Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I don’t know why I called after him. I just feel . . . scared. This man shows up to tell me a guy killed himself, and now he’s leaving, and I’m supposed to just . . . go back to sleep?
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed I look so scared, and embarrassed I asked him to wait. I wave a hand, letting him know I’ve changed my mind. “It’s just a lot to take in.”
He takes a slow step back toward me, his expression softening as he speaks. “There’s not much else I can do here,” he says gently. “I’m needed back at the scene. But I’ll make sure there are extra eyes on your place tonight. You’ll be fine.”
His words are meant to reassure, but the cold gust of wind that sweeps over me makes it hard to believe. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, trying to hide the chill that has settled deep in my stomach. I’ve always felt safe on my writing retreats, but after the last several minutes, that sense of security has been chipped away.
“Okay,” I whisper with a nod, but my voice is unconvincing, barely more than a breath. The officer can see right through my concern, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s reconsidering leaving me here alone.
He ascends the last steps and comes back to me, pulling something out of his pocket as he approaches. It’s a business card. He hands it to me, and I look down at the bold print on the top: Detective Nathaniel Saint. Beneath his name are an email address and two phone numbers.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he says gently. “The top number is my cell. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me.”
I clutch the card in my fist, a small comfort in the midst of this surreal situation. “Thank you,” I murmur, my fingers curling around the card as if it holds some kind of protection.
“How long are you here for?” he asks, his eyes searching mine with genuine curiosity. “I’ll make sure an officer drives by a couple of times a night for the duration of your stay.”
“A few weeks,” I reply, feeling a little embarrassed for some reason. There’s something in the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out why a woman my age would be holed up alone in a cabin for so long. “I’m a writer,” I explain quickly, hoping that will suffice. “I stay in this area a couple of times a year, usually in the month leading up to a deadline.”
His eyebrow lifts, a hint of surprise and admiration in his expression. “A writer,” he repeats, as if testing the word. “What kind of books do you write?”
“Mostly romantic suspense,” I say, feeling oddly self-conscious as I admit it. “And the occasional short story, but . . .” My voice drifts. “Sorry, I hate talking about my job. It’s awkward.”
He gives me a small smile, his lip twitching slightly. “What’s your name?”
For a second, I have the wild urge to tell him my name is Reya—the name of the character I’ve been writing about. The urge is so strong that I almost blurt it out, but I catch myself just in time. I can’t lie to a cop. Instead, I give him my real name. Begrudgingly.
“Petra Rose.”
He smiles a little wider, but not from familiarity. He nods as if he’s committing it to memory. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, Petra Rose.”
I watch him as he walks down the length of my driveway, his figure eventually swallowed up by the blinding patrol lights. He folds himself into a midnight-black car, only visible because of the lights.
Once he reverses and rejoins the activity down the road, I close the door and lock it behind me. I lean against it for a moment, my heart still racing, and glance down at the business card in my hand. Nathaniel Saint. Even his name sounds like it belongs in one of my books.
He could definitely be Cam.
Despite the time and the strange events of the night, I feel a sudden burst of inspiration. I walk straight to my laptop, the unexpectedness of the events pushing me forward. The details of Detective Nathaniel Saint swirl in my mind, and I can’t resist the urge to write them down.
I recall everything about him—his voice, his presence, the way he made me feel both uneasy and comforted at the same time.
The words pour out of me like they haven’t in a long, long time. Somehow, the fear, the uncertainty, and the strange energy of the night have all worked together to crack open the creative block I’ve been struggling with.
Nathaniel Saint has become Cam, and with every word I type, the story starts to flow again.
I cannot believe tonight just happened.