About the Contest
The winner of James River Writers’ and Richmond magazine’s fourth Best Self-Published Novel contest is “Better Left Unsaid” by Anne McAneny. McAneny’s manuscript was selected from 30 entries by a panel of volunteer judges led by USA Today bestselling writer Liz Long. The editor of magazines The Roanoker and Bridebook, as well as the Virginia Travel Guide, Long has self-published more than 20 young adult fantasy and romance books.
“ ‘Better Left Unsaid’ is an outstanding novel full of mystery, suspense and enough tension to keep you turning the pages until you’ve finished,” Long says. “McAneny does an excellent job creating a well-written tale of a murder mystery told primarily from a local journalist’s point of view, made all the more interesting as she unravels a cold case that affects an unwitting small-town community. ... She throws you for a loop that’ll keep you up until the last page — and possibly have you still thinking about the twist days and even weeks later.”
The contest also had two finalists: Ellen Butler (“Pharaoh’s Forgery”) and Kathryn K. Murphy (“The Secret About Time”).
Chapter 1
Bethany Phillipps
Fifteen Years Ago
Grandma Liv would be proud that Bethany had acted upon her oft-repeated advice: Never keep a valuable with its proof of ownership. Bethany had gone one better. She’d tucked the appraisal into her bra and the bill of sale into her shoe. Couldn’t take chances in the Wave, after all, the nine-block area of Gaston, Virginia, named for the crime wave that had washed over it years ago and never returned to sea.
She wiped the last bits of chicken grease from her hands and turned her red Hyundai onto the dirt alley that ran behind her crumbling brick building. Glancing toward the third-floor window above her apartment, she sighed. Her upstairs neighbor’s bronze lamp emitted its familiar anemic glow, but at least Finn Astley, the elderly occupant, was absent from her usual chair. As long as Finn didn’t return in the next 60 seconds, Bethany could avoid a late-night chat and gain precious minutes to process her newfound stroke of luck.
As she turned into the gravel parking area, she recalled that she needed to pick up groceries for Finn tomorrow. Shopping for the agoraphobic widow comprised the one charitable thing she did in life. But given Bethany’s sudden change in fortune, she’d be saying farewell to Finn before long. Should she hire someone to help the old woman out? Yes, she would. That would be the decent thing to do.
She steered into her designated spot, the middle one that Drunk Al usually crowded with his ancient Caddy, but at this hour, Al was likely throwing back his fifth shot of whiskey at Flaky’s, his favorite watering hole. Later tonight, he’d stagger home, and in the morning, he’d shuffle back to pick up his car. Just another Tuesday for Drunk Al.
As Bethany killed the ignition, a dull clank rang out. With her paranoia soaring, she froze, her hand practically fusing with the key. Had someone followed her? Had her brother discovered her secret? Had the leering messenger boy returned?
She listened as if her life depended on it. Then, growing chilly in the crisp March air, she yanked out the key and reached for her purse in the passenger seat. The darkness swallowed her forearm, but when her fingers touched the two leather straps, relief surged through her.
Another clank sounded.
In her hyperalert state, every swish, tap, and jingle seemed magnified, but the lingering silence that followed felt sinister and confining, making her wish for a bevy of reassuring noises — horns, sirens, and random shouts — that told her she was home and safe.
A shiver shot through her, relaxing her taut muscles and pacifying her fears.
Come on, BB, that was nothing. Just a skater doing tricks or a teen jumping a fence on his way home.
A faint scrape of gravel caught her ear. A foot surprised by an uneven slope? The scuff of a cat’s paws as it lurched toward prey?
Her heart pounded against her ribs, nearly distending them. She felt like a caged bird, protected only by the cheap, collapsible metal of the car’s frame, fully on display, visible to all, yet unable to fly away should circumstances demand it. Her suspicions mounted as the throbbing of her pulse became palpable in her neck and the vitreous space behind her eyes.
She glanced around and noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but phrases from the last 24 hours pinged back to her like dire warning shots: filthy Nazi blood; tread carefully; kill or be killed; plans have always worked out so well for you, BB — that last delivered sardonically by her brother less than an hour ago.
She pulled the handle of the door and cracked it open, resenting its squeak as she cocked her head one last time for audible reassurances. Cars rushed by on Culverton Street in front of the building; the growl of distant thunder promised an onslaught in the coming hour; and a familiar drip from the leaky pipe next door rhythmically struck a puddle of its own making.
For God’s sake, BB, you’re 6 feet from your building. No one thinks there’s anything in your purse except tissues, gum, and crumpled singles.
Finally, embracing the inner warrior Grandma Liv had always believed her to be, she stepped from the car, clutching her purse to her midsection. In the split second that followed, as she turned to lock the door, the looming presence of another person made itself known.
She could smell that musty human scent found in the creases of elbows and the curvy crevasses of ears, the one that defined men and their desires. She felt the encroachment of the surrounding air as the molecules that orbited his body displaced those that normally clung to hers.
Whipping around, she nearly collided with a broad-shouldered stranger standing mere inches away. A hoodie covered his hair, a ski mask hid his face, and tight black gloves concealed his hands. How had she not seen him, heard him, sensed him? Why tonight of all nights? How could this be happening?
Faster than a serpent’s tongue, the intruder’s hand darted toward her purse, but her fingers, all ten, locked onto the bag, turning themselves white with effort, distorting the leather.
“No!” she screamed. “I’ll give you my wallet! Take my wallet, but I need the bag!”
Her pleas fell on deaf ears as she battled the attacker. Grunts. Grabs. Desperation. She curled her body over the purse, hugging it like a running back on the game-winning play.
“Let go,” he said in a frantic whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you. Give me the bag.”
His plaintive, almost whiny words contrasted with the harshness of his actions, as if he’d snorted something that made him more aggressive but uncertain of the reasons for the aggression. If anything, he seemed directionless and half-hearted in his efforts. And if that was the case — if this was just some random mugging to score a few bucks for his next fix — she would not surrender. Not with her family’s future at stake.
“I’ll give you the wallet,” she managed in spurts. “Take it and go.” But her words thudded to the ground with muted impact. Doubled over as she was, she could barely draw enough breath to speak, let alone scream.
“It’s not the wallet I want,” he said, his voice coldly certain.
Meet the Author
Photo courtesy Anne McAneny
About 20 years ago, Anne McAneny made writing her career after hearing from a friend who quit his job and took up screenwriting. “I said, ‘I’ve always wanted to do that, and I’m going to start today,’ ” McAneny recalls. After several years penning scripts, she transitioned into writing books, producing children’s literature and two humorous novels that she published herself. She then decided to write a mystery and realized it was her calling. Her “Crime After Time Collection,” which she began self-publishing in 2010, is an award-winning series of thrillers that can be read in any order. They follow everyday people who investigate past crimes involving their loved ones. Her third release in the series, “Skewed,” was picked up by Amazon’s Thomas & Mercer imprint and is an internationally bestselling e-book.
McAneny frames “Better Left Unsaid” in the style of a manuscript written by protagonist Jenna Naismith and passed to her friend Heather Graves, who then adds her own notes (and chapters). Set in the fictional small town of Highbank, Virginia, the novel follows Naismith as she investigates why a friend’s fiance mumbled the name of a murder victim in his sleep. Questions arise as she digs deeper, and Naismith finds herself immersed in a world of corruption and double identities, with games of manipulation upending her life and leading to a stunning conclusion.
McAneny loves to keep her readers guessing. “Most of my plots are quite twisty, but I go out of my way to make sure that every twist is supported,” she says. “I want readers to get to the end and say, ‘Oh, that’s surprising, but I should have seen it coming.’ ”
Released in 2020, the paperback edition of “Better Left Unsaid” can be purchased through Amazon, and the digital version is available wherever e-books are sold.
This isn’t McAneny’s first time submitting to the James River Writers’ Best Self-Published Novel contest; her novel “Ocular Denial” was a runner-up in 2019. She has a new manuscript waiting in the wings, though she’s currently searching for an agent and is holding off on self-publishing. “If there are any agents out there who want to see my new mystery thriller, please get in touch,” she says, laughing. —Nicole Cohen
20th Annual JRW Writers Conference
James River Writers will hold its 20th annual Writers Conference Oct. 8-9 at the Greater Richmond Convention Center, featuring authors, editors and literary agents sharing insider knowledge of the publishing industry. Master classes in nine popular topics will be hosted online via Zoom on Friday, Oct. 7. Conference tickets start at $269 for two days, $175 for one day and $125 for student tickets. Online master classes are available a la carte, starting at $50 each. Visit jamesriverwriters.org for details.
