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Back The Sorority Murder Save as PDF
Chapters (61)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-One
  28. From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
  29. Twenty-Two
  30. Twenty-Three
  31. Twenty-Four
  32. Twenty-Five
  33. Twenty-Six
  34. Twenty-Seven
  35. Twenty-Eight
  36. Twenty-Nine
  37. Thirty
  38. Thirty-One
  39. Thirty-Two
  40. Thirty-Three
  41. Thirty-Four
  42. From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain
  43. Thirty-Five
  44. Thirty-Six
  45. Thirty-Seven
  46. Thirty-Eight
  47. From the Journal of Candace Swain
  48. Thirty-Nine
  49. Forty
  50. Forty-One
  51. Forty-Two
  52. Forty-Three
  53. Forty-Four
  54. Forty-Five
  55. Forty-Six
  56. Forty-Seven
  57. Letter Found in the Journal of Candace Swain
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Acknowledgments
  60. Booklist
  61. Excerpt

“I got a letter. It’s not signed. Someone left it at the studio. And it’s—hell, I don’t know what it is, but you have to read this.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said, then drove off.

Taylor stamped out her cigarette, then lit up another one.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Now was the time she wished she had a joint. But pot never satisfied her the same way heroin did. She’d had to quit all drugs because of the way they’d fucked her up, big-time. For her, pot always led her to crave heroin. But now she craved any kind of relief.

Stress accentuated her dangerous cravings. But Taylor didn’t want to go back to rehab. She’d been clean for thirteen months. She had a job she liked. She was not going to fuck up her life again.

This just couldn’t be happening.

In her dimly lit living room, she paced, smoked, paced, wished she had a beer. But she didn’t buy it anymore because sometimes when she drank, she wanted more. Not more alcohol, but heroin. It was a disgusting, awful habit, and she knew from rehab that it had taken years off her life, and she wanted to live.

Why did you have to fuck everything up, Candace? Why did you have to be a fucking Goody Two-Shoes? Everything was fine. Everything! But you just wouldn’t shut up.

She glanced at the clock. She had to be at work at four thirty. She wanted to call in sick, but if she did that, she wouldn’t make rent next month. She was on a tight budget, and she had been doing well and was making it, with decent tips.

Now this.

She picked up her cell phone and dialed a number she hadn’t called in a long, long time.

No answer.

She left a message.

“I need to talk to you. This podcast bullshit is getting out of hand. Today I had a woman come to my door, asking questions about what Candace and I were fighting about. I didn’t tell her anything, but what if someone knows the truth? Please. We need to talk about this. I get off work at midnight.”

She ended the call. Damn, damn, damn.

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit up a third. She needed a plan. If Regan Merritt came back, Taylor wouldn’t answer the door. Who the fuck did she think she was, anyway? Not a cop but acting all tough, asking questions she had no business asking?

Maybe someone oughta teach that bitch a lesson.

From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain

From the Missing Journal of Candace Swain