Troy in upstate New York…
I wonder if that’s anywhere near Albany.
I lay down my spatula and turn up the volume on the radio. The DJs voice fills the room: “Eighteen-year-old Kayla Rogers went out with her friends on Saturday night. Her friends stayed at a bar, but Kayla left alone. Police say she never returned to the apartment she shared with two other girls…”
My hands won’t stop shaking as I pick up my phone from the kitchen counter. I type Troy, NY into the map app. Then I calculate the time it would take for someone to get from Albany to Troy by car.
Sixteen minutes.
My eyes raise upward to the ceiling. I hear the shower running, and even over the droplets of water, I can hear Liam singing to himself.
It couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t. He’s not like that. He’s not like Jason. Not really.
It’s a coincidence. It’s got to be a coincidence.
I lean against the counter, my knees weak. I can still hear Liam singing in the bathroom above us, as the stench of burning eggs fills the kitchen.
The End
Acknowledgments
Those who know me know that I write my books quick but I edit slowly. I’m very grateful for all the supportive people in my life who help me through the painful editing process. It is incredible how much help I get from the point I finish my first draft to the final version. There are times when things happen in my life to make me realize how lucky I am to have the support I have—friends and family who are always there to give me an opinion or more.
Thank you to Kate, for the positive supportive as well as the awesome and thorough editing job. Thank you to my mother, for the advice on the beginning of the book. Thanks again to Rhona for cover and blurb advice—how many times did I text you??
Thank you to new friends. Thanks to Rebecca, for your great advice. Thanks to Jen, for the thorough critique. Thanks to my new writing group. It’s incredible to have that support in my life.
And thank you to the rest of my family. Without your encouragement, none of this would be possible.
Did you enjoy reading The Perfect Son?
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://doccartoon.blogspot.com/
In the meantime, please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, The Ex…
THE EX
When my live-in boyfriend of many, many （many） years told me he was taking me out to dinner to discuss “something important,” there was only one thought running through my head:
It’s about damn time.
Of all our friends, Joel and I had been together the longest. I don’t want to say how long. It’s embarrassing. Let’s just say that I danced at the weddings of friends who had been together half as long as we had. And then a few months earlier, my sister got married. My baby sister got married before I did. In India, they have a rule that the eldest sister must be married off before any of the younger siblings may, and I think it’s about time they bring that rule to the western hemisphere. Because otherwise, you end up sitting alone at your little sister’s wedding while elderly aunts pat you on the hand and assure you that it will be “your turn next” until you end up hiding in a stall in the ladies room, stuffing wedding cake into your mouth.
Joel missed that wedding because he pulled the short straw and ended up with an ER shift that day. Or that’s what he told me. After the fact, I have to wonder.
But tonight, all was forgiven as I walked into the crowded bar and grill where Joel and I were meeting for dinner, since he was coming straight from the hospital. The tables were packed so tightly into the small space that I had to twist my hips to navigate across the room. Smoking had been banned in this establishment for many years, but I still detected a whiff of cigarettes, clinging to the wood of the tables and chairs, ground into the sticky floor.
This was, in fact, the very same bar and grill where we had our first official date together all those years back—if that wasn’t a sign he was about to pop the question, what was? I had barely enough time to change clothes after work, and I’d made the most of it. I splurged on the Ultimate Little Black Dress last month, and I’d been dying for an occasion to wear it. I spent nearly an hour with my curling iron, trying to get my hair maximally silky and shiny. I loved the look on Joel’s face when he saw me in a sexy outfit—the way his mouth dropped open slightly, and a smile spread across his face.
My first clue that something was amiss was that Joel was wearing his green scrubs. Not that Joel wearing scrubs was anything out of the ordinary. He worked as an Emergency Room physician at a local hospital, and he admitted he’d live in scrubs if it were socially acceptable. I did our laundry every Sunday, and there was usually a full load of nothing but scrubs. He wore them whenever I didn’t nag him to put on real clothes. I mean, jeans and a T-shirt would have been fine. I wasn’t picky.