Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,3,457982-southern_gothic.html
Chapter 7
All eyes were on her. She knew it, and it caused her to freeze. The story was undoubtedly hers, but the words weren’t Meredith’s. Her face flushed crimson. She tried to look calm, but her heartbeat thumped in her ears. Would her friends realize how different this new novel was in comparison to the old version?
Everyone sat silent for a moment after Jennifer finished reading. The words were vibrant, and the story tumbled off the page, but those words weren’t hers.
“Meredith! This is awesome. Where is the rest?” Jennifer asked.
Terrie chimed in. “You have been working on it! And I love it!”
Lisa looked at Meredith with an intense glare. “Seriously. Why haven’t you told us? When do you have time to do this? This is really good. It deserves to be published.”
Meredith didn’t know what to say. Her mind raced. She couldn’t tell her friends the words weren’t hers ... they had been left by her stalker, and she only had the Prologue.
The story came alive in this version. It sang in a way her writing never had. And her friends’ praise only made her feel worse.
She officially eliminated Lance from contention in the stalker sweepstakes. He couldn’t write a grocery list. Who had her manuscript and could also pull off such beautiful prose?
In fact, the writing sounded like Michael Black, an M, she thought. Of all the authors she liked over the years, she loved his work the best.
“Meredith.” Terrie snapped her fingers in front of Meredith’s face. “Where’d you go?”
Meredith shook her head and came out of her reverie.
Lisa smirked. “I’ll bet you were thinking up another story to write.”
Jennifer cut her off. “Or worrying about the creeper.” She put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder. “Please don’t stay here tonight, Mere. We’ll all be worried about you.”
Meredith squeezed her friend’s hand. “If we don’t eat, the food won’t be worth eating.” She hurried toward the kitchen. “You go ahead and sit down.”
Lisa trailed after her. “I’ll help you bring things out, Meredith.”
On her return, Terrie held up a wine bottle and raised an eyebrow. “If the food isn’t any good, we still have this.” She poured everyone a glass of wine.
The meal provided the distraction Meredith had hoped for. At least for a little while.
Lisa took a sip of wine and after setting the glass down, she smoothed the table cloth. “I cannot get the prologue of Red Ribbon out of my head. Where’s the rest, Meredith?”
Jennifer and Terrie chimed in, wanting to hear more.
Meredith panicked. She didn’t have more of the story they had read aloud. While it was her story, in so many ways, it wasn’t. She had no idea how to explain. They weren’t her words.
“It’s not ready for anyone else to read yet. I’m still polishing it.”
Jennifer grabbed the wine and topped up her glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re your biggest fans.”
She had to get them off the topic of her book. “I’m at a tricky point, and I’m afraid any feedback might cause my muse to run away.” Blaming the elusive muse had worked for her in the past. She held her breath.
“We don’t want to throw you off track,” Terrie said. “Anything that good takes magic with a smattering of pixie dust.”
Jennifer and Lisa laughed.
Meredith heaved a sigh of relief as the conversation turned to other day to day issues. Her mind buzzed, and all she wanted to do was be by herself and think. The rush she felt reading those pages provided her with more than enough courage to make it through the night. When nine rolled around, she did her best fake yawns until they got the point.
Jennifer downed the rest of her wine and rose from the table. “We’d better let our soon-to-be famous author get back to her muse.” She took her glass into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. “Seriously, Mere, I’d be much happier knowing you were staying in a hotel tonight.”
Meredith hugged her. “Everything will be all right.”
They grabbed their things and headed for the door.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” asked Lisa.
“Yes. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
“This is not some bump in the night, Meredith,” said Terrie. “This is a real thing. Don’t let your stubbornness get the best of you.”
“What am I supposed to do? Quit living because some creep wanted to scare me?”
“No, but you could slow up a little. Give it a day.”
“I’m not giving this man a minute,” said Meredith. “He’s not getting into my head.”
It took another twenty minutes to get them out the door.
Chapter 8
Meredith put on a sweatshirt and went outside to sit on her porch swing. She turned off the porch light and let the night swirl around her. Those words, telling the world she wrote them, had anesthetized her from the day’s events. She felt reckless and alive; her book baby was reborn.
Years ago, she had sent the Red Ribbon manuscript to Michael Black. A blurb from a high profile author like Michael would surely help her get the book published, and in fact, a small North Carolina press considered it. She had no more than an inkling of his supposed interest, related to her by an assistant, but the promised letter never came and neither did the publishing contract.
She had no proof he ever read Red Ribbon, but the small possibility he did and liked it—despite never writing the letter—intrigued her. Could this be a strange, very dramatic way of introduction? The pages Jennifer read had the stamp of Michael Black’s style. His characters connected like spirits in the night, finding their way through dark pasts to love and desire.
Since reading his books, Michael had been her dream man. He was a mysterious romantic who wrote novels about her secrets and desires as if he knew her. The men she had dated since her divorce were either spineless or shameless. They wanted too much, and they wanted it too quickly.
Lance, in the early years of their relationship, had been okay, but she really believed her inability to conceive came partly from a general boredom of what his offspring would be like: whiney and bland like him. He occasionally accused her of being “frigid,” the unimaginative word men use to make up for their lack of imagination. She had carried the romantic torch as far as she could, but he had done nothing to rekindle the flame when the torch went out.
With Michael, something deeper stirred despite only knowing him through his books. He had touched her like no other. She used to dream he’d date all sorts of women, who would be cast aside, lacking the qualities he needed, until he wound up with her, his true love. Probably ten years her senior, he had started writing young, evolving from a petulant and talented young man to a mature mensch. His stature grew, and he became a publishing legend. Could it be possible he was finally reaching out to her?
Stuffy critics disliked him because of the popularity of his work, but they grudgingly admitted the quality rivaled the giants of the past. His Lawton’s Plan was a stone-cold masterpiece. Everyone had a different favorite, which showed the beauty of his work. Hers, of course, was Evangeline.
All critics bashed Michael for divorcing his wife, Kate, who had early-stage MS, and taking up with a pretty young thing named Quinn, who seemed to be exactly as you would imagine a girl named Quinn to be: beautiful, vivacious, and utterly otherworldly. What kind of man gallivanted around the country with a woman half his age while the mother of his children struggled to get out of bed every day?
Meredith defended her favorite author online. Not an easy task. After all, who cared about his love life as long as he wrote? But then, Quinn went missing with little to no explanation from Michael. After a second interview with the Atlanta police, Michael disappeared too.
Amidst all the divisive opinions, Meredith had created Black’s Legacy, an online forum for Black’s fans and foes to talk about all of the theories and mysteries of his disappearance. She didn’t care what Michael the man did; s
he wanted to venerate Michael the author—and she desperately missed his books.
Most, like her, wanted to solve the mystery. Occasionally, a true crime show aired the story, but now, five years since his disappearance, most assumed he and Quinn were dead—a twisted retelling of Lolita meets Romeo and Juliet.
All the same, she loved his books no matter what the story turned out to be. When she created the website, she had subjected herself to all sorts of mean comments and shrill invective pecked in capital letters.
Was she completely off her rocker? The man had been missing for five years. And how would he even know about her and her manuscript?
Suddenly, she remembered, and a smile spread across her face.
The porch swing creaked quietly on its chains, her mind full of books with her name on them. Every rustle of grass or breath of wind, she envisioned Michael coming out of the shadows and into her arms. But he did not come. He did not materialize out of the ether like one of his book brethren. She dozed for a moment, and when she awoke with a jolt, the spell broke. She ached for the blessed release of sleep, to surrender to her dreams once again.
Certain Michael lived somewhere in the shadows nearby, she needed to leave him a message—she understood his gift and didn’t fear him. She took the red ribbon from her pocket and hung it on a plant hook on her porch. Anyone else might find it unusual but hardly jarring. But Michael would know what it meant.
Chapter 9
The next few days, she stayed on high alert. Fantasy warred with fear, and fear gave way to hope. Why would he rewrite a portion of her manuscript? Did he intend to leave her name on it when he had done the heavy lifting? Thoughts crackled through her brain, giving her a jolt of energy she hadn’t had since the store first opened. For the first time in years, the possibility she would become a published author allowed hope to grow.
Every day she watched for signs of him. She steeled herself for a scare, for some extra clue, for something to show herself she wasn’t on the wrong path. After all, the girls asked her frequently about the strange events; she needed to be right. If she wasn’t, she was in danger.
But every day, the excitement subsided. No more magic prose appeared on her dining room table. Maybe she was going crazy. But then she would go back and read those lines. They intoxicated her, kept her head above water, and made her crave more. She had no doubt Michael Black had written those words. Had he only rewritten the prologue to taunt her?
She watched her beloved Georgia Bulldogs, doubled up on store plans for Christmas, cleaned her house like a madwoman, saw friends—anything to keep her mind off the waiting.
One Thursday night in mid-October, her mysteries group met. So many people attended it was almost uncomfortable. Meredith loved this. They read Charles McCarry’s fantastic book Shelley’s Heart.
When they were done, she and Nate locked up. The night crept in earlier now, and the vibe downtown felt less like you might be attacked by a mugger and more like you might be approached by a ghost. This sounded strange, she knew, but all the same, she didn’t mind having Nate to walk her to her car.
He held open the door and smiled.
She hopped in the car. “Thanks, Nate, but I’ll be fine. It’s not far to Drayton Street.” The engine rumbled when she turned the key, and she wriggled her fingers at him in good-bye as she pulled out of the parking lot.
Meredith loved these kinds of evenings that started as a few drops of rain and a little fog and turned into an absolute downpour. She slowed down and turned up the windshield wipers. The amber streetlights flickered dimly, making it difficult to see. Luckily, she didn’t need help getting home; getting to the house without being drenched was another matter.
She pulled into the carriage house and saw she had left the light on in the kitchen. Meredith frowned and wondered what else she had forgotten. The rain still poured, so she took the book she wanted to read out of the back seat and decided to wait a minute before going anywhere. Her carriage house had a newer metal roof, and she enjoyed the racket of rain hitting the unforgiving surface, one of her favorite sounds. She rolled the window down a tiny bit and took in the scene like a novelist, still hurt the promise of those pages hadn’t been fulfilled.
Finally, the rain subsided to a shower. She locked the car, edged to the overhang, and made a run through the uncovered steps between the carriage house and her home. Each drop of rain hitting the back of her neck an icy insult. She moved quickly but not too fast, having slipped the winter before on a sodden leaf. She reached the back porch just short of being drenched and checked to make sure the book she had tucked in her coat survived the drips.
She stopped when her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The screen door was cracked. Her throat tightened. It had been closed and locked when she left in the morning. The breeze shifted, and the aroma of cloves wafted past.
“Michael?” Her voice squeaked. She needed the intruder to be him. She needed to understand. She inhaled deeply to help steady her voice. “Michael?”
When he answered from the dark, he took her breath away.
Chapter 10
The heavens opened again, and rain pounded the roof and poured down the gutters in rivers. Raindrops dripped down her back from her hair, making her skin prickle, but Meredith barely felt them.
Her mouth tasted dry as sand, and she couldn’t formulate words. After a few unsuccessful tries, she found her voice. “I knew you left the ribbon.” She hurled the words at him like an accusation as outrage filled her. “I am so angry at you.”
She clamped her lips tight and sized him up as best she could in the non-existent light.
He waited, smiling.
“I thought you’d be bigger,” she added.
Michael laughed. A large, hearty, unexpected laugh. He switched on the reading lamp sitting on her porch table, which caused both of them to blink and squint for several moments.
Older than the last publicity photos she’d seen, his hair had streaks of silver running through it and had grown longer—the pony-tail length of Mrs. Coleman’s description. The gleaming, intelligent eyes that had drawn her in from his first book jacket still called to Meredith, and she wanted to sit down beside him. She should call the police, but part of her wanted to invite him instead.
“You scared me to death,” she finally managed, like a teacher scolding a headstrong student.
“I’m sorry if I’m a little unorthodox,” he said, trying to wipe the smile off his face.
“Unorthodox? You broke into my house! And made threatening phone calls!”
Unfazed, Michael shrugged. “I gave you a mighty nice gift.” He said it matter-of-factly like he usually skated on his mistakes by presenting lavish literary gifts.
“You gave me a wonderful gift, but I don’t understand it.”
He shrugged. “I tinkered. I fixed. I thought you would like it.” His eyes held a small apology.
She wanted to accept. “Of course I love it. It’s not your writing that scares me, it’s your tactics.”
His eyes flared, and his lips curled into a snarl.
Meredith took a small step back.
At her movement, the jovial Michael returned as if the other had never existed.
“Why did you do all of this?”
“I wanted to make sure you liked it,” he said, “before I made my proposition.”
Chapter 11
Another drop of icy water ran down her back. She shuddered. “I have to get dried off before I catch my death.”
Meredith opened the porch door and walked inside, firmly shutting the door in his face and turning the deadbolt. She toweled off her hair and slipped into something warmer. When she returned, Michael was inside the door, a sheepish grin on his face.
Before she had a chance to scream, he held up his hand.
“Please, let me explain.” He touched the package firmly clamped under his arm.
She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t move. If you so much as take a step, I’m calling the police.�
� The package he carried must contain the rest of Red Ribbon. Meredith desperately wanted to read what he had written, but she didn’t want to be the victim of the weirdest home invasion on the planet. She quickly opened the windows to let in the sound of the rain—and to let out the screams if anything went wrong.
“All right.” She faced him, hands on hips, glaring. “Explain. I want to know why you’re doing this to me, what your proposition is, and where you’ve been all this time.”
He gazed into her eyes. “What I have to say might take a while. Do you mind if we sit down?” He motioned toward the couch.
She gave a short nod. “I’ll get us something to drink.” She hurried into the kitchen and leaned her head against the pantry. What on earth was she doing? Mock headlines flashed through her mind. Savannah’s Premier Bookseller, Meredith Harper, Invited Her Slayer in for Tea.
She needed some sort of weapon ... just in case. She couldn’t exactly count on being able to inflict injury with hot tea, and Michael might react badly to her walking in with a carving knife. Her eyes lit on the unopened bottle of Merlot from when the girls had been over. She’d be able to inflict some damage with a corkscrew.
She grabbed the bottle of Merlot, the corkscrew, and two glasses, and made her way to the living room. She sat in the upright chair opposite the couch where he lounged and laid the corkscrew within easy reach on the table after pouring the wine.
Michael picked up a glass of wine and glanced at the corkscrew. “You don’t trust me.”