9:00 a.m.

The nausea had finally passed, though Andrew's panic had not. While Jared and Charlie prepared for their cross-country trip, Andrew's mind raced. He tried to go over everything he had brought with him and then began visualizing the contents of the cabin. He remembered there were several dull knives in one of the kitchen drawers, a poker for the fireplace-which he couldn't see anywhere-but nothing else. Even as the light crept over the treetops in brilliant oranges and began to illuminate the dark corners of the cabin, it seemed hopeless.

His vision still blurred without warning, going in and out of focus like the TV reception. He hardly noticed his shoulder anymore. What did it matter that he couldn't move his right arm when his entire body had become numb?

He tried to test his feet, but Jared was suddenly there waving the gun at him. He wondered why they didn't just get it over with, just put him out of his misery. His answer came soon enough, and he couldn't help remembering one of his father's favorite sayings, "Be careful what you wish for."

Jared plopped down in the chair opposite him. The gun was tucked inside the waistband of a pair of Andrew's jeans, held there by a leather belt and strange buckle, some kind of carved emblem Andrew didn't recognize. He was staring at the belt buckle, when he realized Jared was talking to him. He caught only the last words.

"…Pretty fucking good. How do you know all this stuff about murder?"

That's when he saw his latest hardcover in Jared's hand, his trigger finger inside the pages, marking his place. He must have taken it with him for his nap in the back bedroom. He was reading Andrew's book. Jesus! And now he wanted to sit and chat about it.

"You must do like lots of research, huh? I mean, I know you make it up, but some of this…man, I'm telling you, it's pretty fucking real. I loved the autopsy scene where they find out the killer took the stiff's thumb. How do you come up with that crap?" He opened the book and started flipping the pages, still keeping his place. "Yeah, it's pretty fucking real." Then suddenly he looked up and smiled. "I think you like your killer."

Andrew leaned his head back against the worn fabric of the sofa. He wished the throbbing would stop. It skewed his thinking and interrupted his hearing. If he didn't know any better he'd say a murderer had just given him one of his best reviews. He smiled to himself, wondering how his publisher might use it, maybe on the paperback-four-time, no make that five-time murderer says, "It's pretty fucking real."

Jared didn't seem to mind that he wasn't getting any response, any feedback. Maybe the man preferred one-sided conversations. He continued to remark on the realism before he launched into his analysis of the parts Andrew had gotten wrong. Yep, a true book reviewer after all.

Andrew simply rubbed his aching head and listened. Somewhere during Jared's diatribe Andrew realized that Charlie and Melanie had been in and out of the cabin, packing the car. He noticed his belongings being carted off. He jerked forward, sitting up and twisting around. Where the hell were his briefcase, his notebooks and laptop?

"Relax, man," Jared said, but this time he sounded as if he was comforting rather then restraining Andrew. "I'm making sure they get everything you need."

"Everything I need?"

"Yeah, you're coming with us. Consider it research."