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She wandered the aisles until she found the Local Authors shelf. The Camphorwood Guardian sat there, alone.

Frowning, she glanced around for others — sequels, spin-offs, anything. But there was nothing.

An assistant shelving books nearby caught her eye.

"Excuse me," Anna asked, trying to sound casual, "are there any other books by Julian Marlowe?"

The assistant smiled politely. "Oh, the author for The Camphorwood Guardian? Just that one so far. His debut. Huge seller, though. We can't keep it on the shelves."

Anna blinked. Just one?

The assistant, still stacking books nearby, smiled knowingly. "Crazy, right?" she said. "Most debut authors barely sell a few hundred copies. But this one? Instant phenomenon. People say whoever Julian Marlowe is... he’s got a mind for this stuff. The twists, the structure — like he sees ten moves ahead of the reader. Some kind of rare talent."

Yeah. That sounded about right. Anna’s stomach did this weird, sinking twist.

Of course Julian wouldn’t write like a normal person. Of course his mysteries would feel like carefully constructed thought experiments. The same way he used to approach quantum mechanics — with maddening precision, impossible setups, and some stupid little grin when nobody else could keep up.

Anna ran her fingers absently along the spine of The Camphorwood Guardian, still processing it all — when a voice, familiar and lazy, came from directly behind her.

"Looking for something?"

Anna froze. She turned — slowly — and there he was.

Julian Marlowe.