He put it down to their proximity to the door and possibly a cool breeze. Then it was gone, and her smile and excitement washed over him, and even exhilaration at being labeled inspirational.

She pushed at strands of hair, which hadn’t quite made it into the ponytail hung over her shoulder. The action reminded him of a teenager on her first date.

He’d given her his stock standard line: “Thank you. You certainly have great taste. Really, you are too kind.”

Her face had lit up as if an overhead spotlight had switched her on. The effect, so sudden and stunning, William had even glanced above to check if there was a light. There wasn’t. It was her, dare he say, basking in the glow of him, he imagined.

“No, you don’t understand Mr. Barnes, your novel is wonderful. The words, the rhythm of the sentences. I heard it in my head as a melody. The echoes are still with me, like a beautiful sonata. You’re the Beethoven of literature. That book has changed my life. Absolutely and utterly transformed my view of writing.”

William had blushed, heat rising in him as though he was now under a spotlight on a stage.

“Wow! That’s, ah, probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me about my work.” He had been genuinely thrilled.

“I felt compelled to talk to you,” she’d added. “A voice in my head. Like this was fate, and I needed to do this.”

Around then, Morris began to move him away, explaining they had somewhere they needed to be—only dinner at a nearby hotel but he made it sound important. They were enjoyable dinners in those days when they’d discuss the foibles of the publishing industry and his exciting professional future.

He imagined she had thought her praise might take them further. Although this had low prospects, if that’s what she hoped. William didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. He’d pretty much have to fall over a woman’s bed for anything to travel past pleasantries.

For many years he’d remained alone. “Too dedicated to my work,” he’d say if anyone asked why there wasn’t a Mrs. Barnes. Truth was, he felt uncomfortable sharing himself. His inner thoughts and ruminations were his to wrangle and reshape into stories. He lived so much inside his head that at times he found it difficult to differentiate between fiction and fact.

“Your name again? Sorry,” he’d said. She’d stopped touching her hair and wrapped her arms around her body as she gently swayed as though listening to music.

“My name? Orelia Mason. Well, not really. That’s my writer’s name. I think. I’m not set on it, but I thought if I use it in my real life for a few weeks, I could see if it worked.”

He’d nodded thinking Orelia Mason sounded a touch pretentious. Then he decided, who cares? I don’t know her, so whatever.

That was the beginning of the end.

No announcements.

No embedded clues alluding to the plot twist which came less than three years later. When she’d steal his mojo. Take what didn’t belong to her.