Bone Cold. Erica Spindler
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“Sick stories? Thanks, Dalton.”
“Dark, then,” Dalton amended. “Twisted. Scary. Better?”
“Much, thank you.” She poured the steaming milk into the mugs, then handed each man his café au lait.
They carried the pastries and coffee to her small, bistro-style table, sat and dug in. Dalton was right. Her novels—thrillers—had been described by reviewers with just such adjectives. Also by ones like compelling and gripping. If only she could sell enough copies to make a living writing them.
Nobody was holding her back but herself. That’s what her agent said.
“Such a nice, normal-seeming lady.” Bill lowered his voice to a horror-flick drawl. “Where do her stories come from? Experience? Extracurricular activities? What gothic horrors lurk behind her guileless green eyes?”
Anna pretended to laugh. Bill couldn’t know how close to the truth his playful teasing had come. She had been witness to the darkest depths of the human spirit. She knew from firsthand experience the human animal’s capacity for evil.
That knowledge stole her peace of mind and sometimes, like tonight, her sleep as well. It also fueled her imagination, pouring out of her in dark, twisted tales that pitted good against evil.
“Didn’t you know?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “All my research is hands-on. So please, don’t look in the trunk of my car, and be sure to lock your door at night.” She lowered her voice. “If you know what’s good for you.”
For a split second, the men simply stared at her. Then they laughed. Dalton spoke first. “Very funny, Anna. Especially since that gay couple gets whacked in your new story idea.”
“Speaking of,” Bill murmured, brushing at the sprinkling of powdered sugar on the table in front of him, “have you heard anything on the new proposal yet?”
“Not yet, but it’s only been a couple weeks. You know how slow publishing can be.”
Bill snorted in disgust. He worked in advertising and public relations, most of the time he was going ninety-to-nothing, hair on fire. “They wouldn’t last two minutes in my business. Crash and burn, big time.”
Anna agreed, then yawned. She brought a hand to her mouth, yawning again.
Dalton glanced at his watch. “Good Lord, look at the time! I had no idea it was so—” He turned toward her, expression horrified. “Heavens, Anna! I forgot to tell you. You got another letter from your little fan. The one who lives across Lake Pontchartrain, in Mandeville. It came today to The Perfect Rose.”
For a split second Anna didn’t know who Dalton was referring to, then she remembered. A few weeks ago she’d received a fan letter from an eleven-year-old local girl named Minnie. It had come through Anna’s agent, in a packet with several others.
Though Anna had been disturbed by the thought that her adult novels had been read by a child, she had been charmed by the letter. Anna had been reminded of the girl she had been before the kidnapping, one who had seen the world as a beautiful place filled with smiling faces.
Minnie had promised that if Anna wrote her back she would be her biggest fan forever. She had drawn hearts and daisies over the back of the envelope and printed the letters S.W.A.K.
Sealed with a kiss.
Anna had been so captivated, she had answered the letter personally.
Dalton dug the envelope out of the pocket of his sweat-suit jacket and held it out. Anna frowned. “You brought it with you?”
Bill rolled his eyes. “He grabbed it right after he selected David from his weapon collection. It was all I could do to stop him from baking muffins.”
Dalton sniffed, expression hurt. “I was trying to help. Next time I won’t.”
“Don’t you pay any attention to Bill,” Anna murmured, taking the letter and sending Bill a warning glance. “You know what a tease he is. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
Bill motioned to the envelope. Like the previous one, the girl had decorated it with hearts, daisies and a big S.W.A.K. “It came directly to The Perfect Rose, Anna. Not through your agent.”
“Directly to The Perfect—” Anna realized her mistake and for a heartbeat of time, couldn’t breathe. In her zeal to answer the child, she had forgotten caution. She had grabbed a piece of The Perfect Rose’s stationery, dashed off a response and dropped it in the mail.
How could she have been so stupid? So careless?
“Open it,” Bill urged. “You know you’re curious.”
She was curious. She loved to hear that a reader enjoyed one of her stories. It was satisfying in a way nothing else in her life was. But a part of her was repelled, too, by this physical connection to strangers, by the knowledge that through her work strangers had an opening into her head and heart.
Her work provided them a way into her life.
She eased the envelope open, slid out the letter and began to read. Bill and Dalton read with her, each peering over a shoulder.
Dear Miss North,
I was so excited when I received your letter! You’re my very favorite author in the whole world—honest! My Kitty thinks you’re the best, too. She’s gold and white with blue eyes. She’s my best friend.
Our favorite foods are pizza and Chee-tos, but he doesn’t let us have them very often. Once, I sneaked a bag and me and Tabitha ate the whole thing. My favorite group is the Backstreet Boys and when he lets me out, I watch Dawson’s Creek.
I’m so glad you’re going to be my friend. It gets lonely here sometimes. I felt bad though, about what you said about me being too young to read your books. I suppose you’re right. And if you don’t want me to read them, I won’t. I promise. He doesn’t know I read them anyway and would be very angry if he found out. He frightens me sometimes.
Your friend and pen pal, Minnie
Anna reread the last lines three times, a chill moving over her. He frightened her. He didn’t allow her to eat pizza or Chee-tos often.
“Who do you think ‘He’ is?” Dalton asked. “Her dad?”
“I don’t know,” Anna murmured, frowning. “He could be her grandfather or an uncle. It’s obvious she lives with him.”
“It’s kind of creepy, if you ask me.” Bill made a face. “And what does she mean by ‘when he lets her out, she watches Dawson’s Creek?’ It makes her sound like a prisoner, or something.”
The three looked at each other. One moment became several; Anna cleared her throat, forcing a laugh. “Come on, guys, I’m the fiction writer here. You two are supposed to be my reality check.”
“That’s right.” Dalton smiled wanly. “What kid ever thinks they get enough junk food? In fact, at thirteen, I thought my parents were a couple of ogres. I felt so abused.”
“Dalton’s right,” Bill agreed. “Besides, if this guy was as bad as we’re making him out to be, he wouldn’t allow Minnie to correspond with you.”
“Right.” Anna made a sound of relief, folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. “It’s 2:00 a.m. and we’re overreacting. I think we all need to get some sleep.”
“I agree.” Bill stood. “But still, Anna, I wish you hadn’t answered her on Perfect Rose stationery. Given the types of books you write, who knows what kind of wackos might try to track you down?”
“It’s okay,” she murmured, rubbing at the goose bumps that crawled up her arms. “What harm could it be for an eleven-year-old girl to know where I work?”
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