Pretty
Wicked
by
Kelly Charron
Genre:
YA Killer Thriller
The
daughter of a local police detective, 15-year-old Ryann has spent
most of her life studying how to pull off the most gruesome murders
her small Colorado town has ever seen.
But
killing is only part of it. Ryann enjoys being the reason the cops
are frenzied. The one who makes the neighbors lock their doors and
windows on a hot summer’s day. The one everyone fears but no one
suspects.
Carving
out her own murderous legacy proves harder than she predicted.
Mistakes start adding up. And with the police getting closer, and her
own father becoming suspicious, Ryann has to prove once and for all
that she’s smarter than anyone else—or she’ll pay the ultimate
price.
Mature
YA. *Some graphic content
“This
creepy novel places you inside the mind of a twisted teen killer,
which is even more unsettling because of how familiar and normal she
seems. Be prepared to leave the lights on and look at the people
around you in a whole new way.”
-Eileen
Cook | Author of WITH MALICE
"Pretty
Wicked is fresh, thrilling, and deeply haunting. I've never read
anything like it! The story escalates from page one and will leave
your pulse pounding as you wonder just how far Ryann will go. 5/5
stars."
-Tiana
Warner | Author of Ice Massacre & Ice Crypt
Some people are called to certain things in
their life. That’s what hunting is for me. An urge. A desire.
The closest thing I have to a calling. My name
is Ryann Wilkanson. I’m fifteen years old.
And I’m a killer.
v v v v
It was hard to pick my first.
Call me sentimental, but it had to be just
right.
I knew what I wanted. What I needed. Someone
worth the risk, the challenge. Somebody who
deserved it. Now, I’m not talking about the
horrible, abusive assholes you see on TV. I wanted someone who I thought deserved
it…
And to be honest, that could’ve been just
about anybody. Some people might think it’s odd to contemplate killing someone,
but it was the most natural thing in the world to me. I didn’t dare talk about
it—I somehow knew that much—but my thoughts raced with vivid, red-tinted
images.
While my fantasies were fun, I had to wait. I
still lacked the skill and organization to actually go
through with it.
And, as I matured, I realized part of me was
still hesitant. A piece of the puzzle was missing. It was as though I was
waiting for permission. Something to give me the final push into action.
Funnily enough, I got that that clarity six
years ago, when I was nine. My dad thought he was simply giving me a ride to
school, but he initiated the defining moment of my life.
I remember it like it was yesterday. He’d just
come off nights and wasn’t in the best of moods when my mom asked him to drive
me and Bri. I’d raced to the car first, winning shotgun, leaving Brianna to
storm behind me. She was a sore loser, and it only made my grin bigger.
We were just a few blocks from the house when
Dad started with one of his commentaries on all that was wrong with society.
“Jesus. People like that make me sick.”
We had stopped at a red light, and I spotted a
guy standing on the corner with a sign that read Please Help. At first I felt
kind of bad for him, and I didn’t understand why Dad was upset. “At least he’s
not dealing drugs,” I suggested.
“Brilliant observation. Maybe we could put
that on a T-shirt for him,” Bri said. My father laughed and my stomach dropped.
She never wasted an opportunity to make me look stupid.
Dad grunted. “Don’t be naïve, Ry. He’s
probably scraping enough together to get his fix. People like that are after
one thing—and it’s not a job.” He rolled his eyes, disgusted. Not a minute
later, while we were still waiting at the light, a kid in a fancy sports car
passed us. “See, look at that. Punk probably had it handed to him from Mommy
and Daddy. He’s what—seventeen? Probably hasn’t worked a day in his whole
goddamn life. Entitled brat. This is the problem with the world. You got two
lazy bums on opposite ends of the spectrum, and neither are worth their salt.”
My father didn’t have a whole lot of empathy
for anybody, and he certainly didn’t entertain excuses. I had to be the best if
I wanted him to love me.
“People need to either lead, follow—”
“Or get out of the way,” I finished. He patted
me on the head. I knew this rant well and kind of understood my father’s
reasoning. The homeless guy couldn’t even be bothered to walk up and down the
rows of stopped cars to beg. He just stood there with an empty cup. He really
was a waste.
I fought the urge to point out to my dad that
I was nothing like those people—and never would be—but
I knew he wouldn’t care. He loved me, but
nothing I did seemed to impress him, especially since my older sister Brianna,
the golden child, had perfected everything before I even had a chance to try.
I had to do something really big to make an
impression.
I had to be a leader.
In the car, all those years ago, I realized
that my desires could turn into something much more.
Those entitled, useless people my dad despised
were taking our hard-earned money, space, and air. And I was someone with
deadly urges who wasn’t afraid to do something about it. Not everyone could say
that. But unfortunately, I would have to wait. I was much too young to execute
my plans in the way I wanted.
My thoughts, however, were uninhibited, and I
became enamored with the power and control that selecting the right kill could
bring. The foreplay was intoxicating. I daydreamed about the countless ways I
could do it. About all the places I could sneak up and strike. About the legacy
I would leave behind. For years I researched and studied serial killers— or as
I liked to call them, The Greats. Most of The Greats hadn’t started until well
into their adulthood. Call me an overachiever, but I wanted more kills in less
time. I had all the qualities required: above-average intelligence, inside
information (Dad was a cop), and a sweet cherub face.
But I also had something more. Tenacity. I
knew what I wanted, and come hell or high water, I was going to get it. By
fifteen, the thirst inside me could finally be quenched.
Cue my first planned victim—a snotty little
brat who lived only a few streets away from me. Olivia McMann. Ugh. She was
exhausting. Spoiled. Whiny. Brianna used to babysit her. I’d be dragged along
because my parents usually worked overtime at their respective jobs. I was
twelve and old enough to stay home alone, but they insisted. Like I had nothing
better to do.
Brianna would be online with her friends or
texting her boyfriend, and she’d stick Livy with me. Olivia wouldn’t leave me
alone. One night she pestered me for hours on end until I lost it on her.
Then she got the quivering lip and teary eyes
and went crying to Bri.
Bri’s voice ripped across the room. “Ryann,
what did you do now?”
“Nothing! Why do you always assume it was me?
Maybe Livy is being a little crybaby over absolutely nothing,” I said, arms
crossed tightly across my chest.
The brat came running up behind me. “You’re
mean, Ryann. I hate you!”
I swept my hair into a ponytail and turned my
back to her.
Death glare in full force, Brianna dug into
me. “Why are you being such a pest? Leave Olivia alone already. Go find
something to do, and don’t think for one second I’m giving you any of the
money.”
She proceeded to get Olivia some licorice. A
reward for her evilness. Maybe they were in on it together and shared private
laughs while discussing different ways to torture me.
Brianna was seventeen at the time, and she
hated me. No matter how hard I tried, she always dismissed me like I was an
annoying pain in her ass.
“Not everything is my fault, you know,” I
said, determined to stand my ground.
“Well, she’s not the one in my face right now.
Go play with her for an hour until her bedtime, and maybe I won’t tell Mom.”
Smiling smugly, Bri tilted her head. I wanted to punch her. As soon as we were
out of her sight, Olivia stuck her tongue out at me and danced around, joyous
in her victory.
“See, I told you I’d get you in trouble. I
always get my way. You have to do what I say.” She laughed.
I promised myself I’d never forget.
Back then, I’d imagined choking her or holding
one of her mom’s embroidered pillows over her face until her squirming stopped.
I knew her parents were well-off. Only the best for their princess. Olivia was
the type of kid who tantrumed, tattled, and fake-cried to get what she wanted,
no matter the cost to anyone who got in her way. Olivia was going to turn into
the same kind of spoiled, manipulative bitch I’d seen time and again at school.
I knew how to deal with someone like her.
After all, I had killed.
Once.
Kelly
Charron is the author of YA and adult horror, psychological thrillers
and urban fantasy novels. All with gritty, murderous inclinations and
some moderate amounts of humor. She spends far too much time
consuming true crime television (and chocolate) while trying to
decide if yes, it was the husband, with the wrench, in the library.
She lives with her husband and cat, Moo Moo, in Vancouver, British
Columbia.
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1 comments:
Thanks for sharing! -Janet @ Silver Dagger Book Tours
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