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Was he going to sit there all day?
When she worked up the nerve to peek out the window again, she found him typing.
Shit.
She’d just have to ignore him... which was easier said than done. She tried to keep herself busy. She cleaned even though nothing needed cleaning. She tried to watch TV, but she’d already watched everything she was interested in. She tried to read, and that worked for a little while, but she was still too aware of Connelly’s presence on her porch, even when she couldn’t hear the old rocker creaking. She closed the book—a highly anticipated romantic comedy sequel—and set it back on the shelf. Her fingers traced over the book spines and stopped at the empty spot where his newest release should have been.
Had she not put it back?
She glanced around, scanning the tables in the room. Nothing. She looked under blankets and pillows but came up empty-handed.
What the hell had she done with it?
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. It’d turn up, and she had another copy that Dad had sent her. She found that copy tucked away in a drawer, still in the envelope it had arrived in with Dad’s straight-forward handwritten post-it note still stuck to the cover.
Read this, Vee.
She had not read it. She refused to read it, but curiosity pulled at her. She ran her hand over the creepy cover.
The Shadows Within by Connelly Davis.
She had all of Conn’s books.
Her favorite was still his first, Dreadwood Manor, written when they were just kids. She remembered all the late nights they’d spent on the phone as he talked through his plot problems. All the junk food-fueled critiquing sessions. She’d been so proud of him when he got it published before their freshman year of college was over. He’d dedicated that book to her, calling her his rock and his muse.
He’d also dedicated Shadows to her. She was still his muse but for a much different reason.
She opened the book and read the first page.
* * *
The moon, a pale and distant voyeur, watched as shadows birthed themselves from the dark tapestry of night in Ravenshade. In this quiet hamlet, where secrets clung to the air with the acrid scent of impending decay, and fears slumbered in every dim-lit corner, Vanessa Vale felt the subtle shift in the night as reality cracked open. She looked up from her typewriter and watched the long, wavering shadows cast by her desk lamp dance across the cluttered room. A half-empty glass of bourbon stood sentinel beside her, its amber contents a feeble attempt to drown out the haunting whispers that lingered in her mind.
She had always been a creature of the night. As a writer, she was most productive when the world was asleep, and the only sounds that filled the air were the creaks of her old house and the clack of her ancient typewriter.
Yet, tonight was different.
Tonight, the four walls that usually comforted her seemed to be closing in, suffocating her.
Tonight, the shadows were alive.
* * *
Veronica snapped the book shut and shoved it onto the shelf with the others.
The bastard.
She would never forgive him for writing her into his book like that. Never. No matter how long he sat on her porch.
But as the hours passed, she kept drifting over to the window to watch him. He got up occasionally to stretch and play with the dog, and once, she caught him unzipping near a tree. She glanced away fast and told herself she wouldn’t look out the window again.
When the sun began to set, she heard the rocker creak and jumped up from her chair, all but running over to the window. She watched as Conn packed up his laptop and dumped the dregs of his coffee out of his thermos.
He was leaving!
Finally.
But instead of leaving, he walked to the window and tapped on the glass.
