Copyright © 2016 by Jeremy Bates

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN 978-0-9937646-3-9

For a limited time, visit www.jeremybatesbooks.com to receive a free copy of the critically acclaimed novella Black Canyon, WINNER of Crime Writers of Canada The Lou Allin Memorial Award.

CONTENTS

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The novels in the World’s Scariest Places series are set in real locations.

2001

The bullfrog sat on a big green lily pad in the middle of the rotten-smelling pond. Its throat expanded like a balloon as it made a rusty croaking sound.

Eight-year-old Rosa Sánchez took another careful step toward it, then another, doing her best not to disturb the scummy water. She had taken off her sandals, and the mud on the bottom of the pond squished between her toes, feeling both good and gross at the same time.

The frog shifted its fat body on the lily pad so it seemed to stare right at her, its bulging eyes glistening.

Rosa froze, one foot in the air, stork-like.

The bullfrog croaked.

“Look away, frog,” Rosa mumbled in Spanish. “Look away.”

It didn’t, and Rosa, thinking she might topple over, get her clothes wet and stinky, set her lead foot down. Something sharp—a rock or a pokey bit of branch—jabbed the underside of her heel. She ignored the pain, keeping her eyes on the bullfrog.

It continued to stare back at her, its eyes unblinking. The air left the sack in its throat, and the bullfrog shrunk nearly in half. Still, it was a big sucker. And it was so close…

Rosa took another step and thought she might be able to grab it now if she was quick enough. She stuck her hands out before her and tilted forward slowly.

The bullfrog sprang. Rosa’s hands clutched its slimy flanks. But she was too slow. It plopped into the water and disappeared from sight.

Rosa’s momentum, however, kept her moving forward. One uncoordinated step, two, then she dunked facefirst into the water. She closed her eyes but forgot to close her mouth and got a big gulp of what tasted like sewage. Her hands sank into the muddy bottom of the pond, then her knees, yet she managed to arc her back and keep her head from going completely under.

She made a noise like she was crying, though she wasn’t crying, she was eight years old, a big girl, and big girls didn’t cry when they fell in water. Still, she wanted to. She was soaked, a foul taste was in her mouth, and she couldn’t get back to her feet. The mud sucking at her hands and knees was too slippery—