The only thing these so-called fans ever wanted to know about him was how it felt. And if it came down to him or "them," would he do it again?

Martin had no idea what he would do if he came face to face with another serial murderer in the outside world. He could hardly believe he'd been able to get the upper hand with the Mirror Man, though his just sitting here proved it.

He supposed he just had to hope his instincts would spare him, as they had in Nico Damiani's antique shop. The tinkle of glass could have been wind chimes, a crystal chandelier, virtually anything within the shop. It was just blind luck he assumed the worst. And when Damiani turned, the lower half of his head still visible below the mirror mask—

Everything after that went red.

He'd gone over and over it with the police. They asked all the same questions these ghouls asked him. The same questions he asked himself.

How did you end up drenched in the killer's blood?

How did you get the knife?

How did it feel?

He'd never answer any of these so-called fans who dared to ask. What he would do was smile and ask, "Who should I make this out to?" and sign their goddamn book. Because if he wanted to keep his fucking Lexus and fucking condo in fucking Greenpoint, he needed to climb down into the fucking trenches. This advice came courtesy of both his publisher and his agent, who seemed to be working in tandem to drive him insane.

Fuck this, he thought.

He scrawled To Trish, Kindly go fuck yourself in big block letters very unlike his normal handwriting and he didn't sign his name. He closed the book and slid it across the table with a phony smile.

She smiled back and sighed wistfully, pressing it to her chest, her tits threatening to burst through her shirt as she stepped aside.

A large woman in a lumberjack jacket quickly took her place, holding out a twenty-dollar bill. "I want that one," she said, jabbing a stubby, dirty finger at the last few Witch Hunter hardbacks—the twisted tale of James Barclay, self-styled killer of "witches," a New York Times Best Seller for nonfiction eight weeks in a row. Mirror Man may have propelled him into stardom, but Witch Hunter still paid the bills.

Only a few copies of his novel sold today. Dead Weight could easily describe how the book landed on the shelves. The true crime books that allowed him to turn his hobby into a career sold far more. All told, he'd made about three-hundred bucks and possibly a handful of new readers. Not bad for a few hours' work. With the hotel, gas and per diem paid by his publisher, he supposed he was doing all right.

He peered over the lumberjack woman's shoulder, saw the girl frowning over his dedication. Probably deciding what to do about the offense.

He took the woman's money, signed a copy of the book—nicely, because although this woman was curt, she was no ghoul like Trish—and handed it to her with her change.