Thomas raises a curious eyebrow at my choice of sleeping arrangements, but nods. I try not to interpret his look as some type of disapproval. My therapist tells me that I need to set more boundaries for myself, even if the neurotypical people in my life can't possibly understand the reasons for my parameters.
After depositing the knives on the bathroom sink, I grab a couple of blankets from my hall closet and hand them to Thomas, who's talking on the phone with his wife. I retrieve my weighted blanket and pillow and make my way into the bathroom, where I lock the door and settle onto the full-length bench seat in my spacious shower. It feels like the most protected spot in my house.
I'm still a bit wary to have a practical stranger on my couch, but his wife knows he's here. Besides, it's incredibly thoughtful of Thomas to position himself as the first line of defense, should another attack come.
Some deep emotional exhaustion practically shoves my eyes closed. Before I can fight it, I'm drifting off to sleep.
I wake up with a kink in my neck, thanks to my crunched-up position on the shower bench. I give a long stretch before grabbing my phone, only to see that I've slept in until eleven.
As I make my bleary-eyed way down the hallway, I veer toward the kitchen, where Thomas is firing up the coffee maker.
"I decided to stick around until you woke up, since I wasn't sure how to set your alarm system when I go out," he says apologetically.
"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't get up sooner." I scrounge around for proper small talk. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" I offer.
He shakes his head. "No, thank you—I'm not much of a coffee drinker these days, but I figured you might want some. It's good that you got some extra sleep." He gestures toward the door. "I'd better get on back to Patty, though. Please promise you'll give us a call if you need company tonight."
I offer him an appreciative smile. "Thank you, but I'll be talking with my cousin today. She's over in Rye, so we'll figure something out. Thank you so much for your help last night."
His look turns surprisingly serious. "A young woman like you, living all alone in this nice house...you might want to get a dog or something. If you were my daughter, I'd be concerned."
I'd be grateful to have a parent who thought like Thomas. Unfortunately, that's not at all what I have. "That's kind of you, but I'm not really a dog person," I say.
Once Thomas has gone and I've reset the alarm, I make myself a giant cup of coffee, which I savor with half a leftover blueberry scone. Before I get to work, I need to let Emily know what happened last night.
I type out a text that hopefully doesn't sound as rattled as I feel. I can't stop throwing glances at my boarded-up window, which casts a dark shadow across my normally cheery kitchen.
Questions race around in my mind. Should I stay here? Would that even be wise? One of the officers suggested I might want to visit friends or relatives while the investigation was underway.
Emily and Jeff have a lovely home, but it's cozy to the point of feeling crowded. Their guest room is a renovated closet with a pull-out couch, and they only have one bathroom. Plus, they might not understand that I take extra-long showers to decompress. Things would get cramped and awkward if I moved in with them for any length of time.
My best option would probably be to book a nice hotel room, maybe in a neighboring town. But if the hotel is loud, as hotels tend to be, it might interfere with my writing routine. It seems that every time I book an overnight room—no matter how expensive the hotel—I'll hear heated arguments through the walls or children screaming in the hallways. And the temperature is never easy to control. Once, I stayed at an inn where the temperature was locked in at seventy-one degrees and the heat was pumping—only it was the middle of summer. I couldn't reach anyone on the inn's phone line, so I wound up turning on the air-conditioning unit to allow myself the chance to breathe again. I had to sleep on the floor, right under the unit, so I didn't pass out from the heat.
Even though the police are reviewing my security cam footage in hopes of a solid lead, they might not find anything. Tracking down an author's stalker can hardly be at the top of their priority list. So I might be looking at an extended stay somewhere.
I make a fresh cup of coffee and heave a weary sigh.
I've researched stalker behavior for my novels, and I know full well that celebrity stalkers—because that's what I have, if I'm being honest—can be incredibly dedicated to tracking down the object of their obsessions, often shadowing and threatening them for years on end.
Since my stalker threw a brick through my window and threatened to harm me, he's upgraded himself into the "threat of bodily harm" category, which is the one the police have to pay attention to. But if they can't find any fingerprints, how long before the investigation's urgency wanes, leaving me stewing in terror in my cottage?
After jumping to my feet to shake off the jitters, I pace up and down my hallway. Getting a big dog like Thomas suggested would add to my security arsenal, but I'm too apprehensive around canines. I'm far more comfortable with the quiet ways of cats. In fact, I was planning to visit a shelter to look for one, just before the stalker weaseled his way into my life.
I should probably ask my editor for suggestions, since he's assured me that Thorvald Media will have my back with this stalker situation. Keeping in mind that he's now on vacation, I email his assistant Robin about last night's events, hoping she might have some helpful suggestions.
I force myself to gather clean clothes and head into the bathroom, knowing a steamy shower will restore me before I start writing. It's the one place where I can sing at the top of my lungs and let my worries slide off me, right along with the water. I'm aware of what a luxury it is to be able to relax under my rainfall showerhead for as long as I want.
Once I'm finished, I take time to towel off my thick hair before checking my phone. I'm surprised to see that I've already gotten a text from Micah, telling me to call him back immediately.
I call back and he picks up quickly, but his voice sounds groggy. "Alex?"
Did I wake him? "I'm sorry, but you said to call you immediately," I explain.
He seems to pick up steam. "That's fine—that's what I wanted. The sun hasn't even risen here, but I got Robin's message and I didn't want to leave you hanging." His voice deepens. "I know you must be feeling on edge, and that is not conducive to effective writing sprints. I've been talking with Mr. Schneider, the president of our media group, and he's also concerned for your welfare. As I told you, a couple of our authors have had stalkers in the past, but things didn't escalate to violence like this."
Goosebumps run up my arms. Yes, things have now escalated, but I'd rather not linger on that fact.
"To that end, we've considered several secluded places where you couldn't be followed. Mr. Schneider suggested a writing retreat we've only used a few times, and I don't know why I didn't think of it first, because it actually belongs to me. Back in 2020, like everyone else in Manhattan, I wanted to prepare for the worst, so I bought some wooded property in West Virginia and built a cabin there, just in case I had to evacuate the city. The place is very private and only accessible by a small bridge across a creek. I keep a P.O. box there, so the physical address is only listed for emergency services."
"West Virginia?" I've never visited the state.
"Yes, it's down in the southern part, in a sparsely populated town called Cedar Gap. Mr. Schneider is right—there's no safer place for you to finish your last book. It's peaceful, hidden from the public eye, and you'd be welcome to stay there as long as you need to, completely free." He stifles a yawn. "In the interests of full disclosure, I will tell you that there was an unfortunate accident on the property, so we haven't done any retreats there since late 2021. But the house has been well-maintained—I have an on-site caretaker who keeps an eye on things. He's a bit of a recluse, so he won't bother you."
I'm curious as to the nature of the unfortunate event, not to mention the reclusive caretaker, but it's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. A private cabin with minimal human contact sounds perfect for meeting my writing deadline. "That's a great idea. I'll let you know in the next day or two."
I'd like to hold out hope that the police will quickly track down my stalker, although even if they catch him, I'm not sure what he'd be charged with. It seems unlikely he'd get a prison sentence for throwing a brick. Maybe I'll have to get a restraining order, but after years of research, I know that'll be a joke when it comes to a committed psycho.
Micah's voice fades a bit, giving away his exhaustion. "Sure. If you're interested, call Robin, and she'll give you directions and the keycode. She can line up a first-class ticket for you to fly there, courtesy of Thorvald Media." He yawns again. "I'd better get some more sleep. I'm supposed to be celebrating my mom's birthday this afternoon."
"Oh, okay. Thanks so much." I feel awful for interrupting his vacation. "I'll be in touch."
"By the way," he adds, "Please have someone stay with you tonight. You'll need your sleep to create your most amazing story ever."
I give a hoarse chuckle. "We can only hope."
