Present Day
It came two days after his missing daughter’s twenty-third birthday—the knock that changed Donovan Glass’s life forever. His front door. It was a heavy knock for ten o’clock in the morning, loud enough to distract him from the newspaper he was reading in the kitchen at the back of the house.
Placing his reading glasses on the breakfast bar, where he ate most of his meals these days, Donovan tucked in his plaid shirt and made sure the zipper of his jeans was drawn shut. Pushing into the second half of his mid-forties by now, he was old enough that he didn’t always check those things before going out, but he was still young enough to remember to check at all.
At the front door, he glanced through the peephole and discovered a woman with purple hair. She wore glasses and had a pierced nose, a classy diamond stud that could be easily overlooked.
The young woman seemed anxious, shifting from one foot to the next on the front porch. When she turned her attention back to the door, Donovan unlatched the two deadbolts and pulled the heavy slab open. He even tried to smile, but the sudden motion of that door swinging open had startled the purple-haired woman, and he felt that smiling at this point might come across as creepy.
“I’m sorry,” Donovan said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She blinked hard and seemed to assess him. It took a long time.
“Miss?”
She extended her hand, and Donovan noticed that it held a trembling cup of Barney’s specialty coffee.
“For me?”
She pushed the cup toward Donovan’s hands, so he took it.
“So can I, uh, help you?”
The young woman eyed the coffee. “It’s a dry double-espresso cappuccino. Lactose-free milk,” she said. Her voice came out as choppy, possibly ragged from nervousness. “They don’t sell the butterfly cookies anymore, haven’t in years.”
The mention of his preferred espresso drink was surprising all by itself, but the butterfly cookies set him off, and the cup began trembling in Donovan’s grip just like it had in hers. He used his other hand to steady the shaking, and then he scrutinized the woman standing on his front porch. Before he could say anything, she took a deep breath and stared right back into his eyes with an apologetic stubbornness in her gaze. It didn’t last long. Her lips quaked, and she stared down at her feet. Her shoulders hunched forward, and Donovan watched her nostrils flare.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Glass, but Lizzy—Elizabeth—your daughter, she’s dead.”
Donovan’s stare jumped from the young woman to the Barney’s cup. When he removed the steadying hand, he noticed that the cup no longer trembled.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice coming out hoarse and raw. As much as he’d feared this day would come, shouldn’t Special Agent Klein or Marshall be the ones telling him about his daughter’s death?
When the young woman looked up, Donovan saw that she’d been crying; her eyeliner had smeared across her cheeks. “My name is Monica Russell. I was your daughter’s last friend.” Her nostrils flared again as she wrestled her own demons. “I promised her I would come and tell you about how she lived . . . and died.”
The cup in his hand began shaking again, but he didn’t drop it. Instead, his knees gave out, and Donovan Glass, a true grown man, collapsed in front of a woman who looked more like a punk-band groupie than any kind of friend his dead daughter would have ever brought home with her, and he sobbed into his open palms.
“Mr. Glass? I don’t mean to come across as insensitive, but do you think I can come in?”
Kneeling in the foyer, Donovan nodded, noticing Monica’s leather boots with the studs rising up the back seam as she stepped past him. He felt her hands hook under his armpits as she tried to pick him up and move him out of the way so she could shut the door, close out the prying stares of the neighbors.
Those first impressions painted a kind image of Monica Russell, the way she eventually helped him to his feet and tossed his arm over her shoulder before walking him to his now ratty leather reading chair in the front room.
But even then, as Donovan settled into his chair, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of predator he’d allowed in his house.
Get your copy of The Last Friend on Amazon by clicking here.
Why I Write
When I sit down and decide what to write, the biggest reason behind tackling my next project comes down to the number of reviews I receive for the story that precedes it. That doesn’t mean only glowing 5-star reviews count (although I love those the most, the reality is that I find constructive criticism in virtually all of the reviews). They all count. Yours counts. So, please cast your vote!
A review tells me that you read the novel and want more of this story. A lack of reviews tells me I’ve reach the end of the line, all loose ends are tidied up, and it’s time to start something new. (I have been toying with the concept of an unicorn mystery…)
If you’d like to read more about Special Agent Klein, please, please, please leave your review for this novel.
Oh, and here’s another reason your reviews are important, not just to me, but to all authors who take their careers seriously: In his day and age of digital publishing, the indie publisher has the benefit of being able to quickly make changes where they are needed. Typos, inaccuracies, and even some plot impossibilities can be addressed and immediately republished.
For those who are wondering:
YES - I read all of my reviews
YES - I take feedback seriously (so if you think Klein’s story would work best if he died, I’ll take that feedback under advisement)
NO - just because a reader hates a story doesn’t mean I’m going to quit writing because I’d have quit long ago if that were the case
So, that’s why I write. Not because I make gazillions, but because I like to believe my stories matter. And the more reviews I get ensures I don’t discontinue a series if my readers expect or want more installments in that series.
But the only way I’ll know if you want more is if you leave those reviews. Or email me.
You get the idea.
Thanks for listening. Thanks for reading. And thanks in advance for reviewing!
Harv
Acknowledgements
It’s been said that the job of writing is a difficult one, in line with the popular belief that “poor artists” are “struggling artists.” Well, I don’t think that’s the case. Not only are plenty of artists not poor, but I can personally attest to the fact that writing brings me wealth in other ways than money in my bank account, the type of vehicle I drive, and the school my kids attend, etc.. After all, having spent the my non-writing career working with some of Canada’s wealthiest individuals, I can tell you the not-so-secret secret about wealth: it’s truly an experience, never a result.
In my writing journey so far, I’ve been incredibly blessed to meet a wide range of people, many of whom make me wealthier as a person and as a writer. Megan Hand has been my editor since my early days, but we chat regularly and I can’t wait to get to Columbus and have another great night out with her young and gorgeous family again! Lisa Seich has been a hard-core believer, supporter, reader, and listener; thank you for all of your contributions, and for introducing me to Jen Sincero’s You Are a Badass, a book that helped me leave my life-sucking banking gig in favor of this writing career.
I’ve been incredibly lucky to be able to team up with some incredibly talented and loud readers (or Bookstagrammers) who have helped with my confidence in ways even they will not appreciate. Verna McQueen from Verna Loves Books, Julie Galvin from Book Junkie Reviews, and Denise Tung, have been there from the start; RJ Beam from Premeditated Fiction was an early fan as well; more recently, Jessica from allthebookreviews, Amy Sullivan from novelgossip, Jen from thebookishlady, Dennis from scared_str8 (who’s taking his Instagram talents to a new blog so stay tuned) have taken a chance on a newbie, a chance I’ll be forever grateful to have had; I’m probably missing someone (if that’s the cas
e, let me know). If you’re reading the ebook version of this novel, you’ll see I’ve added links because these people have not only supported me in the past, but I truly enjoy their work… so please check them out, follow their Facebook pages or Instagram accounts and I promise you won’t be disappointed!
I’ve also been blessed with the wealth of some amazing supporters who have started out as “readers,” but have been invaluable in helping me strengthen my writing, sharpen my craft, and keep pushing harder and harder for the “perfection” that is so darn elusive. The names that always come to mind are Amy C, Rhonda K, MJ F, Kelsey B, Tara W, Wendy R, and I know I’m missing a TON of people, and I’m sorry :(
Once I hit “publish,” all of your names will come rushing to me…
As always, I’m grateful for my wife. She’s very understanding. So understanding that when I said I quit my job in order to pursue my writing dreams, she didn’t flinch or make a move to stab me with a pencil like most wives probably would. She took it in stride, and whether or not she believes in me, she’s still standing next to me after all of f*ck-ups and miscalculations, trusting that by some miracle, this will all work out.
Which brings me back to the opening of this long-winded Acknowledgements section: How can writing be difficult when you’re blessed with all of the above? It can’t it be difficult, not at all. When you have the wealth of support and friendships that writers enjoy, there’s no such thing as a “starving artist,” trust me.
And that’s why I can’t thank you enough for picking up this book, whether you’re named here or in a future novel. Just… thank you for allowing me to write for you.
HC
Also by Harvey Church
The Edwin Burrows Light Mystery Series
Alibi Aficionado
Blackmail Broker
Conspiracy Connoisseur
Devil’s Dividend
The Last Thriller/Suspense Series
The Last Friend
The Last Night
The Stage Two High Concept Series
Cold Memory
The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2) Page 31
