The next day, Rexton posted this on his blog:
I can’t go on. The loss of my latest novel, the best book I’ve ever written, and the humiliation of that video is too much for me. My life has been a long, bitter struggle against the forces that would control us. The bastards got me good this time. I’m not letting them take the rest of my dignity. Therefore, this is goodbye. Do not look for me. I am ending it all, on my terms, as befits a man.
“Oh no,” cried Julia. “We went too far.”
“Oh, that is utter bullshit,” Marcie said. “He’s not going to kill himself. He loves himself too much. This is a cry for attention.”
“How can you be sure?” Julia asked.
“This asshole’s written more than ten books. He can’t pick himself up, talk to his publisher about getting a new deadline, and write it all over again? This is for his ego. Look at the comments. Only his fans bother to read his blog.”
And us, actually, but only because this was work.
The comments were from fans begging him not to kill himself, to get help, full of dismay and disappointment that this most macho of authors should decide to top himself just because he had lost a manuscript. Some of them even said his books had saved their lives.
We looked at the video feed. Rexton was just sitting around sipping whiskey, not much different from when he wasn’t writing. Julia was getting quite distraught, though.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I have to make sure,” she said.
“That’s what he wants. It’s a manipulation, a cry for attention.”
“How do you know? Look, it’ll just look like one of my regular visits. If I find he’s all right, I’ll leave straightaway.”
“Fuck that. I’m coming with you.”
“Ravi!” She was getting exasperated.
“I’ll drive.”
Cheryl passed me the keys to the BMW.