Lost Inside, A Shimmer Lake Novel # 1

By Christina Smith

This book was previously published as the first part of Finding Abigail. It has now been split into two books.
Due to violence and language, this book is recommended for 17+

Abby Watson is lost inside the books and stories in her head. As a writer of children’s fantasy, she is immersed in the world of fairy tales. It’s the outside world she is unfamiliar with. Other than a chance encounter with a man in uniform, she has no social life. But that’s just fine with her. She loves her job and doesn’t feel the need for anything more.
When her friends insist that she at least try to get a life other than inside her apartment, they set out to take her on a mission to have fun. At a club she’s been dragged to, she stumbles upon the only man she's the least bit attracted to—Nick, the policeman in the uniform. When he asks her to dance, sparks fly.

Will she finally break out of her apartment and have a life with this very attractive cop or will she regret ever leaving her home in the first place?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christina Smith
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311783950

Christina Smith

She is a wife and mother, who lives in a small rural town in Ontario Canada where she spends most of her free time writing.She has always loved to read, but didn't realize she could write until a few years ago. She has told stories her whole life, but never thought to write them down.She took a novel writing course at Winghill writing school, and since then has written four books. Two are finished, the others are being edited.Her book Fated Dreams was named Semi-Finaliast in the 2011 Textnovel writing Contest.

Book preview

Lost Inside

A Shimmer Lake Novel

by

Christina Smith

This book was previously published as the first part of Finding Abigail. It has now been split into two books.

Published by Christina Smith

Smashwords edition

Copyright ©2015 Christina Smith

Edited by Christine LePorte

Cover Art and design by Ronnell D Porter

For my sister Debbie,

Who is more than a sister to me, she is my friend.

And to all the women out there who feel trapped in a relationship. I hope you find the courage to somehow be free.

In order to keep this book as real as possible, I worked with a woman who had been in an abusive relationship. Thankfully she is now happily married to a great man. The abuse happened years ago but the scars are still there. She let me take a peek into her memories so I could create a character as realistic as possible. I couldn’t have done it without her. And to this woman-this is also for you.

Look for these other exciting titles by Christina Smith

Finding Abigail, book two in the Shimmer Lake series

My Young Adult Fantasy Series:

Fated Dreams (Book one in the Affinity Series)

Delusions (Book two in the Affinity Series)

Riley’s Curse, A Moon’s Glow Prequel (Free as an eBook)

Riley’s Secret, A Moon’s Glow Novel #1

Riley’s Torment, A Moon’s Glow Novel #2

Riley’s Redemption, A Moon’s Glow Novel #3

Skeleton Park

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is for adults eighteen and over.

Preface

On the edge of consciousness, I gazed into the deep brown eyes that stared into mine. They were full of hate and disgust as the man attached to them drained the life from my body.

He said he loved me, but continually treated me with violence and ridicule.

He said he wanted to marry me, except to him, I was a possession.

He said he wanted to be together forever, but my life, my essence, my soul, was slipping away at the hands of the man who loves me.

Chapter One

Lunch

Shit, I’m late, I muttered.

The silence of my empty apartment was the only answer. The clock hanging above my mahogany-framed mirrored dresser read ten forty-five. The second hand ticked by at what seemed to be an unnatural speed, mocking me. The meeting at my publisher’s office was in fifteen minutes, and I was still applying my make-up. Why the hell did I always wait so long to start getting ready? Thank God, the career I chose let me work at home, because otherwise, I would have been fired long ago.

After tossing my eye shadow into my red satin make-up bag, I assessed my appearance in the mirror. Hair was … decent. Make-up looked… acceptable. And all my clothes were on, so that was a bonus. My worst nightmare was rushing out and forgetting my pants. With my head full of ideas for novels, I’m always forgetting things.

I ran to fetch my briefcase that held my notes for the new children’s book I was writing and took off out the door of my apartment.

Hold the elevator, I yelled when I saw it closing. I slid inside just before it shut. Thanks, I said to my neighbor, Mrs. Newman. She stood alone near the controls with her navy-blue sequined purse tucked under her arm. She didn’t go anywhere without it, not even the laundry room.

Running late again, Abby? she asked me as the elevator started to descend. The high pitched ping that sounded at each floor was annoyingly slow.

I smiled at her. She was in her seventies and still in good shape. Her silvery white hair was long and always pulled back in a braid or bun. The gray of her eyes sparkled, and the wrinkles on her face made her look wise instead of old.

I hoped to be half as healthy when I turned seventy. She moved here a year ago, after her husband of fifty years died. Her children lived on the other side of the city, so I looked out for her whenever I could to keep them at ease.

You know me so well, Sylvia.

What’s the rush? Do you have a hot lunch date? she asked me with a wink while jingling the silver and blue beads she wore around her neck.

An extremely, unappealing snort escaped my lips. No, not today. Not likely ever. My romantic life was at a bit of a standstill, with zero prospects. I was fine with that. My life was full enough; my friends, family and career kept me busy. Although that didn’t stop my mom from constantly nagging me to settle down, but wasn’t that expected of her? She is my mom.

I’m only twenty-five years old, a long way from spinsterhood. I knew the reason I hadn’t dated in a while—men didn’t actually knock on your door to ask you out. And that was the problem, since I worked at home. I was always working.

When the elevator stopped at the lobby, we stepped out together. You know, I have a grandson who would love you— she began, the sparkle in her eyes becoming brighter.

I raised my hand to stop her. Sorry, Sylvia, but I don’t do setups. Last time that happened, I was covered in mud at the end of the date and temporarily deaf in my left ear. Thanks anyway. See you later, I called over my shoulder as I rushed out the front door into the bright sunshine.

Good morning, Miss Watson. Lovely weather we’re having, Spencer, the building’s doorman, greeted me.

A grin spread across my face. It sure is, Spencer.

Would you like a cab? He was exactly what you would think a doorman looked like. Short, a little on the round side, with a long black coat and top hat.

You read my mind.

As I waited for the cab, I lifted my face to soak in the sun. Renwood, the city where I lived, was colder this time of year, like its neighbor, Watertown. Being close to the Canadian border, you’d think we could blame them for our frigid weather, but no. We accumulated more snow then they did, since our city ran parallel to Lake Ontario. It also didn’t help that we were in a snow belt.

Fortunately, this year, it was only rain that made the air cool and damp. After the soggy week we had, this change of weather was definitely welcoming. I felt the sun’s heat on my exposed skin as a warm breeze blew a strand of hair into my eyes. Since it was too early for the scent of grass or flowers, the day smelled only of crisp fresh air, but it beat the smell of wet dog and earthworms.

He waved as a cab approached. When it stopped, he opened the door for me.

Thank you, Spencer, I called to him from the other side of the glass.

That was something I would never get used to. Once my books started selling, I moved from my tiny bachelorette apartment to this one, which came with a doorman. To say it was different from my old building was an understatement. The age of my former home and the smell of must and mothballs in the hallways were only a few of the differences. The worst was the lack of an elevator. Trekking up seven flights of stairs on grocery and laundry day was extremely inconvenient, although my arms were more defined back then.

Once I arrived at my publisher’s office, the elevator took me up to the twelfth floor.

I stepped out into a large room filled with rows of desks. People were hard at work typing on their computers, the sound of tapping keys echoing throughout the room. The air smelled of ink, perfume, and air freshener. The large square fluorescent lights hanging from the ceilings were bright, and radiating heat.

Walking through the center aisle sometimes made me miss working with others. But thinking about how early they woke up for work every day, I got over it. A few heads lifted as I walked by, and I smiled in greeting.

Usually I emailed my outlines to my editor, and really, I preferred to do it that way since it gave me more time for actual writing. I enjoyed what I did for a living; it made me happy, so why would I want to stop?

I started my writing career with pre-K books. Introducing the world of words to young children was my calling. The only problem was that there wasn’t a lot of money in those. When a few of my fantasy pre-teen books really took off, I was able to return to pre-K, where my heart was.

The first book I ever wrote was for my niece and nephew when they were only a couple years old. I read a few paragraphs to them, emphasizing my words on the different noises from the story. I was surprised to see their eyes light up, their faces eager for more. I knew then what I was meant to do.

Hi. Abigail Watson to see Debbie Frankford. I leaned against the desk waiting for a reply from the woman that must be a temp. Gwen, the normal receptionist, was nowhere to be seen.

She gave me a warm smile that lit up her green eyes. Yes, Miss Watson, Debbie’s expecting you. Go on in, she answered politely.

I thanked her and strode down the long carpeted hall to Debbie’s office.

You’re late! my editor and best friend snapped at me before even stepping foot inside her door. She sat at her desk reading what looked like an unpublished manuscript. Her long, cinnamon-colored hair was pulled back away from her face, a pencil stuck behind her ear. Her words sounded angry, but the expression in her hazel eyes didn’t match her tone. She set the pages down on the desk as I approached her.

I know, I’m so sorry. I’ll be on time at our next meeting, I promise.

She continued to glare at me, and then suddenly smiled. You’re not late. I told you to be here at eleven, but I don’t have you scheduled until eleven thirty. She started to laugh at me and then covered her mouth to stop it. Probably because of the shocked look that was no doubt on my face.

You bitch, do you know that I was in such a rush, I was worried I’d forget my pants?

She laughed even harder, a cheerful sound that made me smile—on the inside, since I couldn’t let her see it.

I’m glad I amuse you. I glared at her, falling into the plush chair in front of her desk. Why did I have to come down here anyway, I could have just emailed them to you.

Yes, you could have. But then you would never leave your apartment, would you?

That’s true, I admitted, no longer angry. Okay. I reached into my brown suede briefcase; the earthy scent reminded me of my mother as she gave it to me for Christmas last year.

Here you go. I handed Debbie a file that held an outline for my next book. She took it from my fingers and placed it on her desk. I’m thinking of making it a series called The Little Miss books. She scanned the first page as I went on. You know, Little Miss goes to the mall. Little Miss rides the school bus. Little Miss goes to the carnival, and so on. What do you think?

She glanced up from the pages and smiled. I’m so glad we work together.

Does that mean you like it?

I love it. So much so, that I’m taking you to lunch. She stood up and pushed her chair back, hitting the textured wall behind her with a thump.

Aren’t you going to finish reading the outline? I thought that’s why I was here.

No, I’ll read it later. This was just a ruse to get you out of that apartment so we could go eat.

Are you kidding, I could be writing right now. You know my editor is a slave driver. I leaned over the desk, plucking the pencil from her ear and tossing it onto the discarded manuscript, creating lead marks on the pristine, white paper.

I know, isn’t she? She winked and walked around the desk. Now let’s go, I’m starving. After pulling her jean jacket on, she threaded her arm though mine and we headed to the elevator.

Strolling past a couple of desks in the main workroom, we saw a man in a police uniform talking to a woman who had black hair and wore a gray business suit. She looked vaguely familiar, but I was terrible with names.

He sat on the edge of her desk, talking in a low voice. Whatever he said made her laugh. She covered her mouth to hide her giggle.

Is someone getting arrested? I asked Debbie.

A smile tugged at his lips when he saw us approach. His gaze followed as we passed.

You probably, for wearing mismatched socks. She shook her head in disgust.

We reached the elevator and stood in front of it. My socks match. I glanced down to see one white and one black. How the hell did that happen? I mumbled to myself.

With you, who knows? she grumbled, pushing the elevator button. Besides, you shouldn’t even be wearing socks. How many times have I told you to wear heels, not sneakers?

The idea of squeezing my unusually wide feet into heels for a casual lunch with a friend was laughable. Of course, I was no stranger to dressy shoes, or fancy clothes, for that matter, but to me there had to be a damn good reason to do so, and this was not one of those times. I peered down at my black canvas shoes, wiggling my toes. I like my sneakers. Besides, I’m wearing jeans and I’m not wearing heels with jeans. Once the elevator door creaked open, we stepped inside.

She gaped at me like I had two heads and was frothing at the mouth as the car started to move. Her thick lashes blinked at me. What am I going to do with you? I have to trick you to get you out. Am I going to have to dress you as well?

You love me the way I am, and you know it. I bumped my hip against hers.

She held her exasperated expression a few beats longer before smiling. You’re right. I do, there’s no one like you, Abby. She sighed as we exited the elevator and headed out the building’s front door.

The trendy restaurant we chose was crowded with twenty-something up-and-comers on lunch break from the nearby offices. The large dining room was welcoming with splashes of creamy white and burgundy throughout the space. A single white lily peeked out of crystal vases in the center of each table. A buzz of conversation filled the aromatic air. Most of the customers were dressed like Debbie, in suits or work appropriate dresses. I felt a little underdressed in my jeans and purple cotton top.

We were seated along the front window in a comfortable burgundy banquette. I asked her where Gwen, the regular receptionist was.

She left two months ago, I told you that. Honestly, she began, shaking her head. How do you make it through the day? You’re constantly in your own little world.

She meant it as an insult, but instead of taking offence, I grinned. I like it in my world; it’s bright, colorful, and shiny.

She laughed, a soft chortle that had the man in the booth behind us glance in her direction.

There was a certain aroma in the room that I couldn’t quite name. A mix of yummy smells all rolled into one. Since identifying the specific one I liked the best was impossible, I asked the waiter, once he arrived, for a cheeseburger and fries. I was in the mood for something greasy.

Debbie ordered a spinach salad—how boring. While we waited for our lunch, she filled me in on her love life. She was dating a hot mystery writer. He had taken her out five times and she was getting ready for the big night. So what about you, any dates lately? she asked with a smirk on her face. She played with the cubes of ice in her water, creating a soft tinkling sound. The sweat from the glass made her fingers glisten.

I scowled at her. Why would you ask that if you already know the answer? Are you trying to rub it in? The waiter placed our meals in front of us. I took a big bite of my burger. It tasted so good, my stomach rumbled and I realized that I had completely forgotten to eat breakfast.

I’m sorry. But I do have this guy in mind for you. He’s a writer too, and I know you’ll hit it off.

Once I swallowed, I groaned and rolled my eyes. Do I have a sign on my head that says ‘please fix me up’? God, between you, my mother and my neighbor, I’m going crazy.

Throwing her head back with a laugh, she picked up her fork, pointing it at me. "Well, we know you need a life other than writing, so maybe dating someone will get you out of your place and