14 November 2013

Right, Emma: Dead Dreams

Welcome to my stop for the Dead Dreams blog tour, organized by Grapevine Book Tours.
About the Book

Title: Dead Dreams

Author: Emma Right

Series: Dead Dreams #1

Publication: August 26th, 2013

Category: Young Adult (YA)

Genre: Psychological Mystery Thriller


Eighteen-year-old Brie O’Mara has so much going for her: a loving family in the sidelines,  an heiress for a roommate, and dreams that might just come true. Big dreams—of going to acting school, finishing college and making a name for herself. She is about to be the envy of everyone she knew. What more could she hope for? Except her dreams are about to lead her down the road to nightmares. Nightmares that could turn into a deadly reality.







Book Trailer


Music Video


Dream Cast video



About the Author

Author Bio:

EmmaRightEmma Right is a happy wife and homeschool mother of five living in the Pacific West Coast of the USA. Besides running a busy home, and looking after their five pets, which includes two cats, two bunnies and a Long-haired dachshund, she also writes stories for her children. When she doesn’t have her nose in a book, she is telling her kids to get theirs in one.

Right worked as a copywriter for two major advertising agencies and won several awards, including the prestigious Clio Award for her ads, before she settled down to have children.

Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Google+ | Pinterest | Goodreads




Chapter Two

Having deceased parents at such a young age could have explained Sarah’s odd behavior. I sat up straight, and the hair at the back of my neck prickled, without my knowing exactly why. “I’m sorry.” I felt the blood draining from my face. Perhaps it was the thought of losing one’s parents that shocked me.

“Oh, don’t be,” she said, almost flippantly. “They’ve been dead awhile. They had me in their forties, and Dad died of cancer. Lung cancer. Too much smoking. Ironic, isn’t it? Mom just wilted after that and followed suit six months back.”

She didn’t seem in the least bit affected. “So, who is it you’re running from?” “I just don’t want my brother to know where I live.”

I could already see the problems that could arise. My mom would, at this point, have waved a red flag and shouted, “There, Brie. Bad brother. Bad blood. Do you want to be dragged into this? Who knows what crimes the brother might have been involved in?”

Of course, Mom would have been right, but I am my own person and I would like to think I could make sound decisions. Besides, something about Sarah intrigued me. It wasn’t just her transparency with me, or her globs of money, although I could see how it’d be fun to hang out with someone with her bounty and who didn’t seem caught up.

“So what’s with your brother? He’s jealous of your inheritance?” And what about troublesome cousins?

“Not inheritance.” She rolled her eyes as if I’d made a ridiculous mistake and had said two plus two was five. “Trust fund. The inheritance kicks in only when I turn twenty-one, which is in a few weeks, and I keep a clean record—no arrests, no misdemeanors.

“Todd, my brother, receives his own funds. Same deal as me. Grandpa was fair that way. Anyway, my dad was Grandpa Luke’s only child from his first marriage. Both Todd and I get the inheritance from my dad’s estate at the same time, after my twenty-first birthday.


She looked at me quizzically, almost sizing me up.

I found myself gripping the edge of the coffee table and leaned forward. “Provided?”

“Like I said, provided we never get into trouble or make a nuisance of ourselves with the law. Grandpa was particular that way. He saw too many rich kids become a pain to society. So, my brother and I must show a clean slate. Prove we’re worthy of the inheritance.”

“I see.” I didn’t, really. Who did she have to prove this to? How many others had rejected Sarah’s apartment-sharing application based on her secrecy conditions and far-from-common background? But still, she had the dough and I was desperate to seal the deal, especially since two others who’d inquired about the apartment had sounded high, speaking with a melodic tone indicative of their “happy” state, and a third had never called back even after profusely promising to. I couldn’t afford a flaky roommate.

Running to my parents to bail me out each time a housemate wriggled out of a deal wasn’t an option and I didn’t make enough to bear the rent alone. Just as long as Sarah paid her share, and didn’t try to murder me in my sleep, that was all I expected out of this arrangement.

“What happens to the inheritance if one of you goofs up and breaks the law?” I asked.

“The one left standing will gain the other’s share. And, I can tell you, the sum would make Captain Cook rouse from his grave.” She made a spooky gesture with her arms, as if she were a ghost.

“And you’re staying away from your brother, because…?”

She drained the last of the cocoa and smacked her lips. “Because Todd’s waiting for me to slip up. Did I also mention that if one of us perishes, the other gains the inheritance, too?”

“I would’ve recalled that detail.” And what an incentive to do away with the other.

“So?” Her brown eyes widened, and she jerked her chin at me. “Am I acceptable? You won’t be sorry. You can keep the deposit now.”

At this point, I should have asked why I made the cut. Sarah could surely rent a place five times the size of this dump. Okay, the place wasn’t a dump, and the apartment was in a safe neighborhood in the woodsy town of Atherton, mostly mansions with large parcels in the most affluent part of the San Francisco Bay Area. Like most cities in the Northern California suburbs, Atherton deemed it good manners to apportion a corner of its ritzy acreage to middle-income dwellers—or as in my case, subterranean-income-level dwellers.

My parents had insisted on a respectable neighborhood if their darling daughter had to succumb to apartment living. When the Sky Atherton Apartments came on the market, they’d insisted I apply. Never mind it was about a thousand dollars more than my budget allowed. But, I was on an agenda to prove something to myself, and to them, and I didn’t have a choice.

I studied Sarah as she raised her eyebrows. Maybe I was trying to find excuses to take her on. She looked sober. She had money. She seemed like a clean-cut, girl- next-door type, and except for her relations who she shouldn’t be blamed for, I couldn’t see a reason to refuse.

So, Sarah moved into that nine-hundred-square- foot, third-story apartment that very afternoon. She didn’t bring much furniture, just an antique-white twin bed with matching bedside table and dresser. She also had two hefty Louis Vuitton suitcases and two cartons, one measuring about four-by-four feet and another that was humongous and could have easily hidden a small elephant, especially the way it weighed. She refused my offers to help move it and struggled as she heaved and pushed it into her bedroom.

“Why not hire some professionals for this?” I asked as I got up to lend her a hand. What’s the point of having gobs of money? It was a good thing I had on my usual yoga pants—I vacillated between them and skinny jeans. Sarah, on the other hand, tottered on five-inch heels and wiggled in a super-tight miniskirt.

She shook her head as if I’d proposed something preposterous. How had she even gotten it into her Jaguar, or gotten it from there and onto the dolly I’d borrowed from Mrs. Mott, my then-next door neighbor?

“The Jag’s backseat folds down,” she explained when I asked, as if this were common knowledge. “Mine is a special order. Besides, have you ever been in one?”

I got the message.

Her other three pieces of furniture arrived late in the evening via a white-glove delivery service. She gave each delivery man a hundred-dollar bill each, gratuity, she’d said. I should have insisted on helping with removing the cardboard cartons and gotten a tip, too.

Later, I heard Sarah through her closed door, heaving and puffing over something in her room. I walked to it, and placed my ear by the door jamb, and wondered what secret she kept in that heavy carton.

Mother called that night to find out who I’d settled on for a new roommate. I never mentioned I’d only had one viable candidate, and I didn’t specify details, either— just that I’d found someone not on drugs. “Nor on pot.” Mother was specific about using the word “pot,” just in case some junkie, or worse, Libertarian, didn’t consider pot a type of drug.

“How can you decide so quickly to take her in?” Mother seemed disturbed and spoke with a shrill voice, as was her practice when she felt thus. “Did you even run a credit check?”

I gave her a brief history of the McIntyre fortune, and that pacified her for the moment.

The next few days, Mother called again and again, asking to meet Sarah, but Sarah kept making excuses. Once, she claimed she was late for a show, a matinee to a ballet in the city. Then, another day, she insisted the brakes on her brand-new, forest-green Jaguar XK coupe, no less, needed servicing. She even, by way of excuse, said her dry cleaning was messed up.

“But, can’t you even have coffee with her, once?” I asked Sarah one rare evening when I didn’t have work and we were watching an oldie movie and crunching on a microwaveable popcorn—the kind they’d recently confirmed could be carcinogenic.

With her mouth full she just waved at me as though I were a mosquito and pointed to the TV: her signal to shut up and watch the screen.

As the days passed, my ears should have perked up at the warning signs, the excuses that bordered on lies, but still, I could see why someone would be wary about meeting her roommate’s parents, especially if the parents were anything like mine and had their noses in places even a dog wouldn’t think of sniffing. I would have run away from them, given the chance.

Besides, I was juggling two jobs: a receptionist at Stay Fit in the wee hours of the morning, and a Starbucks barista in the afternoon. Thus my mind wasn’t always sharp, even with all the free caffeine. I never suspected Sarah wanted to avoid meeting my parents, my friends, co-workers, or, for that matter, Mrs. Mott, the only neighbor I was on talking terms with, for a reason.

“Mrs. Mott could really do with some help,” I said, one afternoon, while balancing a half-dozen cardboard cartons and heading toward the little old lady’s apartment next door. She seemed frail and had her doctor with her.

“I’m busy,” Sarah said, applying a deep copper hue to her French-tipped toenails.

“It’s too bad you won’t meet her. She used to be a concert pianist in her younger days. She’s a neat lady.”

“I have a doctor’s appointment,” she said without looking up.

“Are you sick?”

“Just routine stuff. Maybe I can meet her another day.

I stared at Sarah. “She’s moving to a senior home. She had a heart attack yesterday. There won’t be another day.” And I stalked out the door.


Giveaway Details


Prize: $20 Amazon gift card {INT}

a Rafflecopter giveaway


Tags: , , ,
Copyright 2018. All rights reserved.

Posted November 14, 2013 by Room With Books in category "Blog Tour