Today is my stop on the Follow Me blog tour, and althoigh I have started and enjoyed what I have read so far of this book, sudden work commitments have literally stopped my reading process :(
HOwever...
The lovely, lovely team at Avon have provided me with a really exciting excerpt of the book for you to enjoy...
LIKE. SHARE. FOLLOW . . . DIE
The ‘Hashtag Murderer’ posts chilling cryptic clues online, pointing to their next target. Taunting the police. Enthralling the press. Capturing the public’s imagination.
But this is no virtual threat.
As the number of his followers rises, so does the body count.
Eight years ago two young girls did something unforgivable. Now ambitious police officer Nasreen and investigative journalist Freddie are thrown together again in a desperate struggle to catch this cunning, fame-crazed killer. But can they stay one step ahead of him? And can they escape their own past?
Time's running out. Everyone is following the #Murderer. But what if he is following you?
ONLINE, NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM …
Excerpt
IDK – I Don’t Know
19:26
Saturday 31 October
Alun Mardling’s face,
his eyes wide and bloodshot, loomed. His
hand, bloody and cold,
reached for hers. There was a thud. Freddie
jolted. It was dark. She
was sweat-soaked. Fabric was wrapped
around her, a shroud.
Her eyes struggled to focus.
Where was she?
Freddie could hear
Mardling’s blood dripping onto the floor. No!
No, it was the kitchen
tap. She was home. Alone. Another boom
shook through her skull.
Ajay? They’d left the bar. There’d been
a bottle of wine in the
park. Some cans. How’d she got home?
She groped for her
glasses.
Her head reverberated with another
bang.
The door.
Someone
was hammering on the door. Ajay? Her
flatmates? She stumbled
out of bed, grabbed the nearest thing:
her H&M Espress-oh’s
shirt, still half-buttoned, she pulled it over
her head. Dizzying
herself with the effort.
Her eyes were stuck at
the corners, she followed the crystallised
salt tracks with her
fingers. Peeling her Sellotaped tongue from the
roof of her mouth, she
managed: ‘Coming!’ The word was wet,
sodden, heavy, though
her mouth was dry.
Everywhere was darkness.
Another thud landed on
her like a punch. How much sleep?
Still drunk.
Boom: her
mind shook with fragments of memory.
She tried to rub the
image of Mardling’s body from her eyes with
her fingers.
Would
a murderer knock?
‘Freddie Venton!’ a male
voice shouted from the other side.
Bailiffs?
Like before.
She tried to formulate her thoughts, sort them
into order. What was she
to say? The Mac was P-something’s. A
flatmate’s. They
couldn’t take it.
‘Freddie Venton, open
up!’ The noise crashed like thunder over
her head. Stumbling, she
got a hand on the lock, pulled.
Light from the hallway
sent her reeling back.
Nas was there, in a
black trouser suit, white shirt. Her dark hair
swept up away from her
face.
Chocolate eyes flashing in creamy
whites. She had chunky
boots on.
Next to her: the blue puffa
jacket guy who’d been
with her at St Pancras.
Up close, Freddie
could see his blonde
hair was silvering, thinning, probably why
he had it shaved to a
bristly number one. Unfortunately his closecropped
hair accentuated the
square shape of his head. He looked
like a Lego man. He was
in pale pink shirtsleeves, jeans, glowing
white trainers: ready to
pounce. She could see their mouths open
and close like fish.
The
air pressed upon her, heavy, as if she were
underwater, words
bubbled toward her.
Don’t. Be. Sick.
‘Venton…you…connection…harm…defence.’
Their fish
words didn’t fit
together.
‘Nas?’
What was puffa saying?
Concentrate on breathing.
Don’t. Be. Sick. In. Out. In.
Nas’s hands gripped her
shoulders. Anchoring her. ‘Freddie? Do
you understand? You have
to come with us?’ Freddie nodded. Her
brain shrank away from
her skull, dehydrated, a husk. Nasreen’s
face came into focus.
She looked older. Colder. Distant. ‘Put some
trousers on,’ Nasreen said.
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