She must have, Sarah thought, even though she couldn’t remember doing it. She’d had another dream. She could remember waking up, feeling that same, too-familiar guilt, and maybe her feet had been dirty again? And had she been hurt, somehow, some cut or bruise? She couldn’t remember. The dream, and the awakening, the horror and confusion, it all felt hazy and distant, and now the work was sharp and urgent, more real than the world around her. At five in the morning, she might have been, must have been, desperate to talk, desperate for someone to tell her that there was a reasonable explanation for what she was feeling, for the nightmares, and the bruises and the cuts, the torn fingernails and the awful iron taste in her mouth, but now, she wanted to type, and let the story keep pouring out of her. The daughter had died. The wife had gone missing. The husband had gone after her, and, Sarah suspected, there was something very bad waiting for him. She wasn’t sure, though, and she couldn’t wait to find out.

“Is everything all right?” asked Will

“Fine,” she said.

“I’m glad I caught you. I loved the pages you sent, and I slipped them to a few of my favorite editors.”

Sarah felt a faint stirring of interest. “What’d they say?” she made herself asked.

“They loved it. Loved it. They want to make offers on the partial, but, of course, I told them to wait until you’re done. I think we’re going to do very well. Very well indeed. Meanwhile, have you checked your Amazon rankings?”

Sarah tried to remember. At home, she monitored those numbers religiously, as depressing as they were. Out here, she didn’t think she’d looked even once. “No. Why?”

“Because Double Hitch is number ninety-three in the Domestic Thrillers and Suspense category. And LitHub just named The Monday Wife one of the ten best thrillers you haven’t read yet.”

“Oh.” Sarah tried to make herself sound enthusiastic. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Will chuckled. “All good things. And you’re good? And the writing’s going well?”

“Oh, yes.” The writing mattered, and how she’d felt that morning, how she’d screamed when she’d seen the mess on her sheets, the tuft of something white—fur? hair?—on her pillow, and worse underneath the bed. She’d gone to shower, and then she’d cleaned up the mess, bundling the sheets into the washing machine and using a mop on the floor, hurrying through the tasks, desperate to be back at her computer.

“Then I’ll let you get to it.” Will made the sound of a cracking whip. “Back to work!”