selling what is sure to be a best-selling true crime novel about the
recent serial murders in a small town in Connecticut. I am an award-winning
journalist who has been covering small town life for a decade. I have exclusive
information that has not been revealed in any major newspapers, as well as some
exclusive sources that will surely make this a must-have title for any reader.
I can promise that this will be an extremely popular book.
I am including some of my sample news stories as
well as some of the material I attempted to publish in my newspaper, but which
my editor would not publish due to his fear of the "fallout."
Please contact me as soon as possible to discuss a
potential partnership.
Thank you so much for your consideration.
Best regards,
Lila DeRosa
Chapter 15
I hear the key in the door just as I'm filling
one of my last boxes at the old apartment.
Ugh.
I was really hoping to avoid a scene.
“Hi,” Scott says, quietly.
“Hi,” I say, not looking his way. “I’m
almost done.”
“No rush. I’m glad I caught you… Lila,”
he says.
“Yes?” I say, still continuing to pack
up my things.
Scott picks up a picture of us from a
football game. It feels like centuries ago.
“Stop for a minute and talk to me,” he
says.
I turn and look at him. He recoils from
my coldness.
“Haven’t you talked enough, Scott?”
He looks down.
“You’re right. I should have been more
supportive. I should have listened. I was self-absorbed. Maybe I felt like I
was losing you in some way. And it scared me,” Scott says.
I sigh.
“Maybe you were, Scott. And maybe that’s
why this is for the best. I really have sights for myself beyond this little town.
I want to do real writing. Real writing that makes a difference. And no one supports
me. Not you. Not Ray. No one. I need to find people who will,” I say.
“Like Sam?” he says.
I blush before I can look away.
“Please, Scott. Sam has nothing to do
with this. He’s a source. That’s all.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Lila. You’re not that
far gone that I don’t know you anymore.”
“Okay, so we have a connection. We’re
both passionate about Ainsley’s story. We’re both feeling rather…alone…at the
moment,” I concede, again not meeting Scott’s eyes.
“Oh, really?” Scott says.
“Don’t get angry. That’s not why I’m
here. I’m not defending myself to you anymore,” I say.
“Okay, okay—I’m not going to ask any
more questions. I just want you to be careful. You're in a vulnerable position
right now. You’re not…yourself,” Scott says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I push my
glasses back up on my nose.
“I don’t know, Lila. You haven’t been
yourself since you started obsessing over this story. I can’t explain it. You've
gone…somewhere else."
I sit down, wearily.
I know he's right.
Or maybe—just maybe—this is
who I really am. Who I've been all along.
“Talk to me, babe. Just talk,” he says.
“Can you get me a beer?” I say.
“Of course.”
He grabs two beers and sits down next to
me.
“There’s something I never told you,
Scott,” I say.
“Okay—tell me now, then.”
“This is really hard to talk about, so
just let me talk,” I say.
“Okay."
And so I tell Scott the story .
He knew that my parents died when I was
young. He knew there was a fire. But that’s all he knew: whatever the
newspapers told him.
Now, I tell him my own story:
I tell him about the fire.
I cry some.
He listens.
And then, I'm done.
“Jesus, Lila,” Scott says.
He puts his beer down.
“Can I hug you?” he says.
I put my beer down, and feel his arms
around me.
We hug tightly. I feel myself getting
vulnerable again, and I pull away.
“It’s okay to hug, Lila,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he says.
“I don’t tell anyone. It’s buried so deeply
inside of me—I think these headlines and this tragedy and the media
circus
recent serial murders in a small town in Connecticut. I am an award-winning
journalist who has been covering small town life for a decade. I have exclusive
information that has not been revealed in any major newspapers, as well as some
exclusive sources that will surely make this a must-have title for any reader.
I can promise that this will be an extremely popular book.
I am including some of my sample news stories as
well as some of the material I attempted to publish in my newspaper, but which
my editor would not publish due to his fear of the "fallout."
Please contact me as soon as possible to discuss a
potential partnership.
Thank you so much for your consideration.
Best regards,
Lila DeRosa
Chapter 15
I hear the key in the door just as I'm filling
one of my last boxes at the old apartment.
Ugh.
I was really hoping to avoid a scene.
“Hi,” Scott says, quietly.
“Hi,” I say, not looking his way. “I’m
almost done.”
“No rush. I’m glad I caught you… Lila,”
he says.
“Yes?” I say, still continuing to pack
up my things.
Scott picks up a picture of us from a
football game. It feels like centuries ago.
“Stop for a minute and talk to me,” he
says.
I turn and look at him. He recoils from
my coldness.
“Haven’t you talked enough, Scott?”
He looks down.
“You’re right. I should have been more
supportive. I should have listened. I was self-absorbed. Maybe I felt like I
was losing you in some way. And it scared me,” Scott says.
I sigh.
“Maybe you were, Scott. And maybe that’s
why this is for the best. I really have sights for myself beyond this little town.
I want to do real writing. Real writing that makes a difference. And no one supports
me. Not you. Not Ray. No one. I need to find people who will,” I say.
“Like Sam?” he says.
I blush before I can look away.
“Please, Scott. Sam has nothing to do
with this. He’s a source. That’s all.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Lila. You’re not that
far gone that I don’t know you anymore.”
“Okay, so we have a connection. We’re
both passionate about Ainsley’s story. We’re both feeling rather…alone…at the
moment,” I concede, again not meeting Scott’s eyes.
“Oh, really?” Scott says.
“Don’t get angry. That’s not why I’m
here. I’m not defending myself to you anymore,” I say.
“Okay, okay—I’m not going to ask any
more questions. I just want you to be careful. You're in a vulnerable position
right now. You’re not…yourself,” Scott says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I push my
glasses back up on my nose.
“I don’t know, Lila. You haven’t been
yourself since you started obsessing over this story. I can’t explain it. You've
gone…somewhere else."
I sit down, wearily.
I know he's right.
Or maybe—just maybe—this is
who I really am. Who I've been all along.
“Talk to me, babe. Just talk,” he says.
“Can you get me a beer?” I say.
“Of course.”
He grabs two beers and sits down next to
me.
“There’s something I never told you,
Scott,” I say.
“Okay—tell me now, then.”
“This is really hard to talk about, so
just let me talk,” I say.
“Okay."
And so I tell Scott the story .
He knew that my parents died when I was
young. He knew there was a fire. But that’s all he knew: whatever the
newspapers told him.
Now, I tell him my own story:
I tell him about the fire.
I cry some.
He listens.
And then, I'm done.
“Jesus, Lila,” Scott says.
He puts his beer down.
“Can I hug you?” he says.
I put my beer down, and feel his arms
around me.
We hug tightly. I feel myself getting
vulnerable again, and I pull away.
“It’s okay to hug, Lila,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he says.
“I don’t tell anyone. It’s buried so deeply
inside of me—I think these headlines and this tragedy and the media
circus
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