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Informationen zum Autor Carolyn Lee Adams is originally from the Seattle area, which is known for serial killers and those who write about them. She attended USC film school and graduated with a BFA in screenwriting. Ruthless is her debut novel. When she isn't exploring the dark side of human nature in her writing, you'll find her on stage as a stand-up comedian. Because those things go together. Klappentext "When Ruth is kidnapped, she's determined not to become this serial-killer's next trophy. After she's able to escape, her captor begins stalking her through the wilderness"--Ruthless CHAPTER ONE I CAN’T SEE. I DON’T know why I can't see. I do know I was just dreaming. Running in a white dress through a field of wildflowers, no less. It was like a commercial for laundry detergent or tampons or a prescription medication that has death listed as a possible side effect. The dream is embarrassing, but it’s better than the here and now. I try to crawl back into the dream, but it won’t have me. Reality rushes in, faster and faster, chasing the dream away, replacing it with complete and utter darkness. I need to open my eyes. I don’t know anything else, but I know that. I try to open them. Nothing happens. Just blackness. Don’t panic. Think. Thinking is hard and I know why. Concussion. My fourth one. First two came courtesy of falling off horses. The third was the result of a PE flag-football game gone awry. I forgot about the flags, tackled a guy three times my size. His heel cracked against my forehead, but he didn’t get the touchdown. Focus. Did I fall off Tucker? Somehow that seems wrong, seems impossible. I look for the memory, knowing it has to be around here somewhere. Tucker has an abscess in his right front hoof. He’s on stall rest. Did I fall off another horse? That doesn’t seem right either. But it seems the most likely. So what next? And why can’t I see? Check if anything is broken. I start with my toes. They wiggle. I can feel them. This is good. It seems they’re inside boots, so maybe I did fall off a horse. My legs are oddly stiff, like they’re too heavy to move. I try to bend a knee, but it isn’t happening. My right arm is a no go. There’s pain there. A lot of pain. It’s dulled by the concussion, but that arm is a sleeping bear I don’t want to prod. Luckily, I’m left-handed. The left arm isn’t hurt, but it also doesn’t want to move. Not as bad as the legs, though, or the injured right arm. I think this left arm can get me somewhere. Time to summon the will to move it. Take a deep breath. . . . Dirt falls into my mouth. Not dirt. Manure and shavings, something spiky. It’s hay. Hay and shavings and manure. I feel it now, pressing up against my neck and jaw, against my body and legs. It’s dangerously close to my nose, and it’s why I can’t move. It’s pressing down on me, pinning me in place. Adrenaline hits my bloodstream. I fight my left arm free, dig the muck away from my mouth, and take a swallow of clean air. Slow your breathing. Slow it down. Do it. Nothing but air. It’s all I think about for several minutes. I calm down, and the adrenaline ebbs away. I want to fall back to sleep. Sleep is soothing. Quiet. Peaceful. There’s a field of wildflowers on the other side of sleep. No. I have to fight the concussion. I need to open my eyes. Maybe the dirt was pressed against my eyes. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t see. Hope gives me new energy. I try again, and get nowhere. Maybe I don’t have eyes anymore. True fear now. For the first time. My thinking is clear enough for real, raw, primal fear to si...
