Lisa Jackson - Most Likely To Die

Terror burrowed deep into her soul. Confused and panic-stricken, she blinked rapidly, trying to think. They were safe. They had to be.

Concentrate, Faith. Get hold of yourself! Zoey and Abby are with Jacques. They’re visiting tonight, remember? lt’s your birthday.

Or was that wrong? Was everything a lie? A macabre figment of her imagination?

She took another step backward.

“You’re confused, Faith, but I can help you,” he said quietly, as if nothing had happened between them, as if everything she’d conjured was her imagination, as if he’d never touched her.

Dear Lord, how mad was she?

She spun quickly, her toe catching on the edge of a rug. Pitching forward, she again caught her reflection in the window and this time she saw him rushing forward, felt his hands upon her.

“No!” she cried, falling.

Glass cracked.

Blew apart as her shoulder hit the pane.

The window broke, shattering. Giving way.

With a great twisting metal groan, the wrought-iron grate wrenched free of its bolts.

She screamed and flailed at the air, trying to reach the windowsill, the filigreed barricade that hung from one screw, the bricks, anything! But it was too late. Her body hurtled through the broken panes, pieces of glass and wood clawing at her arms, ripping her nightgown, slicing her bare legs.

In a split second, she knew that it was over. She would feel no more pain.

Closing her eyes, Faith Chastain pitched into the blackness of the hot Louisiana night.

Dear Reader,

Lisa Jackson, Beverly Barton, and I have more in common than the New York Times bestseller list and a passion for spine-chilling suspense fiction. We happen to share one of the most creative editors in the business: John Scognamiglio. It was John’s idea to team us up for this novel, and I wholeheartedly welcomed the chance to collaborate, under his wing, with two of the industry’s foremost romantic-suspense writers. I’m honored to have known Lisa and Beverly for many years. Not only am I a longtime fan of their writing, but I adore them both as down-to-earth, generous, and genuine women…who just happen to be famous authors!

So I had definitely been looking forward to this collaboration, and was particularly inspired when we settled on a class reunion theme, because it rang true to my own life. To this day, I remain close to a tight-knit circle of high school friends back in my hometown, and I could envision myself in these characters’ shoes as they reconnect with each other and their past. In fact, I happen to be facing a milestone class reunion myself this year…but I’m not saying which one!

Living in the New York City area, I could easily relate to Lindsay’s character in particular. I thoroughly enjoyed making her-and my favorite city-come alive within these pages. My loyal readers will recognize some of my trademark elements in her segment, including an unexpected twist and a couple of secondary characters who aren’t quite what they seem to be.

One of them is Isaac Halpern, Lindsay’s ex-boyfriend who, we learn here, is obsessed with a mysterious woman named Rachel. Of course, there is far more to Isaac’s obsession-and Rachel’s absence-than Lindsay suspects. Isaac will resurface this May in my upcoming suspense novel DON’T SCREAM. Set primarily in a small town in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts, the novel features a group of sorority sisters who swore one another’s silence about the terrible truth behind a shocking tragedy. Now, ten years later, they’re approaching their thirtieth birthdays and have long since gone their separate ways to pursue careers, motherhood, marriage, and money. But three of them are about to come together again…for the funeral of the fourth. And so it begins. Someone knows the sisters’ darkest secret. Someone who will see to it that each in turn gets what she deserves: a private surprise birthday party…drenched in her own blood.

Turn the page to read an excerpt from DON’T SCREAM. And be sure to visit my website at www.wendycorsistaub.com to learn more about my other thrillers, or e-mail me at corsistaub@aol.com. I love to hear from readers!

With warmest regards,

Wendy Corsi Staub

September

Ten years earlier

“…and I do solemnly swear that I will never ever tell another living soul what happened here tonight…”

“And I do solemnly swear that I will never ever tell another living soul what happened here tonight,” the female voices echo dutifully; none without a quaver.

Brynn’s is most tremulous of all, barely audible even to her own ears. She prays Tildy won’t notice and single her out to repeat the pledge solo. If that happens…

What will I do?

What can I do?

She’ll just have to go along with it, the way she’s gone along with all of this, right from the start. Against her better judgment, against her conscience, and, ultimately…

Against the law?

Tildy says no. Adamantly. She insists that they haven’t broken any laws.

“It’s not like we’ve murdered someone,” she hissed when Brynn balked at the proposed plan. “Anyone in our situation would do the exact same thing.”

Brynn highly doubts that, but she can’t bring herself to say it.

There was a time when Brynn Costello-apple of her daddy’s eye, valedictorian of her high school class, dean’s list candidate for her first four semesters at Stonebridge College, Zeta Delta Kappa pledge-would have stood up to all of them. Even Matilda Harrington.

So why didn’t you?

Why are you standing here in the woods in the middle of the night being sworn to secrecy?

This can’t really be happening. If anyone ever found out…

But nobody will find out.

They’re not going to tell.

Anyway, Tildy was right when she pointed out that what happened isn’t their fault.

Still…

I just want to get out of here, go back to the sorority house, and forget this ever happened.

Or, better yet, just go home.

Home.

Swept by a wave of nostalgia, Brynn swallows hard over a lump in her throat. She longs for worn oak floors, oval braided rugs, chintz slipcovers. The savory aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and onions frying in olive oil. The radio in the background, sock-hop standards and sixties anthems of the local oldies station. Clutter, and laundry, and people coming and going…

Home.

But the seaside, blue collar household on Cape Cod is two hundred miles and a world away from the campus nestled in the Berkshires, the mountains of western Massachusetts.

And there’s no going back-not the way Brynn yearns to do.

Before her thoughts can meander down the fateful path that ultimately led to Stonebridge College, she’s dragged back to the present. Tildy, apparently deciding their oath needs something more to make it official, solemnly declares, “So help me God.”

“So help me God,” the others obediently intone.

Not Brynn. She just moves her lips, refusing to invoke God. Not under these circumstances.

“Now we’ll sing the sorority song,” Tildy commands, lifting her hand to push her blond hair back from her face. Her sorority bracelet, a silver rope of clasped rosebuds, glints in the moonlight. They’re all wearing them-including Rachel-and each is personalized with dangling silver initial charms.

Brynn manages to join the others in singing. The in-grained lyrics she secretly always considered embarrassingly hokey now seem bittersweet as she forces them past the lump in her throat.

We’ll always remember

That fateful September.

We’ll never forget

The new sisters we met.

We’ll face tomorrow together

In all kinds of weather.

ZDK girls, now side by side

May travel far and wide.

But wherever we roam