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This is a darkly comic tale about Mr Less-Than-Average in an average world from the No. 1 Bestseller. Crime fiction obsessive Martin Reed is the proverbial butt of everyone's jokes. Working as a glorified accountant at Southern Toilet Supply and still living with his cantankerous mother, he has become resigned to the world in which he lives - the school bullies now pick on him in the workplace, women still spurn him and his arch enemy is now his supervisor. But then he arrives at work one morning to find the police on site. A co-worker has been brutally murdered and her body abandoned in a ditch. And the overwhelming evidence points to Martin - especially when he can't or won't admit that he has an alibi. When a second victim is found in the company bathroom, things really conspire against Martin. The one bright star on his otherwise bleak horizon is the beautiful and sympathetic Detective Anther Albada, but even she's beginning to have her doubts about his innocence. Could Martin be guilty? Or is he just misunderstood?
in your back right tire.' Martin opened his mouth and vomited all over the table. What Martin Really Did That Night, or All That Glitters is to Goad Martin often said that he did not have a racist bone in his body. He had supported Barack Obama, or at least he had told people that he did (Martin's life was run by strong women; he was not one to embrace change). His closest co-worker was black. He occasionally listened to rap music and enjoyed the comedy of Chris Rock. He was, in short, a
trouble?' 'For letting me out,' he said. 'I mean, this is a lot of circumstantial evidence we're talking about.' She stared at him. He saw that one of her eyelids drooped more than the other. The circles under her eyes were darker in the fluorescent light of the corridor. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to kiss the droopiness away. Or kiss the droopiness in, because it seemed like it would be easier to make an eyelid droop more by pressing into it than it would be to remove the
mayhem vandals could bring to a place like this, but Martin knew first hand. He pulled the Cadillac into its usual space, surprised to see that the only other car in the lot belonged to Unique. She certainly wasn't one to work extra hours, but maybe her conscience had won her over. Martin had every intention of completing his receivables from the workday he had missed. He may have been fired, but that was certainly no reason to shirk his responsibilities. Martin took out his keys as he
plastic bumper had opened up again. He reached for his handkerchief, but remembered he had shoved it in the glove compartment of the car. Martin muttered, 'What a mess,' as he tried to stack the pages without transferring blood on to them. He saw graphs and pie charts, his grueling work for his presentation at the Toilet Supply Industry Trade Show made visible. Daryl moved on to more interesting things. 'Damn, man, somebody hit your car.' 'I know.' 'The whole half of the front bumper is
considering that none of the office staff were expected to clock in. 'How many interviews you got?' Unique asked. 'Well, I . . . uh . . .' Martin felt his throat work as he swallowed. 'Many. Several-many.' He pronounced the words as if they were hyphenated, and she had narrowed her eyes as if she could see straight into his soul. She had shaken her head. 'Nuh-uh,' she insisted. 'You're going to give me the job now. I can't go home and wait by the phone. I got other responsibilities.' 'I