burned.
But could he do it? Could he really write the story that had changed so many lives? And if he did write about it, if he did tell the truth even if he did change the names, would he be ready for all the controversy that would ensue? Michael wasn’t sure. Novel or not, people would know the story he’d written was based on fact.
Maybe he’d change the names later. Maybe he wouldn’t. What mattered now was getting it on paper.
And then he remembered what the man Cain said to him that day in his apartment. Just moments after he read the first chapter and destroyed the manuscript, Cain asked how Michael could use these events, these places. Michael’s answer was immediate-perhaps he would use a pseudonym.
He rested his hands on the typewriter and was relieved to find that it no longer seemed as threatening. He thought of Leana then, thought of all the Redmans, chose a generic pseudonym and after a moment, he began to type:
