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.
