Criss Cross
Safety is just an illusion... an illusion shattered by the whisper of footsteps in the darkness behind her.
I sat against the front window of the coffee shop with my legs drawn to my chest. In some part of my mind I was aware of people moving around me and murmuring, but I just stared at my palms.
The man’s blood had soaked through the sleeves of my shirts and into the knees of my pants. I had peeled off my saturated gloves and thrown them aside, but it had already touched my skin. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen my hands covered in blood, but it had been darker then.
I remembered the slick feel of it between my fingers and the way it had glistened in the moonlight. I had tried to rub it off on my nightgown. I remembered knowing that it belonged to someone I knew, but I couldn’t remember who or when.
A familiar Southern voice broke into my thoughts. “I received a call about one of my suspects.”
“We’re pretty sure the deceased is the man you've been looking for,” another male voice explained.
"The attacker in my open assault case?"
My ears followed the conversation—drawn to the gentle cadence of that familiar voice—but my mind drifted between fragmented thoughts and memories.
“And then there’s the matter of the young woman covered in blood.”
“What young woman?” Detective Marx demanded.
“She’s approximately five-one, red hair, brown eyes,” the man explained.
“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” Detective Marx groaned. “Is she all right?”
I could smell the damp forest around me, and feel the painful prick of twigs and weeds beneath my cold bare feet as I gaped at my hands. The echo of someone’s scream rang in my ears—a child’s scream. No, that wasn’t right. I could hear Detective Marx’s voice, and he wasn’t in the forest.
A figure crouched down in front of me, and the sun vanished behind him. “Why am I not surprised to find you out and about in the city alone?” Detective Marx asked, but there was no bite to his tone.
I dragged my eyes away from my hands to look at him. "He's dead."
About me
I was almost kidnapped when I was five--an event that no doubt kickstarted my later-in-life interest in suspense and thrillers. Two things became apparent when the creepy man tried to lure me into his car: one, I was stubborn all the way to my little toe (still am), and two, Canton is not the safest place to live.
I hail from the land of four seasons in one day, also known as Ohio. I started writing stories as a child, long before I ever started reading them. I would disappear into the adventures in my head for hours at a time, scribbling them down into notebooks by candlelight, sharpening my pencil by scratching and rotating the graphite against the back of the notebook because I could never find my pencil sharpener. It's been 27 years. I still can't find my pencil sharpener. Thankfully, my keyboard is harder to lose.
As you've probably already realized, I write suspense and thriller novels. They're intense, raw, filled with action, sprinkled with humor, and the characters will wedge themselves into your heart.
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