Chapter 4: The Note


Laura Roslin hated waiting.

The last few weeks before a new book came out were always the worst: what if no one bought it? What if the critics panned it? What if everyone loved it, and the pressure of the expectations for her next book made it impossible for her to ever write another word?

"I've been thinking about going back to teaching," she'd told her publicist that morning over the phone. "I don't know if I have another book in me."

Tory's heavy sigh held the weight of too many years spent coddling the talent. "Ms. Roslin, you say that after every book."

Laura hadn't stayed on the phone long after that.

A soft knock on the door startled her out of her musings. Laura never had unexpected guests. She didn't know anyone in this quiet little town; that was why she'd moved here.

But to her relief, there was no one at her door, only a neatly folded sheet of drafting paper slipped underneath, with one line penciled into the thick parchment.

I can't wait to find out how you do me in.

Laura's snort of amusement took her by surprise. The note was unsigned, but there wasn't any doubt about who had left it–and frankly, she hadn't thought he had the sense of humor. She'd only left one of her pre-pub copies on his porch so she'd have a few weeks before the release date to find out if she was facing a lawsuit, or merely an icy, further estranged neighbor. She and Adama hadn't spoken since last summer, when he'd finally finished building the house and moved in. She'd seen him and his two small boys (and their overly vocal canine companion) come and go in the months since then, and she'd certainly heard them, and the cacophony of shouting and laughing and barking that she'd grown accustomed to resenting. But they had scrupulously avoided conversation–which suited her just fine.

But this…

Laura was a little curious now, herself.