The Chronicler and Mr Smith Read online

  “Garrett.” He clipped the end of his name, as if he didn’t care much to be there. Yet, he had purchased the book, languished through the stinging cold of the morning while waiting in line for my autograph… and it was for him, not a girlfriend or his mom or whoever. Definitely not a wife. A cursory check of his left hand revealed no wedding ring.

  I scribbled out a generic greeting, signed my name, and passed the book back to him, all with my smile in place.

  He accepted the book, opened it to the first page, read the inscription, and closed it. My smile fell at the odd behavior; I couldn’t remember a single time when someone reviewed what I wrote in front of me. I watched as his gaze crawled up my face and locked onto my eyes.

  The itch on the back of my head attacked me, more intense than it had been since it started. My arms and hands tensed up to resist the urge to scratch, but the itch dug in deeper and wouldn’t let go. I casually raised my left hand and acted as if I were straightening up my hair, letting my short fingernails rake across the spot. It provided zero relief. Instead, the action seemed to anger my skin even more. If that were possible.

  “Thank you, Ms. Shaw,” he said, his voice steady, almost monotone. Then, he walked away.

  I stared at his icy retreat through the bookstore. As soon as he left the store, the itching ceased.

  Liz jumped into the chair next to me and cleared her throat. Her sympathetic amber eyes watched me carefully, as if I were under observation in a hospital. Or, a mental institution. “Um, Mads,” she said, using my affectionate nickname reserved for my closest friends, “you seem to be struggling a bit here. I think it’s time for that break.”

  I turned my attention back to the front door of the bookstore, as if I expected Garrett to waltz back in. Something about him…

  Something—

  “Mads?”

  I looked at Liz to find her hand on my shoulder in a caring gesture. I had almost forgotten she was there. A small itch started at the back of my head again, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of the store, where the air was much too thick and the walls seemed a bit closer to us than before.

  “Um, yeah,” I said before she could worry about me further. “Let’s take that break now.”

  Chapter Two

  T he cozy café Liz had chosen for my pre-scheduled interviews with journalists was basically empty when we arrived at 3:15 p.m. We headed to the deserted backroom that Liz had reserved, passing plastic vine-covered, white lattice work randomly placed on the walls between paintings of botanical gardens and tea time outings.

  My rumbling stomach wanted to sneak in a quick bite to eat, but my first interview was scheduled at 3:30 p.m., leaving me only fifteen minutes to warm my frozen insides with an incredible cup of lavender mint tea.

  Liz raised her coffee mug to her lips, covering most of her freckles. As much foundation as she used, she could never make them disappear entirely. Her natural hair was auburn and as frizzy as a poodle, but she ensured her hairdresser used the lightest hydrogen peroxide blonde possible, and then Liz spent hours each morning with a straightener. She’d been obsessed with hiding her Irish heritage since long before we met. The only reason I knew her secret was one whiskey-filled weekend with her mom and a plethora of embarrassing photo albums.

  After sipping the steaming liquid, she said, “See? We survived a whole day of winter in New York City.”

  I eyed her with a bit of spite. “Who’s saying we survived? We don’t leave until Monday.”

  “You’ll be fine. All that Midwestern blood in you makes you easily able to handle a couple snowy days.”

  “I haven’t had that Midwestern blood for five years now,” I said, rubbing my hands on the still-warm teacup. “It’s all thinned out and gets cranky when the temperature drops below sixty degrees.”

  She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “We’re spoiled by San Diego weather, aren’t we?”

  Knowing we were running out of time before my first interview, I asked, “Who’s up first?”

  She lifted the briefcase she usually had surgically sewn to her hip and rifled through her paperwork. She slid on her reading glasses, pulled out a piece of paper, and studied it. “Looks like we have Stone Smith.”

  I choked on a bit of tea. “I’m sorry. ‘Stone Smith?’ That has to be the most made-up name I’ve ever heard.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Probably an alias, but he runs a small-time book blog here in New York City. Read by a few thousand people.” She lowered her glasses and stared at me over the purple rims. “I know how much you love talking to the smaller publications.”

  Despite Liz’s sarcasm, I did enjoy it. I started out small myself, and I always wanted to help others where I could. I wished I could mentor every beginning author in the world, but since that wasn’t feasible, I tried to keep my roots in place by communicating frequently with readers on social media. Smaller publications and blogs wanting to interview a New York Times’ bestselling author always received an immediate “yes” from me. Even if Liz thought they wasted my time.

  I glanced at my watch and noticed we only had a few minutes left until “Mr. Smith” arrived. I snatched the list of interviewers from Liz’s hands. At her confrontational glare, I said, “Time for you to vacate the area. I’ll look at the rest after our Mr. Smith is done.” I hated having anyone else around when I did interviews. The last time she sat in one with me, she answered all the questions before I could say a word.

  She pushed back her chair and grabbed her coffee. “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll be at the bar, not drinking more coffee.”

  “There’s no bar in here,” I said.

  She pointed to her right and flashed a sardonic grin. “Next door. Have fun with Mr. Smith!”

  I shook my head and turned my attention to the schedule. Liz had been busy before we arrived, I noted, as I scanned the names of the journalists. The long list would keep me busy until well after society-established dinner times.

  A man clearing his throat caused me to look up from the paper. I opened my mouth to greet Mr. Smith, but stopped when I realized it was the man from the bookstore, Garrett, standing in front of me.

  “Ms. Shaw,” he said, forcing politeness in his voice. “I believe we have an appointment.”

  “Um… yes, yes, we do,” I said, as he pulled out the chair in front of me and sat down. “You can call me Madison, but I’m not quite sure what to call you.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  My eyes narrowed. “Earlier, you had me make out your book to ‘Garrett,’ but you scheduled this interview under an apparent alias.”

  “I never said my name was Garrett. Garrett is my cousin,” he said, as if I should have known. “He’s a big fan. His wife, not so much.”

  I took the hidden insult for what it was: this man did not like my work. Not that I expected everyone to fawn over every word I wrote, but something about Mr. Smith burrowed under my skin, crawled across my body, and actually made me itch. Particularly, at the back of my neck.

  I resisted the urge to scratch my neck and all the other areas where I was sure hives were popping up as my annoyance increased. Instead, I whipped up my biggest smile and stared into those blue eyes, intent on starting over. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. My publicist says you run a blog here in the city?”

  “Sure,” he said, with no hint that he ever planned on starting the interview.

  “Did you, um, have some questions for me this afternoon?”

  Unlike most journalists, he didn’t move to get a notepad or a Dictaphone. He didn’t turn on a recorder on his phone or do anything else that was typical of these interviews. “I do have some questions,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How long have you been writing? Not professionally, just writing in general.”

  I digested the remedial question, the answer to which anyone with an Internet connection could find on my website. I wondered how long he had been working as a blogger. Liz had said he had a few thousa
nd readers, but I couldn’t understand how he obtained them by conducting interviews like this.

  “I’ve been writing my entire life,” I said, trying to keep up the appearance of enjoying the interview. “I wrote down my first short story at age nine, but had been telling stories for a few years before that.”

  “Do you also read romance novels, or do you prefer other genres?”

  “Well, of course I read romance, but I also read other genres.”

  His left eyebrow shot up. “Like what?”

  I squirmed in my seat at the uncomfortableness of the question. It seemed innocuous, but the inquiry dug into me, as if he were searching for something specific.

  “I, um, I don’t… I’m not sure.”

  “What genre is the book on your nightstand at your house right now?”

  I flinched, and my heart beat out of sync. “How do you know I have a book on my nightstand?”

  “You said it in an interview last week.”

  My mind scoured my memory, and, sure enough, I had said that. Not just alluding to it, but I used those exact words. Maybe Mr. Smith was a journalist-type after all. He had certainly done his research on me.

  Waving my hand, I let out an airy chuckle, anything to dismiss my accusatory question. As if the man had really been stalking me – what was I thinking? With those eyes, I was sure he’d never had to stalk a woman in his life. Then again, my cynical side said, Ted Bundy was pretty damn good looking, at least until he started killing women.

  Clearing my throat and all the crazy thoughts from my head, I said, “Yes, yeah, I do have a book on my nightstand. It’s a horror novel.” I bit my tongue as soon as I revealed the genre. I should have lied and said romance. Liz always told me lie about these things to make readers happy, but I had never fared well in the deception department.

  “Horror, huh? What’s your favorite? Serial killers, the boogeyman, or ghosts?”

  “All of the above,” I said, a little more relaxed in my tone. “What else is there to be afraid of?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “But, don’t you ever wonder if there are other monsters out there besides the boogeyman and ghosts?”

  Other monsters? What was he talking about? Those were the only things that went bump in the night, at least according to every horror book, movie, or television show I’d ever devoured. “I don’t believe in the boogeyman or ghosts to begin with, so no. Nothing out there besides some very scary people. What else could there be?”

  “Just my curiosity. Next question. Are you writing in the genre you want to?”

  The sudden jump in topic caught me off-guard. No one had ever asked me that before, and I didn’t know whether to be honest about my aspirations of leaving romance forever, or to lie to keep my readers happy. I settled for in between.

  “Yes,” I said, “but I wouldn’t mind trying my hand in other genres in the future.”

  “Because Garrett tells me that Withered Flowers is an amazing book, but that you kind of went off the rails after you signed your publishing contract. He thinks you sold out as a writer by switching to pure romance novels and not writing another Withered Flowers.”

  Any sense of niceties and keeping up appearances flew from my mind with his harsh words. I knew my novels after Withered Flowers were not great, but who was this man to tell me that? Yet, something else bothered me more.

  “You’ve not read any of my books, have you, Mr. Smith?” I accentuated his name to punch home that I knew it wasn’t real, but it didn’t faze him.

  “I haven’t,” he said. “I don’t plan to, either. Not much for trashy romance novels.”

  The irritation bubbling inside of me spread like a fast-acting virus. “Then, why the hell are you here? Is this how you treat all authors you interview?” I realized that my hand was at the back of my neck, scratching like a madwoman. I pried my fingers away from the sore spot and forced my hands into my lap.

  “Been itching for a couple days now, huh?” he asked.

  My tightened jaw slacked at his words. “How did you…” I shook my head and let out an incredulous laugh. “Is this a restraining order situation?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Like, where I need to get one.” I relaxed in my chair and folded my arms. “Because I’ve only had one stalker before, and one a lot prettier than you. To be fair, it was a woman, but—”

  “This isn’t a game, Ms. Shaw.” He glanced around the empty back room, as if ensuring no one had filtered in unnoticed, then his intense gaze focused on my eyes. “I don’t want to be here any more than you, but I have a job to do.”

  Confusion filled my mind, almost replacing my anger with him. “And, what ‘job’ would that be, Mr. Smith, because it certainly isn’t running a blog and interviewing an author for whom you clearly have contempt.”

  “I need to take you with me.”

  “What?” I came close to jumping out of my seat at his words.

  “You’re in danger, and the longer you stay here—”

  “The only one I seem to be in danger from is you,” I said, the seriousness of his veiled threat sinking in. My heart thrust against my ribcage, and clamminess claimed my skin. I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. “You need to leave.”

  He stood up as well and crossed his arms, but didn’t move beyond that. “I know you don’t understand, but let me explain. The itching on the back of your head, it’s going to lead them right to you.”

  I leaned over and retrieved my cell phone from my purse.

  “It will start burning, probably later tonight,” he continued, “and then they will find you. I need to take you with me—”

  “The only thing you’re going to do is leave before I call the police,” I said, holding up my phone.

  He held both hands up as if surrendering. “There’s no need to involve the police.”

  “You came in here, pretended to be a blogger for an interview, insulted me, and then threatened me. Why wouldn’t I call them?”

  “I’m not threatening you…” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “You know what, fine. I am not the best at this.”

  “At what? Being a normal human?”

  “I really can’t keep this up with you.” He pulled a business card out of his front pocket. “When the burning starts, call me immediately if you want to survive the night.”

  Before I could say another word, he exited the backroom and disappeared from my sight. Astonished by the exchange, my numb body dropped back into the seat. I ran everything we had said through my mind once more, just to make sure I hadn’t misconstrued anything, and then dialed Liz on my phone.

  When she answered, I said, “Cancel the rest of the interviews.”

  “What? Why would you want to do that?” Her voice rose in pitch with every word.

  “Please, just come get me and then make the calls.”

  Something in my tone must have made her understand I wasn’t joking. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be right back over, and then I’ll get them cancelled for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, ending the call. It was only when I glanced at the business card – which contained a solitary phone number in the middle of the white rectangle – that I realized I was scratching the back of my head again.

  Chapter Three

  B een itching for a couple days now, huh?”

  En route to our hotel with Liz at the helm, headlights from slow-moving cars glared on our windshield as she battled traffic. Red lights, honking horns… it all seemed amplified by the steady snowfall around us. The rental car puttered at an unbearably slow rate of speed, on pace with a golf cart, if even that fast.

  Though my writer’s brain took it all in, my mind remained fixated on my itching neck. Mr. Smith’s question about it haunted me more than anything else he said. The itching had started two days earlier – almost to the hour. The first time I noticed it, I had been packing for my early-morning flight to New York City.

  How could Mr. Smith have known about
it?

  I remembered that Mr. Smith had been at the book signing. I had scratched the back of my head while there – but had he been there to see it? It was possible he stalked me prior to the book signing while I was sightseeing with Liz. I wouldn’t have even recognized someone I’d known for life in the overcrowded city, let alone him. I had been too focused on my book signing.

  “He really got to you, didn’t he?” Liz asked. “What exactly did he say?”

  I glanced at her and returned my gaze to the passenger side window. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get to the hotel, pour a glass of wine, and climb into a hot bath.”

  Liz groaned softly. “I think we need to call the cops.”

  “And, tell them what? That some guy used a fake name – twice – to schedule a faux interview with me? Nothing he said could be construed as a direct threat. We don’t know who he is or where the police could search for him.”

  “We have his phone number, email, and website he gave when he scheduled the interview.”

  “It’s all fake,” I said. Before Liz arrived to pick me up, I had looked up the website on my phone to find it no longer existed. I had also checked his phone number on the sheet against the one on the business card. They didn’t match.

  The business card…

  It wasn’t a lot to go on, but I could at least look up the number when I got to the hotel.

  I reminded myself that even if the number led me to a name online, I had no crime to report. The police wouldn’t do anything about a strange guy scheduling a fake interview. There was nothing left for me to do but go back to the hotel and try to rest.

  “The hotel!”

  My exclamation startled Liz, who jumped in her seat. “The what?”

  “If he’s stalked me since I arrived here, he could know what hotel we’re staying at.”

  “All the more reason to call the—”

  “Will you just do me a favor? Let’s go into the hotel like we normally would, but then leave through the back. We can grab a cab and head somewhere else to stay tonight.”