Page 1 of Fighting Words

CHAPTER 1

SUMMER

“This is it,”the British cabbie declares. “We’re here.”

No. That can’t be right.

I lean closer to the window, anxious to get a better view of the dilapidated stone building to my right—home sweet home for the next week or two.

Truthfully, dilapidated is too nice of a word to describe the place. Monstrously hideous? Beyond salvation? Legitimately haunted? A window on the ground floor has two shattered panes as if someone has thrown a rock through them. A chunk of the stone wall on the right has completely crumbled. Also the front door is wide open, swinging ominously.

“Bloody hell. Looks to be abandoned.” The driver turns back to me. “You sure you have the right address?”

I look down at the itinerary I created for myself then back up at the building.

“Yes. This is it. Crown House, says it right there on that sign.” The one hanging sideways off a single hinge, the painted black letters mostly flaked off so that instead of Crown House, it readsCrow Ho s.

We agree I should scope it out first before I bother retrieving my luggage from the trunk. As I walk up the short path to the front door, my boots crunch atop freshly fallen snow.

The sun has nearly set and I’m losing daylight by the second, which is annoying considering my original travel plan would have had me here hours ago. My flight landed in Leeds this afternoon, but I was delayed by a small luggage fiasco. A woman took my suitcase from the carousel, and when I tried to convince her of her mistake, she shouted for airport security. There was no confusion on my end. I’ve had the suitcase for over a decade, and it’s on its last leg. The wheels only turn when they feel like it, and the handle is permanently jammed in place. Still, the woman clung to it like her life depended on it. I had three interviews with customs officials, one ID check, and a few passes through a metal detector before I got into a cab withmysuitcase to make the journey north. Now, it’s a little past 6:00 p.m. andCrow Hosis dark inside.

I stop at the front door and poke my head inside. “Hello?”

My voice echoes faintly off the stone walls. The place is empty. There’s nothing inside except a few pieces of furniture cast off by a previous owner, maybe one who lived here in—and this is just a ballpark—the Paleolithic era.

Something suddenly moves to my right, and I jump a mile in the air before I realize it’s just some rustling leaves. I try to laugh off the scare, but I still book it back to the cab like there’s an angry ghost at my heels. I’m not someone to back down from a challenge, but there’s obviously been some mistake. When InkWell coordinated my travel, they must not have realized Crown House is no longer in operation. That’s fine. It’s not like I’m alone in a foreign country with nowhere to go and no one to call as the sun sets. That would be…bad.

I reclaim the back seat and shut my door. “I can’t stay here.”

“Where to then?” he asks with a new layer of impatience in his tone. I’m suddenly not worth the trouble of the flat-rate fare from the train station.

I look at my itinerary, my last saving grace. Beneath my flight times and the Crown House address, I wrote directions to get to Nathaniel Foster’s house from the train station. I was planning to visit him first thing in the morning, during work hours, but I don’t have a choice now.

My phone gets absolutely no service out here. Nathaniel will know what to do. He can suggest a place to stay or maybe even let me crash for a night and help me figure things out in the morning. Sure, there’s the slight chance he won’t be all that enthused when he sees me and realizes who I am…

The driver clears his throat, forcing my hand.

“Here,” I say, passing him the paper. “Could you take me to that address, please?”

After a barely stifled sigh, he pulls out onto the main road. He has no trouble navigating the English countryside in the dark. At least one of us has a sense of direction. I’m all turned around; we left any sign of civilization a long time ago. Now Ithinkwe’re in the Yorkshire Dales, a national park with thousands of square miles of moors, valleys, and hills…and as far as I can tell, absolutelyzeroHoliday Inns.

The snow is really coming down now. Even with the driver’s headlights illuminating the road and his windshield wipers whipping back and forth at full steam, it’s hard to tell when there’s an upcoming curve or bend. I’m getting slung back and forth in the back seat like a pinball, but I don’t complain because I’ve officially overstayed my welcome in this cab. The last thing I need him to do is kick me out prematurely. Fortunately, the turnoff for Nathaniel’s house is only about ten minutes away from Crown House. It makes sense that the publisher would have booked my lodgings near him. I’ll give them credit for that even if they dropped the ball on the place being habitable.

Nathaniel doesn’t live directly off the main road. We bump along a narrow lane, sandwiched by moonlit fields and rolling hills until we finally reach a short wooden fence that surrounds a stone cottage worthy of Nancy Meyers herself.What in the Hallmark Movie?

There’s a light dusting of snow covering the aged tile roof, puffs of smoke billow from a chimney, and a little wreath hangs on the pale green front door. I’ve never seen a place so quaint and inviting.

Someone is definitely home. Warm light spills out of a first-floor window that frames a small living room where a dark red reading chair is angled toward a roaring fire. Steam curls up from a cup of tea sitting on a table beside the chair. Next to it, a paperback is resting with its pages face down. Someone is having a perfect evening. Nathaniel? Or a guest?

This time, the driver doesn’t give me a chance to change my mind about my destination. He asks for payment immediately upon parking the cab then hops out and has my suitcase unloaded before I even have my feet planted on the snow. The trunk slams as I walk through a small gate toward the front door, and tires squeal as the vehicle peels away.

Right.

With nothing left to lose, I rap my fist against the door, just beneath the cheery wreath, and then I step back and try a smile on for size. Too wide seems slightly psychotic. Totally flat makes me look as annoyed and tired as I am. I settle for something in between by the time the door swings open and Nathaniel Foster fills the space on the other side.

I have to look up to see him properly. He’s taller than I expected. Different in a thousand ways, actually. Those tiny photos on book jackets aren’t to scale, and the author photo we have on file for him is old, taken years ago when he was still in his late twenties. The man in front of me is grizzly compared to the prim and proper writer I was expecting. Day-old stubble coats his jaw, his short honey-brown hair disheveled and messy. His eyes—the softest, most gentle blue color I’ve ever seen on a person—stare at me with confusion.

He takes me in then looks behind me, expecting to find a car, I’m sure. When his eyes land on me again, I feel their weight.

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