Chapter 4 THE PERFORMANCE

[ETHAN POV]

Lighthouse Books carries a scent of coffee mixed with aged pages.

I enjoy this place. While she arranges the seats in straight lines, Patricia also lays out bottled water - it feels more like a meeting than an author event.

She gives a little wave as soon as I come into view.

"Ethan! Right on time."

"Wouldn't miss it," I say.

She leads me to the front seat. A pile of my novels sits there - waiting. Called The Ninth Sin. The dark cover depicts a shadowy bridge after sunset.

About thirty folks turned up. Others sit around, while a couple flip through pages. A handful already got their hands on copies.

I take a seat while grinning their way.

"Thanks for coming out," I say. "Let's get started."

The first twenty minutes roll by without a hitch. Because I’m reading from chapter twelve - where the detective figures out the killer was inside her home. Folks start leaning in. Although a few actually gasp when it hits.

Once I finish, everyone starts clapping.

Patricia lets everyone ask stuff.

A guy sitting at the rear lifts his palm - maybe forty-five, wears specs, and has a press pad resting on his thighs.

"Yes?" I say.

"Your books are known for being disturbingly realistic," he says. "Especially the crime scenes. How do you research that?"

The room falls silent.

I smile.

"I read a lot," I say. "Case files, forensic textbooks, interviews with law enforcement. My fiancée's a detective, actually, and she's been helpful."

A couple of folks bob their heads. A voice chimes in - “No way, that’s awesome.”

The reporter jots a note yet seems unimpressed.

"Your last book," he says. "The body under the bridge. That scene felt almost documentary. Like you'd seen it yourself."

I keep looking into his eyes.

"Art imitates life, doesn't it?"

He looks my way just a second longer than usual. After that, he gives a nod while leaning back.

I head over to what comes after this one.

The deal goes live later.

People wait, holding their books. Then I write something special in every copy. While doing it, I find out what they’re called. Chat a little bit while we pass the time.

A young woman passes me her book - her fingers tremble. She’s barely holding it steady.

"I loved it," she says. "But it scared me."

"Good," I say. "That means I did my job."

She laughs nervously.

I scribble my name in her book then pass it back.

The next one comes forward - this guy’s got a beard. After him, a teen takes the spot. Next, an elderly lady speaks up; she claims she’s gone through all my stuff.

I grin. Then I scribble my name. After that, a quick up-down with the head.

A girl walks up - maybe a student. Her eyes shine with energy. She holds a piece of white paper, folded into a neat shape.

"Could you fold something?" she asks. "I heard you do origami. I've always wanted to see how it's done."

I pause.

Patricia’s keeping an eye on the counter. Some folks in line stretch their heads to get a look.

"Sure," I say.

I grab the sheet from her - plain office paper, nothing special. It could’ve been better, yet it’s usable.

I start folding.

Down the center. Fold it here. Across one corner to the opposite edge. Now fold again.

My hands remember the steps. No need to focus.

The room’s paying attention. Then one person grabs their phone - starts filming.

In half a minute, I finish.

I lift the crane - neat creases, clean lines. Crisp edges follow. Wings snap into place.

The girl’s eyes widen suddenly.

"Wow," she says.

I’ve gotta give her credit.

"Hold onto it," I tell her.

She holds on tight, as if I handed her a treasure.

The line just keeps going.

I’m partway into the pile when she shows up.

Back row. Right side, last seat there.

Aria.

She’s got on that jacket again - same one she had earlier. Hair tied up tight. Not glancing my way once. Staring down at her phone instead.

Yet I’m sure she’s kept an eye out.

I scribble the next three titles without thinking - my thoughts keep drifting back to her.

She never said she’d show up.

She’s around just to keep an eye in case I mess up.

Good.

The crowd starts to shrink. Only ten folks remain. A moment later, just five stand around. After that, it’s down to three.

Aria stands up.

She heads up front - joins the queue right after.

The last one wraps up. Says thanks then leaves.

After that, it’s only her.

She moves to the table, drops a worn copy of The Ninth Sin. Not fresh - spine bent, pages folded at corners.

"Didn't know you were coming," I say.

"Last minute decision."

She’s not telling the truth. Her stance gives it away - way too rigid. Almost like she’s preparing for impact.

"You want me to sign it?" I ask.

"That's why I'm here."

I flip the book open to where it says the name. Then I grab my pen from the side.

The Montblanc.

She sees me twist off the top. How the shiny part glows when it hits the sun.

I write:

To the cop who spots truth in shadows.

One design. But this time, it's on a different tool.

I give the book back to her.

She grabs it. Then, I check my notes.

Her jaw tightens.

"Thanks," she says.

"Anytime."

She starts walking away.

"Aria."

She halts. Yet she won’t face him.

You good? I wonder.

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

She turns to face me just then - her gaze sharp. Yet something cold sits behind her stare.

"I'm sure."

She walks out.

I see her leave.

Patricia shows up, grinning from ear to ear.

"That was great, Ethan. Everyone loved it."

"Thanks, Patricia."

"Same time next month?"

"Sounds good."

She begins tossing the extra books into a box. While I pitch in, piling them neatly beside her.

After that, I grabbed my phone and texted Aria.

I saw you at the event, babe, I'm so happy you showed up.

I love you 🥰🥰 so much.

i press the send button and put the phone back into my pocket.

Pick a piece of paper, shaped it like a box and start folding.