Opening her laptop, she assumed that she’d be able pick up where she’d left off the day before: the skull had been found in the Blue Room; the police had arrived; the evidence had been sent to the medical examiner, as the scene had played out on Chappy. Except in Annie’s book, the remains hadn’t washed ashore but had been found on the second floor of a museum, so the protocol needed to be different. And the story wouldn’t involve ordinary people losing their life savings and several others being made homeless. But as she stared at the screen, she realized that, as in her life, Annie had no idea what should happen next. Unfortunately, neither did her characters.

She upcapped the thermos, poured a cup of tea, and zipped her fleece hoodie. Without wood on the porch, she couldn’t start a fire in the stove, which she supposed she shouldn’t do, anyway. No sense announcing that, once again, she’d broken-and-entered, though technically, that time she’d only entered, as she’d done the actual breaking part the day before.

She wondered if it were possible to type while wearing gloves. She might try that sometime, when she actually knew what to write, when her mind wasn’t clogged with shadowy thoughts of Donna. And when her muses hadn’t abandoned her the way that Mark had.

Should she or shouldn’t she call Larry? It was clear he’d wasted no time contacting Mark—who had waited only two days before emerging from whatever rock he’d been hiding under.

Annie grimaced.

The truth was, though his appearance had shocked her, she had survived. There had been a time, during those first years after she’d moved into a four-hundred-and-fifty square-foot excuse for an apartment, when she’d still been teaching, had started writing, and had sunk most of her salary into making small dings, hardly dents, into the debt he’d left, that she hadn’t believed she’d ever feel whole again. She had, however, been convinced that if she saw him she would drop dead on the spot. That was when she was still hurting, before the anger had set in. She didn’t know if she’d ever find acceptance, if there would ever be a time when she’d feel sorry for him and everything he’d lost, including her. For now, she needed to be content with knowing that, when she’d opened the door and had seen his still handsome face (yes, that part was sad, but true), even though she’d panicked, she had not dropped dead.

With both hands on her cheeks and her eyes fixed on the lifeless keys on the keyboard, her thoughts moved back to Donna.

Was Kevin right?