Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,14,457982-southern_gothic.html
She looked like she had been crumpled up. She could not see herself as heroic or even okay. She appeared frazzled and disheartened and desperate. The early days of the bookstore seemed halcyon and so very distant.
She texted the organizers to say she couldn’t make it to the TV appearance. She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. She flung the curtains wide and decided she would not be an author that day. She turned on the trashiest daytime television, emptied the vodka from the minibar straight into her mouth, followed by the whiskey, and then got under the covers.
As she dozed, she suddenly realized she had lulled herself again into a false sense of security. One of Michael’s people had a key to her suite. Or Michael could be here right now, watching her. It was time for some fresh air.
She got ready, put on a jacket, and left the hotel shortly before eleven. She headed toward the Back Bay and tried to keep all her crises straight—not an easy task.
Meredith could simply go home. Rent a house until she could buy a new one. Become a modern day Harper Lee, living off her single bestseller forever. There were much worse literary fates. She liked the prospect better than writing a bad second book.
Meredith had started toying with a new book idea. She wanted to have it in Allen’s hands as soon as possible, but the writing had been slow and tedious, and she second-guessed herself at every point. The first few chapters pleased her, but she still had no idea where the story would end. Her efforts had been tenuous at best.
Southern Gothic could keep her satisfied. Michael wasn’t exactly credible right now, and if he popped up, who would believe him? She would distance herself from him completely, heart be damned.
The cold and blustery air refreshed her as she walked through the markets and bought some trinkets for friends, feeling light and free after her decision. She had some pizza at Pappa Razzi’s and thoroughly enjoyed herself until she saw the familiar red type.
A complete stranger clutched a copy of her book. The scene sent her soaring.
Chapter 45
Meredith soldiered on. She decided she could always cancel if she needed to but went ahead with the tour. Things went well in Philadelphia and Chicago, and she blew the roof off Austin and Dallas. She got drunk, stayed at nice hotels, and people treated her like a queen. In Los Angeles, she sat down with the producer Allen hoped would sign onto the movie project. By then, Michael had backed off; he’d sent conciliatory emails and flowers. It turned her stomach.
The book continued to perform incredibly well. It moved to Number One on the Times list and stayed there for five weeks. Meredith would look at the daily sales printouts and marvel at the money coming her way.
But she still wasn’t going to write another book—one decision she stuck to. But she decided to continue the book tour, giving up on it would be giving in too easy. She deserved to have some fun after all Michael had put her through.
The bookstore was doing great under the combination of Nate’s hands-on management and her increased celebrity. When she was in town, she signed dozens and dozens of books, a process she had grown to detest. Weekly, she would get the same email from the store:
Autographed copies sold out. Come in and replenish.
But Meredith knew if she didn’t follow up with another book fairly quickly, she would be doing many more signings at the store—what a letdown that would be after the whirlwind of the last year. At the moment, however, it was better than the alternative—publish a bad book and be forgotten. Her attempt at a new book, Creeping Vines, wasn’t where she wanted it to be, and she realized even attempting anything was a continuing contradiction. She wasn’t even close. She kept trying, and the book kept resisting. She felt like her instincts were proving her right.
Even though it would have made her year any other time, Meredith now dreaded telling Allen she would turn down the offer to publish another book. She would simply say she wanted a clear idea of what she would write before committing to anything. Allen, she assumed, would find this idea laughable, as she too would have before this experience. Turning down a book deal contradicted everything she had ever believed in. But then again, she would also have been against plagiarism. She thought about studying up on Marlowe and Shakespeare but decided that would depress her way too much.
Allen didn’t reach out for a while, since working on the book release in other languages consumed most of his already busy schedule.
Meredith decided to stay an extra week in Los Angeles and enjoy the warm, sunny days and cool nighttime breezes. There, she could almost imagine a future without a blood stalker.
But as always, reality caught up. Michael sent emails asking questions about everything. He told her of his displeasure over her spending less time at home. She tried to ignore him, but that turned out to be just as stressful as actually dealing with him.
Obviously, she didn’t want to go back to her house. Michael could be lurking in her closet or peering over her from the air ducts. Instead, she booked a room at a hotel.
When she finally got back to Savannah, she planned to put her house on the market and hunt for a new place. She went to the store most days and interacted with customers, but through his watchful gaze—and she assumed he watched all the time—he would be able to tell, even if she never wrote again, he had changed her life in every way. She reached out to a real estate agent to list her house and help her find a new one. She tried to make everything go back to normal, but she could never shake the feeling Michael always lurked in the shadows, watching her every move.
Meredith lived off the revenue from Southern Gothic and the advance from Red Ribbon, but she had yet to see a royalty check. She asked Allen about this, but he told her not to worry. The advance on the movie option didn’t amount to much despite the book’s success because Allen strongly suggested taking a better back-end position. At least, she knew she could stay in a hotel for as long as she needed to.
Then, about three weeks after she returned to Savannah and with the book still at the top of the charts, the call came. Allen phoned from New York with sunlight in his voice. Her publisher had offered a $1.5 million advance on the next book!
She took a deep breath, then another, and then told him she would have to think about it. She hung up on her agent, and she knew he would be sorely confused.
Chapter 46
Online, in the Michael Black forums, Broderick adopted the name The Father. He didn’t say much, but what he did say made everyone listen. There had been many theories about Meredith’s book and whether it held clues to Quinn’s disappearance—especially with its fatal ending.
At Broderick’s behest, the sheriff had agreed to bring a couple of dogs to The Shoals, and Broderick let himself hope they’d find something. But the dogs hadn’t even so much as picked up a scent; apparently, the burial site in Red Ribbon was fictional.
The Sherriff had managed to keep the whole thing secret. Part of Broderick felt relieved they hadn’t found anything. Without a body, he could imagine the possibility Quinn still lived.
After Broderick saw the emails, he paid an English professor to analyze and compare the few pieces of Meredith’s writing he could find online to Michael Black’s novels and Red Ribbon. The professor believed there was a much greater chance Michael wrote the book than Meredith had a literary transformation. But it was probably just tweed jacket speculation confirming what he wanted to hear.
One night around Valentine’s Day, when a light dusting of snow had come to the northern half of Georgia and after the law of gravity had finally pulled Red Ribbon off the very top of the chart, Broderick wandered back online to see if anything new had developed.
He liked Meredith’s website best, actually. She gave room for all opinions, including ones she clearly wouldn’t have liked. He had to give her credit for that. She allowed even the darkest of the anti-Michael voices, like BlackPlague, to speak.
BlackPlague. 2/12/17. 5:54 p.m.
Go back and read the very first fricking paragraph of Red Ribb
on. I can’t believe I missed it:
There was a time when nothing in my life was as it seemed. Up was down, left was right, backwards and frontwards chased each other’s tails right in front of me. I was a lonely man, and I buried more loves, literally and figuratively, than anyone should ever have to.
Say what you want to about Mr. Black—I know what I’d like to say—but he’s a fantastic writer. This is a good book by anyone’s standards. But that’s not a strong opening. If I were his editor, I’d tell him to go sit his ass back down until he came up with something better. So, what if it’s not really meant to advance the plot? What if it’s a clue? What happens if the front of the house is the back, every right is left, and vice versa? What do you find?
Broderick’s heart pounded. He picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff’s number.
Chapter 47
The howling wind cut through them all, including Broderick. He cursed himself for not wearing a warmer jacket. He gazed across the field to the group of people huddled together, their backs to the wind. There were a few curious residents and a couple of deputies. Broderick feared what they would find, but living the rest of his life without any answers scared him more.
Broderick gave the sheriff the map he made by turning all the directions within the book upside down and backwards. It pointed to a general area to start.
The property owners came outside to watch, just as they had the first time. The success of the novel had started drawing crowds, and instead of being upset about it, they embraced it and charged for tours. If they succeeded today, Broderick doubted they would enjoy it much longer, but in cynical moments, he knew the specter of death would only add to their macabre attraction.
Just a few yards further than he anticipated, the dogs found their mark. They barked, started digging, and ran in frenzied circles. Their handlers tugged on their leashes. Broderick knew. He didn’t need those dumb dogs or those guys in suits with their DNA kits to tell him. He wished his boys were there. But they had succeeded in moving on in a way he had never been able to.
As the deputies began to dig, Broderick held his head in his hands. He found no solace in learning the truth—just a new bottom of despair.
Chapter 48
The body found buried at The Shoals was all over the news. Reverse the directions and find the grave. Much speculating went on about what would happen next, but everyone assumed Michael was guilty, and Meredith knew it. Worse still, she helped him stay hidden, aiding and abetting a murderer.
Perhaps most interesting to Meredith, who couldn’t bear to watch but felt she had to, was the fact no one accused her of not writing the book. The public thought Michael influenced her, thought maybe she had been his lover, but they didn’t really explore the idea she wasn’t the creator.
Meredith was a bundle of nerves. She missed Michael, as crazy as that sounded. She had come to consider their uneven and scary cipher as a real relationship. She depended on him emotionally and physically. She knew she didn’t want him back, but she missed the part he played in her life, and no one had replaced him. Only he understood everything—only he knew all her secrets.
Michael had killed Quinn. Maybe she had gotten in the way, or maybe Quinn knew the real Michael, the one Meredith now saw. But Meredith wasn’t Quinn. She was older and wiser. She meant more to Michael; Michael said so.
Very likely, she would be charged with murder. Dear God, how did she find herself here?
Chapter 49
Scott Roberts Pettit was three years older than Meredith. They became friends in high school, but then again, Scott befriended everyone. With a smile always on his face, anyone could feel comfortable around him.
Scott’s father, Walt, had been a business attorney, long representing shrimping interests and setting up generation-skipping trusts for the wealthy of the marshes. After spending a little time as an assistant prosecutor, Scott won several massive cases no one expected him to win, which brought him to the attention of the right people, and his career took off.
Meredith wouldn’t have labeled him a close friend, but she always loved running into him on River Street or catching him having a slice of pizza at Vinnie Van Go’s. He listened well, told wonderful stories about his cases, and gave his time freely. When she needed a divorce, he had recommended his friend John Cowherd, who had done everything but spank Lance on the behind before he finished with him. Naturally, in the days following the discovery of Quinn Yancey’s body, Scott would be the first person she contacted.
The office was an old row house he had bought with his father twenty-five years before. Its décor—dark wood furniture, lots of leather, and musty old books—spoke of understated power. It was as traditional as you could find but manned with people who somehow hadn’t let their positions ruin who they were.
Scott sat down in his office on Taylor Street and tried to convince her not to hire him.
“I think you need to get someone you don’t know,” Scott said.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because we’re friends. Sometimes a defense lawyer has to be really mean and abrasive, and I don’t want to be that way with you. I like you too much.”
Meredith shook her head. “Scott, I had nothing to do with any of this. I want you.”
Scott sighed. When he looked at Meredith, she knew she had him.
“Have you made any money off of the book? It certainly looks like you should have.”
She shook her head. “They gave me a nice advance, but I used it to pay off some debt. The store’s doing great, but the royalty checks won’t be here for a while, so I hear.”
Scratching his short beard with one hand, Scott tapped a pencil in his other as he looked at her.
She could tell he knew there was more to the story. But she wouldn’t tell. She couldn’t.
“Meredith, this is going to cost an insane amount of money. Insane. I hate to tell you how much I think it will be.”
She closed her eyes. “Seven figures?”
“You’re in the ballpark. I think it could realistically cost a couple million bucks. We need jury consultants and a team of investigators and God knows what else. I would basically quit doing any other case until it wraps up. And it’s going to be a tough case to win. I mean, there’s a map to the body in your book.”
“I know,” she said. “But if I’m going to spend my money on lawyers, I would rather give it to you than anyone else.”
“Well, we can start with a smaller number. But we’re going to need some money.”
“I know where I can get the money.”
Chapter 50
Her call with Allen wasn’t pleasant. First, her friends had told her they felt she should have seen significant royalty checks by now, especially with the book being out for several months. Every time she brought the subject up to Allen he talked about reserves and foreign royalty reporting and made it seem like this was a normal schedule. Allen told her he would have to see if they could advance the money she needed; but that was highly unusual. He seemed off his game altogether. He wired the money she requested, based on a deal for her next novel as well as royalties from Red Ribbon, but he complained the entire time.
Two weeks later, Meredith still hadn’t been officially charged. She wondered if she had been hasty in agreeing to another book deal, one that would provide her a two-million-dollar advance for writing two additional books. It was the latest in a long line of moments that should have elated her. It didn’t. It filled her with dread. Her mornings now started at six o’clock sharp, when her body’s urge to vomit woke her up, and she ran to the bathroom and wretched so violently she wondered if the neighbors could hear. She hoped they couldn’t, but she didn’t know if it mattered. They were too busy avoiding her altogether.
When she made her first trip to the grocery store and saw her face on a tabloid cover, she thought about loading up on some vodka and pills and cashing in. Or maybe she should hang herself from one of the River Street bridges. The people w
anted a show, and how could she deny them? But she didn’t have the courage, and besides, she hadn’t actually killed anyone. She would have to live with a litany of sins to atone for; she had slept with the devil and given him everything. He held her life in his hands now. He had since the moment she sent him her feeble attempt at writing a novel.
Fame to infamy in a matter of months. She had assumed the one bright side of the press would be plenty of additional sales, but the opposite happened. The book spiked and then left the top twenty altogether. The commentators throughout the blogosphere went dark. The idea of writing a book to hide a map leading to a real body apparently proved too much for anyone to handle.
Bethany Lopez wrote an excoriating piece about her unease in her interview with Meredith, which couldn’t have been more untrue. They had hit it off like best friends. Nate stood loyally by her side, Terrie and Jennifer came by as often as they could, and Lisa brought her a meal once or twice a month, but everyone else stayed away. Even Michael had deserted her. No email, visit, or phone call in more than a month.
The store felt like a ghost town. She could handle it for right now, but she knew before long, especially after a slow Christmas season, she would have to lay someone off.
Book dealers started sending requests for special inscriptions, ones they knew she couldn’t write. One offered $5,000 if she would write “I did it” on the title page. Others were even more descriptive.
Looking back on it, even though she didn’t want to be charged with anything, she could rest assured knowing she asked for the advance and signed the contract when she did. She didn’t know if they would have given her the money if she had waited. She assumed they regretted their decision.