Derek and Annika 2: An Escalating Narrative

Disclaimer: This is the sequel to Derek and Annika: An Evolving Story (Contest #305) that nobody asked for…

Prologue

July 2025

“So what’s the plan here?”

Eric fucking jumped. The pre-owned aftermarket bed cover almost slammed down on his right hand. His writing hand.

The woman in Eric’s headlights cleared her throat. “I said…”

“Shit,” Eric squeaked. “Sorry.”

“What is your plan here?” New York Times bestselling author Hannah Morstan-Doyle inquired, calmly. “Please tell me you’re not going to dump the body in the creek back there. You’re playing Russian roulette with climate change– an August drought or a flash flood…”

“What? I mean, what?”

“What’s the plan? With her. The wife, the significant other, the old lady, the little woman? By the way, is she a little woman?”

“Well, she coulda lost a few—Why?”

“Logistics,” Hannah shrugged, crunching across the gravel to the rear of the Silverado. Eric tensed and considered the bloody tire iron inside the locked bed, probably under Danica. The writer pulled what appeared to be a Glock from her designer purse.

“Jesus fuck,” Eric stated.

“Well, I can see how it looks that way.”

“You said you liked my rewrite, and to give you a call,” Eric protested. “Did you fucking follow me or something? And where are the cops?”

“I said I was impressed by the revision’s change in and visceral intensity of tone, and that you showed some very rudimentary promise. I followed you because I have never seen a human being sweat so heavily as you did practically throwing yourself over your truck lid.”

“Bed cover—”

“I mean, you basically outlined the whole thing. Which, don’t get me wrong, outlining is crucial to continuity and construction.”

“So, ah, what’s the deal, then?”

Hannah considered. “It took some real focus and dedication to sit through some rather grueling and I’m sure disheartening criticism, then diving in instead of just throwing in the towel. And my God, with this on your mind.”

“Well,” Eric confessed. “I was a little worried she might, you know, wake up or something, and then I’d really have some explaining to do. And with the heat today, I didn’t know when she might start to, well, you know…”

“On a hot July day, in a sealed truck bed, temperatures can exceed 100 degrees. Under those conditions, a human body can begin to emit a noticeable odor 24 to 48 hours after death. The heat accelerates the decomposition process, when bacteria breaks down tissues and releases gases like putrescine, cadaverine, and hydrogen sulfide. Internal decomp would have begun well before now, but it’s a good thing you only signed up for the first-day sessions, because by morning, gases would have started forming...”

“Jesus fuck,” Eric reiterated. Hannah grinned apologetically.

“Research is critical,” she explained. “Now, let’s see what we’re talking about here…”

1.

August 2025

“I dunno,” Dani murmured. “It sounds kinda backwoods.”

“Where The Crawdads Sing,” Kristin chirped over her third blood-orange mimosa.

“Southern Gothic -- that’s a completely different horse,” the older author dismissed a little loudly, which was no matter in the private dining room. The “Stream Queens,” as they’d dubbed themselves, could well afford to shell out for privacy, and the mystique of their closeted royal brunch packed The Gratuitous Prologue with Beverly Hills housewives and name-gawking tourists. A half-hour of autographs and proletariat fawning and pawing were the price the Queens paid for comp’ed Bloody Marys and secrets that never made the back jacket.

“You think readers – much less viewers – are remotely interested in hillbilly intrigue amid the cornfields and Walmarts?” Dani, the group’s grand dame challenged as she sipped the bitter/sweet Mexican Cocoa Elixir the House concocted strictly for the prolific septuagenarian. She was as extra as her prose.

“Kinda the point, really,” Hannah suggested, hacking a corner from her frittata. “Our audience doesn’t identify with your globe-trotting jet set elite any more. Or, I guess I should say, they don’t aspire to it, them. They don’t mind being whisked away to a Tuscan villa or a Thai resort on occasion. But they want their fantasy identifiable, reflexive, theoretically plausible, if you like.”

“Them, but better,” Celeste mused. “Bolder tones, darker secrets, bleaker backstories, greener lawns, libidos that don’t switch off after Fallon’s over, no fashion by Target or kindergarten lice alerts or high HOA fees or schlepping down to the Wally World for some EZ-Mac and Doritos. Idealized suburban ‘reality.’”

“I have to admit, it all kind of runs together for me,” Gillian chimed in. “I was watching one of yours on Hulu the other night, Hannah, and I was halfway through before I realized I was watching Black Hibiscus instead of Eight Flawless Characters.”

“I get mine mixed up sometimes,” Hannah admitted. “Thing is, I wonder when the bottom’s going to fall out of suburban white people’s problems. Look at our audience. It isn’t just the Gen-Whatevers dumping cable or even the networks for streaming. Due respect to Oprah and Reese and Drew, but streaming’s the future of expanding mass readership, and we need to reach out to new audience. The generic EZ Mac crowd.

“I’m not talking about ‘hillbillies,’ Dani. Or 30 Days of Hallmark Hunks and Meet Uglies and Temporarily Insane Tradwives. Hardworking people living ordinary lives of quiet desperation. Except, of course, we ramp up the desperation and kick up the ordinary a little. And the horny.”

Kristen frowned. “I haven’t been in a Costco in like forever…”

“And what is a Costco?” Dani inquired.

“That’s why we need fresh blood,” Hannah stressed. “I’ve e-mailed you each a very rough draft – very rough; very, very, very, very rough – by a potential new member. Eric’s intimately familiar with the milieu, and—”

“Hold the fuck up,” Gillian interrupted. “He? You’re proposing to bring in a he? Not even a they? You know I don’t see gender, but, you know, they” – she nodded toward the buzzing, clattering main dining room – “they do. You can’t hide behind a pseudonym or a phony dustcover photo or Amazon thumbnail any more…”

“Well, maybe that’s part of it,” Hannah winged. “For every woman out there waiting for us with a battered copy of Firefly Lane or Gone Girl, there’s a husband or boyfriend who’d rather be at Wild Wings or In-N-Out or on the couch for the pregame. Yeah, sure, we’re never going to get those guys into a Barnes and Noble, but what if we could capture a larger male demographic, and the ad revenues that go with it? I mean, look at Ted Lasso. Yellowstone, for that matter.”

“I really don’t know about this,” Celeste grimaced. “What are we talking about? More football and beer and, what, boobs?”

Dani rustled her bling. “Before we get ahead of ourselves, this Eric person? Does he even meet the membership criteria?”

“I wouldn’t have nominated him if he didn’t,” Hannah sighed frostily. “He has the perspective and the experience we need.”

The others nodded silently and mulled over their benedicts and booze. The first rule of Stream Queens was don’t talk about Stream Queens. The second rule of Stream Queens was plausible deniability, at least within literary license. The third rule of Stream Queens thus was don’t talk about the third rule of Stream Queens.

Hannah. “Well, I have a conference call with Dern’s people and a signing in Brentwood at 2.” She lifted a glass of what was now merely marinated celery and olives. “Ladies?”

“Write what you know,” the Queens recited in benediction. “Confess nothing.”

2.

March 2026

“Hannah! Been too long!”

The accent threw the writer, who’d just completed a flummoxing conference call with her publisher. An alarming few of Hannah’s Hollywood patrons were from the States, and those who were often were afflicted with Depp-Madonna Syndrome. Always the mother tongue – none of them ever seemed to affect Toronto or Capetown or Queensland. Just a sort of Chloe Fineman Fallon’s Wheel of Impersonations Emily Blunt. There was no hint of Belair or Upper East Side or Hamptons or London in the flat voice.

Fan. Hannah’s moisturizing glove tightened around the Pro Max.

“Yeeesssss?”

“I catch you at a bad time, girl? My bad. Just thought maybe we could shoot the shit.”

Fuck. Midwestern, maybe. Who’d she know from the flyover who didn’t sound like a Dick Wolf firefighter? Fan. Fuck.

“Are you certain you’ve dialed the right number?”

“Hannah Morstan-Doyle!” Annie Wilkes Jr. admonished with a whisp of hard menace. “Well, that’s different. Guess I better not keep ya, huh? Just you’re so friendly with my husband, is all…”

The writer’s chest tightened, and her lotioned right index finger froze over the “End” button.

“Hannah?” the voice oozed, all honey and acid. “I got a bee in my bonnet, and you and Derek got a fuckload lot of explaining to do.”

Hannah staggered back. “Derek?” Wrong Stephen King. “Who the fuck is this?”

The line went silent for a moment. “Hannah? You all right? I was just having a bit of fun. I’m so sorry…”

Hannah dropped onto the duvet. “Nic? Jesus. No, no – you just caught me off guard. I’m the one who should be sorry.“

“No worries,” Nic said lightly in her original Sydney patois, with just a trace of lingering concern. She’d always been an immersive actress, a milieu chameleon – she’d managed to stay in character as Dasha the holistic guru on and off-camera the entire production of Eight Flawless Characters, and, prior to filming Lies Big and Small, had spent a week harassing domestic abuse counselors to nail Celina’s emotional trauma. “How ya’ goin’?”

“Just, ah, just fabulous.”

“Look, Hannah. I just finished The Wrong Turn – couldn’t put it down -- and I have to say, I am heaps keen on playing Annika. Guess I was sort of auditioning.”

Hannah rose and padded downstairs to the kitchen for a dose of Bitter Truth. She’d actually envisioned someone more in the…range…of an Alison Pill or Julia Garner, but Nic seemingly had Dorian Gray’s mirror or Benjamin Button’s Magic Elixir stowed somewhere amid the Oscars and SAG figurines and the Golden Globes. And although her acquaintance with Danica had been brief and posthumous, she had nailed just the note of ingratiating psychopathy Eric had hinted at. “I thought you were doing Moulin Rouge 2 or something.”

“Ehh, Baz thought the time was right after the Wickeds, but now he thinks everyone’s saturated with musicals. Besides, Warner Bros. has offered him a shit-ton of dosh for an Elvis sequel. So I have an opening, and I heard HBO’s casting. I want this, Love. I know you have an in with Mary Vernieu and Armstrong.”

Hannah poured a finger, and then a hand of violet-infused mother’s milk into a highball glass. “They’re thinking about bringing Dave Kelley on board, so I hardly think you’d have to come begging. I have a meeting with Jesse Thursday, and I know he’ll be thrilled by your interest. In fact, any chance you want to come on out? I know the girls would love to see you again, and we could pitch together.”

“Maybe,” Nic drawled. “Keith has a show at the Hollywood Bowl Friday. One stone, two mangos. I’m researching a role right now, but I could get away for a couple days. ‘Ta.”

Hannah was now smiling on floral fumes as she disconnected. She carried the glass back to the suite, trying to calculate a Chris Pratt/Chris O’Dowd conversion Nic’s casting would require. Eric had been hyped about getting a Guardian of the Galaxy to assay Our Hero, but he was still riding high on Hannah’s literary coattails…

**

Nic raised a fresh appletini in triumph as she rejoined the Velvet Syndicate on the roof overlooking the Loop to one edge and the Lake to the other. Kerry and Reese were in deep communion with Aya de Leon – a clear violation of Syndicate rules except that Kerry had rented the entire top floor of the former workshoe/boot factory for Netflix/Onyx Collective’s filming of the slam poet/suspense author’s fall hit Unassailable, and de Leon was departing soon to help Shonda Rimes double-team Tiffany Haddish for third lead.

Sarah and Juno – reconjoined twin psychics in Murphy’s forthcoming American Horror Story: Wendigo City -- turned from their examination of Navy Pier, while Jennifer, to everyone’s relief, wobbled in from the parapet where she’d been waving frenetically at the partiers below while her signature silhouette flaunted the laws of physics. Meryl and Laura were draped at opposite ends of the Montauk sectional, the former basking in the superfluous warmth of the copper gas firepit. The two Emmas reluctantly holstered their phones as Nic took center stage, Emma 1 staring oddly at Nic’s Walmart Active Redneck ensemble.

Their host had been on the 55 for two hours and the Lakeshore almost as long – the Millington Chili’s had no appeal with the divas. But even after braving the Interstate after a day of deeply disguised character immersion, Nic’s delicate features glowed like she was on the wrong end of Twain’s Prince and The Pauper (currently in post-production at Disney).

“I think I’m in,” Nic beamed, and the Syndicate raised their glasses. Jennifer applauded gleefully, sloshing her third Bend and Snap (Reese had declined the strawberry vodka callback, pleading an ongoing cleanse). Kerry touched Eva’s knee as she flicked a signal at Reese, and the writer gathered her things and disappeared into the night.

“If we accept that Hannah’s the ringleader, I reckon we could knock over six flies with one swat,” the Sydney siren murmured as she perched at Laura’s elbow. “Look, I know I’m asking you to risk reprisal from one of the industry’s most deceptively diabolical cabals. Reese?”

Reese channeled June Carter into her high-wattage smile. “OK, girls. Y’all know that what’s had us at a standstill are the seemingly perfect alibis, which in itself is kinda suspicious. But I’ve been lining up promotional tours, workshops and writer retreats, and local signings with the murders. Hannah’s little plagiarism plaintiff walks into a Scottsdale bus two blocks from The Poisoned Pen, where Gillian is signing Sharper Things, while Hannah’s in Maui on a writer’s cruise. The Nantucket PD finds oleander extract in the Lavender Latte that killed that racist state senator who tried to ban Celeste’s new novel. Celeste was on Jenna and Hoda, Drew, and Fallon, playing some kinda ring-toss thing with Bryan Cranston. She was actually pretty good, I remember. Dani was dress shopping for a niece’s cotillion and plugging Second Third Chances in Martha’s Vineyard right across the bay.”

“Oleander – I mean, clearly, a nod to Janet Finch,” Laura noted.

Nic nodded. “And it goes on just like that. Then, it hits me.”

“Us,” Reese sighed.

“Then it hits us. You know, Universal’s been looking at launching a Hitchcock reboot, and I’ve been talking to Fincher about his gender-swapped Strangers on a Train.”

“We’ve,” Reese amended.

Meryl suddenly exhaled, and she smiled broadly. “Criss-cross, criss-cross.”

Emma 1 frowned. “Hitchcock?”

“Criss-cross,” Jennifer gasped. “Throw Momma From the Train, right?”

Nic’s currently blonde head cocked.

“Yeah, Sweetie,” Reese preempted. “Just like that.”

3.

August 2026

Eric stepped it up, finally and gratefully spotting The Target as she passed the third Starbuck’s on the damp downtown block. He’d followed her into the Pike Place Market, and the fish tossing had nudged his already sensory-battered attention deficit into the red.

When the last salmon landed, the woman was gone, and Eric had been terrified his literary career was about to come to an end right when Keith Urban’s wife was all but set to play Danica, er, Annika.

All he really knew was, the really brisk lady worked at The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and had been a source of emotional pain to one of his fellow Queens. Which maybe when he’d established himself with the group, he’d talk about maybe changing.

The 3-D-printed Beretta was in his zippered windbreaker pocket, and Eric kept a respectable distance as they approached the turquoise “Post Alley” sign that marked their mutual turnoff. There was a pretty good late afternoon crowd around the alley opening, milling about the shops and cafes beyond.

The crowd thinned considerably by the time the target reached the side of the Post Alley Court Apartments. The newspaper lady was in a rush with her bag full of fish and veggies, and he was able to slide in after when she was halfway down the ground floor corridor. He’d close in as she was unlocking the apartment, hopefully one shot, take some cash, get out quick and blend. Maybe stop for a cold brew in the alley ‘til the cops cleared out.

It was at the elevators where the target whipped around. She had a gun of her own, and she wasn’t the newspaper lady. And a bunch of cops swarmed out the elevators and from behind him.

That was a twist, Eric reflected.

**

The Seattle, Nantucket, Dallas, Omaha, and Scottsdale cops bickered over the venue for nearly a week, but in an act of esprit de corps, they left it to the new guy. The new Millington B-Dubs had a birthday room, the Beltway Chili’s just a corner near the johns.

“After all this crap, she dumps the wife in the creek right behind his house,” the deputy laughed, swiping garlic-parmesan from his jaw. “You’d think a professional writer would come up with something better. More original, you know?”

“Still, damn fine work,” the Dallas guy with the Sam Elliott ‘stache commended a little blurrily.

“Well, I mean, if Nic hadn’t been scouting out the guy’s house for that miniseries…”

The table roared, scaring the bejeebers out of the locals. “Nic, huh?”

“She told me to call her that,” the deputy protested. “I think she’s gonna help me with my treatment for Hulu.”

“Well, then,” Seattle proclaimed. “You’re definitely Drama Dawgs material. Let’s kick this meeting off.”