The moment he says goodbye, I start hunting online for a nearby security firm. When I find one that sounds reputable, I contact them and briefly explain my situation. Although they don't seem to comprehend the reason for my urgency (a crazed reader is threatening you?), when I say I'll pay more for fast service, they promise to get someone out tomorrow.
Price is rarely an object for me these days. I'm the multiple New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Alexandra Dubois, for goodness' sakes. As a newly single woman of thirty-six, I have all the money I could ever need and then some.
But money can't buy peace of mind, and that's exactly what will be required to complete my long-delayed last-in-series novel. And now Invested Reader has showed up and stolen that peace from me.
TWO
The sky's a heavy shade of gray when the security team shows up to install a new system, but it suits my mood. I'll be gloomy until I'm certain someone can't sneak up on my house, which is my one safe spot in all the world.
I don't have parents to run home to. Dad died of cancer when I was in college. Once I graduated, Mom headed to Alaska with her fisherman boyfriend, and she's lived there ever since. I've suggested I could fly up to see her, but she always says Alaskan life is unpredictable and dangerous in ways I couldn't handle. I overthink things, she says, and in the wilderness, you have to live by the seat of your pants.
Recognizing Mom's barbed insult, I've closed myself off to her. When she called the day they announced my book was a Reese's Book Club pick, I let it go to voicemail. She called again when I was interviewed on Good Morning America, but I hung up on her.
My own mother doesn't realize I despise talking on the phone. It's like she's never known me at all.
Still, I've made good on all my father's dreams for me, even though Mom didn't think I'd succeed in any measurable way. I live in the posh town of Greenwich—home to old money, business tycoons, and media darlings of all stripes. My renovated stone cottage looks like a mansion compared to the two-bedroom, low-income house I grew up in.
The only goal I have left—the one I don't even speak out loud—is to form a close relationship with someone who cares enough to show up for me when life gets hard. Someone who will be the one person I can count on. My cousin Emily is always there for me, but she's a married nurse who never slows down. She makes time for me, of course, but I want someone I can spend hours with, talking about conceptual things and tossing around captivating book ideas. Someone who doesn't back away as they get to know my quirks.
At one time, I believed that my husband, Renard, was that person. My person. I wanted it so much, I based my character Matteo on him—even down to his tall, dark, and handsome looks. But once my eyes were opened to Renard's emotionally abusive ways, I distanced myself from him completely, both in real life and in my writing. Now he lives outside my bubble.
Or maybe I'm the one on the outside—I can never quite be sure.
A rap sounds on my front door, so I scramble off the couch and peek out the window. The head security guy is standing on my porch, so I open the door, returning his friendly smile.
"We got you all set up, Ms. Dubois. Cameras around the porch, like you asked, and an alarm system." He steps inside and starts pushing buttons on the control panel, trying to show me how it works. But I find it impossible to focus with a stranger standing in my home—especially since he reeks of cheap aftershave.
"Would you mind writing the instructions for me?" I ask. "I do a lot better when things are written down."
"Well, sure. Actually, all you need to know is in this little booklet here." He hands it over to me. "I've written your code on a sticky note inside the back cover. Try to memorize it, then get rid of it. I know it's longer, but we have to make sure it's impossible to guess."
I give a thoughtful nod, as if the nuances of computer systems are child's play to me. In reality, even Excel spreadsheets leave me shaking my head. It's a good thing word processing programs are simple.
Once the men leave, I try to familiarize myself with the new alarm. I have no desire to find out how loud the blare sounds unless there's a verified break-in happening, but I force myself to set it before driving to the grocery store, since I'm completely out of my favorite foods.
As I pull out of my garage, I avoid looking at my mailbox, which has become offensive to me. It's a conduit for a threat that could cripple my writing.
Like any author, I've suffered from occasional writer's block. My first few books were written by the seat of my pants, and they often got hung up in the dreaded "saggy middle."
But over time, I discovered that my writing flows faster if I first work up a lengthy synopsis detailing all the plot points. I'm not locked into anything, but the characters and plotline are completely fleshed out before I write the first sentence.
Tapping along to the intense music flowing into my headphones, I decide not to give any more mental ground to Invested Reader. He'll just have to invest himself in someone else, because I plan to write my story my way. It's my prerogative as the creator, isn't it?
After eating a comfort meal of dinosaur nuggets and spicy fries that would make my mom cringe, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and settle into my couch nest. Flipping on the TV, I decide to indulge in one of my special interests—a survival show set in Alaska, of all places.
This spring, out of some misguided attempt to connect with my mom, I got sucked into the first episode. Then I found myself unable to stop watching. The show features a family determined to live off the land, in spite of interference by bears, wolves, and the hostile natural environment. They seem genuinely supportive of one another, and their life-and-death scenarios have inspired numerous scenes in my books.
I've made it halfway into an episode when Emily calls. She's close to me, not only figuratively, but literally, because she lives right down the road in Rye, New York. She's made a habit of checking in with me every other day.
"Hey, cuz," she says in her subtle Jersey accent. "Jeff was thinking about grilling on Saturday, and we wondered if you could drop in."
By Saturday, I'll likely be ready for a break, since I'm planning to really dive into my writing tomorrow. Jeff always grills buttery smooth, grass-fed steaks, and nothing calls to me like my favorite foods.
"I'd love to. Let me know what I can bring."
"Just yourself and maybe your favorite chips," she says. "What's new with you?"
Sensing this was the best opportunity to bring her up-to-date on my stalker letter, I fill her in.
After gasping at regular intervals during my recap, she says, "I'm so glad you got that alarm system. What's this world coming to? Who would want to threaten you, Alex?" Her voice turns dark. "I wish I knew where that joker lived. Jeff and I would drive right over and set him straight."
I've always appreciated that Emily can't bear to see others hurt, especially me.
"I'll be okay." I try to inject conviction into my words.
"Stay safe," she warns. "And text me every night. We'll see you Saturday at seven."
Midway through the third episode of my show, my eyelids start drooping. I consider the effort it would take to go down the hall and get ready for bed, and decide it's not worth it. Instead, I turn off the lamp next to me and snuggle deeper beneath my blanket. I might as well try to get as much sleep as I can before diving into my writing in the morning.
The sound of glass shattering jolts me awake. It's closely followed by the shriek of my house alarm. Flailing my arms free of my blanket, I grab my phone, only to find it's nearly midnight.
After grabbing a hoodie and pulling it over my head to muffle the ongoing racket, I slide to the floor. The house is blanketed in darkness, but I don't mind, because it gives me a certain playing field advantage. I've trained myself to move easily around objects in my house, even in the dark. Mom used to say it was downright OCD with the way I memorized where our furniture was. I didn't have to be blind to know the number of steps from one thing to another.
Maybe my little quirk is finally paying off.
