“If you don’t want this stuff to happen, why do you write about it?” he demands, staring at me with wild eyes. “It’s just fiction. It’s made up. It’s just supposed to be a story.” “It’s so much more than that, Mari. We both know it. There’s beauty in it. In pain. In suffering. In fear.” He inches closer, like something out of a horror movie. In the book, the killer plucks out his victim’s two front teeth. “You saw that. You got it, more than anyone else. You understand how beautiful pain can be.”
