No Safe Place

By Barbara Ellen Brink

An acclaimed mystery writer finds her words brought frighteningly to life…

After her fiancé is violently murdered walking home from the gym one night, celebrated author L.E. Stanfield flees the crime-ridden city of Minneapolis to settle in the comparative safety of smalltown rural Wisconsin. Dealing with agoraphobia and a crisis of faith related to her grief, she lives in a gated, computerized, smart home where she feels safe from the outside world, locked inside by debilitating fear and anger at God, isolated and alone.

When her New York editor is killed in a traffic accident, the publisher quickly assigns a new editor to help meet the deadline on her novel. Carson Scott is handsome, smart, and easy to work with, and she quickly connects with him online, but is there more to his story than meets the eye?

Living under her real name and never leaving the house, no one in town could possibly connect Liya Sharapova to her non-de-plume. But someone has hacked her security system and is busy turning her safe place into a living nightmare by using scenes from her own work-in-progress.

Will Liya release her death grip on the need to control and protect her life and let God transform the ashes of her past into a future ripe with promise?

A psychological Christian thriller with page turning tension in every chapter right up to the surprising twist that you won't see coming.

Fans of Terri Blackstock, Robert Whitlow, Christy Barrett, Sibella Giorello, Brandilyn Collins, Creston Mapes, and Sara Davison will love this thriller from bestselling author Barbara Ellen Brink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lapdog Books
• Release date: Sep 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223868651

Barbara Ellen Brink

Barbara Ellen Brink is a multi-published author, supported financially by a loving husband who just happens to have a better paying job. She is the author of the Fredrickson Winery mysteries, Entangled, Crushed, and Savor. She is also the author of an award winning thriller, Split Sense; inspirational suspense novels; and a young adult series, The Amish Bloodsuckers.She grew up on a small farm in Washington State, but now lives in the mean “burbs” of Minnesota with her husband and their dogs, Rugby & Willow. With her kids now pushed out of the nest and encouraged to fly, Barbara spends much time writing, motorcycling with her husband in the summer, and hiking through the snow with the dogs in the winter.

Book preview

Other Novels by this author

Roadkill

Much Ado About Murder

Midsummer Madness

Christmas in Port Scuttlebutt

A Man Can Die but Once

Entangled

Crushed

Savor

Split Sense

Running Home

Alias Raven Black

Trial by Fire

Chosen

Shunned

Reckoning

Potluck (A collection of short stories)

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Joy DeKok, a sweet friend, breakfast date, and fellow writer. I miss your contagious smile and laughter, your love for Jesus and how that was reflected in your life and conversations with others, our chats about books, writing, and anything that popped into our heads. I cherish the memories of our friendship, but know you are with your Savior and enjoying heaven with all the joy-filled wonder of a child of the King.

No Safe Place

CHAPTER ONE

Liya spoke into the microphone, watching the UPS driver set down the packages outside her front door. Thank you, Frank. See you tomorrow.

His lips curved into a smile. Take care, Ms. Liya! He waved up at the camera before jogging back to his truck. The engine roared as he put it into gear and pulled around the turnabout.

She watched the truck pass through the gates before speaking to her security system. Please close the front gates, Nikita.

Front Gates closing, the computer-generated voice replied. It wasn’t a canned, stilted robotic voice but rather a mature female voice with a slight Russian accent. Her mother’s voice.

Liya had probably watched the family video of her 13th birthday party a thousand times just to hear her mother say, ‘Happy birsday, my darlink daughter! I love you more san life!’ She’d cupped her daughter’s face in her palms, kissed her forehead, and said with a bright smile, ‘Tomorrow, Sveetheart, ve vill continue celebration. Just two of us. I promise.’ After enveloping her in a warm, lilac-scented hug she’d left early to return to the hospital where she worked as a surgical nurse. Anna Sharapova was unable to make good on her promise to young Liya for she arrived at the hospital D.O.A. after a terrible traffic accident. She had been dearly loved and was still terribly missed.

When she had the voice activated security system installed, she’d scoured the internet for the right AI personality, knowing that it would be running her system and she would have to interact with it multiple times a day. Finally, she decided the only voice she longed to hear on a daily basis was her mother’s. She’d gathered up all the audio recordings from family movies and paid a young computer nerd to clone her mother’s voice.

The voice of the female AI was inflected with warmth and underlaid with strength and purpose, as her mother’s had been, managing to instill confidence in the hearer. Liya’s mother had been a force to be reckoned with but also a kind and loving parent. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close. Very close.

Once she had the voice program, she named it after one of her favorite fictional characters. Nikita. A woman with such a memorable personality and tough-girl spy moves would be able to handle all of her day-to-day security. Closing the gates. Locking and unlocking the doors. Manning the cameras. Ordering supplies and groceries. Playing music. Shutting off the lights. Turning on the oven. Etcetera. Nikita was everything she wished she could be; strong, brave, adventurous, tireless, intelligent, and always fearless.

Liya released a sigh heavy with resignation. This was as adventurous as she’d been for the past year and a half. Viewing the outside world through a protective lens, at all times surrounded by four walls and a myriad of technological devices.

The security room was just off the kitchen. About the size of a walk-in closet, but doorless and more of a room niche really. It was set up with a computer and a 40-inch monitor on the wall. She watched the picture change as the computer automatically flipped through different camera angles around her house and yard.

She moved to her favorite room of the house – what most people referred to as a family room – although without any family to share it with she had more appropriately dubbed it the lake room. The best thing about the lake room was its ten-foot-tall triangular picture window where she had a panoramic view of beautiful Dragon Lake. At the water’s edge, a newly built dock stretched out over sparkling water. She’d had workmen come at the beginning of summer to treat the wood with a coat of waterproof stain in case she ever felt brave enough to venture out.

So close and yet so far.

When she’d moved in, the builder informed her that the lake was a great fishing spot. She’d even gone online and ordered herself a new reel and pole. One she had yet to use.

What she really longed for was to enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face while dangling her feet off the dock into that cool pristine water, no longer a prisoner in her own home tied up with cords of fear and anxiety.

She took a deep cleansing breath and released it, letting go of the untenable dream for now. She asked, Nikita, what is the weather outside?

Eighty-zree degrees with slight Norzvesterly breeze and fifteen percent chance of rain by six p.m.

Thank you, Nikita, she said automatically. Long ago she’d begun to speak back to the voice as though she were a personal assistant rather than a computer program. Can you turn the thermostat down two degrees, please? I’m feeling a bit warm.

Lowering zermostat to sixty-eight degrees.

Liya turned away from the view that tugged at her heart and moved to the kitchen. She rummaged through the refrigerator for a snack. Her bag of apples was depleted and there were only two bananas and one bruised orange left. She peeled a banana and took a bite before pouring a glass of milk to wash it down. The milk carton was nearly empty also and there were only two eggs in the clear plastic holder.

Nikita, please make a grocery list. Apples, oranges, bananas, milk... she paused, opening the vegetable drawer. Cucumber, celery, carrots, and some chicken stock. I plan to make soup tonight.

List made, Nikita said.

She opened a drawer and rifled through her stockpile of sweets. Shoot! I’m out of dark chocolate as well. She unwrapped a square of milk chocolate and popped it into her mouth. Nikita, add dark chocolate and salted pecans to that list.

Items added.

Her cell phone rang, and she stiffened. Who is calling, Nikita?

Lapdog Books.

She muttered an expletive. Her deadline was past due, and they were putting on the pressure. She pressed her earbud to answer. Hello.

Ms. L. E. Stanfield? This is Carson. Carson Scott. Your interim editor. Jessica gave me your number. She said we should connect to discuss the final draft of your book.

Eight years ago, her publisher had suggested using a pen name that sounded more American. Liya Sharapova was too foreign. Too hard to pronounce. Too tennis champion and not mystery writer enough. Eventually, Russian names were all the rage, but back then... not so much. Hence, she became L. E. Stanfield to her readers and Ellie to those who knew her in the publishing world. Apart from their shared initials, there was a canyon of difference between L. E. and Liya. But most people were never introduced to them both. They either knew L. E. Stanfield, the New York Times best-selling author, or they knew Liya, the agoraphobic woman living alone behind gates and locks and walls of her own making.

Swallowing down her reluctance at dealing with a stranger, she moved toward her office, feeling empowered by his use of her full pen name as though he were a bit intimidated by her celebrity. She spoke firmly and succinctly, her words speeding by in tight formation. Mr. Scott, is it? Mary Granger is my only editor. I have a long-standing relationship with her. She knows what I like, what I need, and how I work. Why would Jessica mess with that? Are you Mary’s assistant? She was instructed not to give out my private number to anyone without my express permission. Why would she do that? Is she on vacation? If so, I’ll wait until she gets back.

There was a heavy pause as though he pondered which question to answer first. "No. I mean... yes. I am... was Mary’s assistant. Jessica wanted to call you personally, but she was rushing to a family emergency and didn’t know when she’d be back. She asked me to relay the news. I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you that Mary was killed in a traffic accident last Tuesday afternoon."

Liya gasped. Mary had just celebrated her thirty-third birthday. She had a husband and young children. No. That’s terrible. Her poor family.

The funeral will be held next week. I’ll send you the information in case you are able to attend.

Thank you, she said, knowing she would be sending flowers and regrets in lieu of her presence. I’m very sorry to hear this. She was an amazingly loyal and talented editor and a lovely woman. I will miss her very much.

Yes. She was, he agreed. She will be greatly missed around the offices at Lapdog Books as well. Liya thought she heard his voice thicken with emotion. Then he cleared his throat. I apologize for throwing all of this at you so suddenly, but Jessica wants to try and keep to our deadline on your book. If you’re willing, I can fly out to you and we can work together all weekend and get this thing put to bed.

Put to bed.

Liya had always thought it a strange synonym for finishing a book. The last thing she wanted was for her books to put people to sleep or for the story to come to an end. The characters in her novels were more real to her than the people outside her doors that she never got to meet. She fell in love with them, feared them, and connected with them on a whole different level. They were able to come into her home, sit with her, sleep with her, and touch her in the only way her mind would allow these days. Without these characters, her life would truly be empty. Her publisher had suggested she start a series, but she’d refused. Letting go in the end would be that much harder; like losing close family members. She wouldn’t put herself through that.

It was hard enough to write THE END to her current novel, a frightening mystery based on a serial killer. Delving into the mind of a madman had been a scary endeavor, but over time she’d come to see him not only as a sinister man with tendencies to murder but also as an individual much like herself who longed for human connection. Sadly, his longings turned deadly and twisted. Hers were yet to be fulfilled in a tangible way. She would just like to join the world again. Not be afraid to walk outside these doors and greet a neighbor.

She sighed and instead said, I’m sorry, I don’t think that would be a good idea at this time. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather. But I’d be happy to chat online, and we can work on putting the finishing edits on Blood Bond.

All right, he said, his voice tentative. If that’s how you want to proceed. Please send me your latest update. I’ll get right to work and send you my thoughts in a couple of hours.

They exchanged online info and Carson Scott suggested a video chat later in the evening. Liya didn’t commit but said she’d let him know.

After the call ended, she sat for long minutes staring across the room at her favorite photo of Sasha. It was one she’d taken when she was going through her I want to be a professional photographer phase. He was smiling, his eyes slightly narrowed against the sun as he reached out playfully to draw her into his arms. She remembered clicking the camera button a mere second before she was pulled tightly against his chest and kissed until she was breathless. They were so young and vibrant then, so full of adventure and passion and promises. They’d planned to spend the rest of their lives together.

But plans didn’t come with a guarantee, as she’d learned once again just minutes ago at the shocking news of her editor’s untimely death. Life was not guaranteed. You could be in rush hour traffic one minute and in the arms of God the next.

She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of Sasha’s thick black hair beneath her fingers, the sparkle in his cobalt blue eyes when he laughed, which he often did, and that sexy teasing grin that always made her feel so especially loved and alive.

They had grown up together on the same street, at the same schools, in the same church. They’d played together, fought with each other, and loved each other with such intensity, such passion. He was her best friend, her protector, her lover... her soulmate.

When Sasha was murdered, her world was blown apart by that bullet just as surely as Sasha’s heart was destroyed by its passage through his left ventricle. Everything she knew, every hope and dream, every touch, every look, every spoken word of love... obliterated. Sasha had been her safe place, her haven. Now she had none. Her house wasn’t a home. It was a prison. The man who robbed Sasha outside the gym that night, who blew a hole through his chest for a measly twenty-five dollars, had just as surely blown an irreparable hole through her heart as well, and taken both of their lives.

Wiping a tear from her cheek, she turned back to her computer and quickly sent off a copy of her work-in-progress to Carson Scott.

CHAPTER TWO

Liya nibbled on a piece of buttered toast and sipped her tea while watching the robotic vacuum move across the living room carpet. It bumped into the leg of a chair and reversed direction, making a soft hum like a giant beetle foraging for food.

Nikita, could you turn on my writing playlist? I think we need some music this afternoon, she said into the empty room.

Time to get to work. Blood Bond wouldn’t finish itself and Carson would be calling again if she didn’t send him those last chapters soon.

Friday nights were the hardest. Once considered time off to go out and have dinner, or shop, or see a movie with Sasha or a girlfriend, now was just another self-imposed evening of imprisonment. She could pop some corn in the microwave and have Nikita play a movie on the giant flat screen in the lake room, but it wasn’t the same. She missed the human connection, feeling a part of someone else’s experience rather than just her own.

One of Ed Sheeran’s mournful, bad-boy tunes of drinking and lost love began to play and she couldn’t bear to hear it. The similarities glared too bright this evening and her thoughts shattered into a million regrets. Nikita, skip to the next song.

As the song was replaced with Brad Paisley’s light-hearted Mud on The Tires, she reached for her teacup and caught movement at the window. The cup clattered against the saucer as she fumbled to connect properly, tipping and spilling the tea in a puddle on the tablecloth. Ahh!

Jumping up, she knocked the chair back in her hurry, and ran to the window. Eyes wide, she scanned the dock and lakeshore, leaning over the sink to peer around the yard as far as she could see.

Nothing. No one.

The only movement was made by the breeze pushing through lakeshore rushes and ruffling leaves on tree branches. A gust of wind blew ripples across the surface of the water and on the opposite shore, an American flag flying proudly atop her neighbor’s flagpole, was sent into a frenzied flapping.

Had she imagined it then? Perhaps an object blowing across the yard? Or a bird flying too close to the window. Maybe... She shook her head and released a pent-up breath. Maybe she needed eyeglasses.

Nikita, please make an appointment with the online optometrist for an eye exam on Monday.

Setting up appointment wiz Speedy Eye Exams R Us.

Liya put her cup and plate in the dishwasher and the soiled tablecloth in the washing machine when she suddenly remembered the packages that the UPS driver had left on her front porch. She hurried to the door, checked the security screen to make sure no one was about, and clicked open the locks. She pulled the heavy door open and took a hesitant step forward. Her heart sped up and she felt her scalp prickle with nerves as she automatically bent and reached along the outside wall for the boxes.

Her outstretched fingers came up empty. No boxes. They weren’t there.

She opened her eyes and stared in confusion. Frank always stacked the boxes against the wall, close to the door. She’d watched him on the security room monitor, day after day. In the entire time she’d lived here, he had never deviated from her instructions. How then did her packages move from their position against the house to the bottom step of the porch?

The neat stack of boxes, one large with three more atop it, sat perfectly centered in line with her front door, but a world away from her reach.

Liya slowly stepped back inside, closed the door and twisted the deadbolt. She leaned against the hardwood panel, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. What was going on? Boxes didn’t move themselves. She was absolutely positive that Frank had placed the boxes against the house. She’d watched him on the monitor and thanked him before he drove away. Hadn’t she?

She hurried to the nook and brought up the security program, clicked through to view the activity from the front door. She watched in fast motion the hours after Frank had dropped off the packages. Nothing. No one climbed the steps to remove the boxes. They were against the wall and then suddenly they weren’t. In between were a few seconds of static as though the camera had gone offline.

THE THOUGHT OF TAKING those half dozen steps outside the safety of her door in order to fetch the boxes inside made her break out in a cold sweat. Instead, she pushed away from the door and moved determinedly toward her office. There was nothing so important in those boxes that couldn’t wait.

She opened the lid on her laptop and brought up her work-in-progress. Blood Bond had been a bit disturbing in the writing. Maybe her imagination was working overtime. The serial killer in her story was adept at stalking and sneaking around the homes of single women. Obviously, the story was beginning to take a toll on her nerves. She drew a deep cleansing breath and released it, then spoke aloud as if to give her thoughts credence. Finish the book and you will be done seeing things that aren’t there.

Her typing was interrupted when the phone rang in her earbud. She looked up at the clock and saw that two hours had passed very quickly. Nikita, who’s calling?

Carson Scott.

Thank you. She pushed to connect. Not disguising her annoyance at his persistent nudging, she said, What a surprise to hear from you again so soon, Mr. Scott.

Ms. Stanfield. I’m sorry to be pushing you, but I don’t want to waste a perfectly good Friday night alone at home without anything to do but watch reruns on Hulu.

His good humor brought a smile to her lips and she relented her earlier assessment of the man. She saved her finished work and stood, moving toward the liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. After pulling open the double doors, she slid out the shelf adorned with crystal Decanters filled with amber liquids. You could try Netflix, she teased.

He made a sound of amusement. Thanks for the suggestion.

She never used to drink alone. A glass of wine when she was out with friends or at a book party, but apart from special occasions, alcohol had never been a draw for her. Now, she rarely went a day without at least one drink. She slowly pulled the round crystal cap from the whiskey Decanter and heard the little pop as it released.

Never fear, she said, tossing him a bone. I was just finishing up a rewrite of the final chapters and will have a copy emailed to you within the hour. I wouldn’t want you to be stuck watching old episodes of The Brady Bunch when you could be scared straight reading Blood Bond until the wee hours of the morning.

He chuckled. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Flying solo on a Friday night is sort of like catching the Black Plague in this town. You’re doomed to a short friend list and an even shorter list of invitations. I was actually looking forward to coming out to work with you, so I would have something exciting to talk about around the water cooler on Monday. But since you don’t require my presence, I’m stuck knitting a sweater for my pet parrot.

I’d love to see that. Send me a picture, she teased. "With you and your pet parrot. I like to know who I’m working with."

He cleared his throat. You aren’t going to ask me if I really know how to knit?

I wouldn’t dream of doubting your talents, she said, pouring herself two fingers of Irish whiskey. She raised the glass to her nose and breathed it in. If Jessica trusts you to edit my book, you must have a well of talent to draw from. You can probably knit in your sleep.

It’s actually where I do my best work.

You sound like a writer. She took a sip and swallowed, feeling the burn. I always think up the best plots while asleep. Sadly, most of the storyline fades away before I wake sufficiently to write it down.

I’ve heard that from a number of writers, he said, and there was a smile in his voice. Perhaps we need to invest in a dreamscape program. The publishing house would quickly earn back their investment in more imaginative stories from our writers.

Definitely. But until then, you’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.

I’ve read your rough drafts and I have no doubt Blood Bond will be another best seller. No matter where you get your inspiration from. I always have to read your books with the lights on, even though my e-reader is backlit.

She laughed, relaxing. Whether it was the whiskey or the man’s easy-going charm and good humor, she was definitely warming up to him. No need to brown nose, Carson. I’m confident you’re a very good editor or Jessica wouldn’t have entrusted you with my management.

Management? Noooo. He drew out the single word and she could imagine him shaking his head as he said it. I’m just here to shower you with encouragement and make sure Blood Bond gets into the hands of your loyal readers as soon as possible.

She downed the whiskey in her glass and reached for the decanter. Your encouragement means a lot, she said, filling her glass again, but a picture is worth a thousand words. I’m waiting. She disconnected the line and sat down, smiling up at the ceiling.

Ten minutes later, lounging on the couch in the front