A Writing Retreat to Die For (One night on an island in Maine)
A howling nor’easter wind awoke her in the night. She had left her window cracked to allow a breeze in the small bedroom she was calling home for the next week. Undoubtedly, her fellow writers in the isolated New England cottage had, too, as her bedroom door rattled in its frame each time her curtains fluttered. She rolled over and reached for her phone in the dark. As her fingers grazed the glass, the screen lit up and she saw the time – 2:52 am. She withdrew her arm back under the bedsheet and turned her pillow to the cooler side. As she tried to fall back asleep, a sudden slam from somewhere in the house made her jump and her eyelids flicked open. She guessed it was the screen door to the front porch, ripped out of someone’s grasp by the gale force winds. But who would be coming and going at nearly 3 am? She thought about how there were no locks on any of the doors – not the front door, nor her bedroom door. Who was that serial killer in Florida that slaughtere...