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This is an excerpt from the first novel I wrote early last year. I’m not even sure this scene will make it into the final draft, or if there will ever be a final draft. I dusted this section off and tweaked it for this week’s story.

The genre is probably romantic suspense. You have no idea how hard it is for me to cop to that, but the characters came to me in a dream and started talking in my head–so not kidding here–and I followed where they led me. And I have no aspirations to be a literary writer, anyway. I read and enjoy genre fiction. Anyway, this is really a tiny sliver of a story about surviving horrible tragedies and how those who have suffered and made it through can help those who are in the trenches through their darkest times. Now that I think about it, my second novel-in-progress is really about this, too. Nicely played, brain.

Anyway, I’ve never written suspense before; let me know how I did (without being a dick about it, preferably).

She sprinted across the sand, barely noticing the bits of shell and sticks jabbing into her bare feet. She didn’t dare look back, not wanting to lose any ground to him. She was fast and in shape, but she had no idea where her pursuer was or how quickly he could get to her. She saw the beach house up ahead, and found a second burst of speed as she raced toward it.

Matthias, where are you? she thought. She wanted to scream at the thought of him dying at the hands of the man who now pursued her. Matthias, don’t leave me now, she thought. Please. Not now.

She took the wooden steps two at a time onto the expansive porch leading to the front door. It was locked, but there was a mat at the front door and she flipped it aside, frantically searching for a key.

“Think-think-think-think-think!” she cried as she spotted a stone statue of a sea turtle beside the mat. Flipping it over, she saw something metal glint in the moonlight, grabbed it, and tried the lock; it worked. She made her way inside, closing and locking the door behind her, knowing a lock couldn’t stop a gun but would at least slow its owner down. Her lungs burned with the buttery sensation that came with overexertion as she frantically looked around the beach house, listening for footsteps on the wooden stairway. None came.

When she’d first started running from the man who had Matthias, her pursuer merely walked after her, a slight smile on his face, as though he were taking a casual stroll on the sand.

He knows there’s nowhere to hide here, she thought. I’ve got to find a weapon. She ran to her right toward what looked like the master bedroom, hoping to find a gun safe, but found nothing within view of the room, which was thankfully lit by moonlight. She tossed the pillows aside, looking for something, anything, and then ran to the walk-in closet. Not daring to turn a light on, she felt along the shelves for something metal, a box of shells, a gun–anything that might indicate that the people who owned this house were fond of the Second Amendment. Nothing.

Just my luck to dart into a pacifist’s vacation home, she thought, stealing a furtive glance out the bedroom window, which faced the water, to see if the man was anywhere in sight. She saw nothing, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still out there.

She’d seen the sort of coldness the man’s eyes held before, in some of the gangbangers she’d treated to on the job as a medic and in two of the men her estranged husband had hired on for security. Those men hadn’t lasted long under Matthias’ supervision, however. Perhaps in order to become unafraid of killing, or death, or dying, something had to be switched off inside, something that eclipsed the life in their eyes. Whatever it was, the man had the same absence of light in his gaze.

Maybe he won’t come, she thought. Maybe it’s just Matthias he wanted. Oh God, she thought. Matthias. She shook her head as if to shake away the thought; there was no time to either worry or mourn.

Because the house was built into a hill, there was only one entrance, though the front stairs, which were noisy. Something in her favor, at least. Of course, one entrance also meant one exit, which meant she was also trapped.

She quietly opened the top drawer of the dresser that stood against one wall and felt around for a handgun. She jumped back after grasping something, barely keeping herself from crying out as the object made a humming sound that echoed off the wood of the dresser drawer.I suppose I could throw the bloody sex toy at his head, she thought, reaching in and fumbling for an off switch.

Bloody horny pacifists, she thought. Silence returned and she continued her search, still catching her breath while trying not to cry. Something told her not to make any noise at all, despite not having any idea where the man was outside.

Just then, an image of her son popped into her head. He’d turned two years old that month, and she tried to remember the last thing she’d said to him as she handed him to her brother, Colm, before leaving for the Keys; something about being a good boy. Surely I told him I loved him, she thought. Surely I did

The kitchen, was her next thought as her survival instinct shoved her maternal feelings aside. Something sharp or heavy; I can ambush the bastard, maybe. Kitchens have knives; let’s hope these people like to cook as much as they like to shag. As she turned to walk toward the other side of the house, she noticed dark spots on the carpet from where she’d run in the front door toward the bedroom. She looked down at her feet and remembered the pain as she’d run across the beach.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered, then clapped her hand to her mouth when she realized she’d spoken. She’d left a perfect trail that led the man straight to her. Her mind whirled through ways for how to get to the kitchen, find a knife, and then hide without leaving such an obvious trail. She dropped to her hands and knees to crawl toward the kitchen when she heard it.

She stifled a scream as the doorknob turned, slowly and quietly.

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