Better Off Dead: Fighting Fate, Round One

Better Off Dead: Fighting Fate, Round One (Peggy's 18th novel, General fiction) 95,500 words, 319 pages (paperback) From Chapter 2: The boss didn’t care how I did the job as long as I disappeared afterwards, never to be a suspect. I was always to appear to others as a sweet, young woman innocent of all evil thoughts or wrongdoings. Little did anyone suspect I was put through hell on a regular basis just to keep my skills sharp. My cell phone vibrated against my leg. I didn’t need to look at the caller ID. Only one person knew I was 771-0001. “What?” I answered it, apprehensive. “How’s the cabin?” “Bare.” “Good. Easier for you to wipe it clean when you leave.” I felt a bit bewildered to go along with apprehensive. Small talk from Graham? It didn’t happen. “What’s up?” I demanded, although I knew it was sort of a question. “Social call,” he said, and my heart skipped several beats. No way! “And . . .” I drew the one word out to indicate just about anything. “There is live music and dancing at the Pink Pig Bar-B-Q in Bufforton tonight. Go.” I was totally speechless. According to training, the less visible I was the better chance I had. I wanted to ask him questions, but knew better. “What time?” I said instead, hoping it didn’t sound like I was questioning him. “Be there at six and leave at ten.” “Okay.” “Eat,” he continued. “Be friendly, but don’t dance with anyone, ever.” “Can do.” The connection went dead. Typical Graham. Why would I ever want to dance? Dancing wasn’t part of my training. At least I could eat barbecue, which didn’t hold much appeal. I ate light, always. I couldn’t afford an ounce of fat on my body. Toned, muscled, and quick — never in excess of anything. I washed my face, combed my hair, and looked at Monica LaSali in the eight inch by ten-inch mirror over the bathroom sink. “You’ve aged,” I told her. “Wonder where the graveyard is for aged out women such as us?” I knew it had to be somewhere. I didn’t believe a bunch of ex-women like me would be allowed to run the streets free-at-will. How much longer did I have? Could there possibly be a few hunched-backed, gray-haired, wrinkle-faced women out there who were once deadly? I didn’t think so, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

About the Author

Peggy grew up on small farm in the Appalachian mountains; married young; finished school; made handcrafted folk toys; got her own farm adjacent the Blue Ridge Parkway on Grandfather Mountain; raised six children in a single-wide; grew burley tobacco, Christmas trees and small fruits; built a house; and raised small animals all while helping her husband do land surveying. Now, she farms less and creates novels sprinkled with the flavor of her mountain heritage.

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