334 Am – Nick Pirog

She doesn’t remember much of him.” “And he was good dad?” “As far as I know. I was working in Ohio at the time and I didn’t see him all that much during that period. Part of the reason we moved back was to help Marie out with the kids after he died.” “And John’s death, nothing suspicious?” “No, freak accident with a marlin. Pulled it on board, thing harpooned him in the neck, bled out before they could get the boat back to shore.”

Cornish, an avid fisherman himself, couldn’t help but fight down a smile. Johnson, attempting to cover for the snicker emanating from his partner’s throat, turned his gaze to Megan. “When is the last time you saw Jennifer?” Megan’s voice cracked as she told the detectives the last time she saw her cousin was 3:30 p.m.

on Wednesday, January 10th [1985]. “Does she have any other good friends? Or a boyfriend?” “Not really. She pretty much just hangs out with me and my boyfriend Derrick. Just last weekend all three of us went to the movies on both Friday and Saturday night.” “Really, what did you guys see?” “On Friday we saw Dune and on Saturday we saw Beverly Hills Cop.” “How was that one? Eddie Murphy, right?” “It was good. Funny,” she said with a forced smile.

“And Jennifer, you guys didn’t mind her being a third wheel?” Cornish asked, finally composed. “No, not at all.” “And this Derrick, he’s a good guy, he would never want to hurt her?” “No, never. It wasn’t him. It was one of the guy’s she was blackmailing.” Both detectives and both her parents’ eyebrows scrunched together in near unison.

“Blackmailing?” her father asked, beating both detectives to the punch. “What do you mean, blackmailing?” Megan took a deep breath and told them. Told them everything. :::: “Why didn’t you idiots just read the journal?” I ask out loud, though I’m sure at some point they would have. Possibly they had to turn the pages over to evidence to look for fingerprints before they read them over.

Copyright © 2015 Nick Pirog Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the author’s work. 1kitap1.com/en www.nickthriller.com 1kitap1.com/en :00 I am in the White Room. My mother gazes down at me with green eyes. She pulls back her predominantly gray hair and puts it in a ponytail. She raises her right hand. In it, she holds a mallet. The handle is scarlet, or at least it appears scarlet, a consequence of all the dried blood. It might have been wood underneath, or metal, it’s hard to tell. The chrome head of the mallet, which has been cleaned, polished to perfection, catches the glare of the bright light overhead and shimmers a white gold.

I flex my arms against the velcro restraints, but they have no give. The mallet slams into my left hand. My knuckles break. I have no idea how many. The mallet slams down a second time. Then a third. She continues until my left hand is a pulpy mess.

Until every single bone is broken. The pain is indescribable. Unimaginable. A pain you don’t think, don’t want to exist in this world. My mother walks around the table until she is standing on my opposite side. As hard as she’s tried, she is covered in my blood. Bits of spray clinging to her lab coat, sprinkled on her neck and chin. Little freckles of pain and destruction.

“I will ask you this one last time,” she says, nearly emotionless. “Where is the flash drive?” I shake my head. I don’t know. How many times can I tell her? The President didn’t give me a flash drive. He didn’t. I promise. She raises the mallet. Brings it crashing down. I wake up gasping. It takes me twenty seconds to realize I’m not in the White Room with my mother.

That I haven’t been for over two weeks now. I push myself up and glance at the fancy weather clock on the nightstand. 3:01 a.m. July 7th. 69 degrees. I am in the bed I grew up in, in the house where I was raised. My condo is still uninhabitable.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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• Title: –
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• Pages: 173
• Language: English (en)

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