The Blonde: The Prologue You've Never Seen

Previously on Secret Dead Blog, I talked about the prologue to The Blonde, and how my editor urged me to cut it. Now, with the gift of hindsight, I see that he was absolutely right. The book opens as it should, with the blonde telling Jack Eisley: "I poisoned your drink."

Still, for shits and giggles, I thought I'd post the original prologue here. It doesn't spoil anything. Doesn't really add anything either. It's just a bloody little opening to a bloody little novel.

(One irony: Laura Lippman convinced me that prologues, generally speaking, suck, and that I should cut this. Little did she know that I named a character after her, and she appears... you guessed it. In the cut prologue. Sorry!)


The hotel door snicked shut.

Smith didn’t know it, but he had ten seconds to live.

He was thinking how thankful he was she’d left on her own. No awkward moments. Which was good, considering they’d shared a series of them last night. He put his fingers to his temples.

Nine seconds.

Already, the hangover. Mixing too much last night. First oversized tumblers of Polish vodka with ice in the airport bar, so finely distilled it tastes like water. Beers to maintain pace and three fingers of scotch whiskey to rev it up again and then another vodka here, from room service at the hotel, too, because then she’d been hungry for flipped eggs…

Eight seconds.

Really bad fucking headache. Smith sat up and swung his feet out from under the covers. The air conditioning was on full-blast in here. Didn’t help his head. He needed warm humid air. Why did he bring her back here? What had he been thinking?

Seven seconds.

He imagined her naked body—dirty thoughts had a way of beating away the pain. But it didn’t work this time. It was still there. Behind his eyes. Stabbing more than a bit. And here he was, due to give the city of Milwaukee a song and dance about why his little boutique firm should be awarded the opportunity to redesign the municipal website…

Six.

… oh, and look at the fucking time. In less than an hour. Smith tasted the inside of his mouth, bit his tongue when the twisting in his brain intensified.

Five.

Motrin. Now. Four. Five. Six capsules. Get it working. Get this blinding pain out of his skull. Was this a hangover? It couldn’t be…

Four.

Up, up, up. Nearly tripped over his laptop bag on the way to the bathroom, which was on the floor, next to the silver tray and yolk-stained plate. Fuck, something was wrong…

Three.

A vision in the mirror: his own face, but through a wall of water. The tears in his eyes. The vice around his head, squeezing squeezing squeezing…

Two

Unbearable.

one

What would Laura think when they found him like this?

Laura.

Blood spurted from his nose and the wall of water turned red and the last thing Smith saw was a river of gushing red from his open mouth, splashing the sink and splattering upwards and there was a tap in his mind and up until this point it had been a trickle but then someone turned it up real high…