It Ends Here

by Willow Rose

  "Writing books for me was never about obtaining fame or even making money. I write them because I love to write. I don't think the world really cares much what I think about politics or the environment. I can hardly imagine why they would care about who I am. My persona isn't important for my stories, I believe. I like to let the books speak for themselves," she said, her eyes avoiding mine for a brief moment. "The person behind the books isn't that interesting. The stories I write are. I always hoped that would be enough."

  I wrote a couple of notes on my pad, then looked at a framed picture on her desk. The picture in it was of her with a young girl.

  "Nevertheless, I know that many readers are dying to know more about you," I said. "The most I could find were speculations about you and who you were. So, let's tell them a little about you; shall we? Let's start with your family. The girl in the picture, is that your daughter?"

  Margot looked at the frame, then grabbed it and held it between her hands. "Yes, this is Minna. It's short for Vilhelmina. She's the best thing that ever happened to me," Margot said, not taking her eyes off the picture. "But please don't put her name in your article."

  I shook my head. "I don't have to. I'll just mention that you have a daughter. It'll make you more human to a lot of people. You'll be relatable, and that's what we're going for, right? Now, what is Minna like? Does she have any interest in writing like her mother?" I asked.

  "No, none whatsoever. I guess she takes more after her father. Science is her thing," Margot said and put the picture back. "She won the state science fair three years in a row, and she wants to become a doctor like her dad."

  "And your husband, Theodore Addington, is a neurosurgeon, right?" I said. "Him, I could look up easily. He's been quite successful?"

  "Yes. He's currently at Leesburg Regional Medical Center. He was headhunted for this position a couple of years ago, so we moved here from New York."

  "And I take it he has been able to provide for you while you focused on your writing? That must have been quite amazing for you, " I said, feeling a little sting of jealousy. I had always wanted to write novels, but since I became a single mom, I had to work to take care of Julie and myself. Not that I minded, I liked working as a reporter, but every now and then it would be nice to be able to sit down and make up your own story and not have to constantly go searching for it. I couldn't help thinking Margot Addington had something great going here.

  "Yes, that worked out quite well for both of us. I actually started writing when Minna was a newborn, and I was at home a lot taking care of her. I would write when she napped or later on when she was away at pre-school. A couple of hours here and there soon led to my first book, and later, more followed. People often ask me how I manage to write a book, and usually, I tell them that if you just write one page a day, then after a year you'll have an entire book. Now that Minna is older, I have a lot more time to write, though, and can do it full time."

  "And how old is Minna now?" I asked.

  "She just turned eleven."

  "My daughter is thirteen," I said. "So, they're close in age."

  Margot wrinkled her nose. "It gets worse, doesn’t it? I feel like she's already a full-blown teenager, but I have a feeling it's only the tip of the iceberg; am I right? There's more to come?"

  I exhaled, thinking about Julie and how things had gotten so different over the past six months. It had been nothing like what I pictured it would be to have a teenager. I had imagined something different like her slamming the doors and yelling at me, and her rolling her eyes at me, but that wasn't how she was. She was just so needy all the time. It was almost like she found it hard to deal with even little things in life, things she never worried about before.

  "It's…different," I said. "Some days are really great, but then others…"

  "You don't know what hit you, right?"

  "Something like that." I looked at my notepad, trying to get the conversation back to be about her, the author, the person Margot Addington. I felt like she kept turning the conversation away from herself.

  "So, you write mysteries, but they all have a touch of horror to them. I read your latest book, The Terrible Death of Angus McMannus, and thought it was quite gory for a mystery. Where do you get that dark side from?"

  Margot strained a smile, then shrugged. "I really don't know, to be honest. I am a fairly decent person, who doesn’t even like to watch horror movies, and I can't stand to see blood. But it’s different once I sit down at the computer and start tapping. It just comes to me, and then I write it down."

  "So, you don't plan for them to be gory or even brutal? Because I have to admit, they are quite ruthless. To me, it’s surprising that such a beautiful and together woman like you can write something like that. How do you get your ideas?" I asked.

  "I usually get my ideas when going horseback riding or on my walks around the lake. I can't tell you how or where it comes from; it just does. It just sort of pops into my mind. It always begins with a question, What if? And then my imagination takes it the rest of the way."

  I nodded, remembering having read other authors say something similar. It was just a little strange to me that you could be this normal person, a very elegant and delicate lady living in beautiful surroundings, and then you write about these horrifying events in such deep detail it had made me shiver and become a little sick to my stomach, to be honest.

  But that was probably why she was the author, and I wasn't.

  12

  Margot stood by the window in her living room. She watched the woman as she got back into her car, while peeling an apple with a small kitchen knife. The journalist-woman put her computer bag in the back, then slammed the door shut and went to the front.

  Margot sighed, then kept peeling the apple without looking at it. Soon, she had created a long winding peel that spiraled toward the floor.

  Theodore came up behind her. She didn't hear him until he spoke, and it startled her. Her finger slipped, and the blade came too close to her skin. It was bleeding, and Margot stared at the blood.

  "How did it go?" he asked. He stood close to her, and she could feel his warm breath on her ear. "How was the interview? Did you survive?"

  Margot looked at the blood on her finger and turned it in the light. A drop dangled from it for a few seconds before it let go and fell into the abyss. It died on the tiles below. Margot stared at the small splatter of blood beneath her while the car's engine started outside in the driveway. Margot put the finger on her lips and sucked the blood away.

  "I think it went okay," she said. "It wasn't too bad. The woman they sent was very nice and didn't seem like she wanted to dig up dirt, but you never know. She might write some anyway; you know how they are. They'll just make stuff up if they can't find any."

  Theodore placed both his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "I’m glad it went well, and I’m glad you did it. The publishing house has been trying for years to get you to do some interviews, and I, for one, I think it's about time. I know you like to remain private, but it's time you show the world who you are. Plus, it will help spike sales. Selling books isn't as easy as it used to be. Things are changing in that industry. Those who connect with their readers will be the winners. You can't hide forever."

  Margot stared into the driveway as the journalist drove off, then shuddered slightly. She thought about the talk she'd had with her agent, Edward, a few days earlier. He hadn't ordered her to do the interview, but it was close. No wasn't an answer he was going to accept this time.

  "Your publisher will toss you, Margot," he had argued when she said she wasn't going to do it, "for some young and more exciting writer who has thousands of followers on social media. They expect you to be out there now, to be visible. People demand to know who Margot Addington really is. Who is the person behind the name and those nail-biting books? I’m not asking you to make a YouTube channel and broadcast daily from your everyday life. It's not like that. I’m only asking you to open up a little bit. You have to
give them something. And, to be honest, it isn't much they're asking. It's just an interview, Margot. It doesn’t even have to be a long and deep one. Just tell them about your day and where you get your ideas from, how your daily routine is. Stuff like that."

  After hanging up with her agent, Margot had considered stopping writing altogether. She wasn't sure it was worth it if this was how it was going to be.

  "You'll be happy you did it," Theodore now said, still squeezing her shoulders. "Just wait and see once the article comes out. You'll probably want to do many more once you get the taste for it. Fame is like a drug."

  Margot cut a piece of the apple and bit into it. The car was at the end of the dirt road now. For a brief second, she wished another car would ram into it as soon as it left the estate.

  "I know it was unpleasant to talk about yourself, but at the end of the day, you'll be happy that you did it," he added. "I know you will."

  Margot chewed the juicy bite of apple while going through the interview in her mind. Had she told her anything that the journalist could twist in any way to make her seem unpleasant? Had she revealed too much about herself? Would the reporter make her sound like an idiot?

  "The photographer will be here tomorrow to take your picture for the article. After that, it'll be all over," he said. "I'll make sure to buy the magazine when it’s published and frame it for you. I'll hang it on the wall in your office."

  Margot sighed and finished the apple. Theodore turned her around and looked into her eyes.

  "This is good for you, Margot. It was a great opportunity; one that you'll be glad you didn't turn down. Metropolitan is a big magazine, and it's national. It'll do wonders for your career."

  "Then why do I feel like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life?" she asked. "Why do I feel like I’ve just ruined everything?"

  That made Theodore laugh out loud. "Oh, you silly woman. It was just one interview. I don't see how that can ruin anything. What could possibly go wrong?"

  13

  Webster, Florida 1979

  Carol was sitting in her kitchen, reading, when the front door opened. She looked up, wondering who it was since she wasn't expecting anyone. John was at the auto shop all day.

  "Hello?" she said and rose to her feet. "Is anyone there?"

  There was no answer. The door was still open with the screen door clapping against the doorframe in the wind.

  "John? Is that you?"

  Still, no one spoke. Carol walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door. She closed it, wondering if it could have been the wind. As she turned, her heart skipped a beat. In the hallway, under the big chandelier, stood Anna Mae. She looked up at her from behind her bangs, her angelic blue eyes smiling eerily.

  Carol clasped her chest. "Boy, you scared me, Anna Mae. What are you doing here?"

  "I came from school," the girl said. She held out a piece of paper toward Carol. "I made a drawing. It's for you."

  Carol realized that Joanna had asked Anna Mae to go be with her aunt today, probably because she had men visiting as usual. Carol shuddered at the thought.

  Anna Mae had told her stories about what went on in her home, and Carol had once confronted her sister about it, but only received the answer that she didn't have to take care of Anna Mae if she didn't like it. She had said that to shut Carol up since Joanna knew that Carol's biggest fear was that Joanna would take the girl away from her. But Carol had added one more thing. She had told Joanna to at least make sure the girl was out of the house when she had those men over. So now and then, Joanna sent Anna Mae to Carol's house whenever it happened.

  "You made me a drawing?" Carol said happily. "I can't believe you did that. That is so sweet of you."

  Anna Mae smiled. She held the drawing out toward her. "Here you go."

  "I'll hang it up on the fridge, so I can look at it every day," Carol said cheerfully. So often, she had dreamt of having a daughter and hanging her artwork up on the fridge. It was a silly little thing, but for some reason, it was one of her biggest wishes.

  Carol grabbed the paper and looked at the drawing, her eyes filling. Then her heart dropped.

  "What is this?"

  "My drawing," she said.

  "But…but…" Carol looked at Anna Mae. "What is it? What’s in the drawing?"

  "It's the boy," Anna Mae said. "I made a drawing of the boy in the house for you. I gave it a title. It's called the boy who died."

  "So…let me get this straight," Carol said, her hands getting clammy. "It's a drawing of the boy who was hurt in the old abandoned house. You drew him… when he was dead? How do you know…what it looked like?"

  Carol stared at the picture. She had read in the paper how the boy was found, how he laid on the floor, arms spread out, looking like Jesus on the cross. But how did Anna Mae know this? How did she know it in enough detail to draw it?

  "I was there," Anna Mae said. "I saw him in the house, remember? I saw him lying there with his arms out like that."

  Carol stared at the young girl, then she smiled, relieved. "You're talking about afterward. You were there after he was found and when the police were there too. Of course, I remember that. And since everyone is talking about this, it's only natural for a child to make a drawing of it. Of course, it is. It's not odd at all. It has been on everyone's lips. It must have been quite traumatic for all you kids around here. Of course, you would draw it. Say, have you had any lunch?"

  The girl shook her head, but Carol already knew she wouldn't have. Joanna never made lunch for the girl, and she was usually starving once she came to Carol's house.

  Carol grabbed Anna Mae's hand in hers, and they walked to the kitchen. Carol hung the picture up on the fridge, then made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for them both. She couldn't help staring at the drawing while they ate together. It wasn't exactly what she had pictured her first drawing on her fridge to look like, but it was what she got. And if there was one thing life had taught her, it was to work with whatever God gave you in life.

  14

  I stared at my screen. The laptop hummed, dissatisfied, on the desk in the hotel room. I had been staring at it for hours now, not knowing my angle on this article.

  Margot Addington had given me nothing to work with. She had barely told me anything useful. Not even when I asked about where she got her ideas did she open up to me. That was usually the one authors loved to talk about. That was the easy question, the icebreaker.

  But her answer had been that she didn't know. How was I supposed to write an article out of that?

  I tapped on the keyboard, trying to get at least something on paper, but as soon as I had written the first two sentences, I deleted them again. This would never make it into Metropolitan Magazine. I grumbled angrily. I had to do well on this story if I wanted my career to take off as a freelance writer over here. It was the only way to be noticed and get other assignments. I wanted to get this going, and I wanted to get to a point where they'd trust me with real stories, the important ones like I had been used to back home. They didn't know me here; they didn't know how good I was. And the way this interview had gone, I wasn't sure they ever would.

  I sighed and leaned back in my chair. The small motel room had a musty smell to it. The carpet was a color I wouldn't even know how to categorize. Was it orange? Was it red? I wasn't sure.

  Stop procrastinating; will you?

  I stared at my notes and then played the recording of my interview again. There were a lot of I don't knows, and I don't remember much about that for answers. There really wasn't anything worth basing a story upon. Could one person really be that uninteresting?

  I had been extremely jealous of this woman as I saw the place she lived and the life she lived, being able to make a living from her beautiful home and being so successful at it. But I was disappointed at how terrible the interview had gone. I had thought this woman would have so many interesting things to tell the world. I had tried and tried, fishing for something, but it hadn't come. Instead
, I had to almost pull the answers out of her. I couldn't believe it. Could someone who wrote these gory and very thrilling mysteries really be that boring?

  "Maybe that's your story," I said into the room. "Maybe you should just write about how dull this woman really is."

  As if it had heard me, my phone buzzed on the desk. Fearing it was my editor asking for the story already, I glanced at the display. To my relief, it was Julie. She had probably come home from school and wanted to chat.

  I picked it up.

  "Hi, baby. How was your day?"

  "It was okay. At least better than yesterday," she said.

  "So, no ketchup incidents, I take it?"

  "No. Today was good. No accidents or anything."

  "That's great, honey," I said, feeling relieved. I was learning to cherish the days when she was happy. "I’m glad you had a good day."

  "How about you?" she asked. "How did the interview go with that author?"

  I sighed and glanced at the blank page. "Eh. The interview wasn't too great, to be honest with you. Now, I’m just trying to get this story down on paper so I can come home. I can't wait to get back."

  "How much time do you have to write it? When is your deadline?" she asked.

  "They need to have it tomorrow morning," I said, feeling the stress nagging in my stomach. "The editor wants to see it first thing when she gets in. Then we can do edits later tomorrow, but they need the first draft by then. But talking about it stresses me out, so let's talk about something else. How are the others? How are Tobias and William?"

  Julie took a second to answer. "They're fine. Tobias is on his computer, and William is going in the pool."