The Faceless Ones

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This book is dedicated to my agent, Michelle Kass.

I'm not going to be sappy here, okay? I'm not going to talk about how much you've done for me (which is a lot), or the impact you've had on my life (which is immense), and I'm not even going to talk about the advice, encouragement, and counsel you've given me since we met. And I'm not going to mention conversations on tractors either, or iPods at dinner tables, or the number of Yiddish words you've taught me that I've promptly forgotten.

All of which, surprisingly, leaves me with nothing much to say.

Sorry about that.

The dead man was in the living room, facedown on the floor beside the coffee table. His name had been Cameron Light, but that was back when his heart had a beat and his lungs had breath. His blood had dried into the carpet in a large stain that spread outward from where he lay. He'd been stabbed, once, in the small of the back. He was fully clothed, his hands were empty, and there was no other sign of disturbance in the room.

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