Under The Midnight Sky

By Jackie Steele

Josh

Heartbreaker.

That's what some call me.

They might be right. I'm not looking for a relationship. Not a date or a one-night stand. But the moment I see the new girl in town, I can't help but be drawn to her. And the more time I spend with her, the more I want to make her mine…

Anastasia

Amnesia girl. Weirdo. Heir of Manor House.

Now I have to add Target to the list.

My memory is gone, along with any hope of ever remembering my past. Someone is desperately trying to make my life a living hell. My plan is to move to Scotland, forget the anonymous, threatening notes, and make a fresh start. I'm more than ready for a mediocre, boring life in Varmouth. But there's nothing mediocre about the new place I've inherited. When I meet Josh McMillan, the sexy six-foot-two Scot who makes my mind spin, I instantly know I should stay away from him.

Falling in love with him is not an option.

But how can I say 'no' to him when my heart doesn't want to?

 

Note: Under the Midnight Sky is not pure romance. It's romantic suspense and the start of a new series with a touch of mystery, a story of love, loss, secrets, and suspense. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Oak Books
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201922191

Book preview

Prologue

It’s a peculiar pastime to observe people.

To think they have their own lives. Their own thoughts. Their own feelings. They grow up with their own set of goals, aspirations, hobbies, friends. Family. They have dreams and plans, fears and worries. They plan their futures, knowing how they want to live their lives. Take the woman sitting next to me. She’s holding her baby so close against her chest it’s as if she thinks, at any moment, someone might want to snatch the one thing that matters to her the most out of her arms. I imagine the infant is her first child and her most valued treasure, the long-hoped for child she had been trying for years. Then there’s the young man sitting at the back of the train, headphones glued to his ears. He keeps his eyes closed as he drums his fingers to the rhythm of the music while his head is slowly moving with the beat. The loud beat carries over all the way to where I’m sitting in the train. He might be a DJ or a musician in a band, dreaming of becoming the next famous star.

Close and seemingly oblivious to him is a woman a few years older than myself. Her eyes are glued to her phone. I can tell from her smudged mascara that she has been crying. I imagine her boyfriend left her. Maybe her relationship ended because of one fight too many. It’s almost painful to watch the way she keeps flicking her thumb across the cell phone screen as if there is a picture she’s looking at and she’s lost in memories that once must have been worth capturing.

I tear my eyes away from her and stare ahead.

The person sitting opposite me is ghostly pale, her dark hair emphasizing the pallor of her skin. Her shoulders are hunched over as if she’s burdened. She keeps throwing glances at me as though she wants to say something but the words can’t find their way past her lips.

I’m finding it hard to analyze her. It’s like she is a person with no identity. She has no extraordinary beauty. There is nothing remarkable about her, nothing that would stand out to me—a blank canvas without any dreams of her own, an empty shell of a human. Her expression is bleak, as if she has no joy, no plans for the future, no dreams. It makes me uncomfortable watching her.

I want to wave at her. Maybe she’ll wave back and her expression will show the tiniest hint of a smile. Anything different, anything other than that blank face, with the rigid body, the hands she keeps together, and her haunting eyes, as if she died but returned to life, but her spirit is now long gone.

It’s painful watching myself.

I avert my gaze from my reflection in the glass, but the image remains etched in my mind. Even after all this time, it doesn’t get easier.

I have no identity.

I don’t know who I am.

If someone were to ask, I wouldn’t know how to describe myself other than lost. The one thing many take for granted, I don’t have:

Memories—the stuff that can make up dreams and hopes.

Without them, I feel like I am no one.

I’m just the girl who has no memory of her past.

Chapter 1

I FROWN AT the white envelope on the counter. It looks inconspicuous enough, save for its laid paper texture. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t here a few minutes ago, when I left the register to shelve a couple of returned books.

Who left it?

My gaze sweeps over the rear of the shop, scanning the faces of the only two customers. They seem engrossed in browsing last season’s bestsellers, aka the bargain area, and pay me no attention. The door to the bookshop is open, though. Someone must have been inside the Wood Book Shop and then departed in a hurry, leaving the door ajar. That’s the only reasonable explanation as to how the envelope found its way onto the counter.

I heave a sigh.

Retail is hard work.

When I got the job in this quaint little bookstore, one of the few still living and breathing in the city that never sleeps, I quickly found that most customers were pleasant, breezing through and leaving just as fast. However, apart from bestsellers, we also offer rare, out-of-print books and photography, so it’s not unusual to get yelled at, particularly when a customer doesn’t find the book in the condition they’re looking for or the price is not what they had in mind and they feel the need to haggle. By now, I know better than to try to deal with everything myself. If anything comes up, I just pass the complaint or feedback forms to my boss, Jeremy Kato.

I peer at the envelope again.

There is no name, no address. At least not on the front. I should ignore it instead of doing Jeremy’s work for him. I mean, he doesn’t pay me enough for that. Besides, whatever problem this customer is facing, it’s none of my business. I’m not interested enough to get involved.

But there’s something about this envelope. It’s strange that it was left in a hurry. Most customers are more vocal than necessary and wouldn’t resolve to simply leaving it without making a fuss.

I push the box with books that need shelving underneath the table that holds the register and turn the letter around.

---

TO ANASTASIA HARTFORD

---

I blink once, twice. For some inexplicable reason, I dislike my name, even more so now that I’m seeing it on paper. I stare at the text for a few seconds, take in the block capitals printed in black ink.

It must be a thank-you note.

Come to think of it, I recently spent two hours helping a veteran look for that perfect gift for his old friend. Or perhaps it’s from a stranger who has a crush on one of my co-workers, but doesn’t have the guts to ask her out on a date, so he’s asking me for a favor.

My mind keeps making up scenarios, one explanation more unreasonable than another. None of them can be true because whoever wrote this knows my full name, when everyone simply calls me Ana.

My heart starts to pound a little harder than it should as I take the envelope, weighing it in my hands, ready to open it. It feels light and the paper seems to be of high quality. It reminds me of something you would use as an invitation to a special event. With shaky fingers, I open the flap and pull out the piece of paper inside. It takes my brain a few seconds to process what I’m reading.

---

I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.

---

A sharp hiss of air escapes my lips. On impulse, I slam the note facedown and scan the area around me, expecting all pairs of eyes to be on me. No one’s paying me any attention. I’m finding it hard to breathe, like all the oxygen has been knocked out of my lungs, and my chest is tied with a tight rope, unable to expand.

Full panic attack.

What have I done?

Slowly forcing air back into my lungs, I place my palms on the counter and let my head drop.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I close my eyes and start counting until my breathing has returned to normal.

Do you have John Brown’s newest book?

An unfamiliar voice snaps my attention back to my job. I look up at the customer standing before me. She’s one of our regulars. A fourth-grade teacher, if I remember correctly. She has a strong penchant for non-fiction, like most of our customers. Even though I know what she’s looking for, I stare at her in bewilderment. My thoughts are a tangled mess, and I can’t squeeze a reply past my lips.

Mistaking my bewilderment for hesitation, the woman continues, You know John Brown. We talked about him the last time I was here. The name of the book has slipped my mind, but it was due to be released this month.

Um… John Brown… John Brown. Who is that again? The name is familiar, but all I can think about is the envelope on the counter. It feels as cold as ice under my fingertips. Or maybe it’s just the blood coursing through my veins that has frozen me all over.

I shake my head as I try to clear the fog of shock.

Focus.

John Brown. He’s celebrated as one of the most talented photographers in the world. His last book is still riding high on the bestseller list. It has been for almost a year.

I believe it’s ‘Stranded’. An autobiography. I finally manage to snap back into professional mode, but it’s as though everything’s running on autopilot. I can hear my voice yet my own words don’t penetrate the shielding curtain around my mind.

Yes. That’s the one. Do you have it?

We don’t have it yet. But our manager’s placed the order, and we expect it to arrive next week in time for the release. I shoot her a weak smile in the hope it’ll hide the shaking in my voice. If you leave your phone number I’ll be happy to make a note and give you a call once it’s available for sale.

Yes, I would like that. Thank you. She jots down a string of numbers on a customer reservation form, and then proceeds to chat about her choice of cooking books while my mind drifts back to the note.

Focus.

I keep forcing myself to listen to her chatter, but I can’t grasp more than broken fragments. Finally, she pays for her items and leaves. I scan the aisles again, relieved. There’s only one customer left—an exchange student from Denmark who is settled on one of the reading couches and flicking through a book. He’s another regular and doesn’t like to be bothered, which suits me just fine.

My mind spins back to the note. I pick it up again, as though touching it could help my brain come up with an answer.

Six words. No sender. No address.

Who left it?

The store’s CCTV camera set up near the entrance is a dummy. My boss is not a fan of what he calls unnecessary expenses, and apparently that includes surveillance gear. It sure would help answer my question. For the life of me, I can’t figure it out. My mind’s blank. I can’t think of anyone.

The quality of the font is too irregular for print, typed too close together. I assume the sender used a mechanical typewriter, one of the really old ones. I should know; I sell books for a living.

There’s a tall cabinet at the back of the store. I head for it and stop to peer at the valuables we keep locked behind the security glass. Underneath some rare first edition books is a vintage Olivetti typewriter. It was probably something like this. Jeremy is proud of his vast knowledge of printing and typography history and likes to throw it around like hot cakes. He can drone on forever so one is bound to pick up this and that during one of his speeches.

I pull at the cabinet door even though I expect it to be locked, and the only key is somewhere in Jeremy’s office. It stays shut.

I peer at the paper in my hand again. My fingers are clenching the paper so tightly I wouldn’t be surprised to find it pulverized to dust.

Ana! I got you your favorite from Starbucks, Jeremy suddenly calls out from the counter, holding up two cups of cinnamon dolce latte. He’s late. Very late again. As usual. He’s also easy-going, good-humored, and the chatty type, which is probably why he’s late. He’s the kind of person you would want as your boss, particularly if you’re into printing and books and nothing but books.

But not today. I can’t deal with him when my mind is a tangled mess.

Thanks. Waving at him from the back of the store, I force a smile to my face and stash the crumpled paper inside my back pocket, then pretend to be busy with rearranging shelved merchandise.

For a moment, I consider showing him the note, but immediately disregard the thought. He’s an expert when it comes to old fonts and typewriters, but involving him would be a bad idea. I can’t risk him asking questions to which I have no answers. I can’t raise his mistrust and end up losing my job. It might not be a dream job, what with my feet always hurting from standing for hours at a time, and working the day after the holidays when the season of returns begins. But being around books all day long almost makes up for it.

I know what you have done.

The words keep ringing inside my head, loud and clear, and fear as thick as smoke begins to choke me.

What could I have possibly done?

Nothing remarkable has happened since my move to NYC.

What does the person think I’ve done? Why was there a need to write an anonymous note to let me know about it?

The drawbacks of suffering from amnesia is that not only do people have to deal with the failure of recalling certain aspects of their past, but they might also not remember their enemies from the past. Given that I have no memory of what I call my previous life—the one before the accident—there are too many possibilities of what might have happened.

In all likelihood, the person isn’t aware of my accident. It happened two years ago; I wasn’t working at the Wood Book Store then. And yet I can’t discard the possibility that the person who delivered the card knew me before. Something tells me this person has an issue with me grave enough to want to remain anonymous.

Chapter 2

By the time I finally call it a day and leave the inconspicuous building of the bookstore, the sky has turned dark and my anxiety has morphed into pure dread. As I watch the train pull away, I ignore the flash of panic and desperation washing over me like thick streams at the realization that I’ll have to wait for the next one in what I consider to be the ugliest of all NYC subway stations.

With its extraordinary quietness and flickering lights that feel like they could turn off any second, the old subway station in Chambers Street on the J/Z lines would be the perfect scene for any horror movie. Paint peels from the dirty ceiling. Mold grows on the pillars. Garbage litters the narrow space between the tracks. Dirt and soot cover the old platforms. After years of neglect, upgrades are long overdue. The distant squeaking noise of what