She is the proud owner of an adorably insane American Eskimo named Finn, and a tyrant cat named Bella, who take up more of her attention than they probably should.
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Sneak Peek—At First Touch
Now available on Amazon!
Liz Hannigan has been on the run since she was twelve years old.
Her mother is dead. Her father has lost his job. And thanks to an experimental procedure, Liz is now able to ‘download’ the contents of every brain around her with a simple touch. Forced to hide from both the federal government and a darkling group of morally deficient scientists known as the Coalition determined to exploit her abilities, she moves with her father to the bucolic coal town of Pound, West Virginia.
But the hunt for Liz and her abilities hasn’t ended, and her hopes for peace are shattered when she inadvertently downloads the enigmatic Carey Drake, whose unusual good looks and charm conceal a secret as shocking as her own. Stunned by the knowledge that she has found someone else who has extraordinary abilities, Liz finds herself drawn to Carey, discovering a deep attraction, and dares to hope for the first time she might find love.
When an agent of the Coalition begins stalking her, Liz must find a way to work with the government agency she most mistrusts as she strives to build a longed-for normal life and take down the agent who has tracked her down. Caught up in a struggle to save herself and those she loves, the girl who sees all is blind to true danger until it is too late.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
I stood in front of the hallowed hall of learning and looked down at my white ballet flats, now splashed with mud and decorated by little smudges of green from the squishy grass I had just trudged through. There was mud on the cuffs of my jeans too. A great way to start the day.
“Elizabeth Hannigan! Welcome to Shank High! I’m Preston. Preston Deene. I’m your student mentor and I’ll be helping you find your way around here today.”
For a moment, I thought the overexcited boy in front of me might implode with the thrill of his assignment. Perhaps if I hadn’t met about 15 other ‘mentors’ in the past couple years, I would have been more impressed with his performance, but as it was, I just wanted to find my classes and slink to the back, remaining invisible for as long as possible.
Preston, Preston Deene’s hand was outstretched in friendly welcome, though as I continued to ignore it the gesture became increasingly wilted. As his cheerful expression faltered I sighed and gave in.
“Hi, Preston. Call me Liz.” I placed my gloved hand in his and shook, doing my best to reward his persistence with a smile. He looked askance at the glove, but didn’t ask any of the usual awkward questions and just grinned fiercely, probably relieved that I had finally responded.
“Ok, so…uh, Liz. Your locker. Let’s hit that first, and then I’ll get you to your class.” He gestured for me to start walking and paced along at my side. We continued in uneasy silence until my overly chipper guide halted in front of a locker in the center of the hall. He chuckled at the number, 665.
“Boy, you’re lucky you missed the next number, huh? Bet that locker’s cursed or something.” He gave a casual laugh and I took a closer look at him, surprised to see that for the first time I hadn’t been assigned an overachieving computer geek.
Preston was tall and solid-looking; I was willing to bet he was on the basketball team. His hair was blond and shaggy, hanging just below his chin, softening somewhat sharp, pointed features. All in all, he was probably the kind of boy who coasted through high school on moderate good looks and athletic talent; typically harmless and generally uninteresting.
He handed me the slip of paper with the locker combination on it and I fumbled with the padlock until it popped open. I sighed in exasperation; it was one of those stupid half-lockers shared with another student. The top half was empty, so I placed the afternoon textbooks I was given on the clean shelf and hung up my jacket. Slinging my messenger bag back over my shoulder, I slammed the door shut and turned to the still eager Preston. Repressing the urge to roll my eyes and groan, I stood quietly waiting for the next exciting development in our tour.
“Ok, well then, let’s get to your first period. We’re a little late, but Mr. Tesh won’t care.” He glanced down at my schedule. “Hey, it looks like we have two classes together; gym and English. We can sit together in English, and if you need a partner in gym I’d be happy to help you out.”
I just bet you would, I thought. Like every other male mentor I’ve had, Preston had that same ‘I got dibs on the new girl’ look on his face. I gave him a noncommittal smile and trudged along at his side, resigning myself to the usual stares, humiliating remarks about the strangeness of my wardrobe, and barrage of well-meaning representatives from every social group in the cafeteria. When you’ve been to as many high schools as I have, you know the drill.
After an interminable walk through a labyrinth of identical hallways smelling strongly of bleach, we ended up in front of the typical wooden door with its thin rectangular mesh-screen window.
“Ready?” Preston asked with a raised eyebrow. I nodded solemnly and he opened the door. As predicted, the class was already in full swing and of course every head turned to watch me enter. Preston led me to the teacher, who was standing in front of the whiteboard clutching a marker looking confused and hurt, as though by interrupting his class I had insulted him personally.
Mr. Tesh was short, stocky, and balding; a few last, defiant hairs greased across the top of his head in an unfortunate mimicry of every Wal-Mart manager I’ve ever seen. Preston handed him my paperwork and stood silently as Tesh reviewed my information. After a moment he looked up at me with more confidence and nodded a dismissal to Preston. My guide backed out the door, giving me an encouraging wave and engaging in a little manly shoulder punching with a boy in the front row. I shifted my bag on my shoulder and waited for instructions.
“Class, we have a new student. This is…” Mr. Tesh squinted at my name on the paper in some consternation, apparently defeated by the small type.
“It’s Elizabeth, but I go by Liz, sir.” I decided to help him out, doing anything I could to speed up the process of the uncomfortable introduction. He nodded gratefully and began again.
“This is Liz Hannigan. She’s joining us rather late in the term, so hopefully some of you will help her get caught up.” He glared at the class intently, willing them to behave like human beings for a change. After a lengthy moment of scrutiny, Mr. Tesh finally gestured to an empty desk in the exact center of the room. I would be placed in just the right spot for everyone to stare at me.
Just what I live for.
I took my seat and immediately tried to become less conspicuous; after a few moments of avoiding eye contact by studiously staring at my pencil, I felt the myriad eyes shift back to the front of the room and let out the breath I’d been holding. Finally looking up, I caught the eye of the guy sitting diagonally in front of me. He was turned around completely in his desk, apparently not worried about being yelled at for not paying attention. He had a knowing smile on his face and I steeled myself, guessing what was coming.
“Hey, new girl,” he whispered in what he thought was a sultry voice. “Wanna have a study session?” He smirked and I rolled my eyes; I’m sure he thought he was being original, but I had heard every variation on this line in existence. It never failed that on the first day I would be picked out by the obligatory hot jerk as easy meat, be subjected to derogatory remarks from the trademark “mean girls,” and eventually end up eating lunch alone in whatever corner of the school I managed to hide in.
I was exhausted by the process. High school was redundant for me anyway. I already knew more than the faculty at Shank High in the economically depressed town of Pound, West Virginia, could ever possibly teach me. Only my father’s insistence that I would draw less attention as a normal high school st
udent than an eccentric recluse kept me locked in the endless cycle. At the age of 16, I could qualify for a doctoral degree in any subject I chose, never mind a high school diploma.
I ignored my unwanted admirer, despite his persistence in whispering increasingly obscene suggestions at me, and finally, predictably, he called me a frigid bitch and left me alone. With a sigh of relief, I turned my attention to Mr. Tesh, discovering belatedly that I was in a history class, presently focused on the American Revolution.
As the class progressed I began to feel sorry for Mr. Tesh. He obviously cared deeply about his subject, but his attempts to elicit discussion were thwarted by his pupils’ indifference. When he asked ‘who was Thomas Paine’ and got no response, I caved.
“Yes, Miss Hannigan?” His wistful look as he responded to my raised hand was painful to see.
“Paine was the author of Common Sense, a pamphlet distributed to American colonists that advocated independence from Britain and was used to incite the revolution. Later, his highly popular Rights of Man became the foundation for the Enlightenment and was instrumental in inspiring the French Revolution.”
As soon as the words left my mouth I was sorry; the dawning hope on Mr. Tesh’s face and the baffled looks from my peers told me I had drawn attention to myself with my textbook answer, the last thing I wanted to do. I cursed inwardly, appalled at my blunder so early in the game. Usually it took several weeks for me to get on the faculty’s radar, and a few more months before they were recommending me for early graduation and college interviews. Each time I had to move I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happen again, I would keep my mouth shut and fake my tests by purposely putting down mediocre answers. But every time it became impossible; it was as though the information that was stuffed in my brain was constantly seeking a way out and side-stepped my intentions at every turn.
I kept quiet for the rest of the class, avoiding the teacher’s eye as he continually sought me out after every question. By the time the period ended, I was actually glad to see Preston’s blond locks outside the door and dashed to meet him before anyone else could corner me. Unfortunately, he misread my flight for eagerness and gave me his homespun grin, taking my arm in his in an old-fashioned gesture. I recoiled from his touch and yanked my arm away reflexively, feeling chagrined as I took in his stricken expression.
Despite the gloves and long sleeves, the jeans and scarves, I was always terrified of touching. There was always the chance that somehow the protection of clothes would be breached and there would be that dreaded moment of skin on skin, when there would be no defense against the onslaught of information from which I could never escape. Since awakening from the accident four years ago, every instinct I had told me to avoid contact at all costs, never let anyone get close, and run if they did.
Acknowledgements
First off, let me just thank all who took a chance on a self-published author and picked up my book. It’s absolutely terrifying to take something you’ve put so much work into, so much love and effort, and throw it out to sea, hoping that someone will notice and grab hold. So thanks to all the readers, please stick with me and support other indie authors as well.
I’ve got to thank my parents for being so supportive. They read everything I write and always give me honest, constructive feedback. They are my editors, my biggest cheerleaders, and have put up with me yammering on about all the various characters trying to get space in my head for years now. I love them so much and am beyond lucky to have such a great support system.
I also need to thank my Uncle Frank, super-cop, who checked over my book for inconsistencies and gave me some great advice about making the murder investigation more believable. He is one of many in my family who have been supportive and uncomplaining beta-readers, so thanks!
Also a big thanks to the people at the information desk in Harpers Ferry for not calling the cops on me when I asked questions about pushing people off a bridge.
Thanks also go to Carrie-Ann, who has modeled for the covers of both of my books, as well as McKean for lending a hand.
Being a self-published author is kind of like staggering around an obstacle course in the dark, and there are many people who help to shed light when I need it. Thanks to all the bloggers who have hosted my books and recommended them, and all the reviewers who have been so kind. And thanks so much to all the other indie authors out there who have paved the way and keep inspiring others to follow their examples. Keep the lights burning.
Instinct Page 27
