Don't Tell Ellie is an Adult Paranormal Mystery set in New York City.
Eleanore "Ellie" Brennan, has been on a downward spiral ever since she was kidnapped in the summer of 1997. Although returned unharmed, she could never seem to remember what happ...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Jack is late. He's always late. I can't help but take it personally while I'm waiting on the corner of Jones Alley.
I'm uncomfortable standing here in my high heels, bare legs, and black dress—which in retrospect is way too short and easily misconstrued by a horny passerby.
Have you ever heard someone say they're jonesing for something? Well, that all started right here on Jones Alley, a product of the dope heads and prostitutes itching for their next fix. So, yeah I'm taking Jack's tardiness a little personally.
It's the Fourth of July, the annual celebration of Independence Day. The day where dogs and veterans alike are sent into sensory overload while the rest of us watch the sky light up in barbeque and beer induced stupors.
Boom. Crackle. Fizz.
Blue embers rain down over the city and the homeless guy sitting five-feet away from me shouts and takes a swig of something hidden in a brown paper bag. I don't know who he thinks he's fooling, we all know it's booze.
I pull my phone out of my purse and click the home button until the screen blinks to life. 8:52 p.m. Jack is really late.
Normally, I wouldn't be so angry, but we have plans. Yes, that's right I have plans with my drug dealer who lives in a rundown building on Jones Alley. Jack also happens to be my ex-boyfriend, we're better as friends, or so I like to tell myself. But, as I said, there is no reason for any self-respecting person to be on this street unless they are in need of sex or drugs, and I happen to be in need of both—thirty minutes ago.
"Eleanore!"
"Ellie," I correct Jack for the hundredth time as he runs up to me wearing American flag shorts, a white sleeveless shirt, and a backward Yankee cap. I cringe. Doesn't he know he's not fifteen anymore?
"Sorry, the subway was backed up. Some drunk guy fell into the tracks," he shrugs.
Ah, New York. I cross my arms across my chest, and glare at him, "Likely story."
"Come on, the party's already started," Jack winks that—I'm cute and you know it wink—before he throws an arm around my shoulder. He's lucky he's right.
Three blocks later I know stilettos were not a great choice. Jack has dragged me to a decent looking apartment building where some guy he knows, Benjamin rents a rooftop penthouse. Even with the elevator ride, my feet are starting to throb.
In the shittiest parts of the city, rent is high enough to give any hard working person with half a brain an aneurysm. So, it's not hard to imagine the kind of work Benjamin does to rent something that includes a lavishly decorated rooftop.
By lavish I mean, grossly expensive. Like a celebrity that has more money than he knows what to do with. Benjamin's party is filled with an array of people. Some men in suits, others in jeans, pot smokers and coke sniffers, CEOs and minimum wagers, and women with too much makeup, some of which are throwing daggers at me the second we step onto the roof.
