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."
