Hello! How have you been? I'm still here! I'm furiously working on my latest book, The Cold Hard Truth, which is a standalone Romance/Thriller. I'm hoping to release it before Christmas, but to keep-up-to-date with news of the release you can sign up to receive an email alert (absolutely no spam - promise!). Just enter your email address in the box on the right-hand side.
In the meantime, here's a sneak preview of the first chapter....
I heave open the front door, flop against its flaky blue
paint and fight to catch my breath. This is crazy. All I’ve done is walk five
minutes from the bus-stop to our house and I’m wrecked.
“Da-ad,” I
call out. My voice is croaky and it catches. “It’s me, Emily….”
No answer.
Not surprising. He’s
got the TV turned up so loud I doubt he’d have heard a twenty-one gun salute if
it went off right in front of him.
I’ll let him know I’m home and then I’m heading to bed to sleep off whatever lurgy has invaded my system and zapped
all my energy.
I picture Dad lying on the sofa in his favourite spot,
the place he spends so much time that when he gets up you can still see the
imprint of his butt cheeks, and the worn-out, slightly grubby patch where his
head rests. Poor Dad. He’s a shell of the man he used to be.
I push myself off the door and dump my college bag on
the stairs.
“I’ve come home early,” I say as I
make my way to the living room and nudge the door with my hip. “I feel crap.”
The door swings open and I shift my weight to take a step forward, but something
makes me pause.
The heavy brocade curtains are drawn making the room dark
but in the soft blue hue of the TV, I make out the shape of Dad
lying on the sofa.
And I know something
is wrong.
My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness so I don’t see anything
amiss, but I feel it. It’s hanging in
the air making all the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.
For God’s sake, Emily,
get a grip.
I mentally shake myself, step into the room and hit the
light switch.
And then I see it.
Blood.
Everywhere.
It’s up the walls, soaked into the carpet, and all
over my lovely Dad.
I hold onto the wall to steady myself as swirls of red dance
and collide before my eyes.
This has to be a bad dream.
I squint, forcing my focus to settle on Dad’s face.
His eyes are open and vacant, and he’s so pale. I’ve never seen anyone that pale before.
My feet are anchored to the floor. I force one leg in
front of the other to go to him.
I’ve only taken two, maybe three steps, when I catch
sight of something moving over by the curtains.
Shit.
My heart picks up a new crazy rhythm as a dark figure
unfurls. A man?
I'm barely breathing. My eyes stay glued to the
intruder while in the background a TV chef harps on about the importance of
getting your oven to the right temperature before adding your soufflés.
None of this is
real, I remind myself. None of this is happening.
The intruder is upright now, towering over my
five-foot-four inches. His hoodie, pulled tight around his face, is spattered
with blood.
Dad’s blood.
Only his eyes are visible. Dark and menacing. They
meet mine for a split second before his head dips and he charges in my
direction, towards the door, knocking me off balance.
Instinctively, stupidly, I reach out to steady myself
and grab hold of his arm. He rips it back in an attempt to shake me off, but my
knuckles turn white with a vice-like grip on his sleeve. I know I should let go
but I’m paralysed by fear.
The monster's chest rises and falls in quick succession, but he says nothing. He looks
up from my hand and his eyes meet mine, the skin around them tightening and then
loosening. As if he’s pleading with me.
This is a just a
bad dream. If I just wake myself up, then everything will go back to
normal.
A flash of light bounces off metal.
Before I can react, I realise a blade has been drawn
along my arm.
The sound of the TV fades and the air around me stills
and it’s so surreal, I want to laugh.
I raise my arm and hold it front of my face, unable to
take my eyes from the red line snaking an ugly path from my wrist to my elbow.
I see it but I don’t believe it.
There isn’t any pain.
It’s because I’m
dreaming and none of this is real.
The red line gets thicker until it gapes and I tilt my
head as dark red blood spills onto the pale skin of my forearm.
I
hear a sharp intake of breath and realise it’s coming from me. A rush of heat
spreads along my skin like someone’s dragging a red-hot poker along my arm.
And then everything becomes sharp and clear and terrifyingly
real.
The front door slams and I snap my head in that
direction.
This really happened.
My dad….
