There’s half a stale donut in my sweatshirt pocket. I don’t remember how it got there, but I’m not asking questions. Cramming sticky sweetness into my mouth, I double fist my breakfast of black coffee and leftover fried dough as I hurry to meet my agent.

The cool San Francisco air is a weak balm to my pounding headache. Hungover is not my favorite way to start the day, but I think it fits the disheveled, rock-star bestselling author vibe I’m going for. Let’s pretend I’m wearing an oversized sweatshirt and slightly stained pair of leggings (stained in the crotch area, to be exact) because it’s all part of the persona I’m going for, not because I slept through my alarm and didn’t even have time to shower.

I just make the trolley, squeezing myself in between a finance bro and an emotional support dog who’s better dressed than me.

Ignoring the ache behind my eyes, I try to concentrate on my audiobook. It’s literary fiction, a moody novel about a famous actor trying to find the one place on earth where she can be unrecognized and unbothered. I have to admit, it’s pretty good. I don’t want to admit it’s pretty good, because it’s written by a woman who was in my MFA program. It’s the kind of novel I wanted to write: weird, mysterious, and edgy. Even the title is weird—Jaundice.

Technically, I can’t complain. My books sell. People read them. An American Love Story has kept the lights on, after years of failed attempts to sell the books I really want to write. An American Love Story is five books long…so far. And I write them all by myself. I’m not fancy or rich enough to afford a ghostwriter.

The series started out by accident. I wrote fan fiction of my guilty pleasure television shows during a period of writer’s block (no, I’m not telling you which show) and discovered that I actually enjoyed writing historical romance. And, as it turns out, I’m good at it. But five books later, I’m starting to feel that ache for something different.

I realize I’ve missed about twenty minutes of Jaundice while lost in my thoughts. I pause the audiobook. I’m almost at my stop, anyway. I take another sip of scalding coffee. The trolley jerks suddenly, and I nearly land in the lap of an older gentleman who is in the middle of reading…my book. It still weirds me out, seeing one of my children out in the wild. It’s hard to believe people actually like my work.

The man shifts like he can’t get comfortable. At first I think he’s in pain. Then I realize.

Oh. Joy.

He’s enjoying book number five. A little too much. As in, he’s got his hand down his pants.

Fuck me.

That’s the thing about writing romance novels. You have the unique power to make people horny with words alone. It’s kind of cool. Except for when this happens.

This is why I drink. Sometimes.

Praying to god the happy customer hasn’t recognized me from my author photo, I scoot toward the door and practically dash out onto the street the moment it opens.

I head toward the Transamerica building, hoping the early morning fog will swallow me up. No such luck. It feels fitting that the building, a forty-eight-story slender pyramid, looks like something you could impale yourself on.

A shiver takes hold of me, and it’s not from the chill. It’s the kind of feeling I get when I sense that I’m being watched.

Call me paranoid, but I’ve had, shall we say, overzealous fans in the past. That’s what you get when you write erotic fiction.

I walk faster. I try to tell myself that I’m just jittery from the sugar and caffeine, but I’m not very convincing.

God, I hope it’s not Mr. Masturbation looking for an autograph.

I stop by a coffee kiosk in front of the Transamerica building and pretend to think about buying a coffee, even though I’m already holding a coffee cup in my hand. I meet the eyes of the barista, and neither he nor his septum piercing have the patience for my bullshit today. I step out of line, my eyes catching the headline of this morning’s San Francisco Chronicle.

A New Serial Killer In San Francisco?! Police wonder if recent murders are connected.

Anxiety courses through my veins. Why is there an exclamation point in the headline? Like it’s exciting having a potential serial killer in the neighborhood? Could that have been a typo?

I can’t worry about this right now. I’m going to be late for my meeting with Cass. It’s five minutes to eleven, which means I’m already late, in Cass’s book.

I turn away from the kiosk and have to stop myself from letting out a shriek as I do.

I’m going to have a panic attack. I’m going to have a heart attack. I’m going to die right in front of this poor barista.

A few feet ahead of me is the man from the train. He’s still clutching his copy of book number five.

And he’s staring right at me.