I own nothing, I just like to play!
This story is rated M for mature content. Please refrain from reading if you find violence or sexual themes objectionable or if you are underage.
Chapter 3 – Exposition
Exposition:
Dialogue, description, etc., that gives the audience or reader the background of the characters and the present situation.
When I woke up to the piercing beeps of my alarm clock the next morning, I could only vaguely remember what I had been thinking of just before I had fallen asleep. I rolled over and picked up my notepad off the nightstand. I always kept writing materials in the drawer beside my bed in case of late or middle of the night inspiration. Luckily, my notes were clear and reading them brought back the mental image of the box of jewellery to me in complete clarity. A cache of stolen mementos all lined up, ordered and compartmentalized.
I shuddered, an involuntary response to the combination of the morning chill and the thought of this character killing so many women, fictional as they might be. His was a much more difficult head to imagine being inside now that I had seen his violence in action.
Hearing that I was awake, Jake trotted into the room and jumped up onto the bed to greet me. He padded towards me across the sheets, let out a high pitched mewl and perched himself on my pillow, wrapping his body around my head. He poked at my cheek with his paw and licked his tiny, rough tongue across my forehead before starting to purr, loud and deep.
"I know you only love me for my Tender Vittles," I accused, scooping him up off the bed with me and carrying him under one arm to the kitchen to feed him his breakfast.
I ate my own bowl of food, showered and got dressed quickly. It would take me an hour to make the drive to Laurent's office on the university campus, perhaps even longer with the typically heavy morning traffic in the city. His schedule was still fairly open because classes for the fall semester hadn't commenced yet, but I didn't want to be late meeting him.
On my way into Seattle, I made a brief stop in North Bend to check my post office box. I had started having my fan mail delivered here when I had moved out to the cabin. When my book had first become popular, I started receiving overwhelming numbers of letters from readers, but the volume had gradually tapered to a more manageable flow as the media blitz subsided. I still opened and at least skimmed all of the letters myself, but very early on I had realized that I would have to resort to having form replies sent out as responses. I at least signed them myself and I still wrote the occasional personal reply when a letter was in some way extraordinary, but I just didn't have enough hours in the day to do that for all of them.
It had still felt very strange to me that there were so many people, so many strangers, who felt compelled enough by my writing to send me a letter full of thoughts they wanted me, or their idea of me, to know. I didn't think I would ever get used to all of the attention – I had expected the life of a author would be more anonymous.
One of my best friends from college, Angela Cheney, handled all of the mail for me after I had poked through it myself. She addressed and mailed all of the autographed form responses and also managed my personal website, making sure it was up to date with any upcoming appearances and moderating the message board. It was a perfect setup. I had someone I had known for years taking care of these things for me and she had some part-time employment that she could do from home while she cared for twin sons that had been born earlier in the year.
I hadn't been to the post office in about a week and a half and I was surprised at how much mail had accumulated since my last visit. My box was completely stuffed with envelopes and a couple of small parcels. It was always slightly terrifying to open the packages. Someone had once sent me a small doll that had been elaborately made up with custom, handmade clothing and gory, painted-on wounds to replicate the murder victim in my first novel. That story had taken place in the desert and a handful of sand had even been thrown into the package with the doll to complete the effect.
It doesn't get much creepier than that.
I transferred my mail to a large plastic bag I had brought with me, relocked the post office box and headed back out to my truck to finish the drive into the city. The traffic wasn't as bad as I'd feared, but it was after ten by the time I made it into central Seattle so most people had already completed their morning commutes. At the university, I paid an attendant and parked my truck in a visitor's lot.
As I walked to meet Laurent, I made a point of walking past the Suzzallo Library, my absolute favorite building on campus. Its gothic architecture was impressive from the exterior, all sculptures, arches and buttresses, but inside it was absolutely magical. Up a wide marble staircase was the reading room, a long, cathedral-like space with a vaulted ceiling, leaded and stained glass windows, luminous chandeliers and sturdy oak furniture. I had always felt smarter just walking through its doors. It was a sanctuary to me during my college years and I had spent countless hours sitting at one of its desks to study, write and occasionally daydream that I was a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry rather than the University of Washington. I had even written some portions of my first book in there, scenes I had dreamed up while I was still a student.
Laurent's office, in comparison, was small and cluttered with teetering stacks of books and loose sheets of paper. In addition to his teaching responsibilities, he was also a well-known writer who had published several volumes of poetry and made regular contributions to literary journals. His floor to ceiling shelves were completely stuffed with every type of publication imaginable – thick scholarly tomes, dissertations, novels, magazines.
He looked up from his work and smiled as I walked through the doorway. "I was just thinking it that it would be a perfect time for a coffee break."
We headed to a nearby kiosk to pick up some beverages and then sat down together on a bench outside of his building.
"Before we talk shop, I've been meaning to ask you for a favor," Laurent said, waiting for an indication that I would probably agree to whatever he was about to ask.
"Of course… anything," I replied. "I'd have to do it even if we weren't friends. I mean, god, I owe my entire career to you."
"You don't owe me anything, Bella. Your book has done so well because you're a gifted writer. But I would really appreciate it if you'd consider coming in to give a talk to my freshman creative writing course in September about your experiences as an author. I think the students would get a lot out of it and it might be a good experience for you too."
"Really? I would love to speak to your students! I'd be so honored to do it."
"Well, great. We can talk some more about the details later on, but why don't we stop back at my office before you leave so we can choose a date that works for you?"
"Sounds good," I agreed. "I'm really looking forward to it."
Laurent turned towards me on the bench. "Thank you, Bella. Now, tell me, how is that book of yours coming along?"
We spoke at length about my various plans and the problems I was having with my writing. I knew that I was the only one who could ultimately resolve my difficulties, but Laurent was an excellent sounding board for my ideas. He mostly listened, but he also asked some good questions that opened up new avenues of thought for me. Mostly I was just happy to have someone to talk to about my work that I felt comfortable with. I had always been an extremely self-conscious writer, afraid to show my words to anyone else unless I felt they were perfect.
His final advice to me was something I knew already, but always needed reminded of. He encouraged me just to write, to get whatever was in my head out and down on paper and to worry about the editing and seaming together of things later on. It was always better to write things down, even if it was material that would never be used or would need a major overhaul.
When we had finished talking, we returned to Laurent's office and set up a date for me to speak to his class in the middle of September. After I had promised him that I would keep in touch more regularly, I walked back across campus to my truck. From the university, it was just a short drive to Victoria's downtown office. But before I could leave the parking lot, a new insight into my story suddenly popped into my head.
He weaves his way through the night-dampened ferns along the river's edge, as quickly as he can manage with a body in tow. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is beginning to lighten and he dares not linger in the place he has chosen for her. She will be easily discovered here and he must be long gone when this occurs.
He wants her to be found.
Laying her down in the pebbled shallows between the shore and a small, grassy patch of island, he rolls her free of the blue plastic sheath he had encased her in. He was careful to free her limbs of their bindings before she stiffened and now she splays out just as he had envisioned. Palms upturned, arms outstretched, hair fanning out like a halo. She is an angel offering herself to the heavens. The water rushes around her and then over her, tickling slowly across unfeeling flesh.
He retreats as the river begins to wash her clean. He allows himself to turn to admire his masterpiece only once before he fades back into the dark wall of trees and heads out towards the road.
I searched and found a pen in my purse, but had no luck in finding any paper. There wasn't even a random grocery receipt in there that I could write on. I looked around the truck, desperate for something to save me from having to take notes about a corpse on the palm of my hand. I felt relieved when I remembered my bag of fan mail sitting on the other end of the bench seat.
Fishing my hand into the bag, I pulled out a single letter. The front was covered in stamps and ink, but the reverse was beautifully blank. I jotted down a few phrases describing key features of the events that had just taken place in my mind. I was struck by a strong feeling of familiarity with the setting again. Déjà vu. This time, I felt like I had been to that very spot before, but I couldn't say where or when.
I pushed the thought out of my mind for the moment. I had a lunch meeting to get to and Victoria was definitely not someone who liked to be kept waiting.
I arrived at her literary agency a few minutes before noon. It was a small and plain office, with only a few agents who represented authors writing both fiction and non-fiction in the Pacific Northwest. They specialized in promoting new and upcoming local writers to the remote, corporate publishing giants in New York City. When my book had become such a success, some people had encouraged me to seek out a new agency with a well recognized name and more contacts in the industry. But I trusted Victoria. She and Laurent were old friends and he had recommended her to me when I was ready to try to sell my first novel. I would always be grateful to both of them for believing in me and helping to achieve my first printed words.
I waved to Riley, the agency's receptionist as I entered. He was on the telephone, but he waved me over towards Victoria's office. She emerged before I could take another step though, bursting towards me in her characteristic rush.
"Bella, it is so good to see you!" she gushed as she came across the lobby to me and pulled me into a brief hug. "Did you manage to catch up on some sleep last night?"
"I am much better rested today, thank you. How are things with you?"
"Oh, crazy as always! Let's walk while we talk," she said as she steered me back out of the building by my elbow. "So the writing is going well?"
"I'm definitely making progress."
It wasn't technically a lie, but I felt a twinge of guilt for purposely misleading her.
I stepped up my pace to keep up with her. Victoria was tall and leggy with a mane of flame colored hair that blazed down her back in carefully constructed disarray. A modern day Amazon, she practically oozed confidence and tenacity as she stalked along the cement.
"Are you sure you don't want me to read through any of it yet? Marcus is really starting to get impatient to see something concrete, you know. He's been badgering me by phone and email because he hasn't heard anything from you in weeks."
Marcus worked for my publisher in New York. I had signed a contract granting them rights to up to three upcoming novels based on the success of my debut.
"I'm sorry he's been pestering you… I will give him a call later today. I realize I've been sort of sequestering myself, but I know he's not going to like what I have to say. I'm not ready to show this to anyone yet, but I am going to get through it eventually. I just need some more time."
"Fair enough. Just call and keep him updated, okay? Now, there's someone in here I want you to meet," Victoria told me as we walked into the restaurant. She gestured ahead at a table across the room where a man was rising from his seat at an otherwise empty table to greet us.
He was absolutely gorgeous – tall and lean with a shock of golden curls and a flirtatious smile that dazzled.
"Bella Swan, this is Jasper Whitlock. Jasper… Bella." I extended my hand to him as we were introduced and he took it in his, shaking gently.
"Miss Swan, it is a great pleasure to meet you. I loved your book," he said, his voice saturated with the sweet, lilting slowness of the south.
"Thank you very much," I replied, retracting my hand as I sat down at the table. "But please, just call me Bella."
A waitress came to take our lunch orders immediately, so our conversation was delayed until she had retreated.
"The reason I wanted to introduce you to Jasper today is that he has just accepted a position with our agency. He is coming to us after working for an old friend of mine in New York as an assistant for the last couple of years."
"Well, it's lovely to meet you too, Jasper. I hope you're enjoying Seattle so far. What made you decide to move here from the big city?"
He looked like he was considering how to answer my question for a moment before responding. "I've never really been much of a city boy, to tell you the truth. I grew up on a ranch in Texas so even after a few years, New York could still be overwhelming. Here, at least a guy can get out and experience a bit of nature on the weekends. And how could I pass up the opportunity to represent the famous Isabella Swan?"
I couldn't help but smile. Jasper Whitlock was charming and he knew it.
"We've been looking at ways to grow the agency for a while now and we're getting ready to put some of our plans for expansion into action," Victoria explained. "Jasper has already started shadowing me here, learning about the business and all of my clients. You're going to be seeing a lot more of him from here on out."
The meeting had taken on a more serious tone. It was starting to sound like Victoria was either leaving the agency entirely or was at least shuffling their client load around significantly. Confusion must have registered on my face because Victoria was quick to clarify the situation.
"Bella, don't worry. I am still going to be your agent. But we're going to be opening a small satellite office in New York by the end of the year and James and I are going to be relocating there temporarily while we get things off the ground."
James was Victoria's husband, a lawyer who handled all of the agency's legal needs. He was as aggressive in business as his wife and together they made a formidable negotiating team.
"You'll be seeing Jasper's face more than mine, but I'm still going to be working as hard for you as I do now."
"I'd be lying if I said this doesn't concern me a little," I admitted. "I've gotten used to being able to come by your office whenever we needed to talk."
At this point, Jasper was keen to interject. "And that's what I'll be here for, Bella. I know we've just met, but I will be as committed to you as a client as Victoria has been. My door will be open to you anytime."
There was something very reassuring about him. Damn that southern drawl.
Our lunch arrived at the table and we talked more about the agency's expansion plans while we ate. Jasper was also eager to ask me about my writing. He had some interesting questions about my first book and my writing process. By the time I had finished my moussaka, he had started to feel like a friend and I was feeling a lot more comfortable with the idea of having to interact with him as a co-agent.
Alice arrived at the restaurant to meet me earlier than we'd planned, a result of her excitement to shop for me, no doubt. She slipped onto the seat beside me at the table as the waitress cleared our plates.
"Can I join you for baklava?" she asked, flashing a hopeful grin. "No one should talk about anything serious over dessert… Hi, Victoria… oh, and hello, I'm Bella's friend Alice. I don't think we've met."
Instead of extending her hand, she raised it and waved with a tiny flourish at Jasper.
"Alice, this is Jasper. He's just moved here and is starting to work for Victoria."
"It's a pleasure, Alice," he said, smiling widely. "I would be delighted if you could join us for dessert."
One piece of pistachio-encrusted honeyed goodness later and I was completely stuffed. Leaning back into my chair, I realized that the conversation at the table had been completely overtaken by Alice and Jasper. They were enthusiastically discussing the respective merits of various indie bands neither Victoria nor I had ever heard of.
Victoria was the one to interrupt them. "We'd better head back to the office, Jasper. We've got a meeting at one. Alice, it was good to see you and Bella, we'll talk more about the upcoming changes later. Just focus on your writing and try not to worry… Jasper and I are here to take care of everything else."
We all exited the restaurant together and said our final goodbyes on the sidewalk before turning to head in separate directions.
"Bella, who is he?!" Alice squealed once Victoria and Jasper had turned the corner. "And why have you been keeping him from me?"
She gripped onto my arm as she bounced alongside me.
"Down girl… I've only known him half an hour longer than you have!"
"Isn't he just the most beautiful?" she babbled on, all starry-eyed and effervescent. "Oh, Bella, I'm going to marry him!"
I could only laugh at her exuberance. "Well, I will only agree to be your maid of honor if you can help find me some perfect grown up clothes today, so we'd better get started."
Alice traipsed me through at least a half a dozen boutiques that afternoon. I had to admit, she really knew her stuff. Not once did she have me try something on that made me feel awkward or uncomfortable and I spent a lot more money than I had planned to. But in the end, I came away with several bags filled with simple and classic pieces I could mix and match into multiple outfits.
"I couldn't have done it without you, babe," I said, pulling Alice into a tight hug on the sidewalk outside the last shop we had visited.
"You can thank me by getting Jasper's number for me," she replied with a wink. "He needs a Washington native to show him around town!"
"I'll see what I can do. Thanks again, Alice. Really, you were so much help!"
We parted ways and I drove back out of the city, the truck's bench seat cluttered with shopping debris beside me. Once I reached the cabin, I hauled all of the bags, including the sack of mail I had picked up earlier, inside. I hung up my purchases in the closet, not wanting to wrinkle them before I'd even had a chance to wear them and I settled into the living room. I wanted to spend the evening working on my writing.
Thinking of the back-of-the-envelope scrawling I had done earlier in the day, I retrieved the letter from my purse to look it over. My notes were brief, but sufficient to trigger my memory. I remembered feeling the familiarity of that spot along the river, but I still couldn't put a finger on why I felt that way and it nagged at me.
I shook the thought out of my head again. I decided a dose of praise from an enthusiastic reader might be just what I needed to boost my confidence and propel my work forward, so I tore open the envelope, careful not to disturb my own handwriting on its backside.
Inside was a single sheet of crisp, white paper creased into thirds. I opened it and flipped it over, confused at first, wondering if it was completely blank. But I finally saw the words, obscured in one of the folds, written in tiny, elegant script.
Isabella, I am watching you.
Thanks so much to everyone who is reading… it's so exciting to see that people are actually interested in my little story!
If you have any questions or comments or suggestions for improvement I'd really appreciate hearing them. I am brand new to this, so if there is anything I could be doing differently to make it a better read I would love to hear about it before my chapter count gets up into the double digits!