A man in a denim jacket thrust a hardcover of Dangerous Curves forward with autumn-chapped fingers. The story of seductive murderess Margaret Abbey, whose modus operandi was tampering with the brakes in her ill-fated lovers' cars. Abbey was currently serving three consecutive life sentences in Bedford Hills. It wasn't a very good book, but it had titillated the right people at the right time, when everyone was very into femme fatales and their lurid crimes of passion.

"Is it true what they say?" the man in the denim jacket asked with a shy downcast of his eyes. Behind him, the low early-March sun peeked out between two rotting rooftops in the town's decrepit business district. Martin felt a twinge of guilt taking money from people who likely lived paycheck to paycheck, but such was the business of art. Not like he could make a living by giving his books away.

"Who should I make this out to?"

"Oh. Uh, Juh-Jason?"

"Jason. Great." He scrawled a dedication. "Is what true, Jason?"

"That, uh... that James Barclay... th-that he escaped?"

The pen slashed across the page mid-signature with an audible scratch. "What's that?"

"Es-escaped. I, uh... I just heard it over the r-radio."

Martin was about to tell this man how implausible it was, but suddenly there wasn't enough air in the small bookstore to speak. His vision blurred. Blood thudded in his ears, dulling the voices in the room.

A trail of blood, Marty. The killer's words echoed in his mind. A trail of blood right to your front door.

His surroundings swam back into focus. Juh-Jason no longer stood in front of him. The lovely Trish had pushed him out of the way.

"Okay, first of all, it's Tish, asshole. Not Trish."

She slammed the book down on the table. Its wonky leg shook, threatening to spill everything to the floor in a virtually perfect metaphor for how the stutterer's news turned his life upside down in an instant. Torn down the entire delicate façade in a single sentence.

"And second—" She leaned over the table, gripping its edge. "—I'd much rather fuck you than fuck myself."

Her words drew looks of shock from the next few people in line, and a tisk! from the blue-hair standing directly behind her.

Tish whipped around, her auburn horsetail flipping over her shoulder. "Oh, like you wouldn't."

Martin was still too distracted to react. He needed to check his phone. Most mornings he'd watch the news, catching up on the latest celebrity gossip and "weather system" that was supposedly going to kill everyone. He hadn't today. He slept in—he did a lot lately, drinking too much and not writing nearly enough—and was almost late for his own book signing.

He missed the news.

James Barclay. The Witch Hunter.

Escaped. On the loose.

Trail of blood, Marty.

Barclay would come for him. Hunt him down. The Witch Hunter had threatened Martin's life several times and Martin couldn't blame him. He'd played fast and loose with the truth to bump up his sales. It worked for Capote, the granddaddy of the genre. It almost worked for Capote twice.