The Favorite Girl: A gripping psychological thriller

CHAPTER ONE

IF THERE IS one thing in life that I know with absolute certainty, it’s that there is a vast difference between surviving and thriving. When two cars crash, you’d think that the only ones with repercussions are the two cars involved, but that’s not true. When they collide, traffic piles up and nosey drivers rubberneck. The crash causes chaos all because one person may not have been paying attention, or someone was texting while driving; maybe a drunk driver was involved… or simply Murphy’s Law was in effect. That’s how I felt about my life. My life was a series of things going wrong because of decisions made for me. Or honestly, just terrible luck.

People who don’t believe in luck are lucky, while those of us who believe in it are unquestionably unlucky.

Same with fate. If you have an amazing life, you’re not crediting fate to be on your side, you’re just crediting yourself and the wonderful job you did to make it all happen.

Now, here I was, holed up in a shitty, Super 7 Motel, ingesting a line-up of vending machine junk food and praying that I could maybe alter my fate. Maybe, just maybe, luck would actually work in my favor.

I took an obnoxious bite of the Twinkie in front of me, the cream splattering against the corners of my mouth. I tilted my head as I lifted the small, spongy cake.

“You little bastard, you should have stayed discontinued. You’re far too delicious for this world.” I sighed.

Go ahead, mark this as an all-time new low. Demi Rao, nineteen-year-old female, is speaking to a Twinkie.

Please, luck, I need you to change… now.

Propping my feet up on the cheap vinyl table, I stared at the yellowing wallpaper that was clearly put up in the 1970s. Shuddering, I looked down at the green shag carpet and nodded in confirmation.

Blowing out a breath, I knew I needed to stop pretending I was some interior designer and look for an actual source of income. All things considered, I was talking to a Twinkie and had only about two hundred dollars hidden inside my sock.

“Nanny? No way.” I tapped the neon green highlighter against my chin while I flipped through the classifieds section of the Charlotte Observer.

The scent of bleach and cigarette smoke felt suffocating to me, but I knew I was just looking for any distraction.

“Does everyone need a nanny?” I drew my finger in a straight line down as the word repeated down the column. Why do people have so many kids if they can’t watch them? As I continued to scan the section, I saw there were some positions open as gas station clerks, front desk receptionists, and my personal favorite, used car model.

“Yea, no thanks, pedophile.” I shook my head and was about to toss the paper away when a listing that seemed a bit more promising caught my eye.