Chapter Eight
About the Publisher
The old antique Royal typewriter clacked with each angry stroke of the keys. Shaking fingers pounded out livid words onto the old discolored paper. As the fury built, the fingers moved faster and faster until the keys all tangled together in a metal knot that lay suspended over the paper.
With a curse of frustration, the metal arms were tugged apart and the sound of the typewriter resumed in the small room. Angry words burst across the page, some letters darker than others as the keystrokes hit like a hammer. Other letters appeared lighter, some dropping down a half line as the fingers slipped from the worn keys. A bell sounded at the end of each line as the carriage was returned with a clang, until the paper was ripped from the typewriter.
Read in a cold, dark rage, the paper was folded hurriedly, the edges uneven, and stuffed into the envelope already addressed in the black typewritten letters:
Author TJ St. Clair
Whitehorse, Montana
The stamp slapped on, the envelope sealed, the fingers still shaking with expectation for when the novelist opened it. The fan rose and smiled. Wouldn’t Ms. St. Clair, aka Tessa Jane Clementine, love this one.
* * *
TJ ST. CLAIR hated conference calls. Especially this conference call.
“I know it’s tough with your book coming out before Christmas,” said Rachel, the marketing coordinator, the woman’s voice sounding hollow on speakerphone in TJ’s small New York City apartment.
“But I don’t have to tell you how important it is to do as much promo as you can this week to get those sales where you want them,” Sherry from Publicity and Events added.
TJ held her head and said nothing for a moment. “I’m going home for the holidays to be with my sisters, who I haven’t seen in months.” She started to say she knew how important promoting her book was, but in truth she often questioned if a lot of the events really made that much difference—let alone all the social media. If readers spent as much time as TJ had to on social media, she questioned how they could have time to read books.
“It’s the threatening letters you’ve been getting, isn’t it?” her agent Clara said.
She glanced toward the window, hating to admit that the letters had more than spooked her. “That is definitely part of it. They have been getting more...detailed and more threatening.”
“I’m so sorry, TJ,” Clara said and everyone added in words of sympathy.
“You’ve spoken to the police?” her editor, Dan French, asked.
“There is nothing they can do until...until the fan acts on the threats. That’s another reason I want to go to Montana.”
For a few beats there was silence. “All right. I can speak to Marketing,” Dan said. “We’ll do what we can from this end.”
“I hate to request this, but is there any chance you could do a couple of book signings while you’re at home before Christmas, right before the book comes out?” Rachel asked. “I wouldn’t push, but TJ, we hate to see you lose the momentum you’ve picked up with your last book.”
“That would be at least something,” Dan agreed.
“If you don’t make the list, it won’t be the end of the world,” her editor added. “But we’d hoped to see you advance up the list with this one. I love this book. I think it’s the best one you’ve ever written.”
The first week a book came out was the most important and they all knew it. If she didn’t make the list—the New York Times list—it would mean losing the bonus she usually got for ranking in the top ten. It would also hurt her on her next contract, not to mention the publisher might back off on promotional money for her.
“We don’t mean to pressure you,” Dan said. “But I’m sure if the police thought this fan was really dangerous—”
“I think going to Montana is smart,” her agent cut in. “You’ll be safe there with your family over the holidays. We can regroup when you get back.”
She rubbed her temples. “I could do one book signing in my hometown since there is only one bookstore there. Whitehorse is tiny and in the middle of nowhere. The roads can be closed off and on this time of year, so there won’t be much of a turnout though.”
“Isn’t
