I was halfway through the Autographed Books shelf when I found it.
The book was a battered copy of The Vanishing of Emily Cross. True crime. A little over ten years old.
I opened the cover.
To Martin.
This is not a joke. I have been kidnapped.
Beneath it was the author's signature.
I stared at it for a moment, expecting a punchline. There wasn't one.
The shop owner looked up as I carried it to the counter.
"Interesting find?" he asked.
“Not sure.” Still somewhat distracted, I showed him.
The colour drained from his face.
"That's impossible."
"Why?"
He took the book from me carefully.
"Because that's not the author's signature."
I frowned.
"It says her name."
"It does." He swallowed. "But she never signed this book."
A silence settled between us.
"Why not?"
He opened the back cover and pointed to the author's photograph.
The woman smiled out from the dust jacket.
Underneath a rather brief bio was a date.
And three words—Missing. Presumed abducted.
Three weeks before publication.
The inscription suddenly felt different in my hands.
Not a joke.
Not a dedication.
A statement.
And somehow, a decade later, it was sitting in a used bookshop for £2.50.
I bought it.
The police took it the following morning.