The Lost Boys Imagines and Preferences (Book 2)

Gone Sam

I feel like trying something new.....killing the characters.

It was three-thirty in the morning and of course the house was silent, dead quiet, except for the soft clack-clack of keyboard keys coming from the den for Sam Emerson was typing his last few letters to his ex-girlfriend who you thought he was done with.

He'd whip out paragraph after paragraph of sheer brilliance, his heart racing with creative fervor. His letters were romantically gory. It was compelling.

Sam was convinced he could produce the best writing in letters to kickstart a zero-degree-needed career.

You, however, were convinced he was going crazy.

More than once, you had confronted him when you'd gotten home from work and found him hunched over his desk. He was becoming consumed by his ex.

Sam wished she'd be cool about it. Who really cared if he was barely sleeping? He had his ex and her role-player friends to please. At least someone was keeping the cat company at night.

Little did he know, you'd reached your breaking point with his nocturnal hobby.

Also little did he know, you'd taken out a generous life insurance policy on him the previous November during open involvement.

And even though Sam did know that you were on of the most well-respected forensic investigators in Upstate New York, never did he suspect that one day you'd use your scientific expertise to cover up his murder.

That's right....his murder.

For you were over it. You were tired of the coffee mugs and the crumb-covered plates left on the desk after Sam finally retired to bed for a few hours of fitful sleep. You had your eyes on a matte black Tesla 3 and knew just how you'd get your hands on enough money to reserve the model. For weeks, you plotted the perfect murder and knew exactly how you'd scour the house and hide Sam's body to make it seem as if he'd abandoned you to move to Portland, Maine to emulate his hero, Stephanie Myers. To lay the groundwork of lies for your cover story, you'd been taking your friends out for coffee in the afternoons, confiding in then that you were worried Sam would leave you. You'd even spread a thick coat of special varnish on the wood floor during one of Sam's naps so that a simple wipe of a swiffer would remove 99.9% of the biological evidence that might have been enough to convict you.