When Detective Sloane Hollis arrives at a brutal homicide in Seattle, she expects another long night-until she finds a small black diary placed beside the victim, its pages filled with twelve detailed murder entries that haven't happened yet. Each page describes a future victim, a method, a location... and the final blank entry bears her name.
The killer calls himself The Author, a meticulous manipulator who treats murder as narrative art. Each killing mirrors the scenes in his diary-victims posed like paintings, crime scenes arranged like symbolic stories, and clues tailored specifically for Sloane. But the diary isn't static. As Sloane intervenes, its entries change. Lines rewrite themselves. Dates shift. The Author is crafting a living story, adapting each "chapter" to her choices.
The deeper Sloane digs, the more personal the case becomes. The Author knows intimate details about her past-her sister's unsolved murder, the nightmares she hides, even fragments of childhood memories she thought she'd buried. Then she discovers the diary originally belonged to her sister, connecting the killings to a truth Sloane has feared for years: her sister's death was the beginning of this story.
As the murders escalate across Seattle-from foggy waterfronts and abandoned industrial docks to rainy alleyways and quiet residential streets-Sloane realizes she isn't just chasing a killer-she's playing the lead role in a narrative crafted around her grief, her guilt, and her search for justice. The final entry is dated two weeks from now. It describes her death in chilling detail.
To survive, Sloane must break the pattern, outwit the story, and confront the mastermind who believes her fate is already written. Because The Author isn't predicting murders-he's directing them. And he won't stop until she reads between the murders and writes an ending he never planned.
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Book 1 GHOST Complete
Book 2 TROJAN Ongoing
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Excerpt
I got a peace offering. And Ice cream.
The message popped up again.
His Bhaiyu was making it hard to ignore.
Darwaza khol, yaar. Mogambo uth jayenge.
Ansh glared at the French windows. Even desperate his Bhaiyu would not quit the name calling.
Shall I leave?
Ansh did not respond.
Okay! Leaving the ice-cream outside. Take it before it melts.
Ansh did not respond, but his heart skipped a beat. He wanted to meet his Bhaiyu. He was even a little desperate, but he did not wish to give in so soon. So, he counted until 100 and then slowly made his way outside.
Iris hopped down from the bed and followed behind him.
Ansh opened the doors with a big heart only to find a basket filled with dumb yellow smile squishes and a big tub of ice-cream in between. A few CD's were tucked into the basket almost as an afterthought. The game CD's that Ansh wanted.
Ansh glared at the basket. "Do minute nahi rukh saktey they kya?" He muttered under his breath.
"You made me wait 17 minutes, kidoo" A voice whispered in his ears.
Ansh almost screamed but Nirbhay's palm closed around his mouth before any sound could slip. Ansh's heart thudded in his chest. His Bahiyu had almost given him a heart attack. Nirabhay grabbed the basket and slipped inside with Ansh, and shut the door behind him.