Some scenes are like that with the perfect combination of tension and release along with my own concentration and involvement.

It's hard to explain why some parts of the story flow out of me so much faster and with seemingly so much less effort than others.

I'm sure that this is a mystery that I will work to untangle the rest of my life.

A black crow jumps onto the porch a few feet away from me and cocks his head just as I finish the last sentence. I look up at him while speaking to my phone and watch him watching me with great curiosity. I give him a slight nod and watch as he quickly loses interest and flies away.

Heading back into my office, I walk into the house and seem to startle Emma. She jumps and looks at me in a way that she has never looked at me before.

Then she starts having a panic attack.

Her breathing speeds up, but when I try to approach her to calm her down, she just shuts me out.

“What happened? What's wrong?” I ask her over and over, but she doesn't give me a good answer. She wants to be alone.

She says that she’s fine and she needs space and I know that I have more work to finish.

I go to my office and close the door. I have my desk facing the tall window looking out at the horses out back. They have ample shade and water yet they're both playing in the middle of the turnout, playing in the sand.

I briefly introduced Emma to my animals, but I haven't taken her on a ride yet. She mentioned that she's ridden a horse before a few times but only as part of a group. If I take her riding on my mare, I know that she will fall in love.

I sent my dictated text to my email and quickly import that work into the document for my latest novel. A few years ago, I had made the decision to not edit a word until the whole story is done.

Sitting at my wide maple desk, which I had fashioned in the wood shop out back, I go through my emails and then check on my Facebook ads.

I pre-schedule a few updates to my newsletter list along with about ten social media posts. I never post anything personal in these and focus entirely on my work.

I also check the messages in my Facebook group and reply to anyone who has written. My group consists of my most dedicated readers and the biggest fans.

I love interacting with them.

I'm working on a new series now and I have to design the covers. I started doing this myself when I didn't have any money and now continue because it's just something that I'm used to.

The first thing that I do is search through Deposit Photos and Shutterstock for images that could possibly work and compile them into a folder.

This usually takes me a few days as I worry about what I want the feel of the series to be. I will often do this casually while I'm doing other things like watching Netflix or YouTube. Suddenly I'll stumble onto an image that's perfect and that's what I use to develop a theme for the rest of the covers.

I use Photoshop to manipulate the image and today I play around on testing out different fonts for the title. I make a few mockups, but none of them are that inspiring so I decide to put this work to one side.

My thoughts drift back to Emma. I want her to be comfortable in my home and I know that there are certain things that I've been keeping from her.

I don't think I can come out and tell her everything about me. Nevertheless, the more time that passes and the longer that she's here, the more it feels like I'm lying to her by not telling her who I really am.

I go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. The marble vanity feels cool to the touch when I lean against it and I look at my reflection in the beveled mirror. If I tell her the truth, then…

“You can never tell anyone who we really are.” His words reverberate in the back of my head.

He made me repeat them out loud even after I signed all of the documents.

“If we do all this and then you just need someone and you tell her who you are, then we will no longer be able to protect you.”

To tell her the truth would be something that I could never take back. The reality is that I have no idea who she really is.

No, I didn't do all of this and sacrifice everything that I have sacrificed to just throw it all away. If Emma and I get to know each other more and we get closer, then maybe, I can consider it.

Right now, the lie will just have to stand.

I walk out of my office with a heavy burden on my shoulders, but it's a burden that I know that I must continue to carry. I have missed my sister’s wedding and the birth of my nephew.

If I were to tell Emma the truth now, then all of those years of living this double life would be for nothing.

“Hey, I was just wondering what you want to have for dinner,” I say, expecting to see her in the living room.

I look around, but she's nowhere to be found.

I check the nearby guest bathroom, but the lights are off and the door is open.

The door to her room is closed and I knock lightly, not wanting to disturb her.

“I don't know if you heard me, but what do you think you want for dinner?”

I wait for her to answer, but no one responds. I knock again and again, louder each time.

“Emma? Are you okay?”

Again, she doesn't respond. I wonder if she's taking a nap. Not wanting to wake her, I turn the knob very slightly and crack the door.

That's when I realize.

She's gone.

I look around the room and it looks undisturbed. I know that she had unpacked her suitcase because I saw it laying by the dresser. I also saw some of her toiletries in the bathroom.

Now, none of her stuff is here. I call her name even though I know it's too late.

I rush out to the driveway and see that her car is gone.

What happened? Where the hell did she go?

I look for my phone, but it’s not on me.

I run back inside and feverishly search for it, finally remembering that I had left it in the office next to my laptop.

I call her, but it goes straight to voice mail. She's not answering my calls. What the hell is going on? What happened?

What happened? Where are you? Why did you leave? I text her.

They also go unanswered.

I pace around the living room trying to figure out what could've happened.

Did I do something wrong?

Did this have anything to do with how oddly she was behaving when I came back in from writing?

I go to the foyer and look at myself in the mirror, standing in the exact spot where she was.

What happened here? Did she get a call from one of her parents? Are they hurt?

I shake my head. If something would have happened to them, then she probably would've told me about it.

She wouldn’t have just left.

No, this is something else. This is something to do with… Me.

I turn slowly on my heel until my eyes graze the console table with my wallet and sunglasses.

That's the usual spot where I place them, but usually they're not so perfectly arranged. I come in and toss them there but now the wallet is completely perpendicular to the sunglasses.

Did she look in there? My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach.

“No, that can't be it,” I say, shaking my head.

If she found that out, then she would've confronted me about it, right? She wouldn’t have just left.

I grab my wallet and open it flat in my palm. That's when I see it.

My driver’s license, which is usually buried under a few credit cards, is sticking slightly out of the pouch.