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The words just keep coming.

And I’m here for it. I’m here for all of it.

Perhaps it’s because I see myself in my main character. The way her desire for revenge has become synonymous with justice. Of course, I have to sprinkle a few horror elements into the equation. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a Max Usher book.

Still, at its core, it’s a tale as old as time—a woman wronged, seeking her comeuppance.

I haven’t stopped smiling once since I sat down in this chair and opened my manuscript.

Of course, there are parts of the story that hit a little too close to home, but that’s just the price you have to pay for creating meaningful art. You always leave a little part of yourself on the page. Tiny pieces of your soul woven between the words. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make as long as the muse remains at my side.

I want to hold on to this euphoric feeling for as long as I can.

God knows I’ve missed it.

If I keep going at this rate, I might just finish the whole first draft before I have to return home to New York.

EEEK!

Just the thought of finally typing The End on a new book has me practically bouncing in my chair. For someone who’s spent the better part of a year struggling to string together one decent sentence, the idea of finishing an entire book has me downright giddy.

And I’m not the only one excited about it.

After reading the first three chapters, my editor is practically foaming at the mouth for more, claiming this is the best thing I’ve ever written. Usually, that kind of praise would just pile a shit ton of unwanted pressure onto my shoulders.

But not this time. This time, I’m owning it.

There’s just something about this story. Something that speaks to me on a visceral level.

I don’t even want to question where the inspiration is coming from. I don’t care. All that matters is that it’s here, right at my fingertips, and somehow, this character chose me as the vessel to bring her story to life.

There’s something intoxicating about writing a story that feels so completely, unequivocally yours.

Like no one else could have written it but you.

And right now, I never want this feeling to end.

After finishing my fifth chapter, I send them all to Cathie. Five chapters in one day should be enough to prove to her that staying in Fairhope a little longer isn’t the most terrible idea I’ve had.

Of course, she doesn’t know about Sydney yet. And by the way she reacted this morning when I told her Jordan kicked the bucket, I’m still debating whether I should tell her what went down at brunch.

She’ll only worry if I do. Cathie is ridiculously superstitious, and two deaths in as many days will be all the proof she needs that Fairhope is cursed. She’ll insist I get the hell out of Dodge, and call me nonstop until I finally give in, get in my car, and put this town in my rearview mirror.

However, I’m not ready to do that yet. With the words coming as easily as they are, the last thing I need is Cathie breathing down my back, urging me to go home.

Nope. I’ll just pretend that nothing major happened today. Telling a little white lie to a friend is preferable to turning my back on my muse.

Next, I pull up an email to Lauren, eager to show her that Max Usher is not only back, but she’s back with a bang.

But before I attach the chapters, a title pops into my head.

Dead Girls Don’t Lie.

I linger on the words for all of three seconds before opening the manuscript and renaming the file from “Untitled WIP” to Dead Girls Don’t Lie.

It’s perfect. Maybe a little dark considering everything that’s happened recently, but for the story?

It fits like a lid on a coffin.