"I should get home," Ana said, standing up and dusting herself off.
Alex's face fell for a brief moment, and then he brightened up again. "All that talk of ghost stories soured ya, I 'spose," he said with a chuckle.
"I can handle it," she reassured with a smile, "but I do need to get into some warm clothes."
"Better do that ‘fore the chill sets in," he agreed. "I'll see ya safely home."
Ana followed him to his truck. It sat at the end of a paved road that was obviously the main route up to the lighthouse. As she climbed in, she looked out the window toward the direction of the four white crosses that stood defiantly against the dark, ominous sky.
I could believe there are ghosts here, Ana thought, as Alex turned the truck around and started toward her house.
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Excerpt from The Illusions of Eventide
Living no longer interested me.
This decision was a rare instance of clarity in nearly thirty years of debaucherous living. I could not pinpoint the exact moment when it initially crossed my mind. Hell, I couldn’t tell you when it went from a whim to a done deal. Like most things in my life, it didn’t occur to me slowly. The idea did not evolve, although looking back, every moment leading up to my realization essentially shouted the same forgone conclusion.
I was only numbly unaware of my plan as I gassed up the Porsche, or as I packed my small leather bag, carefully placing inside the box housing my father’s handgun. Even the drive to Deschanel Island on New Year’s Day was free of interesting revelations. If I were the insightful type, I’d have started putting the puzzle pieces together sooner; I’d have recognized this sojourn to my family’s private island was not just another one of my notorious, spur-of-the-moment getaways. This was more than Deschanel spontaneity rearing its self-indulgent head.
There were plenty of assholes who expected something like this from me years ago, after the accident that killed off most of my family.
I grew up with four half-sisters. Products of my father’s inability to stop rutting with his French maid; sisters my father loved far more than he ever loved his only son. This didn’t bother me the way it should have. I grew up doing whatever I pleased, whenever I pleased, however I pleased, and there was no one who cared enough to stop me. Even my own mother, who I loved despite her faults, was too self-absorbed in misery of her own creation to tend to my emotional needs.
What should have been an exclamation point in my life was, in reality, more of a footnote. My entire family–except my youngest sister, Adrienne–died in a car accident deep in bayou country. An interesting correlation as they were also en-route to Deschanel Island for a family vacation. At the ever-so-tender age of twenty-one, I was faced with unfathomable tragedy. Most of the family biddies were on edge, waiting for me to do something characteristically selfish like drink myself into oblivion and walk down the Mississippi River levee naked.
But I was too stubborn to give the Deschanel Sewing Circle the satisfaction of being right. Besides, I had already done my share of drinking naked on the levee. I could think of far more creative ways to go off the deep end.
It was easier to let them believe I didn't care, though I did. A great deal. I loved my father even if he was a prick. I loved my conniving mother, even if it was her fault he excluded me. And I loved my half-sisters too, though they probably never knew it.
My “I’ve got all I want” illusion was apparently very convincing. I should have been on suicide watch; people should have been concerned for my frame of mind and personal safety. The kitchen at Ophélie should have been swimming with shitty casseroles. But it wasn’t. Because no one saw me mourn. Friends, other family, our lawyers, staff all assumed I didn’t care. They mistook my lack of tears as a sign of apathy.
Although beyond their understanding, I did experience sadness. I grieved for what I could have had, but never did. And now, never would.
But this wasn’t why I came to Deschanel Island to die. It had nothing to do with some repressed grief or inexorable loneliness stemming from my crappy upbringing, or from my family’s accident. That was almost a decade ago. I’d experienced very little heartache in my life since, and despite my often dysfunctional rearing, I had never been lonely. My life had always been pretty fucking good, if I do say so. And up until a month ago, I was happy.
I knew what people thought; I partied, traveled, passed from one experience to another as a way of making up for the lack of sincere affection in my life. I let people believe that because it sounded a lot less fucked up than just admitting I preferred my lifestyle to normalcy. I loved excess. I loved money. I loved women.
Of course, it was love, and my screwed up definition of it, which brought me to this point.
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Sarah is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Paranormal Southern Gothic series, The House of Crimson & Clover, born of her combined passion for New Orleans, and the mysterious complexity of human nature. Her work has been described as rich, emotive, and highly dimensional.
An unabashed geek, Sarah enjoys studying obscure subjects like the Plantagenet and Ptolemaic dynasties, and settling debates on provocative Tolkien topics such as why the Great Eagles are not Gandalf's personal taxi service. Passionate about travel, Sarah has visited over twenty countries collecting sparks of inspiration (though New Orleans is where her heart rests). She's a self-professed expert at crafting original songs to sing to her very patient pets, and a seasoned professional at finding ways to humiliate herself (bonus points if it happens in public). When at home in Oregon, her husband and best friend, James, is very kind about indulging her love of fast German cars and expensive lattes.
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