The police finally showed up through the snow, and when they saw Tom's body they knew something had gone horribly wrong in my bar. Gee, really? By the time they were up there, we already had Trey locked up for them. "What happened?" one officer asked.

I saw somebody come in, a relatively young detective considering his rank, and his hand instantly went to his mouth. His face paled and he came toward me, toward the bathroom, to vomit. I stopped him and turned him toward the corner. He didn't want to see the bathroom.

"Trey Towers killed four people here, tonight. He's in that chair, over there."

I pointed, and they looked at the man, head down, leg bleeding, body duct taped to the seat.

"We're going to need a statement."

"Can I tomorrow? I just want some sleep." And it was true. God, I was aching and I was worn out. All I wanted to do was sleep, no matter how many nightmares I'd inevitably have. "I need to get some rest. I need to get out of here."

"I know, ma'am."

"Please, not ma'am."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not that old."

The police man smiled and shook his head. "Standard police policy, milady. It won't happen again."

"It better not."

He looked out at the scene in the bar, shivered, and ushered me over to one of the tables. "Are you aware of how these work?" he asked me. I told him I didn't, and he explained the concept of the police statement to me. He'd ask me questions, and then his notes would be used to make a typed, written statement. I'd have to sign it, of course, but it would essentially be my word.

He padded his pockets, looking for something, and then asked, "Do you have a pen?"

I paused. "Yeah, but I'd prefer if you used one of your own."

"Whatever you say." He got a pen from one of the other officers and began to question me. When I got the statement back to sign, it was almost verbatim.

'Trey Towers came into my bar in the hopes that he could drown his sorrows. He'd been suffering from a horrible, horrible case of writer's block and had failed to find a solution. It didn't lie in drugs, it didn't lie in alcohol, it didn't lie in pure creative thought. Drugs must have skewed his mind somewhere along the road because, that night, he decided to act out a story. He assumed if he saw it happen in person, he could write it down. He assumed that murder was his muse.'

I read the rest of the statement and signed it without a moment of hesitation.