In this snippet, a minor character named Janie has wheedled her folks into letting her go on her first date with a guy named Ray, and lo and behold, they have a flat. After inspecting the tire, Ray gets back in the car and lights a cigarette. Here's what happened next:
Janie watched as he inhaled and exhaled lazily. “Shouldn’t you be changing the tire?” she finally asked.
Ray smiled and let the smoke curl out of his lips and upward into his nostrils before he spoke. “Spare’s flat, too.”
Janie felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Without thinking, she
opened the passenger door and stepped out into the night. They were on some rural
road south of Pine River. She wasn’t really sure where they were.
For those of you who have been following, you probably know there is a serial killer in the area . . . in fact, that is the tagline of the book!
Thanks for visiting with me and the characters of Stutter Creek each week. Next time, I will begin to introduce characters from my next book, Stevie-girl and the Phantom of Crybaby Bridge.
Afterthought: Hop on over to the #WeWriWa page and check out some more snippets! Share the love! http://www.wewriwa.com
“She went looking for an old flame and found a serial killer instead.”
Barnes and Noble: http://tinyurl.com/n9xhqh4
Release Day Press Kit:
Ann Swann is the author of All For Love, a contemporary love story published by 5 Prince Publishing. She is the author of Stevie-girl and the Phantom Pilot, and Stevie-girl and the Phantom Student, tales of the supernatural. She has also written numerous award winning short stories. She lives in West Texas with her husband and their rescue pets. She loves libraries and book stores and owns two different e-readers just for fun. Her to-be-read list has taken on a life of its own. She calls it Herman because it's such a Munster.
How to Contact Ann Swann:
Amazon Central: http://tinyurl.com/6wl3oe2
EXCERPT of Stutter Creek:
Amanda Myers was making a conscious effort to keep her heavy foot off the Toyota’s gas pedal when she spied what appeared to be a small boy standing beside the road. An old fashioned newsboy cap nearly obscured his tiny face.
Mandy hit the brake and steered the Celica toward the gravel shoulder. With a practiced hand, she quickly texted her coworker, Myra, and asked her to concoct a cover story for her tardiness.
The kid had seemed very small in silhouette—maybe five or six years old—and no house or vehicle in sight.
When Myra texted back to say the boss was on the warpath, Mandy replied, “Well, just tell him I stopped to pick up a boy on the edge of town. That should really turn his face red!” It was an inside joke. Everyone knew when the boss’s face was red it was wise to give him a wide berth.
Myra sent back a row of question marks.
“L8R,” Mandy responded. She looked all around. She had assumed the little guy would come dashing up to the car as soon as she had come to a stop. But even when she could no longer hear the crunch of her tires on gravel, he still hadn’t materialized.
I didn’t pass him by that much.
Craning her neck to see past the Toyota’s blind spot, Mandy dropped the phone into the center console drink holder and shoved the gearshift into park. A thick stand of live oaks cast a deep shadow over the bar ditch. The setting sun made the trees appear as black-paper cutouts in a landscape collage.
After checking her mirrors to make sure no one was behind her, Mandy pressed the button to lower the passenger-side window.
It was almost all the way down when a man yanked open the door and exploded into her world like a tornado into a trailer park. Her hand flew to the gearshift, but she couldn’t engage it. Even as her flight instinct kicked in, part of her mind was telling her this was almost certainly the same strange guy who had requested her section at the restaurant the night before. His eyes had seemed to follow her all around the crowded dining room, and his oily stench had made him stand out like a spot of mold on white linen.
Mandy drew in breath to scream, her hand scrambling across the console for her phone or the gearshift, whichever came first, but he was too fast. With lightning speed, he dove across the seat and slapped a rectangle of duct tape across her mouth. At the same time, he buried his free hand knuckle deep in the thick blonde braid at the base of her skull even as his other hand slid down to her windpipe and began to squeeze.