Here we go again! Last ten standing! Give it your best shot, ladies! This next round is going to be judged by 5 judges. The top five will be the five finalists! Good luck!
I know you know the drill!!
1. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me. And destiny can be one mean sonofabitch.
Something was in the wind — if I’d been a comic-book superhero my spidey sense would have been at full tingle.
As it was, there was a worse than normal ‘Tuesday buzz’ crawling beneath my skin as I drove to work – a feeling not too far removed from the shriek of the drill as you sit in the dentist’s waiting room. The buzz and I were old foes, but it hadn’t been this bad in years. It built steadily until, when I finally stumbled across the threshold of the Queen of Cups, a colony of fire ants was working its way along my bloodstream.
I leaned back against the door, my fingers pressed against the aged, knotty timber worn smooth by centuries of service, and breathed deep and slow, drawing comfort from the unyielding surface. The shop’s familiar jumble of smells — Earl Grey tea, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, beeswax and sandalwood — worked their soothing magic and I smiled for the first time since opening my eyes that morning. It was a most unlikely sanctuary.
2. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.
He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under. Enveloped by the stench of motor oil, shaking and sick, Nick finally realized where he was: the two-car garage beneath the Aspen House.
The last thing he remembered was talking to a guy named Mars at the “Soul Mate” wrap party. He’d never seen Mars before. It was an exclusive wrap party—-just Brianne Cross, the last four contestants, himself, and the crew. But Nick remembered talking to the mysterious Mars, the two of them sitting on the back deck, the movement of Castle Creek rushing underneath the slats making him dizzy.
As Nick used the Escalade’s side mirror to pull himself to his feet, he noticed the bright yellow tape stretched across the entrance to the garage. Printed on the tape were the words: CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.
A policeman stood in the driveway just beyond the tape, staring at him, his mouth open in shock.
3. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.
“Holy sh—” Lock whispered, his words drowned out by the metallic screech of the fender smashing through the guardrail, words forgotten as the Honda toppled into the dark abyss below.
“Hold on, just—I’m coming,” he shouted into the eerie silence and began stumbling downward, the horrific grinding sound still echoing sickly in his head.
The dense tree growth would have made this descent treacherous on any given night, but combined with the sting of the swirling snow and thin, bobbing beam of his flashlight, his journey became one of survival. Thick flakes clogged his breathing and slashes of frigid wind whipped him until he staggered. He pushed on, slipping and sliding and twice collided with cottonwood branches; the second one clocking him so hard it sheared his knit cap off.
Uttering an oath, he didn’t stop for it; his breath ragged now as he staggered onto the highway and half-ran, half-skated across. He reached the serrated hole in the guardrail and peered through the snow, shining the flashlight left and right. The Accord lay upside down on the embankment, its headlights shining with macabre languidity into the angry, swirling river rushing three feet away.
4. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood. She would never forgive herself if…
“Sunshine?” The darkness swallowed her whisper.
“I’m here, but you need to be quiet.”
Relief started to flood through her, but slowed to a trickle, as the cold from the cement floor seeped into her bones. She struggled to move but her arms, tied behind her back, refused to budge. Pins and needles crawled up her arms as she struggled against the bindings. Blood trickled from a number of cuts that covered various parts of her body; she couldn’t tell how many cuts exactly but they hurt like hell.
5. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.
He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.
The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul. That knowledge made killing her wrong—wrong on so many levels. Sadly, he had known it was wrong for a long time, but he had been powerless to change the course of events set in motion all those weeks ago.
What kind of monster had he become?
Somewhere along the way, the compass of his conscience had lost the true magnetic north of morality.
His fingers tightened around the syringe. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, releasing an avalanche of regret, remorse, and resignation; but still, a mountain of sorrow crushed his chest.
The woman stirred. The pools of molten, dark chocolate that were her eyes suddenly opened, and she smiled up at him.
6. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.
Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt. Patiently, he waited as the rider guided a handsome Bay straight toward the saddlebags near the fire; the glow from the low flames highlighting expensive leather chaps and a set of Mexican spurs strapped snuggly around dusty, silver-tipped boots. And despite the chill of the encroaching night, his evening caller’s black jacket hung open, revealing a holstered revolver buckled low around a denim-covered hip.
With a smooth dismount, the rider dropped to the ground beside the saddlebags. All caution inside Jackson evaporated the moment the stranger lowered to one knee. Seeing his chance, he bolted from the shadows and rammed his shoulder full-force into the unsuspecting thief. Momentum drove them both to the ground.
In an instant, Jackson pinned the body against the sandy soil, his full weight anchoring the bastard into submission.
7. Darkness did not fall gently this day.
It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.
He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now. The fringes of Hell were his Heaven, and he was born of the blood.
Plowing a twisted path through the woods, he ignored the slashing pines that made his cheek sing. Shaken from still, dreamless sleep, the trees drenched the air with perfume, like a lover aroused. And that was fine with him; it might save his ass. He didn’t know whether his pursuers were after him for what he’d done or for what he was, whether they tracked by smell or twilight-sight.
But he knew they were very good at it. And they were coming for him.
He honestly hadn’t meant to kill the girl.
8. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.
With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face. The tactic had a secondary, even more welcome effect, it curbed the eagerness.
Upon reaching the cover of the porch he shook the moisture from his hair and paused to look around. She had a beautiful view up here on Fancher Heights, below—the lights of Wenatchee spread from east to west in a glittering cobweb of diamond dust.
Her neighbors were set well back, hidden behind lush borders of emerald arborvitaes. Secluded upon this bluff, estranged from her nearest neighbor by a leafy barricade of sound-deadening vegetation, the setting couldn’t have been more perfect. Nobody would hear her scream.
She must have been hovering behind the frosted glass of her entry way, because the door flew open before his finger even touched the bell.
“You’re wet,” she said, her cherry-bright lips twisting in a moue of distress as she leaned in to brush at the offending sprinkles garnishing his denim jacket.
9. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.
“I’ve already told you,” she said, exhaustion slurring the edges of her speech,” my name isn’t Bridget, it’s Mia.”
A days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, the only sign that he was any worse for wear from their time in this cinder block hell hole.
“Each one of these stacks is a list of charges from a different state,” he explained softly, almost sympathetically, steepling his hands over the piles of paper that ran the length of the table, “and each stack carries at least a thirty year stretch.”
Mia’s eyes widened, racing across the dull formica as she counted the stacks, stopping at the mugshot they had shown her during the first hour – of a woman who looked exactly like her.
“I know these past few years that we’ve had our ups and downs,” he said, leaning in and lifting a hand as if…as if he were going to reach for her, “but you’re in serious trouble, and I need you to work with me…let me help you.”
This was madness – when she’d left the house this morning, on her way to a nothing job in a nothing town in Nowhere, Southern California, she’d never imagined she would end up in a Los Angeles police station by nightfall, being grilled by a man that was either crazy or wrong or both – and seriously unwilling to admit it.
“Bridg…” he started, but she interrupted, pushing up from her seat fast enough to send the chair under her clattering back against the harshly reflective tile. Before she could find her voice, his was there again, filling the impersonal cold of the air between them with a desperate, heated timbre edged in something raw and smoky; “…you have her wedding ring on your key chain.”
10. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.
I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem â€“ not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.
OK, not invisible invisible. But, in the not-so-mythical land of Highschoolia where blending in equals obscurity, I rated a negative seven JD on the Jane Doe to Lindsay Lohan visibility scale. I’d be the first to tell you I didn’t mind â€“ well, typically. I’d made a deal with the devil … I mean the boy… and stomping away was the only thing I could do.
“The Plan” just might kill me where Advanced Trig had failed. But, with Chris Kent as the self-proclaimed prize, I’d been only too happy to sign-on, quit cross-country and become the soccer team’s stats girl. And, since sessions were closed, little Miss Wave-my-butt-around-in-my-too-short-cheer-skirt couldn’t just show up to practice no matter how much she fluttered her eyelashes.