Thiago is still in hospital when a bleary eyed Elizabeth Webber drags herself into a particularly shady looking bookstore. There is no rhyme or reason to any of it, with stacks of books near toppling everywhere she looks. The man behind the counter is nearly six foot, and still hidden by the towers beside him.

"Hello," she walks quickly, carefully dodging the books on the floor. "I'm her to collect an order."

"Name?"

"Webber."

"Order number?"

Liz does not give the order number, instead handing him a printout of the email she had received. Last week, Maria had split formaldehyde on their reference collection, leaving it unsalvageable. Most of the books are long out of print, leaving only strange little places like this one to find them.

A burn victim had been delivered to their office this morning; Liz had taken the money from Maria, and offered to collect the books while she examined the corpse.

"Let me see..." the man squints at the order, then nods. "Right, yes, I'll just need to find some of these. From the coroner's office?"

"Yes."

"Shouldn't take more than five minutes."

The man somehow weaves his massive form around the books. Liz, not in the mood to respond to his attempts at small talk, wanders the shelves herself.

There is nothing, and nothing, and nothing, and an old fashion magazine from 1953 that surely belongs in a museum crammed between two gardening guides. Liz dares not touch it with bare hands, but it does catch her eye.

From there to a book of folk tales, to a collection of astronomy essays, to some novel about a chimpanzee princess, to-

Daniel Hartmann.

Elizabeth Webber freezes; she knows that name.

She barely realises what she is doing as she reaches out with trembling hands, easing it from the stack.

Contos de uma Criatura Carente.

She knows... She knows that Daniel did not want people to see his books anymore, that something supernatural was within them.

If she buys it, burns it, would that be protecting his memory?

And yet, curiosity asks...

She flips open the cover, and finds a familiar face staring back at her. Younger, less jaded, the blue eyes of Daniel Hartmann stare from the inner fold and into her soul.

She cannot burn even an image of the man.

She cannot be responsible for his death again.

But...

Liz knows the paranormal now, knows its cruelty. Surely, surely, if she were the one to read the book...

She brings the book to the counter, and asks it to be rung up separately to the order.

"Shame about the author," the storekeeper says, as he rings both the order and Daniel's book through. "We all wondered why he stopped writing, then he went and killed himself. Must have been the mind sickness that stopped him writing then drove him there, poor fuck."

So that's the cover story they're telling his fans.

Liz remembers Daniel, and Alex, and even Thiago, and her soul cracks.

"Oh?" she says, voice caught in a reflection of herself. "I've never read any, but a friend recommended them."

"He was a talented author," the shopkeeper easily agrees. "You'll enjoy it, i think. If a friend thinks it to your taste."

Liz hums in agreement, paying for the books. The ones for the office go in a rucksack, and Daniel's book is carefully tucked into her handbag.

"See you again!" the shopkeeper calls.

Liz forces herself steady as she leaves the shop.