I know what you’re thinking.
You’re yet again reading the acknowledgments in a book and preparing yourself for the utter disappointment of realizing that it didn’t mention you. And you’re thinking, how hard is it? There are fewer than eight billion people in the world—how difficult is it to just include everyone? This is even worse than when you didn’t get invited to Billy Foster’s birthday party in third grade.
So for that reason, I want to start out by thanking my readers. You guys rock. Really. I especially want to highlight Carrie, Nancy, Urvi, and Jackie for feedback on the cover and blurb, and also for promotion help! But to all of you readers, I want to say a sincere thank you thank you thank you. This book would not exist without you. And if you are not a reader, then… I don’t know, you probably have to ask yourself exactly what you’re doing right now looking at this acknowledgment—maybe reevaluate your life a bit.
As always, thank you to my mother, for the encouraging feedback, and for helping me catch all those pesky typos. Thanks to my husband, for being like, “WTF Freida, that ending sucks, you can come up with something better.” Thanks to Kate for the great suggestions. Thanks to Liz for the advice on the ending. Thanks to Nelle and Amanda for the excellent feedback. Thanks to Val for the eagle eye typo correction. Thank you to Mel and Rhona for looking at endless covers (like it or not). And thanks as always to my writing group!
And thank you to the rest of my family. Without your encouragement, none of this would be possible.
Did you enjoy reading Do You Remember?
If so, please send me an email at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you—and don’t be shocked when I answer! Or please consider leaving a review on Amazon!
Check out my website at: http://www.freidamcfadden.com/
To get updates about new releases, please follow me on Amazon! You can also follow me on Bookbub!
Also, even though I have my books combed for typos multiple times by multiple people, there are some superhuman strains of mutant typos that always seem to survive. If you find any typos and point them out to me so I can fix them, I would eternal grateful.
(The above typo was supposed to be amusing.) And now please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, Do Not Disturb…
Do Not Disturb
While I’m washing the blood off my hands in the kitchen sink, the doorbell rings.
I freeze, my hands full of pink suds, the steaming hot water causing my fingers to burn and tingle. There’s somebody at the door. Somebody waiting patiently on the front porch for me to answer. The timing couldn’t be worse.
Could it be a package delivery? Maybe they’ll drop the package at the door and go away. Or else leave me a note. Sorry we missed you! We’ll be back tomorrow!
And then: three hard raps on the front door.
“Coming!” I call out in a strangled voice, even though it’s unlikely they’ll hear me. I scrub furiously at my fingers, and then at my fingernails, where the blood seems to have settled into the cracks. Who knew it was so hard to get blood off your hands? “Just a minute!”
I shut off the hot water and examine my palms, flipping them this way and that. Good enough? It’ll have to be. I wipe them dry on a light green dish towel, leaving a smear of red behind. Damn, I didn’t get it all—I’ll have to wash my hands again.
As soon as I get rid of whoever is at the front door.
My heels clack against the linoleum floor of the kitchen, then go soft when they hit the plush carpeting in the living room. Derek and I pored over carpet swatches for hours before settling on the charcoal-colored carpet that now goes wall-to-wall across our vast living room. The carpet feels lovely when I’m in my bare feet, and I’m glad I held out for a darker color instead of a pale shade that would show every fleck of dirt. Our carpet can easily hide dust and debris.
Bloodstains too, apparently.
As I hurry to the front door, I glimpse bright lights through the windows. Red and blue flashing simultaneously. That can mean only one thing.
There’s a cop at my door.
Oh God. No no no no no…
I take a split second to compose myself. Keep it together, Quinn. I take a deep breath, trying to get my hands to stop shaking. It doesn’t work. So I go ahead and open the door.
I was right. It’s a police officer at my door. Not just a police officer, but it’s Scotty Dwyer, although he goes by Scott now, or else Deputy Dwyer. About a million years ago, when we were in high school, Scott and I used to date. I remember how awkwardly cute I thought he was, with his red-brown hair that always stuck up straight and all the freckles on his face. But then high school ended, I went off to college, and he went to work for his father’s grocery store. I don’t even remember breaking up with him, but the long-distance phone calls became less frequent, and one day during my freshman year, I realized we weren’t together anymore.
Now Scotty is a policeman with a uniform and a real badge and everything. He used to be skinny as a rail, but now he fills out his dark blue uniform rather nicely. The freckles have faded, and he’s tamed his hair, although he still looks boyishly handsome.
That’s the problem with moving back to the town where I grew up. Everyone I run into is the boy I went out with in high school or the kid who saw me throw up in the locker room or the girl who didn’t invite me to her birthday party. It’s exhausting.
But sometimes it can work to my advantage.
“Hey, Quinn.” Scott smiles at me, but his face is serious. This isn’t a social call—not that I would have expected it, since I have barely spoken to Scott in the last ten years. “Is everything okay?”