“Morris, I saw your talk. I’m sorry… I… I wanted to say something to you. Need to apologize for, I guess, not doing a better job with my books. I’ve been…”

Morris shook his head once, as if in agreement, while holding up a palm, seeming to indicate William should stop talking. The same hand swiped across his eyes and cheeks to wipe away the tears.

“William… I’m surprised to see you. And, ah, I should be the one saying sorry. I have been sitting here thinking. Going over it. You and her. Me. I’ve learned a few truths lately. Seen things I can’t explain. I had considered telling you but if I did, you’d think I’m crazy.”

He waved a hand toward the trees, toward the festival area. “That person on stage back there, he’s me on auto-pilot. This began two days ago, and my head’s been a complete mess since. Not even sure how it started.”

William remembered when they first met, and the growth of their friendship, as Morris helped him achieve the wild dream of publishing his novels. Then, for no reason he could find, that relationship ended. Sure his book had bombed, but did that fully explain his attitude change? This Morris wasn’t the friend of years ago and he also wasn’t the callous, arrogant man, who in recent times, had hung up on him. This Morris had lost all bravado and appeared broken and even desperate around the edges.

This close, he saw his disheveled appearance; his messed hair through which agitated fingers stroked; his crumpled suit with a stain near his loosely pulled tie which drooped like a necklace. Had he been sick on himself? He looked remarkably different from his stage persona or the outraged Morris at Orelia’s sabotaged bookstore talk.

“I don’t understand Morris. Are you ill?”

“What can I tell you? If I say more, I’ll be in danger. So many have ended up damaged, ruined. We, we, shit, we argued…”

His voice trailed off as he looked around, his head twisting side to side, as if he feared being overheard.

“My suggestion is to get away, forget me, forget… please, you don’t want to mess with her.”

A winding thread of worry slithered in William’s stomach. If his ex-agent meant Orelia—and who else could he mean—he was already messing with her.

“Listen William, she knows what you’re doing. She’s not somebody to play with and she’s unforgiving. And dangerous.”

An idea entered William’s head. Orelia might be behind this, a predator literally hiding in the tree line, she and Morris in cahoots. This could be a trap. Could his ex-agent be wearing a wire as part of a plan to discover everything he’d done?

Then again, how would they have known his plans, that he’d be here at the festival, and now by the river? No, he had to believe the desperate Morris Usher standing before him, was as afraid as he appeared to be.

William took a step with his hands out, mindful that in body language open arms meant nothing to hide. He instinctively felt that this man wanted his help; that he was being honest. They’d both somehow been caught in something bigger than themselves. That wicked joker Serendipity had brought them here to this riverbank park at this moment for a reason.