Candace Meredith earned her Bachelor of Science degree in English Creative Writing from Frostburg State University in the spring of 2008. Her works of poetry, photography and fiction have appeared in literary journals Bittersweet, Backbone Mountain Review, Anthology 17, Greensilk Journal, Saltfront and The Broadkill Review. She currently works as a Freelance Editor for an online publishing company and has earned her Master of Science degree in Integrated Marketing and Communications (IMC) from West Virginia University.
Here is an excerpt from Candace’s New Book Losing You.
Prologue – Not My Daughter
Evening had settled upon the small town in Western Appalachia where her body was discovered among the sooty streets of Grand and Pennsylvania Avenue. Condry left his quarters at 5 am, where he worked nights at the Western Corrections Institution. On that morning, he nearly took her arm off with his left front tire. She looked to be in her twenties, pale and pasty, and her tangled, wet ponytail was fastened to her head with a red band; her waitressing apron was beneath her as she laid face-down with her arms out-stretched.
The young woman didn’t show signs of assault or trauma: no head wound, no bloodshed, no bruises, no strangulation that he could see; he stood transfixed upon her lifeless gaze and ruby red lips.
“Everyone called her Peaches,” a voice said as he turned around to see the figure, a mere shadow, illuminated by a rising sun.
“Who are you?” he questioned.
“Names William,” the voice explained.
“You know this girl?” he asked calmly.
“She jumped right out of my car,” William responded.
He knelt beside the young woman, inhaling the fragrant smell of eucalyptus. Why would she do that? He thought.
“You call the police? An ambulance?” he asked.
“Should be here any minute,” William explained, “my cell was dead, had to use the charger in the car.”
Condry gave one more look the young woman – the girl whose friends called Peaches, when the police showed up. The police took down his basic information, but he knew there was little he could offer them and he knew the story remained with the driver, William, and the story he would give the police: she just jumped out of my car.
But as Condry lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come, those words didn’t resonate with him. The scent of eucalyptus in her hair and those ruby red lips were conducive to someone who cared about themselves. By word-of-mouth, he would later learn that the young woman – named Marissa Shaw – had died of a spinal injury.
Continued in book . . .
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