Now though Orelia Mason, Miss Best Seller, would see how it felt to be greeted by an empty room. Despite his plan seeming to have worked, disappointment tapped at William that even with his interference, she still enjoyed more than three fans waiting for her.

William was on to his third coffee, when he recognized Morris’ car pull up and attempt to park right outside in a no parking zone. Typical arrogance. He hoped the traitor would receive a parking fine and wondered if there was a way to report his crime.

The man appeared to have recovered from the various ailments, which had caused him to be unavailable every time William called. It had been three weeks since he’d given up on Morris ever returning his calls after he’d begged off with diarrhea.

What a bonus to see him here. Two birds killed with one stone.

Orelia climbed from the front passenger seat, princess-like in her knee-length, long plum coat. He would admit the black-collared shirt and tight, white cream pants—designer, no doubt—did look good on her. A black necklace of oversized beads completed the fashionista effect. How modern. How funky.

His two nemeses stood next to the car talking and William wished he was a fly on the car door. In fact, he wished he could personally witness the proceedings to follow. The risk of being seen if he left the secluded window table to enter the main bookshop area though was too high. Should Orelia or Morris see him they might put two and two together and realize he was the culprit behind the poor attendance.

Then again, this was a large store. If he kept his head down and covered his face with a magazine if they looked his way, he might get away with it. And he really did want to see the despair written across her face. The sweetness of witnessing that was so tempting.

Beside him a rack of courtesy newspapers hung on the wall. As he noted them, an idea came to mind.

Oh, well, I’ve come this far, he thought.

He rose, left a tip and retrieved one of the selections, folding it in half. Yes, if he held this up in front of his face, it might just work.

19

Two days after Dr. Ken Shepherd’s oncology visit—after the night of agonizing pain—he sat in his car in the garage below his building feeling lost. The gray shadows, cast from aging overhead lights, shimmered down on the surrounding concrete pylons, creating an oppressive gloom.

Until now, he’d always believed luck to be his friend. How else could his obsession slide under the radar in his personal and professional life?

Only during his university days had his secret almost been uncovered. Alone in his dorm, he'd left photographs by his bedside while visiting the bathroom. The type of which would reveal his predilection in taste within one glance; a secret he’d kept since his mid-teens.

Usually meticulous in covering his tracks, the shock of returning to discover his roommate laying on his own bed was a jolt to his system.