A Word Please

I am long overdue for posting an update. Here’s a rundown on all the excitement going on:

Many of you know that a character by the name of Max has been chattering in my head for some time now. The book Max stars in is called Into The Light. Max is a ghost, you see. A stubborn, somewhat clumsy middle-aged man who is not at all happy with being dead. Max’s story is not what I’d set out to write. He had other ideas. (Hence, the stubbornness.) Then again, I hadn’t set out to write his story at all. I was working on something entirely different but he popped into my head and refused to go away. He talked to me constantly, kept me up at night. The other characters were forced from my head, that project was put aside, and Max took center stage. I’ve got a very cool cover design in the works and will be unveiling that, along with the book’s blurb, soon. I hope to have Into The Light out in July.

Next up: Free books! May is International Giveaway Month over on my contest page. Joining me in this giveaway is friend and author Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick. I’m offering two print copies of my novel Hit List. He is offering two print copies of his tantalizing novel Breathing Into Stone. Have you entered? If not, what are you waiting for? This is international. You can live anywhere. We’ll send the book as long as you have a mailing address, even if it’s a igloo in Antarctica! You need to enter by midnight EST on May 31. All you need to do is fill out the form: www.QuietFuryBooks.com/contests.html

Wait! don’t run over there yet! I have one last piece of news.

I’ve remodeled my website. The look is a little different and I’ve added a bunch of new stuff. You’ll find a Free Downloads page, where you can download short stories and anthologies. And you’ll also find a Things of Interest page, with a bunch of random nonsense written by me. I’ll be adding to these pages and, hopefully, keeping you entertained. I hope you’ll check out the site and let me know what you think. In case you’ve forgotten the directions there: www.QuietFuryBooks.com or www.DarciaHelle.com (Same building, different address. Weird, I know.)

As always, thanks for hanging out with me!

A Yiddish proverb tells us, “We plan, God laughs.” This goes for plans of all shapes and sizes, put together by the brightest and the dullest minds. The best we can do is to remain flexible.

At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities. ~Jean Houston

I am often reminded of this in my writing. For the most part, I am not a planner. Characters grab me and drag me along for the ride. Yet, now and then, I get this notion that I can plan ahead. Any sort of plan. Nothing big. No major plot outlines. The characters and my own creative path would never allow anything that restrictive. For me, the plans are simple. And still, God laughs.

My work-in-progress, tentatively titled Into The Light, began with a plan. This was going to be a detective story, a sort of whodunit, with a paranormal twist. The lead character was supposed to be Joe Cavelli, the P.I. My plan, such as it was, started out simple enough. A bare bones idea. Plenty of room for veering down alternate paths. Right?

Wrong.

Max stepped in. Max is the client, a dead client, but a client nonetheless. This character can’t behave. He didn’t like my plan. No way was Max taking a backseat to Joe. Max wanted the limelight.

Okay, minor adjustment. A switch of main characters. Easy enough. Right?

Wrong.

Max also could not settle in to the whodunit scenario. He had other plans, not just other paths but an entirely different neighborhood he needed to show me. A whodunit mystery is not who Max is. That is not his story. My simple plan got trampled on, torn up, tossed aside. God laughed.

I admit that I sometimes find this irritating. I’ll try to force the characters to submit to my plan, like a stern parent following the advice of whichever self-help book is topping the bestseller list. I bend and twist, force Levi-loving characters to wear suits and ties. Though I do occasionally salvage some part of my original plan, in the end, I always relent.

God’s laughter echoes in my head. Or is that the laughter of my characters?

This time, I held no illusions of holding Max back. His personality tramples all over my plan. He dances down the paths he leads me. This is his moment and he rejoices with wild abandon.

My plan was not his plan but that doesn’t matter. His plan is better.

I planned. Max laughed. And when you meet him, you’ll understand why I did as well.

Today is the start of Read an E-Book Week! This is also the 40th anniversary year of ebooks. Way back in 1971, the first ebook was created by Michael Hart. His book of choice? A copy of the Declaration of Independence.

So let’s celebrate!

In honor of this event, I have discounted all of my ebooks on Smashwords. Here are the deals and the codes you’ll need to get them:

Enemies and Playmates is free all week:
Coupon Code: RE100

Hit List is half price – $1.50 for the week:
Coupon Code: RAE50

No Justice is half price – $1.50:
Coupon Code: RAE50

Beyond salvation is 25% off – $2.24:
Coupon Code: RAE25

Miami Snow is 50% off – $1.50:
Coupon Code: RAE50

The Cutting Edge is 25% off – $2.99:
Coupon Code: RAE25

My short story The First Killis free, as always. No coupon code needed.

Smashwords will be running tons of promotions with hundreds, if not thousands, of authors participating. But they are not the only ones in on this event! Check out the official Read an E-Book Week site for more information: http://www.ebookweek.com/index.html

What are you waiting for? Let’s go shopping!

For today’s Sample Sunday, I’m sharing the first chapter of No Justice: A Michael Sykora Novel. But, wait, there’s more! After all, this is giveaway month here on A Word Please. I’ve dug through my treasure chest (which is really just a cardboard box full of assorted merchandise) and come up with an ‘I Love Michael Sykora’ t-shirt. It is, I think, quite cool! Are you a Sykora fan? Know someone who is? You could win this shirt! If you’re not a fan, you could always wear it to bed, when the lights are off and no one is looking.

Okay, more on the contest soon. First, here is an excerpt from chapter 1 of No Justice: A Michael Sykora Novel

Let him laugh. One more hour and he’d be dead.

Michael Sykora put the binoculars down on the empty passenger seat. The man he’d soon be killing went by the name Alan Nystrom, an alias, of which he had three others. His real name, the one he hadn’t used in over 20 years, was Bruce Renwick.

More laughter. Good to know that Renwick was enjoying his last day. Soaking up the sun on the golf course, making jokes with his buddies. Would Renwick, if given the choice, pick golf as his last hurrah? Doubtful, though the choices people made often baffled him.

Michael was being paid $40,000 to dispose of Bruce Renwick. Twenty of that had already been deposited into his offshore account. The other half would be received upon completion. His price had been a little higher for this job since the client had chosen the method of death. An indulgence Michael had allowed this time. Though after what he’d found while rummaging through Renwick’s home last night, Michael would gladly take this trash out for free.

Calling Renwick an animal would be a grave insult to the non-human world. Renwick was a pedophile. A predator of the lowest sort. The last child he’d raped, an 11-year-old boy, had hung himself afterward because the shame and trauma had been unbearable. That boy had not been Renwick’s first victim. He would, however, be the last.

The next day Michael had been contacted. The boy’s father did not want Renwick given the chance to walk away. Not ever. He had to be wiped off the earth before the police finished their investigation. That call had come five days ago. Michael had inside information that a warrant would be issued for Renwick’s arrest tomorrow morning.
Renwick would be dead this afternoon.

Bruce Renwick, as Alan Nystrom, strode confidently toward the clubhouse. The man had an odd stoop, like he was training to be the hunchback in a play or something. His hair was that shade of brown that women called mousy and his eyes were covered by small round glasses reminiscent of John Lennon. He wore tan shorts and one of those polo shirts in blue. To all the world he appeared as a harmless geek.

The locked metal storage unit in his garage had told a different story. Michael had checked. He liked to be sure before he killed. Death wasn’t something he could take back. The pictures had confirmed more than he’d needed to know. Renwick would not be a mistake.

Michael set his binoculars on the seat beside him and did his best to stretch in the cramped car. He’d been sitting in this parking space for 11 minutes, having moved once Renwick had finished the 18th hole. Now he had a perfect view of the clubhouse, as well as Renwick’s silver Saab.

The clock continued to tick on Renwick’s life.

Eighteen more minutes passed. Then Bruce Renwick, golf bag slung over his shoulder, emerged from the clubhouse. One of his golf buddies walked beside him. They headed toward the parking lot.

The other man, a 40-something balding executive type, parted company with Renwick as they moved toward their respective cars. Michael turned the key in his ignition. He pushed the gear into reverse, kept his foot on the brake.

The executive climbed into his car. A bright yellow Volkswagen. He tooted once, then pulled out. Renwick lifted his hand in a wave as he kept walking. Fortunately for Michael’s purpose, Renwick liked to park his Saab in the back of the lot, far from everyone. He was also one of those guys who parked diagonally across three spaces at the grocery store so that no one would ding his car when opening his or her door.

Michael glanced around him. The strip mall had been fairly busy this morning. Right now, however, he was alone. No one had parked close to him. No one was outside. The timing couldn’t have been better. He tucked the binoculars under his seat. He would no longer need them.

His heart sped up. Just a slight increase but enough for him to notice. His breathing remained even. He watched.

Bruce Renwick held his key chain. He pressed the button on his remote to unlock his doors. The alarm chirped off. Then the trunk popped open. He slid the golf clubs off his shoulder and placed the bag inside the trunk. Then he pushed the trunk lid closed.

Back around to the driver’s side. Renwick reached out, gripped the door handle and pulled. A grimace, probably from the heat inside the car. He smoothed his hair back, adjusted his glasses, then slid inside.

Michael eased his foot from the brake. Renwick yanked his door closed. A moment passed. The engine caught. Then a deafening blast that shook the pavement. The vibration reverberated through Michael’s hands as he gripped the steering wheel. Thick smoke, orange flames. Bits of metal rained down around the blaze that had once been Renwick and his car.

Screams from the golf course. Michael calmly backed out of his parking slot. No one looked his way. The billows of smoke were far more entertaining.

Once out on the main street, Michael took his cell phone from his pocket. Not his usual phone but the disposable one with the prepaid card. The boy’s father had one just like it. Michael dialed his number. When the father picked up, Michael said, “It’s done.”

The squeal of young children playing sifted into the silence through the connection. The father had taken his advice, making sure he had a solid alibi. Yesterday he and his wife had driven up to Georgia to stay with family. They had told police that they needed to get away from their house and the memories. No one could blame them. Their son had hung himself in their garage.

Now the father said, “Good. Thank you.” A pause, then, “How did it go?”

His voice had that gravelly quality that came from too many cigarettes and sleepless nights. There was also something sadly robotic in the way he pronounced his words. Michael had killed the monster but he could never bring the child back. The man and his wife would never be okay.

Michael said, “You don’t want details. It’s better that way.”

The client hadn’t been after the usual vengeance of extreme pain and suffering. He’d wanted Renwick’s body ripped apart. Shredded, was how the client had put it. He’d wanted to be sure there was nothing left for Renwick’s family to mourn over.

Michael would have liked to give the man the details. He deserved that much. But he’d explained from the start, knowing too many details wasn’t a smart idea. The cops would inevitably question him. After all, Renwick had raped his son. Caused his suicide. Therefore, the less detail he was sure of, the easier it would be to lie.

“Right,” the father said. He cleared his throat, probably wiped away tears. Then, “The balance will be taken care of today.”

From the client’s offshore account to Michael’s. No paper trail for the police to trace. “Thank you,” Michael said.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Michael said, “I’m sorry. I hope you find peace.” Then he flipped the phone shut and rode the rest of the way in silence.

You can find No Justice in both print and Kindle format on Amazon:

You can also find it in print and ebook format in a variety of other places, including all ebook formats on Smashwords. As a thank you to all my readers, you can now download No Justice on Smashwords for just 99 cents, using the coupon code NT64H. The code is good until March 1.

Now, about that t-shirt. You have a choice between medium or large only. Here are those pesky contest rules:

You must live in the U.S. or Canada
You must enter before midnight EST on Friday, February 25
You must have a secret crush on Michael Sykora
You must love ice cream

Yes, I know, that’s not fair to those who are lactose intolerant. Seriously, only the first two rules stand. The other two, well, I’m probably talking about myself there.

To enter, leave a comment, a rant, an opinion, a passing thought on why Starbucks insists on making us speak Italian, or a love letter to Michael Sykora. Include a valid email address and keep an eye on your spam folder. That’s it. Oh, and you can click your heels 3 times if you think it’ll help.

Thanks for reading!

Good luck!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Today it’s all about giveaways. I’ve got lots of prizes to offer you. Books, ebooks and assorted other stuff! Ready?

First up, we have print books with added extras up for grabs:

My novels:

The Cutting Edge, along with a notebook and pen

and

Hit List along with a new hat

And we have the print novel Breathing into Stone by Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick

Then we have a bunch of ebooks, listed here by author and the title(s) he/she is offering:

Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick: 1 ebook copy each of Breathing into Stone, Shared, and Harmony’s Passing

Jaleta Clegg: 1 ebook copy of Nexus Point

Jason McIntyre: 1 ebook copy of THALO BLUE

Stacy Juba: 2 ebook copies each of: Twenty-Five Years Ago Today and Sink or Swim

Sylvia Massara: 1 ebook copy of her brand new release Like Casablanca

Susan Helene Gottfried: 1 ebook copy each of ShapeShifter : The Demo Tapes — Year 1, ShapeShifter : The Demo Tapes — Year 2, and Trevor’s Song

Sharon E. Cathcart: 1 ebook copy of You Had To Be There

Darcia Helle: 1 ebook copy each of The Cutting Edge, No Justice (A Michael Sykora Novel), Beyond Salvation (A Michael Sykora Novel), Miami Snow, Hit List, and Enemies and Playmates

Here’s a look at all the books on Amazon:

There you have it – 24 separate prizes for 24 winners! Now, as much as I dislike rules, a few need to apply here:

You must live in the U.S. or Canada
You must be 16 or older
You must have a passion for indie authors (Okay, this is negotiable, though appreciated.)
You must enter before midnight EST on Monday, February 28

That’s it for the rules. Now all you need to do to enter is leave a comment, along with a valid email address. Please keep an eye on your spam folder to be sure your prize information doesn’t get lost there.

Good luck!

Happy Sample Sunday! If you stopped by last week, you’d know that Sundays are now for teasing readers with excerpts and various short pieces. Today I’m sharing an excerpt from my dark comedy / suspense novel The Cutting Edge. For the excerpt, I’ve chosen a silly scene from the middle of the book. I hope this will give you a chuckle:

The sun is shining and the day has warmed up to an astonishing 61 degrees. Scott and I could be at the park with the dogs. Or in our back yard, raking leaves into piles for Jack and Zena to run through. Instead, we are at the grocery store. And I hate the grocery store.

Scott and I don’t normally waste our only day off together in this miserable place. Grocery stores have this stupid rule about not allowing dogs inside, although some of the people I see here are a lot dirtier than my dogs. And Scott’s new rule doesn’t allow me to go anywhere alone. So instead of doing the shopping by myself tomorrow, when most people are working, we are here today, along with three-quarters of the population.

“Are we going to need potatoes this week?” Scott asks.

We are standing in the vegetable section and I am staring at the widest ass I have ever seen. This ass, and the woman it is attached to, is blocking my access to the peppers, onions, and carrots. She is studying the green peppers, picking each one up and searching for imperfections. I want to shove her out of my way but I’m pretty sure I’d need a forklift.

“Skye?”

I turn to Scott. “Oh, sorry,” I say. “Potatoes. Yes, maybe some red ones this week.”

He takes my hand. “Why don’t you help me.”

“You’re perfectly capable of picking out potatoes,” I say as he tugs me along.

“Yes, but I was afraid that lady might tip over and squash you.”

I laugh, despite my irritation. “She took up half the aisle.”

“And you looked like you wanted to kick her ass.”

“Did I?”

He gives me a smirk. “Don’t try acting innocent. It is so not you.”

“Well, seriously, does she need to inspect every damn pepper?”

“Pick out your potatoes.”

“Fine.”

I am standing in front of the dried beans when the lady with the ass waddles down the aisle. Scott inches in close to me. Her ass sways and I am afraid she’s going to knock one of us over. She stops on the other side of Scott and turns to examine the rice selection. She leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle. Between her ass and the cart, there is barely enough room to squeeze past.

We escape to the cereal aisle. A child is screaming for a box of chemical-coated sugar. The mother holds out Cheerios, as if the plain oat rings will somehow entice the child away from the sugar rush in the colorful box. The mother caves. She tosses the treasured cereal into the cart. The child drags a sleeve over the snot running from his nose, then gives a triumphant grin. I wanted to slap the mother.

“Do you remember if we need oatmeal?” Scott asks.

I have a wild urge to kick and scream and throw jars of pickles. I give myself a mental shake, turn back to Scott. “I’m sorry. What?”

Scott laughs at me. “We’re almost done. Try to relax.”

“I hate this place.”

Scott nods his head toward the departing monster child. “Did you ever pull something like that in a store?”

“God, no. But I’m thinking of trying it now.”

We make it to the end of the store. I grab a pint of Stoneyfield Farms organic vanilla ice cream and toss it in the cart. “I’m eating that whole thing myself,” I say. “I deserve it.”

Scott leans close and murmurs. “Careful, you don’t want your ass to look like that woman’s.”

I shudder as he grabs a chocolate ice cream for himself.

You can find The Cutting Edge on Amazon in both print and Kindle format:

You can also also find it in print and ebook in a variety of other places, including Smashwords in all ebook formats.

Thanks for reading!

youre dead and i killed you

Happy Sample Sunday! Today I’m going to share something I should have shared weeks ago. The multi-talented Pablo D’Stair put together an anthology of short stories, written by various indie authors. The stories and writing styles are as diverse as they are entertaining. I was honored when Pablo invited me to share a piece of my own work. While I don’t normally write short pieces of fiction, I did have a short – and by that I mean quite short – piece that I’d written not long before. The scene had popped into my mind from nowhere in particular. I thought that, at some point, I might use it as a launching point for a novel. I still might. For now, though, this short piece stands on its own within this anthology.

Have I mentioned that I’m going to give away one print copy of this anthology? No? How could I have forgotten that! This book is called youre dead and i killed you: a conversational anthology of crime, noir, and murder. (The lower case letters and missing apostrophe are intentional.) To win it, you need to live within the U.S. or Canada and be 16 or older. Leave a comment with a valid email address before midnight EST on Friday, February 11. I’ll pick the winner Saturday morning.

Now, back to Sample Sunday. As I said, my piece within this anthology is short. I hope you enjoy.

I’ve never accidentally killed someone. That’s the thought I have as I step around the bed and peer down at him. His eyes are open but I can tell he doesn’t see anything. He’s lying on his back, framed by the edges of the black and crimson rug I’d bought to hide the wine stain on the hardwood floor. The blood leaking from his head gets lost in the crimson, making it hard to tell where the carpet ends and his blood begins.

I ease closer, looking for signs of life. His chest isn’t moving.

I’ve never accidentally killed someone.

I sit on the edge of the bed and look into his unblinking eyes. They’re brown. But saying he has brown eyes is really not telling the story at all. Brown can be dark and rough like old tree bark or light and soft like a new leather jacket. Brown has so many variables. It’s really not a color of its own but more of a category. His eyes are a wilted brown, like they’ve been left in the sun too long. Little dots of green brighten them, making me think of a crisp fall morning, before winter settles in and kills off that last bit of life.

I’ve never accidentally killed someone.

I always loved his eyes. The first time we met, he’d handed me a glass of champagne and said, “Hello. My name is Jake.”
“You have amazing eyes,” I’d said. Just like that. Words spilling from my mouth untethered.

Now Jake’s eyes stare up at the ceiling. The blood has stopped drizzling from that awful gash on the side of his head. His blood is on the nightstand. All over the sharp corner. Dripping off the edge.

I’ve never accidentally killed someone.

I sit for what might be a long time or might be a few seconds. Jakes’ eyes won’t look back at me ever again.

I’ve never accidentally killed someone.

Does it matter, really, if the act is intentional? Killing someone means they are dead, regardless of intent. Dead is dead. Right?

I’ve never accidentally killed someone.

I shake off this mantra I’ve been reciting in my head. Whether I’ve ever accidentally killed someone is of no importance. I killed Jake. And it wasn’t an accident.

The other stories within this anthology are not quite so short. I’m honored to be a part of this anthology. The talent there is spectacular. This book is available on Amazon. And it’s cheap! Take a look:

This one has some stories and authors that you won’t want to miss. In the meantime, don’t forget to leave a comment, along with a valid email address, for your chance to win a print copy of youre dead and i killed you: a conversational anthology of crime, noir, and murder.

Thanks for reading!

Are you tired of the cold, dreary weather? Ready to go outside and play on a swing set? I know I am! I can’t speed up the onset of spring but I can make the day a little brighter. I’ve decided to make February Giveaway Month! To launch us off, CSN Stores has offered a $25 gift certificate to one lucky winner! CSN Stores has over 200 stores, where you’ll find just about anything you could want. You’ll find that swing set I mentioned. You might also consider looking for a new bookshelf, which could come in handy if you win a book later in the month!

For your chance to win the $25 CSN Stores gift certificate, all you need to do is leave a comment here with your name and a valid email address. You need to live within the U.S. or Canada and be 16 or older to enter. The deadline for entry is Saturday, Februrary 5, at 9 AM EST. I’ll announce the winner that day.

Keep an eye out for more giveaways this month!

Good luck!

According to F.B.I. crime statistics, an estimated 1,382,012 violent crimes were reported in the U.S. in 2008. What if one of those victims was someone you loved?

My novel No Justice began with just that premise during a conversation with my husband. I wanted to know the breaking point, that moment in time when the average nonviolent person crosses the line to seek his or her own form of justice. Most people leave it all in the hands of the police, trusting the system and often waiting years for closure. Or perhaps never finding answers at all. A handful of others seek professional hit men that settle the score. Then there are the occasional few like my character Michael Sykora. Tragedy pushes them past the breaking point. They don’t believe the justice system can help them. The best they hope for is that their actions will tip the scale in favor of the innocent.

In 2008, there were 89,000 reported rapes in the U.S. Bear in mind that these are only the reported rapes. According to RAIIN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), 60% of rapes go unreported. With reported cases, there is only a 50.8% chance that the police will make an arrest. Once arrested, 80% will face prosecution. Those prosecuted have a 58% chance of being convicted. Even with a felony conviction, the rapist stands only a 69% chance of doing jail time. What these statistics amount to is that, with all reported rapes, there is only a 16.3% chance the rapist will end up in prison.

When we factor in the unreported rapes, we find that 15 of every 16 rapists walk free.

Years ago, I served time on a jury during a murder trial. Everyone should have that experience, preferably early in their life. I don’t say that because I think it’s our civic duty. I say that because it shines a spotlight on how our system works for the average person. Not the O.J. Simpsons in the word, with powerful lawyers, but the average people who murder other average people.

The man on trial had raped, then strangled his girlfriend. He’d left her dead in his bed while he went out to a party. His defense was a jumble of nonsense, from a cocaine high many hours earlier in the day, to a jealous rage, to complete innocence. He even went as far as pointing the finger of blame at his brother, who shared the apartment he lived in. The most horrifying part of the trial for me, as a woman, was the way the victim was portrayed. Her soiled panties were held up as evidence of an earlier sexual encounter, while her parents cringed in the front row. The defense attorney all but called her a whore. The worst of her past was dragged out and displayed for all to see. We learned what she did five years earlier and with whom. None of that mattered. Whether or not she was sexually active in her past or cheated on her boyfriend bore no relation to the fact that she’d been brutally raped and murdered.

While we sat silent witnesses to all of this digging into the victim’s past, the man accused sat protected. His past was not allowed into evidence because it might “prejudice” the jury. We were allowed, even encouraged, to feel prejudice toward the woman. The victim. But we were not allowed to hear anything about the man accused of killing her.

Do we need wonder why so many rapes go unreported?

What surprises me is that more people don’t seek their own form of justice.

Of my fellow jurors, only one other initially voted for murder one. No one believed he was innocent. However, the other 10 thought manslaughter was more appropriate. He’d been high. He’d been jealous. Her behavior had pushed him over the edge. She’d asked for it. He hadn’t meant to do it.

He strangled her with his hands. Doing so takes up to 3 minutes of continuous pressure. How could that possibly be an accident?

The other juror and I fought for murder one. We eventually won that argument. After the verdict was read, the judge visited us in the juror’s chambers. She wanted to congratulate and thank us for coming to what she felt was the correct decision. At that point, she was finally able to share what had been kept from us. This man, who had sat quiet and solemn while his lawyer called his dead girlfriend a whore, had multiple charges of assault and rape in his past.

At one time or another, don’t we all wish we could do the things our justice system cannot or will not? What would it take to push you over the edge?

If you hang out on Twitter, you probably know that Sundays are now known for #SampleSunday. This is when authors toss out links with samples to their writing. I thought I’d do the same on my blog. Sundays are now Sample Sunday here on A Word Please! I’ll post excerpts from my various books and occasional samples from the books written by my fellow author-friends from BestsellerBound

Today I’m sharing an excerpt from my novel Hit List. This scene is from Corinne’s point of view. She’s a little crazy, you see. The truth is locked somewhere in her mind but she refuses to set it free. This story is about many things, including betrayal, resilience and hope. At the heart of it all, is a son’s unwillingness to give up.

Corinne’s eyes snapped open. Vague remnants of the dream challenged her to remember. Pictures, all out of order, as if a photo album had been dropped and its contents scattered throughout her mind. She shuddered, blinked. Finally the black curtain descended and the pictures faded into the nonexistent.

Sunlight poured in through the bedroom windows. Had she forgotten to draw the blinds last night? She glanced at the bedside clock. Three o’clock. In the afternoon? Yes, it had to be afternoon. The sun was shining. Had she slept all day?

Corinne shoved the covers off and climbed out of bed. She reached for her tattered robe, slipping it on as she walked toward the kitchen. Ian was always after her to buy a new robe. But she liked this one. The fact that it was well worn only made it that much more comfortable. Or comforting. Maybe both.

In the kitchen, she filled her teakettle with water and placed it on the burner. She turned the knob to high, then set about getting her mug and a tea bag from the cabinet.

This was Corinne’s favorite room. Large windows formed a half-moon around the breakfast nook. French doors opened onto a mahogany deck that Ian had built himself. The back property was lined by woods that led out to a peaceful brook few people knew about. Back here she felt as if the world belonged to her alone.

As the kettle began to whistle, Corinne switched off the burner and poured the water into her mug. She considered eating something. When was the last time she had done that? Ian kept telling her that she needed to eat more. She should probably try, since it would make him happy. And he deserved that much.

She placed her mug on the table and slid onto the chair. Birds sang outside the window. She watched them flutter about.

A flicker of movement in the distance caught her eye. Out by the trees. Her breath caught in her chest. She stared into the woods but saw nothing. Just her imagination.

She was lifting the mug to her lips when she spotted more movement. This time her eyes found the source. A man. He was standing in the shadows of the trees. Just standing there, staring back at her.

Corinne’s heart thudded wildly against her chest. The mug slipped from her fingers, smashing against the tile floor. The scream burned in her throat but never found release. She crawled beneath the table. Gathering her knees to her chest, she rocked slowly.

You can find Hit List on Amazon in both print and Kindle format:

You can also find it in various other online stores, including all ebook formats on Smashwords.

Thanks for reading!