"Thank you." My voice sounds robotic, even to my own ears. I wish I could project my gratitude through the phone, but until I process the overwhelm of the past week, it will be impossible to channel any of my emotion into words.
I head out of the theater room just as Henry is pocketing his phone.
"Roger said he'll be over first thing in the morning," he tells me. "He said to use gloves and bag the note, so it doesn't get all ripped up in this wind." His dark eyes meet mine. "Alexandra, I meant what I said about staying over. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I'd be negligent if I left you alone when we don't know where Mariah is. I'll be happy to sleep down here, where I can keep an eye on the door."
I don't even try to hide my relief. "You can call me Alex," I offer, realizing he hasn't really called me by name until now. "I hope Cleo will be able to stay with your mom?"
He nods. "She's basically on call."
I glance around, uncertain if there's even a bedroom downstairs. "I don't know where you can sleep."
His eyes dart toward the sauna. "I know one place I won't be sleeping," he says darkly. "But don't worry about it. There's a kids' room down here. It has bunk beds, but I think I can fit on the bottom one."
Though I hate to imagine him crunching his tall body into a bottom bunk, I would feel better if he stayed downstairs, a safe distance from my own sleeping nest. I know he's not my stalker, but I've taught myself not to place blind trust in anyone. Renard taught me that.
Once he's bagged up the note, Henry gives me an amusing demonstration of how he can squeeze onto the narrow twin mattress. Although he can't fully extend his legs, he seems comfortable enough. I invite him to come upstairs and get some extra blankets and pillows.
As we pass the kitchen, I realize I'm still hungry. Luckily, Hope delivered a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of white queso that are calling my name. When I ask Henry if he'd like to join me for a snack, he agrees, so we load our bowls and settle onto the couch.
With a glance at the large TV gracing the wall in front of us, Henry asks if there are any shows I particularly enjoy.
I tell him about my Alaskan fixation, and he nods in understanding. "Pretty realistic," he says. "I can see how you'd like that show. I remember that scene in one of your books—was it Stolen Tears?—where Archer ran into a bear in a cave. I was glad to see that he thought on his feet."
Flattered at his recall, I say, "I actually got in touch with a guy who'd had that same experience, only in his case, the bear wound up tearing his arm off. He told me what he would've done differently, given another go-round."
Henry's eyes widen. "At least it was just his arm. That's some good research."
"Yes, his friend created an opening for him to escape by banging a pot on the rocks," I explain. "I love getting a firsthand viewpoint like that."
Henry plunges a chip into the white cheese, then bites it into two neat halves. He munches thoughtfully for a moment, then says, "It must be fascinating to come up with those dangerous scenarios. I'm interested to see what you'll do in book seven, even though I need to read through book six first."
I nod, a bit fixated on the way one of his curls dangles by his ear. "Is there anything you'd like to watch?" I ask.
"Don't laugh, but Mother got me hooked on Dallas," he says. "Who shot J.R. and all that."
"I've only watched the first few episodes, but I'm willing to watch another." I grin. "So you're a soap opera junkie."
He shakes his head. "It's the power struggles that intrigue me."
"You keep telling yourself that." I turn on the show, feeling strangely content. Mariah can prowl around all she wants, but the chain lock will keep her out. And tomorrow, when the police take her note, she'll be the one who has to go into hiding.
I sleep better than I'd expected behind my locked door, only waking around nine when Henry calls to me from downstairs.
"Roger's on his way," he shouts up.
After forcing myself to choose an outfit without first determining if it suits my mood, I brush my teeth before making my way downstairs. Henry stands at the back door, looking toward the driveway. He gives a prolonged yawn and stretch, turning around as I walk in. "You sleep okay?"
"Surprisingly well." I cock an eyebrow. "Looks like you didn't, though."
"Nothing a little coffee can't fix," he says.
Before I can offer to make some, a police car pulls up. Roger and an officer get out and stride toward the house. I take a deep breath, hoping this interview won't go as poorly as my last one.
Henry opens the door, greeting Roger with a friendly clap on the shoulder. He hands the bagged note over.
The sheriff instructs his officer to sweep the house and yard. Once the other man has taken his leave, Roger turns back to us, asking if we'd mind chatting a little.
For the most part, Henry fields his questions, although Roger does ask me for a rundown of stalking instances that have happened since I got here. As I elaborate on them, I sense he's less incredulous than he was on his last visit. It definitely helps that Henry is right here to nod at everything I'm saying.
Once the officer returns from his investigation, the sheriff meets my anxious gaze. "Thank you for your help, ma'am," he says. "You say the F.B.I. and the Greenwich police have been updated in regard to this note?"
"Yes." I don't elaborate, because I'm ready for this interview to be over. I need to call Robin and book my plane tickets.
"I'll touch base with them, then." Roger extends a hand to shake mine. "I'm thinking it won't take long to apprehend this author woman, especially if she's driving around in that red Tesla you told me about. That kinda ride gets noticed in this town. Now, I'd recommend you keep a sharp eye out around this place, just in case she comes back."
"I'll help her with that," Henry says.
Roger shakes Henry's hand, then ambles toward his vehicle.
Henry takes a step closer, but not so close as to make me uncomfortable. Concern wreathes his features.
"You doing okay?" he asks.
