Chapter 13

HANNAH

Walking home, full of delicious pulled pork, I replayed the events of the last two hours. Being trapped in the shed with George. The extremely pleasant sensation of her firm, round butt in my hands. George confirming she was queer, news that had sent butterflies excitedly swarming in my belly. Almost confessing to her that I was H. M. Stuart, only to be interrupted by the smoke alarm. It had been a long, eventful day and I should have been exhausted, especially after staying up late last night writing. But surprisingly, I wasn’t.

As soon as I opened the gate to my cottage, my brain shifted gears into writing mode. I slammed my front door shut, threw my satchel on the side table and walked quickly into the study, eager to pour more words on the page.

I skipped over the sex scene—I usually found them the hardest to write—but other than that, the words kept coming so fast my fingers could barely keep up.

My bladder eventually interrupted my writing flow. Bursting to pee, I ignored it until the urge was too strong to ignore anymore. I reluctantly got up and began walking to the bathroom. What is the time, I wonder? I raised my arm and glanced down at my wrist. Shit. 12:26 a.m. I needed to be at Novel Gossip by 8 a.m. Part of me wanted to keep going, to make the most of the dam that had finally broken, but I knew I’d regret it in the morning. I’d already stayed up way too late. I didn’t want to be an overtired mess in front of George tomorrow.

I changed into my pajamas, took off my glasses, and flopped into bed, but I could not turn off my mind. I kept thinking of new ideas for my book and picking up the notepad I kept by the bed to write them down. I had no doubt that, tomorrow, most of my ideas would seem ridiculous, but I knew from past experience that every so often, one would be a spark of genius. My mind slowed, and I was finally drifting off to sleep when—shit. My eyes opened. The problem I’d been putting off dealing with all day barreled into my mind. I had to sign 841 copies of The Realm of Furies between now and 3pm, and I still hadn’t told George who I was.

After I’d received an email from Emma this morning, reminding me the books would be picked up tomorrow afternoon, I’d promised myself I’d tell George today, but work had been so hectic, there never seemed to be a good time. I’d tried to tell George over our delectable pulled pork dinner, but just as I’d gathered the courage to speak the smoke alarm went off and George insisted I go home. I was so worried about further damaging my hearing, I’d obeyed. And now, here I was, only fourteen hours away from the books being collected, and I still hadn’t come clean to her.

My stomach sank as I realized that I’d put it off so long that, even if I got up enough courage to tell George in the morning, I’d have to spend most of my shift signing books. And there was no way George would be able to manage without me.

Shit.

And then a thought struck me.

I had a key to Novel Gossip.

It’s not like you’re sleeping anyway. Being tired tomorrow seemed like a better option than not getting the books signed and letting down my readers, or spending the day signing the books and letting down George.

Re-energized, I sat up, throwing the duvet off me.

Time for some late-night book signing.

Thirty minutes later,I stood outside of Novel Gossip, looking around to make sure no one was present to witness my next move. Turning my head side to side, I felt like a cartoonish villain in a bad heist film. I’d slipped on my usual around-the-house outfit of black leggings and a black sweater without thinking. All that was missing was a black balaclava.

Unsurprisingly, Sapphire Springs was deserted at 1:30 a.m. on a Thursday night. Heart racing, I fumbled with the key George had given me. My shaky hands finally got it in the keyhole. Holding my breath, I turned the key and gently pushed open Novel Gossip’s front door.

While I hadn’t seen any sign of a security system, I steeled myself, convinced I’d trigger a dramatic siren or a robotic voice repeating the words “intruder alert” and bright flashing lights, immediately summoning the police and George to the scene of the crime. Stop being so dramatic, Hannah. You’re not doing anything wrong. Just using a key you’ve been given to sign your own books. Not exactly a crime. But no amount of rationalizing could get rid of the feeling that I wasn’t doing the right thing.

Softly closing the front door behind me, I turned on the flashlight on my phone and carefully made my way past the empty tables and chairs, down one of the book aisles to the back of the shop where the boxes of books were stacked. The faint scent of Romina’s pulled pork mixed with smoke still hung in the air. Novel Gossip, such a warm and vibrant place during the day, felt eerie at night, dark and deserted. I picked up my pace. When I reached the books, I stopped, staring at the pile of boxes. It looked even bigger than I’d remembered. Eight hundred and forty-one books. I swallowed.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I whispered, trying to psyche myself up.

I kneeled down, ripped open a box of books and pulled one out. Damn, it looks good. I’d seen the cover on my computer screen before, but this was the first time I’d seen a physical copy. A warm glow of pride filled my chest as I examined the front and back of the book. I hoped this feeling never got old. Seeing a story I created and poured my heart and soul into transformed into something tangible was pretty incredible.

Remembering why I was there, I shook myself. Stop mooning over your book and get signing, Hannah! I pulled a pen out of my pocket and immediately realized that I needed to turn on a light. There was no way I was going to be able to sign books while holding my phone up so I could see.

I clambered to my feet and walked back down the aisle to the wall behind the counter that held a number of light switches. I hadn’t paid any attention to them before, and they were not labelled. I tried the switch closest to me, and the front of the store was suddenly flooded with light. Oops. I hastily flicked the switch back and tried the next one, which lit the counter. Nope. The third one illuminated the book aisles. Thank god.

As I made my way back to the boxes, a dog barked. My chest tightened. Shit, that sounded like it came from upstairs. Novel Gossip was on the bottom floor of a two-story building, but I hadn’t stopped to think what, or who, was above it. Does someone live up there? I tiptoed the rest of the way back down the aisle and then settled myself kneeling on the ground. I pulled out the first book, resting it on another box while I signed the front page.

Damnit.I blinked my tired eyes and pressed the pen down again. No luck. My pen had run out of ink, and my back was already aching from hunching over while signing. I stretched out my hands and counted the pile of signed books. Seventy-seven in—I checked my watch—forty-five minutes. I did rough math in my head, and my stomach sank. Surely that couldn’t be right. I pulled out my phone and opened the calculator app. Shit. At this rate, it would take me over eight hours to sign all the books. I had to speed up. And I also needed a new pen.

Groggy, I stood, turned around, and—fuck!

My foot caught on another box. My heart lurched as I lost balance, teetered, and then fell. Narrowly missing the pile of signed books, I stretched out my arms just before I hit the floor, breaking my landing. I lay on the ground for a second, catching my breath. Sitting up, I surveyed the scene. To my relief, no books had been harmed. And thankfully, my wrists seemed to have survived the impact.

I walked back down the aisle, grabbed a couple of pens from behind the counter and also a handful of coffee beans. Maybe they will help speed me up.

Upbeat music makes me run faster. Perhaps it will help with signing as well? When I got back to my signing corner, I pulled my headphones out of my pocket, plugged them into my phone, put on Charli XCX, and shoved a few coffee beans in my mouth. They were a little bitter and grainy tasting, but combined with the music, they seemed to help.

I was onto the fourth box of books, bopping to “Speed Drive,” when someone touched my shoulder.

I jumped, letting out a strangled, panicked sound somewhere between a screech and a squawk. Heart pounding, I yanked out my headphones. Grasping my pen like a weapon, I turned to see who the intruder was.

“Hannah?”

Shit.

It wasn’t an intruder.

It was far worse.

It was George.

And she was holding a knife.