Killing Spree Read Free

ago.”
    “What’s the plot?” she asked, scrutinizing the back cover. “I don’t understand the title.”
    “Well, instead of a living legend, this man is a Killing Legend . I was inspired by the rumors after James Dean’s death. People claimed he was still alive, but so horribly disfigured by the auto accident that he’d faked his demise. Anyway, in my book, this legend is a sexy leading man, an overnight sensation in movies. And everyone thinks he’s dead after a car accident. So now, he’s preying on all the people who made his life hell on his way to the top of the Hollywood heap. There’s show business mixed with murder, plus a little—”
    Gillian stopped as she noticed the woman shaking her head again. She had that same sour look on her face as she plopped the book down. “I hate stories set in Hollywood.”
    Gillian nodded. “Yes, well, it’s not everyone’s taste,” she said lamely.
    “What about this one?” the woman asked, picking up another book.
    Are you for real? Did you come here to torture me?
    Gillian kept smiling and explained the plot of her second thriller, Highway Hypnosis . It was a very creepy tale of a former surgeon who turned killing hitchhikers into big business. He sold the victims’ identities on the black market—as well as their internal organs.
    That wasn’t Old Sourpuss’s cup of tea either, Gillian could tell. The woman shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. But before Gillian could thank her for stopping by, the lady sighed and picked up another one of her books. “What’s this about?” she pressed, waving a copy of The Mark of Death .
    Now it was Gillian making a face and shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think you’d like it. My books aren’t for everyone. But thanks for stopping by.” She felt as if she were trying to break up with her and let her down gently: This isn’t working out. It’s not you, it’s me and my books. We’re not a good fit. Move on—please…
    The woman scowled at the back cover of The Mark of Death for another moment, then she set the book back down on the desk. “You’re right,” she said. “This one doesn’t look very interesting either. So—where’s the Travel section?”
    Fifteen minutes later, Gillian was walking across the mini-mall’s parking lot. The events coordinator and a clerk had bought copies of Black Ribbons , and she’d signed them. Pity purchases, most likely. But she was grateful just the same. They’d asked her to come back when the next book was released, God bless them.
    She’d signed at this particular store twice before—on Saturday afternoons. This was her first night signing here, and she hadn’t realized until now that the rest of the mini-mall shut down early. All the other storefronts were dark.
    Gillian hiked up the collar to her trench coat as she made her way toward an opening in a row of trees at the far end of the lot. The bus stop was on the other side of those trees.
    She still had a few minutes to catch the 8:40 bus to Seattle. At one time, Gillian had owned a car, but not anymore. She’d been forced to sell her Saturn two years ago. Immediately afterward, the man who had made her sell it beat her so severely she’d had bruises on her face, back, and arms for over two weeks.
    But Gillian didn’t want to think about that right now. Even though the problem hadn’t quite gone away, she didn’t want to dwell on it. Not tonight.
    She had a bus to catch—then a transfer and another forty-minute ride back to Seattle. It was a hell of a long trip merely to sell eleven books, but that came with being a medium-selling author. She glanced back at the bookstore. Maybe for the next book signing she would drive herself here, and find a line of people actually waiting for her. Oh, dream on, Gillian.
    The wind howled. Leaves and debris scattered across the parking lot pavement. It was a cold, damp November night, and Gillian could see her breath. There were fewer cars around