Her Final Words, Emily Slate FBI Mystery Series - Book 4

Special Agent Emily Slate has seen her fair share of death ever since joining the FBI. But never anything like this…

Emily’s most recent case brings her to a sleepy New York town to investigate the gruesome death of a fellow FBI agent. Except when she arrives, Emily discovers this was no home invasion gone wrong. This was a calculated kill, undertaken by a disturbed and brutal individual.

As Emily begins her investigation, the trail leads to a local author, who the killer is using as inspiration for his kills; copying details from the author’s books as templates on how to kill his victims. As the bodies pile up and the danger grows ever closer, Emily begins to suspect the author herself may be the killer’s ultimate target.

But just as Emily thinks she has a handle on things, her own husband’s killer surfaces with a warning for Emily. One that will turn everything she knows upside down…

They say the pen is mightier than the sword.
But the blade is far sharper than the pen...

This entire series will grab up and pull.you over all the.books at a break neck speed. Anxiously awaiting the next Installment.

~S.B. Jackson, Amazon

- Fast paced, original and we'll edited. I read avg 40 novels a month and having found this series out it too rated. Complex but realistic writing that could not put down once started reading.

~Murphy’s Mom, Amazon

“Goodnight,” I say, hesitating in the doorway a moment longer than I should. He gives me a sweet smile before tucking his hands in his pockets and trundling down the stairs back out to the parking lot. The sound of fireworks pierces the night. They’ll probably be going for a while longer, at least. But thankfully, no one in this neighborhood seems intent on setting off explosives for the country’s birthday. I close the door, thinking back on the evening. Dinner, dancing, and a good conversation. It was practically the perfect date. That man definitely had a swagger about him, but it wasn’t obnoxious. It was that endearing kind of confidence you only find in someone you truly connect with. I’m used to people pissing me off; he wasn’t one of them.

I remove my light jacket and toss it on one of the chairs in the apartment as I head inside, slipping off my heels at the same time. I’m usually not so smitten, but that man’s eyes could melt platinum if he stared at it long enough. And given my track record the past few months, it was nice to finally have some intelligent conversation for once, rather than just watch the guy stare at my rack all night.

But he never broke eye contact the entire night. I don’t know why I put this off for so long. He’s been hinting at taking me out ever since we started working in the same office together. Maybe it’s because of the kind of work we do; I’d heard inter-departmental relationships rarely worked, because of the stress of the job. With two people everything is compounded—squared, not doubled, and the pressure gets to be too much. Maybe that’s still in our future, I don’t know. But right now, I know things are good…good enough that I’m going to need a second date sooner rather than later.

I head into my kitchen, my thoughts swimming with the events of the evening. He was so charming. Part of it was his old-fashioned demeanor, but that wasn’t all. He really listened, and was engaged, the entire evening. And he wasn’t pushy, didn’t try to cross my boundaries, and kept a respectable distance. And I think that’s what made the entire thing even hotter. The brief moment when he placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me to the dance floor, I felt an honest-to-god jolt of electricity. We both stayed in perfect rhythm out there, anticipating one another’s moves, keeping in time with the music while taking our cues off each other.

I haven’t felt like that in a long time.

I grab a bottled water out of my fridge and down half of it in one gulp. I’m dehydrated not only from all the dancing, but the two glasses of wine at dinner. Most guys, when we go out, take the opportunity to try and order some manly drink—something they think makes them look cool and sophisticated. But he just had a tonic water, telling me he didn’t want anything that might affect his memory or experience of me. He wanted to remember every second of it.

I set the bottle down. I think I might be in trouble here. Heading back over to my purse, I check my phone. It’s already eleven-thirty. Damn. I need to talk to Sophie but I’m sure she’s sound asleep by now. My sister isn’t a night owl. She’s one of those annoyingly-upbeat morning people who likes to be out of the bed at the crack of dawn. Which means this will have to wait until morning.

Part of me is wired while the other part is exhausted; it’s like my body can’t decide which. I need to wind down, though, or I’ll never get to sleep. Those deep blue eyes keep invading my thoughts and I can’t help but be a little disappointed that he didn’t even try to come in for a nightcap. All I got was the tender brush of his lips against mine—brief, but full of so much potential—before he had pulled away, his lips quirked in a smile. It was as if the promise of that kiss had ignited something far fierier than anything else ever could, and he knew it.

Somehow, it was like he knew my weakness was for men like him; men who weren’t afraid to communicate and be honest, who weren’t so self-absorbed. And who were surprisingly rare these days. How many dates have I been on? And how many times has the guy ended up either talking about himself all night, or been distracted by whatever sports game happening at the moment, or couldn’t quit talking about his ex who he missed more than life itself? I had grown so tired of it that tonight had been an unexpected breath of fresh air. Enough to even give me a glimmer of hope that maybe all of this wasn’t for nothing after all.

I consider switching on the TV and just falling asleep on the couch, which was something I’ve taken to doing more and more these days. Sometimes it’s just easier to distract myself with the sound of the TV rather than lie in the darkness of my bedroom, my mind swirling with the events of the previous day. Some days they’re bad enough to give me nightmares for weeks, so the couch had been my go-to in times of crisis.

But tonight I wasn’t thinking about the gruesome aspects of my job. In fact, I felt at peace for the first time in months—maybe even years. I guess all it takes is finding that one special person you know your heart needs to help everything fall into place.

Then again, I don’t want to get ahead of myself. But if I was reading all of his signals correctly, then I see a lot more dates in our future.

I leave my water bottle on my small breakfast table and head into my bedroom, anxious to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable. I can already tell I’m going to sleep great tonight, though I wonder if work on Monday will be awkward. I know there’s no hard and fast rule, but we’ll probably have to tell Warburton, just so he can make a record of it for the department. And I’ll be sure to expect no lack of teasing from my other colleagues. But what can I say? It wasn’t a bad decision at all and I’m not going to pretend like it’s something to be ashamed of.

The real test will be to see how he acts.

I have to stop myself. If I allow my mind to run free, I’ll make up a thousand hypotheticals before I even get halfway to sleep. I’d much rather ruminate on the memory of the night than make up what I think might happen in the next few days.

Maybe instead of texting Sophie I’ll go visit her in the city. Sundays are usually pretty light for her and Zaid; I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. At least for brunch if nothing else. Something this serious needs to be discussed face-to-face over brunch, a couple of poorly worded text fragments won’t cut it.

I glance around for my phone, only to realize I’ve left it back in the living room, in my purse. I should probably grab that water too, just to have by the bed in case I need it.

When I step back into the living room, it takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. The dark shape in front of me, however, doesn’t hesitate, and instead swings something long and sharp in my direction. I barely have time to duck as it slices through the air over my head.

All I can think is I need to get to my service weapon that’s in my bedside table. But before I can even turn, the shape has swung again, and this time the bar connects with my side, knocking me off my feet and sending me sprawling to the ground. My mind is awash with thoughts about how they got in here so silently, or how they could have gotten the jump on me. I can’t see their face, it’s shrouded under a hoodie and mask, but I feel their rage. Their frame is medium; if I can get some leverage, I might be able to take them one-on-one. But if I don’t do something quick, this person is going to kill me.

I kick as hard as I can with one foot as they approach, which connects with a kneecap. They groan and stagger back, but I’m not sure I’ve done any real damage. All I’ve done is bought myself some time. I just need to get to my bedroom and—

Pain explodes across my head as my vision temporarily goes white. I lose all sense of what is going on around me as the room slowly comes back into view, though its spinning. At this point I can barely think straight, and my mind is awash with random bits of a thousand thoughts. I realize I’m looking up as I can see the blades of my ceiling fan. To my right is my television, mounted on the wall. To my left, the end table Sophie gave me as a house-warming gift. And above me stands the shape, only their eyes visible. I finally see what’s in their hand: it’s a fire poker, the kind you would use with an old-fashioned fireplace to stoke the logs.

But that doesn’t make sense. I don’t even have a fireplace. I never have because they are too much trouble. The soot gets everywhere. I remember helping my grandpa shovel it out every morning after he’d had a fire burning. The ashes went in a special bag…that much I recall.

I realize I can’t move. Or if I can, I can’t feel it, because I try to raise my hands and they don’t appear in my vision. Part of me knows something is very wrong; that all of this shouldn’t be happening. And some small part of me holds out for hope that I might still be able to get to my bedroom. But I’ve been a federal agent for almost five years now, and the practical part of my brain tells me this is already over. That this person has me and what feels like is taking forever in my brain is actually only taking milliseconds out in the real world. What’s happening is I’m experiencing the final moments of my life, and my brain is firing on all cylinders as it’s confronted with the certainty of its own mortality.

My mind rushes through the entire evening again, start to finish, and I’m able to experience the rush of endorphins for a fleeting moment, causing me to let out a gasp before I see the shape grasp the poker with both hands and drive it down, the spike aimed straight at my face.

Books in The Emily Slate FBI Mystery Series