“How does this work?” I asked the man across from me. Dalmar. I didn’t know exactly what to call him. A hitman. A contract killer. That is, after all, what he does. I was given his name by a shady neighbor who’s had more than one run-in with the law, police showing up at his apartment in the middle of the night. He’s a braggart, the kind of man who just loves to ramble on about his faux pas while climbing the stairs to the third floor. The first time Dalmar and I spoke on the phone—a brief call from the payphone on the corner to arrange this meeting—he asked how I wanted him to kill my father. I said no; we weren’t going to kill him. What I planned for my father was far worse. Being of ill repute, vilified, his reputation blackened, living amongst the lowlifes he sentenced to jail; that, for my father, would be worse, like purgatory: hell on earth.
Dalmar would take sixty percent. I would take forty. I nodded, because I wasn’t in the position to negotiate. And forty percent of the ransom demand was a lot of money. Eighty thousand dollars to be exact. An anonymous donation to my school was what I had in mind, what I planned to do with my share of the money. I’d outlined the details in my mind, made preparations in advance. For the sake of authenticity, I would not simply disappear. There needed to be proof, in the event of an ensuing investigation: witnesses, fingerprints, videotapes and such. I wouldn’t ask who, what or when. There needed be a surprise factor so that, in the moment, my own behavior was legit: a terrified woman in a kidnapping plot. I discovered a derelict studio apartment on the northwest side, in Albany Park. This is where I would hide while the professionals, Dalmar and his associates, did the rest. This was the plan, at least. I paid, in advance, three months of rent from a cash advance I received from Dalmar, and squirreled away bottles of water, canned fruit, frozen meats and breads, so that I would never need to leave. I purchased paper towel and toilet paper, art supplies en masse so that I wouldn’t risk being seen. Once the ransom was paid, and yet, my father’s dirty deeds discovered, it would be from this crippled little apartment in Albany Park where my rescue would ensue, where the police would find me, bound and gagged, my abductor still at large.
Dalmar wanted to know who he was to take hostage, who he was to hold for ransom. I looked into his black serpentine eyes, at the shaven head and a scar, three inches or more, running vertically down the length of his cheek, a rivet in his skin where I imagined some kind of blade—a switchblade or a machete—sliced through the vulnerable exterior, creating a man untouchable on the inside.
My eyes circled the bar, to make sure we were alone. Nearly everyone there, except for a twentysomething waitress in jeans and a too-tight shirt, was male; all, besides me, were black. A man perched at a barstool before the bar slipped clumsily, drunkenly, from the stool and fishtailed his way into the men’s room. I watched him pass, watched him push his way through a bulky wooden door, and then my eyes returned to Dalmar’s serious, unforgiving black eyes.
And I said, “Me.”
*
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, a huge thank-you to my amazing literary agent, Rachael Dillon Fried, who had enough faith in The Good Girl for the both of us. I can never thank you enough, Rachael, for all the hard work and unending support, but most of all, for your firm belief that The Good Girl would be more than just another file on my computer. If it wasn’t for you none of this would have happened!
My editor, Erika Imranyi, has been absolutely incredible throughout this process. I could not ask for a more perfect editor. Erika, your brilliant ideas have shaped The Good Girl into what it is today, and I’m so proud of the finished product. Thank you for this amazing opportunity, and for encouraging me to do my absolute best.
Thanks to all at Greenburger Associates and Harlequin MIRA for helping along the way.
Thanks to family and friends—especially those who had no idea I’d written a novel, and responded with nothing but pride and support, especially Mom and Dad, the Shemanek, Kahlenberg and Kyrychenko families, and to Beth Schillen for the honest feedback.
And finally, thank you to my husband, Pete, for giving me the opportunity to live my dream, and to my children, who are perhaps the most excited that their mommy wrote a book!