April rain poured down from the heavens, which I loved. Spring had sprung and the ice and cold of a disheartening winter dissipated. I couldn’t open the windows at Chester House because the temperature hovered at forty-eight, but soon I could, and would, giving it another week or so. Until then, I submerged myself into writing, finding a home behind my keyboard and monitor, doing what I knew best. Entertaining readers proved to be my talent, filling their minds with cutthroat scenes and mystification. Not once did I refrain myself from providing them with inactive filler by simply obtaining word count. Rather, within the pages of my tales I prompted those faithful readers and the buyers of my books to visit Georgian cemeteries after the midnight hour, bedrooms where hanged men ended their
