“There. See? I did it,” she says, giving it a twist. She pushes down on the handle and leans against the door. The hinges sweetly groan as it swings open.

We step inside out of the wind and are greeted by the smell of polish from the gleaming hardwood floors. To the left is the living room. The sofa and coffee table are surrounded by unpacked boxes. Directly in front of us are the stairs to the second floor. The door to our right leads to the study.

No.

I forgot.

We were going to call it my “Writing Room”. It’s where I’m going to write the sequel to In the Shadows of Justice.

*

A couple years ago, I was a struggling writer, working as a substitute teacher, trying desperately to support a wife and child. We were living in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in Portsmouth, New Hampshire with this dream that one day, my little stories would become best-sellers. So far, all I had to show for it were two books that hadn’t gone anywhere. I felt like this third one, a political thriller, was my last shot.

Nicole and I had a routine; I would get up at four in the morning and start writing. Nicole would get up at six and get Caitlyn ready for school. Then, over a cup of coffee, Nicole and I would sit at our thrift-store-purchased kitchen table and I’d read to her what I had written. I loved it. I knew that if by some miracle, my political thriller became a best-seller, this would always be my favorite part; just me and Nicole, sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes widening as the story unfolded. She was my best critic, cheerleader, and editor. I’ll never forget the day we were sitting at the kitchen table, rain beating against the window, and I read the words ‘the end’. I looked up from the page and she had tears in her eyes. Nicole took my face in her hands, kissed me, and said, “This is it.”

We got an agent, there was a bidding war, and we were off to the races. And I keep saying ‘we’ because I mean ‘we’. No Nicole? No book.

Fourteen months later, after a year of editing, tweaking, and finally, publication day, came ‘the call’.

The book had been out for two months and sales were strong. The reviews were great. My publisher had already offered a two-book extension to my contract along with a handsome advance. Nicole and I tried not to talk about it too much, out of fear that we would jinx it.

Then, one morning while we were getting Caitlyn ready for school, my agent, Lana Gifton, called.

“Have you seen the New York Times best-seller list this morning?” she asked.

It took me a second or two, but I gradually grasped her meaning.

“… no way.”

“I really think you should,” she said, and hung up.