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thrilled. She was a published author . Readers actually wrote fan letters to her publisher—okay, only a handful of people wrote to her, but it was still a very heady experience. The local supermarket didn’t carry her book. But Barry always told her—and anyone who would listen—whenever he noticed his wife’s book in one of the stores on his delivery route.
    Gillian received another twelve grand to fulfill a two-book contract with the already completed Highway Hypnosis and The Mark of Death . Eve explained that the pressure was on for her to deliver two thrillers a year. Gillian was up for it. And the money came in the nick of time, because she’d been laid off at the weekly. Just as well. The jerks there didn’t even review or promote her book. The contract money went to pay bills too. Gillian had been hoping they could buy a house, but realized that wouldn’t happen any time soon. What did happen was their landlord came to the door one morning after Barry had gone to work and announced that they had thirty days to evacuate the premises or he’d call the police on them. Their last two rent checks had bounced.
    Barry, the former business major, always paid the bills and balanced their checkbook. Gillian had written enough checks to keep track of how they were doing, and it didn’t make sense that they’d been bouncing checks. In a panic, she called the bank, and they confirmed that the savings and checking accounts were overdrawn. Their credit cards had been maxed out as well. Barry’s tabulations in the checkbook didn’t reflect any of this.
    Gillian put in a distress call to her mother in Florida. Mrs. McBride cashed in some bonds and wired them five thousand dollars. Gillian paid their landlord everything they owed—plus two more months in advance. “I really didn’t want to evict you folks,” the landlord explained, almost apologetic. “Until the checks bounced, you’ve been swell tenants, Mrs. Tanner. And your husband is such a nice guy.”
    Barry was so ashamed. He was like a little kid, caught in a lie. He confessed he’d made a bad investment a few months before—a real estate venture in Nevada that was supposed to be a sure thing . He didn’t want to tell her about the ensuing catastrophe until things looked less bleak. He hadn’t been very honest with her about a series of recent “union meetings” either. He’d been taking on extra shifts in an effort to recoup their losses.
    Gillian kept thinking she should have known. If something like this had happened to the heroine in one of her books, the woman would have realized early on her husband was lying to her. How could her heroines be so smart when she was so stupid?
    They got some unexpected help from Sweden and the Czech Republic, when the foreign rights for Killing Legend were sold to publishers in both countries for a combined eight thousand dollars. It didn’t completely abolish their debt. But it undid some of the financial and psychological damage from Barry’s bad investment. Gillian was in a better position to forgive him, and forgive him she did. “Just don’t ever lie to me again, okay?” she asked.
    From then on, Gillian paid the bills and balanced the checkbook. She’d sent a resume to the Seattle City Experimental College, along with a proposal to teach a creative writing class on Thursday nights. They hired her. The job was good for grocery money—at least. Gillian figured if she watched their budget, they could be out of debt by the end of the year.
    That was why it seemed so odd—months after their almost eviction—Barry was crying in the middle of the night, calling himself a “fuckup,” and saying Gillian would have been better off if she’d never met him.
    “Barry, stop pacing around and tell me what happened,” she said, raising her voice a bit. “I’m going to find out eventually. So you might as well tell me now. Did you—make another bad investment? Is that it?”
    With a sigh, he plopped down at