About the Book:
When eighteen-year-old
Brie O’Mara accepted Sarah McIntyre into her life to be her roommate, she
entertained only the best of hopes for herself. Despite her long work hours and
tedious jobs, Brie was working on saving for a better future. Best of all, Sarah
was an heiress and more than generous with her money. Brie was about to be the
envy of everyone she knew. Her dreams of making something of her life, of going
to acting school, maybe even of rekindling her friendship with her high school
sweetheart, might just come true. What more could she hope for? Especially
since Sarah was more than willing to share her fortune. Or did she hide an
ulterior motive behind promising big dreams to Brie?
Dead Dreams, Book 1, a
contemporary young adult thriller and mystery is a Gold award winner in
Readers’ Favorite, young adult mystery category.
Dead Dreams, Book 1,
the suspense and mystery continues in Gone Missing (Dead Dreams Book 2)
First chapter
Prologue
They say each dead
body, a human corpse, has a scent all of its own, a sweet-sour smell. A cadaver
dog picks up the odor as clearly as a mother recognizes a photo of her child.
Of course, I wouldn’t know, for I am no dog. I might as well have been, the way
I’d stooped to yield to my basic instincts. My mind wandered to her, what her
unique smell would be when, and if, they ever were to find her.
vvv
After what
happened, I decided to write out the events that led to that day, and details,
in case I’d missed something, or might need it for defense, or in case they
found me dead. My relatives might need to piece together the things that had
spiraled out of control, if they wanted to put me to rest, to forget me
altogether. That would be least painful for them. I nodded to myself as I sat
in the car. I thought of my most favorite girl in the world: Lilly. At least
Lilly’d have my dog, Holly, and Rosco, my teddy, to remember me by.
My friends used to call
me Brie, short for Brianna. But, I could hardly count anyone a friend any more.
I’d have to resort to back-watching if I wanted to survive.
Chapter One
It started on a warm
April afternoon. Gusts of wind blew against the oak tree right outside my
kitchen balcony, in my tiny apartment in Atherton, California. Sometimes the
branches that touched the side of the building made scraping noises. The yellow
huckleberry flowers twining their way across my apartment balcony infused the
air with sweetness.
My mother had insisted,
as was her tendency on most things, I take the pot of wild huckleberry,
her housewarming gift, to my new two-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t really new,
just new to me, as was the entire experience of living separately, away from my
family, and the prospect of having a roommate, someone who could be a best
friend, something I’d dreamed of since I finished high school and debuted into
adulthood.
“Wait for me by the
curb,” my mother said, her voice blaring from the phone even though I didn’t
set her on speaker. “You need to eat better.” Her usual punctuation at the end
of her orders.
So, I skipped down
three flights of steps and headed toward the side of the apartment building to
await my mother’s gift of the evening, salad in an รก la chicken style, her
insistent recipe to cure me of bad eating habits. At least it wasn’t chicken
soup double-boiled till the bones melted, I consoled myself.
I hadn’t waited long
when a vehicle careened round the corner. I heard it first, that high-pitched
screech of brakes wearing thin when the driver rammed his foot against it. From
the corner of my eye, even before I turned to face it, I saw the blue truck. It
rounded the bend where Emerson Street met Ravenswood, tottered before it
righted itself and headed straight at me.
I took three steps
back, fell and scrambled to get back up as the vehicle like a giant bullet
struck the sidewalk I had only seconds ago stood on. The driver must have lost
control, but when he hit the sidewalk it slowed the vehicle enough so he could
bridle his speed and manage the truck as he continued to careen down the
street.
My mother arrived a
half minute later but she had seen it all. Like superwoman, she leaped out of
her twenty-year-old Mercedes and rushed toward me, all breathless and blonde
hair disheveled.
“Are you all right?”
She reached out to help me up.
“Yes, yes,” I said,
brushing the dirt off my yoga pants.
“Crazy driver. Brie, I
just don’t know about this business of you staying alone here like this.” She
walked back to her white Mercedes, leaned in the open window, and brought out a
casserole dish piled high with something green. Make that several shades of
green.
I followed her,
admittedly winded. “Seriously, Mom. It’s just one of those things. Mad drivers
could happen anywhere I live.”
She gave me no end of
grief as to what a bad idea it was for me to live alone like this even though
she knew I was going to get a roommate.
“Mom, stop worrying,” I
said.
“You’re asking me to
stop being your mother, I hope you realize this.”
“I’ll find someone
dependable by the end of the week, I promise.” No way I was going back to live
at home. Not that I came from a bad home environment. But I had my reasons.
I had advertised on
Craig’s List, despite my mother’s protests that only scum would answer “those
kinds of ads.”
Perhaps there was some
truth to Mother’s biases, but I wouldn’t exactly call Sarah McIntyre scum. If
she was, what would that make me?
Sarah’s father had
inherited the family “coal” money. Their ancestors had emigrated from Scotland
(where else, with a name like McIntyre, right?) in the early 1800s and bought
an entire mountain (I kid you not) in West Virginia. It was a one-hit wonder in
that the mountain hid a coal fortune under it, and hence the McIntyre Coal
Rights Company was born. This was the McIntyre claim to wealth, and also a
source of remorse and guilt for Sarah, for supposedly dozens of miners working
for them had lost their lives due to the business, most to lung cancer or black
lung, as it was commonly called. Hazards of the occupation.
And then there were
cave-ins, which presented another set of drama altogether, Sarah said.
I sat across from her,
the coffee table between us, in the small living room during our first meeting.
“So, that’s why you’re not on talking terms with your family? Because of abuses
of the coal company? ” I asked.
We sipped hot cocoa and
sat cross-legged in the crammed living room, which also doubled as the dining
space. I’d never interviewed anyone before, although I’d read tips on the
Internet.
“I just don’t want to
be reminded anymore,” she said, twirling her dark ringlets round and round on
her pointer finger.
“But, it’s not entirely
your dad’s fault those people died of lung problems.”
“I guess, but I just
want to get away, you understand? Anyway, I’m almost twenty-one now. That’s
three years too late for moving out and establishing my own space.” She took
tiny sips of the cocoa, both hands cupping the mug as if she were cold.
I walked to the
thermostat and upped the temperature. A slight draft still stole in from a gap in
the balcony sliding door I always kept open a crack to let the air circulate.
“So, your family’s okay
with you living here? In California? In this apartment that’s probably smaller
than your bathroom? With a stranger?”
“First off, it’s none
of their business. Secondly, you and I won’t stay strangers.” Sarah
flashed me a grin. “Besides, I’m tired of big houses with too many rooms to get
lost in. And, have you lived in West Virginia?”
I shook my head. The
farthest I’d been was Nevada when we went for our family annual ski vacation.
“I heard it’s pretty.”
“If you like hot, humid
summers and bitter cold winters. So, do I pass? As a roommate?”
She looked about at the
ceiling. I wondered if she noticed the dark web in the corner and the lack of
cornices and crown moldings. I was sure I smelled mold in the living room, too.
But I wasn’t in a position to choose. Sarah was.
“As long as you’re not
a psychopath and can pay rent.” I returned her smile.
“I don’t know about the
psychopath part.” She shrugged and displayed her white, evenly-spaced teeth.
“But here’s my bank account.” She tossed me a navy blue booklet with gilded
edges and with golden words “Bank of America” on the cover.
I fumbled as I caught
it and was unsure what to do. “Should I peek?”
“Go on.” She gestured,
flicking her fingers at me as if I were a stray cat afraid to take a morsel of
her offering.
“No secrets. I can well
afford to pay rent. And, I’m a stable individual.”
I flipped the first few
pages and saw the numerous transactions in lumps my parents, who were by no
means poor, would have gasped at. The last page registered the numbers: under
deposits, $38,000. My eyes scanned the row of numbers and realized that the sum
$38,000 came up every sixth of the month.
My mouth must have been
open for she said, “You can stop gawking. It’s only my trust fund. It comes to
me regardless of where I am, or where I stay. So, do I make the cut?”
I handed the bank book
back. We discussed the house rules: no smoking; no drugs, and that included
pot; no boyfriend sleepovers or wild parties, which was a clause in my
landlord’s lease; and Sarah was to hand me her share of the rent, a mere $800,
on the twenty-eighth of every month, since I was the main renter and she the
sub-letter.
She didn’t want
anything down on paper—no checks, no contracts, and no way of tracing things
back to her, she’d stressed a few times.
She fished in her Louis
Vuitton and handed me a brown paper bag, the kind kids carry their school
lunches in. I peeked inside and took out a stash of what looked like a wad of
papers bundled together with a rubber band. Her three-month share of the
deposit, a total of twenty-four crisp hundred-dollar bills. They had that
distinct new-bank-notes-smell that spoke of luxury.
I gulped down my hot
chocolate. “Why all the secrecy? I hope your parents will at least know your
address.” I said as I wrapped up the interview. I could understand not wanting
her parents breathing down her neck, but as long as they didn’t insist on
posting a guard at the door, what was the harm of them knowing where she lived?
Sarah glanced about the
room as if afraid the neighbors might have their ears pinned to the walls,
listening.
She leaned forward and,
her face expressionless, said softly, “My parents are dead.”
Author Bio:
Award winning author
and copywriter, Emma Right, is a happy wife and homeschool mother of five
living in the Pacific West Coast. Besides running a busy home, and looking
after too many pets, she also writes stories—when she is not behind the wheel
driving her children for various activities. Her books have won literary
awards. She hopes her stories will help empower young adults and children, and
instil the love of learning and reading. Ms. Right worked as a copywriter and
has won national and international advertising awards, including the
prestigious Clio. Learn more about Emma Right and her books at emmaright.com
