A Quiet Retreat

by Kiersten Modglin

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

It all begins with a simple invitation. For five authors, it’s meant to be the start of a restful week, filled with free food, drinks, and like-minded company. But shortly after their arrival, things take an unsettling turn. Broken property, missing items, and strange noises are just some of the odd occurrences that have each member questioning their companions. As suspicions mount, the authors are pitted against each other. Whom can they trust in a house full of strangers? With tensions rising, the writers find themselves in the middle of their own mystery. Death, terror, and despair are common elements in their books, but at Black Hills Manor, the murders being plotted are their own...

Release date: October 31, 2022

Publisher: Kiersten Modglin

Print pages: 214

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) dark (1) entertaining story (1) escapist/easy read (1) high stakes (1) realistic characters (1) satisfying ending (1) suspenseful (1) terrific writing (1) unexpected twists (1)

Sample

Chapter One

Blakely

 

You could scream up here and no one would hear you.

I don’t know why it’s my first thought as I round the curb that leads to the writing retreat where I’ll be spending the next week.

The Victorian house sits high on the hill, the steep gravel driveway enough to make my stomach lurch as I approach it and turn in. It’s secluded, as the listing warned, and far steeper than I’m prepared for. My tires skid across the gravel as I mash the accelerator, terrified applying too much pressure might send me over the side of the mountain if I can’t stop the car in time.

I suck in a sharp breath as I reach the top and stomp my foot on the brakes, easing in next to the other car in the driveway. From my seat, I take in the sight of the house again.

It’s a two-story, brown manor with tall windows, sharp angles, and a three-story tower in the center of the house. There’s a steep set of stairs up the hill leading to the front porch. Despite the cost they have listed on their website, the wooden siding could use a good power washing and the weeds are overgrown, making what should be a lush, evergreen Black Hills paradise feel more like a forgotten piece of property.

From where I sit, there’s a nearly three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the mountains below us, trees and fog surrounding us for miles.

I flip down my visor to check my reflection and a yellow envelope falls down into my lap. Turning it over, I reread the invitation that brought me here.

Ms. Baldwin, 

As one of our favorite authors, you are cordially invited to visit the new Black Hills Manor Writing Retreat. Our mission is to provide writers like yourself a quiet retreat to get away from the craziness of the day to day. Tucked away in the secluded Black Hills of South Dakota, it’s the perfect place for you to unwind, find your inspiration, and connect with other writers on similar paths as your own. Our fully stocked retreat comes with everything you could need to relax, unwind, and write your next bestseller—including high-speed Wi-Fi, a loaded pantry, bar, and high-quality toiletries from local vendors right here in the Black Hills; and a hot tub to reset after a long day of writing. We’re proud to offer the highest quality mattresses and linens to ensure a restful night’s sleep and support the health of your spine.

We hope you’ll accept our invitation, and in honor of our launch, we’d like to offer you a FREE week’s stay in exchange for a social media post about your experience.

You’ll find an email in your inbox further detailing this offer. If you’re interested, please respond to the email so we can get you booked for the next available week. Slots are going fast, so please don’t delay.

We hope to see you soon!

Yours, 

The Team at Black Hills Manor Writing Retreat

I check my reflection and place the invitation back above the visor just as my phone begins vibrating in the seat next to me. I spy my best friend’s name on the screen and swipe my thumb across it.

“Hey.”

“Hey, just checking in. Have you made it yet?”

“Yeah, I just got here.”

“What’s it like?”

I stare up at the house. “I haven’t gone in yet, but it’s beautiful out here.”

“I’m glad you made it safely.” She’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Are you sure you’re okay to be there this week? I can get Noah to watch Kara if you’d rather go do something else. We could spend the week in a hotel room and eat takeout and watch trashy TV.”

I shake my head, though she can’t see me, and open my mouth to respond. My voice catches in my throat. “I need to do this, Katy.”

“I know.” She sounds sad. Disappointed, maybe. I try not to take it personally. She knows why this is so important in theory, but really, no one understands. How could they?

“Listen, I need to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Be careful.”

“I will.”

“Lock your bedroom door at night.”

“I will, Mom,” I tease. “Okay, bye.”

As soon as I step from the car, a husky voice greets me. 

“Hi there!” 

When I spin around, my gaze lands on the man headed in my direction. There’s something familiar about him, and I immediately begin to rack my brain for where I might know him from. He’s not quite thin, but not quite muscular—somewhere in between—with a dark, full beard and tired eyes. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s maybe twenty years older than me, which would put him somewhere in his forties.

“Hi!” I wiggle my fingers with a half wave.

“Welcome.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I stop at my trunk, grabbing the newly purchased designer luggage from the back. When he draws closer to me, I place the luggage down and extend my hand. “I’m Blakely Baldwin.”

He accepts my hand slowly, shaking it, then reaches for my bag. “Daniel Destrange. Here, let me get those. There’re a lot of stairs.”

Or…at least, he probably says something like that.

I don’t hear much past his name.

Daniel Destrange?

The Daniel Destrange?

The horror author whose books are on every bestseller chart week in and week out? The one whose books have been adapted to countless movies, whose career I’ve been following since I was in high school? The writer who inspired me to write my first book? That Daniel Destrange?

I study his face, realizing yes, it is him. I should’ve known instantly. How could I not? Because I hadn’t been expecting to see him here, maybe. Because it makes absolutely no sense that he’s here. Or perhaps because he now looks a little more rugged than his headshot would lead you to believe. The beard, for one thing, is new. I’ve never seen him with anything other than a clean-shaven face. He’s also put on some weight, it looks like. His face is now lined with the start of wrinkles, and the longer, unkempt hair isn’t something I’ve seen him sport before. Then again, the headshot on the back of his books is probably as old as I am, and he has no true social media presence. He’s one of those tried-and-true, old-school writers. The ones who like to pretend we’re all sitting around typewriters with glasses of whiskey and cigars while we create our latest masterpiece. 

He does very few signings—most were done early in his career—and even fewer public events. Believe me, I’ve watched for them. For most of my life, I’ve dreamed of meeting him, and now, here he is carrying my bags.

Am I hallucinating?

Did I black out?

This has to be a hallucination.

I blink rapidly, trying to wake up.

What if I’m still on the interstate? What if I crash?

I look away from him, closing my trunk as I try to hide my shaking hands. Jesus, Blakely, pull it together.

What on earth is he doing here?

This retreat is supposed to be for regular writers.

Those of us midlisters lucky enough to occasionally get great placement in a bookstore or national news coverage.

There was no mention of writing royalty.

I’m half tempted to grab my bag from his hands and make a run for it, but I think better of it.

Just breathe.

“Nice to meet you.” Just as I’m beginning to feel proud of myself for getting the words out without fumbling them, I slip on the gravel underfoot and nearly fall flat on my face.

Of course I do.

Lucky for me, his hand shoots out and Daniel Destrange is suddenly holding me up. Saving my life. Okay, maybe not my life, but you get the picture.

Daniel Destrange’s hand is on my arm.

His hand is touching my arm.

My sweaty, unwashed, eighteen-hour-car-ride arm.

I pull myself away from him, my heart pounding in my temples. “S-sorry about that.”

“Careful. It’s a little slick up here.”

I fight against the urge to tell him what a huge fan I am of his work, how he inspired me to start a career of my own. I can’t tell him. I won’t. He isn’t here to be fawned over. 

Here, we are peers.

I smooth my hands over my tank top and yoga pants, wishing I’d worn something—anything—better than this, and clear my throat, offering him a small smile as I follow his lead up the stairs.

“So, do you live around here?” He shoots a glance back at me over his shoulder.

“Um, no. I’m from Nashville. Do…do you?”

If he thinks it’s strange that I don’t know where he lives—or that I’m pretending not to anyway… I mean, who doesn’t have a permanent image of his California mansion plastered in their heads?—he doesn’t remark on it. “I love Nashville. It’s a beautiful city.” I can hear the smile in his voice without seeing it. “And, to answer your question, no, I’m not from here either. West Coast born and raised.”

I nod, though he’s no longer looking at me. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. “Do you… Is this place yours, or are you here for the retreat?”

“No, no. I’m here for the retreat. Same as the rest of you, I’m assuming.”

“Are there others here?”

“Two others.” We reach the porch and approach the front door. It’s made of a white wooden frame surrounding four opaque window panes. He stops long enough to type in a code on the doorknob’s keypad. The keys flash green, and I hear a click. Daniel grabs the handle and pushes the door open, and now Daniel Destrange is not only holding my luggage, he’s officially opening a door for me. I’m totally dreaming, and I have zero desire to wake up.

“After you.”

I step forward into the house. “Thank you.”

The entryway is small but leads into a massive open-concept kitchen and living room with tall ceilings and wooden beams running the length of the room. In every direction, through the oversized glass windows, you can see the forest that surrounds us. It’s as if we’ve been swallowed up by wilderness.

Gathered around the granite-topped island to my right are two strangers. They’re closer to my age than Daniel’s, and I recognize their faces instantly.

The man has a thick head of curly brown hair and smooth, pale skin. His forehead wrinkles as he smiles at me with the kind of casual arrogance that fills up a room. He’s waiting for me to recognize him. I can see it in his eyes, and though he does look familiar, and I’m sure I know his name, I instantly decide, even if I figure out who he is, I won’t let it show.

Luckily for me, I don’t have to keep that promise for too long. 

“Tennessee Rivers,” he says after a moment, trying and failing to hide his disappointment as he extends a hand. “And you’re Blakely Baldwin.” He tells me this as if I might not know who I am.

“I am.” I purse my lips, his name putting a sour taste in my mouth. If I couldn’t see the cockiness in his expression, I’d expect it now that I know who he is. Though we’ve met before in passing at various events, his reputation outshines the vague recollection of my interactions with him.

I read him right.

I turn away from him and toward the woman standing there. She’s short, like me, likely around five foot three or four, her skin a warm shade of beige, and she wears her dark hair in a perfectly smooth, chin-length bob. She leans forward over the counter, resting her elbows on the granite.

“You’re Lyra James.” She’s the first one I recognize without question.

She smiles, but it’s humble. Unassuming. I like her even more than I did before. “I am. It’s nice to meet you.”

It hurts that she doesn’t recognize me, but I try not to let it show. When I extend my hand, she takes it gently. Her hands are soft and smooth, and even from where I’m standing, I can smell the scent of her citrus perfume. She’s the kind of person that makes you feel self-conscious just by existing. Everything about her screams that she has her shit together—a far cry from anything I could claim about myself.

“Yes. It’s so good to meet you. Actually, we’ve met before, though I guess not officially. We both spoke at the Southern Authors Conference last year, and we were up for an Edgar the year before. Oh! I came to one of your Nashville signings back in the spring.”

“That’s right! I knew you looked familiar. Sorry, I go to so many of these things I lose track. And I’m the worst with names. It’s nice to see you again, then.” Whether or not she’s telling the truth, I can’t be sure, but I don’t care. She’s amazing, and I’m maybe even more in awe of her than I am of Daniel, who makes his presence known as he sets my bag down just behind me in order to join us at the island.

“So, we’re the only ones here?” I look around.

“So far.” Tennessee backs away from the island, turning to pour more coffee into the red mug he’s drinking from. “There are five bedrooms, though, so we could be waiting on one more.”

“Speaking of, you’d better claim your room before they get here.” Lyra juts her chin toward the hall. “There’s one more downstairs with me and one more on this floor.”

“Oh, uh… I guess I’ll take the room downstairs, if that’s okay with you?” I don’t know why I ask her, but she nods anyway and points toward the staircase behind me.

“Yep. It’s the second door on the left.”

I lift my bags, thanking Daniel again as I move toward the staircase. It’s dark, hidden in the shadows from the illumination of the windows, but I can see a faint light coming from downstairs.

The carpeted stairs lead me to what feels like a basement. There’s definitely concrete under the thin carpet, and to my left, there’s an open room with a fireplace and seating on one end of the room and a bar on the other. To my right, there’s a hallway with two doors.

I’ve already forgotten which room she said is mine, but one door is closed—the one Lyra has claimed, I assume—so I step into the room with the open door. It’s a good size, with a queen-size bed against the far wall, a private patio outside the sliding glass door to my left, and another fireplace behind me. It also has a private bath, but no television, which lends itself to the whole escape to focus on writing thing, but will do nothing for me when I can’t sleep tonight.

I drop my bag on the bed with a sigh, so relieved to finally be out of the car, and hear a door slam shut up above me.

The newest arrival.

I check the mirror in my bathroom, running my hands through my hair and swiping the smeared eyeliner from just under my eyes before heading back upstairs.

When I arrive, there’s a new woman waiting for me. She looks the closest to my age, maybe even a bit younger, with a larger build. Her auburn-brown hair goes to her midback, with loose curls throughout it. Freckles are splattered across her nose and cheeks, and when she smiles, it’s with her full face—eyes crinkling and cheeks growing pink with joy.

“Hi! I’m Aidy!” She rushes toward me, both arms held out for a hug. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m a hugger. I hope you don’t mind.”

Whether or not I mind, her arms are already around me, so I hug her back. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Blakely.”

“What do you write?” She’s still hugging me.

“Domestic thrillers, mostly.” I smile as we pull apart, relieved to have someone here who breaks up the tension. It’s so rare to find a writer who’s an extrovert. “You?”

“Cozies mostly. I tried a psych thriller under a pen name, but that was a disaster.” Her laugh is loud and boisterous, as you’d expect. “So, just cozies for me for now. Who knows in the future, though. I swear, I’m all over the place. I’d love to write a fantasy someday. Oh, or a romance, even. What about the rest of you? What do you write?” Her eyes widen and cut to Daniel. “Obviously except you, Mr. Destrange. Gosh, I’m such a huge fan. I read Anxiety in college, and it’s still one of my all-time favorites.”

Daniel shifts uncomfortably despite his smile. “Oh, thank you. Call me Daniel, please.”

“And I’m Tennesse Rivers.” Tennessee steps up, extending a hand. “I write action thrillers, mostly centered around my protagonist, Humphrey Castro, a former spy who keeps getting dragged back into the field in order to solve the most unsolvable cases in the world.”

“Cool.” Aidy’s response is polite, but her eyes have glazed over just a bit. “And you?”

Lyra smiles. “I write police procedurals.”

“Aww, I love that.” She bounces up on her tiptoes. “Gosh, I’m so excited to be here, you guys. Although, I have to admit I’m feeling some impostor syndrome. This place is so pretty and you’re all so popular.” Her eyes fall on Daniel again. “I’m not totally sure I belong.” She walks the length of the room, taking every inch of it in.

“Hey, we all feel that way,” I say. “You were invited for a reason.”

Her smile is soft and unassuming as her eyes dance over the room.

“It is really nice here, though,” Tennessee says. “I bet this place cost a fortune. I’ve been wanting to get a vacation house myself. Something like this would be pretty cool.”

We ignore him, each of us staring around the space in awe. It’s my first chance to really take in the room, so I follow behind Aidy, eyeing the long, live-edge dining table in the center of the room and the three matching gray couches to my left, tucked beside the wall that belongs to the staircase.

I lift a binder from the tabletop and flip through it, finding coupons for local restaurants and instructions for how to work the remotes, air and heat, and various appliances throughout the house.

The last page is a letter from the owner of the property. I lay the binder flat, trailing a finger across the page protector.

“What’s that?” Lyra asks.

“A letter.”

“From?” Tennessee moves around behind me, leaning so close I can smell his cologne as he reads it aloud. “‘Welcome to the Black Hills Manor Writing Retreat, a peaceful writing retreat conveniently located in the Black Hills of South Dakota. This stunning five-bedroom Victorian manor is steeped in local history and has everything you need for rest, relaxation, and the perfect environment to get away and finally finish that novel.”

He pauses to catch his breath before continuing. “The unit comes with self-check-in, laptop-friendly workspaces, and a fully stocked pantry and bar. During your stay, you can unwind in our cozy hot tub or relax on your therapeutic mattresses. In fact, each room is equipped with its own private bathroom and indoor fireplace, so you can choose to never leave your room, if that’s your style. Or, if you need to get a bit of inspiration from your surroundings, our retreat is within driving distance of several popular national parks, coffee shops, and wineries. An ideal base to explore all that the Black Hills have to offer, reconnect with nature, and write your first—or next—bestseller.”

He sighs, bobbing his head from one side to the other as his voice grows tired and bored. “If you have any issues at all, don’t hesitate to reach out via email, or call or visit our main office at the clubhouse, which is located just half a mile away if you cut through the woods behind the house, or, if you prefer to drive, you can find it by taking a right out of the driveway like you’re returning to town, turning right on Sycamore Drive two miles past Mitchellsville Store, and then take another right on Birch Drive. The clubhouse amenities include an in-ground pool, two pool tables, various board and card games, and a bar (BYO drinks and food). Everything is available on a first-come, first-served basis. There’s a sign out front. GPS isn’t reliable up here, so if you need further instructions, please don’t hesitate to reach out. More than anything, we want to ensure your stay with us is everything you could dream of.’”

He glances up at us, wariness drawing a line across his forehead. “Sounds like paradise, eh?”

Daniel chuckles under his breath.

“So, what’s everyone working on while we’re here?” Aidy changes the subject, plopping down onto one of the couches, her hands smoothing the skirt of the dress she’s wearing. It’s not until that moment I realize it’s printed with cacti.

“I’m finishing up edits on my new one,” Daniel answers first. “I’ve been procrastinating for months now, so when the invitation to this place came in, my wife all but shoved me out of the house.”

Aidy’s giggle is piercing, and her nose wrinkles while her hands grip her skirt. “So, you still procrastinate, after all this time? I’ve been wondering when I’d finally stop that.”

Daniel’s smile is patronizing as he moves around the island toward the coffeepot. “I’m afraid, if my career is any indication, it’s an important part of every writer’s personality.”

Again, she giggles, but this time, she covers her mouth and her eyes cut to me. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m trying to finally make some progress on my newest book. I’ve pushed my deadline back about four times now.”

“See,” Daniel teases from behind me.

I turn to give him a grin and meet Lyra’s eyes. “What about you, Lyra? What are you working on?”

“Plotting, mostly. I’m starting a new story soon.”

“Me too.” Tennessee steps toward her, as if it's a bonding moment, obviously irritated that he’s last to be asked.

“Well, on that note, I think I’ll go take a nap before the work begins.” Daniel inhales deeply over his mug of coffee.

“Yeah, I should too.” Lyra moves around the corner and toward the stairs. “I’m still jet-lagged from the flight.”

Aidy’s disappointed. It’s written all over her face, but she stands anyway. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll unpack then. Where is my room, by the way?” She moves toward her bag and grips the handle.

“Uh, it’s down the hall. Last one that’s left,” Tennessee tells her.

Her eyes follow Daniel as he moves toward the stairs. Finally seeming to come out of a trance, she blinks and shakes her head, hoisting her bag over her arm as she turns her attention back to the rest of us. “Cool. Which way?”

Tennessee gestures down the hall. “Mine’s the first one you’ll come to. Empty one’s next.”

“Thanks.” She does some sort of bendy thing that looks like a curtsy and disappears down the hall in a rush. 

With just the two of us left, Tennessee looks at me, brows lifted with an aloof expression. “Should be an interesting week.”

I smile, fighting down the anxiety I already feel. For me, this week is too important for anything to go wrong, but I can’t say that. So, instead, I grab one of the apples in the bowl on the counter and take a bite as I head for the stairs.

Here goes nothing.