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.
