I’d been living in seclusion for three days. Cameron hadn’t called or shown up since our night together.
I couldn’t stand being in the state I was in. I was on overload. I couldn’t write. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t even sit still long enough to watch daytime TV. I perused my e-mail, moving the cursor around subject titles, seeing unread messages from my agent—when’s that first draft coming?—or David—hey, big forty next week—a few new friends—Allan, drinks tomorrow?—and even fan letters—loved your last book. I left them all unmarked and unread, resisting the urge to delete them all.
Allan Waterhouse, the writer of thrillers.
I went to my bedroom closet and grabbed the box, tossing it on my unmade bed. Everything real and important was in here. This was my life’s work, except I was still tha
