And that was the final text communication we'd had. Due to icy roads, I'd arrived a little later than planned, which turned out to be a good thing, since Renard informed me that his girlfriend had left for her hot yoga class just five minutes before I arrived. No doubt he'd harbored the perverse hope I'd run into her on my visit, so he could compare the two of us and remind himself what a sweet deal he got with her—no commitment and a hot yoga bod.
Stuffing my phone into my back pocket, I walk into the kitchen and peer through the window overlooking the woods. The shaded grass is a vivid shade of emerald, and translucent yellow apples dot the fruit trees. I have a sudden desire to sink my teeth into one.
"Maybe I will," I promise myself, all the while knowing I won't go out back until any threat of bumping into Renard is gone. I might even lure the cat to the main door, so I can shove its food into a bowl before locking myself in the house.
But I don't want to be a recluse. It's not fair. I should be able to go out and enjoy the grounds, the creek—even the apples, for the love of everything. I'm earning in the top percentage for suspense authors. Why should I be forced to cower inside, even in such a secluded place?
Once again, Renard has sucked the joy out of my life.
I palm my phone, pulling up his blasted text again. The irony of it all is that on that icy night, I'd left without my espresso maker.
I have never contacted him to demand my property. Thankfully, he's followed my lead and remained incommunicado.
Do I really want to open that dark door again by asking him why he's hanging out in a back yard in Cedar Gap?
My phone rings with a harsh, metallic tone, startling me into dropping it. Thankfully, it thuds onto the navy Persian rug beneath my feet and not the hardwood. I snatch it up, only to see my agent is calling. She's probably wondering how things are going, and I don't relish the thought of filling in the blanks for her.
"Gwen!" I try to sound like the friendly kind of author she can't help but love, not the kind of unhinged trouble she'll wish she never picked up.
"Alex. Glad I caught you. Listen, I can only talk for a few minutes, but I wanted to touch base and make sure you're okay with doing a book signing there. Some bookstore owner named Quincy ordered a rush shipment of books from the warehouse, and he told them you were planning on doing a signing in West Virginia. What's that all about? Did he somehow get his wires crossed?"
Gwen never hesitates to go to bat for me. She's the first to field my event invitations, making sure I'm up for them before agreeing to anything. My contact form emails go straight to her, so she can sift through the good, the bad, and the ugly reader responses for me.
Most agents don't handle such menial tasks—that's usually a job reserved for virtual assistants—but Gwen insists that she be the one to tackle it, just in case I receive anything important like a movie offer. She thinks a V.A. might not be able to tell the real from the fake. After giving me the caveat I can never breathe a word to anyone, she's gone so far as to tell me I'm her number one priority in the agency.
And now she's rightfully concerned her first-priority author might be doing a book signing when she's supposed to be lying low.
"It's okay," I say, trying to convince myself. "It's a really small town. I'll probably be flying out of here soon, anyway, so I'm not worried about it. Quincy told me my books are really popular here. Besides, you're always encouraging me to build ties with independent bookstores."
She sighs. "Using my own words against me, are you? Okay, Alex, but you have to promise that you'll watch for anyone who seems off. Maybe have the bookstore people keep an eye out for any berserk fans, that kind of thing. I'm going to assume that since Thorvald Media has placed you there, they've vetted this town as a safe place." I hear her long nails clicking against the keyboard. "I have to run now, but if you have second thoughts, give me a call and I'll handle this bookstore guy."
"I will." It's great that Gwen always has my back, but I feel this is something I have to do, since I agreed to it in the book club meeting. Those busy young moms tugged at my heartstrings, I suppose. It certainly wasn't the pushy and overly appreciative Quincy who'd convinced me.
My left pointer finger slips, drawing my attention to the 1-2-3-4 pattern I've been tapping out on my thumb for who knows how long. It's one of my regular "stimming" behaviors—repetitive physical movements that calm me. Like the aura preceding a migraine, my stims can also be a flag to tell me something's off.
"You're right," I say to myself. "I need a nap."
Mom always used to scold me for talking to myself, saying I should never ever let anyone hear me doing it.
But for the outcasts like me, the ones who don't fit the box, the only words that remind me I'm human are my own.
So I listen to myself and head toward the darkened sanctuary of the ocean-blue bedroom. I'll rest a little while, then I'll get up and deal with life.
I wake to a droning buzz. Glancing down at my blanket nest, I realize I must've left my phone on the bedside table before collapsing into sleep. I struggle to my feet, letting the firm mattress support me as I make my way around it.
Micah sent a brief response to my text about an hour ago.
"What do you mean, you aren't safe? Have you had any threats? I don't know how that would be possible. Call me—I'll be around for the next couple of hours."
I need to shake off some residual lethargy before calling my editor. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I head toward the kitchen to brew a fresh cup of coffee. The house has gotten considerably darker, due to a bank of charcoal clouds that's drifted over the sun.
As I throw an idle glance out the kitchen window, I'm pleased to see that the deer have returned for more apples. Their arrival heartens me, because surely they wouldn't be so bold if someone were lurking in the trees nearby.
I rehearse what I'm going to tell Micah, even going so far as to tear a sheet from the fridge notepad to write down a few salient points. Point one is that I've seen two people on the property who don't belong here—Mariah Cloud and Renard. Point two is that no, I haven't lost my marbles. Point three is that even though I plan to do a book signing tomorrow, I'm not sure how long I should stick around after that. Maybe I should just book some random hotel down here until I get the all-clear from the Greenwich police.
I move a pillow on the couch, squeezing into a tight corner before I call Micah. When he picks up, I tell him what's been going on, even though I know it has to call my sanity into question.
After all, what's the likelihood that my writer nemesis would show up at this undisclosed location, banging on the door and demanding to speak to me?
Or what's the probability that my ex-husband, who hasn't spoken to me in over a year, would suddenly decide to make his way to this completely concealed hideaway, only to hide a jacket in the sauna, spray his cologne, and take a casual jaunt through the woods?
It's next to zero, that's what.
But, to his credit, Micah seems to take it all in stride. He doesn't freak out, which Gwen likely would have done if I'd given her the complete lowdown.
"You've let Henry know about these intruders, I take it?" he asks.
"Yes. I told him about Mariah, and he knows about my ex...just not this most recent visit."
"Okay. Well, Henry will know what to do. I know he can come off as brusque, but he's thoroughly familiar with the property—even more so than I am. In fact, he was once an Army sniper. I'd suggest you tell him where you think you saw Renard. He can check things out to put your mind at ease."
Although I appreciate his reassurance that Henry can handle anything, I'm not completely convinced we even know what we're up against. "Shouldn't we get the local police involved at this stage?" I ask. "Let them know I had a stalker in Connecticut and that I'm seeing menacing people here?"
"Oh, definitely, but you can leave that part to me. I'll let my friend Roger know—he's the town sheriff. He'll know what to do. But in the meantime, please update Henry about seeing Renard." He pulls the phone away and murmurs to someone in the background. "I'm afraid I have to go—I'm joining my family on a helicopter tour around Oahu. I grew up here and I've never gone, and my cousins are giving me all kinds of grief about it."
At least he's having a relaxing break from the city life. I should have chosen some little-known island for my forced writer's retreat. "Have a great time," I say.
