**Heads up - a somewhat erotic chapter**
Edith shoved her Underwood aside and sat down at her writing desk with pen in hand. She tore open a drawer and fumbled to retrieve a sheet of her finest personal stationary. Tears in her eyes, she took a deep breath and willed her right hand to stop shaking. Don't alarm him, she thought, or he'll take the first train out to Chicago.
If that happened, she feared, he wouldn't be safe. She started to write.
My dearest Alan,
I hope this letter finds you very well. I'm writing today to let you know that I've decided to end my stay at the Rosalie Villas. I thought the change in scenery would be ideal for finishing my next manuscript, but truth be told, I haven't found Chicago to be all that much different from Buffalo, and there's no sense in staying here when the sights and sounds fail to inspire me the way I'd hoped.
She stared at the page. Alan would never believe it. He'd been to Chicago and knew it for what it was – a city reborn from the ashes of a terrible fire and now pulsing with art and new ideas, a stunning gem. He would know it was just the sort of city Edith would fall in love with if she were given half the chance. She wiped her wet, red face with a handkerchief. The sooner you write it, the sooner you send it, the sooner you can leave.
She continued: There are a few housekeeping items I have to attend to, but once they're all settled I'll be on a train and on my way back home. I don't anticipate it will take more than a month or two. I would very much appreciate it if you could speak to my lodgers on my behalf, to give them enough notice prior to my return.
She let out a sob, pressed the handkerchief to her lips. I'd like to travel again one day, she wrote, perhaps to France or to India. For now, however, I'm a simple Buffalonian who can't wait to see you, my dearest friend. Yours, Edith.
She stood and went to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a very generous glass of sherry, and returned to her desk. Funny, she thought as she sat down again, that's the first thing I've written since I arrived.
The sherry did wonders to calm her nerves. She started a mental list of the next steps she would have to take before leaving Chicago for good. Once morning came around, she would contact her publisher and ask if they had another writer who could take over her residency. She was keen to avoid speaking to the landlord, a skeletal old creep named Stockwell who seemed to despise every woman he laid his milky eyes on. The post office would have to be informed of her change of address, and the bank. Mrs. Williams would try to talk her out of leaving, of course, but that was to be expected from a fan of her ilk. And besides, Edith was used to making her excuses by then.
She sat back in her chair and finished off the sherry. A moment later, she found herself nodding off and rubbed her eyes. Go to bed, she thought. You're useless when you're exhausted. But she couldn't help it; the letter – a testament to prove she was still in control – was too much of a comfort to her. She folded it and pressed it over her heart. He won't hurt you, she thought as her vision went fuzzy. He's dead and gone. He wants to scare you into thinking you're still his, but you're not. You're not.
The warmth she felt when she was sitting with Mrs. Williams returned.
As the cushion softened, as the air filled with his scent once more, he brought that same rush of heat to her buttocks, to between her legs. She gasped, but couldn't bring herself to rise from the chair. "Thomas…" she murmured, squirming against the seat. She dropped the letter on the desk and wrapped her hands around the arm rests. The upholstery was gone; in its place: soft, pale skin that sprouted dark hairs. Thomas' arms.
The chair tilted back with Edith still seated there. Her nightgown slipped over her thighs. She smoothed her thumbs over the arm rests and murmured, "It won't work, it won't work… I know what you're doing…" But when she looked down she saw that the cushion, too, had taken on the smooth, warm texture of his skin, and she started to writhe ardently against him. The memory of their one night together took over her thoughts, obliterated every other hateful, despicable thing he'd done. For a moment, this was the only truth she wanted. The heat between her legs became a steady beat, pulsing against the most delicate part of her, until she cried out and let herself come.
It had been so long, and the delight was so intense, that she drifted off to sleep while still lying there, in those strong, borrowed arms.
Slowly, so as not to disturb her, the chair gave her up, and she drifted into the hallway and up the stairs. She lay in her bed a moment later, with the sheets tucked in around her, and the candle she kept burning on her night table was blown out.
Her letter to Alan floated up above the desk. Invisible fingers unfolded it. Invisible eyes read what was written there. Then the paper crumpled up as though it were being squeezed in a violent fist, and it was hurled into the flames of a fire that lay dying in its place.