The Ex by Freida McFadden(85)

Or I could go to Joel’s apartment. Maybe he and I need to have a little talk. Cassie was panicked enough by my threats that she’s surely dumped him by now. I want to see his face—see him crumble the way he made me crumble when he broke my heart. And if Cassie hasn’t managed to destroy him, maybe I need to pay a visit to her. Convince her. One way or another, there will be retribution.

Because I lied about one other thing.

I absolutely did mean to kill Francesca.

And I’d do it again.



THE END



(Keep reading for an excerpt of my new book, The Perfect Son)





Acknowledgments


It is incredible how much help I get from the point I finish my first draft to the final version. There are times when things happen in my life to make me realize how lucky I am to have the support I have—friends and family who are always there to give me an opinion or more.

First, I want to thank Melanie. She didn’t read this book, but she will probably tell you that she’ll throw up if she has to give me her opinion on one more cover. Thank you to my mother, for reading the book three times, twice on her phone, in spite of never actually understanding it—that takes real love. Thank you to Kate, for the awesome and thorough editing job. Thank you to Jess, for the eternally harsh criticism. It makes my stomach sink, but it always makes the book better. Thanks again to Rhona for cover advice.

Thank you to new friends. Thanks to Jen, who helped me work through the tricky ending. Thanks to Rebecca, for your great advice. Thanks to my new writing group—yes, you only read the first two chapters, but sometimes that’s enough.

Thank you to my father, for teaching me the correct spelling of the word “acknowledgments.” Apparently, the preferred spelling in this country is without the extra “e.” I didn’t double-check, but I trust his judgement.

And finally, thank you to my husband. For listening to me whine and rant and gush about my book without getting too annoyed.





Did you enjoy reading The Ex?



If so, please send me an email at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you. Or consider leaving a review on Amazon!



Check out my website at:



http://doccartoon.blogspot.com/



In the meantime, please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, The Perfect Son…





The Perfect Son

Transcript of police interview with Erika Cass:

“Can you please tell us what happened, Mrs. Cass?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I know what you found. I know what you must be thinking.”

“What do you think we found, Mrs. Cass?”

“A… a dead body.”

“And can you explain how this happened?”

“I…”

“Mrs. Cass?”

“Am I under arrest? Please just tell me.”

“At this time, no, you are not under arrest. But obviously, we need to know what happened.”

“He was… stabbed to death.”

“And who did it?”

“…”

“Mrs. Cass?”

“I did it. I killed him, Detective. And I would do it again.”





About one week earlier





Erika



You’re not supposed to have a favorite child.

If you ask most mothers, they’ll say something along the lines of “Sammy is really smart, but Nicole has a great heart.” They refuse to choose. And some of them are sincere. Some mothers genuinely love both their children equally.

Others, like me, are lying through their teeth.

“Good morning!” I say as my fourteen-year-old daughter Hannah pads into the kitchen. She’s in her bare feet and an old pair of gym shorts, and her reddish brown hair in disarray around her face. She’s supposed to be dressed and ready for school, but clearly she’s not. She always waits until the last possible second to get ready. She likes to keep me in suspense over whether or not she’s going to make the school bus. But I’ve learned from experience that nagging her doesn’t help at all—in fact, it only seems to slow her down—so I turn back to the eggs I’m scrambling in a frying pan.

“Mom!” Hannah can’t seem to say that word anymore without the whiny edge to her voice that draws the word out for at least two syllables. Mo-om. I remember how happy I was the first time she said “mama.” I shake my head at my old na?ve self. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

“Say it like what? I just said ‘Good morning.’”

“Right.” Hannah groans. “Like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… oh my God, you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t, Hannah.”

“You say it like… I don’t know. Just don’t say it like that.”

I’m not sure how to respond, so I focus my attention back on the eggs. I pride myself in making really fantastic eggs. It’s one of my superpowers. My eggs are so good that when one of Hannah’s friends ate them on the morning after a sleepover, she said that I should be the lunch lady at their school. It was the highest compliment.