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.
