I read this at the book signing held at The Book Cellar in Louisville, so I thought it only fair to share it with the rest of you.
And for those who have emailed me and said they’d like to know more about the process of writing this book–please know I will get to that this week in a series of posts. Writing this book was a formidable, complicated task that I put off for years until suddenly I knew it was time. And then it flowed. But more on that later. Here’s the excerpt. Thanks for visiting.
-Amy
From Diary of a Predator: A Memoir
He sat on top of a brick wall that bordered a downtown Denver parking lot and waited.
It was a perfect vantage point—high enough to give him a bird’s eye view of every direction and yet shielded by the shadows of nearby buildings to prevent any glint of streetlight reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses. As a hunter of humans, he knew the importance of those things.
Ever the patient wolf, he flexed his thick forearms while he waited for a sheep to appear. And then he saw her and had instant recognition. He knew he had seen her before—he never forgot a face—and it only took him a moment to remember where: first on TV months ago, talking about some story dealing with rape in the military, and then later on the Denver Post elevator. A reporter. He’d still been in prison when those military rape stories ran, and watched her on the news. She was sharp and earnest, and had a fierce energy to her that had caught his attention. She reminded him of that social worker he once knew, the modern-day crusader. She also had long brown hair, like Teresa.
Now she was within his sights, and he sized her up: Wearing a dark suit, she was tall and athletic-looking, but he had brute strength
and the element of surprise. And it would be so easy—just a hop off the wall and a few quick strides, and he could cut her off before she
reached her car. No one was around to hear if she tried to scream.
Just then, she passed under a street light, and through the curtain of her long, straight brown hair, he caught a glimpse of her face. She looked so . . . sad. Heavily burdened, as if any moment, she would dissolve into tears. He sat rooted as she unlocked her car and got inside and then did something unexpected: laying her cell phone on the dash, she pulled out a pen from behind her right ear, tucked her hair back in its place, closed her eyes, and just sat there.
Minutes passed, and he stared, feeling unable to move. He found himself scanning the street, not wanting anyone to disturb her. Then
she sighed deeply, started the Jeep’s engine, and drove away.
Still seated on the wall, the man stared after the car. He would see her again.
He’d make a point of it.
Diary of a Predator 