And it was. In a different sort of way. I didn’t let up, not even when she started to panic and I was forced to slam her head against the brick wall. To her credit, she didn’t stop fighting, not even then. I had eighty pounds on her, easy, and a whole lot more experience. The more she fought, the harder I pressed. I squeezed and I squeezed until we both found our release. Her eyes fixed in place and blood trickled from her nose. Her breathing slowed, before it ceased altogether.
Finally, her struggle had come to an end. It was beautiful, being that for her.
“The answer is seven,” I told her afterward.
For what it’s worth, I let her keep the money. Not that she’ll be needing it, but because it was the right thing to do.
Chapter Three
The day everything changes doesn’t begin particularly different than any other day. My eyes flutter open at 7:00 a.m., knowing that Joni, our housekeeper, will have left a tray with a cup of coffee that will have turned cold, along with two dry pieces of toast on my desk. After I take care of business and wash up, I will shuffle down the hall to my office, twenty-three steps away, where I will plop myself in the chair and remain hunched over my keyboard until 12:30, when I am well and hungry again.
At that time, I will take my lunch in my wife’s room, next to her hospital bed, where I’ll read to her what I’ve sweated out all morning. She’ll nod, and maybe if I’m lucky, and it’s a good day, I’ll even earn a smile.
A smile might keep me going into the evening hours. A smile propels the story forward. They’re harder to come by than they used to be, which is saying a lot. That’s not to say it’s ever been easy. Eve may have folded into herself, but some things remain the same. What lit her up thirty-four years ago are still the things that light her up today.
These days about an hour of me is all she can handle before her eyelids become heavy, her breathing deepens, and I hear the familiar sounds of her slumber. I try not to take it personally. She sleeps most of the time.
The doctors say it’s to be expected, and I suppose it’s probably for the best. “I’m sorry, darling.” Our eyes meet, and for a moment she looks terrified. “I wasn’t able to fill your prescription yesterday. But you’ll never believe—”
I start to tell her about the body, to describe the crime scene the way I would have done in the past, before I catch myself. It’s hard to know what will set her off, and I can’t afford another episode like the last. Not today.
Once she’s drifted off, the routine continues. I head downstairs and shuffle through the pile of mail before returning to my office to drum away some more on my work in progress.
Routine is both a blessing and a curse to any writer. You need it. Too much of it though, and the outcome is dire. Your work and your life become stunted, blurred together. Assumingly, this is how I became acquainted with the bottle.
Not that I’d call myself an alcoholic.
But that doesn’t stop other people from doing it. From my agent, to my editor, to the garbage man, everyone has their opinions.
They may make alcohol the enemy, but liquor is my friend. A few drinks in, my troubles are forgotten and everything good is magnified. But that’s not why I drink.
It allows me to sleep, something I haven’t done much of lately. Not since things got worse.
The doorbell chimes, an alarming reminder that today is the day.
Today, the routine changes.
Joni greets our guest in her normal cheerful way, even though I’ve specifically asked her not to be overly friendly. Not to this visitor. Like any stray cat, if you feed them, they tend to stick around.
While I wait for Joni to show him in, I scan my inbox. Thirty-two new emails from fans await a response, plus two from my agent, and one from my editor. I comb through several emails from fans, most of which want to know when the book is coming, but the others, I leave for later, or maybe never.
It’s a pressure cooker, my inbox. People are angry.
I left them with a cliffhanger and then I ended the series in what was apparently exactly the opposite way readers wanted it to go. Most people, it seems, are unaware that life doesn’t always go the way you want it to.
Carefully, I ingest the latest email from my editor. The last one was a doozy. Sure, maybe I messed up by having one too many before taking on my fan mail. Maybe I was harsh, maybe I did act with a certain ferocity, but I still don’t think his threats were warranted. More than thirty years of my life I’ve given to padding their pockets.
Between a rock and a hard place, they said they were. As though threatening legal action was supposed to soften things.
Given nothing is private anymore, believe me, I didn’t come out unscathed. Some of the gems I wrote managed to make it onto social media, numerous blogs, but the worst of it…well, it made national news. George Dawson Losing It?
I’m not saying my publisher’s frustration is unjustified. It was a mess to clean up, if cleaning up such a thing is possible. I write for a living. So I know better than anyone that words matter. But as I reminded my agent, bad press is better than no press.
Back then, I assumed it would all blow over. Except it didn’t. Sales dropped way down. They’ve stayed that way. It doesn’t help that I haven’t released a new book in three years. Career suicide in this market, with attention spans being what they are, and consumer loyalty being practically nonexistent. It’s no wonder my publisher is ready to drop me. Problem is they want to drop me and sue me.
In a last-ditch effort to avoid the courtroom, an agreement was reached, culminating in appearance of the man at my front door. The manuscript that was due seven months ago? Well, they want it yesterday.
My editors have assured me the man standing in my doorway, staring back at me with intense brown eyes, a sly smile, and large hands, is more than capable of managing this project. This man can apparently solve all of our problems.
He’d better.
To say that I can’t afford to take on my publisher in a court of law would be a massive understatement.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dawson. I’m a big fan. Huge.”
“Wonderful.”
Although his handshake is genuine and his smile friendly, I don’t buy it. Sincerity is a virtue few in this business possess. Still, what a surprise it would be to have them send me someone who was not only an amateur but also not full of shit.
“I know the circumstances are difficult —but I can assure you—”
“These aren’t circumstances, kid. This is business.”
“Of course.” He stares at the floor for a moment before nodding at a chair. Eve’s. “May I?”
With a flick of my wrist, I point to the couch. “You can sit there.”
We sit silently for the better part of an hour, him staring at his dreadful mobile device, me glancing over my notes. Twice he tries to engage me in conversation—I assume about why he’s come—and twice I clear my throat and wave him off. Finally, dusk sweeps over the horizon outside my window, and I realize it’s time for dinner. Eve is very punctual, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.
I stand and motion toward the door. “That’s all for today.”
“It’s okay,” he replies without looking up. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”