Borrowed Saints is now longer than my final, soon-to-be-published draft of The House Eaters. That being said, the book is still 4-5K away from completion (and that total doesn't include additional bits I need to add upon rewrite). Right now, it stands at 43K.
Phoebe's uncle, EG, signed her out of the psychiatric hospital, and on the drive home:
He hadn’t said a word since signing her out of the hospital.
Something about his face—she couldn’t quite place it, but something was wrong with EG’s face. The lines around his cheeks and nose had sharpened, become less the soft, rounded kindness of her burly uncle and become more angular and stern. She’d seen the look before, but couldn’t place it.
The hum of the engine and the tires against blacktop filled the cab of the truck until the sound joined with the chilly fear in her stomach and became something new. Something vile and wretched. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.
The EG-thing grunted.
Yeah...it's not really just her uncle in there anymore. Tomorrow, I blather on about "identity", and on Friday, I send out a free, unpublished story to my newsletter subscribers. Join the club, eh?