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A Fatal Affair

A Fatal Affair

Автор Pamela Crane

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A Fatal Affair

Автор Pamela Crane

оценки:
4/5 (1 оценка)
Длина:
76 страниц
1 час
Издатель:
Издано:
15 февр. 2018 г.
ISBN:
9781940662039
Формат:
Книга

Описание

The short story companion book to the bestselling psychological thriller, The Admirer's Secret.

A husband in love with his wife. A wife willing to do anything to escape him. An affair turned deadly.

From USA TODAY bestselling author Pamela Crane comes a domestic noir short story about a deadly obsession.

The pregnancy test he found in the garbage confirmed it: Fatherhood at last. But when his wife announces her desire for divorce—and a majority of their assets—Hollywood icon Allen Michaels loses not only his wife, but his sanity. As Allen reveals the gory secrets of his mysterious past, with love leaving him battered and broke, how far is too far to avenge the promise of “til death do us part”?

Unleash Allen’s hidden demons in this darkly riveting novella as he takes justice into his own demented hands…

“Mesmeric … chilling … Pamela Crane is a new thriller author to watch.”reader review

Perfect for fans of Robert Dugoni's Third Watch and Dean Koontz's The Neighbor.

“Crane delivers a taut literary thriller short story that fans of Jeffery Deaver will devour. If you love dark, brooding characters and domestic drama turned murder, you’ll love A Fatal Affair.” – reader review
Издатель:
Издано:
15 февр. 2018 г.
ISBN:
9781940662039
Формат:
Книга

Об авторе

PAMELA CRANE is a professional juggler. Not one who can toss flaming torches in the air (though how cool would that be?), but a juggler of four kids, a writing addiction, a horse rescuer, and a book editor by trade. Her USA Today best-selling books unravel flawed women—some she knows, some she creates—and you can find them at www.pamelacrane.com, and pick up a free book while you’re visiting!


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A Fatal Affair - Pamela Crane

Prologue

December 2008

Los Angeles, California

Back in the eighties and nineties, I made a name for myself in Hollywood as a writer and producer for television, mainly crime drama procedurals. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all—cookie-cutter shows where, in every episode, the perp almost gets away with the perfect murder. But in the final act, the impossibly good-looking detective and his quirky pals in forensics—or some variation on that dynamic—take his ass down.

My biggest hit was Jack Ramrod. It fit the tried-and-true formula, certainly, but it also had a certain Rockford Files-esque charm; critics called me the next Stephen J. Cannell. Ramrod was an ex-Green Beret who used his special skills to solve crimes (for the adventure, not the money), lived in a derelict school bus for reasons never explained, had an iguana for a pet, and was haunted by A Mysterious Secret from his past. And of course, being impossibly good-looking, Ramrod had to beat the ladies off with a stick.

It was a sweet gig and good training—I was even nominated for a couple of writing Emmys—but the movies, that’s where I always wanted to be. That’s where the real glamour is. The real power. And the fame. Seeing your name in the opening credits of a blockbuster: that meant you’d made it in La La Land.

And then there was the money. Top movie producers got a million or two upfront, even more on the backend.

To succeed as a producer in Tinseltown you have to be a ruthless businessman with charisma out the wazoo and a killer instinct.

That was me, to a T.

And that’s why I became a household name. You’ve heard of me: Allen Michaels. Yes, that Allen Michaels. King of muscle-rippling, blood-dripping action flicks with monosyllabic anti-heroes bedding bodacious babes, and gratuitous profanity, car crashes, and explosions galore. Romantically linked to some of the most beautiful starlets in the biz.

And the stories I could tell of casting couch conquests … the stuff of legend, except they’re all true.

I thought I had it all, but it was just an illusion. My life was as shallow and unreal as the flicks I produced—until Susan came along. She wasn’t just arm candy or another piece of nookie to me. I wasn’t just a steppingstone or a sugar daddy to her. She was a wide-eyed Iowa farm girl, starstruck by my glamorous friends and ritzy lifestyle. I saw an opportunity to become mentor-lover to someone who idolized me, which of course stroked my ego. We thought we were soul mates and our love would be everlasting.

What a couple of idiots.

Real life is fluid, a river always moving and changing. It doesn’t have the permanence of a movie, and happily-ever-after endings are rare. Five or so years into our marriage, the holes in the script were starting to show. Neither of us could fill the big empty with each other’s lies and promises anymore. We fell back on money, and all the things money could buy. We realized we loved these things—more than we loved each other. I splurged on mansions in Florida and Colorado, and a Lear jet to fly between them; a private cabin in Tujunga; a luxury penthouse condo that was our L.A. home. My money also bought Susan a new BMW every year, diamonds, furs, and—she thought I didn’t know—a meaningless fling with a boy toy now and then. I didn’t begrudge her that luxury; I still dipped my wick wherever I wanted. Did my share of nose candy too.

Flash forward twenty years. Susan threatened to take everything away from me, and for that she had to die.

Sometimes, life imitates art. The killer instinct that made me a feared and respected producer would stand me in good stead in my first, and hopefully last, foray into murder. All those cheesy cop shows I’d produced were going to come in handy, too. To get away with it, I’d just think back on all the boneheaded mistakes those TV perps made and avoid them. Piece of cake.

Or so I thought.

Gunshot to the head? Too messy. Besides, I didn’t own a gun, and buying one on the black market, or arranging for a straw purchase, was far too risky for someone of my stature. Not to mention, I couldn’t count how many scripts I’d written where ballistics sent the killer up the river.

Maybe a staged suicide… a hanging or pill overdose. No muss, no fuss. But an autopsy would eventually put the finger on me, just like on TV. Besides, Susan wouldn’t be the type to take her own life, and anyone who knows her like I do would attest to that. She’d shed that aw-shucks Iowa routine a long time ago. She was a self-absorbed material girl to the bone now, and she’d never go for the idea of leaving behind a less-than-perfect-looking corpse.

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