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 that anyone named Louie Longsetter could even be dangerous.
But the way he’s standing like he’s been waiting for me longer than he should have been makes me second-guess that assumption.
I try to imagine a murderer named Louie Longsetter. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but as a woman about to embark on weeks of isolation, the thought that he could be a threat sticks in my mind, unwanted and uncomfortable, like a burr I can’t shake off.
“Right on time!” he calls out, his voice too bright, too cheerful, as if I’m a guest of honor instead of just another renter. He jogs down the steps with an odd kind of buoyancy, heading toward me in a way that’s both eager and unsettling.
I hate that I find cheerful people immediately unlikable. I’m aware that’s a flaw within myself, but I have too many flaws to worry about polishing that one.
“Beauty of GPS,” I mutter, popping the trunk with a little too much urgency. Louie Longsetter may not seem like the name of a murderer, but I’m pretty sure there was a serial killer named Pichushkin. Anything’s possible.
Louie is beside me now, and he reaches into my trunk, his large hands wrapping around the handles of my suitcases. He yanks both out at once and lets them drop onto their sides on the gravel with a dull thud.
I wince, resisting the urge to snap at him. It’s RIMOWA luggage—new, sleek, expensive, and so far, free of any scratches or scuffs. I received it for my birthday a few months ago, and this is the first time I’ve been able to use it. I’ve been proud that it’s remained in pristine condition.
Until now.
I bend down quickly and lift one suitcase upright as I suppress a wave of irritation.
Louie, oblivious, mirrors my movements and sets the other suitcase upright, though I notice he’s dragging it behind him as he heads to the porch. The wheels scrape against the gravel like nails on a chalkboard, and I flinch inwardly, lifting mine off the ground to carry it.
“You’re the Petra Rose, right? The writer lady?” he asks, peering over his shoulder at me.
The writer lady?
I nod as I follow close behind, trying to plaster on a polite smile. “Yes, sir. Here to find inspiration. In the silence,” I add.
There are groceries in the back seat I still need to unload, but I’d rather him not know that. I just want him to leave. I needed him to leave before I showed up. That’s why rentals have door codes and self-check-in instructions.
We head up the porch steps, me holding my suitcase gingerly so the wheels don’t scrape up the steps, while Louie drags the other behind him like it’s an afterthought.
“I haven’t read any of your books,” he says, his voice almost apologetic, “but my wife said she thinks she’s read one.” He stops on the porch and fishes a ring of keys out of his pocket. “We did watch your movie, though. When I told my wife you were staying here, she made me promise to ask you about some character who was missing? Not sure what she’s referring to. You know, I was thinking on my walk over here about what would make a great movie,” he continues, handing me the keys.
Oh, God. Not this.
“My life,” he says, cocking an eyebrow like I should be impressed. “I’ve lived one hell of a crazy life. It could make you millions.”
I’m positive it wouldn’t.
“If you need any ideas . . .” he starts again, clearly not getting the hint from my expression alone.
I cut him off, my smile stretched thin. “Fiction is the only thing I know how to write, unfortunately.”
I’ve lost count of how many times people have offered their life stories to me after finding out I’m a writer. Everyone is convinced they’re sitting on the next great American novel.
Maybe they are. I certainly haven’t been.
“But if you heard my story . . .” he says.
“You know, if it’s that good, you should write your own story,” I say, not wanting to come off as rude. “No one knows it better than you, and you shouldn’t be handing your ideas out for free.” My voice is polite, but inside, I am willing him to leave.
“Dyslexic,” he says with a shake of his head, his smile faltering slightly. “Very dyslexic. Not sure if you noticed that in my emails. Gotta be honest, when I recognized your name and saw you were the writer, I was kind of nervous to email you back. Thought you might laugh at my poor grammar.”
“I would never. My father was dyslexic, and he was the smartest man I’ve ever known.”
Louie smiles at that. “It’s a hell of a thing to work through. Sorry your mother had to deal with that.”