You thought I was dead didn’t you? You called the morgues and the hospitals to check, right? Right? Oh, come on. If you didn’t show up here forever, I’d at least file a missing person’s report, if for no other reason than to deflect suspicion. And don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me.

We mystery writers are a suspicious bunch. I have books in my bedroom of autopsy photos. Books on poisons and firearms and various money laundering scams. I can accurately describe “grave wax” and have a general understanding of how bugs are used to estimate time of death. (You don’t want to know.) If I’m ever accused of a crime, I’m going to be put away for my library alone.

And yes, I probably could find a better place for those autopsy photos than the bedroom now that I think about it. But here’s the bigger deal.

I’ve been asked to write a non-genre book.

I know.

Dude, I know.

Not a mystery? How can that be? I know what a close-range shotgun blast does to a human cheek. What else am I supposed to do with that information?

So that’s where I’ve been. Huddled in a corner and panicking and crying a little because mysteries, that’s what I know. This literature business? It’s scary.

Somebody hold me.

And while we’re cuddling, I can show you some cool pictures of dead guys.

Or not.