"Sorry. Just sorry. I gotta go."

He knew if he stayed in that room any longer he would be sick. He was already trying to stand when she spoke.

Her voice sounded happy though, and that confused him. Happy wasn't what you'd expect. And that near-joyful tone was what he remembered later when he began to understand what must have happened.

"That's okay," she said. "Everything will work out fine. In the end, I'm sure you'll be very sorry."

8

William’s hand touched the ornate, gray-iron doorknob of the entrance to the bookshop. Why did independent stores inhabit ground floors of decrepit buildings? This store spread itself over two levels, separated by a worn wooden stairwell.

As he pushed open the door, a tinkling, happy, little bell announced his entry. He moved inside, embarrassed to be here, hoping nobody recognized him. If they did, he’d pretend to be someone else. They didn’t deserve the honor of talking to him because they were part of the problem. They could have recommended his novels to their customers and ignored the reviews. Stores like this could have saved him.

“Can I help you?” a long-haired kid with glasses too large for his skinny face called from behind the counter. If William was casting a horror film, he’d have this one killed off first.

He declined assistance and walked toward the aisle where his books should be shelved. Sure enough, none were there among the hundreds of other hopeful novels filed spines facing out. Unless they were bestsellers, sat on the shelves prominently, or on a table at the store entrance, they had six weeks, at the most. After this, they’d be returned to the publisher.

How do you overcome that little obstacle? Books displayed in prominent positions sold. Cover out, you win. Spine out, loser. This small detail made a big difference to a book’s sales and shelf life.

“Looking for a particular author?”

An ironic question indeed. Yes, William Barnes! Me!

He turned toward Diane, the store manager. He recognized her, but she didn’t recognize him. Had he changed that much? It had only been what? Two years?

“I’m good.” He backed away and headed toward the stairs.

“Call me if you need anything,” she called after him.

“Yes, I’ll, ah, call.” William would prefer to give her a slap across the ears.

His hand wrapped around the shiny cherry-wood banister running along the stairwell, worn smooth by thousands of hands sliding over it, decade upon decade.

He descended to the basement, small pieces of his heart shriveling black with each step. He remembered the electric sensation when he’d been led down here in another life when he was somebody. In those days, his agent, and sometimes a publicist, accompanied him.

The memories of his first meeting with Orelia flooded back. He saw Diane walking in front of him, turning to say how excited everyone was to hear him speak, that there was standing room only. Somewhere in the crowd she had been there waiting and watching, smiling no doubt, knowing what she had in mind. Him unaware that he was traveling toward disaster.