When a Stranger Comes ... by Karen S. Bell Book Tour and Giveaway :)
When
a Stranger Comes...
by
Karen S. Bell
Genre:
Psychological Thriller
2018
Readers' Favorite Bronze Medal Winner!
A GRIPPING
PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER FOR FANS OF KING AND
KOONTZ!
"RIVETING"--Kirkus
Reviews
What
price would you pay for success?
A
lightning bolt out-of the blue, on an otherwise sunny afternoon,
transports author Alexa Wainwright to an alternate universe where the
characters from her novels are given the breadth of life. Having just
made a vow that she would do whatever it took to once again achieve
the international acclaim of her debut novel, Alexa doesn't realize
how ominously that vow would be tested. In this altered reality,
she's introduced to media mogul King Blakemore who offers her an
extremely lucrative book contract with guarantees that her work will
become a best-selling blockbuster. Given his appearance, odd
mannerisms, and aura of evil Alexa wonders if King Blakemore might be
the Devil himself.
At first, she shrugs off her doubts
about this peculiar publisher and very lucrative book deal offer
because the temptation of riches and refound fame is too
strong. Suddenly, the contract's been signed. Now what can she
do? Alexa realizes she's trapped in an underworld of evil from
which she desperately wants to escape. Her iron-clad book contract
changes its wording whenever she thinks of a loophole and King always
seems one step ahead of her. Desperate to get her life back, she
devises schemes to untether herself from this hellish existence to no
avail. She laments the old adage, Be careful what you wish
for.
Buy
this book if you're a reader who loves a page-turning,
heart-stopping, psychological thriller with some magical realism
thrown in.
Chapter
Two
The
stranger
M
argaret
is on my permanent access list with the concierge and I gave her a
key for my private elevator. She can just come up without the
concierge notifying me. When I configured this condo loft space, I
opted to put in a small, enclosed lobby so that the elevator didn’t
land right in my living room. The wooden door with etched glass
insert added an elegant touch and was rarely locked but Margaret
always knew better than to barge in without ringing the doorbell
buzzer. It’s a purposely-harsh sound that I can hear when lost in
thought in my study at the other end of my loft. Finishing the wine
in one gulp, I open the door. I greet
Margaret with forced enthusiasm. I still
wasn’t in the mood for company, but it was worse than that. She was
not alone. I sigh and brace myself for another hanger-on trying to
get into our inner circle. At least he’s better looking than some
of Margaret’s other sycophants. Adoring
fans wanting me to sign their books is one thing. People wanting to
invade my space to gawk right here in my loft, well that’s entirely
another matter. Invasions of that sort still annoy me, especially
when I’m unprepared mentally to receive anyone. But then, I guess
it means my mojo is still working to some degree. “Hey,
how’s it going?” I say smiling slightly as I let them in. “Lex…Alexa,
I’d like you to meet my cousin, Alex. How funny is that?” A
cousin this time. How tiresome. “Nice to
meet you,” he says while nodding and shaking my hand. “That
Chinese Emperor in plastic in your anti-room there is quite…” “Lucite,
not plastic,” I interrupt. “Yes, of
course, wearing those beautiful red-silk robes. It’s quite a lovely
piece and that porcelain umbrella stand almost too pretty for an
umbrella.” What is
he a decorator? “The
emperor was a present from one of her Asian…” Margaret adds
before I interrupt again. “It was
sent to me through my agent by a loyal Asian-American fan and is one
of my prized possessions. The umbrella stand was bought at the big
flea market in Paris. The mahogany console that the emperor sits on
is a valued antique and the Art Deco octagon-shaped beveled wall
mirror I found in SoHo. So, you’re a designer, interested in that
sort of thing, I guess? I wasn’t forewarned that Margaret was
bringing someone, but I’m in no need of a designer just now.” I give
Margaret my blank stare of annoyance. Then I study her cousin and
immediately become transfixed. Something…odd. He doesn’t seem to
notice my scrutiny. Walks right past me into the living room.
Something about this guy is not right. Something…is…very weird. I
get a rush of a nervous feeling. An awful creeping premonition of
strangeness. Unsettling. What is it? Hmm. He
reminds me of someone. But
who? “Didn’t
I tell you this was a fabulous place?” Margaret
asks Alex as she drags him over to see the view. “Nice,
huh?” He nods
slowly, like he’s impressed. “Can I
get you something? Water, coffee, tea?” I ask being polite but
actually becoming increasingly irritated along with feeling rattled
at this intrusion. Margaret should know better than surprising me
with a guest. I’m not that vain, but come on. She knows what I look
like when I’m working. No make-up. Greasy hair. Comfortable sweats.
It would have been nice for a heads up. Plus, I’m in no mood to be
social after working almost all night with just a few hours cat nap.
Maybe if I yawn, they’ll leave soon. I yawn. No reaction. But then
I remember, she has some important news for me. Oh well. Better make
the best of this. “Some
ice water would be great,” he says. “I’ll
get it,” says Margaret and runs into the
kitchen slamming cabinet doors and getting ice water from the fridge
dispenser. “Wait,” she yells, “Do you want sparkling water or
plain?” “Great,
I’ll have some Pellegrino,” he says in a strong, deep voice with
no discernible accent. “No,
it’s straight from the fridge, one of those fancy-schmancy kind
that serves sparkling from the dispenser,” she calls to us. “How
about you, Lex?” “Sure,
fizzy sounds good.” I direct
him to have a seat and he walks with a slight limp over to my cushy
cream-colored leather, L-shaped sectional
sofa, puts his briefcase on the floor and sits down resting his arms
on the back. The body language of being in charge. I sit opposite in
my club chair from my old apartment. This well-worn greenish,
suedeish recliner, a garbage night found treasure, is a constant
reminder of how far I’d come and stands out as an oddity in my
well-furnished home. It’s also my talisman for chasing away
writer’s block. Sit in the chair and ideas being to flow. I don’t
understand how it works, it just does. I’d had a lot of need for
its remedy in the last few years. Cousin
Alex sits looking at me and then around at the loft and back to the
view offered by my wall of glass, like he’s making a mental
calculation of the cost of my lifestyle. The rather large sofa that
he’s sitting on is dwarfed by the 15 ft. ceilings and more than
ample square footage of the open floor plan. Soft, soothing earth
tones are the color palate for my walls, pillows and throws, offset
by the large, woolen antique Oriental rug in opulent blues, reds, and
greens over my dark, bamboo floors. I see him eye my wildly colorful
and quite costly Chihuly hand-blown glass
bowl, the perfect complement to the glass coffee table designed by
Piero Lissoni, where it is placed for
optimum enjoyment. While he studies the surroundings, I study him
boldly in the silence before Margaret comes
in with the drinks. He wasn’t much of a talker and I wasn’t
feeling like making small talk myself, which afforded me the
opportunity to continue observing him quite intensely until I knew
why he seemed familiar. Stonily
observing every detail of his face, it suddenly became clear to me in
a rush, that Alex was actually someone I knew very well. It was so
startling that I almost gasped audibly at the shock when I realized
he was a character from one of my books sprung to life. Not in name,
of course, but in every other way. A dark-haired, blue-eyed handsome
lad that is the consistent image in my mind when I write the villain
or the love interest. With his chiseled features, thick black hair,
lightly tanned skin, sexy stubble of facial hair, Alex is the
manifestation of the exact words used to describe the good guy in my
debut. And he is
right here in this room. Right here in the flesh. Alive. Sitting on
my sofa. I know that description is not like looking at a photo and
readers can come up with their own mental image. But here’s the
thing, his face, Alex’s face is what I saw in my mind when I
wrote his character, Rick, in Foregone. The first
romantic hero that I pictured and the basic model for all
the others that came later. His exact face. A knot forms in my
stomach. How does one deal with absurdity? “Okay,
here we are,” says Margaret, as she sets
the tray of drinks on the coffee table and joins Alex on the sofa.
“Let me give you some background here.
Alex just moved here from LA. He’s the creative director and set
designer for Off Street Films, a newly formed but apparently
well-funded production company in TriBeCa that’s looking for new
projects. I gave him the first two manuscripts of your trilogy and
told him about Darkside.” Now it makes sense why he’s
been scoping out my apartment. A set designer. “Let
me take over here, Peggy.” Peggy? I ask her with my
eyes and she just shrugs. “I
love the concept of these books,” Alex continues, “the different
dimensions of the female psyche manipulated by life’s challenges,
molded by unique circumstances. From what Peggy tells me, Darkside
is kind of a modern day Looking for Mr. Goodbar meets Sons
of Anarchy. So I was thinking of combining all those stories into
one. Have a tragedy happen just after Jodie gets married when she
graduates college, and before any kids, throwing her into the Jodie
of Darkside. That version of Jodie and her terrible choices
becomes the main plot of the movie.” This
angers me. “Whoa. Stop right there,” I say in a tone of
displeasure. “Is this the interesting marketing idea you mentioned
when you called me, Margaret?” She looks at me perplexed. Then to
Alex, “You sound as if there’s an imminent deal. There’s no
imminent deal. This is the first time I’ve
heard about this. Did Margaret tell you she spoke to me and I was
interested? If she did, she was deceptive. She knows how strongly I
feel about this. “I swore
I would never allow any of books to be made into a film again after
my horrible experience with A Foregone Conclusion. I felt
violated. The story was in tatters, the movie was a bomb and probably
led to my subsequent work not selling as well, now that I think about
it. Right off the bat, you brazenly tell me how you intentionally
want to destroy the integrity of the trilogy. No-no. Emphatically,
no. I don’t even know the movie you mentioned, the mister candy and
the other...sons...whatever you are referring to.” I stand up
to signal the end of this meeting. My eyes send daggers to Margaret
and I have already fired her in my mind. She knows she’s in trouble
when she catches my look. “It’s
Looking for Mr. Goodbar, a financial and critical success, I
might add, and the other was a recent hit TV show about a biker
gang.” “I
don’t care. Not interested. Sorry. I’m busy just now and
exhausted. I need to rest before taking care of important business.
If you’ll excuse me. You can show yourselves out.” “Wait,
Lex! Hear him out. This is different,” says Margaret
jumping up and looking petrified as if she just saw a spider. She
definitely caught the meaning of my look. “No,
I’m done. As I said, not interested. Good day.” I walk into the
hallway to my bedroom and shut the door firmly. I hear murmuring in
the living room for about two minutes and then the front door clicks
shut. I’m furious and run the water for a bath to calm myself. Half
undressed, I decide another glass of wine is warranted and walk out
to get one. I stop short and let out a startled scream. “Oh,
I’m so sorry,” he says, as I run back to get a robe and turn off
the bath before coming back out. “What
in the hell are you still doing in my loft? Look, Alex, mister,
whoever you are,” I say calmly trying to recover some decorum by
acting in control, the mature and successful woman who’s no longer
half-naked. “I could have you arrested
for being here uninvited. When I asked you to leave, I meant it.
Margaret’s cousin or not. I don’t know
you. And actually, I don ’t care to. So please leave. At once.”
And I walk toward the door. “At
least read the offer,” he says as he pulls a packet out of his
briefcase and puts it on the coffee table before walking over to the
door. “Read the offer and then come out
with me for dinner tonight. Make reservations at your favorite and
most expensive restaurant. I’ll come back here at 8:00. Even if
you’re still not interested in working on this project, I’d like
to take you to dinner.” He leans in as if to kiss me and his
alluring, strong, masculine scent, a mix of the freshness of a
pine-tree forest, wood fires burning, worn leather, and the
wind-whipped sea knocks me back and arouses me. My unexpected
reaction confuses me, as he hands me his business card instead of a
kiss. “Oh,”
I say awkwardly after snapping my head back before realizing what
he’s really doing. I look at his card. “What?
What is this? Your name is Wainwright? Alex Wainwright? This is a
joke, right? And not funny at all, I might add.” “One
of life’s strange coincidences,” he says playfully. Before I can
say any more, he’s out the door and jumps in the elevator. I’m
more than shocked. A coincidence? He being a ringer for Rick? Having
the same name as me? Well, not really my name. Of course,
Alexa Wainwright is a made-up perfect pen name that I changed
legally. Gladys
Lipschitz, my real name, a major misstep on the part of my mother,
was a name that belonged embroidered on the shirt of a pink waitress
uniform. Gladys evokes an image of a woman who wears a hairnet and
keeps a small lead pencil tucked behind her ear and an order pad
shoved into her skirt pocket. She works the late shift serving greasy
food at a dive luncheonette on the upper far West Side under the
elevated trains. That Gladys personified my obsessive fear of being a
failure as a writer. I wanted to get as far away from her as I could.
Alexa connoted sexy and sophisticated. Wainwright sounded snooty,
British, non-ethnic. I also
played with the idea of calling myself Alex instead of Alexa, but I
really didn’t want any gender confusion. I was proud of being
female and wrote mainly for a female audience. If I had done that,
though, Alex Wainwright and I would have the exact same name. Odd, so
odd. Also odd is his lingering scent. From that quick close encounter
when he leaned in and his masculine aroma filled my nostrils, I now
smell it everywhere. It has taken over my loft. I spray Pledge on my
furniture and mop the floors. Pour my favorite perfume all over me
after I take that bath. Spray it into the rooms. No good. His scent
is in my nose. In my being. Leaves me restless and uneasy and doesn’t
go away. I’m edgy, unsettled, fearful that I’m being marked for
something. A spider web of intrigue is ensnaring me. Pulling me
closer to its center where I can’t escape. First it’s his scent
that I can’t get rid of. What’s
next? The packet
stays untouched on my table for several days. Not interested. Why
bother reading it? Finally, I grab it and throw it in the
trash. Sitting down in my club chair with my morning coffee the next
day, I pick up one of my gossip magazines that’s sometimes on that
table with the mail, a guilty pleasure. Actually, it’s more of a
compulsion, checking to see if there are any articles about me. Of
course not. Not anymore. But wait. What the…? It’s
not a magazine. It’s that damn proposal. Shape shifting into a
magazine and then back again to mock me. I drop it in horror on the
table and then throw out the rest of my magazines. The packet gives
me the willies, but I won’t touch it again. Trying to bring logic
into the equation and rekindle the memory of throwing it out, I
recreate the steps. Envision the garbage can and try and feel the
packet in my hands. Can’t completely remember doing it. I don’t
know, maybe I really didn’t throw it out. Still creepy, though. Margaret
repeatedly calls and I won’t answer. She texts me incessantly and I
don’t respond. She knows better than to just show up here when I’m
angry at her, afraid of my reaction. Afraid I might actually fire
her. She’s learned that it’s best to give me a cooling off period
when I’ve outright threatened to fire her in the past or just have
given her that look she’s come to know. It has worked before but
not now. I’m so livid with her presumptuousness. A movie deal! When
she knows full well how I feel. Then I just go for it. “You’re
fired,” I finally text her at a random moment on a random day. I had
already begun busying myself with editing and copyediting Darkside
and, although boring, it was important. By now, I was pretty good
at catching wrong words that spellcheck didn’t catch, “faze”
instead of “phase” and the like, and missing periods at the end
of sentences. So…who needs Margaret?
Saved me money and her bothersome obsequiousness. The editors at
Jameson would go over it again, so no real worries about missing
something. However,
there’s one aspect of Margaret’s help that I will miss, but oh
well. She gives my writing a brightness that sometimes gets lost in
the complicated story lines. Tightens the narrative. Fills in the
plot holes. Sharpens the tone. Her instincts are genius. She’s the
perfect collaborator. I found her on a jobs website for editors and
she polished up Foregone for not much money. She was
probably responsible for Gloria, saying “yes” and then Jameson
House offering that three-book deal and hefty advance. Yeah, she was
a real find and was also company. A welcome disruption from the
intrinsic isolation of being a writer. I admit, I’ll miss her
spontaneity, her easy laugh, and her off beat style. But I’m
stubborn and she crossed the line. No regrets. Well, maybe. Firing
her in a text was a chicken shit thing to do. I feel better about
myself after I mail her a large severance package. Done. Not done. I forgot
to take her off the easy access list and to lock my front door, which
I rarely ever do because my private elevator needs a key. Margaret
still has a key, an unfortunate oversight on my part. “Please
Alexa, don’t do this,” she says hysterically crying as she rushes
into my study unexpectedly and makes me burn my tongue on a hot sip
of coffee. “I’m sorry I brought him here. He’s not really my
cousin. I just met him at a script-writing seminar. He was giving one
of the classes…” “Wait.
Thstop,” I say, my sore tongue making it hard to speak for a
moment. “What? You brought some jerk that
you didn’t even know up here to my home? You know what, Margaret,
you’re still fired…and moreover fired again! Now get out and
don’t come back.” And I turn back to my computer screen and cool
off my tongue with a sip of bottled water. “Alexa,
please listen. He’s not some jerk. He can do what he says. Okay,
the cousin thing was stupid. But when I saw your face as you opened
the door, I had to think of something fast, so you would let us in.
Please just listen. This could be big for you. Put you back in the
spotlight.” I turn
around slowly. “Peggy,” I say sarcastically, “you are
not in charge of my career. You cannot create any spotlights
for me. You and your fake cousin Alex Wainwright do not have the
magic. I make my own magic. I alone. Now get out.” “Wait.
What? His name is Alex Wainwright?” “He
didn’t tell you his name?” “Well, I
knew it was Alex, but I never really paid attention to the seminar
materials listing the leaders. They just called him by his first name
and only mentioned his title as the creative director of the
production company holding the seminar. And it never came up at
dinner.” “You
went out with this guy?” “Well,
yes. He asked me after the lecture when I mentioned to the group that
I worked for you. He wanted to know if you were working on the third
book of the trilogy. When I told him you were, he took me out to
dinner to discuss it.” “This
makes me angry on so many levels. The book hasn’t been published
yet and you’re discussing the plot with him before it’s
officially out, and worse yet, giving him manuscripts, which probably
violates something in my publishing contract.” I shake my head in
disgust. “I should probably sue you, but I know you’re broke.” “Except
for my severance pay. Do you want it back?” she asks sheepishly. “You’re
fired. It’s yours. Go away. But first tell me how did he know
anything about my first two books of the trilogy? That there even is
a trilogy. Jameson is waiting to begin a big marketing push and
until then keeping things very secretive. No one knows, outside of my
editorial team.” “I’m
not sure. I didn’t tell him anything because he already knew. All I
did was mention that I work with you, as I said. Maybe he knows
someone at Jameson? Or possibly, Gloria? I’ll try and find out. But
let’s look at the bright side, pun intended. The trilogy is already
creating some buzz.” Bingo. She
said the exact right words to bring me around. “Anyway,
as I was leaving that afternoon to come here, he called and asked to
join me. To have me introduce you to him. We met in the coffee shop
and he showed me the offer.” “Wait,
so you called me before you met him? What were the marketing ideas
you had that you wanted to tell me about?” “What? I
called? I never…” Just then
the phone rings. “Hello…hello?” No one there. No caller ID. “So,
what did you think of it?” she continues forgetting our
conversation thread, as did I. “The offer. You can’t be upset
about the offer. It’s mind boggling.” “I
haven’t looked at it.” “No
wonder you’re so angry. It’s an amazing offer. You have
to look at it.” She sees me contemplating what she’s just said
and senses the fight is out of me. At least toward her. “How about
I make us some fresh coffee and those grilled cheese sandwiches that
you love so much, and you come into the living room and read the
proposal packet, okay? By the way, your place smells nice. Have you
installed an air freshener?” I just
look at her not knowing what to say. I haven’t left the apartment,
so I don’t smell him anymore. Gotten used to it, I guess. It’s
too weird to explain, so I just nod my head “yes” and she goes
happily into the kitchen. I sigh. You just can’t get rid of some
people. And really deep down, I don’t want to. I’ve been quite
lonely during this altercation and missed her...a lot. I’ve also
been missing my mom. Right now, she’s probably sleeping off an all
night observation after gazing at the stars somewhere for a
well-funded research project. I’ve become accustomed to her
absences as a professor in Theoretical Astrophysics, but there are
times I really need her. And I need
her right now. Need to be in her presence. Need a hug. Being
overwhelmed by the emptiness and fear when I complete a new book
project can be assuaged by a little mother/daughter time. Her
remarkably inquisitive mind and nurturing
attention has the power to soothe and the sweet scent of her
signature lavender perfume always calms me. I also want to know if
she thinks Darkside will be my big comeback. Being desperate
for positive feedback and assurances borders on the ridiculous and is
embarrassing. But I’m trapped by these hated insecurities. I know
she’s proud of me. Proud of my accomplishments thus far. Just then
the phone rings, again. “Hi, my
darling.” “Mom!
Hi! Where are you?” “Well, I
can’t really tell you. Top secret location and all that,” she
says laughing. “I tried to call a few minutes ago but couldn’t
get through. Bad signal. Damn cell phones.” “Is the
research going well?” “Better
than expected. The additional funding has been approved and I get to
stay and play for a few more weeks, maybe longer. I must say, the
work here is so exciting. We’re finding some very interesting
things about dark matter. All of us are psyched about making major
advances in this field. Might solve all the mysteries of the
universe,” she says laughing, “but we
have to do it before the funding runs out. What a crazy business. And
how about you? I’m glad you finally finished that book. I know it
was a hard one for you. Emotionally, that is.” “How’d
you know I finished it? I haven’t spoken to you in a while.” “You
know, one of my silly dreams. I see big things with this one darling.
But be careful.” “Be
careful? Why be careful?” “Not
quite sure. Just a feeling. Big successes sometimes come with
drawbacks, as you are well aware. Anyway,” she laughs again,
“you’ve been warned, so be alert. By the way, has Jerry called
you?” “No.” “Well,
if he does, tell him I’ll call him in the next few days and send
him kisses. Gotta go now, darling. I’ll call soon. Love you. And
remember, just be careful.” Jerry was
my mother’s most recent beau. No one can call her because of
security. Also, due to the delicate aspect and precision of the work,
none of the scientists wanted to be disturbed by ringing phones. When
she wasn’t at the observatory she was asleep. So she made
all the calls and everyone respected that, even me. This latest
project was top secret because it was funded by NASA, the results
solely owned by the agency. It was kind of fun thinking of my mother
as a NASA scientist involved in a high stakes game. Maybe she
was really at Area 51 interviewing aliens. I pictured the aliens
looking at my mother with awe and wonder. She’s tiny, only
about 5 feet, like the grays, those big-eyed aliens of myth and
legend, but she wears dangerously high heels to disguise her height.
Her blazing red hair is cropped short and her enormous blue eyes,
aided by colored contacts, are mesmerizing and make her appear
touched by the gods. She’s a curvy size 6 with ample breasts and
can pull off wearing body conscious clothing of tight jeans and boob
hugging tops. No stodgy scientist attire for her even at her age,
which she won’t tell me. I assume
she’s at least in her late-40’s or early-50’s because I’m 31.
Sometime ago, I found a hard to read birth certificate but she told
me it was fake. So her exact age remains a mystery. With limitless
energy and a magnetic personality, she attracts all within her
purview. In articles written about her, she has been described as a
fireball, a force to be reckoned with, a dynamo, and so on. I’ve
tried to capture her essence, her vitality, to own it for myself, but
alas, I never could. The genetic pool of my DNA must favor my father,
whom I have never met or even seen in photos. I would have loved to
be a red head and have her coloring, but my hair is nearly black and
so are my eyes. No one would describe me as petite at 5 feet 7 inches
and although I’m slender, I can’t get my butt into her jeans or
walk for very long on the circus clown stilts that she calls heels
and wears even when home. “Coffee
and sandwiches are ready,” Margaret calls
from the kitchen. I waddle
into the kitchen, still in my bathrobe and slippers and grab a
sandwich and almost swallow it whole without chewing. I realize that
I haven’t eaten since yesterday, my absorption into grammar, style,
and usage being my sole focus. It will be a relief to hand it off to
Margaret. Even with her meshugas,
Yiddish for craziness, her input will be invaluable. Margaret watches
me wolf down the food and sits down with me at the kitchen table in
the breakfast nook of my chef’s kitchen. The kitchen has all the
current trends in design with its concrete countertops, stainless
steel Miele appliances, and multi-colored mosaic glass tile
backsplash. The rage. It opens to the living room/dining room combo
where the untouched packet can be seen still on the coffee table from
the week before and it still looks…sinister.
I
get so much satisfaction in the writing process. I take care to
choose just the right word, to make sure each sentence has the right
cadence. I appreciate other writers who respect the craft in this
way, and I hope my readers do so with me. Writing is a need, a desire
for expression, and springs from well within my subconscious mind.
Thoughts rise up, scenes rise up and blend in with the over-arching
story. These thoughts emerge whenever they want to and wherever I am
and probably not when I am at the computer. The computer is for the
craft, the technique. The thoughts come during walks, or while
driving the car, or at the grocery store. I am the willing recipient
of these thoughts and so they seek me out. It's a mystery this
business and art of writing and it keeps me enthralled.
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