Finally, with a big exhale, he lifted his gaze to his laptop. It had gone into sleep mode due to inactivity. He tapped the touchpad to wake it up.
It came to life and the blank page he’d been staring at before his neighbor had interrupted returned to face him once again.
The page had been blank for a while now. When Jeanie was sick, he’d somehow managed to finish the book he’d been working on. Since then, he’d written one other book. A standalone thriller that had nothing to do with the Blackstone series. The book hadn’t been great. Sales had been all right, but those were more the product of name recognition from the Netflix show and not because the book had garnered them on its own merits.
This new book was part of his big series, however. And ithadto be better. It had to be good. It had to be something he would have written when Jeanie was still alive. When happiness had still existed.
He narrowed his eyes at the screen, trying to force words out of his brain and through his fingers.
Nothing came.
He stretched his fingers, then placed them on the keyboard and typed,It was a dark and stormy night.
Those words weren’t staying. They were trite. More of a joke than anything else. But it was better than seeing a blank page.
He leaned back in his chair and studied the light fixture overhead. Dust free, thanks to Joyce. She’d be home soon. She’d go back to puttering around the house, doing laundry, cleaning, baking something, fixing dinner eventually.
He could pretend, as he often did, that the sounds she made were actually being made by Jeanie and that his life had never been torn into tiny little pieces.
As coping mechanisms went, it was pitiful. He knew that. But it was his business how he lived his life. No one else’s.
This was the eighth book in his Blackstone Detective Agency series. If it was well received, Netflix would quickly secure the rights, giving them the option to produce it as part of the show.
Basically, it was like printing money. But money meant more when you needed it. And he didn’t. He had more than he needed to live out the rest of his life. And he wasn’t sure Kyle would care. So what was the point?
He glanced at a framed photo on his desk. Jeanie and Kyle in much happier times. He’d taken the photo. They’d been out on the boat. Jeanie and Kyle were both golden with sun and smiling, damp with ocean spray, and about as joyful as two people could be.
Without any negatives attached, Kyle had been a mama’s boy. He’d loved Jeanie so deeply. And she had loved him back as fiercely as only a mother could. She would have gone to war for that boy.
Kyle hadn’t spoken to him since Jeanie had left them.
Mitch scrubbed his hands across his face. He was getting nothing done. In the kitchen, the coffee maker sputtered and hissed out a final breath of steam.
He took his cup in, emptied the cold coffee out and refilled it with hot, fresh coffee, then carried it back to his office.
The letter hadn’t moved. He picked it up and turned it over once. Nothing on the back. He held it up to the light, but there was nothing visible through the envelope.
He could open it but that would start something. If he opened it, he would read what was written there. And if he read the letter, he’d react in some way. He would laugh or be sad or something. And it would stir memories in him.
Memories he didn’t wish to be reminded of.
He frowned at the letter. “It’s emotional blackmail, Arlington. And having the neighbor deliver it? What sort of game was that?”
Exactly the kind Arlington would enjoy, Mitch thought.
He was not going to read that letter. Not now. He was trying to write. He’d read it when he was good and ready.
An hour ticked by during which he watched the trailer for a new movie, then a compilation of police chase videos, played three hands of solitaire, and scrolled through the top one hundred bestsellers in the Thriller category on Amazon.
It was a dark and stormy nightremained as his opening line.
Joyce returned. He heard her. But then she appeared, as she usually did after such a trip, in the doorway of his office. She said nothing until he looked up. She wasn’t one to interrupt, one of her better qualities.
When he made eye contact, she said, “Got the mail from the P.O. box.” She showed him the stack of letters and other miscellaneous items she’d retrieved.
Fan mail. The important mail came to the address here in Hideaway Bay. He put his fingers on the keyboard like he was about to type something. “Just put them on the desk.”
She entered and set the envelopes down. “Pot roast for dinner tonight.” Her eyes fixed on the letter from Arlington for a moment. “That looks like Mr. Marsh’s handwriting.”
