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Hi. I’m Megan Speece
I write thrilling and spooky tales for enjoyment (both yours and mine). I’ve been a fan of all things horror and thriller for as long as I can remember, and have a notebook full of ideas to add my own flair to the genre.
When I’m not writing, you can catch me on skates with the local Roller Derby team, belly dancing with my best friend, or searching for the sun with my husband and dog.
Pretty Little Wife was a delightful mystery with a great twist. The main character, though morally ambiguous at best, managed to be somewhat sympathetic. I did guess pieces of the big twist early on, but I think we’re meant to because the foreshadowing is pretty heavy. Eagle eyed readers may catch hints of the truth, but they were so small that I simply disregarded them. That had me saying “ohhhhhhh” out loud by the time I got to the climax.
I was hooked from the very beginning and finished this book in record time for me. I found myself telling my husband that I just wanted to read because I had to know what happened.
Overall, I give it four stars. Excellent story, but the main character’s apathy and stoicism were a bit of a turn off for me.
Charles Benson lived alone in a stately old manor on the outskirts of town. Alone was how he preferred to be. He’d spent time living with roommates in college, and he’d shared hotel rooms and cramped bus spaces with his fellow musicians of a traveling orchestra. As far as Charles was concerned, he’d paid his dues, and now he deserved the quiet and solitude of this old place. He made his way to the ballroom, yes, a ballroom. It was part of what had attracted Charles to the property. The house was a bit run down, it had sat empty for nearly a decade before he’d come along with his life’s savings. He was still working on replacing fixtures, repairing cracked walls, and painting peeling crown molding. All of that was worth the ballroom, with it’s beautiful wooden floors, ornate rococo inspired trim, and many floor to ceiling windows that filled the room with natural light. The room was dark as he walked into it, stars winking in at him from the grounds outside. He hit the light switch, and took in the majesty of the blue and gold paint, the floors now gleaming after a clean and wax. His gaze landed on the black lacquered grand piano in the center of the room. When he’d toured the house, this had been the image in his mind. His beautiful piano at home in the center of a room as grand as it. The acoustics in this room were made for live music, and he hummed happily to himself as the fingers of one hand slid along the top of the piano in a loving caress. He set a small tumbler containing his whiskey, neat, on a coaster atop the piano as he took his place on the bench. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes, his fingers settling gently on the keys. And then Charles Benson began to play. He lost himself to the music and the way it filled the large space and bounced back at him, each note the gentle caress of a lover as it passed him by on its way to a silent death. He sat like that, eyes closed, playing a complicated classical piece for ten minutes. He opened his eyes as the last note wavered, clinging to the air, begging to stay in existence. He let out a small sigh, content and ready to retire for the evening, but as he reached for his glass, someone clapped.
The moving truck came in the middle of the night and was gone before the first crest of the sun rose over the distant mountains. A small girl by the name of Vanessa Peters watched the moving crew move impossibly fast as they unloaded large antique furniture into the house in the middle of the lane. She told her mother of the truck, the men who moved so fast they were a blur. Her mother placated her with many uh-huhs and wows as the Vanessa babbled on over her pancakes and orange juice. Her fathers eyes twinkled as he listened, hiding his face behind the newspaper to keep from showing his daughter the laughter.
Mrs. Peters bent down to kiss Mr. Peters, and whispered against his cheek, “Such an imagination.”
“Such a fun age,” Mr. Peters responded.
It wasn’t until Mr. Peters left for work that he realized that Vanessa’s ramblings about her midnight witnessing weren’t necessarily the remnants of a fantastical dream. For, there, in the driveway of 418 Geranium Way, was a sports convertible, gleaming black in the morning sun. He called his wife to tell her that someone, indeed, had moved into the house in the middle of the lane in the middle of the night.
Mrs. Peters called every Mrs. in the neighborhood and by ten in the morning, they all stood on the sidewalk, across from 418 Geranium Way, discussing the new neighbors that no one had yet seen. At eleven, a woman exited the front door and marched across the street, a wide smile stretched across her pale face. She wore skirt suit in a dark red that looked beautiful against her ghostly skin and dark brown curls. The lipstick shade matched perfectly, the eye makeup was understated. She accessorized with plain gold jewelry at her wrist and ears, and a strand of white pearls that held a heavy red jewel.
Mrs. Peters stepped forward and offered her hand to the newcomer, who shook it readily. “Hi, I’m Lillian, I live in 421, just there kitty corner to you,” Mrs. Peters said.
“Elizabeth Sutton. It’s nice to meet you. You all bring out quite the welcome wagon,” Elizabeth gestured at the group of women. Her face was calm and pleasant, the smile still plastered in place, but there was something sarcastic in her tone. As if she said “I see you being nosy, now knock it off.” A flutter of unease drifted through the group, though they laughed easily and smiled at the newcomer.
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