I am officially losing my brain.
I would not be surprised to see it rolling across the floor collecting dog hair or hiding with the dust bunnies behind the couch.
Three times this week I have opened the door to our pantry, stared at the dried pasta stacked on the shelf, and wondered why I was there.
Twice I opened the refrigerator door to find a bowl of grapes staring at me and pondered the reason I had done so.
I have started outlining book three, Scream.
The forth book in the Lakeview series, Silence, is also playing in the folds of my subconscious.
Their plot lines are filling my head.
I might not be able to tell you what’s for dinner, but I can tell you how one might murder someone on the ferry to Vancouver Island, late at night, with the echo of a car alarm in the distance.
This is the opening scene in, Scream.
I could probably describe what the young witness looks like as he slips into the stairwell leading to the passenger cabin so the killer won’t see him.
I might even be able to let you know why days later, a bag of drugs is slipped into his backpack while he is having breakfast.
And I can certainly answer the question of why Halle Henry would do just about anything to keep him from being expelled.
But alas, now that I have started this insane ride once more, I will not be able to tell you the time, the date, or what I am looking for in the refrigerator.