Fifth Victim

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Murder By The Book and Busted Flush Press.

Damn, you’re going to be missed …

CHAPTER ONE

The only thing more terrifying than fighting for your life is fighting for someone else’s.

Especially when you’re losing the battle.

On my knees in the warm sand, I gouged at the reluctant earth with a driftwood shovel, with both hands and my every breath. And the more I burrowed, the more the sides of the hole folded in quietly to meet the void. I knew then, gritted in the face of defeat, that there was only one way this was going to end.

Badly.

Pig-headed, I ploughed on, seeing nothing but the next scoop of sand that rushed in, mocking, to fill the last insignificant hollow. Dig, twist, throw. Dig, twist, throw. Up and out into the coastal wind, over and over, while my mind stamped and cursed and wailed silently inside my head.

How could you let them take you? Why didn’t you run? Why didn’t you fight? And – more bitter, more self-indulgent – an almost childish cry: Don’t you think I have enough damn blood on my hands?

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