Dirty Headlines(100)
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First and foremost, I’d like to thank my readers for following me on this journey, as I continue to evolve as a writer and an artist. It means the world to me that you trust my words. I have so many crazy, exciting, new ideas, and I cannot wait for you to meet all the characters and worlds that I am building.
Huge thanks to my beta readers: Amy Halter, Lana Kart, Charleigh Rose, Helena Hunting, Melissa Panio-Petersen and Yamina Kirky. Each and every one of you brought something fresh and fundamental to this story. Special thanks to the person who has read this book approximately five-hundred times, Tijuana Turner. You can’t ever, ever leave me. Just saying.
To my editors, Angela Marshall Smith, Jessica Royer Ocken and Tamara Mataya. Thank you so much for helping me get this book to where I wanted it to be. You have an amazing eye for detail, you challenge me with every turn, and make me a more skilled writer.
To my designer, Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs, and my formatter, Stacey Blake of Champagne Formatting. Thank you for making my product pretty from the inside and out.
To my superstar agent, who is so much more than an agent, Kimberly Brower, Thank you so much for your incredible input and all the hard work.
And, of course, Jennifer, Brooke and Sarah from Social Butterfly for the amazing work and devotion.
To my street team, I love you so, so much. You work so hard day in and day out: Lin Tahel Cohen, Sher Mason, Kristina Lindsey, Brittainy Danielle Christina, Summer Connell, Sarah Grim Sentz, Nina Delfs, Amanda Soderlund, Luciana Grisola, Vanessa Serrano, Leeann Van Rensburg, Becca Zsurkan, Sophie Broughton, Jacquie Czech Martin, Betty Lankovits, Tanaka Kangara, Yamina Kirky, Hayfaah Sumtally, Avivit Egev, Aurora Hale, Paige Jennifer, Erica Panfile, Ariadna Basulto, Vickie Leaf, Julia Lis, Sheena Taylor, Tricia Daniels, Lisa Morgan, Vanessa Villegas, and Samantha Blundell.
To the Sassy Sparrows—love your faces! Thank you so much for making my days brighter.
Finally, to my husband, son, my extended family and friends. Thank you so much for putting up with my weird hours and moods ever since I started this whole writing gig. You are, and always will be, the real MVP’s.
Much love,
L.J. Shen
PROLOGUE
Troy
Trinity Chapel
South Boston, Massachusetts
Silence. The most loaded sound in human history.
The only sound audible was the click, click of my Derby shoes against the mosaic floor. I closed my eyes, playing the game I relished as a kid one last time. I knew the way to the confession booth by heart. Been a parishioner in this church since the day I was born. I was christened here. Attended Sunday Mass here every week. Had my first sloppy kiss in the bathroom, right fucking here. I would probably have my impending funeral here, though with the legacy of men in my family, it wouldn’t be an open-casket event.
Three, four, five steps past the holy water font, I took a sharp right turn, counting.
Six, seven, eight, nine. My eyes fluttered open. Still got it.
It was there, the wooden box where all of my secrets were once buried. The confession booth.
I opened the squeaking door and blinked, the smell of mold and the sour sweat of sinners crawling into my nose. I hadn’t set foot in reconciliation in two years. Not since my father died. But I guess confessions were like riding a bike—once you learned, you never forgot.
Though this time, things would go down differently.
It was an old-fashioned booth, in an old-fashioned church, no living-room bullshit design and fancy, modern crap. Classic dark wood covered every corner, an old grid divided the priest and the confessors, and a crucifix hung over the grille.
I settled in my seat on the wooden bench, my ass hitting the rough pew with a bang. At 6’4”, I looked like a giant trying to fit into a Barbie dreamhouse. Memories of sitting here as a boy, my legs dangling mid-air as I told Father McGregor about my small, meaningless sins raced through my mind, tangling into a messy ball of nostalgia. The thought of how big my sins were turning out to be would make McGregor sick to his stomach. But my rage toward him was stronger than my morals.
I folded my suit coat on the bench beside me. Sorry, old man. Today you’ll meet the maker you’ve been preaching about all these years.
I heard him sliding his side of the screen open with a screech, clearing his throat. I did the sign of the cross, reciting, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
The creak of his chair, when his body stiffened at the sound of my voice, filled the air. He recognized me. Good. I relished the thought of his death, and I guess that’d make me, in your book, a psychopath.
But it was true.
I was fucking thrilled. I was a monster, out for blood. I was vengeance and hate, fury and wrath.
“Son…” His voice trembled, but he stuck to the usual script. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Cut the bullshit. You know.” I smiled, staring at nothing in particular. Everything in the place was so goddamn wooden. Not that I expected an interior designer’s touch, but this shit was ridiculous. It looked like the inside of a coffin. Certainly felt like one.