I’ve been at it for hours and I’m cranking out page after page in the Writing Room. After a few more jokes at my expense over at Mildred’s, I came home and set to work in my notebook. It took me about an hour to hit my stride, but now, I’m on fire. The characters are emerging out of the fog of my mind and coming to life. The dialogue is cracking. I’m turning some nice phrases in my descriptions. I haven’t felt like this since the accident. I’m completely immersed in a world of my own creation.

Jake Solomon is prowling the streets of Washington D.C., late at night, on the trail of the hitman who nearly killed him. Only a jump from a rooftop spared him from the assassin’s bullet. Now, with the help of an intrepid reporter who Jake doesn’t entirely trust, he has the hitman cornered, but he thinks the reporter might be working with him to get Jake to—

Thunk.

I’m so caught up in my writing, it takes a repetition of the noise to register.

… thunk.

There it is, again, in the bookcase.

I’m tempted to let the rat or whatever critter is living in there to have its day. I don’t want to leave my characters in the lurch.

… thunk.

With an exasperated sigh, I drop my pen, swivel my chair, get up, step around the desk, and over to the bookcase.

I stay absolutely still.

One minute passes … then two …

Come on, Mickey. If we’re going to do this, let’s do—

… thunk.

There. At least, I think it was there, on the side of the bookcase.

I carefully crouch down and hold my ear to the cold wood. There’s that ‘ocean’ sound you always hear when you press your ear against something; a low, distorted rumble.

Another minute goes by … then another.

There are no sounds of scratching or scurrying from inside.

Waiting … waiting …

Then, I hear something—not scratching or scurrying from inside the bookcase, but a voice. A whisper right next to my ear.

“Rebecca’s here …”

I fall backwards, away from the bookcase.

My heart is pounding. My chest is heaving. I stare at the spot.

On the desk, my phone begins to ring.

I pick myself off the floor and work my way to the desk, keeping my eyes on the bookcase.

I check the caller ID and hit ‘answer’.

“Denise?” I ask.

“Mr. Price?”

I’m still focused on the bookcase.

“Mr. Price, are you there?”

There’s an edge to her tone and apparently, we’re on a last name basis, again.

“Yes,” I answer, eyes still on the bookcase. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine, but there’s been an incident with Caitlyn.”

I instantly forget the bookcase. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, but could you come to the school, please?”

19