Pretty Little Killer
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From the author of RESCUE ME, a sassy, page-turning suspense about a woman who races to uncover the truth about a murderer...before it’s too late.
A bright spring morning goes horribly wrong when Danielle Whitlock gets the shock of her life. Her best friend is arrested. For murder. Worried about her friend, and angered by the injustice of the false accusation, Dani decides to investigate. But she quickly realizes she’s in over her head--wayyy over. Desperate for answers, she enlists the help of her (hot, irritating, sexy, annoying...)ex-boyfriend, Rob Greyson. However, the deeper they dig, the more twisted and confusing the case becomes, until Dani is backed into a corner, leaving her with two horrific options:
Stop the devious killer, no matter what it takes...
Or become the next victim.
Fans of PRETTY LITTLE KILLER may also enjoy Gemma Halliday's SPYING IN HIGH HEELS.
It was a perfect sun-shiny spring morning.
The robins were chirping. The squirrels were chattering.
The air smelled like hyacinths and damp earth.
And Mr. Nolan was cutting his grass...for the third time this week.
But this was no normal sun-shiny, bird-chirping spring morning for me. Hell, no. At least fifteen policemen were surrounding me, the serious end of their guns pointed at my head.
It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think, let alone react. One minute I was strolling down Baker street with my best friend, our dogs, Einstein and Twinkie, happily trotting beside us, and the next cars were zooming at us from all directions, tires screeching and skidding. While we stood there stunned, policemen bounded from vehicles, drawing guns.
It was all very Hollywood. Or Twilight Zone. Take your pick.
When my brain finally kicked in, I shot my hands into the air. The baggie of dog poo I’d forgotten I was holding slipped out of my grasp. It landed on the sidewalk with a sickening splat.
“Elizabeth Shook!” One of the officers shouted.
“T-that’s me,” my friend stuttered, giving me a terrified look.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“I swear, I have no idea.”
“On your knees. Both of you!” the officer demanded.
He didn’t have to tell us twice. We dropped faster than Detroit home prices. A second later the mob rushed us, slapping handcuffs on our wrists, jerking dog leashes out of our hands. One policeman yanked me to my feet.
“What’s happening?” I asked, my gaze hopping from one officer to another. I couldn’t comprehend the flurry of frenzied activity. Everything seemed to be happening at once.
“This way.” He pulled me toward a parked car, angled against the curb.
I glanced over my shoulder at Liz. She was pale-faced and wild-eyed, as confused and stunned as me, no doubt. We just weren’t the type of girls who were snatched off the street and thrown into police cars. We worked. We paid our bills. We followed traffic laws--at least, most of the time.
Before I was shoved into the car, a few neighbors clicked pictures with their cell phones. Fabulous. The most humiliating moment of my life would soon be plastered all over Twitter and Facebook. What was next? Television news crews? We lived out here in suburban nirvana. Many miles from Detroit. Out here, a couple of kids getting sent home from school for wearing “inappropriate” t-shirts was newsworthy. This would probably make the five-o’clock news.