Martin knew her type. She wasn't so much a fan of his writing as the genre. True Crime junkies like her were the bane of his career. They wore black clothes and dour, I've-seen-it-all expressions. They carried worn copies of Mirror Man, never his latest book and never Witch Hunter, not even the subpar collection of short stories he vanity-published fresh out of college. Not these types. These so-called fans were ghouls. Serial killer groupies. Drawn to Martin because of his close contact with maniacs. As if that evil, that danger, might rub off on them by proxy.
