Thank you, David, for breakfast every morning and putting up with me all the fluffin’ time. That’s no easy feat. I am a huge pain in the butt region.

Thank you, Becky, for helping me through the worst of the stress all day, every day. You are a treasure.

Thank you, Lauren, for being the best friend anyone could truly hope for. I don’t know where I’d be without you.

Thank you, Eric, for always making me laugh. Also for your occasional bits of wisdom, which I attribute to your fabulous beard.

Thank you, Greg, for being the go-to guy...the one who I can always count on to take the lead when I’m just too tired.

Thank you, Emily, for coming into my life with your take-no-prisoners attitude and ready smile.

Thank you, Sioban, for being the woman who will always have my back, armed with pointy sticks if necessary.

Thank you to Elsa, Dill, Evie, Sarah, Corey, Ana and all the other folks who hold me accountable for my words. You are great friends first and foremost. The wonderful helper part is secondary but appreciated.

But wait, there’s more!

Thank you, Miriam, for being both agent and part-time therapist when my brain stalls out and doesn’t let me believe I belong here. You are my number one defense against imposter syndrome.

Thank you, TS, for always keeping my best interests in mind and rallying for me when I don’t know how to rally for myself. You’re a friend and an advocate and I adore you.

And...

Thank you to my parents, all of you, for making me the person I am and supporting the weirdness that comes tumbling from my fingers. I love you.

Thank you to Dorothy, my muse, who should have been around to see all this. She did, it, Dot! She did it.

Last but not least:

Thank you to the readers. I wouldn’t be here without you. None of us would. Your imaginations and willingness to come on long adventures keep authors afloat. Heck, it keeps the world afloat. Keep on being rock stars.

Excerpt from Dead Little Mean Girl by Eva Darrows

Dead Little Mean Girl

by Eva Darrows

Chapter One

Quinn Littleton was found facedown in my garage at nine in the morning on a Monday, her corpse dressed up like Malibu Barbie. Her boobs were crammed into a homemade coconut-shell bra that tied off behind her back with pink ribbons. She wore a hula-style grass skirt she’d trimmed so short it barely covered anything, and thanks to her unflattering final position of facedown, rump pointed at the garage doors, the first thing anyone saw of her corpse was a sliver of thong bisecting perfect butt cheeks.

Quinn Littleton was dead.

And it was sorta my fault.

Did I mention she’s my sister?