They say you should write from the heart. You know? Write what’s inside, write what’s true. But I’ve always thought that was kind of dumb. I mean, what do writers have in their hearts, really, except for a bunch of stuff they’ve imagined while sitting at a desk? If I wrote from the heart it would be about… Well, it wouldn’t be very interesting.

‘My personal life is not publicity,’ I say. ‘It’s a dinner party. Not a media event.’ ‘Any place full of the rich and influential is a media event.’

I look up and meet his eyes. Detective Jay Ryan. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and all the things fictional heroes should be. He’s also sharp as a flick knife in a dark alley, with eyes like heat. He’s the reason my books do so well among my female demographic. He has this searing glance that can liquefy just about anyone, though generally he’s too focused and serious about his work to notice the effect he has on people. Women especially.

When I open the door I don’t need to look behind me to know that all traces of them are gone, like they were never there. But I do glance behind me—just to check—and let out a little sigh.

Daniel Bradley came into my life like a hot knife into butter. And I mean hot.

‘Evie is famous and successful enough. It’s the books that count.’ He winks at me. He knows he’s quoting my words back to me. ‘Sweetheart,’ Eileen shakes her head in kindly disagreement, ‘you owe it to writers everywhere to be as visible as possible. The written word is all but lost—lost!—as an art form.’

‘So you have writer’s b—?’ ‘Don’t say it! Don’t say the b-word. It’s not a medical condition, it’s not even a real thing. I’m just stuck, is all.’

I gulp for air. Okay. This is a possibility. A copycat. Someone who’s read my books and is acting out the horrors of my worst criminal mastermind. The idea of a real-world criminal doing psychopathic things partially calms my racing heart—about the third paragraph, at least. Eighth victim.

‘You can see them?’ My voice sounds like I spent the afternoon sipping strychnine (interesting way to go). ‘Yeah,’ she says uncertainly. ‘Should I? Oh, are they your…?’ ‘My characters, yes!’ I nod my head really hard, as if driving fictional people around in a car is something I often do. ‘I decided to, um…’

My writers’ group is not exactly a hub of social networking. It’s held in the library of a private college in New Rochelle, so it feels like it should be academic and stately, but there are only about fifteen of us, and our meetings tend to be such a mishmash of shyness and ineptitude that it’s more like a gathering of Dorks Anonymous. I actually like this. It makes me feel good about myself. And it gets me out of the house once a week.

‘Aye. Ye’ve begun living through theirs, instead of living your own. That’s a dangerous way to be for a writer.’ I stare at her with my mouth open. ‘Ye must keep writing your own story, dear,’ she says.

When I get there I close the door on him and lock it. Not my proudest moment. But I’ve never pretended to be brave. Writers are known for not being brave, in fact. We hide away in our rooms and we live our lives through other people. Through our characters. And that’s fine by me.