It all starts with a lie… 👀

Well, look who’s here! Thrill-seekers, suspense lovers, and fans of all things twisty—I’ve got something special for you.

The wait is over, and I’m sharing an exclusive sneak peek at No Good Deed—the prologue, no less. Consider it a little taste of the tension, deception, and dark secrets waiting for you in this wild ride of a thriller.

Dive in, if you dare—but don’t say I didn’t warn you: once you start, there’s no turning back.

---

❝ He’s watching me. I can feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Like a predator studying its prey. He knows I see through him, and I think it’s starting to get under his skin. But I’m not scared. I’ve dealt with worse men than him. ❞

---

Prologue

November 21, 1987

Life has a way of shattering your heart but sharpening your vision.

I stand over him in the dark as he lies sleeping, and I am certain. This is one of those moments. The scene is painfully familiar—he’s sprawled across the bed, the neon glow of the alarm clock etching 2:14 a.m. into the shadows. My bare soles prickle against the fresh carpet. I fear every detail will brand itself into my memory like a hot iron against flesh, leaving a permanent, ominous mark.

The hammer dangles from my grip, its familiar weight now tinged with apprehension. It feels like reconnecting with an old friend who harbors a dark secret. The cold steel presses against my skin, a visceral reminder of the line I’m about to cross. But I can’t dwell on that now. Nor can I change my mind.

I hover over his sleeping body, the hammer poised just above his knee, ready to break bone and flesh. It’s almost poetic—while he sleeps, he finds peace, a respite from the turmoil that consumes him when he’s awake. Not that most people see it. He’s too careful, too calculated, a sociopath with a day planner.

But I see through his facade of normalcy. I know his true nature. The charm, the lies—they may have trapped me before, but the veil has been lifted. Now, there’s only one action left to take. Well, two, if you count couples’ counseling, but let’s be realistic.

Pressure mounts in my chest, like a caged bird battering against my ribs. The red numbers on the alarm clock pulse in sync with each heartbeat, ticking off the last moments before I cross the point of no return. Each second stretches like a taut wire, pulling tighter, vibrating with the tension of what I’m about to do.

I tighten my grip on the hammer, my knuckles turning white with the force of my resolve. With one swift motion, I bring it down. The gleaming blur of silver connects with his knee, followed by a sickening crunch. His eyes snap open, and he screams in agony. But I’m already moving. Years of pent-up rage and betrayal fuel me.

I target his elbows, his ribs, his other knee. Each strike is deliberate, a twisted dance of revenge, set to the rhythm of his screams. He’s no stranger to causing pain; now the tables have turned.

Exhilaration hits—foreign and electric. I step back to admire my handiwork. Blood drips from the hammer as he writhes on the bed, a broken shell of the man who held me captive for years. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, I see the surprise, then the realization, flicker in his gaze—the horror of what I’ve become.

Then, as always, reality crashes in. The blood vanishes in an instant. His bruises disappear, and suddenly he’s sitting up—completely unharmed. My fantasy slips away, and I am left standing there, my breath caught in my throat. Confusion flickers into alarm as he demands to know what I’m doing standing over him in the dark.

I freeze, a surge of adrenaline pulsing through my veins, knowing he very well may kill me for this. For sure, his retaliation will be swift.

The hammer slips from my grip, hitting the ground with a soft thump that reverberates around the room. An electric charge fills the air as I grapple with my next move.

He shuffles off the bed, his eyes locked onto mine. The space between us is thick with accusation and betrayal, a gaping wound that I know will never heal.

I take a step back, the flicker of fear in his eyes fueling my desire to take the hammer and finish what I’ve started. To let out all the rage that’s been building inside me for far too long.

But something stops me. It’s the look in his eyes, the intensity of it, the realization that whatever comes next will be decided not by what I’ve done, but by what I haven’t.

Then I see it for sure. He’s going to kill me. The promise is clear in his eyes. I may not be able to finish the job, but he always does. I think of the few reasons I still have to live, enough to keep me from his victory.

Slowly, I reach down, my fingers closing around the handle of the hammer once more. I rise to my feet and meet his gaze with a wicked smile.

The hammer hangs at my side as I tilt my head, eyes locked on his. “They say the most dangerous enemy is the one you underestimate.” I take a slow step forward. “And you have underestimated me for the last time.”

His eyes flicker—for just a second—but it’s gone. His smirk returns, twisting into something mocking. His hand slides beneath the pillow. My pulse pounds in my ears when he pulls out a gleaming revolver, aiming it straight at me. His smirk widens.

“Silly girl.” He lifts the gun higher. “Don’t you know? You don’t bring a hammer to a gunfight.”

Want to make sure you never miss a post? Sign up to have them delivered straight to your inbox.

---