And only twenty minutes after that, I’m ready to throw my computer or cry. Or maybe do both at the same time. Closing my laptop before I chuck it out the window, or better yet, take it to the lake, set it on fire, and throw it in, I strip out of my blue dress, trading it instead for black leggings and a Nightfall merchandise t-shirt. I rake my damp hair into a messy bun and go into the kitchen, getting a water bottle and some snacks from the pantry. I shove them into my mini Gucci backpack along with my phone and a bottle of bug spray.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad calls from Wendy’s front porch when I walk out of the house. “Going for a walk?”

“Yeah, I need to clear my head before I attempt to write another chapter.”

“Having a bit of writer’s block?”

“Kind of,” I say, not sure how to explain it. I know what I want to write, but I have to get through several chapters first until I get to the big action sequence I’ve been dying to write since the conception of this series. So it’s not really “writer’s block” but more like “motivation block” crippled by a healthy dose of pressure to make this book better than the last, not disappoint fans, and leave them wanting more. And I’m hating every single freaking word I type in my document, which is a bit of an issue. There’s nothing like deleting every other word to move a story freaking forward. “I’m hoping if I hang out at the coven I’ll feel inspired again.”

Dad chuckles, knowing exactly what I mean. When we were in sixth grade, Farisha and I found a little circle of rocks in the woods, and of course we thought the place was magical. A lot of weird things happened at the coven, leading us to one hundred percent believe it to be haunted. It inspired me to write my Nightfall series, and going back there has to give me the kick in the pants I so desperately need.

“A storm is headed this way,” Wendy says.

“I don’t plan on being out long, and if I do get caught in the rain, I’d actually like that, but it’s only a five-minute hike to that covered picnic area. It’s still there, right?”

“It is,” Wendy tells me, picking up a glass of iced tea. She’s sitting on the porch swing next to Dad. “They’ve added new tables and a few fire pits. It’s a popular site now. It’s probably busy today,” she adds, knowing my general dislike for people, which is funny since I moved to the overpopulated city of LA, but it’s easy to blend in there, well, it used to be.

Not like I’m some crazy popular celebrity or anything, but my fake relationship with Charles definitely got me unwanted—and honestly unexpected—attention. My name is known, and I naively thought it would stay that way. My publisher was happy to see the uptick in already-booming sales when TMZ starting reporting on the blossoming romance between the author behind the soon-to-be-streaming TV series and the star of said show. My social media followers doubled, which forced me to actually post stuff more than once a month.

Though, contrary to what the masses think, I’m not that interesting of a person. I spend most of my time outside in my little yard, lounging by my pool with my laptop in tow, or at the stable with Spartan. Luckily people seem to love horse content, but I think most of my followers are crossover fans of Charles and are hoping for more candid photos and videos of him.

“We’re having lunch with Wendy’s sister,” Dad tells me. “We’ll be back by six-thirty for dinner. You’re eating with us, right?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’ll be back before then, and will hopefully have a couple thousand words written by dinner. What are you making me?”

Dad laughs. “It’s supposed to cool down after the afternoon storm, so I’ll grill chicken.”

“Sounds good. Want me to make a salad? I’ll gather some wild mushrooms and dandelion greens from the forest,” I say with a straight face.

Dad winks. “Make sure to get the good shrooms.”

“Dad!” I say, faking my shock. “Are you suggesting I bring you illegal drugs?”

“Don’t be so uptight.”

We all laugh. and I wave goodbye to Dad and Wendy, setting off down the driveway. It’s about a ten-minute walk down the street to get to the nature preserve, which surrounds the lake. There are hiking trails with gorgeous views, and it’s so hot and humid today there aren’t many people on them. Silver Ridge is a small town, but people travel from all over to walk these trails and use our lake. The stigma of glaring at outsiders is strong here, and it’s easy to spot someone visiting from out of town.

The sky darkens and the air thickens with the electricity of the oncoming storm. I pull the hair tie out of my hair and flip my head upside down, raking my damp hair back into a tight bun, needing it off my neck. I take in a deep breath, feeling almost as if I’m breathing underwater.

At this point, I’ll welcome the rain, though I am almost to the coven. A group of hikers passes me by in a hurry to the parking lot, suggesting I do the same before the storm rolls in. I smile, nod, and pretend to take their advice, but then veer off the path, using an old, gnarled oak tree as a guide. The coven is about a quarter-mile away from the trail, far enough to make us feel like we were in the middle of nowhere when we were kids, but not so far a search party needs to get called for us, though people do get lost out here quite easily.

In the summer, the canopy of trees makes it almost impossible to use thermal scanning to find anyone from the air, and the last time I was here visiting Dad, two thirteen-year-old kids wandered off and got lost. They were found six hours later, and the entire town was tense, thinking the worse. They were playing some sort of geo-tracking game and lost cell service in the woods, which I suppose could throw you for a loop if you’re not used to the shitty cell service Silver Ridge already has.

I get a little turned around halfway to the coven and have to stop and gather my composure so I don’t freak out. I used to pride myself on being able to find my way around the woods, and even ran into a black bear a time or two, and the encounter didn’t end in bloodshed. I’m the outdoorsy one in my group of friends back in LA, but damn, it’s been a while since I’ve been out here, and I won’t do myself any favors pretending I know my way around.

It’s changed a lot over the years.

Stopping to get my phone from my backpack, I hold my breath as I wait for the map to load. I have one bar of service, just enough for me to figure out I went a few yards in the wrong direction. I get back on the right track and come to the little circle of rocks in just a few minutes. Two are covered in moss, and beer cans, an empty bottle of whiskey, and food wrappers litter my sacred space. I’m not sure what pisses me off more: that someone else found this place or they were an asshole and left their trash.

Picking up a stick from the ground, I use it to push all the trash into one spot, intending to come back here tomorrow with a bag so I can clean up the area. I brush bird poop and dirt off a rock and sit down, closing my eyes and taking in the silence of the forest. I stay perfectly still for a few minutes, remembering sitting in this exact spot, excitedly scribbling down story ideas in a leather-bound notebook. Kellie spoke to me here, and I used to run around with a dull dagger hanging from my waist, pretending to have powers and fight demons.

Lauren Wallace teased me relentlessly for it, and when I was fifteen, she and her cronies crossed paths with me out here in the woods. Farisha and I were both wearing medieval costumes and were cooking soup in the coven over a tiny fire we built and lit all on our own. It took us nearly two hours to get the fire started and were quite proud of it. It had rained that morning, and I ventured away from the safety of the coven in search of dry sticks for the fire.