If I Should Die

If I Should Die

Murder, Embezzlement, Betrayal and Silence

By Sally Franklin Christie

stars-5-0._CB192240867_
Awesome Read, May 5, 2016
By smurfette
By L. Monserrat
By George Lightcap

New Author’s Revised Edition

Mockup2-1500x2400pixelsPeyton Farley has settled into a new life in southwest Montana.  Research and fact checking for a local newspaper is a perfectly safe job, or is it?  One morning, Peyton awakens and finds a strange man in lace up work boots who is bleeding out on her kitchen floor.  As Peyton calls 911 from her bedroom, someone is stealing the body.

Who is the dead man?  Why is he bleeding to death in Peyton’s apartment?  Can one research assignment evolve into murder, embezzlement, betrayal and silence?

If I Should Die is a suspenseful journey into the lives of many people.  The choices and impacts are repulsive and inspiring.  Silence will never sound the same.

The Cover Art for this Novel evolved from a Photograph taken on Old 10 outside of Bozeman Montana.  Those are the Bridger Mountains.  Kim Richards Gilchrist helped with Text and Image Trimming.

Kim Richards Gilchrist and Paul McDermott helped with formatting and editing.
978-1-4951-9745-1 ebook isbn

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Email Me for Updates

sally@sallyfranklinchristie.com

 

Excerpt For If I Should Die

Peyton rubbed the cat behind the ears, then pushed the covers back on her full-sized bed. Early morning sun filtered through her sheer, patterned curtains. Her slippers made a whoosh, whoosh noise as she shuffled through her living room and into the kitchen. The door on the far side of the room was open.

Her heartbeat slammed in her chest as she saw a stranger lying on her linoleum floor.

It was obviously a man; she could tell by his build. He wore a red flannel shirt and jeans. He had tan lace-up work boots and ratty blood matted hair. He might have been a guy from one of the bars downtown. He probably stumbled in by accident—he was drunk, couldn’t find his way home or thought he was home – and passed out on her floor. Peyton took a step closer. She would wake him, make a little small talk, and send him on his way.

Those few steps revealed a pool of blood around the man. Drunks didn’t bleed; they threw up, but they didn’t bleed. Peyton gasped and looked away. This was bad. She took a deep stabilizing breath and looked back at the stranger.

She knelt down and heard him struggling to breathe. A sucking wound in the stranger’s chest bubbled as he tried to draw air into his lungs. The wound itself made gurgling noises. She stood up from the blood, now wet on her legs and pajama bottoms. A tea towel hung over the sink, and she reached for it with bloodstained hands.

Pressure, apply firm pressure, she told herself.