“You ask me, that story came to us for a reason,” said Jake. “Sure, I got it from Helen herself, and you got it from me, but truth be told, that story’s been around for a long time. Maybe this guy—” Jake threw a book at Todd. “—heard the story at a cocktail party. Maybe this other guy—” Jake threw another book. “—read it in a magazine but never could find the magazine again. And maybe this guy and these guys heard it out bear-hunting, or saw it in a movie, or it happened to a friend of a fucking friend—”

Jake was almost crying now.

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter. You steal the story, you die. Doesn’t matter how you got the story. You steal the story, you die.”

“I didn’t steal it!” Todd heard himself shout. “It just came to me!”

“Buddy, it came to all of us,” said Jake. “And all for the same fucking reason. We did someone wrong. We did her wrong. Ain’t that right, boys?”

At first Todd had no idea who Jake was addressing. Then he saw them. There were dozens of them—no, hundreds. Every one was carrying a book. The book. And the books were old, and they were mildewed, or they were fresh, or they had never been opened, but they were all the same book. His book. Jake’s book.

They were all men. Men dressed like him. Men dressed like his father. Like his grandfather. Victorians, and further back. Now they weren’t even Americans, but men whose sons would settle America. They came from every place, and every time, and they had all told the same story.

“Jesus,” whispered Todd. “How many of them are there?”

“How many of us, you mean,” said Jake. “As many as there are years, old man. As many as there are years, and as many as there are men. They all wrote the book, Todd, just like we did. They all stole the idea and wrote the book. So they had to die.”

“But I didn’t steal it,” Todd said in a not-fair kind of voice. “It was in my head.”

“Jesus, Todd, you are slow,” said Jake. “There was nothing in your head until she put it there.”

“Why?” said Todd. “I never killed anyone. I never harmed—”

He stopped.

“Yeah,” said Jake. “See, Todd, you’re an asshole. An asshole who treats people like shit. I say people, I mean women. And I guess she just wanted some fun. So she dropped an idea in your head to see if you’d steal it.”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Todd almost wailed.

“You wrote the book. You took the credit.” Jake shrugged. “Also, you’re an asshole. I guess that’s enough for her.”

“But who is she?” asked Todd. He felt wronged. Dammit, he was wronged.