"I will," he assures me. "But I just want to be sure of what happened. Can you walk me through it?"
Slowly, I go step-by-step through our experience in the elevator. When I finish, he mutters, "Mm-hm," like I've said something wrong.
I sense that he doubts my story, but I shouldn't have to convince him. His own relative saw the note along with me.
Thankfully, he busies himself with taking his dusting equipment from his satchel. "I'll go over this now. Miss Dubois, have you had any other experiences like this?"
"Experiences like someone breaking into my house and threatening me, you mean? Didn't Micah Brennan tell you about my stalker in Connecticut?"
"He did. I was talking about anything in this cabin, though."
How do I explain my sightings of Mariah and Renard? Of the jacket in the sauna or the cologne in my room? Of my neatly ordered bedside rocks being rearranged?
It all seems so nebulous, so impossible to pin down. There's no proof that anyone else has been here. It's like I'm dealing with a ghost.
My face must reflect my uncertainty, because he says, "I need to be fully aware of the situation here, ma'am."
The way he says "situation" speaks louder than his words. He thinks I'm dreaming this all up.
An unbidden memory flashes into my mind, of Renard, telling the judge I was delusional. "She talks to herself," he said. "Sometimes she doesn't even realize I'm in the house."
It was all a lie, though. I knew he was in the house and I deliberately avoided him. And I only talked to myself while working out my book scenes aloud.
More than anything, I hate for people to look at me as "other." I work hard to say the expected things, make the right facial expressions, and smother any stray thoughts or actions that will brand me as different. Yet here stands the sheriff, practically accusing me of concocting my stalker story.
Barry is running his electric screwdriver, so he hasn't heard Roger's insinuation. Unable to come up with a scathing response, I say, "I trust you'll let me know if you find any unusual fingerprints." I stalk out the door and up the stairs before he asks me to elaborate any further.
Because there's no good way to explain the things I've seen here, and even if I tried, it would probably sound crazy.
After spending nearly an hour going through and trying on most of the meager wardrobe I've packed, I decide on an ivory short-sleeved sweater and a pair of black jeans that are relatively wrinkle-free. Once I put on lipstick and mascara and don my leather slides, I should look professional enough for the signing.
If I were at home, I would've had my stylist ship an outfit to me. One of the perks of being wealthy is outsourcing all my loathsome tasks, although I give myself boundaries with handing off chores. Otherwise, I'd never leave my house. To continue writing convincing fiction, I have to get out and observe people in real life. They're far more unpredictable than any characters I concoct.
Once I'm ready, I check to make sure every light in the house is off, because far be it from me to rack up a high power bill for whoever is covering this stay. Then I grab my leather tote bag and head downstairs to examine the new chain lock. Barry did an admirable job with the installation, but the thing will only work when I'm inside the house. I ponder various ways to booby-trap the door in case someone—the same someone who has clearly managed to get in before—tries to break in while I'm gone.
I've researched trip wires and hand grenade traps, but obviously, those are impossible here. I need something that would stop an intruder, not just give them pause like a water or balloon trap. Yet it can't be deadly.
Recalling seeing thumb tacks in a kitchen drawer, I head back up, grab a handful, and arrange them in a wide spread on the rug just inside the door. I'll have to remember I've put them there, which might be the tricky part after a long signing.
Grabbing a pen from my bag, I write a note on my palm that reads Tacks. Mom always used to scold me for writing on my hand, saying it makes you look like you can't afford paper, but I haven't found a better way to visually remind myself of something important.
I close the door behind me, then head to the car. The creek looks higher as I drive over the wooden bridge. Barry's warning comes to mind, about not crossing if the water gets up to the bridge. Hopefully, we won't get more rain.
The town is quiet when I drive in, but all the parking spots are packed outside Page Turner. In fact, a line of people snakes outside the shop's green door. Hope stands toward the front, chatting with one of the young book club mothers.
Throwing a harried glance at my clock, I see that I've arrived a full thirty minutes early. Am I missing something? Did Quincy bump the signing time back without notifying me?
Though it's terribly cliché and I hardly feel like a celebrity, I pull on my sunglasses and slip out of the car. I walk toward the line, trying to keep my head down. But Quincy opens the door, his elated voice cutting through the din of the crowd. "Alexandra! Do come right in!"
People turn and gawk. Did I miss the memo that the signing started at 5:30?
Thankfully, Hope sees my distress and helps clear a path. "Out of the way—the author's here," she says, giving me a wink as she ushers me toward the door.
Quincy gives my hand a vigorous shake then walks me inside, firmly closing the door behind us. He's dressed preppy in a plaid button-down and chinos, and his glasses must be new, because they're trendier than I remembered.
He makes a sweeping gesture toward a rectangular table laden with piles of books. It looks like he's stocked at least twenty of each of my Lipstick and Lies novels.
"I can't wait to get book seven on my shelves," he says earnestly. "Now please, have a seat. I've set out several pens for you. I think Lori's mentioned it to you, but we'll handle all transactions at the register."
I throw a smile at Lori, who's standing rigidly behind the counter as if poised for battle. She gives me a smile back.
I turn to Quincy, who's watching me like a hawk. "Uh...did I miss something?" I wave toward the line outside. "I thought the signing was scheduled for six."
He frowns. "Oh, no, it's still at six. People around here go places early, in case they run into any roadblocks. Mountains generally don't have short cuts, so if you get stuck, you have to sit and wait."
I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to release some tension. I've been to numerous signings, but usually I'm the first to arrive. It's flattering to see how dedicated these readers are, though—leaving plenty of time to spare so they can be sure to meet me.
Once I've given Quincy the thumbs-up that I'm ready, he opens the door, allowing people to make a beeline for the table. Young and old alike stand in the crowd, which makes me feel like I've done something good with my career. My books are accessible to a wide range of ages, like those of Agatha Christie or even the queen of suspense herself, Mary Higgins Clark.
Quincy hovers by the table, making me uncomfortable. When Lori calls him over to the register, I become conscious of the fact that I've been nervously bouncing my foot the entire time I've been here. I halt the motion by planting both feet firmly on the floor.
Although Quincy has been nothing but amiable, I keep thinking of Jordan's fateful visit to Cedar Gap for the opening of this very shop. Tilly told me that Jordan was friends with Quincy, but what was the nature of their friendship? She must've been half his age.
By seven thirty, my book piles have been completely depleted and people are searching the shelves for more stock. It's been one of the most successful signings I've ever had—and that includes my New York City signing. People here seem eager to meet an author and get the inside scoop behind my inspiration. Two people asked how I was going to wind up the love triangle, but both seemed more concerned that Natasha finally defeat her nemesis than that she wind up with Archer. It gives me hope that I'm moving in the right direction by snipping the existing romance threads.
By eight, the crowd has dispersed. Quincy and Lori come over to take down the empty table, so I stand to peruse the bookshelves. I wander by the romance section, noticing a title by Mariah. Was that there the last time I visited?
