“Oh, you noticed,” said Jake. “Take a proper look, why don’t you?”

Jake pulled out a book, a worn paperback.

“All My Colors,” he read out. “By Henry Mortimer, 1946. Nice guy, Henry, cheated on his wife and strangled her when she found out. Stole the story from a girl he met in a bar.”

He grabbed another, a distinguished-looking hardback.

“All My Colors,” he said. “Frederick Schwimmer, 1924. Freddy killed his mother for the insurance, but not before he wrote down the story she told him had happened to her cousin.”

Jake began tossing books at Todd.

“All My Colors, Edward Graham, 1907. Killed his sister after she threatened to tell on him. The story came to Eddie when his sister visited him in a dream…

“All My Colors, Martin Portland. Chemist, poisoned his wife, got the story from a lady customer…”

Jake looked Todd in the eye.

“You beginning to get the picture here, Todd old boy? You beginning to join the dots?”

Todd didn’t answer. He was looking inside the books.

“They’re the same book,” he said disbelieving.

“Of course they’re the same,” Jake said. “They’re All My Colors. By you, by me, by Tom, Dick and Harry, John Doe, and everyone bar, of course, Jane Doe.”

“That’s impossible,” Todd said.

“Right,” said Jake. “You’re in a library with a dead guy and you’re telling me that that’s the impossible thing?”

“But I thought—”

“You thought we were the only ones,” said Jake. “Like the sailors shipwrecked on the Rhine thought they were the only ones.”

“I don’t understand,” Todd said. “Why are there so many books?”

“Buddy,” said Jake. “I told you. It’s not about the books.”

He scratched his head. Something came off in his hand.

“Whoops,” he said. “Looks like I’m running out of time.”

He dropped the something onto the floor.

“You think you remembered the book—my book—because you got a good memory, don’t you?” he said. “You think an entire fucking novel—a best-selling novel—just floated into your head one day like a fairy godmother at a time of need? Just when you could use a few dollars, there it was, the answer to an asshole’s prayer?”

Todd nodded. There was no point denying it. Besides, this guy knew.

“And that’s what I thought. When I worked out I could write down Helen’s story. Oh sure, I was devastated by her death. But I knew I’d get over it. And there would be the money, and the success.”

Jake paused, then laughed.

“Even when she died, part of me thought, now I won’t have to split the writing credit. Because men like you and me, Todd, we’re kinda cold.”

“I’m not,” said Todd. “I’m one of the good—” But he thought of Janis, and Sara, and Leah in a hotel room, and he shut up.