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out of here. Unfortunately, as I stand and watch people getting onto a bus to New York, I realize someone has stopped next to me, and from the corner of my eye I can already tell who it is.
    "Well, hello," says Dexter Logan, grinning like an idiot. "What a coincidence!"
    My heart sinks. Not only do I not want to be talking to this guy, I don't want to be seen to be talking to him. Not that I have any reputation to uphold, but still...
    "Genuine apology time," he says, before I get a chance to say anything. "I've been bugging you. This is the last time. I just came to say sorry."
    I stare at him for a moment. Was it a coincidence that he bumped into me? "Okay," I say blandly. There's an awkward silence, and I wonder if it would be rude of me to just walk away.
    "Look at me," he says, grinning nervously.
    I don't particularly want to, but I do, just to be polite.
    "59 fucking years old," he continues, "and I've never broken a decent news story in my life. I'm a joke at the office. When a big story comes in, the other guys always get it. Jason fucking Dunn, he's the big-shot reporter in town. Meanwhile, they send me out to cover stories about old ladies' cats getting stuck in trees." He sighs. "The one thing I always counted on was that one day I'd get the mother of all stories. You know what I mean?"
    I smile politely. Does this guy really want to offload his entire life's list of grievances on me? Here? Now? Seriously?
    He leans in, conspiratorially. "Look, I know these vampires are real. I know it. I've seen clues, I've felt it, here" - he thumps his chest, above his heart - "I know it's true. 1959. Rose Tisser. You know what happened to her? You should look it up. There's -"
    "Got to go," I say, turning and walking away. "Sorry."
    "Come on, Sophie," he continues, walking after me as we walk past the departure bays. "I know you know."
    "I really don't," I reply, although the truth is: my heart is racing, and I feel as if this guy is dangerous.
    "Listen," he says, keeping pace with me, "I don't care about headlines these days. I did, once, but I'm over that now. I'm retiring next year. I have a decent pension, it'll cover my bar bill. But I just wanted to know... I wanted to know that I wasn't wrong, you understand? Half the time, I used to tell myself I was crazy to believe it was all true, that there were vampires around here. And the other half the time I'd tell myself I'm not crazy, that they are here. Do you know what it's like to bounce back and forth in your head between two extremes all the time? I guess I was crazy after all."
    As we reach the exit of the bus station, I stop and turn to him. "I understand," I say. It's true, I do. He's a sad, unfulfilled small-town reporter with vampire-fueled delusions of breaking a big story. He wants, finally, to know that he's been right about something. He doesn't want fame or glory or money, he just wants self-respect. And I could give it to him. I could take him to meet Patrick and Vincent, to show him that they're real, and then I could let him sort out the rest of the story. But something deep down tells me that, although I'm still not quite sure who or what Patrick is right now, the last thing I want to do is lead someone like Dexter to his door.
    "I'm sorry," I say. "I wish I could help you."
    "I just wish I knew what happened," he says sadly. "I mean, I've seen the footage from the ATM camera. In fact, I have the only copy. You got beat up good. You looked dead, to be honest. And then this big old dark figure came and saved you, and scooped you up and carried you into the woods, and now here you are, a few days later, looking perfectly healthy." He smiles. "I'm a newspaper-man. You understand why this story is piquing my interest, don't you?"
    I don't know what to say. "You should write a book," I offer, weakly.
    He laughs. "Yeah," he says, "Yeah, maybe I should. I don't know, maybe I'll..." His voice goes quiet. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm an old man. Turning gray. I