Here’s a little teaser from the WIP I’m nearly finished with. The goal is to send it to Amazin’ Agent before Christmas. Please, leave a comment and tell me what you think. Enjoy!
The culprit throws open the door between the library and study, and I catch a flash of silver and red as the knife disappears into a pocket. Jerking back behind the chair, I press against the furniture, wishing I could disappear into the upholstery. I hear the murderer take two steps in my direction, but voices begin to grow louder from the hallway. The intruder gives a breathy hiss, but it isn’t enough to recognize the voice. My body trembles and I’m afraid my teeth will chatter and give me away.
Risking another glance around the edge of my hiding place, I see the dark silhouette pause, the head scanning the room one more time. I look away, pulling myself into a tighter ball of satin and fear. Then footsteps lead away into the hall the way I came in.
My brain doesn’t want to function. I should get up, run, and find help. But my feet remain tucked beneath me. I think a few people pass by, but I can’t be sure. There’s a low buzzing in my ears, and it’s all I can do to put my head between my knees when I start to see black spots dance before my eyes.
Fear, panic, and denial roll into a heavy lump and lodge beneath my breastbone. This isn’t happening. I’ll wake up in bed, wrinkled and hung over from too many sips of Dad’s drink. I’ll walk into the kitchen, where he’ll give me a cup of coffee and shake his head. And he’ll still be here.
No matter how many times I pinch my arm, I don’t wake up. The nightmare is real. I don’t know how long I sit there before there are shouts, and the door crashes open. Light floods the room, blinding me. I hear people thunder inside, crying and shouting. I hear Uncle Claude sobbing.
Owen, my best friend, finds me. Everyone else is still crowds around the door on the other side of the room. Vultures. Rubberneckers. They make my stomach turn.
Owen crouches next to me, and with one look, knows I’m not all right. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have.
“Rebekka? Are you hurt?” His voice is gentle, but the glare he shoots one of the partygoers who follows him is anything but. “Rebekka, talk to me.”
The effort it takes to shake my head scares me. It’s as if I’m moving through cold oatmeal. Every movement is an effort. His hands are so warm they burn when they smooth over my shoulders. I know I should say something else, but words won’t leave my lips. My sadness and fears beat at my chest, but if I release them, I’ll never get them to stop. Everyone notices us now and crowds around.
“Are you all right?”
“Did you see what happened?”
“Who did it?”
What do you think?