/I don't own anything you recognize in this story. /

Chapter One

"Why do writers write? Because it isn't there." –Thomas Berger

It was a perfect ending. He couldn't have written it better and if he did, the ending wouldn't have been perfect for this story.

Mort Rainey sighed and stretched his arms high over his head. Writing the perfect ending could take the energy right out of a man. But it was sure worth it.

Making sure he saved what he had so far, Mort got up from his desk and went downstairs to look for something to eat. Finding only a stale bag of Doritos in the back of the cupboard, he sighed. He would have to go to the store soon. He definitely didn't like going out of his house, let alone off his property if he didn't have to. Yes, Mort could safely say that he had become the social outcast of Tashmore Lake.

Mort frowned thoughtfully. It was funny how those things worked themselves out. Yet he still couldn't understand why people who knew him turned the other way when they saw him coming. He didn't know how to tell them that it wasn't him who had caused the death of his private detective, neighbor, wife, and wife's boyfriend. Couldn't they understand that the man responsible for the disappearance and murders was John Shooter?

The doorbell rang, breaking Mort out of his thoughts. It was a little odd that someone would willingly come to his door and knock, unless they were a stranger. Apparently everybody thought they would catch whatever mental illness Mort Rainey had if they were around him. Either that or they would never come out or be seen again.

Tossing the bag of Doritos into the sink, Mort walked slowly to the front door. There was no need to hurry. If they truly wanted to see him, they would have the patience to wait for him to get to the door.

Reaching the door, Mort looked into the peep hole. It was a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. Mort didn't remember ever seeing her around town before when he was allowed to go into town. Maybe she was new. This could be interesting.

Mort opened the door and the woman smiled hopefully. Obviously she didn't know anything about him or she wouldn't be smiling so brightly.

"May I help you, madam?" Mort asked, a little apprehensive. It was beginning to dawn on him that Tashmore Lake might have sent the shrink to come haul him to the asylum.

"Hello, I'm Danielle Pearson. I just moved here from New York City and I was looking for a place that I could rent until I can find my own place," the woman exclaimed. "I'm to be the reporter for Tashmore News."

Mort stared at Danielle in surprise. This was definitely unexpected. If she was truly with the police department and the asylum, she would have already dragged him out of his home and on their way to the department already. Nonetheless, one couldn't be more careful while feeling the elation of having a twenty year-old standing on one's front porch.

Mort cleared his throat. "There's a good hotel in town. They don't get much traffic so you'll be sure to find a room."

Danielle looked at him wearily. "I don't think I can get that far. Please, if it's not too much of a trouble, may I stay at your place, at least for tonight?"

Mort closed his eyes before opening them slowly again. If he sent her into town, she would find out about his reputation for being a crazy man and a murderer. But if she stayed here, there was no knowing what could happen.

His courtesy won over and Mort stepped aside, giving her enough room to come in, gesturing for her to let herself in. Danielle sighed with relief and walked through the door as Mort closed it behind her. Her eyes looked over the house. Despite its poor condition, it was a beautiful house and had a lot of potential.

Danielle turned to her benefactor. "Your house is beautiful. If it was spruced up a bit, it would look gorgeous."

Mort shrugged. "I haven't been able to get around to fixing the place up much. I've been going through some difficulties lately and haven't had much thought to making it more livable. And I'm a writer. I need to make a living."

Danielle laughed. "Isn't that the truth? I know how you feel. Are you also part of Tashmore News?"

Mort looked at her thoughtfully for several moments. Danielle thought he didn't hear her and was about to ask again when he shook his head.

"No, I'm not. I'm a novelist. My name's Mort Rainey if you didn't know," Mort answered.

Danielle's eyes widened in amazement and shock. "You're kidding me? Not the famous Mort Rainey who wrote Secret Window?"

Mort grimaced at the name of the novel that gave him so much fame. That book was also his downfall in making him the outcast of Tashmore Lake.

"Yes, that would be me," Mort said. "Here, let me show you to my room. I don't usually sleep in there anymore. I have the habit of falling asleep on the couch watching the football games on the television."

"You sound like my father. He's always doing that and never making it to bed. It drives mom up the wall," Danielle exclaimed, laughing.

Mort smiled. "What else can you expect from men, though, honestly?"

"Not much else by my experience," Danielle said.

Making sure she was comfortable in his room, Mort went back downstairs. Danielle Pearson was a beautiful woman and she seemed to be intelligent as well. And she was a writer. Nobody could go wrong with that, not at all. Maybe he could make something out of this without anyone else messing it up.

Mort stretched out across the couch. Well, there was always time for making the moves as long as the townspeople didn't open their fat mouths. Mort fell asleep with the hope that he would be able to get to know the mysterious Danielle Pearson a bit more before it was too late.