I try to project a confidence I don't feel. "It'll be okay. I'll be careful if I go outside. Thanks for taking the time to check the woods."
His brows knit together. "I don't like that people are creeping around the property. You told Micah about this?"
I nod. "He's going to let the sheriff know, but I'm not sure what he'll be able to do about it, anyway." I glance at the sauna door, which looks firmly closed. "I'll let you get back to your mother."
"Okay. I'll probably head over to drywall soon." Without another word, he strides out the back door, pulling it firmly shut behind him so it'll auto-lock.
Henry's definitely not one to elaborate. Given his more introspective reflections in the woods, I'm guessing he feels more in his element in nature. In the same way that I avoid eye contact, he seems to avoid lengthy conversations. Maybe we're both better off walking while we talk.
I take a final glance at the back door, and an unexpected wave of anger makes my cheeks flush. If Renard thinks he can make me a prisoner here, cowering in fear instead of writing the book I have to write, he's dead wrong. There's a difference between being careful and being afraid, and I'm sick of being afraid.
I stomp up the steps, then down the hallway, where I grab my computer and notes from the office. Ignoring the kitchen and its shiny array of knives, I walk downstairs, locating an umbrella before making my way to the gazebo in the mild drizzle. When I step inside the screened building, I'm relieved to see that rain only dusted the right side of the floor. The desk is dry, so I set up shop there and plop into the vinyl-cushioned kitchen chair.
I feel like shouting, "Come and get me, you fool!" Because a fool my husband is, and he always will be. No matter how much he threatens me, even cloaked as Highly Invested Reader, he'll never stop me from ending this series the way it needs to end.
I turn on my laptop, pull up my file, and start typing furiously.
FIFTEEN
My cathartic writing session in the gazebo unlocks some deep well of creativity, allowing me to crank out over four thousand words. Once darkness starts to fall, I head inside to get my evening meal ready.
Discovering I'm already nearly out of milk, I place a quick online grocery order for tomorrow. Then I get busy making a quick meal of spaghetti and microwave meatballs.
As the noodles cook, I call the bookstore to confirm that Quincy has scheduled my signing for tomorrow night. A young woman answers—presumably the same employee I'd met before—and she confirms that Quincy's set the signing for six. I'm welcome to come early if I want, she says, but they'll have the book table and display already set up for me. I won't need to make change, since all purchases will be done at the register.
That comes as a relief, since I haven't even located a bank where I could withdraw cash, and I don't want to drive into town.
Once I've dished up my food, I waffle between reading more of Jordan's book and watching my Alaskan show. Although my interest has waned, I should probably read more of The Visitor, just in case Jordan dropped any meaningful hints about her time in this cabin.
I set the manuscript on the couch beside me, flipping to the last page I've read. Aquarius is now back at the coffee shop, working her little heart out, and she catches sight of Max lurking by his black Audi outside. Is he stalking her? She decides he must be, since he doesn't come in for coffee.
I wonder how an incredibly wealthy businessman like Max would find the time to stalk a young woman in a coffee shop, but I suspend my disbelief and continue reading.
Hours pass, and Aquarius loses sight of Max and his Audi. She assumes he's gone home. After saying goodbye to her coworkers, she heads into the back parking lot and gets into her car.
But Max has somehow jimmied the lock, and he rises up from behind the driver's seat. He demands that she hand over her phone and drive to his house. She refuses and opens her door to escape. Max pulls out a gun, repeating his order that she drive, and this time she does.
It seems way too early in the book for Jordan to reveal that Max is the villain, much less a kidnapper, but maybe the bulk of the story will be comprised of her trying to escape his lair.
I sigh, setting the manuscript down on a side table. I don't know where Jordan was going with The Visitor, but I'm not invested in Aquarius enough to care. Nor does Max seem to have any three-dimensional qualities. One of best ways for authors to hook readers is to make them feel something for the main character. They have to relate to them. Thus far, Aquarius seems unrelatable, mostly because we don't get a strong sense of who she is or what her motivations are.
I jump up to sprinkle more parmesan on my spaghetti, then turn on my Alaskan show. It's far more distracting than Jordan's book, and that's just what I need at the end of this long day.
Waking from a deep sleep, I roll over on the floor and check my phone, only to see it's one fifteen in the morning. A familiar smell assails my nostrils, and I bolt upright.
Once again, the scent of Renard's high-end cologne permeates the air. Woodsy, with hints of mango and tobacco, it's an unusually sweet scent that's far too gourmand for my tastes. It seemed like everyone around him was supposed to eat it. I wound up opening windows each time he sprayed it.
But now the sickly smell is filling the room like a heavy cloud, suffocating me.
I reach up to flip on the night table lamp, and my gaze hitches on my agates.
They've been completely rearranged.
The heart-shaped rock has been shoved haphazardly into the row above it. The wolf-shaped rock has been switched to the bottom row. Now the stones form a random three-two-two pattern.
With shaky hands, I push the rocks back into their proper places. I never touched them. My pattern was intact before I went to sleep.
Wildly scanning the room in the dim light, I see no one. Yet I know, beyond doubt, that someone has been here.
I reach for the kitchen knife I slid under my pillow earlier. As the smell starts to dissipate, I try to convince myself I've dreamed the whole thing up. I don't want to call Henry over again. He's going to think I'm nuts, or worse, playing the damsel in distress. Maybe I did somehow jostle those rocks before I settled under my covers. It's probably best to just check things out on my own.
Taking a page from my survival show, I grip the knife and step toward the doorway. If I run into Renard, I'll be ready.
Moonlight pours through the huge living room windows, allowing me to see all the way down the hallway. There are no unusual shadows, so I turn the hall light on.
I'm getting tired of being alone in this gigantic house. I can't keep tabs on the entire place at any given time, which makes me vulnerable. I don't even know how many rooms are in it.
And I can't very well ask Henry to camp out in the gazebo every night.
At the very least, I need to make sure no one is hiding downstairs. With my knife in hand, I flip the light and head down the staircase.
The sauna door's shut, so I search the other rooms first. Finding each one empty, I trudge toward the sauna, just to rule out the possibility that someone might've tampered with it.
Once I open the door, it's clear there's nothing inside, even though I'd half-expected to find Renard's Omega watch or his blue Hermes tie lying on the bench. Something to remind me of how very self-absorbed he is...enough to follow me to West Virginia and take pleasure in frightening me.
My phone buzzes, and I fumble to pull it from my pocket. Surely it's not Renard.
