Zoe winced as the smiling bespectacled leather-bound book danced happily across her laptop monitor. 

Welcome to storyline it announced in one of those cartoon voice bubbles, waving its spindly arms wildly about.

Who would design a logo like that? She thought, as she deftly entered her password and username.

A list of titles, dates and bylines appeared in large burgundy type. Zoe had stumbled onto storyline.com quite by accident about a month prior and was immediately taken with the concept. Authors and author wannabes submitted stories or poems to the open forum. There, others could read them, offer comments and suggestions, even dole out ratings on a one to ten scale.

“What do we have today Spartacus?” she asked the gray and white cat who suddenly descended onto her lap from a nearby bookshelf. He gazed, mesmerized by the small arrow cursor as it darted bug-like across the screen.

This was their late night ritual. Zoe clicked on Love and Coffee by Hearts11.40  minutes ago. Oh no, really bad poetry. 

Guts&Glory wrote something 3 hours ago called Midnight Revenge. It certainly was.

 How about Midas Uncovered by Rodion1? 1 day 1 hour ago Reference to classical Greek mythology, or story about an automotive muffler retailer? She rubbed Spartacus behind the ears and, humming the auto shop’s catchy jingle, skeptically began to read. Wait a minute. She realized well into the second paragraph, this was good. Really good.

She bolted upright in her chair, the words on the screen luring her closer as she delved into the vivid descriptions of the main character. Privileged rich boy turned CEO, turned embezzler; bilker of Joe Everyday’s life savings, deliciously evil. She moved even closer as the mailroom office boy turned whistle blower exposed the sheer magnitude of the man’s corruption. Her nose was mere inches from the screen when the remorseless criminal was found strangled to death in his prison cell.

Now that’s a story, she thought, sending off a few notes of praise to Rodion1. A ten all the way she thought. No, she hesitated, her finger hovering above the mouse, then he’ll become arrogant, have nothing to strive for, and I want to read more of this guy’s work. She clicked a respectable 9.3. 

Zoe worked at Newton’s, a growing chain of trendy book retailers/café latte purveyors and the closest opportunity she could get to a job in the world of “publishing”.

“At least it’s related to my field,” the recent grad pleaded with her parents.

“Four years of college?” her father queried, eyebrows knotted.

“Lots of famous authors struggled with odd jobs at first” she appealed to his rational side. “And went on to gain worldwide acclaim” she added with a flourish. “You hear about them all the time.”

“Yes you hear about them” her father acquiesced. “I suppose one wouldn’t hear very much about the ones who are forty-five years old and still working at Chucky Cheese.”

Touché’. She thought. But Zoe would not be deterred. 

Newton’s was quiet during the gray morning hours.

"Hi Edna” Zoe grumbled, as she arrived, stowing her laptop in the plywood cabinet in the staff break-room. She clutched her warm cardboard cup of morning adrenaline.

“Hi Honey” Edna chirped. She was assembling one of those life size cutout photos of one of their authors, who was scheduled to do a book signing the following day. 

“Can’t seem to get him to stand up,” Edna giggled as the distinguished financier fell face first into the nubby cobalt blue carpet. Zoe helped the author of Ten Things the Super-Rich Know, assume an upright position and wandered over to the desk.

“Up writing again?” Edna admonished, as Zoe rubbed her eyes.

“ Actually reading,” Zoe answered with a wide yawn.

“Well everything’s ship shape here dear, relax, and have a gander at the paper while it’s still peaceful.” Edna could have played the role of any circa 1950’s TV sit-com mom. Well, aside from the divorcee part.

“Thanks, Edna” Zoe didn’t need much persuading.

She nestled into one of the faux leather reading chairs and glanced down at the Inquirer.

 “Ooh, someone’s in trouble” she cooed as she eyed the photo of a well dressed man being escorted from an office building by two police officers. There was something so satisfying about a precipitous fall from fortune for the uberlucky. She quickly skimmed the article for juicy facts. Early morning surprise arrest, Trust fund baby, wunderkind CEO,… Embezzlement?…employee’s life savings stolen? Company ruined? She sat motionless, as an eerie connection crystallized in her mind.

“Edna, I’m going to…uh… check something in the back,” she stammered.

“Fine dear” Edna agreed absentmindedly, her nose buried in a new title: Flirting at Fifty: Dating for the Mature Woman.

Zoe quickly set up her laptop in the cramped back room. Impatiently, she logged onto Storyline. Scrolling down, she found the story she had read the night before. In that surreal realm of uncanny coincidences, this was a goody.

Ok, story character is named D. J. Waresy. She referred back to the newspaper article. Real guy in trouble, Daniel Jackson Saywer.

Story character: oil heir, real guy: publishing heir. Close enough. An heir is an heir.

The story described the suspects “boyish good looks” She glanced at the hyper-pigmented photo in the paper. The man’s down turned face curtained by golden curls. Seemed boyish enough.

She continued her comparison. Ivy league MBA: Ivy league MBA. East Coast: Boston Mass. Her pace quickened: whistle blower, decadence, corruption; the facts mirrored each other like two parallel universes, converging before Zoe’s wide unblinking eyes. 

Would Daniel Jackson Saywer befall the same fate as D.J. Waresy?

A myriad of hypotheses paraded through her overeager imagination. Maybe some newspaper insider got the early lead on the story? But why publish it anonymously on a free literary website? Maybe it was some kind of cathartic public confessional from the suspect himself, realizing his days were numbered? The man owned five newspapers. If he wanted attention, he could get it. None of this made sense. Zoe could only surmise that the online story was an oblique warning, a cautionary tale by someone very, very involved with the events at hand. Someone watching from the inside, and wanting someone to know it.

“Everything OK?” Edna piped, as Zoe emerged from the back room, ashen and drawn.

She couldn’t disturb Edna with this. Edna was here to keep her days busy and supplement her insipid and perpetually tardy alimony checks with $9.00 an hour. Edna’s candy colored world was Austen, Bronte, and chipper motivational self-help books.

“Think I need a refill” Zoe thought quickly, lifting her lukewarm coffee in a tired salute.

 Sandy was late again and the clanking and hissing elaborate coffee machines in the store’s Hemingway’s Café sat idle and silent, the normally pastry laden glass shelves vacant and dark.

“I’ll run across the street, need anything?” Zoe added, her voice cracking slightly.

 Edna shook her head. “Thanks” 

Beans and Brew was unusually tranquil, aside from the onyx haired twenty something behind the counter, and a lurid but mute rock video on the small flat screen mounted on the wall.

“Hey” the gothic barrista addressed Zoe.

He had a small ball of silver embedded in his flesh just under his lower lip. Zoe wondered what would happen if it fell out. Could he squirt coffee out of his face like some caffeine addicted mutant whale? Surely she wasn’t thinking straight.

“Venti with soy, thanks” she muttered trying to hatch a plan of action. Maybe someone would beat her to the punch. Other people out there must have read the  story, it wasn’t called the worldwide web for nothing. Maybe someone with connections to law enforcement was investigating the odd coincidence this very moment. She thought about that inconvenient Good Samaritan law, her legal obligation to help her fellow man, no matter how despicable that fellow man might be.

“Hey, I told you about that before” a scrawny man in shirt and tie snarled, appearing from nowhere. Gothic boy rolled his eyes at Zoe and picked up a small remote. The tawdry video was replaced with familiar morning news faces and the low drone of their commentary was now audible.

 “A high profile story took an almost tragic twist early this morning, as Daniel Jackson Saywer, recently arrested on fraud and corruption charges, attempted suicide in his holding cell.” The anchorwoman’s bright blue eyes wore a mask of feigned concern. A montage of press photos of the man played in the background. 

“Luckily his attempt to hang himself was thwarted by the quick thinking of one of the guards.”

The scene changed to an on the spot interviewer pressing a microphone into the face of frightened hulking man in uniform.

“He was just like, swinging there, all blue and  **** ” the officer sputtered

“Uh… and back to you Alexa” his colorful account suddenly interrupted.

“The suspect was rushed to University of Penn Hospital.” Alexa continued gravely “No information has been released as to his condition.” Zoe froze on the spot. This was beginning to scare her. 

She lied to Edna about “female problems” and headed east on 76 to the address on the napkin. Detective Johansson, Philadelphia PD. A few phone calls had secured the name of the contact to whom to report leads or suspicious or potentially criminal activity. She had finagled some cables from the store computer and printed up a copy of  Midas Uncovered.

Was she an idiot? Did this make any sense? What in God’s name was she doing? 

“Hello Detective, I’m Zoe Finch, I called earlier…about the... correlations with...this story.”

“Yes, Yes, the Saywer problem.” Problem? Odd choice of words. She timidly relinquished the printed page, trying to conceal her trembling, as the paper fluttered like a wounded moth in her hand. They’re going to have me committed she panicked. Here she was, summa cum laude, the girl with one speeding ticket to her name (a gross injustice) in a gritty police station, trying to offer a lead detective clues to a potential homicide. Was she Nancy Drew?

She watched his beady eyes skim over the paper, emotionless.

“Well thank you for your concern, young lady. We get these things all the time. Usually coincidence you know.” He was unimpressed. “We’ll be sure to look into it.” He tossed it atop a half eaten protein bar with a bulky bodybuilder on the front. Your going to need a lot of those, Zoe thought bitterly as the man rose exposing an expansive bulbous midsection. He shook her hand.

“Thanks Miss” At least it wasn’t “Mam”. She wasn’t ready for “Mam.” “Leave your number at the desk if we need to contact you and don’t you worry about a thing,” he cued her departure in a tone reserved for toddlers, or the institutionalized. He might as well have said, “Run along and play dear.”

Well at least they didn’t try to admit me to Happy Acres, Zoe thought, a gnawing doubt still anchored in her racing sea of thoughts. Happens all the time? Really?

Detective Johansson cocked open the blinds covering the glass partition, which divided him from the lower ranks. He watched Zoe’s figure retreat into the labyrinth of desks and cubicles. Shaking the crumbs from the printout, he folded it twice into a snug neat square. He reached for his tired blue sport coat resting on the back of his chair, and slipped the paper into the inside pocket.

 “I’m out” he barked at the junior officer seated outside his office. The rookie nodded obediently, he was used to the detective's comings and goings and abrupt manner.

 Zoe tried to clear her head as she walked toward Rittenhouse Square Park, a leafy green refuge nested among the grid like streets of Center City. She drank in the heady mixture of Spring foliage and car exhaust. Maybe Rodion1 was responsible for Saywers near brush with the afterlife. Maybe she had actually commended a potentially homicidal maniac on his convincing character development and use of metaphors.

She plunked down on a sturdy wooden bench adjacent to the clear cool splash of one of the Greek revival fountains.

Hesitant, she inserted her wireless card into the slim multi pronged slit in the side of her laptop, resting it on her knees.

Yes, a signal. A few taps and the annoying animated book appeared, grinning; his eyes mocking her behind his goofy oversized glasses.

You have one new message.

It was from Rodion1. Marked 30 minutes ago. Short but sweet.

Greetings LitGrad, Thanks for reading my piece. It seems you really understand my work. Hope you enjoy chapter two.