ONE.

I've been a murderer. I've been a detective. I've gambled my life in an attempt to steal thousands of years worth of gold from a temperamental dragon. It's as if by whim I can change who I am, where I am. Moving through space and time in vibrant colors and images that I create in my mind. The world around me woven from pure imagination. The world around me, yet a world contained within the tightly bound, crisp, printed pages of books.

My name is Blakely Nolan. My days, while filled with the bright colors and designs spread across the pastries I create and sell, hardly stand up to the tapestries of fiction I paint while reading. Reading is the world's best escape. Easily accessible, fairly cheap. Taking readers from romance to serial killers. Books can take a person anywhere, any time, with anyone. No harm can ever come from reading.

At least that had been my philosophy for as long as I could remember. I was, in fact, horribly wrong.

TWO.

"The end," I said, closing the book Madeline, a children's classic from my own childhood. I looked up and around the room to see that I still had the attention of at least half of the children. Not too bad for a group of five year olds. I noticed that the kids who were playing with their shoelaces or picking at the rug were the ones who were dropped off for free babysitting, not the enjoyment of the library's Reading Friday program.

Kendall, who was sitting in the front row still staring at me as if hoping I might continue reading, was a regular. An adorable little girl who had won my heart with her love of stories. I smiled at her as her mother came forward to collect her.

When all of the kids had left I put the book on a cart to be returned later, then signed out at the front desk's volunteer form. I smiled again at Kendall as she stepped up to the check out counter with a pile of new books, then left down the library's steep steps. Before I even reached the street, I felt my phone vibrating in my back pocket.

"Hello?" I asked, not able to see the caller ID through the sun's glare on the phone's screen. I hated answering the phone when I didn't know who was calling.

"Are you done reading to the ankle biters yet?"

I sighed, then laughed. Lana, my closest friend for years, wasn't exactly a proponent of reading with kids. Or of kids in general. "Yes, I just finished. What are you doing?"

"Strutting down 5th Avenue like I belong here."

"Oh. So what you're really strutting down is the Boulevard of Delusion?"

"You're no fun. But I'll meet you for dinner anyway, if you want."

"Sure. That sounds good. How about - " I trailed off as my attention was drawn to a woman I had just passed on the sidewalk. I turned and watched as she continued along her way.

The woman was dressed in a navy blue nun's habit. Her right hand clasped the hand of a little, red headed girl wearing a blue petty coat of the same color. On the girl's head sat a yellow, straw hat with a black bow tied neatly in the back. Although attention grabbing, their outfits weren't that strange; especially in New York where anything could arguably be called fashionable. But the little girl was straight off the pages of Madeline – coat, hat, and all. And beside her walked Miss Clavel.

"Blake. Blakely! Hello." Lana's voice over the phone finally snapped me to back to our conversation.

"Sorry, sorry. I just saw the weirdest thing.”

“Did the Naked Cowboy finally put some pants on?”

“Funny, but no. Remember the Madeline books, about the nun and the girls' school?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

"I was reading it to the kids earlier and I just walked past a woman and a girl who looked exactly like the nun and Madeline. It was so weird."

"See, I knew reading to kids had to have some negative health effect. You're seeing things. Where do you want to eat?" Lana said in one breath.

She wasn't interested, and I had to admit I was making something out of nothing. It was probably just book character day at a nearby school. I suggested a place that we hadn't been to in awhile, then said goodbye and hung up. By the time I was around the corner I had forgotten about the book character look-alikes I had just encountered on the street.

THREE.

Dinner with Lana was a never ending series of stories and laughs. We talked about everything from celebrity gossip to our mutual poor understanding of politics. When the waitress asked if we wanted dessert we gave each other a mischievous grin and each ordered something decadent.

After a particularly rough week the time with Lana was just what I had needed. We finally relinquished our table to a waiting couple, ignoring the impatient look they threw at us as we left. Not wanting to head home yet I tried to think of something else for us to do. It was Friday night in New York, how hard could it be to kill another hour?

Neither of us had much money and the ideas weren't flowing. After some begging and a venti Starbucks bribe Lana agreed to head a few blocks over to a small bookstore that I loved; The Tattered Page.

"For someone who lives in the booming metropolis of the Big Apple, you sure spend a lot of time with your nose in a book," Lana commented as she pulled a book off a shelf balancing her latte in her other hand. Without looking at anything more than the cover she put it back, shaking her head and pulling down another book.

"Books offer more excitement than even New York."

"Yeah, but it's not reality. Isn't that sort of the definition of fiction?"

“What's so great about reality? It's bills, and work, and heartbreak. I need - " I grabbed a random book off a shelf and flipped open the jacket to read the description. "Time traveling transgenders struggle to find out who they are through past and future."

I scrunched up my nose. "No, on second thought I do not need that." I quickly put the book back and took myself to the mystery/thriller section, where just about anything I picked up was bound to catch my interest.

While I read through several book jackets Lana stood by and drank her coffee. I could tell she was getting impatient so I picked a book and went to the register. The old man who owned the store wasn't there.

Instead a man in his late twenties with the iciest blue eyes I had ever seen was behind the counter. The coldness of his glance up from the magazine he was reading was countered by a warm and quick smile. An odd combination. Dark brown, slightly curly hair fell nearly to his shoulders, which were broad enough to make me wonder if he'd been a college football star.

Now all of the sudden Lana was interested in the bookstore. She stood beside me while I handed over my selection. I rolled my eyes at her when he wasn't looking. She shrugged and mouthed, "What?"

"You come here a lot don't you?" he asked.

"All the time, " Lana blurted, as if she was certain he'd been speaking to her, while I stood there caught off guard. I visited the bookstore every other week or so, but I had never noticed the man before me. I was sure I would have remembered his face.

He ignored Lana but continued to sneak glances at me as he rung up my purchase. I handed over a ten and tried again to remember if I had ever seen him. He must have seen the confused look in my eyes. "My grandfather owns the store. But I take care of most of his bookwork."

He pointed to a loft that overlooked the main floor of the store. "I sit up there and every time that damn bell rings over the door I can't help but look up and see who comes in. So I see you. A lot."

My verbose response was, "Oh."

"This is all probably sounding creepy," he said laughing and handing me my book and change. "Sorry, I didn't mean for it to all come out that way."

Lana made a not-so-quiet 'can we get out of here' noise behind my back. I got the hint. I finally got a spark of courage and boldly said, "Well my name is Blakely. Next time I come in, you should come down and talk to me."

"I'm Tate. And I'll do that."

I really wanted to say more, but Lana had walked out on me and the sudden butterflies in my stomach were making it hard to speak. Giving Tate one last smile, I hurried to catch up with Lana, who was waiting for me outside. We said our goodbyes and hailed our taxis. In the cab I set my purse and book in my lap and smiled about the bonus ending to my night. A book and a guy who had shown a little interest. Not bad.

FOUR.

An hour later I was snuggling down under my bed covers, new book in hand. With just the soft glow of my bedside lamp I began reading.

Another day, another dead body. Detective Finn chided herself for her bleak and jaded outlook. It wasn't just another dead body, it was a young girl who had been torn from this life too soon...and far too violently.

Finn leaned over the body, pulling the yellow rain jacket's hood away from the girl's face. At one time she was undoubtedly beautiful, but it would be hard to say for certain through the gashes on her face. She lay face down at the end of an alley, her golden hair splayed out about her in the mud. She was not far from Central Park. But as usual in New York, despite the busy streets nearby, no one had seen anything and no one was talking.

Digging through the rain jacket's pockets Finn found a wallet. It was somewhat unusual for a woman to carry a wallet in her pockets instead of a purse, but certainly not unheard of. A set of keys jangled out of the jacket's other pocket. Flipping open the wallet it was immediately evident that this crime had not been a bad robbery. Credit cards and cash still filled the wallet, along with a driver's license.

Carly Landish. Twenty-three years old. Finn handed the license to another detective so that the process of further identification could begin. She checked for jewelry next. A nice but inexpensive watch was on one wrist, and earrings that could possibly be diamond were in each ear. Definitely not a robbery. Near Carly's outstretched hand was her cell phone.

Despite the rain the phone appeared undamaged. The home screen opened for Finn and she scrolled to recent calls. Three calls had been made to the same number around six hours ago. The ME had put the time of death at between three and six hours ago. None of the calls lasted more than thirty seconds. Most likely none of them had been answered.

Text messages were an immediate dead end. Not a single one saved. It was possible that she didn't use text messaging, but unlikely. However, Finn had a habit herself of deleting her text messages every couple of days. So an empty text log didn't necessarily mean anything.

"Hey Richards," Finn said, getting her partner's attention. "We're going to need text records for this phone. They've all been deleted."

Detective Richards took the phone from Finn. “Great, I'll do this and a rookie can search through the dumpster.” He headed off to his patrol car to call in a records request. Finn now wished she had kept the phone for herself. Watching Richards poke through a pile of rank garbage would have made her day.

Finn's partner of one year, Richards was an arrogant cop who had no actual talent with which to justify his arrogance. His lazyness was only exceeded by his eagerness to appear invaluable to the top brass. Finn would have preferred to work alone, but with departmental regulations all she could do was wait for Richards to get himself fired.

With a bit of lingering regret, she returned her focus to the body. The only other visible wound, aside from the injuries to the face, was a gun shot to the chest. Finn stood up and nodded for the coroner to take the body to the morgue. She'd find out more there.