“Okay fine,” he said. “Hey, do you ever thank me in your acknowledgments?”
“Yes, sometimes,” I said thoughtfully. “I mean, I thank my family. You’re in my family.”
“Hey, I’m helpful! I give great suggestions. It’s your fault if you don’t take them.”
“…”
“Conjoined twin. I’m telling you.”
On that note, I want to say thanks to my mother for reading this book repeatedly and in the face of eye struggles, and for repeatedly nagging me to change the font on the cover. Thanks to Jen, for the amazingly thorough critique as always. Thanks to Kate for the great suggestions. Thank you to Avery for the excellent beta critique and for cover advice. Thanks to Rhona for looking at a bazillion covers. Thank you to Val for your eagle eyes. Thank you to Emilie for the awesome beta read.
I want to say a huge thank you to all my readers out there. I wanted to highlight a few, but there are so many incredible reader friends I have made that I would surely leave someone out. A special shout out to all my McFans! If you’re not a McFan, then you must spooky voice join us…
And as always, thank you to the rest of my family, especially Mr. McFadden. If there’s ever a conjoined twin in one of my books, that’s all him.
Did you enjoy reading The Inmate?
If so, please send me an email at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you. Or consider leaving a review on Amazon!
Check out my website at: http://www.freidamcfadden.com/
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Also, even though I have managed to cure the superhuman strains of mutant typos that have invaded my books, now there are all these typo variants I can’t seem to get rid of. If you find any typos and point them out to me so I can fix them, I would be paternally graceful.
And now please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, The Housemaid…
The Housemaid
If I leave this house, it will be in handcuffs.
I should have run for it while I had the chance. Now my shot is gone. Now that the police officers are in the house and they’ve discovered what’s upstairs, there’s no turning back.
They are about five seconds away from reading me my rights. I’m not sure why they haven’t done it yet. Maybe they’re hoping to trick me into telling them something I shouldn’t.
Good luck with that.
The cop with the black hair threaded with gray is sitting on the sofa next to me. He shifts his stocky frame on the burnt-caramel Italian leather. I wonder what sort of sofa he has at home. It sure doesn’t cost five figures like this one did. It’s probably some tacky color like orange, covered in pet fur, and with more than one rip in the seams. I wonder if he’s thinking about his sofa at home and wishing he had one like this.
Or more likely, he’s thinking about the dead body in the attic upstairs.
“So let’s go through this one more time,” the cop says in his New York drawl. He told me his name earlier, but it flew out of my head. Police officers should wear bright red nametags. How else are you possibly supposed to remember their names in a high-stress situation? He’s a detective, I think. “When did you find the body?”
I pause, wondering if this would be the right time to demand a lawyer. Aren’t they supposed to offer me one? I am rusty on this protocol.
“About an hour ago,” I answer.
“Why did you go up there in the first place?”
I press my lips together. “I told you. I heard a sound.”