Page 49 of I Will Break You
“You’ve been gone for a week. I presume it’s because you were having work done to your house?”
I shift on my feet, wondering if she’s confusing me withReverend Tom, who’s having his rectory fumigated. When Mrs. Baker tilts her head, expecting an answer, I mutter, “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Because my boarders don’t appreciate the noise.” She walks away, leaving a cloud of Chanel N°5.
I don’t have the mental bandwidth to ask what she means, so I retreat into the house. My body is finally getting used to the drugs, and my mind no longer feels so sluggish. It’s time to focus on completing the manuscript so I can at least have a draft ready in time for the book fair.
Ten hours later, after a couple of catnaps and copious amounts of caffeine, I’m sitting in my upstairs study, staring at the computer screen. The room is dark since I haven’t moved since I started working. I finally have seventy-thousand words, but I’m struggling with the final chapters. The heroine of my reworked story missed the execution because a copycat killer tried to make her his first victim, but she fought for her life and chased him away with scalding water.
The copycat then attacks her online presence, trying to isolate her from her fans. Then he returns the next day and forces her to watch a video of the execution. The heroine smashes a bottle of Armagnac over his head and drives away.
I stare at the manuscript, wondering what the fuck I’m writing. “This is going around in circles.”
There’s no point in fretting when I have an agent, so I email the latest version to Myra with a note asking what she thinks. If her response is lukewarm, then I’ll scrap the last twenty-thousand words and pad out the middle.
Maybe I could turn the morning phone sex to conjugal visits? I could bring the wedding forward, perhaps to the midpoint, and then fill the rest of the pages with smut.
The sound of smashing glass has me rising off my seat and walking to the window. Outside, Sparrow stands beneath a streetlight and tosses a bottle into the road, letting it splinter intopieces. His brother, Wilder, grabs his arm, urging him to stop, but Sparrow shoves him aside.
My lips purse. He’s probably pissed because Relaney finally ordered them to leave. The pair continue jostling each other, causing an almighty ruckus. I glance around at the other windows, finding that I’m the only person watching. Someone needs to call the cops. No one wants to walk or drive over that broken glass.
I’m about to retreat from the window when Wilder turns around and waves me over. I point at my chest and he nods, seeming to want me to calm down his brother.
That’s not going to happen. I don’t want to get involved.
When I return to my laptop, the screen is blank. I turn it back on, only to find it restored to factory settings. My breath catches. My gut roils with dread. All my files, all my photos, all my documents are gone.
Along with my fucking manuscript.
Panic punches through my ribcage and squeezes my heart. I gape at the screen, not quite believing my laptop could just delete itself, so I call Myra and reboot.
She answers in one ring. “Hey?—”
“Do you have the latest version of the manuscript?” I ask, my voice quickening.
“About that.” Hesitating, she draws in a long breath. “I’m not feeling that extra storyline. People want to read about the sexy killer with the pierced cock, not some bumbling copycat the same height as the heroine.”
“Right, but do you still have a copy?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“My computer just wiped everything. All my files are gone.”
“Oh, shit,” she shrieks. “Let me check.”
I clasp an arm over my belly, which won’t stop sinking with impending doom. It’s not just the manuscript I’ve lost, but all my replies to Xero’s letters. They were scanned before mailing, and the originals are in the penitentiary. As I wait for Myra to get back to the phone, I walk to my little filing cabinet to check on the letters I received from Xero.
It’s empty. They’re gone.
All that’s left is a note in Xero’s spiky handwriting that says one word: NO.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Whoever left the contract also broke into my house and took the letters.
“Amy?” Myra’s voice sounds from the receiver.
I bring the phone to my ear. “Yes?”
“My laptop got hit with a virus.”