Last week my Facebook author page hit FIVE HUNDRED LIKES! This is kindof-sortof a big deal…and that makes me want to parrrrrTAY!
…except I’ve never been good at parties. Big groups of people make me feel weird and shy (and although I may be one of those things, I am definitely not the other…I’ll let you guess which), so I thought maybe instead of a party, you’d dig an excerpt. And a giveaway, which can be found – you guessed it – on my suddenly booming Facebook page.
This little pretty is from my (currently unedited, so please for the love of Pete be kind) Work-In-Progress, RECKONING: Book Three of the Shrilugh Saga. Enjoy!
Calista’s gaze drifted to the envelope on the countertop. She stared at it, listening to the sounds of a car door slamming, engine roaring to life, tires pressing gravel as it pulled out of the drive.
And once again, the house and the world around her fell flat and silent.
Calista reached for the envelope, clutching it as she shuffled to the trash. She held it out, ready to drop it,
Her eyes lifted from the envelope and focused on the wall in front of her. A moment passed.
A minute ticked by.
Two more passed.
She drew in a sharp, sudden breath, and looked back down at the envelope. Her hand was trembling. She pulled it to her stomach and tensed, trying to stop the shaking. She walked back into the living room and dumped the contents of the envelope onto the coffee table. Piece by piece, she sifted through the papers and photographs. Evidence of…what? Her father’s rage? His insanity?
She thought back to that day in the woods, when she’d tripped with the stick in her hand, the squish and the screams as it had buried into Aydan’s eye. She thought about what she’d done after that, how she’d found the perfect way to be rid of her sister forever…
Maybe she’d taken it too far. Goodness knows she’d had nothing but trouble since that day.
She flipped through the copied pages of her father’s journal. Detailed entries of Brig Cooper’s supposed death. Scribbled words describing in fine detail his thirst for justice in the form of seeing Aydan dead. His anger over the ineptness of the bounty hunters he’d hired – the bad kind, with reputations for doing things that made her skin crawl – was seething.
She closed the journal and sifted through the photographs. There were several of the mess in Aydan’s bedroom. A couple of the stolen car that had been covered in her fingerprints. A few of a tall, red brick silo with a funny little gate on the top.
If there was anything in this whole mess to be thankful for, it was that none of this pointed directly at her. Nobody knew (though she was sure they had their suspicions) what she’d done to Aydan, and then to herself. Nobody knew how good it felt – every twist of her knife, ever self-inflicted bruise – to give herself the wounds that would make Aydan look like an animal. And nobody would know. The thought of paying the toll for her part in this drama made her stomach clench. Because with her father missing, there would be nobody to bail her out, nobody to clear her name.
For the first time in her life, Calista Fulbert had no one.
For the first time in her life, she was alone.