She started a new file. She’d need to change all the names of course, but she’d worry about that later. Just get it down now. Just get all of it down, no matter how rough. Just write the story, the twisting story, Terry’s story, Pepin’s story, Susan Turnbull’s story, the Little Girl story, the story that reached back to one Bancroft and his women and wound its way over the years toward another.
Leigh began typing.
Chapter 1. The Doctor Arrives.
Highlight. Delete. “It’s your story, Terry,” she whispered. “I promised.” She stared at the screen. What had Roberta said she did when she was starting a novel? Oh god, yes. Daydreaming.
Two weeks. Who had time for daydreaming? But there was something else, something about—
one single image that’s clearer than the others. I start there.
Leigh smiled and typed.
Chapter 1. The Yellow Chanel.