Page 62 of The Writer
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
TEDDY’S FROWN DEEPENS. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mrs. Morrow? You’re sweating and you look pale. Maybe you should rest down here for a minute so you’re not—”
Alone . That’s what he was going to say, but he stops himself and gestures over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to use my office as long as you like.”
“I don’t think my dinner agreed with me. Shellfish never does.” She has no idea why she said that; she had a steak, but there’s no point in walking it back. “I’ll be fine.”
Before Teddy can push the issue, she’s in the elevator heading up. She doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until it slips out in one long exhale like a deflating balloon. She wipes the clammy sweat from her palms on the hem of her skirt, tears Harrison’s card in two, and balls up the pieces in her fist. She’s done with him. He didn’t give her anything useful. She should have cut ties with him a long time ago.
I’m done with all of it , she tells herself.
The second she gets inside her apartment, she’ll delete the Maggie Marshall book and burn what’s left of her notes, the fallout from that be damned. It is time to move on.
When the doors open, Denise screams—
A man is standing at the threshold facing her.
He stumbles back, his eyes wide, hands raised defensively. “Whoa, Denise, it’s just me.”
It takes a second for her to recognize him. Russell Bookholz, one of her neighbors. He and his wife travel most of the year; she hasn’t seen either of them in months. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize you were home,” she says.
“Got in from Switzerland a few hours ago.” His hair is a little longer than she remembers, and his leathery skin is pink with the kind of windburn you find only in avid skiers. “Liz and I are exhausted. I’m running out for a few supplies, then I plan to sleep for a day so I can get myself back on New York time.” He tilts his head to the side. “I just stopped by to say we heard about David in Zermatt, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry we are. If there is anything we can do, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”
Denise nods because there’s nothing else she can do. Her heart is beating like a jackhammer. All she can think about is the Valium in her bathroom and the bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild on her kitchen counter. “I’m glad you’re back,” she manages. “It’s been too quiet around here.”
He smiles warmly and steps into the elevator. “Anything at all, you knock,” he says as the doors close with a soft whoosh .
Denise is at her door in an instant. Her hands are shaking again; it takes a moment for her to get the key in the lock and the door open. She scrambles inside, slams the door behind her, locks it, and twists both dead bolts (she added a second after Declan snuck in). She keys in half her alarm code before realizing she didn’t arm the system when she left.
Her phone rings. It’s Kirby.
Denise answers and says before the woman can get a word in, “I’m sorry, something came up and I had to run home.”
Her agent does a poor job of masking her frustration. “Are you coming back?”
“Tell everyone I had a wonderful evening. It was good to see all of you.”
“Denise, call me tomorrow. We need to discuss—”
Denise hangs up.
She can’t. Not now.
Quimby appears from nowhere, weaves around her ankles with a loud purr, and heads to the kitchen, a not-so-subtle attempt to point out that dinnertime came and went an hour ago.
Denise drops her keys in the bowl by the door and navigates the foyer and hallway without turning on any lights. In the living room, she tosses her phone onto the couch. It bounces softly and settles near the far end.
Feed cat. Valium. Wine. Bath.
In that order.
Tomorrow she’ll hire a new attorney and file restraining orders against all of them—Cordova, that lieutenant, the whole lot. Maybe she’ll revive her lawsuit. She doesn’t need the money, but she does need to send a message.
A loud message.
In the shadows just beyond the kitchen, someone clears his throat and says in a gravelly voice, “I’m curious, Ms. Morrow—as a writer, what’s the one question you get asked most?”
Denise gasps and turns to see a vague outline stamped in the darkness. The can lights above the kitchen island come to life when Detective Cordova brushes the switch near the back hall with a gloved hand; with his other hand, he’s holding a revolver that’s pointed at her.