Chapters (66)
- Cover
- About the Book
- Dedication
- PROLOGUE
- MY BROTHER
- CHAPTER 1
- MY STEPSISTER
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- MY WIFE
- CHAPTER 9
- MY FATHER
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 14.5
- CHAPTER 15
- MY MOTHER
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- MY STEPFATHER
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- MY AUNT
- CHAPTER 27.5
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- MY WIFE
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- MY SISTER-IN-LAW(former)
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- MY STEPFATHER(again)
- CHAPTER 38
- MY BROTHER
- CHAPTER 39
- MY UNCLE
- CHAPTER 40
- ME
- CHAPTER 41
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Australia’s best crime writers are talking about . . .EVERYONE IN MY FAMILY HAS KILLED SOMEONE
- OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
- Sign up to Read More and discover new favourites
Good to hear from you. I’m afraid that a photographic section at the mid-point would require a gloss-paper insert, not to mention full-colour printing, which would need a completely different production process. It’s quite costly and is just not within the budget for this book. I’m confident you can get the same result with some well-placed descriptions. I’m sorry but there’s just no way we can stretch to it.
How’s it going, by the way? Have you managed to iron out a bit of the chattiness? I mean, I know it may be how you process things, but a lot of people died and readers might find it unsympathetic. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve decided to take the bullet holes off the cover – I know you thought they were a bit much. Let me know if you want me to look at any more sections as you get through them.
Best,
REDACTED
P.S. Re: your other question. Yes, it should be no problem to funnel a percentage of royalties to Lucy Sanders’ estate. Send me the details and I’ll arrange with accounts.
MY STEPFATHER
CHAPTER 22
I caught up to Sofia in the foyer, standing by the entranceway.
‘Someone’s sniffing around the maintenance shed,’ she said. She pushed open the double doors, the storm cascading over the threshold, ice spattering my boots. I hesitated, but she herded me outside. The porch was empty. Even the husbands had given up their retrieval missions, choosing to be warm and chastened over shivering and chivalrous. The wind rippled in my ears; it sounded like someone scrunching cellophane beside me. Sofia had to shout to be heard. ‘I saw a shadow.’ She hesitated. ‘From the bar.’
‘So?’ I yelled back. It was all I could get out with the wind barrelling into my mouth. It was the type of gale you have to take bites of to breathe.
‘Don’t the bad guys like to hang around the scene of the crime?’
She was right, but my cowardice activates at quite a low temperature threshold. I was about to suggest that we wait a minute or, better yet, fetch Crawford, but before I could form a word, she’d slung one arm over her brow and powered into the storm.