by Stuart Keane
Greg nodded quickly, standing up, backed away into the wall. “Jessica?”
The woman backed off a step. She folded her arms. “No?”
Confusion gripped his brain for a second. Greg glanced past the woman, reality slapped him in the face and he groaned, wobbling on his legs.
You’re at a convention.
The woman tilted her head and her mouth, the fake mouth, flapped a little. Greg noticed the rubber mask, an exact replica of a legendary horror film icon. The name escaped him, his brain frantic with sheer panic and manic relief. For the first time, he saw creases on her neck, indicating the mask was a fake, too big, a mere prop.
As if to confirm it, David stepped forward. “Nice costume.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at Greg, who was standing with his back to the wall, arms behind him. “I think your friend here is impressed.”
Greg smiled nervously. “Sorry. You reminded me of someone else. Excellent costume.”
“You’re the Greg Irving, right?”
He nodded. “You can call me Greg.”
“Really? Cool.” The woman stepped to the table and picked up both of the novels, holding them together. She flipped them over one by one, scanning the blurbs on the back. Her lithe fingers drummed against the front cover, her black fingernails dancing in the humid air. After a moment, she placed them before her. “I’ll take both.”
“Excellent,” Greg said, smiling. He stepped forward.
“Can you sign them for me?”
Greg nodded. “Sure thing.” He collected the books and sat down, leaning on the table. Opening the covers, he slipped a pen from his pocket. “Who am I making them out to?”
The woman leaned forward. “Sean Wilson.”
