But Henry's name pops up on the screen, surprising me. In a sleepy voice, he asks, "Everything okay over there?"
I don't know whether to feel heartened or alarmed by his watchfulness. "Yes, but it's past one. Why are you calling me now?"
"I got up to give Mother a breathing treatment and I saw your light on. I figured it wouldn't hurt to call, since you aren't usually up this time of night."
He's paid attention to when I turn my lights out? "I didn't realize you could see my lights through your woods," I say testily. It's the middle of the night, for crying out loud.
"I have binoculars." He answers as if there's nothing strange about observing your neighbor's sleeping habits from afar.
It's annoying that he's secretly put me under observation, like I'm some kind of science project. "I might've been up writing," I retort. "There was no need to call."
He falls silent for a moment. "Oh, of course. I don't want to bother you. But the house was dark before. I assumed something had woken you."
His assumption is correct, but I'm not about to tell him that. Yes, I was roused from a dead sleep because my room reeked of my ex-husband's sweet cologne, then I was further alarmed because my night table had been disarranged. But now I've made the rounds, and no one seems to be lurking inside.
I can't bring myself to share yet another inexplicable nighttime disturbance with Henry.
"I'm fine." I make an effort to soften my irritation. He's just keeping an eye on the cabin, which is basically what he gets paid to do. I can't fault him for doing his job. "I hope your mother starts breathing better. Thank you for checking in."
"Sure," he says curtly, then hangs up.
As I start flipping downstairs lights off, I feel bereft, like I've shut off communication with my greatest hope for survival. I don't like being watched like a goldfish in a bowl, but at the same time, Henry has proven that he's there for me, any time of the day or night.
Using my phone light, I head toward the stairs, trying to think through angles as dispassionately as possible. After all, I craft twisty plots and calculated killers for a living.
Has my stalker tracked me down and finagled his way into this cabin? It seems fantastical. Yet I don't know the methods at my stalker's disposal. Maybe he has enough money to fly from one state to another at the drop of a hat. Maybe he's a hacker, who can follow my movements via my phone.
Or maybe he's simply my ex, determined to scare me so badly I can't write. He always did like to play mind manipulation games, knowing that those are the kinds of games I can't possibly win. My first instinct is to believe what people tell me, even though I know, through years of disappointments, that they might be lying to me.
Leaving my overhead light on, I move to my nest of blankets. I don't care whether my windows are lit up for Henry to see. I won't be sleeping tonight.
The smell of the cologne lingers in the air, so I crack a window and turn on the ceiling fan. It should be comforting to know I wasn't imagining the scent before, but where does that leave me? With an inexplicable home invasion, that's where.
I consider moving to another room, but I don't want to mess up another space that Henry will have to clean once I'm gone. It's getting old fast, being a squatter in someone else's house.
I determine to call the Greenwich police first thing in the morning and push for answers. They have my letters and the brick, so they should be able to figure out where they came from. I want to get home as soon as possible, even if it means moving in with Emily and Jeff until my house is deemed safe.
But no matter where I wind up, I have to finish writing this book. Renard or Mariah or whoever is stalking me cannot be allowed to block me from completing that goal.
Tuesday morning, I wake with one arm asleep under my side and one leg half-covered by my blanket. Though I've managed to squeeze in some sleep, a brewing headache threatens an even bumpier start to the day.
To top it off, I have a last-minute book signing this evening. That means I'll likely waste an hour rummaging through my limited clothing supply, trying to figure out something that says "established author" as opposed to "author with no sense of style." Then I'll spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make my hair and makeup look presentable.
I'm all for supporting smaller bookstores—in fact, I donate to several financially—but I don't like being presumed upon. And showing up in the public eye is about the last thing I want to do right now, even though I'm in a secluded town far from Connecticut. But I made a commitment, even though I was under pressure to do so, and I plan to keep it for my reader fans.
The doorbell chime rings, yanking me out of my story world. I glance out the window, only to see that an unfamiliar silver car is parked in my drive.
My phone gives a buzz, so I flip it over. "This is Hope McGinnis. I have your grocery order outside."
Relieved that Mariah or Renard weren't paying me a visit, I hurry down to meet Hope. She's standing behind her raised trunk, plastic shopping bags lining each forearm.
"Let me help you," I offer.
She gives me a warm smile. "I've got it. Trust me, this is a small order compared to some. You want me to bring these inside?"
"That would be great." I jog over to hold the back door open so she can enter, and she places the bags on the floor.
She whistles as she looks around. "Micah has the best taste, doesn't he? I'd forgotten how modern this place is." Her gaze sweeps to the sauna, and her lips flatten.
I try to reassure her. "I haven't gone in there, and I don't plan to."
"Smart woman." She looks at me. "But then again, of course you are. You're an author." She gives me a conspiratorial smile. "I'm looking forward to your book signing tonight. I've gotten hooked on your Lipstick and Lies series. Barry's a little annoyed that I've been staying up so late to read straight through it, but I can't stop myself."
Hope represents the very reader demographic I want to target, so it's reassuring to know that my books are landing the way they should. Well, except for reeling in one psycho stalker fan.
"I'm so glad to hear that."
As her eyes flick over the pool table, I feel the weight of silence and scramble to fill it. "Would you like to tour the house?" I offer.
She turns to me. "Oh, that's okay—I've seen it before. We delivered sandwiches to the construction workers back when it was getting built, and they'd give us tours. But I'd actually love a glass of water, if you wouldn't mind. This humidity gets to me, you know?" Pulling a hair elastic off her wrist, she twists her red curls up into a makeshift bun.
"Oh, sure. Come on upstairs. We can use the elevator." I grab my grocery bags before she can offer to help.
With a nod, she follows me to the elevator door. "It was no easy feat installing this thing, as I recall," she observes as I push the button.
