henry stands behind her, and his presence urges me on.

I extend the two books I'd signed for Quincy. There's no sense letting them go to waste, especially since Tilly enjoys my stories. "For you," I say. "I appreciate everything your son has done for me."

Her harsh gaze softens as she fingers the covers. I can almost see a softer, younger woman looking back at me. "I told you, he's a good' un. Never has let me down, and he never will." Crinkles form in the corners of her eyes. "You have a nice trip back north. And mind that you come and visit us again someday."

An unexpected blush creeps up my face as I realize that's exactly what I've secretly been contemplating. "I'd like that," I say simply.

As we walk out, Henry turns to me. "Thanks for giving the books to Mother. She'll treasure them." He takes a couple more steps, then turns to look me in the eyes. "And so will I."

Back in Connecticut, Emily and Jeff pick me up at the airport. They're delighted to meet Poe, and Emily assures me the house is in pristine condition for my return.

When I finally unpack and check in with Thorvald Media, I'm informed that I've been assigned another editor named Rachel.

She seems to be the warm and enthusiastic opposite of Micah, giving me a generous deadline extension for my final book. I'm tentatively calling it Frozen Heart, and it'll be set in Alaska, as I'd planned. The final climactic scene will take place in a freezing, flooded river.

I tell Rachel I won't have to research that one.

Poe curls up on my writing chair daily, waiting until I come to pet her. This seemingly instinctual habit has worked in my favor, spurring me not only to touch another living being on a regular basis, but also to write, whether I feel like it or not. As a result, I'm able to finish my book a full two weeks early.

Both Gwen and Rachel can't stop exclaiming over the ending. Natasha Summers walks into the great unknown, finally victorious over her enemy—and finally free of the two duds she's dated throughout the series. It's a risk, letting her finish the series single, but I've made it clear she's not averse to a relationship with one particularly promising gentleman in the future. She just has to know it's the right relationship.

Which, ironically, is exactly what I've stumbled upon.

By the time fall arrives, Henry and I are calling and texting each other daily. Emily has seen him on a video call, and she says he has the sort of rugged good looks women want to read about. She likes his vibe, she says, and the way he defers to me when we're talking. He's the exact opposite of Renard, so therefore, he's won her complete approval.

I've decided that, like Natasha, I'm going to live my life fully. I want to live it with my person—and that person is Henry Basham.

Even though he's willing to hire another caregiver for his mother so he can move to Connecticut, I know he's bound to the Appalachian mountains. And, to be honest, I believe I am now, too. It's the place where I faced my worst fears and came out on the other side. I'm ready to launch a new life there.

I take the first step, buying the cabin and property Micah forfeits when he goes to prison. I hand it over to the Bashams, so Tilly can once again feel like she's living on her family land. Henry and I discuss what should become of the cabin itself, and we finally decide that Thorvald Media can continue to use it as a writers' retreat.

But I'll never step foot in the place again.

After months of house-hunting, I've latched onto a hundred-year-old home on the outskirts of Cedar Gap. It's a quirky place with numerous plumbing problems, but Henry has assured me he can deal with all of them.

With the money from the sale of my Greenwich cottage, I'm able to have an in-ground pool installed. Henry can't stop marveling over it, telling me it's rare in West Virginia, and that I'll be living like a queen.

When I finally move down in early February, Poe delights in her new space, hunting the mice who've scurried into the house to sit out the winter.

I, too, feel ready to hole up and enjoy the snow, because I have a new series just waiting to be written—one featuring an autistic woman just like me.

And I know that, for the rest of my life, Henry Basham will be the most invested reader I'll ever have.

EPILOGUE

JORDAN

Ishould've known better than to fall for a married man.

Renard picked me out at that publisher party—right under his gorgeous yet oblivious superwriter wife's nose. He fawned over my red (thrifted) Badgley Mischka dress and my stunning (thrown-together) updo. I knew he was on drugs—I could practically smell them on him—but he turned my head by saying he could buy me things a fledgling writer could never afford. I believed him, because didn't the drugs just confirm he had money to burn?

In the midst of all the party hubbub, Micah seemed to notice our conversation. He was the senior editor, and he'd been the one to interview me before I signed with Thorvald. Then I was shuttled over to a newbie agent. Jackie was decent, I guess. She was a real go-getter, which is what I was hoping for with my manuscript.

But once we'd had it out on submission for months with no bites, Jackie suggested I revise it. "Add some more realism," she said.

I was so angry, I would've scrapped the entire thing, but Mariah Cloud, one of my crit group partners, told me to hold onto the general concept. "Write about your own experience," she told me. "You grew up poor, right? Write about it. You're dating an older man. Write about that."

I decided to take her advice. I was deep into my project, holed up in my Ohio apartment in the middle of 2020, when Micah sent me an email, out of the blue. In a crazy turn of events, he'd recently been introduced to Quincy Gates, an old friend of my mom's. As it turned out, Quincy was looking to set up a bookstore in a small town. Micah had suggested Cedar Gap, where he was starting construction on a cabin.

Micah said Quincy had been thrilled to hear I was with Thorvald Media now, and when he mentioned he'd love it if I could drive down for his bookstore opening, Micah had taken the liberty of suggesting that I could stay in his cabin. He hoped that wasn't too forward of him, but he'd like to get people renting it sooner rather than later. He wouldn't charge me anything, he said, as long as I'd put in a good word for Thorvald books with Quincy.

By the time Page Turner was ready to open, I had broken things off with Renard, whose attentions had fizzled. He seemed more into himself than anyone else.

I was only too happy to travel to West Virginia to get some time alone. My book was coming together, but I had numerous loose ends to tie up. The cabin life could only help me focus.

Quincy was delighted to see me, and the cabin was more than I'd ever dreamed of. I found roses and chocolates and a note placed on the master bed. "Enjoy the amenities—be sure to try the hot tub and the sauna," it read. Although there was no name signed, I knew it had to be Micah's doing.

There was a photo of two small boys on the desk table, and I wondered who they were. I decided to work that into my story.

And then came the twist that defined my book.

Micah Brennan himself came knocking on the door, wearing a black button-down and black jeans. He was in town, he said, and he wanted to drop in and make sure everything was going well. I assured him it was.

But nothing could have prepared me for the raw chemistry between the two of us. I'd never seen Micah up close, or smelled that clean, earthy scent he wore. He had the wisdom of age and the power of position, and it was a heady mix. When he said he'd drop in and check on me the next day, I was only too happy to agree.

After the bookstore opening night, Quincy dropped me off at the cabin. I didn't tell him about Micah, because it felt like a delicious, forbidden secret. Instead, I poured my energies into writing my book, developing the character of Max based on my knowledge of Micah.

I slept well that night, but when I got up in the morning, I could tell that someone had rifled through my bathroom things. When the caretaker dropped by on his four-wheeler, I complained about it to him. Had he dared to come into the house without my permission?

He quietly denied it, but I wasn't inclined to believe him, since he didn't want to meet my eyes. I figured I'd tell Micah about it later.

But the next thing I knew, Henry's old mother shuffled across the bridge and knocked on my door. She wheezed that I couldn't speak to her son that way, and that Henry would never think of intruding on a guest. If I complained to Mr. Brennan, she'd tell him I was a liar.

I gave her a polite nod, but determined I'd tell whoever I wanted. Once she left, I texted both Mariah and Quincy about my run-in with Henry and his mom.

Yet I still didn't tell Quincy about Micah being in town, because I knew he would scold me for getting interested in my superior at Thorvald Media. Mariah, on the other hand, thought it sounded like an opportunity to get ahead. "Milk it for all it's worth," she'd said. "That guy can open any door for you."

When Quincy texted back, he said that Henry was a solid guy, and that he'd never do something like that to a guest. He had a vested interest in keeping this job, since his mom's health was failing. Quincy urged me to hold off before making any kinds of accusations to Micah.

Of course, he wasn't aware that I was going to see Micah that very day.

As promised, the editor dropped in...although this time, I realized he'd arrived without a vehicle.

"How did you get here?" I asked, curious.

"I parked and walked up the driveway," he said.

Later, he explained that he had no need to park, because he'd simply walked out of the basement, where he'd been staying, then around the side of the house.

Like a young fool, I let him inside. He chatted with me about publishing things, then smoothly shifted the conversation toward more personal topics, like my family and upbringing.

I didn't generally make a habit of sharing those painful memories, but he seemed so genuinely interested in what I had to say, I found it flattering. He asked me about my siblings, and before I knew it, the story of my brother's death just tumbled out. Jason had been my best friend, then he'd stupidly gotten drunk after prom, gotten into the car with me, and crashed us into a tree.

I'd walked away alive, and I'd never forgiven myself.

Micah's eyes took on some kind of glaze as I recounted the tale. I assumed he was trying to hold back tears, but instead, he started shooting rapid-fire, offensive comments at me like bullets.

"So you're saying you had nothing to do with your brother's death?"

"The police report said they found you in the driver's seat."

"How do you explain letting someone intoxicated drive?" (I had taken his word for it when he said he wasn't tipsy.)

Once I'd answered his accusatory questions, he had retreated into himself, leaving me alone with an excruciating silence. Then he'd reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun.

After that, with no explanation, he forced me to sit down at my laptop and write. While I wrote, he told me stories. Stories about his childhood, when he'd basically drowned another boy who'd bullied him. Stories about how he'd found his purpose in life, and it was to sniff out people who shared his ability to mete out vengeance.

He'd thought I was one of those people. He had gotten hold of the police report on Jason's death and convinced himself that my brother was a pedophile (only he'd gotten the report confused—my parents had also reported an incident with my second-grade teacher). He was sure I'd taken matters into my own hands and killed him.

Then he told me to wrap up my story. I had tried to work in as many hidden clues as I could as to the unhinged man who was holding me hostage. I pled with him to give me more time.

But he told me it was time to print it out, just the way it was. I knew it could never be published at such a short length.

After clipping the papers together, he handed them back to me, then went on to pour a large glass of vodka. He carried it back and held it up to my lips.

"Drink up," he demanded.

I shook my head, unwilling to make myself even more vulnerable by imbibing such an outrageous amount of alcohol.

But he stood next to me with the gun pointed at my head until I'd swallowed every drop. Then he forced me into the sauna and positioned himself in front of the door.

Between the alcohol raging through my system and the heat of the sauna, I was quickly weakened. But Micah refused to give me a glass of water.

Instead, he scolded me, saying, "Your book will never sell. It's too derivative, and honestly pedantic, as well. I only signed you with Thorvald Media because of your history."

Even though I could tell I was about to pass out, I could vaguely remember tucking a pen into my shirt pocket. When Micah turned to look out the back window, I pulled it out and scrawled a note on my manuscript—a warning, in case something happened to me. I had trusted the monster standing just outside, let him into my head, and now he didn't care if I lived or died.

I started to slump over, and stars danced in front of my eyes. The heat seemed to have intensified. If only I had energy to pull off some of my clothes.

But Micah opened the sauna door. He gave me a benevolent smile and said, "I'm sure you're thirsty, aren't you?"

I barely managed to give him a nod. "Please," I croaked out, gulping at the fresh air streaming in.

He withdrew a navy tie from his jacket. "I'm afraid I can't help you now," he murmured. "But there's someone else who might feed my love of vengeance. A scorned wife, if you will." He gave me a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, and I guessed he was referring to Renard's wife. She was a bestselling author—what was her name again? My mind was growing foggy.

Alexandra. That's who she was.

Micah delicately wrapped the tie around my neck, his long fingers barely brushing my skin. "In this heat, it won't take much of an effort to put you out of your misery," he said. "I'm sorry you weren't the kind of writer I was looking for."

As he drained the last bit of life out of me, I made one final wish—that Alexandra would have exactly what it takes to bring this madman the same kind of justice he so reveres.

AUTHOR AND NEWSLETTER:

HEATHER DAY GILBERT is an RWA Daphne Award-winning author who writes Hitchcock-style suspense with tenacious female leads who know how to fend for themselves. Like her characters, she's a little bit sweet and a little bit dangerous. She loves nothing better than to surprise her readers—and herself—with unpredictable twists. A West Virginia native, she brings modern-day Appalachia to life in her novels. Find out more and sign up for her newsletter for all the latest on her upcoming psychological thrillers at heatherdaygilbert.com.