I was only too happy to travel to West Virginia to get some time alone. My book was coming together, but I had numerous loose ends to tie up. The cabin life could only help me focus.
Quincy was delighted to see me, and the cabin was more than I'd ever dreamed of. I found roses and chocolates and a note placed on the master bed. "Enjoy the amenities—be sure to try the hot tub and the sauna," it read. Although there was no name signed, I knew it had to be Micah's doing.
There was a photo of two small boys on the desk table, and I wondered who they were. I decided to work that into my story.
And then came the twist that defined my book.
Micah Brennan himself came knocking on the door, wearing a black button-down and black jeans. He was in town, he said, and he wanted to drop in and make sure everything was going well. I assured him it was.
But nothing could have prepared me for the raw chemistry between the two of us. I'd never seen Micah up close, or smelled that clean, earthy scent he wore. He had the wisdom of age and the power of position, and it was a heady mix. When he said he'd drop in and check on me the next day, I was only too happy to agree.
After the bookstore opening night, Quincy dropped me off at the cabin. I didn't tell him about Micah, because it felt like a delicious, forbidden secret. Instead, I poured my energies into writing my book, developing the character of Max based on my knowledge of Micah.
I slept well that night, but when I got up in the morning, I could tell that someone had rifled through my bathroom things. When the caretaker dropped by on his four-wheeler, I complained about it to him. Had he dared to come into the house without my permission?
He quietly denied it, but I wasn't inclined to believe him, since he didn't want to meet my eyes. I figured I'd tell Micah about it later.
But the next thing I knew, Henry's old mother shuffled across the bridge and knocked on my door. She wheezed that I couldn't speak to her son that way, and that Henry would never think of intruding on a guest. If I complained to Mr. Brennan, she'd tell him I was a liar.
I gave her a polite nod, but determined I'd tell whoever I wanted. Once she left, I texted both Mariah and Quincy about my run-in with Henry and his mom.
Yet I still didn't tell Quincy about Micah being in town, because I knew he would scold me for getting interested in my superior at Thorvald Media. Mariah, on the other hand, thought it sounded like an opportunity to get ahead. "Milk it for all it's worth," she'd said. "That guy can open any door for you."
When Quincy texted back, he said that Henry was a solid guy, and that he'd never do something like that to a guest. He had a vested interest in keeping this job, since his mom's health was failing. Quincy urged me to hold off before making any kinds of accusations to Micah.
Of course, he wasn't aware that I was going to see Micah that very day.
As promised, the editor dropped in...although this time, I realized he'd arrived without a vehicle.
"How did you get here?" I asked, curious.
"I parked and walked up the driveway," he said.
Later, he explained that he had no need to park, because he'd simply walked out of the basement, where he'd been staying, then around the side of the house.
Like a young fool, I let him inside. He chatted with me about publishing things, then smoothly shifted the conversation toward more personal topics, like my family and upbringing.
I didn't generally make a habit of sharing those painful memories, but he seemed so genuinely interested in what I had to say, I found it flattering. He asked me about my siblings, and before I knew it, the story of my brother's death just tumbled out. Jason had been my best friend, then he'd stupidly gotten drunk after prom, gotten into the car with me, and crashed us into a tree.
I'd walked away alive, and I'd never forgiven myself.
Micah's eyes took on some kind of glaze as I recounted the tale. I assumed he was trying to hold back tears, but instead, he started shooting rapid-fire, offensive comments at me like bullets.
"So you're saying you had nothing to do with your brother's death?"
"The police report said they found you in the driver's seat."
"How do you explain letting someone intoxicated drive?" (I had taken his word for it when he said he wasn't tipsy.)
Once I'd answered his accusatory questions, he had retreated into himself, leaving me alone with an excruciating silence. Then he'd reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun.
After that, with no explanation, he forced me to sit down at my laptop and write. While I wrote, he told me stories. Stories about his childhood, when he'd basically drowned another boy who'd bullied him. Stories about how he'd found his purpose in life, and it was to sniff out people who shared his ability to mete out vengeance.
He'd thought I was one of those people. He had gotten hold of the police report on Jason's death and convinced himself that my brother was a pedophile (only he'd gotten the report confused—my parents had also reported an incident with my second-grade teacher). He was sure I'd taken matters into my own hands and killed him.
Then he told me to wrap up my story. I had tried to work in as many hidden clues as I could as to the unhinged man who was holding me hostage. I pled with him to give me more time.
But he told me it was time to print it out, just the way it was. I knew it could never be published at such a short length.
After clipping the papers together, he handed them back to me, then went on to pour a large glass of vodka. He carried it back and held it up to my lips.
"Drink up," he demanded.
I shook my head, unwilling to make myself even more vulnerable by imbibing such an outrageous amount of alcohol.
But he stood next to me with the gun pointed at my head until I'd swallowed every drop. Then he forced me into the sauna and positioned himself in front of the door.
Between the alcohol raging through my system and the heat of the sauna, I was quickly weakened. But Micah refused to give me a glass of water.
Instead, he scolded me, saying, "Your book will never sell. It's too derivative, and honestly pedantic, as well. I only signed you with Thorvald Media because of your history."
Even though I could tell I was about to pass out, I could vaguely remember tucking a pen into my shirt pocket. When Micah turned to look out the back window, I pulled it out and scrawled a note on my manuscript—a warning, in case something happened to me. I had trusted the monster standing just outside, let him into my head, and now he didn't care if I lived or died.
I started to slump over, and stars danced in front of my eyes. The heat seemed to have intensified. If only I had energy to pull off some of my clothes.
But Micah opened the sauna door. He gave me a benevolent smile and said, "I'm sure you're thirsty, aren't you?"
I barely managed to give him a nod. "Please," I croaked out, gulping at the fresh air streaming in.
