Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues

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Huge heaping thanks, praise, and adoration go out to:

My fabulous husband, Jack, for being ten thousand kinds of awesome and for finding a cool and creepy factory for me to tromp around in for location research.

My sister, Sherry, for supporting me and teasing me as needed.

My daughter, Anna, for amazing hugs and kisses.

Dr. Michael DeFatta, for patiently answering gross questions.

Steve Everly, for explaining the role of a probation officer.

Nina Lourie and Nicole Peeler, for daring to read and critique my rough drafts.

Roman White, for support, friendship, and asskickery.

Matt Bialer and Lindsay Ribar, for helping me get to where I am now.

Dan Dos Santos, for my AMAZEBALLS cover art!

And, finally, for my incredible editor, Betsy Wollheim, and everyone else at DAW who has helped make these books a fantastic reality.

“So you hiding a body in here or sumthin’?”

The speaker gave a rasping chuckle as I pulled open the door of my storage unit, but behind his show of amusement was an avid curiosity that he was clearly desperate to satisfy. His question held a certain irony, considering that he fit the image of a serial killer a lot more than I did. Greasy black hair hung in lank tendrils from beneath a soiled Saints ball cap, his “Stor-This!” t-shirt with cut-off sleeves revealed slender arms with a surprising amount of muscle definition, and he apparently had the nervous habit of biting his nails—so severely that the tips of several fingers bore scabs.

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