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CHAPTER ONE
Isabel was getting sick at looking at the blinking cursor. She could only stand looking at the computer for so long. The screen was beginning to hurt her eyes. Maybe she would invest in a typewriter to write her manuscripts. Her literary agent would loathe that.
Isabel had two books out there in the world under the name Z. Langdon, and her literary agent, Nancy, was hungry for a third manuscript. Isabel hadn't been able to provide. She had been hoping for a flood of inspiration after Constance's funeral. But here she was, months later, and nothing came to mind.
There was a knock on the study door and Moira walked in with a cup of tea. Despite being just as dead as the other occupants, she preferred the ways of the living: knocking before entering rooms, going through the hallways rather than just appearing. Isabel appreciated it.
"How's the book coming along?" Moira asked, setting the teacup next to the shut laptop.
"It's coming." Isabel picked up the tea and sipped, jumping a little as it stung the tip of her tongue.
"Careful it's―"
"Hot, yeah, I got that." Isabel set the tea down and leaned back in her chair. "Fucking writer's block…"
"You just need to take a break. Stop staring at screens. I heard that the best way for a writer to spend her time is to read." Moira walked over to the bookshelf, eyes roaming over the titles.
Derek kept an eclectic selection of novels ranging from autobiographies to science fiction. Though not a speck of dust rested on the shelves, Moira knew, being the one that dusted, that the books hadn't been touched in months, probably since Derek's passing. Isabel could put a fond smile on her face, use Derek's study as her own, but Moira saw the pain in her eyes every day.
Moira reached out, her fingertips brushing against the spines in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Isabel flinch as ghosts of the past were disturbed. Moira knew better than to take one off of the shelf. Too much, too fast. Instead, she turned and faced Isabel. "Take the afternoon off. Read," she instructed. "And drink your tea."
When Moira left, Isabel picked up the teacup and sipped it with caution, pleased to find that it cooled down somewhat. She set it aside and walked over to the books.
There was an overwhelming number of titles, and nothing was organized; it was a nightmare to look at, and it made Isabel smile fondly. Despite the disorganization, Derek would have known exactly where every title was. She reached out to grab a book without even reading the name, but stopped herself before she could touch it.
She returned to her cup of tea, letting the warmth soothe her.
Was she being ridiculous? They were just books; she ought to be able to pluck one from the shelf, no problem.
But it was a problem.
A problem for another time.
Isabel finished her tea, and used the empty cup as an excuse to leave the room. She brought it to the kitchen, taking her time with washing it despite not needing to what with a maid and a dishwasher. But Isabel enjoyed the distraction: the warm water running over her hands, nearly hot enough to burn her but not quite; the clean smell of the dish soap that made soft suds.
It didn't take long enough. She needed to do something; keep her mind busy. Baking, yes that would do that trick.
Isabel dried the teacup and put it back in the cupboard before taking out everything she would need to make chocolate cupcakes from scratch, a process that would take up a lot of her time. This was relaxing, wasn't it? Sure she wasn't reading like Moira suggested, but at least she wasn't losing her mind at the computer screen.
It didn't take long for the kitchen counters to become covered with flour and abandoned eggshells.
"You're sad."
Isabel turned to see Tate standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He was watching her forlornly, as if saddened by her sadness. It always struck Isabel as odd that murderer could look so much like a wounded puppy.
"Am I that obvious?"
"You bake aggressively when you're sad."
"No I don't," Isabel insisted before slamming an egg down on the counter to crack the shell. However, instead of just cracking, the egg shattered, yolk seeping between Isabel's fingers. "Coincidence," she said quickly, Tate not believing that for one second.
She cleaned up the eggy mess, and as she washed her hands, she said, "Well, aren't you going to ask me what's wrong?"
"Why? You're not going to tell me."
"Good point." She turned off the tap and returned to her mixing bowl. "How are you, by the way?" Isabel asked. Yes, it was a deflection, but also a genuine question. She and Tate never talked about their mother being part of the house and considering how much Tate loathed Constance (more than Isabel did), it was a difficult situation to be in.
"I'd say surviving but…" As he trailed off, he gestured to his ghostly body, and Isabel laughed.
"Fair enough." She supposed she was surviving as well. Having Constance around wasn't as awful as she initially thought it would have been. It wasn't great, and it wasn't a preference of hers, but she was surviving.
Was she though? Isabel thought back to the bookshelf. It was stupid; she ought to be able to take a book. But the thought of disturbing what belonged to Derek made her stomach twist.
Cleaning up his desk hadn't been a problem. She filed away the papers, storing them safely so that they could do what she was barely doing: survive. The rest of the study remained untouched, though. Could she really disturb the bookshelf after so many years?
Tate watched as Isabel mixed the cupcake batter, her eyes glazed over in thought. He walked over to her and put an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her. "Let me know when you're done," he murmured. "I want to lick the spoon."
Isabel grinned faintly, and Tate vanished.
Another cupcake tin filled and in the oven, Isabel cleaned up the kitchen to prevent herself from making more than the numerous batches she already made. She watched the timer on her phone counting down; it dragged on for ages. She tapped her foot restlessly, her mind constantly trailing back to the bookshelf.
She was being dumb. It was just a bookshelf. They were just books! Besides, wouldn't Derek want her reading from his collection? He'd probably lose his mind if he knew all of that literature was wasting away untouched.
With a few minutes left on the clock, Isabel abandoned her post in front of the oven and went to the study.
She grabbed a random book off of the shelf: War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. Her heart ached as the books were disturbed, but holding the novel in her hand brought a sense of comfort that she had been missing for years.
Isabel opened the book and rifled through the pages, letting her fingertips caress each edge. As she did so, a thick rectangle fell to the floor; an envelope.
Frowning, Isabel picked it up and read it over. It read "Happy Birthday! –Nancy and the gang." She opened the envelope, pulling out a plane ticket with the destination being a place called Outpost 3.
Her phone went off, signaling that it was time to take the cupcakes out of the oven. Isabel ignored it, reading over the envelope and the ticket again and again. Outpost 3? She never heard of such a place.
"Unless your intent is burning the house down, which I don't recommend, I'd suggest taking those cupcakes out of the oven," said Moira from the doorway. "What have you got there?"
"I don't know," Isabel answered, still studying the document. "Do you mind getting the cupcakes? I have to make a phone call." Isabel took out her phone as she spoke, and pulled up Nancy's number.