The Last Real Crime (Retail Sample) - Audiobook
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Teen (13-17)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The last Real Crime a mystery. The disappearance of charlotte walter's book too. Written by Elsie Warman, narrated by Brooke Meyers Chapter One When I slept that night I dreamed of charlotte. I saw her body floating in the lake, dark curls twisting in the deep black waves. Light from the moon spilling through the water, illuminating her crescent shaped nails, her long neck, her spindle legs, and meshed in long skirts that soon dragged her down. Down. Down. In some of the dreams. I was in the lake too. My clothes pulling me towards the bottom, my arms outstretched to try to catch charlotte, to try to hold on to her bone white wrists and pull both of us to the surface miles above us. My mouth was open to scream, and water would rush in and charlotte's eyes would flicker open. She would be disappointed, Angry, disdainful that I couldn't save us, that I couldn't save her. When I woke in the morning my clothes were drenched in sweat and I had nearly cocooned myself in bed sheets, comforter kicked off the edge of my twin size bed. I checked my phone immediately hungrily for any updates or texts. Nothing. I googled dead girl ST Clair Lake. Nothing. Whoever the divers had found in the lake yesterday. The news must not have hit the press yet, or the body hadn't yet been identified. It wasn't charlotte though. I had to keep reminding myself of that when I felt my breath turned short and shallow. It wasn't her. There was still Hope. Four days gone. No. four nights and three days, I corrected, mentally counting back to Saturday night. She could still be alive. She had to be my mother was gone by the time I came down for breakfast, she must have been on the early shift at the hospital. The note on the fridge contained an apology and a request that I take the bus. The bus. I hadn't been on it since sophomore year before. Charlotte had her permit and her new car. It didn't matter though. Today was not the day I would be climbing back on board the spluttering yellow contraption with duct taped brown cushions and seat belts that hung uselessly, like extra limbs across the gum covered seats. Today, like yesterday, I'd be skipping class for something more important, a lead.