When Dietrich buried his fiancée, he descended into his own personal Hell … until he ran into her in a café in Houston two years later. Except this couldn’t be her. Not after two years. She spoke the same, shared the same memories, yet something was different.
Determined to unravel this mystery, Dietrich attempts to find out how her resurrection is possible, only to find that the men who are responsible for her new life want her dead because something went wrong. As he becomes locked in this deadly struggle with those who want to destroy her, he will discover just how much he’s willing to sacrifice for the woman he once loved.
Resurrected is the first book in the Resurrected series, and begins the incredible journey of a group of friends who are struggling to survive against those who want them dead to protect their secrets.
Targeted Age Group:: 18+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was intrigued by the idea of what it would be like to wake up as both myself and someone else, which led to the creation of Lottie’s character. The development of her character – and how those dual lives came about – was part of the creative process, but the original idea started with this single concept of being me, but someone else, too.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I needed a mechanism for Lottie to have these dual lives, which is how her character was created. Her fiancee, Dietrich, was partly created as a native German just because I’ve always loved the name Dietrich. I really don’t have a more insightful reason for it, though I wish I did! His best friend, Eric, is a combination of a lot of personality traits from people close to me – including myself.
I hadn’t woken up this morning planning on chasing ghosts through the crowded sidewalks and streets of the Houston medical district. I still expected at some point to awaken, to discover this was one of those dreams that seemed too real and blurred the lines of what was life and what was imagination. Or maybe I would catch up to her and this time, when she turned around to face me, I would discover I had been chasing a complete stranger and I was about to get arrested for harassing and assaulting some poor woman who was just trying to get away from some lunatic who may or may not even be speaking English. Normally, she wouldn’t have even gotten past me in the coffeehouse. People didn’t get past me. But when my dead fiancée is crying, apologizing for something – what the hell is she apologizing for? Dying? – apparently, my reflexes are slower than normal. She got a pretty good lead on me.
By the time I followed her out onto the busy, noisy sidewalk, the sun was fully risen, bright and blinding, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Unlike Lottie, I was not short, and I spotted her light brown bun, falling out now in long, loose waves, hurrying away from the coffeehouse, away from me. We were sandwiched between a parking garage and a hospital, so we were like two salmon swimming upstream as we fought against the swarm of bodies trying to move toward the hospital. Either visiting hours were about to start or it was a shift change. Or maybe both. Or maybe it was always like this. I had never tried chasing anyone down a Houston sidewalk before.
She came to a cross walk, an orange hand forbidding her to cross and indecision played across her face; I stopped breathing. I dared to look away from her to watch the traffic, which had seconds ago been annoying background noise, and now seemed so threatening. Deadly. Could ghosts die? My heart was pounding in my ears, my temples. She looked to her right – construction crews had torn up the sidewalk and yellow tape marked it off. There was a narrow pathway right next to the building, just wide enough for one or two people to walk. She wanted to keep going. Her body language told me she was ready to run, those cars still buzzing past her in the intersection. But she had stopped. And I remembered to breathe.
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