Suspicion makes my pulse race, but I carefully tear off one end of the envelope, then pull out a printed note. I'm hooked before I can look away, because my mysterious reader lays it on thick. He (or she?) owns all six books in my Lipstick and Lies romantic suspense series, and he knows everything and everyone in my fictional small town—maybe even better than I do. He assures me that I've earned my title "the next Mary Higgins Clark," and then some.
But he has a bit of a bone to pick, he says. My longstanding love triangle needs to be wrapped up in the right way when the final book releases next year. I'd do well to take his well-informed advice on the matter.
He explains that my heroine, Natasha Summers, absolutely cannot marry the most obvious hero, Archer Hart. No. She must have her happily-ever-after with the rogueish Matteo Cesari. It's destiny. Archer is as pretentious as his name, and readers want Natasha to settle on someone more real, yet far more exciting, like Matteo. I only need to read my reviews to see which way my public is leaning (I have, and they prefer Archer by a long mile).
I should dismiss this letter as the rantings of a rabid fan...but the next line gives me serious pause.
"If you don't pair Natasha and Matteo together, you'll destroy my happily-ever-after. Therefore, I will be obligated to destroy yours, as much as I hate to do that, Alexandra."
He's signed off as "Invested Reader," with a capitalized "R" to show he means business.
I take a deep breath as a light breeze toys with the letter between my fingers. The reader is clearly trying to get under my skin by using my first name to make me feel personally threatened. Since my friends call me Alex, I suppose I can take some small comfort in the fact that he's not likely someone I've met.
Yet he's managed to discover my home address, even though I've made a point of using a P.O. Box for all my online business. How could anyone get hold of that?
With some corner of my mind still stuck in an Alaskan cave, I cling to the letter and walk back to my front porch. My mind feels like it's been hijacked, forced to deal with a real-life threat versus the fictional ones I come up with on a daily basis.
After pushing my turquoise door open, I step into the shady coolness of the living room and try to reason with myself. There's nothing unique about a disgruntled reader. All authors get them, sooner or later. I've already received my fair share of hateful reviews and e-mails.
These pestilential people choose their barbed words carefully, calculating their blows to inflict the most damage possible. They hope to undermine the authors they dislike, or—even better—make them give up writing altogether. They break author spirits on the altar of their personal whims.
I pull the tainted letter out of my pocket, dropping it to the floor like it might infect me. Then I head straight to the bathroom so I can wash my hands thoroughly. To further ease my mind, I grab my toothbrush and line it with toothpaste.
Since my autism diagnosis last year, I've stopped guilting myself for many of my obsessive behaviors. Tooth-brushing serves a dual purpose—it soothes me, but keeps me from having cavities, as well. Sure, I have to buy toothbrushes in bulk, but it's a small cost for a personal comfort.
Once I've dried my lips on a towel reserved for that express purpose, I retreat to my wraparound couch, where I've built a nest for myself with pillows and my weighted blanket. After pulling the blanket up to my chest and turning on my nearby diffuser, I reluctantly pick up my phone and text my agent, Gwen Jameson. Hopefully, she'll know how to handle the note, because I'm not currently handling anything.
To my dismay, Gwen calls soon after I send the text. I typically shun phone conversations, especially when I don't have any grip on my nebulous emotions, but Gwen prefers to connect that way since she works in New York City. She likes to talk things out, and while I sometimes appreciate that, I know I'll probably clam up.
"Hi, Gwen, how are—"
"Alex, cut the malarkey. What you just texted me is disturbing. I know you're not okay. We need to deal with this."
Gwen can come across as blunt and domineering, but I know she has a heart of gold. More than once, she's fought for me, getting deadlines pushed or making sure I keep a higher royalty share. She's proven she has my best interests at heart. I can tell she's upset that my relatively peaceful author world has just been rocked.
"You need to tell the police and Micah," she continues, referring to my editor at the publishing house. "Thorvald Media Group needs to know what's going on so they can weigh in on this weird demand and work with the cops to see if it's some kind of death threat."
I focus on the oil painting on the wall in front of me, tracing its comforting celestial whorls and orbs. Alaskan skies would be incredibly clear, I'd imagine. I'll need to work that into the book.
With effort, I pull myself back into the moment, trying to verbalize a response to Gwen. "I'm sure it's nothing so drastic. I'll text Micah and let him know."
She sighs, and I can almost see her rolling her dark, cat-lined eyes. "Alex. You can't text Micah and be done with it. You need to talk with him, figure out what the protocol is. The police might need to get in touch." She hesitates. "You want me to call them for you?"
I'm unable to string two coherent thoughts together, which is a bad place for an author to get stuck in. My smartest move would be to let someone competent like Gwen take this burden off me. "Sure. Would you mind doing that?"
"I'm on it."
Before I can say thanks, she ends the call. To some, that would come off as rude, but to me, her boundless efficiency feels like a merciful relief.
I've managed to rub an indecent amount of lotion into my already-soft hands when my phone rings. Flipping the screen over, I see it's Micah, so I grasp the phone in my slippery hands and say hello.
"Hello, Alex. I spoke with Gwen. Please try not to worry. Bestselling authors like you sometimes attract stalker types. Trust me, it's nothing Thorvald Media hasn't dealt with in the past. We're sorry you've become this reader's target, but I promise we're going to do everything we can to alleviate your worries. I've already alerted the Greenwich police, and they said to use gloves and place the letter in a plastic bag. Then you can drop it off at the station, so they can run it for prints."
His unruffled, masculine reassurance speaks to my soul in ways Gwen simply couldn't. I've always been more comfortable around men than women. Women tend to wrap their feelings in nuance and subterfuge, while most men will say it like it is. As a person who takes things at face value, I value transparency above all.
I've only met Micah Brennan once, when I left my safe Connecticut haven to take the train into Manhattan for a party in my honor. From his rumpled clothing to his long-haired, dark-eyed brooding vibe, my editor is just the sort of enigmatic Mr. Rochester type I'd have a wild crush on, if I hadn't recently emerged from a messy divorce.
"Thank you so much," I manage.
"Sure. Listen, I'll be visiting my family in Honolulu this week, but I'll let one of my friends in the F.B.I. know about your letter. He can get the details from the police and see if this kook fits any existing celebrity stalker profile in their database." His voice deepens. "Alex, do you have any kind of security system on your house? Cameras, that kind of thing? I know Greenwich is a pretty safe town, but it wouldn't hurt to be on the safe side, since this reader's somehow figured out your real address."
I shiver in the air conditioning, pulling my blanket tighter. "I have double locks on my doors, but that's about it. If you think it's wise, I could get some kind of security cams installed."
"Yes. I'd recommend you do that as soon as possible."
"Okay." I try not to consider how distracting it will be to have an installation crew tromping around the house during my writing sessions. I close my eyes and Natasha blinks up at me from that freezing cave floor.
I pull away from her, into the now. I have to voice the concern that's utmost in my mind. "Did Gwen tell you what the letter said? The stalker wants me to pair Natasha with Matteo in the end. They basically threatened me to write it that way, or else. Do you think I should shift the love triangle in Matteo's favor?" I toy with this option for a moment. "To be honest, I care more about my safety than about the direction of Natasha's love relationships. If you think I could change it, I'll get a new synopsis to you this week."
He hesitates. "Your current synopsis is outstanding—a perfect wrap for the series. I'd hate for you to have to change direction, because I suspect you'd disappoint your most devoted fans. Have you already started writing?"
"Yes. But I'm not even a chapter into it. I can push her either way."
He lets out an extended breath. "I have an idea. I'll ask my assistant to run a program comparing the number of positive Matteo to Archer reviews. That'll give us a solid idea of which way the public is leaning. But you and I both know who's going to come out on top. Matteo's always been a dark horse, too unpredictable and pushy for the bulk of our readership. I think it's best to keep going in the Archer direction for now. We can't let this note undermine your original vision for this series."
I'm relieved he's given me permission to wrap up the final book the way I'd planned. "Okay, I'll stay the course. And I'll get those security cameras as soon as I can."
