An extended doorbell ring sounds, as if someone has already pressed it several times and is now starting to get impatient. My unwanted visitor must be getting drenched, because the deck is the only overhang for the back porch, and its spaced boards aren't flush with each other.
I'm not going to do the cowardly thing, which is to call Henry. For all I know, his mother could be having a health emergency. It's faster to grab a kitchen knife and see who's outside. I don't have to open the door to anyone, and if Mariah has returned on the scene, I'll call the police.
I ease down the stairs, knife in my back pocket. As the doorway comes into view, I'm surprised to see Quincy standing under an umbrella, gripping one of the bright green plastic bags from his bookstore. The bottom of his thin cotton jacket has darkened with the rain, and he looks miserable.
Even though I know Mariah is my stalker, I'd be a fool to open the door to him. Yet it feels wrong to ignore him, especially since he's already spotted me and is waving.
I move toward the door, thankful for the chain Barry's installed. I open it a crack, letting the chain stop it from going wide.
"This is a surprise," I say.
Quincy holds the bag out. "In all the bustle, I forgot to have you sign my books. It occurred to me that you might be leaving town soon, so I wanted to get your signature first." He throws an anxious glance over his shoulder. "When I crossed your bridge, there was a huge puddle in the middle of it, but now that this deluge has started, I'm honestly afraid to drive back over. Would you mind if I came inside and dried out a bit?" His glasses glint in the overhead light, obscuring his eyes.
I surely would mind. I'd mind very much. I can't let this man inside my house, even if he'd made an innocent mistake by crossing the bridge in the first place.
I stay in a safe position, a couple of steps from the door crack. "I'm sorry, but there have been some worrisome things going on lately, so the police have told me to keep my doors locked." It's not one hundred percent true, since Roger had only specifically told me to be watching for Mariah, but it sounds truthy enough to ward off my unwanted visitor.
Quincy shifts his head, allowing me to see the disappointment in his eyes. "Oh, of course." Brightening, he holds the bag higher. "Maybe I could leave these here and you could sign them—to me, please—then drop them off when you leave town? Would that work for you?"
His request isn't unreasonable, and it makes sense for someone who seems like such a devoted—although hopefully not psychopathic—fan.
"Okay." I extend my hand. The plastic rattles as he eagerly shoves the bag through the narrow crack. Given its heft, I'm sure it holds a couple of books like he said, but my author brain is only too happy to supply me with unsettling scenarios involving our transaction. Maybe he's placed a homemade bomb inside. Maybe he's laced the books with cyanide. Maybe he's got a gun and he's going to force his way in.
But he merely stands there, his now-empty hand dropping awkwardly to his side. As the rain drips from his umbrella, he adjusts it, shoving his empty hand in his pocket. Thunder booms, and he casts another fearful look toward the creek. The rushing water sounds way too close, so I'm sure it's risen to its banks.
Quincy is right. Driving his car over the makeshift bridge would be dangerous—possibly even deadly. I've heard too many stories of people who thought they could ford water with their vehicle, only to lose all traction and get swept to their deaths. Wary as I am of Quincy, I can't very well send him away in good conscience.
Lightning snaps, and I try to peer across the creek. I can just make out some lights in Henry's house. So why hasn't he come over to check on things? It isn't like him to ignore possible fallout from a storm like this.
Thunder sounds again, forcing me to make a decision. I don't have time to ask questions. I have a man on my doorstep, looking for shelter in a nasty storm.
I can't let him into the cabin, but where else could he go? I try to visualize the house from the outside, thinking of my options. There is a garage, but I'm not sure how to open it, and it might give directly onto the house. There's the gazebo, which is likely getting soaked with this driving rain, but it's a shelter, nonetheless. Then he has his car.
"Uh...you could stay in the gazebo, over there," I offer. "But it's probably getting wet, since the walls are partially screened. It does have a fireplace, though, if things get too damp. Or you're welcome to sit it out in your car, although that might be uncomfortable. I'm afraid I can't ask you in."
He nods, "I understand. You can't be too careful. I'll be glad to stay in my car. I'll just pull it up closer to your back door, if you don't mind. If that creek jumps the banks..."
"Good idea," I say quickly. "That'll be fine." I can't stop myself from asking the question I never asked Henry. "Oh, and I was wondering what kind of issue Jordan ran into when she stayed here."
He gives a delicate backward shake of his umbrella. "She was really shaken up about it when she came to my bookstore opening. She told me that someone rummaged through her bathroom things the night before. She said she'd asked Henry about it, but he denied it." Thunder booms again, and he inches closer. "Later on, Henry's mother Tilly cornered Jordan and reamed her out for casting aspersions on her upstanding son." He gives a huff. "Trust me, I mentioned that little incident to the police after Jordan's death, but they did nothing about it."
I stare at the soaked man, unable to articulate a response. Jordan felt sure that someone went through her bathroom belongings. In a similar way, I know that someone shifted the agates on my bedside table.
But Jordan suspected Henry of doing it. So where does that leave me?
Lighting strikes over the mountains, and I pull myself together. "Thank you for your help." Feeling a burst of compassion toward the reader who's gone so far as to set up an impromptu signing at his bookshop, I ask, "Could I set out some food, or maybe a travel mug of coffee for you?"
He blinks. "It looks like it'll be a long wait, so, sure, that would be nice." He turns away, sidestepping a puddle to splash toward his car door.
Once he's climbed into his car, I grip the plastic bag and head upstairs. I'll need to figure out how to get the food and drink to Quincy. I don't have his cell number. I suppose I could set things on the ground outside the door, then flash the lights and gesture for him to come over, but I'll need to make sure everything is protected from the rain first.
I gently set the book bag on the kitchen counter. After taking a peek to make sure it actually holds books, I slide the contents onto the marble countertop. Sure enough, Quincy brought books five and six for me to sign. I crack the brand new spine on Silent Beauty, thinking of all the hours that went into crafting the story, which was partially set in a casino.
I'd only made one visit to Las Vegas, but that was enough to help me visualize the action sequences I'd built my story around. I'd flown there to speak at a suspense conference, my flight and lavish room booked and paid for by Thorvald Media. They'd even gone so far as to offer a ticket to Renard, so he was delighted to accompany me.
Yet once we were there, his true colors leaked out. He spent all his time at the gaming tables, gambling the generous funds I'd given him away. He'd flooded his social media pages with photos afterward—only I wasn't pictured in any of them.
Shaking off my dark memories, I rummage in the fridge for something to offer Quincy. He'd probably enjoy some of Cleo's barbeque on a roll.
After preparing two small sandwiches, I place them on a plate in the microwave. As I punch in the timer setting, thunder booms. A blaze of lightning overtakes the sky, practically blinding me, so I scramble to pull its large plug from the wall.
I guess Quincy will have to eat the food cold. I step toward the coffeemaker and unplug it, too. There's no way I'll be brewing a cup in this storm. A water bottle will have to do instead. I take one out of the fridge, glad I ordered enough to share.
That's when it hits me—the glaring truth I should have recognized the moment I saw Quincy standing at my back door.
Only my neighbors, the sheriff's department, and Hope and Barry know I'm staying at Micah's house while I'm in town. No one else.
So how had Quincy known to come here to get his books signed?
TWENTY
Jarred to my core, my arms start shaking. When I get this upset, there's only one way to talk myself down, and that's out loud.
"Get a grip," I warn myself. "So Quincy guessed you were here. It's not rocket science. Maybe someone like Hope or Henry let it slip during book club. Or maybe he put two and two together, since he knows Micah's my agent. It makes sense that I'd stay in his empty cabin." I tap my fingers to my palm—one, two, three, four. "Just because he figured things out doesn't make him my stalker." I tap the fingers on my other hand to complete the pattern.
After waffling between giving Quincy the promised food or withholding it, I finally decide to get it to him in the most cautious way possible. I'm a person who keeps my word, and it's anyone's guess when he'll be able to cross the creek again.
I slide the sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a water bottle into the bookstore bag. Ever cautious of the knife in my back pocket, I head downstairs with the food. Once I hit the final stair, I look toward the back porch, only to see that it's fallen into darkness now that the sun has set.
