It will be our greatest triumph.”Catherine drank the glass of champagne but something felt wrong. A thought was gnawing at the back of her mind. There was something odd about that collection of authors.She excused herself and stepped outside onto the balcony. The cool air caused her to wrap her cardigan closer around her as she lit a cigarette and gazed out at the London skyline. She leaned on the railings and looked down at the street three floors below. She opened her phone and turned to google to satisfy her curiosity about those books.“Emily Brontë died the year after her only novel Wuthering Heights first appeared in print.”She searched again.“Anna Sewell died shortly after she published her only novel, Black Beauty.”She felt the coldness wrapping itself around her heart as she typed in the last search request.“Sylvia Plath’s only novel, The Bell Jar was published in 1963, just before her suicide.”Three women, three authors, all dead immediately after their first novel was. I trusted him. Gently he picked me up, cradling my small body against his. He placed a kiss on my forehead and carried me through the door to my playhouse. He lowered me onto the baby mattress, the plastic crinkling as my weight settled. He came down beside me, his knees hanging off the edge. I was so much smaller than him. I watched his hand as he rubbed my belly, inching my shirt up until it was just under my arms. His skin was slightly darker than mine, his hand so large. He readjusted me and pulled my shirt over my head. I was starting to get scared again. I asked him what was happening. "This is how grownups play house." He placed his hand back on my belly. Leaning over me, he kissed the side of my neck and I gasped. Goose bumps rose on my arms and legs. He mouth nibbled, kissed, and licked over my shoulder and down across my chest to my tiny nipple. His tongue rubbed the bead, causing my body to tingle and throb. I whimpered in fear and confusion, and something.
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