The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  ALSO BY ELIZA MAXWELL

  The Grave Tender

  The Kinfolk

  The Unremembered Girl

  The Widow’s Watcher

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 Amber Carter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542043496

  ISBN-10: 1542043492

  Cover design by David Drummond

  This one was for you, Jason, my all-time favorite human. Right up until you brought home that stupid call bell for the kids to play with. Sadly, it’s not for you anymore. I’ve written you a haiku instead.

  Our love has died, dear. Death by bell that I dare you to ring for service.

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  GRAYE

  The name inked across the creamy parchment envelope in Sister Margaret’s familiar scrawl is an accusation. A skeletal finger reaching out from the past to mark her a fraud.

  Graye doesn’t go by that name anymore. Sister Margaret knows that, of course. To see it boldly there in black and white can mean only one of two things. Either the nun was so distracted by the contents of the envelope that she slipped and made a mistake, or she did it deliberately.

  Neither possibility calms Graye’s erratic pulse.

  Her morning routine is shattered. As usual, she’d picked up her mail, then stopped for coffee at the café below her tiny apartment before the shop was officially opened to the public.

  “Mr. Robbie, you’re a saint,” she said to the owner, who was also her landlord, when she spied the cup he left especially for her each day.

  “Have to take care of my favorite tenant.”

  Graye smiled. His high opinion has more to do with the fact that she never throws loud parties than it does with affection, but that doesn’t bother her.

  There aren’t many perks of having no friends, but being in the landlord’s good graces is one of them.

  He never charges for the coffee. Living mostly on financial aid, she can’t afford many indulgences, but Graye placed a few dollars in the tip jar anyway, as she does every morning.

  The cup now sits forgotten on the outdoor table in front of her, growing cool in the chill of the winter air.

  A quiet morning is another indulgence, in spite of the cold. One she normally revels in, but today her solitude is tainted by that name, an uninvited guest pushing its way into her private space.

  Graye’s hands tremble as she pulls back the flap of the envelope, unaware that she’s holding her breath.

  She slides out the slim contents. A snippet of newsprint slips from a sheet of folded paper and falls to her lap.

  A hoofbeat of high heels clip-clops along the pavement. Graye barely registers the sound. Her eyes are drawn to the headline of the news article. She scans it as the clips and the clops pick up speed, coming faster and closer.

  Graye doesn’t need to read the words written in the letter to understand why Sister Margaret sent her this.

  The headline says it all. Six words. No more, no less. The years she’s spent crafting a new life seem suddenly brittle and insignificant, her careful plans for her future no more than a child’s fantasy.

  She fumbles for the bag at her feet, then stands abruptly, nearly upending the flimsy decorative café chair. The footfalls grow louder, quicker, echoing through the deserted early morning, drumming into her head. Graye stifles the urge to flee.

  She isn’t Gracie Thacker anymore. That little girl is as dead to her as the family she once had.

  Graye slings her bag over her shoulder, the letter gripped in one hand, and grabs blindly for her coffee with the other.

  “Gra-cie . . .” comes a singsong echo from a dark closet of memories. “Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .”

  She won’t run like prey bounding away from a predator. She is Graye Templeton, and she has a plan.

  She turns as the footsteps come to a crescendo, drawing even with her. The crash that follows has an air of inevitability.

  In the wake of the collision, two women stand gaping at each other. The differences between them go beyond the coffee that drips down the front of the woman who’d been hurrying past.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Graye manages to say from behind the hand she holds to her mouth. The cardboard coffee cup and plastic lid have clattered to the pavement at their feet.

  The other woman stares at her stained clothing, her mouth hanging wide. Her eyes shine when she raises them to meet Graye’s. For a moment, it looks as if she might burst into tears.

  Instead, the woman closes her eyes and pulls air into her lungs slowly through her nose. When her eyes open again, Graye braces herself for recriminations.

  “I do hope that wasn’t decaffeinated,” the woman says softly, her voice calm and lilting. “It would be a shame to sacrifice this blouse for anything less than full-caff.”

  Graye kneels to collect her bag and the woman’s phone. She rises, shaking the droplets of coffee from the phone, then wiping it on her own shirt.

  “I don’t believe in decaf,” Graye says. Her gaze darts upward when the woman breaks into a laugh.

  “Well, thank goodness for that. A woman after my own heart.” With a smile, she takes the phone from Graye’s outstretched hand and glances at the screen.

  Graye stands mutely, absorbing the unfamiliar sensation of making another person laugh. Especially someone so . . . vibrant. Yes, Graye thinks as she turns the word over in her mind. Vibrant is the right choice.

  Impeccably dressed and immaculately groomed, this woman is the antithesis of Graye, who can practically feel herself fading into the background, blending with the pavement and brick behind her.

  The woman’s perfectly plucked brows arch, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve got to run or I’ll never make it home to change then back in time.”

  She tucks her phone into her purse and exchanges
it for a wallet. Slipping out a ten-dollar bill, she offers it to Graye with another smile. “At least let me buy you a replacement before I go. I’d never forgive myself for leaving you under-caffeinated.”

  “Oh no.” Graye shakes her head. “I bumped into you.”

  “Which wouldn’t have happened if I’d been paying attention to where I was going.” The woman reaches out and takes Graye’s hand. She places the bill in her palm and gently closes Graye’s fingers over the money.

  “Please,” she adds, cupping both her hands around Graye’s own and giving her a wink. Her soft smile reveals a hint of a dimple in her left cheek.

  This unexpected kindness leaves Graye so befuddled she simply blinks. The woman adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

  “As lovely as this has been, my friend,” she says, “I’ve got to run.”

  She turns in a cloud of shining blonde hair and has taken several steps back in the direction from which she came before Graye finds her voice.

  “Wait,” Graye calls.

  The woman turns, still taking backward steps as she does.

  “I live right here, above the café.” Graye gestures to the building where Mr. Robbie is turning the CLOSED sign over and unlocking the door, watching the two women curiously.

  The backward steps slow.

  “I don’t have anything as nice as that.” Graye nods to the blouse and skirt, now ruined. The outfit probably cost more than Graye spent on clothing in a year. “But I might have something that would work.”

  The woman stops and tilts her head.

  “Really?” There’s a hint of hope in her voice. Like she’s just been invited to a slumber party.

  Graye nods and finds herself smiling back at this gracious woman who sounds so pleased.

  “You wouldn’t mind?” the woman asks.

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh honey, you’re a lifesaver.” She hurries back toward Graye. “My name is Laura, by the way.”

  “I’m Graye. Graye Templeton.”

  “What a beautiful name.”

  Graye averts her eyes, but her cheeks warm.

  “Gra-cie.” A whisper of memory, never far away. “I’m going to find you, Gracie. You can’t hide forever.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbles. “It’s a family name.”

  She leads Laura toward the stairs that will take them to her apartment. A fading remnant of laughter rings in her head as the lie crosses her lips.

  2

  LAURA

  “What do you think?” Laura spins once to show off the ensemble.

  It’s more casual than she intended for the day. David won’t approve, but her husband’s opinion matters less than it once did.

  She rather likes it.

  “The color looks better on you than me.” The earnest young woman who came to her rescue sits cross-legged on the pristinely made single bed placed along one wall of the small apartment.

  Laura studies the lavender button-down. It is a pretty color and complements her oversized turquoise necklace. Pleased with the results, she cuffs the borrowed jeans above the ankle before slipping back into her nude heels. The outfit says confident and approachable.

  “Graye, I can’t thank you enough. I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.”

  “No,” the younger woman says. “I’m a teaching assistant, but I’m not expected until later.”

  “Are you a grad student?” Laura asks as she adjusts her earring.

  Graye nods.

  “A transplant to the East Coast, then?”

  Laura is guessing but thinks she catches a bit of the Midwest in the young woman’s voice.

  Graye tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. She nods again but says no more. Laura doesn’t push, but she’s intrigued. The apartment gives few clues about its occupant. It’s clean, sparse, and neatly organized, but she sees no personal touches.

  Laura studies Graye while she gathers her coat and purse. She wonders what hidden depths this nondescript young woman might be concealing. Laura has found that often, the more a person talks, the less they have to say.

  Thoughts of David intrude again, but that’s unkind. Her husband isn’t shallow; he’s simply run out of words. Meaningful ones, at least. For a writer, it’s a death of sorts, she supposes. A living death. One that David spends a great deal of energy trying to hide from the world.

  It must be exhausting.

  Laura catches a glimpse of the time displayed in red numbers on the clock that sits perfectly squared on the corner of a desk. She groans.

  “As much as I hate to rifle through your closet and run, I need to get going. I’m scheduled to lead a workshop in just over an hour, and I’m completely unprepared.”

  “Of course.” Graye rises immediately from the bed. “I don’t want to keep you.”

  “Keep me?” Laura laughs. “Please. You’ve done me a favor.” She swings her soft brown coat around her, grateful that it, at least, is a good color to hide the splashes of coffee that marred her blouse.

  The women exchange phone numbers and promises to meet again soon.

  “When we have time to sit and chat longer,” Laura says, “I’d love to hear your story, Graye Templeton.”

  As Laura hurries toward the lecture hall on the Cornell campus, she recalls the smile that bloomed on Graye’s lips at those words and thinks of her southern-bred mother.

  “Everybody’s got a story,” Lisette would often say. “Listen with an open heart, and you’ll be a better person for it.”

  Laura had taken that advice and built her life and a successful career around other people’s stories.

  She’d seen Graye hastily tuck what looked to be a crumpled letter out of sight in the desk drawer when the two women entered her apartment. Laura’s curiosity had stirred, raising its head and sniffing the air around them.

  She won’t pry, of course. Everyone has a right to their secrets. But that doesn’t stop her from wondering what the young woman could be so anxious to hide from a complete stranger. Laura has a feeling there’s more to Graye Templeton than the still waters on the surface.

  3

  In another time and place, in a faraway land, there lives a little cinder girl who exists in the shadow of her bright and brilliant older sister. Her sister sparkles where she is dull. She twirls as the cinder girl shuffles, collecting the feathers and glitter that fall from her sister, to hide away in a small wooden box where secrets live.

  The cinder girl stows the box of secrets beneath her bed. On quiet days, when Mother and Sister are away, gone in a flurry of color and shine, she reverently unlatches the box. The quiet creak of the hinge is a friend, a co-conspirator whispering in her ear.

  The girl touches the treasures, one finger lightly caressing each, and she wonders what it might feel like to live in the light.

  How warm it must be, like the square of afternoon sun that moves slowly across the worn quilt of her bed.

  She longs to inhabit that space. To live in it until it lives in her, pouring from her eyes, from her smile.

  Mother would have to see her then.

  GRAYE

  Graye drops the receiver of the office phone back into its cradle with a clatter. It’s the third time she’s dialed the number she knows by heart. The third time she’s hung up before the first ring has finished.

  Her hands shake after the latest aborted attempt.

  “Get it together,” she whispers. It isn’t the right time or place to deal with this.

  She’s safe. No need to panic.

  Graye Templeton is real. A real person with aspirations and goals. Little Gracie is the ghost, not her.

  She still has time. She just needs to focus.

  “Those marks need to be completely entered in the system by the end of the day, Miss Templeton.” The professor barely glances in Graye’s direction as he walks by her desk.

  “Of course, Dr. West.” She finished entering the midterm grades two days prior but doesn’t bot
her reminding him.

  He’s remembered her name this week, which is a step up.

  “You’re prepared for the one o’clock lecture?” he asks from his office as he shrugs into his coat.

  “Yes, sir.” She’s been his TA for three weeks. This is the first time he’s trusted her with teaching duties. Lectures are one part of the job he doesn’t prefer to pass to an underling.

  If anything, he seems to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

  Dr. West doesn’t quite fit the dusty English professor mold. In his midforties, he’s too young to be old, slightly too handsome to be bookish, but a touch too short for the classic tall, dark, and handsome. His favored tweed blazer with leather patches at the elbows seems chosen, whether consciously or not, to grant him a patina of intellectualism. An aging surfer transplanted into academia and attempting to dress the part.

  Graye tucks her hands beneath her legs to hide the tremor. The lecture is the least of her concerns.

  “I’ll be back in time for the three-thirty class. You can take the rest of the afternoon off after that if you’re caught up.” He pats his jacket pockets, then turns back to retrieve his phone.

  Graye is always “caught up.” She makes a point of it. The professor has yet to notice.

  His cell phone rings in his hand.

  Please, just go already.

  “Can you send my wife in when she arrives? No doubt she’ll be running late.”

  She nods as he answers the call without bothering to shut his office door.

  “Isaac,” he declares with the polished, robust voice he uses behind the lectern. If a cello could purr, it would sound like Dr. West on a mission to impress. He never uses that tone with her.

  Graye watches him out of the corner of her eye as he perches on the edge of his desk.

  “Graye?” comes a familiar voice from the doorway of the outer office.

  She looks up quickly, hoping her disdain hasn’t been showing.

  “Laura.” Graye sits up straighter behind the desk.

  “This must be fate, Graye Templeton. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  Graye opens her mouth to reply, but she’s interrupted by the sound of fingers snapping. Both women turn in Dr. West’s direction.

  Holding the phone to his ear with one hand palmed over the bottom half, he mouths the words Two minutes.