The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  “Laura, are you—?”

  “Not now, Graye. Please.” She’s making a herculean effort to hide the strain. Graye is perceptive. She sees what Laura’s trying to hide but concedes and drops the question.

  Laura can’t decide if she should hug her or give her a raise. Maybe both.

  At that moment, the lights flicker once—quickly, almost imperceptibly.

  She glances at Graye, who suddenly stands straighter. The childlike anticipation that fills Laura is mirrored on her assistant’s face.

  She sends Graye a wink.

  Showtime, Laura mouths as several things happen in quick succession.

  The lights cut out completely, enveloping the room and its occupants in nothing but shadows, tossed crazily about by the candles burning low on the table.

  Murmurs of unease and more than a few gasps of surprise flutter about in the darkened space.

  The gasps morph into full-blown shrieks as, seconds later, a boom of thunder makes its presence known by shaking the walls around them.

  Neighbors instinctively grasp the person sitting next to them, and the collective pulse rate of the room jumps tenfold. A rush of sound overtakes them—a susurrus, for those in a literary frame of mind.

  Pure chance. With impeccable timing, the rain has arrived. More thunder heralds its presence.

  A slow, satisfied smile, hidden in the dark, snakes across Laura’s face. A showman to her bones.

  Nervous voices begin to twitter, coupled with great heaving sighs of relief.

  “. . . power’s gone out.”

  “. . . nothing to be—”

  Their reassuring whispers to one another are cut short by a muffled shout and the unmistakable sound of flesh connecting with flesh.

  Chairs scrape as people peer around, half rising and craning their necks as they attempt to see what the latest fuss is about.

  And the lights come up.

  It was only dark for a short time, but people blink and peer at one another, nocturnal creatures suddenly blinded by the light of day.

  Then someone lets out a high-pitched, warbling scream.

  A woman seated at the table next to Walt backs away quickly. His prone form is sprawled on the ground next to his overturned chair.

  He groans and red liquid bubbles from his mouth, as red as the stain spreading across his tuxedo shirt, where a knife protrudes from his chest.

  Laura shakes her head and places a hand upon her hip.

  She thought she’d dissuaded him from the fake blood.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she’d said on the phone just last week. “This is dinner theater, not Broadway, Walt.”

  Apparently, she hadn’t been as successful as she thought.

  Guests rush to his side. Mr. Peterson, for his sins, simply raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, enjoying the spectacle.

  “Only a flesh wound. No need to be dramatic.”

  But Walt has waited all evening for his moment to shine. He seizes the spotlight. Grasping the plastic theater prop stuck to his shirt, he leans onto his side and coughs a spray of red onto the floor. Droplets land on the ankle of the woman nearest him, and she pulls back with a grimace.

  Now someone’s going to have to clean that up, Laura thinks.

  Walt’s head falls back to the floor and his arm drops, a marionette whose strings have been cut.

  And Walt has finally earned his round of applause.

  Mr. Peterson speaks over the noise.

  “What’s that on the ground next to him?” he asks loudly. He glances over at Laura, a question in his eyes.

  She nods, recognizing his contribution to their little tableau with thanks.

  “No, there,” he says, pointing again, when nothing is found. “Move over, Walt, you great fool,” he scolds. “You’re lying on top of it.”

  Opening one eye, Walt scoots a bit to the right, then lets his head fall to the floor again.

  “There,” Mr. Peterson says.

  All eyes turn to the folded paper that’s been revealed, stained with red, but no one moves toward it.

  “It’s not a snake, people,” Mr. Peterson says. “Someone pick it up. It’s past my bedtime.”

  The woman with blood on her ankle reaches down and grasps the paper, holding it away from her body with two fingers. In Walt’s enthusiasm for all things bloody, it’s dripping with red.

  “Pass it over, then,” Mr. Peterson says with a sigh. The woman leans past Walt’s sprawled legs and hands it off as asked.

  He unfolds the sheet of paper and squints at it, pulling it closer to his face. With a sigh, he pats his pockets, and eventually pulls out a pair of reading glasses.

  “What’s it say already?” Cecelia calls out.

  “Patience, my dear,” Mr. Peterson says with a glare over the top of his glasses.

  Laura tries to hold back a smile.

  “Let’s see here,” he mumbles. “It appears to be the last will and testament of Baroness Abigail Lyttleton.”

  “So who gets the dough?” someone yells.

  Mr. Peterson holds up the crumpled, stained paper again. “It’s got a minor bequest to the Humane Society, and after that it says . . . I, Baroness Abigail Lyttleton, do hereby bequeath the remainder of my worldly possessions to . . .”

  He pauses, turning the will over to check the back.

  “Oh, come on!”

  Mr. Peterson drops the hand holding the will and glares. “A little respect for one’s elders wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Elder, my foot. I’m as old as you are, you cranky old ass.”

  Mr. Peterson grins. “Yet you don’t look a day over ninety, Olivia, my dear.”

  She tosses a balled-up napkin at him and the crowd groans.

  “Get on with it!”

  “Well, I’d be happy to,” he says as he folds up the paper and removes his glasses. “But that part has been ripped away. See for yourself, you savages.”

  He holds the will up with one hand while he replaces his glasses in his pocket with the other.

  Seeing her cue, Laura steps forward and claps her hands together.

  “And that, my friends, brings this evening to a close.”

  “But what about the murders? Aren’t you going to tell us who did it?”

  “Ah,” she says, holding up a hand. “It’s up to you now to figure that out. What fun is it if I tell you the answers? Suffice it to say, the clues are all there. The question is, how many of you have been paying attention?”

  She smiles and shakes her head as they pepper her with questions.

  “You won’t get another word out of me. My lips are sealed. The outdoor bar is closed, given the weather, but drinks will be served in the breakfast room for those of you not quite ready to call it a night.”

  Laura takes a breath and feels the need to continue.

  “I’d like to thank you,” she says, her voice no longer playful, “each and every one of you, for being here. I’m grateful to know you all. My life is richer for having you in it.”

  She clears her throat.

  “And with that, I wish you good night. Join us in the morning for the Book Hangover Brunch, where we’ll get down to the bottom of things once and for all. I look forward to seeing everyone there.”

  She pauses and drops her voice to a low and foreboding tone. “Those of you who make it through the night, that is. Sleep well,” she adds with a smile.

  She continues to smile through the laughter and the applause. Past the well-wishers and their whispered, unveiled concern, she attempts to make her way out of the room.

  “Will you be okay?” they ask quietly.

  “Of course,” she replies reassuringly.

  “If you need anything at all . . . ,” they say.

  “Thank you, I’ll be fine,” she replies reassuringly.

  “I’m just a phone call away . . .”

  “I’m touched, but that won’t be necessary,” she replies reassuringly.

  And on it goes
.

  By the time she breaks free of the crowd, exiting the room of people she herself brought together, the weight of their worry for her and what she may be going home to is suffocating.

  She makes a beeline for the front door of the hotel. It’s clear through the glass that rain is still lashing at the building, the wind kicking around the fronds of the palms and any detritus not nailed down.

  It looks like heaven calling to her. A sanctuary.

  Laura steps out into the cool, cleansing wind and fills her lungs fully for the first time in hours.

  It’s shocking, how close she is to tears. How shaky her foundation has become.

  She steps away from the door, finding her way to the wall of the building, barely covered by the roof over the entry. She can’t go farther. Not yet.

  In her sequined party dress, with a mostly successful evening at an end despite David’s best efforts, she slides her back down the wall and curls her arms around herself.

  Spray from the wind and rain finds her, but she doesn’t care. Her limbs have lost the ability to carry her. Her mind, the ability to shield her.

  Nerve endings stripped bare, Laura is coming apart.

  How did she get here?

  She doesn’t hear the footsteps approach but senses Graye’s quiet presence at her side.

  The girl doesn’t speak.

  She simply sits beside her, quiet and calm.

  Laura bites back a scream. Go away. I don’t deserve your kindness.

  But oh, does she need it.

  She leans her head against Graye’s shoulder, and her silent tears mix with the spray of rain, indistinguishable from one another.

  33

  GRAYE

  The storm passes, as storms tend to do. The rain and the tears come, then go, leaving nothing but questions in their wake.

  Graye’s heart hurts for Laura, but the other woman is too strong, too capable, to stay so low for long. Once she’s through the other side, she takes a deep breath, then lifts her head and swipes at her face.

  “I’m sorry, Graye.” Her voice is hoarse and she gives a lopsided ghost of a smile. “Your job description doesn’t include mopping up your boss’s tears.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Graye says quietly.

  Laura glances at her. “Do what? Apologize?” Laura forces a laugh, and Graye can see her mask falling back into place, bit by bit. “You’re not being paid enough to deal with emotional meltdowns.”

  “That,” Graye says. “Don’t do that.”

  Laura’s face clouds. Does she not realize?

  “Don’t put up walls between us and hang a sign with a job description on it. I’m not sitting here because you’re paying me to.”

  Laura looks slightly abashed, and Graye regrets that her words put the expression there.

  “Okay,” Laura murmurs.

  “You can stay with me tonight, if you want,” Graye says. “Or here at the hotel if you’re more comfortable with that. You don’t have to go back.”

  Laura sighs. “I wish it was that easy.”

  “It is.”

  Sadness is etched in the tiny lines around Laura’s eyes.

  “No, it’s not. If I sleep now I avoid it all. When I wake up, the edges will be dull, the cuts already beginning to heal. I’ll find some excuse, some reason to put it off one more day. Then another.”

  Graye opens her mouth to speak, but Laura shakes her head.

  “No. I know myself. I like the path of least resistance. That’s what got me here.” She stares out into the darkness, where drips fall from the palm fronds and rainwater has pooled. Graye studies her profile. There’s still sadness there, but a new determination as well.

  “I have to face this now, head-on, before I lose my nerve.”

  She sends Graye a small smile.

  “Don’t worry. David’s probably passed out anyway. I’m going to go home and pack his suitcases while he sleeps it off. No muss, no fuss. And tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow I’ll have the last day of the retreat to distract me.”

  Now is the chance Graye has been waiting for. She should warn Laura that David isn’t the only threat. She should tell her about Rachel Caron’s visit to her home earlier this evening. She should spill everything about Nick and her past and the fact that he could be stalking them right now, skulking in the shadows waiting for a chance to . . . do what? She still doesn’t understand exactly what it is Nick hopes to achieve.

  It’s a vital question and, without the answer, is Graye willing to risk jeopardizing everything she’s building here? Laura hasn’t even told her what she thinks of the book yet. She needs Laura to be on board.

  And what would Nick have to gain by harming Laura anyway? Graye rationalizes. Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to target her? Laura’s not in any real danger.

  Is she?

  Graye just needs a little more time. Complicating things now with talk of wronged spouses and convicted killers while Laura is already trying to deal with ending her marriage will only muddy the waters.

  There will be time for that later.

  “What can I do to help?” Graye asks, shoving her internal debate aside.

  Laura gives her a stronger smile, with shades of the woman Graye is used to shining through. She leans over and nudges her gently with her shoulder.

  “Nothing you haven’t already done.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Laura places her palms on the concrete walkway.

  “You can help me up off the ground,” she says. “My butt has gone numb.”

  Graye rises and grasps her by the hand to help her up. Laura straightens her dress and slips out of her heels to wiggle her toes.

  “You can walk me home,” she says. “You can talk to me about anything other than men.”

  “That’s not hard,” Graye says. “I don’t know anything about men.”

  Laura laughs. “Me either. Every time I think I have them figured out, they prove me wrong.”

  And Hugo? Graye wonders. Has he proven you wrong too? She hasn’t seen him or his wife since Laura emerged from their private tête-à-tête.

  But that’s a line Graye’s not willing to cross.

  With bare feet, they cross to the back of the hotel and walk along the beach, neither in a hurry to arrive at their destination.

  “Do you regret coming here, Graye?”

  The air tastes fresh again, and Graye won’t taint it with a lie.

  “Not most days. You?”

  Laura looks out into the distance. The moon is small tonight. A sliver of hope hanging in the darkness.

  “I have plenty of regrets, but that’s not one of them. If I have a true love, it’s this little island.”

  Despite the terrible day, despite what tonight and the next day will bring, Laura looks content. At peace.

  “And books, of course.” She smiles. “Always books. It’s just disappointing when you learn the worth of a person can’t necessarily be judged by the depth of their talent.”

  The sadness is encroaching again, and Graye would give anything to push it back.

  “With books, though, there’s always another one waiting,” Graye points out.

  “With men as well?” Laura asks, but she’s smiling again.

  “You’re asking the wrong girl.”

  “And I said I didn’t want to talk about men anyway.” Laura rolls her eyes at herself. “So let’s talk about books. I finished the one you recommended last night.”

  Graye should be used to the sensation of her stomach clenching and her nerve endings beginning to crackle. Yet she’s not.

  Laura has finished her book.

  She’s not looking at Graye, but instead at the light shining in the distance from the windows of her home. That’s good, because Graye is sure the expression on her face would give away her panic.

  “Oh yeah?”

  Does she sound as casual as she intends, or is there a hint her entire world is hanging on Laura’s next words?

  “
It was . . .”

  One of Laura’s shoes slips from her hand and she stops to pick it up from the sand.

  Graye’s breath leaves her in a silent rush and she can’t get any of it back. The air won’t come.

  Laura straightens, pushing her hair back from her face. Her home draws her gaze back toward it, eyes hazy and too far away from the conversation Graye has waited so long and so patiently for.

  “Did you like it?” she hears herself ask in a voice laced with desperation.

  “Um . . .” Laura tilts her head, considering her words. “I’m not sure, actually.”

  Not sure? How can you be not sure?

  Graye forces a small laugh. It’s brittle, and fragile, and alone in the night.

  “What . . . what does that mean?”

  “Ms. Boyd has potential, but there was just something about it.” Laura stops again, shaking her head. Graye’s going to be sick. “It’s compelling, and the unreliable narrator works, but . . . I don’t know. The payoff wasn’t there. It left me feeling like something was off, you know?”

  Laura’s eyes finally land on Graye, who feels as if she’s watching herself from a distance. She’s nodding along, accepting this knife in her heart that beats wildly while it struggles not to bleed out on the sand.

  “Even the supposed truth comes across like more lies.” Laura shrugs and Graye is dying. “I just didn’t trust her, I guess. The narrator.”

  “Oh,” Graye says. It’s a small word, an inadequate throwaway word. It’s all she has left.

  Sounds are emerging from Laura’s mouth. They must be words, but the syllables are jumbled and they blend together. Meaningless, meaningless noise.

  She’s hugging her now, pulling Graye close. Her touch is a branding iron, leaving burns that will fester in her wake. She’s walking, her arm looped through Graye’s. Toward her home. Toward her life.

  A life that isn’t Graye’s. That never will be. She’s been fooling herself, playing a game she couldn’t afford the ante for.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Laura is saying. “And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  Worry? About her? Why would she do that? Graye nods, an instinctive response, but doesn’t speak. Can’t speak. She’s been silenced, her words illusions swept away in the wind, leaving her to wonder if they were ever there in the first place.