Better Left Buried by Emma Haughton

By Emma Haughton

Brother useless.
Best buddy missing.
House ransacked.
Stalked through a stranger.
Attacked within the street...

...And Sarah has no notion why.

She by no means knew her brother used to be hiding a dismal mystery whilst he died. yet now his reckless activities have led the wolves to her door. And the one means out is to run.

A stressful, unnerving mystery that may set your center racing, from the writer of NOW you spot ME.

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Additional resources for Better Left Buried

Example text

As a writer, I know how the right bad word at a crucial moment can purge ugly emotions and relieve emotional tension. As a guy who has been forced to struggle to survive almost as long as he has been alive, I also know that no word—even a really, really bad word—can prevent a blunt object from splitting your skull if it is swung with enthusiasm and makes contact. So having been driven to my knees by the second blow, and with my skull ringing as though the hunchback of Notre Dame were inside my head and pulling maniacally on bell ropes, I said the bad word, but I also lunged forward as best I could and grabbed my assailant by the ankles.

But I doubted that anyone patrolling the beach would have been able to catch sight of me in the deepening gloom. Nevertheless, when not throwing myself headlong into trouble and leaping off piers, I am a prudent young man. I suspected I would be wise to ascend farther into the webwork of wood. In some cozy high redoubt, I would roost until the thugs decided that I had drowned. When they went away to raise a toast to my death in whatever greasy barroom or opium den their kind frequented, I would safely go ashore and return home, where Hutch would be washing his face in sanitizing gel and waiting for the tsunami.

I propped the flashlight on his chest. Because his head was raised on a mound of sand, the bright beam bathed him from chin to hairline. If something like Godzilla woke in a Pacific abyss and decided to come ashore to flatten our picturesque community, this guy’s face would dissuade it from a rampage, and the scaly beast would return meekly to the peace of the deeps. With the fog-diffused lights of town to guide me, I slogged across the wide beach. I did not proceed directly east. Perhaps Flashlight Guy had told the pier crew that he was on the shore due west of some landmark, by which they could find him.

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