The Lost Ones

They are so dark that pupil and iris are virtually indistinguishable, fringed by long lashes that might make them pretty until you take a closer look, and then you will see that they absorb all the light around them and refuse to budge an inch. When looking into them, if you ever do, you will suddenly remember appointments that you should be making and previous engagements that you’ve forgotten to put on your calendar.

They are so dark that pupil and iris are virtually indistinguishable, fringed by long lashes that might make them pretty until you take a closer look, and then you will see that they absorb all the light around them and refuse to budge an inch. When looking into them, if you ever do, you will suddenly remember appointments that you should be making and previous engagements that you’ve forgotten to put on your calendar.

About two years ago, I was working as a TV researcher for a crime drama series when an idea began to form for a project of my own. A dark, psychological suspense novel. I’d never written a novel before, but the idea wouldn’t let go and I found myself at a crossroads. In a moment of righteous conviction, I took the least logical path available. I quit my job and moved across the country to Vancouver, because this is where my story would be set. I had no employment prospects on the West Coast, no money, no friends, nothing but the drive to write. For the next year, I took day work in the film and television industry to make ends meet, ate out of cans, pocketed food from set. One week I had nowhere else to go so I lived in a tent. I’m told some people do this for fun. I am not one of them. - from the Thrillerfest interview

I can tell that the coffee here is terrible, but the muffins are not too bad. People exiting with takeout cups in their hands peel back the lid, gulp, and then grimace. Those with muffins never bat an eye. They shrug and move on, seeing the muffins as money well spent.

At first I thought it was a manifestation of my hangover, but after an hour of huddling in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, I got angry. Okay, that’s not true. I got paranoid, drank a beer to calm my nerves, and then got angry. When I went out, steel pipe in hand, I found a huge ball of matted furs sniffing distastefully at a carton of spoiled chow mein I had put in the garbage the night before. The ball of fur looked at me with baleful eyes, but made no move to beat a hasty exit when I tried to shoo her away. I’ve called her Whisper ever since.

I could get into my complicated parentage. I could point out to him that my dubious genes are at least part indigenous from my father’s side and part something I don’t even know from my mother‘s. Because she left when I was a child and I don’t know a thing about her, not even where she came from. What I do know is that I look somewhat like my father, and girls who look like me are more likely to go missing, and less likely to have their disappearances investigated.