By P. J. Mann
This has
been the first series I have written in my short career of writing. At the
moment I have published the first two books of what is supposed to be a trilogy,
and quite soon I will be able to publish
the final book.
So let’s start
with the first one. Just like many times it happens, this was not supposed to
be a series, rather it was just a way to experiment something new; a novella.
I found it
quite challenging because I had to squeeze in a short amount of pages what I
generally describe in a full novel.
As I was
going to finish and making it ready for the editor, something strange happened,
I wanted to know more about the story, and
the characters got better ideas. It was then when I thought that since I was
experimenting a novella, I could have also experimented a series, and so I
modified it in a way to create the premises for a second book, at least.
But let’s
talk about the story.
The first
book is about a young man, Ethan Jackson, who had his life ruined by a
compulsive lying disorder. He believes, and
he wishes to tell the truth, but his brain
is messing up facts and people when he tries to remember it.
He will seek
for help at the studio of Dr. Wright, a psychiatrist who seems very interested
in Ethan’s problem and offers him a very unusual therapy: traveling the world
and keep records on a diary.
Everything
seems to go as smooth as velvet when in
the middle of the treatment, he finds himself in Georgia, he is accused of
murder. As usual, the embassy helps him find
a lawyer, and his family and friends will offer moral sustain. However, Ethan
is sure he would never kill anyone, but he cannot remember anything about the
previous night. Everything he remembers is that he was with the girl who had
been murdered the night before.
With his
freedom and sanity at stake, the truth seems to be further from Ethan’s grasp
than ever. But then, if he wants to keep his freedom, perhaps lies are all he
can depend on.
Excerpt:
I was
agitated the whole night, and when someone knocked at my door the next morning,
at 11:30 A.M., I felt like they drove over me with a truck.
It took me
what it seemed an eternity to stand up on my feet, as whoever was on the other
side of the door, knocking, already became my enemy number one.
“I am
coming. Please, a bit of patience,” I said as I was dressing up.
I opened
the door, and a man with two officers asked me if they could come in.
“Yes, of
course. I just woke up, so it is a bit messy,” I said, welcoming them in.
“We are
sorry for this inconvenience, I am Detective Giorgi Bochorishvili, and those
are Officers Esadze and Kazbegi,” he said, coming in.
“I don’t
understand. Is there anything wrong?” I asked, still wondering about that
visit.
“You can
say so. Between yesterday evening and this morning, a woman has been killed in
this hotel,” he said, taking out a picture. “Have you ever seen her?”
I took the
picture in my hand and looked at it carefully. She looked familiar, but my mind
was still foggy.
“I don’t
think so. I am not sure, though. Maybe I have seen her in this hotel,” I
replied. “Is she a guest?”
“Not
really. She is an escort and used to go around telling people that she works for
this hotel - which is not true - offering a safe sexual service,” he explained
as the other two officers looked around.
“A murder…”
I mumbled to myself, trying to recall whatever happened the evening before,
knowing anyway that my brain would have messed up some, if not all, the details. However, something I was sure about
was that I hadn’t killed anyone, nor had I heard anything coming from the
corridors.
If there had been a murder, the assassin must
have been very cautious in not making any noise, I considered.
“Is there
anyone else you are sharing this room with?” asked the Detective.
“No, I am
alone.”
“Could you
explain this, then?” he said, grabbing a lipstick from the floor. “It doesn’t
seem to be your shade.”
I stared at
it, not knowing what I should say.
“So?” he
pursued.
“I don’t
know. I don’t remember.”
“Let’s put
it this way,” he started to say, “I am not here to put someone in jail for
having sex with a prostitute, but to nail a killer. Are you telling me the
truth when you say you haven’t seen this woman?”
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