I sink back onto my pile of pillows. "How can this be happening? Why would anyone be so invested in my books...or in me? I lead such a boring life."
Emily's eyes soften, and she places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You might not realize this, but you're beautiful, Alex. With your buttercream skin, blue eyes, and silky dark hair, you're a regular knockout along the lines of Liz Taylor. These weirdos can get fixated. Honestly, I'm thinking you should get out of town for a little while. I know you're not up to visiting your mom in Alaska, although that would be a great place to lie low. I could ask my brother if you could stay with him and his family in Georgia, if you want. They'd be happy to see you again, and my niece Callie would be in heaven to have a real live author in her house." She grins.
Shards of sunlight pierce through my closed blinds, casting a hypnotizing pattern on the floor. I trace the lines of light with my gaze like they're some kind of lifeline. I don't want to integrate into someone else's family life, trying to adapt to their complex rhythms and forcing them to adapt to mine. I need solitude and silence to have any hope of writing my book.
My only solution is staring me in the face. "Thanks for the offer, but my publisher's offered me a house I can stay in for awhile," I say. "I'll call and book a plane ticket as soon as the police leave."
Once police have verified that someone did, indeed, try to pull the board off, they dust it for prints. With a solemn look in his eyes, Officer Lester informs me it would be best to stay elsewhere, since the threat is ongoing.
I don't waste any time in calling Robin. Every time I speak with her, she reminds me of a kindly grandmother, which is the antithesis of the expected New York City persona.
When I explain why I'm anxious to get going, she says, "Oh, dear, yes. You've been through the wringer. We'll get you down there in a jiffy."
True to her word, she calls back two hours later, letting me know that a car service will pick me up and take me to the Westchester County airport. I'll be flying first-class, with a layover at O'Hare. When I arrive at the Lewisburg airport in West Virginia, I'll find a rental car waiting for me. Robin assures me she'll email directions to Micah's cabin, as well as the keycode and a list of shops in the area.
As I rummage around for clean jeans and hoodies—my writing uniform of choice—I give Emily a call. After trying to convince her that I'll be just fine, I load up a carry-on bag with my lavender oil rollerball, my mini salt lamp nightlight, my weighted blanket, and my toothbrush and toothpaste—all necessities for adjusting to a new locale. I shove in some undies and a tee shirt, just in case my luggage gets lost, but the creature comforts are far more important to me.
Suddenly recalling that I'd promised to keep Thomas posted, I shoot him a text to let him know I'll be moving out while the police search for my intruder. He responds quickly, saying that if I need anything sent to my new place, I can let him know.
The distrustful side of me bristles. Surely he isn't fishing to find out where I'll be staying?
I talk myself down. I'm starting to see villains everywhere. Thomas didn't directly ask for an address, and there's no reason to be suspicious of him.
As I continue with my packing, I consciously avoid looking at the kitchen. It's a fixed reminder of why I have to leave.
Some nut wants to break into my house and scare me into doing what he wants, and I'm completely powerless to do a thing about it.
FIVE
Once I get settled into my rental car, I quickly discover that West Virginia is nothing like I'd expected. I had assumed the landscape would be similar to Pennsylvania, which is the farthest south I've gone.
Instead, there seem to be clusters of houses tucked between—and even on the sides of—mountains. Of course, I've heard about the Appalachians, but hearing about them can't prepare you for how ubiquitous they are in this state, much less for actually driving across them, which seems to be a requirement to get from one city to another.
On back-and-forth roads that occasionally narrow to one lane, I manage to maneuver my way to Cedar Gap. Micah was right when he said the place isn't exactly packed with people. There are plenty of open parking spaces along the main street, and when I see a bookshop with a clover green door called Page Turner, I whip into a spot, acting on impulse to stock up on light reads while I'm here. If the cabin is extremely rustic, I might not be able to stream my regular shows to unwind.
Perusing the New Reads section, I choose a couple of rom-coms that will hopefully keep my mood light. When I walk up to the counter, a young woman takes the books, giving me a quick glance before ringing them up.
Recognition sparks in her eyes. "Wait—you look just like that author—Alexandra Dubois. Are you her?"
In situations like this, when asked a direct question, I automatically tell the truth. It's my fallback, my non-scripted answer. There's no room for lies in my world.
"I am," I say. "But I'd rather keep it quiet." I insert my card into the reader to pay for my stash.
She gives me a serious nod. "Sure. But would you mind if I told my manager really quickly, though? He's one of your biggest fans. He'd kill me if he knew you'd visited and I didn't tell him."
I turn to scan the shop, but it seems I'm the only customer there. "Okay, but I can't stay long."
"Of course." She hustles toward the back room. As I take a deep breath to brace for the inevitable impact, a man in his late fifties strides out. He adjusts his glasses as he approaches, as if he can't believe he's looking at me.
"It's such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dubois." He extends his hand to shake mine. "This is quite the thrill. I've read your entire series, and I can assure you that readers keep asking for your next one." He gestures toward a nearby bookshelf. "In fact, if it's not too much trouble, could you sign our shelf copies?"
The cashier pipes up. "I'll set up a display table for them. Trust me, our customers will snap them up. People in this town love your books. We're always selling out."
How can I refuse, when she puts it like that? An author will naturally migrate toward her adoring fans. I take the pen she offers and follow the manager to the shelf.
"I'm Quincy Gates." He stacks a pile of my books in his arms, then hands them to me, one by one, to sign. As I pass each one back, he gingerly replaces it on the shelf, like it's made of glass.
"I opened Page Turner a couple of years ago, but I never dreamed an author as well-known as you would grace its green door," he says, his voice awestruck. "Though we've had a few authors here over the years," he hurries to add.
"That's great," I say stiffly. Anxious to get going, I flip the cover shut on the final book and meet his wide, pale blue eyes. "I would really appreciate it if you didn't mention I'm around. I'm trying to keep a low profile while I'm here."
The chatty cashier speaks up. "We won't tell anyone. Are you staying in town, then?"
Quincy shoots her a silencing look before turning back to me. "I assure you, we will be the souls of discretion." He gives an urgent tilt of his head toward the register.
Picking up on her manager's unspoken request for privacy, the cashier heaves a frustrated sigh as she walks back to her post.
Lowering his voice, Quincy says, "I wonder if you're familiar with a New York City editor who also visits our shop. He's built a place not far from here. His name is Micah Brennan."
I don't want to give him any hint that I'm staying in Micah's house. Drawing myself up to my full five-foot-six height, I offer a casual nod and avoid answering his question. "You've been so helpful, but I should really get going. I hope these books sell like hotcakes for you."
He seems to take my hint. "Of course, of course. And just know that we would be honored to set up a signing for you someday, if you're interested." He pulls a leather case from his pocket and hands me a card for the shop. "My email is on the bottom there. I'd be happy to chat with you anytime, Miss Dubois."
"Thank you." I grip my bag and bustle toward the door.
"Nice to meet you!" the cashier shouts behind me.
