Tina Wainscott Until the Day You Die

ISBN 13: 9780312941635

Until the Day You Die

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9780312941635: Until the Day You Die
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THE PAST WON'T LET HER BE.
When Maggie Fletcher's sister is murdered, presumably by stalker Colin Masters, Maggie is left devastated--and furious. There isn't enough evidence to prove that Masters did it--unless Maggie falsely claims, under oath, that she saw him leaving the scene of the crime...
 
THE TRUTH WON'T SET HER FREE.
Maggie's testimony puts Masters behind bars--but also wrecks Maggie's life. When she and her teenage son move to a small New Hampshire town to start a new life, Maggie can't help but feel that she's being shadowed.
 
NOW THERE'S NOWHERE LEFT TO HIDE....
Someone is slowly, stealthily invading every part of Maggie's world, turning everything and everyone against her. Now Maggie fears that a faceless, merciless pursuer wants to make her pay for her lie--with her life.
 
 

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About the Author:

Tina Wainscott is an award-winning author of seventeen novels.  She lives in Florida and North Carolina with her husband and cat.  She loves to hear from readers.  She can be reached through Beach Promotions, PO Box 10622, Naples, Florida 34101 (SASE appreciated) or through her Web site at www.tinawainscott.com.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

CHAPTER ONE may 16, 2006 He stood inside a nearby shop window, waiting for her. Just as he did every day when she left work. As he did every morning when she arrived. Quaint buildings with shops and boutiques lined Market Street in the seacoast town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They offered plenty of places from which to watch her. He ostensibly perused a rack of biographies in the bookstore while looking out the window. Mostly he saw tourists, bored teenagers, women loaded with shopping bags, and portly men puffing their chests as they inhaled the sea air. All the while he watched for her. Six months ago he had begun his possession of Dana Mary O'Reilly when he'd dropped into the Mystic Café, the new-age coffee shop where she worked. Her watery smile, shifting eyes, and defensive posture had aroused his instincts. He smelled insecurity, loneliness, weakness. So he'd investigated, scoring her on the pertinent points on his checklist: no boyfriend or husband; no friends; no kids. A steady schedule. A house surrounded by foliage. All the things that made her an ideal pet. The only negative was the sister, but he could handle her. He'd begun the saturation phase, following Dana, taking pictures and taping them to his dresser mirror, the bathroom wall, his car dashboard. Wherever he looked, she was there, frozen in a moment--crossing the street, chewing on her fingernail--his for as long as he wanted her. Then he'd moved into the infiltration phase, playing the guileless suitor in front of her coworkers, bringing puerile gifts like stuffed animals bearing hearts. She'd spurned him, awkward, stuttering, barely meeting his eyes before darting back to the counter. Like any respectable guy, he'd backed off. But they had a secret, he and Dana. He was much more than a naïve schlub with a crush. Movement caught his eye. His prey. She hovered just inside the café door, searching for him. It had become a game. Their private game. Where, oh, where could he be? A couple walked into the café, and the man held the door open for Dana, forcing her out into the open. Apprehension and frustration filled her brown eyes. He liked the fear. He liked it a lot. Today her usual Gothic ensemble included long, flared sleeves, long black skirt, and black Converse sneakers. Her thick, dark hair needed brushing. She pulled a cigarette from her pack and lit it with shaky hands. She walked with shoulders hunched and chin tucked in, her body static but for her legs. He wished he'd made her walk in that insecure manner, but she'd come that way. She reminded him of a mouse now, taking several steps and stopping, searching, everything but sniffing the air and twitching her whiskers. That was his doing at least. He'd violated her safe little world, all the way down to the panties she wore. It gave him a powerful thrill to know he'd touched the fabric that now shielded her most private parts. While she was at work, he sprawled on her rumpled bedsheets, rubbed her panties over his body, used her deodorant. Then he left subtle clues to let her know he'd been there. That she had no privacy now. Letting her know by degrees that she was never alone. As she was everywhere in his world, he was everywhere in hers. Most important, he was inside her mind. Even in her dreams, if her thrashing and crying out were any indication. He smiled. She couldn't escape him, even in sleep. With her free arm tucked around her waist, she walked toward the High-Hanover parking garage. He moved so that when her gaze flashed past the bookstore she would see him. She stiffened, sucked hard on her cigarette, and then walked faster. Acknowledging their exchange wasn't necessary. Being there, watching her, was enough. She tripped on a raised brick and caught her balance seconds before slamming into a parking meter. Her cigarette went flying, rolling under a car. An old man looked at her with both concern and puzzlement. She glanced back toward the bookstore window. He wasn't there. She had already been unbalanced, as evidenced by the array of prescription drugs in her medicine cabinet. He had pushed her to the edge. Soon, very soon, she would break. The Red Hot Chili Peppers song "Breaking the Girl" played in his mind. He liked watching the pieces of his pets' souls splinter away. She walked into the garage and aimed the remote key fob at her car as soon as she approached it. The chirp echoed off the concrete. Her fingers wrapped around the car handle but paused. The folded piece of green paper awaited her on the driver's seat. She snatched open the door, crinkled the paper, and dropped down into the seat as though her bones had liquefied. She started the car and sped out of the garage. A few minutes later he pulled up next to her at a red light. His dark windows prevented her from seeing him. She chewed her fingernail while she waited. Glanced at the seat beside her. Forward. Then back to the seat. Then reached over. He smiled as she wrestled the ball of paper open. He shoved aside a fast-food bag, a dog-eared paperback thriller, and packs of soy sauce to find his camera on the seat beside him. With his other hand he lowered his window and recited the words as she read: "I live in her mind, Her thoughts, Her soul, Under her skin. Though she denies me, I am already a part of her. "She dreams of me, When she sleeps, So fitful through the night, As though sensing I am there, Her guardian angel, Watching over her. Always." She balled up the note and threw it with an angry scream. Then she looked his way. He snapped one last picture, capturing her shock and indignation. Beautiful. The light turned green, and she burned rubber through the intersection. He took his time. He knew where she lived. He had gone much further with Dana. He had not only slipped into her home; sometimes he'd also been there when she'd arrived home. He could smell her, as he watched from his place in the closet or the pantry. The prospect of getting caught tantalized him. Maybe she would catch him tonight. Maybe he would make sure she did. Copyright © 2007 by Tina Wainscott. All rights reserved. 
 

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