2.Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Hank

I am so glad I’m not living my own story right now. It’s alarming how many times I’ve had that thought, but it comes with the territory of being an extremely empathetic writer who sometimes forgets to separate fact from fiction. My currently racing heart is a testament to how poorly I distance myself from my work, and I force myself to stand and take a lap around my house to calm down.

It’s not a big house so it’s not a very long lap, but it’s enough to pull me out of the moment I was writing. Enough for me to move back to my computer, though I don’t sit down. Grabbing my mug of tea, I squint at the screen and look over the last couple of paragraphs.

My heroine was just about to uncover the murderer’s location when someone wrapped a cord around her neck from behind. I’d known this moment was coming, but something isn’t feeling quite right. She didn’t have enough warning to save herself, and unless I write in someone to come save her, she’s going to suffocate at her desk. I suppose I could have her scratch her nose right before it happens so she has a hand beneath the cord?

That’s a little too, uh, on the nose. I need something more deliberate, something that readers won’t expect but is still plausible enough to keep Gabrielle alive long enough for her to catch the villain.

I take a sip of my drink, grimacing when cold tea reaches my lips, and then I look down to find three other half-drunk mugs on my desk. I probably grabbed the wrong one, but none of them look especially warm.

“Maybe it’s time for a break,” I mutter, grabbing all four mugs and heading to my little kitchen. I’ll wash the dishes from last night’s dinner—okay, from the last two days of meals—and maybe go for a quick walk to get my mind moving again. This is the third time I’ve written Gabrielle into a non-win situation in this book, and it’s starting to get annoying. I don’t usually have this much difficulty getting through the first draft, but there’s something about this book in particular that is proving to be especially frustrating.

With my dishes washed, dried, and tucked away, I head back to my computer, telling myself that I can only work for an hour before I fix myself lunch, even though it’s already three in the afternoon. Better late than never. But right as I sit down, someone knocks on the door.

I freeze, just as I always do when someone appears at my house. Now that my only neighbors have married and moved away, this lane is always quiet, and it’s far enough from town that I never get salesmen or someone asking to borrow some sugar. Which means whoever is on the front porch, they’re here specifically for me, and they were smart enough not to call first because they know the only way to get in touch with me in person is to surprise me.

That means I’m not going to want to open that door.

The person knocks again, and I slowly inch to the window, hoping to get a glimpse of whoever it is through the curtains without them noticing me moving the fabric aside to get a peek.

I reach out a finger and nudge the curtain to the left .

A big brown eye greets me.

Cursing, I stumble backward just as a deep, feminine voice says, “I know you’re in there, Hank. Open the door.”

“I’d rather not,” I call back. Not with my agent on the other side with a request I am not inclined to agree to.

“You’ve been ignoring my emails, Hank. That’s in breach of your contract.”

Maybe I should look into self-publishing. I’ve heard it’s gotten easier over the last few years, and I’ve made enough of a name for myself that I could probably make it work. It’s not like I need the money. I just need to write.

“I can practically hear your thoughts in there, Hank, and whatever you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea. Just let me in and we can talk. Good gracious, is that a spider?”

Mariah Harvey is a good woman and an even better agent, but she has never understood my desire to stay under the radar. My reasons for keeping to myself are legitimate, if unhealthy, but she shouldn’t care as long as I keep giving her books that will sell.

“My deadline isn’t for another two months,” I remind her, glancing around my house as if I might find a place to hide. I won’t. My house has all of two bedrooms, one of which I never enter and never will, and the kitchen and living room are collectively five hundred square feet. Emphasis on the square. I don’t even have a coat closet to duck into; all of my coats are on an old-fashioned coat rack by the door.

Mariah knocks again, as if I might open the door now that she’s done it thrice. “You know I’m not here about the next Gabrielle Frost book, Hank, though I’m excited to read it.”

“You and me both,” I mutter, glaring at my computer. Assuming Gabrielle doesn’t suffocate and end the series, of course. Maybe I could have one of her fictional fans step up to finish what she started, like the intern at the police station. Start something new, with a different main character.

An ache settles in my chest at the thought, and I shake my head. No, I can’t stop writing Gabrielle. She’s the whole point.

“Hank, just let me in before this spider jumps on me and sucks me dry. You should really get this place sprayed.”

I can’t help but smile as I finally open the door, though only enough to poke my head out. “Her name is Heather.”

Though Mariah looks like she was about to shove past me and into the house, my comment catches her off guard. She stares at me, slack jawed, until her eyes go back up to the spiny red and white arachnid nestled above my door. “You named a spider Heather?”

“She’s a Gasteracantha cancriformis, and she and I have an agreement.”

Mariah takes a step back, probably thinking I’m crazy. “An agreement.”

“She protects the house from moths because I hate moths, and I don’t take down her web. Simple symbiosis.”

She tries so hard to smile and pretend she understands, but then a shudder runs through her and she tucks her blazer tighter around her body as she eyes the orbweaver overhead. “Hank, just let me in. I don’t want to have this conversation through the door.”

Sighing, I step back and open the door wide enough to let her inside. I’m already uncomfortable as she fills my small space with her big city presence, even if she isn’t necessarily a large human. Her personality fills the largest of rooms, and I am too used to being the only one in this space.

The last time anyone was here was a year and a half ago, when I watched my neighbor, Hope’s, kids when her husband got caught in a bear trap. And yes, I get a weekly visit from my friend, June Harper, the only person in town I can stand, but she never comes inside. She’s perfectly content to stand on the porch and chat for a few minutes before handing over my groceries. Delivering is not her job—she runs the hardware store—but she says she likes the excuse to come out this way.

I know she’s really just checking up on me because she promised Hope she would.

“You know,” Mariah says as she takes in my house, “when I pictured your place, I pictured it a little more…” She waves her manicured hand around, clearly at a loss for words.

When I close the door, shutting off my only escape, I can barely swallow the nerves building in my throat. Why couldn’t this have just been an email? Oh right, because I haven’t checked my email in weeks, knowing I needed an excuse to avoid this exact conversation.

I gesture to the large armchair that serves as my only seating outside of my desk chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

Mariah scoffs as she sinks—literally—into the chair. It’s probably time to replace that one, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to look into something new. It’s been a slow process, updating things, and the chair will likely be the last thing to go. If it ever goes.

“Hank, you’re acting like this is some torturous thing I’m asking of you.”

“And you’re going to pretend I’m wrong,” I counter, settling at my desk.

Her eyes snap to the screen, though she’s too far away to read anything. “Is that Gabrielle?”

I click the screen off. “I’m not doing it, Mariah.”

“You’re not doing what?”

“I’m not going to let you parade me around to a bunch of people who don’t actually care who I am, just that I’m going to make them a lot of money.”

She laughs. “Oh, honey, they’ll make the money with or without you. The book is already a bestseller and filming is underway.”

“Then why do you keep asking me to show up on set?” I fold my arms, belatedly realizing I should offer her some tea or something. I’ve only ever seen her in person once, when I reluctantly drove to the nearest city, Sun City, to sign my contract, but I distinctly remember Mariah having a ridiculously complicated coffee order that was mostly made up of sugar and cream. I doubt my limited options will appeal to her.

Though she has been speaking with an authority in her voice, she’s back to inspecting my house with concern. The front curtains are closed, but the back are wide open, giving us a spectacular view of the forested hills behind my lane. Enough sun shines through to illuminate the dust motes floating in the air, but I keep my house relatively clean. (Unless, of course, I’m on a writing streak. Which is not now.) The north wall is lined with bookshelves on either side of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, and I’m rather proud of my collection. I have several first editions and out-of-print books that I found in used bookstores back when…

Well, back when I still left the house. Finding rare books on the internet isn’t quite as exciting as making a discovery on a dusty shelf.

When Mariah finally fixes her gaze back on me, she’s adopted a sort of pitying smile that I really don’t like. “Hank, you shouldn’t spend all your time cooped up in this little house. It can’t be good for you.”

I’ve lived here alone for the last four years. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Her expression only turns even more pathetic. “Honey, you’re afraid of meeting a few people on a movie set.”

“I’m not afraid of—”

“Great. Then I’ll expect you to be there Tuesday morning because it’s part of the contract you signed. I’ll even send a car for you.” She gets to her feet, brushing her pencil skirt as if everything is settled.

I wish it weren’t, but she’s right about the contract. I’ve managed to avoid book tours by finding loopholes over the last couple of years, but I doubt I’ll find a way out of visiting the set now that Mariah is here in Laketown. They are making a movie in my hometown, adapted from my first Gabrielle Frost book, so it makes sense. But knowing I won’t have a choice is exactly why I’ve been avoiding Mariah, and a pit forms in my stomach as she heads for the door.

“I have a car,” I mumble. I may not have driven it in six months or so, but I think it still runs.

Mariah pierces me with a stare, her hand on the doorknob. “I know you have a car, Hank. What I don’t know is if you’ll show up on Tuesday unless I do everything I can to ensure it happens, so I’ll be sending a car. Wear something less…” She gestures to my pajamas, which I honestly didn’t realize I was still wearing until now.

Not finding a word again, she sighs heavily and then heads out, peeking up at Heather as she passes the round web overhead.

I don’t move until the sound of her car is gone, leaving me in a thick silence that doesn’t normally bother me. In fact, I generally crave the quiet, which is exactly why I live in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere. But for the first time in years, the lack of noise is almost heavy, and my breaths come with some measure of difficulty. It’s just the anxiety. The thought of having to interact with strangers. I can do it, and I used to have no problem talking to people I didn’t know. I had all sorts of friends and reasons to be out and about.

But that was before .

Now, I just want to be left alone.