Chapter 1: The First Victim
Tuesday, 7:42 AM
The first sign that something was wrong came in the form of a headline. Eleanor Graves wasn't a morning person. Her process required darkness—midnight lamplight, the rhythmic tapping of her keyboard, the weight of sleeplessness fueling her paranoia-ridden prose. But this morning, her phone wouldn't stop buzzing, and when she finally reached for it, blinking against the sunlight streaming through her blinds, she saw it.
BREAKING NEWS: MAN FOUND DEAD IN TIMES SQUARE—MURDER SCENE IDENTICAL TO BESTSELLING AUTHOR'S LATEST BOOK
Her breath stopped for a moment.
She sat up too fast, the blanket tangling around her legs. She didn't even feel the cold air against her bare arms as she unlocked her phone, scrolling down. There it was—photos from the crime scene.
A man laying on the sidewalk, body positioned in a weird, calculated way. His arms bent at an unnatural angle, legs crossed at the ankles, head tilted slightly to the left. It was the exact way she had described it in her upcoming novel, The Last Page.
Her stomach twisted.
This had to be a joke.
A prank played by an overzealous fan. A strange coincidence.
Then she saw the detail that made her blood run cold.
On the pavement beside the body, written in red ink, were five words.
"The story is not over."
Eleanor's fingers went numb, her phone nearly slipping from her grip.
That sentence.
She had written that sentence.
It was supposed to be fiction.
Her heart pounded. With shaky hands, she opened her laptop, pulling up the manuscript of The Last Page. Her eyes darted across the text, scanning the familiar words, flipping through the pages until—
The last chapter was missing.
Her breath hitched. That wasn't possible. She had finished the book. She had written the ending. The final murder, the revelation, the moment everything came full circle—it was all gone.
A sharp knock on the door made her flinch.
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