Come into the parlor, said the spider to the fly. Enter my web and I’ll suck your life dry.

This basement floor was the non-fiction section. Above the entrance hung a country art sign covered in painted flowers and butterflies. Scrawled across were the words The Reading Nook. The bookcases were on casters for easy wheeling back for the book launches and author reading nights, one of which must have been last night. Rows of chairs faced the front of the room, sentinels poised as if waiting. A small stage with a lectern and a microphone held their imaginary focus.

To the left was a folding table, across which lay a white cloth, partially askew. A half-empty glass of water sat perched near the edge, along with several abandoned and lonely-looking pens.

The podium drew William’s attention, even though every fiber of his being told him this was a mistake. He was stepping right into reliving one of those nightmares you sometimes were happy to endure to discover the conclusion. Did he really want to go there?

The rostrum with its microphone, silent and waiting, called him. He climbed behind it and stood there, his eyes scanning the imaginary audience. A tingle of excitement traveled through his body as he remembered that once people had come here for him. His fans, his diehard readers who loved everything he wrote, until they didn’t, sat here in this dream. He wondered what big-hit author they came to listen to last night? And how they could have forgotten him, as though he was just a character in a book, dismissed once the covers closed?

But way back then, when unknown to him his nightmare began, he hadn’t seen Orelia Mason during the reading and his talk. She’d stood against the wall at the back, she’d told him later.

Between the manager Diane and his agent Morris nudging him around the store, the crowd and individual faces became a blur. He recalled clearly how the audience watched him in rapt silence, their eyes bright and expectant.

Yes, it was he, in the flesh, the ringmaster of his literary domain.

William had signed hundreds of books—handed to him with reverence as if they were ancient, precious parchments. Before finishing with everyone in the line, Morris had insisted they needed to leave. He had an early flight to somewhere he’d forgotten, for another round of interviews and appearances. His agent was a stickler for punctuality.

She’d caught them at the door, as they were thanking Diane. Since then, that conversation had run through his mind so many times, he could recite every word. The store manager had introduced them, and he remembered being charmed by the woman’s enthusiasm.

She’d opened with, “Oh my gosh, I’m so excited to meet you. I’m pinching myself. I loved Suffer Them to Come to Light. Extraordinary. Inspirational.”

He’d smiled, his fingers brushing his mouth in case there were crumbs from a canapé gobbled on the way out. She was engaging, better looking than most of the bookish types who frequented these events. He guessed she was around thirty but something about her eyes caused him to shiver. Just a little.