Every night since, William had said a pretend prayer asking that she not win. If Orelia won another honor, he didn’t know what he might do next.

Go mad, he’d told himself more than once, when he dared imagine her taking to a ballroom stage to thank everyone in her fake gracious manner. He saw the scene in his mind’s eye; her pixie hair now with blonde streaks because that was the fashion. She thanked her publisher, agent, editor, her cat, the mailman, Voyager—traveling to galaxies beyond, heralding her success—(insert thumbs-up icon or star icon). She thanked every other nobody who’d ever crossed her path.

Everyone except him!

Why would Orelia Mason want her name linked to this has-been? Even if that has-been had assisted, mentored and introduced her to the business as he had done. Let them believe she’d found her own way. That’s what she wanted.

He’d won his share of awards too with Suffer Them to Come to Light. The truth was though, his success was completely his own. No best selling author on his shoulder nurturing his talent with gentle care. His thanks had been to his publishers and Morris the agent because that’s what you do. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you even if they didn’t do much. Even if they’d floated along for the ride. They were the lucky ones to have found him.

Miss Audrey Hepburn look-alike hadn’t climbed the heights on her own merit. So she needed to show gratitude, most of all to the very person without whom she’d have nothing.

He realized though, she’d never thank him because that action revealed her relationship with William Barnes. Right now, everybody in publishing circles pretended he never existed.

If she was a good and gracious human being and, if she was to receive the National Book Award prize, he knew what she should do. Miss I’m-so-Worthy should stand at the lectern and, in a humble and earnest voice say, “Foremost, I must thank the extraordinarily talented and kind-hearted William Barnes. If not for him, I’d still be working in a boring job wishing on a star. Writing would have remained a dream.

“I’m sure most people think this success is due to talent and Lady Luck. My Mr. Luck is this great man and author. William, please join me on stage. This award is yours as much as mine.”

Yeah, right! He wouldn’t be there of course because she’d never invite him. She lived the dream. He lived the nightmare.

No, she’d deliver a different speech. She’d stand up there, smiling her demented Cheshire cat grin, the spotlight catching the tinsel-blonde streaks in her hair, as her gaze panned the room. The confident smile would remain on her face as she spoke.

There’d come no mention of his name.

And because William possessed a vivid imagination, despite what reviewers claimed, he listened to Orelia Mason’s imaginary speech, after she won her imaginary award.

While he listens, he feels the gun in his hand, the coolness of steel against his hot sweating palm. His heart thumps in his chest as his right arm extends, and he takes aim.