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.
