Just Us Book Blog: Blitz Tour +Giveaway : HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? by Carissa Ann Lynch

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

Author: Carissa Ann Lynch

Series: Flocksdale Files #1
Publisher: Limitless Publishing

- SYNOPSIS -

Wendi Wise is a troubled young woman who snorts her breakfast through a straw and spends more time in rehab than in the real world…

Her life is seemingly out of control.

But now she has a plan.

That plan involves a sharp set of butcher knives.

She's going back to where all of her troubles began…

Flocksdale.

Wendi was lured away from a local skating rink, at the age of thirteen, and held captive in a place she calls 'The House of Horrors.' Dumped off blindfolded on the side of a dirt road, Wendi soon discovered that she was addicted to the drugs they fed her while she was captive.

Too scared to go home, and having a new habit to deal with, she hopped on a bus, vanishing from the family she loved.

Vanishing from Flocksdale…

The town of Flocksdale is littered with fliers with a grainy image of young Wendi, and the words 'Have You Seen This Girl?' written below.

Now, eight years later, she's on a mission—a mission to find the mysterious house from her youth and the monsters who dwell inside it.

“This is the end, beautiful friend, the end…”

ADD TO GOODREADS

- PURCHASE -

★ Kindle: http://amzn.to/1N0wQtt

★ Paperback: http://amzn.to/1Q6FAhr

- Available for FREE with #KindleUnlimited -

- BOOK TRAILER -

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciiesyL2Jnc

- PROLOGUE -

Present Day: I lost my straw three hours ago, which sucks because it was my favorite one. Getting up to look for it seems like a painstaking, insurmountable task right now, but I pull myself up to a sitting position and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The “bed” is nothing more than a dingy, rust-colored mattress that lies on the floor of a two-room basement apartment in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

The threadbare carpet that covers the floor provides no support for my feet, and frankly, it stinks. I get down on my knees and lay my face flat against the carpet, holding my breath and peering under an ancient, stained armchair and the dresser that stands beside it. Now, where the fuck is that straw?

All I can see are dust bunnies, mouse droppings, and the carcass of a cockroach. No straw. I let out a frustrated groan. I give up searching, stand back up, and pad across the hall to the tiny bathroom I share with my current boyfriend, Michael, or “Mick” when he thinks he’s cool. I plop down on the toilet, running my hands through my tangled mop of greasy black hair.

I wait for the pee to come. Then wait some more. I can remember one of my old AA mentors, telling me once why opiates interfere with bodily functions like peeing, for instance. It was something about wires in the brain getting crossed…I wish I had a stopwatch to time this affair, but then it finally comes and I let out a sigh of relief.

Mick’s clothes from the night before are strewn across the bathroom floor at my feet. Suddenly I have a thought, and begin rummaging through the pockets of a brown pair of khaki shorts that I remember him wearing last night. I find what I’m looking for: a tattered black wallet, worn out from age and being sat on all day long. I open it up and peer inside. It only contains two dollars, but that’s fine by me—all I need is one.

Pulling out the faded, crumpled bill, I smooth it flat against the round edges of the wash basin. Once flattened, I begin slowly rolling it into a perfectly cylindrical mini-version of my straw. It’s basically perfect.

The dope is in my bedroom drawer, along with my razor. Using the tiny blade, I lovingly chop the heroin until it is fine and powdery, and then use the rolled up dollar bill to suck it straight up my nose. Its taste hits the back of my throat instantly and drains down through my sinuses, a sensation I used to loathe but have grown to love.

Wiping the residue from my nose noisily with the back of my hand, I glance at Mick, who is still passed out on the bed. Getting high makes him sleepy, but it fills me with an insatiable need to do something productive.

Our bedroom is dotted with tiny land mines of crumpled t-shirts, inside-out jeans, and day-old panties. I make my way around the room, picking them up and tossing them all into a wicker laundry basket in the corner.

Besides the bedroom and bathroom, we have a small, windowless sitting area, a narrow galley kitchen, and a small extra bedroom that we use for trash and other random items. I move my cleaning to the living room, gathering up snack wrappers and empty Solo cups, and then carry them into the small silver garbage can under the kitchen sink. The sink is filled to the brim with two-day-old dishes, so I start filling the sink with water and shampoo.

I’ve been out of dish soap for weeks now, but the hair care product seems to get the job done so I don’t complain. The water from the faucet never gets hot because our gas got shut off months ago. If I want hot water, I have to boil it. This all sounds ridiculous, I know. This is the twenty-first century, but my addiction has me back in the Stone Age, because when you’re an addict, you don’t spend money on things like food, water, clothes, electricity…you spend it on drugs. At least the truly hardcore addicts like me do.

Crusty teacups, sauce-covered plates, and sour-smelling utensils permeate the water, rising steadily to the brim. I plunge my hands into the frigid, cloudy water and begin mindlessly washing.

For the past six months, our daily life can be divided into three segments: looking for money to buy heroin, finding the drug, and then getting high. Oh, I almost forgot about the fourth segment: coming down from the drug—my least favorite time of day. Our entire life revolves around heroin and our bodies rely on it to function. It’s not about getting “high” anymore because I never feel lifted or high-spirited, or overly anything these days. We wake up feeling low and we need it to feel normal. Maybe they should change the expression to “getting normal” or “avoiding feeling like shit,” instead of “getting high.”

Today will be different though. Today I have a date with my good friend rehab, and in six hours from now, my daily routine should change dramatically. Mick isn’t going, but I’m fine with that. He’ll do his own thing when he’s ready. I’ve been planning this for a month now, and finally the phone call came: a bed opened up at the local in-patient clinic and today is the day to report.

I’ve been to rehab before, and will mostly like go again after this stint, but everything is about to change. This time around, major plans have been made for when I get out of rehab.

Those plans involve me and a sharp set of butcher knives, but I’ll explain that later.

Perhaps you’re wondering how I got this way. Or perhaps you don’t give a damn. Either way, this is my story. It’s not a story about addiction. This is a story about murder.

- ABOUT THE AUTHOR -

CARISSA ANN LYNCH

Besides my family, my greatest love in life is books. Reading them, writing them, holding them, smelling them…well, you get the idea. I’ve always loved to read, and some of my earliest childhood memories are me, tucked away in my room, lost in a good book. I received a five dollar allowance each week, and I always — always — spent it on books. My love affair with writing started early, but it mostly involved journaling and writing silly poems. Several years ago, I didn’t have a book to read so I decided on a whim to write my own story, something I’d like to read. It turned out to be harder than I thought, but from that point on I was hooked. My first and second books were released by Sarah Book Publishing: This Is Not About Love and Grayson’s Ridge. I’m a total genre-hopper. Basically, I like to write what I like to read: a little bit of everything! I reside in Floyds Knobs, Indiana with my husband, three children, and massive collection of books. I have a degree in psychology and worked as a counselor.

- SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS -

FACEBOOK | GOODREADS | LIMITLESS PUBLISHING | TWITTER

- GIVEAWAY -
Enter for a chance to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card (INT!) or a SIGNED PAPERBACK of Have You Seen This Girl? by Carissa Ann Lynch (USA!).
ENTER HERE: http://on.fb.me/1MeqntF

Tour brought to you by:

My thoughts

Oh shit! this book traumatized me. I don't think I'll ever let my daughters go out by themselves.

THANK YOU Carissa for the copy of Have You Seen This Girl? in exchange for a fair review.

This book is out of my comfort zone, which is always paranormal YA, Distopian, Fantasy YA and from time to time some contemporary romance but never a thriller or suspense (actually I think I have read one before) so this genre is new for me and it was great!
Wendi ,a 13 years old girl , was kidnapped, forced to live in a house and being sold as a sex slave and being doped. Then she got addicted. And then she was let go with the condition of never say a word of what happened or else they would murder her family and everyone she loved. So she never went back.
This book tells Wendi's struggles with drugs after she left the "house of horrors", how she tried to put her life together getting in and out of rehab a few times, until she decides it is time to come back to Flocksdale and make everyone pay for what they have done to her and her friend.
So this book was really good , I was surprised that I ended up liking it a lot. Very well written I enjoyed every word of it. The characters are good, Wendi after all she went thru, she was still a very strong girl. It had 69 chapters but they are short chapter that for me is great because it made me feel I read fast :P That HUGE twist at the end I really did not expect it at all! very well done Miss Lynch, I bet nobody was expecting that!
This book was excellent! Thanks for letting me read it :)

Also this reminded me when my mom used to tell us that every time we went out by ourselves at night ( and we did not go out by ourselves until we were 18 years old) she could not sleep until we made it back safe, that when we left the house she already thought the worse happened to me and my sister. I used to complain to her all the times because to me , as a teenager, my mom was annoying and almost never let me go out and her answer was " you'll understand why I am like this when you have your own children." And now that I have my children I understand that my mom was not being annoying, she was just trying to protect us from what could happen to us out there.