Despite her secret
past, Emily O’Shea was finally living a normal life. There had been some
arguments with her husband, Trevor, lately, but no marriage is perfect. At least
the column she writes for the local paper is going well…that is, until one of
her interviewees goes missing, and a monster from her past resurfaces.
Within a week Emily’s life spins into chaos. Missing girls,
a telephone stalker, murder, a monster, and an intense ex-lover; it’s turning
out to be one hell of a summer!
Her husband is acting erratically, her boss is threatening
to pull her column, and the police suspect she’s the muse for a murderer. Can
Emily save her marriage, her job, her life and her sanity? More importantly,
are her darkest fears justified? Does Emily already know who the killer is and,
if she does; can she do anything to stop them?
About the Author:
Sinead MacDughlas is a Canadian writer with an addiction to
the written word. Though she's been honing her craft for over thirty years,
Learn To Love Me is her debut full-length novel, and the result of over two
years of intensive work. Her favourite writing fuel is coffee, with the music
she loves playing in the background, and the inspiration of a lifetime of
people watching. Sinead plans to continue writing as long as there are readers
who enjoy her work.
"He was my mentor when I started here too," Greg
shrugged. "He’s pretty entrenched in the way things used to be done. I
evolved; he didn’t. He was a damn good reporter in his day, but things have
changed a lot since then. Don’t let him hold you back, Emily."
"He’s still a great reporter, Greg," I rushed to
Stan’s defense. "Not one of us can hold a candle to him, even you, Mr.
Senior News Reporter. If he was here, you wouldn’t dare talk like that!"
"Easy, girl!" Greg threw up his hands in mock
surrender. "I’m just trying to help. Your loyalty is admirable. Old Stan
is a wordsmith of the first order. I'd never deny it. I’m just saying his
journalistic ethics are a bit outdated for the times we live and work in. You’ve
got good instincts, Emily. Listen to your conscience and follow your intuition,
and you’ll do fine." He winked and picked up his phone, punching some
buttons.
This new, more gallant Greg made my teeth ache and my skin
itch. It was almost as though he was setting me up for something. I wanted to
believe he was being sincere, but the goodwill was too much like a brand-new
pair of leather shoes, too stiff, oiled, and shiny.
I was saved from having to think of a response, when my
phone sprang to life at my desk. I dashed across the newsroom to catch the call
before the automated message kicked in.
"The Herald. Emily O’Shea!" I answered,
over-bright. There was a brief period of silence, and a loud click followed by
a low hiss. I was just about to hang up when someone spoke.
"Do you love me, Emily?" It was spoken in a weary
monotone. The receiver clicked again. I didn’t recognize the voice.
"Trevor?" Perhaps he was calling from his car
phone, but it didn’t sound like Trevor. Another click sounded, like someone
tapping a fingernail on the mouthpiece.
"Do you love me, Emily?" The voice repeated with
exactly the same inflection. It was eerily like the tone you’d expect from a
robot, a machine, or an old B-movie zombie. It was unnerving. Feeling weak, my
knees gave out and I sank into my chair. My heart was pounding in my ears.
"Who’s speaking?" It took an enormous effort to
sound composed. The response was one last click, followed by the dial tone.
Fear sprinted up my spine on a thousand tiny feet, and I had the sudden, paranoid
sensation of being stared at. I spun in my chair to scan the newsroom, but the
only one on the phone was Greg and he was obviously still speaking to someone.
He caught me looking at him and gave me a grin and a slow wink. If it was
intended to charm me, it failed miserably. The chill was wiped out by the
rising heat. If this is some kind of sick practical joke, someone is going to
pay!
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