Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com books@5princebooks.com
Genre: Fiction/Romance/Suspense
Release Date: September 5, 2012
Digital ISBN 13:978-1-939217-69-1 ISBN 10: 1-939217-69-5
Print ISBN 13:978-1-939217-70-7 ISBN 10: 1-939217-70-9
Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.html
The End:
Sometimes the end is only the
beginning.
Almost a year after her husband dies, Ellie Marston opens
the file for Tab’s last manuscript, a thriller so compelling it reads like a
true story. His manuscript needs an ending, so Ellie writes the obvious
conclusion. The same morning she types The
End, her career as an assistant district attorney falls apart. Accused of
throwing the high profile Patterson case, she resigns in disgrace. The only
friend she has left in the criminal justice system is Det. Paul Santiago, a man
she has worked closely with on numerous cases. While she was married to Tab,
she squashed her growing feelings for Paul, determined to make her
deteriorating marriage work, but circumstances after Tab’s death bring Ellie and
Paul together.
Ellie’s paranoia increases as she becomes convinced
Patterson is harassing her, certain that someone is searching her belongings
for any hidden evidence she might have that would reopen his case. It becomes
clear there was a conspiracy to release Patterson. She seeks help from her
former co-worker, Presley Sinclair, but soon discovers Presley is deeply
involved in the subsequent cover up. Worse yet, Tab’s affair with Presley drew
him into the twisted conspiracy as well.
Together Paul and Ellie attempt to uncover the conspiracy in
the District Attorney’s office, the set up that forced her to resign. The key
to the mystery is hidden in the pages of Tab’s manuscript. Once Paul and Ellie
come to the correct conclusion—Tab’s manuscript is a true story and Ellie’s
added ending is the only logical outcome—Ellie attempts to reveal Patterson’s
hidden partner in the District Attorney’s office, but the co-conspirator she
uncovers is not whom she suspects. Danger swirls around her as she steps further
and further into the conspirator’s trap.
Denise
wrote her first story when she was in high school—seventeen hand-written pages
on school-ruled paper and an obvious rip-off of the last romance novel she
read. She earned a degree in accounting, giving her some nice skills to earn a
little money, but her passion has always been writing. She has written numerous
short stories and more than a few full-length novels. Her favorite pastimes
when she’s not writing are spending time with her family, traveling, reading,
and scrapbooking. She lives in Louisiana with her husband, two children, and
one very chubby dog.
Excerpt of The End:
Tab’s
Mac wobbled on the edge of the coffee table in front of me as my fingers tapped
out the letters of the final sentence of the final scene as if they had a mind
of their own. The idea for the ending had come to me in the middle of the
night, and I was determined to finish the project before I forgot what I wanted
to write. I hit return and then spaced down and typed The End with a flourish. I didn’t know if writers wrote that at the
end of a manuscript, but I did it anyway.
I
leaned back on the sofa. A smile should have formed, but it didn’t. I was
pleased…but exhausted. The urge to finish Tab’s final project had been
satisfied. How did he do this? The process had mutilated every one of my
emotions.
He
had put a lot of himself into his writing. I’d watched him, absorbed for hours
on end, struggling to choose just the right word or just the right sentence
structure. He’d tried for years to get an agent or a publisher to read one of
his manuscripts. After numerous rejections, he’d send them to the virtual trash
bin with an angry jab to the delete button. It appeared like a lot of wasted
effort to me.
Thinking
about Tab kicked me in the gut once again. He had been dead for almost a year,
but his memory could still hit me hard when I least expected it. It’s true. You
never get over losing someone you love the way I had loved him.
I
was awake late one night the previous week watching Castle on a Netflix disk, when I decided it was time to read Tab’s
unfinished masterpiece—well at least it would have been a masterpiece in his
humble opinion—if he had discussed it with me. He never mentioned the project.
I didn’t even know the manuscript existed until after the accident that took
his life. If I hadn’t been searching the hard drive of his Mac for something else,
I would have never known about it.
Odd.
Tab wasn’t a secretive sort of guy. Was he?
So
his unfinished manuscript had remained unread on the hard drive of his Mac for
months. I’d put the idea of reading his final words aside, but then I couldn’t
stand it anymore. I had to read what he left behind.
When
I opened the file, I expected to read something sentimental and just a little
cheesy, something with a made-for-television happy ending. I expected to cry
like a baby when I read his final words. Tab was the most dramatic man I’d ever
met.
Instead,
I became engrossed in a thriller that read so real I wondered if he had written
a true story. All the plot needed was a realistic ending.
And
the end came to me in the middle of the night.
It
was done now. For better or for worse. I reached for my coffee mug and took a
sip, then grimaced. The brew had gone stone cold. I rose from the sofa and
slogged into the kitchen to refill my cup and stick it in the microwave. As I
waited for the ready beep, the view outside my window captured my attention. A
bare limb of an oak tree swayed, easily manipulated by the wind. The weather
promised another gloomy, rainy day. I pulled my robe closer around me, but the
chill of the morning pierced the terry cloth. I shuddered and headed for my
bedroom.
My
linens lay on my bed, twisted and tangled from tossing and turning. I had no
desire to go to work. Finishing Tab’s masterpiece had drained my energy, and
when I finally dragged my butt into the office, I would have to confront my
boss. Executive Assistant District Attorney Michael Leads would not be happy
with my lack of progress on the Baxter case. Into my second year as an
assistant district attorney, I was well aware I had missed my calling. My
confidence in the criminal justice system had disappeared. My passion for
convicting the right offender put me in constant conflict with a process that
had morphed over the years into a system designed for speed rather than
accuracy.
With
no enthusiasm, I dressed for the day. I chose my best black suit because it
matched my mood, but beneath it I wore a bright, cherry red blouse. My power
outfit. I needed all the chutzpah I could manage to face Leads’ wrath. It was
coming at me, like a hurricane hovering off the coast trying to decide which shore
was most vulnerable.
After
applying a few final touches to my makeup, I zipped a brush through my hair,
made a pretense of brushing my teeth, and swished an ounce of mouthwash. I held
my hand over my mouth. My breath still smelled of stale coffee. I looked into
the mirror and groaned, then swiped at the toothpaste stain on my lapel with a
damp rag before heading toward the living room. After a few minutes of panicked
searching, I found my only pair of black heels under the sofa.
I
was as ready for my confrontation with Leads as I was ever going to get. My
briefcase leaned next to the front door where I’d dropped it the night before.
I had planned to review some case files before I went to bed, but once I closed
my apartment door behind me, nothing could have motivated me to open my
briefcase last night.
The
ride to the office was probably the longest of my career. Lights flashed
through the windows as the train passed through another station. I held tight
to a strap above me because all the seats were full, always a marker of how my
day would go. I was running late, and there was no hope for me.
My
mind drifted. Instead of mentally listing the things I needed to accomplish at
work that day, I dwelt on how I should have chosen a different path for my life
and what that path would have been. Had everything I suffered to work my way
through college and then law school really been for nothing?
No comments:
Post a Comment