Devil in Quarantine ~**FIRST HALF COMPLETE**~ Conclusion will be up in 3 days!

Chapter One Day One

Clara

I bite my lip as I watch the news reporter on the television announce that we are now indeed in quarantine. Holy hell. I couldn't make this up if I wanted to. I should be avoiding the news at supper on a Friday night and just going for drinks with my friend James.

"Shit!" I jump off the sofa and start pacing as I begin to chew on my nails. I look around me, nervous. COVID-19 has struck us here in Canada, and it would now seem after today, walks around the farm and grocery store will be my outings. I was never a party animal, to begin with, but I still like to have a drink at the bar after a hot day once in a while. What about work? I begin to play with my hair, another nervous habit, and just glance in the mirror and sigh in disappointment.

Grey eyes and black hair, too straight of course, and a pert little nose sitting in the middle of my oval face. I ignore the rest of my body, annoyed that it hasn't lost the last 15 pounds from college. A call interrupts my rambling thoughts, and I pick up without checking the caller ID, assuming it's my friend James. He is probably calling to let me know about the imminent lockdown.

"Maybe now you will finish working on my manuscript sometime this year since we're all to be quarantined?" I grimace as the deep timbre voice I have been trying to avoid finally makes it through my carelessness. Tristan Black. Black as in a black heart, black attitude, and a black eye. Well, the black eye is wishful thinking on my part, and sometimes acted out within my mind during our discussions. And by discussions I mean he rants away while I nod and avoid speaking to him as much as I can. When I open my mouth it usually begins an hour-long debate so it's better to avoid getting riled up and stay as cool as a cucumber.

"Good morning, Tristan. How are you?" Kill him with kindness, Clara, I hear my nana saying.

"Bored as hell, and fighting writer's block. Now this quarantine bullshit."

"Tell me how you really feel," I say dryly as I hear Tristan shuffling in the background. "What are you doing there?"

"I've decided I cannot be cooped up for the next month." Tristan is practically shouting this in the speaker and I jump in response, as it sounds like he's nearby. I shake my head at my silliness. Tristan wouldn't step foot in the Townships, he is a real Montrealer through and through.

"You'll be fine, just think, you can stroll through the city, at a respectful distance, you can video chat with friends, write at your leisure--"

Tristan cuts me off with a scoff.

"'Stroll in the park? And catch this shit? No thanks. Knowing my luck, some dipshit will want an autograph and sneeze on me.'"

"Fans, Mr. Black, they're called fans." Sighing at his rudeness. Thank god his publisher Eve, and also my best friend is scarier than him and keeps his attitude in line at signings and book shows most of the time. The worst part is when his asshole side does come out during book signings or promotional events and the ladies think he's just playing the persona of his main character, a cocky ass detective. According to Eve, the readers seem to eat that shit up much to her amusement and Tristan's displeasure.

"As for friends," he continues, ignoring my correction, "I haven't had friends since college." He says friends like having a friend is worse than the virus keeping us in quarantine.

"Um, I am sorry to hear this." I remind myself to keep my tone professional since he's one of the big fish whose work Eve throws my way to edit and proofread. A big place like this costs a lot of money to upkeep, and costs just to renovate alone are eating up everything I make, so I need to play nice with the guy.

Mr. Black came to O'Leary Publishing House 2 years ago with a murder mystery set in Toronto, where he is from, and it became so hot he was offered contracts to publish more. His work is brilliant, and I am proud to say, I play a big role in proofreading and copyediting his books. It's just sad to say that his beautiful and delightful books are nothing like their author. That is to say, Tristan Black is one giant prick. Therein lies the problem. Although I have to be honest with him regarding the content of his work, he doesn't always appreciate or like my constructive criticism. He voices his opinions very loudly and often argues his point of view down to the last chapter. He never just concedes a suggestion but pokes and prods at each one, questioning my reasons.