Verity

by Colleen Hoover

  Immediately upon signing the contract this morning, I received an email from Jeremy with directions to their house. I requested to come on Sunday, and luckily he agreed.

  Corey takes another dish from me. I can feel him staring at me. “You’re staying at their house?”

  “How else am I supposed to get her notes for the series?”

  “Have him mail them to you.”

  “She has thirteen years’ worth of notes and outlines. Jeremy said he wouldn’t even know where to begin, and it would be easier if I sorted through it myself.”

  Corey doesn’t say anything, but I can sense he’s biting his tongue. I slide the sponge down the length of the knife in my hand and then hand it to him.

  “What aren’t you saying?” I ask.

  He rinses the knife in silence, sets it in the strainer, then grips the edge of the sink and turns his head toward me. “The man lost two daughters. Then his wife gets injured in a car wreck. I’m not sure I’m all that comfortable with you being in his home.”

  The water suddenly seems too cold for me. Chills run down both arms. I turn off the water and dry my hands, leaning my back against the sink. “Are you suggesting he had something to do with any of it?”

  Corey shrugs. “I don’t know enough about what happened to suggest anything. But has that thought not crossed your mind? That maybe it’s not the safest thing to do? You don’t even know them.”

  I’m not ignorant. I’ve been digging up as much as I can find about them online. Their first child was at a sleepover fifteen miles away when she had an allergic reaction. Neither Jeremy nor Verity was there when it happened. And the second daughter drowned in the lake behind their home, but Jeremy didn’t arrive home until the search for her body was already in place. Both were ruled accidents. I can see why Corey is concerned, because I was, too, honestly. But the more I dig, the less I can find to be concerned about. Two tragic, unrelated accidents.

  “And what about Verity’s car wreck?”

  “It was an accident,” I say. “She hit a tree.”

  Corey’s expression suggests he isn’t convinced. “I read there weren’t any skidmarks. Which means she either fell asleep or she did it on purpose.”

  “Can you blame her?” I’m irritated that he’s making baseless claims. I turn around to finish the dishes. “She lost both of her daughters. Anyone who suffers through something like that would want to find a way out.”

  Corey dries his hands on the dish towel and then grabs his jacket off the barstool. “Accidents or not, the family obviously has shit luck and a hell of a lot of emotional damage, so you need to be careful. Get in, get what you need, and leave.”

  “How about you worry about the contractual details, Corey? I’ll worry about the research and writing part of it.”

  He slips on his jacket. “Just looking out for you.”

  Looking out for me? He knew my mother was dying, and he hasn’t checked in with me in two months. He’s not looking out for me. He’s an ex-boyfriend who thought he was going to get laid tonight, but instead, was quietly rejected right before finding out I’ll be staying in another man’s home. He’s disguising his jealousy as concern.

  I walk him to the door, relieved he’s leaving this soon. I don’t blame him for wanting to escape. This apartment has had a weird vibe in it since my mother moved in. It’s why I haven’t even bothered fighting the lease, or informing the landlord that I’ll have the money in two weeks. I want out of this place more than Corey does right now.

  “For what it’s worth,” he says, “congratulations. Whether you created this series or not, your writing led you to it. You should be proud of that.”

  I hate it when he says nice things at the height of my irritation. “Thank you.”

  “Text me as soon as you get there Sunday.”

  “I will.”

  “And let me know if you need any help moving.”

  “I won’t.”

  He laughs a little. “Okay, then.” He doesn’t hug me goodbye. He salutes me as he backs away, and we’ve never parted more awkwardly. I have a feeling our relationship is finally as it should be: Agent and author. Nothing more.

  I could have chosen anything else to do on this six-hour drive. I could have listened to “Bohemian Rhapsody” over sixty times. I could have called my old friend Natalie and played catch-up, especially since I haven’t even spoken to her in over six months. We text occasionally, but it would have been nice to hear her voice. Or maybe I could have used the time to mentally prep myself for all the reasons I’m going to stay far away from Jeremy Crawford while I’m in his home.

  But instead of doing any of that, I chose to listen to the audiobook of the first novel in Verity Crawford’s series.

  It just ended. My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. My mouth is parched from forgetting to hydrate on the drive over. My self-esteem is somewhere back in Albany.

  She’s good. Really good.

  Now I’m regretting having signed the contract. I’m not sure I can live up to that. And to think she’s already written six of these novels, all from the villain’s point of view. How can one brain hold that much creativity?

  Maybe the other five suck. I can hope. That way, there won’t be much expectation for the final three books in the series.

  Who am I kidding? Every time one of Verity’s novels releases, it hits number one on the Times.

  I just made myself twice as nervous than when I left Manhattan.

  I spend the rest of the drive ready to go back to New York with my tail between my legs, but I stick it out because thinking I’m not good enough is part of the writing process. It’s part of mine, anyway. For me, there are three steps to completing each of my books.

  1) Start the book and hate everything I write.

  2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write.

  3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it.

  There’s never a point in my writing process where I feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to accomplish, or when I believe I’ve written something everyone needs to read. Most of the time, I cry in my shower and stare at my computer screen like a zombie, wondering how so many other authors can promote their books with so much confidence. “This is the greatest thing since the last book I wrote! You should read it!”

  I’m the awkward writer who posts a picture of my book and says, “It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.”

  I’m afraid this particular writing experience will be even worse than I imagined. Hardly anyone reads my books, so I don’t have to suffer through too many negative reviews. But once my work is out there with Verity’s name on it, it’s going to be read by hundreds of thousands of readers with built-in expectations for this series. And if I fail, Corey will know I failed. The publishers will know I’ve failed. Jeremy will know I’ve failed. And…depending on her mental state…Verity may know I’ve failed.

  Jeremy didn’t clarify the extent of Verity’s injuries when we were in the meeting, so I have no idea if she’s injured beyond the point of communication. There was very little online about her car wreck other than a couple of vague articles. The publisher released a statement shortly after the wreck stating Verity received non-life-threatening injuries. Two weeks ago, they released another statement that said she was recovering peacefully at home. But her editor, Amanda, said they wanted to keep the extent of her injuries out of the media. So, it’s a possibility they downplayed it all.

  Or, maybe, after all the loss she’s experienced over the past two years, she simply doesn’t want to write again.

  I guess it’s understandable they’d need to ensure the completion of the series. The publishers don’t want to see their biggest source of income crash and burn. And while I’m honored I was asked to complete it, I don’t necessarily want to be thrown into that kind of spotlight. When I started writing, it wasn’t my goal to become famous. I dreamt of a life where enough people would b
uy my books and I could pay my bills and never be propelled into a life of riches and fame. Very few authors reach that level of success, so it was never a concern that it would happen to me.

  I realize attaching my name to this series would boost sales of my past books and ensure more opportunity in the future, but Verity is extremely successful. As is this series I’m taking over. By attaching my real name to her series, I would be subjecting myself to the kind of attention I’ve spent most of my life fearing.

  I’m not looking for my fifteen minutes of fame. I’m looking for a paycheck.

  It’s going to be a long wait for that advance. I spent most of the rest of my money renting this car and putting my things in storage. I paid a deposit for an apartment, but it won’t be ready until next week, or maybe even the week after, which means what little I have left will need to go to a hotel once I leave the Crawford home.

  This is my life. Sort of homeless, living out of a suitcase just one and a half weeks after the last of my immediate family members passes away. Can it get worse?

  I could be married to Amos right now, so life could always be worse.

  “Jesus, Lowen.” I roll my eyes at my inability to realize how many writers would kill for this kind of opportunity, and here I am thinking my life has hit rock bottom.

  Ungrateful, party of one.

  I have to stop looking at my life through my mother’s glasses. Once I get the advance on these novels, everything will start looking up. I’ll no longer be between apartments.

  I took the exit for the Crawford home a few miles back. The GPS is leading me down a long, windy road flanked by flowering dogwood trees and houses that keep getting bigger and more spread apart.

  When I finally reach the turn-in, I put the rental in park to stop and admire the entrance. Two tall brick columns loom on both sides of the driveway—a driveway that never seems to end. I crane my neck, trying to see the length of it, but the dark asphalt snakes between the trees. Somewhere up there is the house, and somewhere inside of that house lies Verity Crawford. I wonder if she knows I’m coming. My palms start to sweat, so I lift them off the steering wheel and hold them in front of the air vents to dry them.

  The security gate is propped open, so I put the car in drive and slowly amble past the sturdy wrought iron. I tell myself not to freak out, even as I notice that the repetitive pattern on top of the iron gate resembles spider webs. I shiver as I follow a curve, the trees getting denser and taller until the house comes into view. I spot the roof first as I climb the hill: slate gray like an angry storm cloud. Seconds later, the rest of it appears, and my breath snags in my throat. Dark stone works its way across the front of the house, broken only by the blood red door, the only relief of color in this sea of gray. Ivy covers the left side of the house, but instead of charming, it’s threatening—like a slow-moving cancer.

  I think of the apartment I left behind: the dingy walls and too-small kitchen with the olive green refrigerator circa 1970. My entire apartment would probably fit into the entrance hall of this monster. My mother used to say that houses have a soul, and if that is true, the soul of Verity Crawford’s house is as dark as they come.

  The online satellite images did not do this property justice. I stalked the home before showing up. According to a realtor website, they purchased the home five years ago for two and a half million. It’s worth over three million now.

  It’s overwhelming and huge and secluded, but it doesn’t have the typical formal vibe of homes of this caliber. There isn’t an air of superiority clinging to the walls.

  I edge the car along the driveway, wondering where I’m supposed to park. The lawn is lush and manicured, at least three acres deep. The lake behind the house stretches from one edge of the property to the other. The Green Mountains paint a picturesque backdrop so beautiful, it’s hard to believe the awful tragedy its owners have experienced.

  I sigh in relief as I spot a concrete parking area next to the garage. I put my car in park and then kill the engine.

  My car doesn’t fit in with this house at all. I’m kicking myself for selecting the cheapest car I could possibly rent. Thirty bucks a day. I wonder if Verity has ever sat in a Kia Soul. In the article I read about her wreck, she was driving a Range Rover.

  I reach to the passenger seat to grab my phone so I can text Corey to let him know I made it. When I put my hand on the driver’s side door handle, I stiffen, stretching my spine against the back seat. I turn and look out my window.

  “Shit!”

  What the fuck?

  I slap my chest to make sure I still have a heartbeat as I stare back at the face staring into my car window. Then, when I see that the figure at my door is only a child, I cover my mouth, hoping he’s heard his fair share of curse words. He doesn’t laugh. He just stares, which seems even creepier than if he’d have scared me on purpose.

  He’s a miniature version of Jeremy. The same mouth, the same green eyes. I read in one of the articles that Verity and Jeremy had three children. This must be their little boy.

  I open the door, and he takes a step back as I get out of the car.

  “Hey.” The child doesn’t respond. “Do you live here?”

  “Yes.”

  I look at the house behind him, wondering what that must be like for a child to grow up in such a home. “Must be nice,” I mutter.

  “Used to be.” He turns and begins walking up the driveway, toward the front door. I instantly feel bad for him. I’m not sure I’ve given much thought to the situation this family is in. This little boy, who can’t be more than five years old, has lost both of his sisters. And who knows what that kind of grief has done to his mother? I know it was apparent in Jeremy.

  I save my suitcase for later and shut my door, following the little boy. I’m only a few feet behind him when he opens the front door and walks into the house, then closes the door in my face.

  I wait a moment, wondering if maybe he has a sense of humor. But I can see through the frosted window of the front door, and he continues through the house and doesn’t come back to let me in.

  I don’t want to call him an asshole. He’s a little kid, and he’s been through a lot. But I think he might be an asshole.

  I ring the doorbell and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  I ring the doorbell again but get no answer. Jeremy put his contact information in the email he sent me, so I pull up his number and text him. “It’s Lowen. I’m at your front door.”

  I send the text and wait.

  A few seconds later, I hear steps descending the stairs. I can see Jeremy’s shadow through the frosted glass grow larger as he approaches the door. Right before it opens, I see him pause like he’s taking a breath. I don’t know why, but that pause reassures me that maybe I’m not the only one nervous about this whole situation.

  Weird how his potential discomfort brings me comfort. I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work.

  He opens the door, and although he’s the same man I met a few days ago, he’s…different. No suit or tie, no air of mystery about him. He’s in sweatpants and a blue Bananafish T-shirt. Socks, no shoes. “Hey.”

  I don’t like the buzz rushing through me right now. I ignore it and smile at him. “Hi.”

  He stares for a second and then steps aside, opening the door wider, waving me in with his arm. “Sorry, I was upstairs. I told Crew to get the door. Guess he didn’t hear me.”

  I step into the foyer.

  “Do you have a suitcase?” Jeremy asks.

  I spin around to face him. “Yeah, it’s in my back seat, but I can get it later.”

  “Is the car unlocked?”

  I nod.

  “Be right back.” He slips on a pair of shoes next to the door and walks outside. I spin in a slow circle, checking out my surroundings. Not much is different from the pictures I saw of the home online. It feels odd because I’ve seen all the rooms in the house already, thanks to the realtor website. I feel
like I already know my way around, and I’m only five feet into the house.

  There’s a kitchen to the right and living room to the left. They’re separated by an entryway with a staircase that leads to the second floor. The kitchen in the pictures was trimmed with dark cherry cabinetry, but it’s been updated, and all the old cabinets have been ripped out, replaced mostly by shelves and a few cabinets above the countertop that are a blonder wood.

  There are two ovens, and a refrigerator with a glass door. I’m staring at it from several feet away when the little boy comes bounding down the stairs. He runs past me and opens the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Dr. Pepper. I watch as he struggles to twist open the lid.

  “Want me to open it for you?” I ask him.

  “Yes, please,” he says, looking up at me with those big green eyes. I can’t believe I thought he was an asshole. His voice is so sweet and his hands are so tiny, they can’t even open a bottle of soda yet. I take it from him and twist open the bottle with ease. The front door opens as I’m handing the soda back to Crew.

  Jeremy narrows his eyes in Crew’s direction. “I just told you no sodas.” He leaves my suitcase against the wall and walks over to Crew, pulling the soda out of his hands. “Go get ready for your shower. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Crew rolls his head and stalks back toward the stairs.

  Jeremy cocks an eyebrow. “Never trust that kid. He’s smarter than both of us put together.” He takes a sip of the soda before returning it to the refrigerator. “You want something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Jeremy grabs my suitcase and carries it down the hallway. “I hope it’s not weird, but I’m giving you the master bedroom. We all sleep upstairs now, and I thought it would be easier because it’s the closest room to her office.”

  “I’m not even sure I’m staying the night,” I say as I follow behind him. The place gives me an eerie vibe, so it would be nice if I could grab what I need and find a hotel. “I was planning to check out her office and assess the situation.”