Chapter 1: The Letter






Veronica Reeves sighed as she leaned back in her chair. "That's enough for today. My brain's probably dead and fried." she muttered, rubbing her eyes. It was ten o'clock at night, and though brain-dead, she still wasn't tired in the least bit, having woken up at noon that day. Ah, well . . . might as well read some fan mail . . . She sat up with some difficulty and moaned. "My poor butt . . . I shouldn't have sat for so long." Aching, she made her way down one of the numerous hallways to the kitchen, where a pile of letters awaited her on the table. Looking at the large pile of mail, and then at the hard wooden chairs, she sighed and then laughed aloud. "I'd better stand up for this!" she chuckled.
Talking to herself had become a habit.
She picked up one of the letters and then set it down on the counter, pouring herself some soy milk. She sipped it and smacked her lips, smiling brightly. "Now . . . time to read some fan mail! Woo-hoo!" she exclaimed, jabbing a fist into the air.
Ronnie tore open the envelope messily; having lost the little knife she had been using the other day. It was bound to show up sooner or later, though . . . usually did-in unusual places like her bathrobe pocket, but still. She tugged the bone-white paper out of the massacred envelope and tossed the ruined article to the side. Unfolding the letter, she put the glass of soymilk to her lips. Let's see . . .
Hm. It was a short one. Typed in a neat print, too.

Dear Ms. Veronica Reeves,
I think you are a very good author.

"Mm. Nice opening . . . dull and blasé." she agreed with a sigh, and then read on.


I hope you are doing well. I see that you haven't gone on one of your regular evening walks around your backyard perimeters. Perhaps you are writing another book. It seems to me that you've been rather slow this week. I should know. I confess, I have been watching over your for quite some time. Years, in fact.

. . . Creepy. She'd definitely read that wrong or something. Her brain was fried, after all.
"Okay . . . let's read that again . . ." she muttered, squinting her eyes to get a better look at the letter.
She read it through again, a cold stone sliding down her throat as it plummeted to her stomach. This person-
Oh my God . . .
She dropped the glass in her hand, and it shattered into a thousand shards of pale blue onto the cold tile. Her eyes widened, horrified as she stared at the last line.

But you have been boring me, as you are no longer as entertaining to observe. A flower has lost its bloom, I suppose, so I'll do off with you soon. Ta.

Oh, holy shit.
It was a cliché threatening letter!

•

Brrrrrrriiinnnnnnng!
Brrrrrriiinnnnnnng!
Veronica sat hunched on her living room couch, wrapped in a soft, warm blanket as the phone rang on continuously. Her grey eyes stared off blankly into the black screen of the television. Funny how when it wasn't on, your mind wandered . . .
Like to thoughts of violent, traumatic and romantic deaths including a murderer and the murdered. A crazed stalker who was bipolar, beyond the line of sanity.
"This is Ronnie Reeves here. Sorry not to be here for your call. Well, not really, but you get the point. I hope you know what to do after the beep, 'cause if you don't, you've got the wrong number."
She waited patiently.
"Ronnie-!" Roz's voice echoed throughout the room hollowly, making her shudder at how cold it made her feel. "I know you're there, so pick up! Fine, then . . . don't pick up the stupid phone. I just called to tell you that I made a few calls and you can have a professional, top-notch, full-time bodyguard. So now you have no excuse to not come to your own book signing!"
She lunged at the phone and put it to her ear. "I don't need any damn bodyguard!" she shouted.
"Ha. I knew you were there." Roz said smugly. "And yes, you do need a bodyguard. And you've got enough money and room in that house of yours to house one or two, too."

"But . . . I don't want any robotic-like man poking through everything. It's so . . . I don't know . . ." she sighed, waving her hand in the air. "What's the phrase I want? Creepy? No, wait; give me a moment . . . intrusive and unnecessary . . . and something else. Extreme."
Her dry cough of a laugh bit the air like acid.
"Bodyguards are not all like that, you know. And enough with the freakin' attitude! Get up off that damn couch of yours and get a bodyguard! Call a firm or something!" Roz screeched. Ronnie jerked back, wincing as her ears rang painfully. "I'm not gonna be the one to walk up to your house and find you all bloody and dead! What, you think I wanna be the one who damn well has a mental breakdown and ends up in the freaking nuthouse!"