It was stupid, really. An act of selfish conceit. Alanna regretted every single dollar made. It wasn't worth it to lose him… but with all regrets, hindsight was most clear in moments like these. The chilled wind sang over her ears as she contemplated all that she had done. A single broken hair, curled like ribbon with a tension snap at the tip, twirled in front of her left eye as a reminder of her own mistake.

The whole thing played before her faster than the regret settled in.

***

Not six years ago did she find herself rapt in the charismatic reading of struggling artist, Edwin J. Lamb. A prolific writer and storyteller, to Alanna, he had it all: wit, charm, and the deep baritone of a man filled with comedy gold. Call it envy, call it parasocial, but whatever it was called, there was no denying she was hooked.

Electrified fingers trembled when he placed the signed copy of Life's Little Disasters in her hand, as if the action itself encoded obsession into her veins. A dimpled grin and a "thanks for reading" was all it took for her to seek him out at his modest apartment on ninth.

The apartment complex was accessible, and Edwin had gone shopping with his mother, so she slithered through the second story window, precisely into his writing nook. Base notes of old leather bound volumes and top notes of ozone from the laptop idling on the one-by-two writer's desk against the wall floated throughout. It was the heart notes that clung to her senses—the sharp aqua lime of his after shave.

She swooned.

Lucky for her, the laptop was unlocked. It's beckoning glow pulled her forward as she ran a fingertip along the edge. Edwin's hands had been on these surfaces… and now his hands had touched her.

It didn't take long to snag his digital portfolio and take him back to her place to plug it into her own computer. She bit her lip when sliding the male end of the thumb drive into the female port of her computer, letting all the data pulse into her system. So many unpublished novels, novellas, short stories, and more.

They were hers then, to twine and meld into her identity. Edwin's comedy became Alanna's, and the New York Times bestseller list called her name. It was her name that rose to the top, with the echo of Edwin within the lines.

Enough of his material filled her portfolio to satisfy interested agents for the next several years. The stories of Randy the Red, and the Tale of a Thousand Pennies was told and sold, with readings of Curious Curios and Bargain with the Snake performed by Alanna herself in the grandest city bookstores.

Could he feel her when she spoke his words?

Success after success and she craved it more… But after some time, she ran thin of material. Tapping into the mind of her love—the one true creative behind her name—Alanna returned.

The musky leather, ozone, and aqua lime zing floated through a room in disarray. Scattered papers and overturned books, a broken picture frame, and old glass… why, Edwin? Was it not enough? Did their successes not bring him joy? Alanna knew what would make him happy once again.

The final trip to the apartment on ninth yielded a new fantastical story: The Lamb and the Wolf. Of course she would take it for herself. It belonged to her—Edwin's gift to her. It was a subconscious message through the written word that he loved her… That he approved of her hands molding his work.

Fresh excitement over the new manuscript was only further proof that it was fate that brought them together that night at the library reading… the night his charm and words lifted her up and made her a star. All she had to do was meet the new agent at the address tucked neatly into her mailbox slot.

A rooftop celebration…she'd never had one of those! What a perfect night to kickoff the next of Edwin's ghost. Ever the obedient client, she traveled to the top. It was open, wind cutting through and unprepared, and she wondered if she was in the right spot. Only rusted vents and stained concrete greeted her. Surely she had gone to the wrong place. She glanced over the edge, fourteen stories up.

The sharp aroma of aqua lime aftershave drifted past her nose and she spun to see him. The way his words, "it was you" uttered from his cavernous throat, her heart couldn't help but flutter. She was careless that final day—the day she took The Lamb and the Wolf—when the comb she wore loosed from her strands and bounced through the room. In retrospect, she should have taken the extra second to snag it, but he came home early and could have found her.

It was the strand that gave her away - the single brown strand with a reddish core, plucked from the teeth of her tortoise shell colored comb. It curled in the baggie that he held to her face as he menaced her closer the edge. The concrete corner bit into her calf, and her stomach dropped.

The silhouette of Edwin J. Lamb shrank away as she fell further from him. Nothing but a ruse, and her heart lay in pieces. How did he not understand her intentions? How could he not be overjoyed at their success? How many more seconds until her skull hit the pavement? Of that she wasn't sure, but so went the tale of how he finally got his revenge upon a certain Alanna E. Wolf.

~End