“I want to stop and take a moment to talk about the killer. The author made sure that the killer’s time in the spotlight was not lessened by the storyline. I have read many books where sometimes the killer is overshadowed by the storyline or the killer comes off as weaker so that it appears that the people brought to stop the killer seem smart. No, this was not the case in this book. Every character had a purpose.”
–Cheryl’s Book Nook

“Readers also see the story from the killer’s perspective which greatly intensified the suspense in this story.”
–Vera’s Book Reviews and Stuff

Writing scenes from the killer’s point of view has always been something I’ve enjoyed doing. I think it’s because I enjoy assigning some understanding to what they do, what motivates them, what makes them tick. Maybe this is because the truth is that no matter how loving we might consider ourselves to be, if push came to shove and we were given the right circumstances, we could take a life…

Most of the time when I set out to write a book, the killer’s thoughts are strong to me from the beginning. I know what to write in their opening scene before I sit at my computer. But that wasn’t the case when it came to the killer in Remnants. Nope. I knew what the killer did to their victims and the motivation, but I hadn’t “heard” their voice yet. So what did I do? I did what any organic or pantster writer would do, I just let my hands flow over the keyboard and his voice came through my fingertips. What a rush! Just another reason I love writing!

Here’s an excerpt from the killer’s point of view taken from Chapter 18 of Remnants (Brandon Fisher FBI series):

TELEVISION WAS FOR THE WEAK-MINDED, and he found the futility of sitcoms to be tedious and mind-numbing. His thoughts would always drift—as they often did anyway—to the freedom of the spirit, to being rid of the flesh that bound him to Earth. There was one program that held his attention, though, when he decided he felt like watching something, and that was the news. Events most people considered to be tragic, to be evidence of a world full of chaos, he rather enjoyed hearing about. The car bombs, the terrorist attacks, the murders—these things only proved how fleeting an earthly existence was and how the way one spent one’s time mattered.

When he wasn’t making sacrifices, he was usually thinking about them—either past offerings or those yet to come. There was a hunger that raged through him that made such sacrifices necessary, and the constant natter in his brain told him he was living his life with purpose and according to divine plan.

He went to the fridge, took out a bunch of grapes, and broke off a cluster. He put them into a bowl and then filled a glass with cold, filtered water. Sitting down in front of the television with the bowl of grapes on his lap and the glass of water on the side table, he was ready for the eleven o’clock news.

“Hey, honey.” His mother padded toward the sofa, wearing a robe over her pajamas and slippers on her feet.

He smiled at her, yet felt nothing for the woman who had given birth to him. And she knew how he viewed her, how he didn’t have the same feelings other sons had for their mothers, but she accepted him for who he was. She didn’t try to fix him when the rest of the world saw him as a freak.

He’d had no friends in school and was teased excessively for being different, but that was a small price to pay for being chosen. It had taken him awhile to fully realize his purpose, but once he had, there was no stopping him. He lived on a higher plane of existence than his human peers, one they couldn’t comprehend. He saw the entire spectrum from life to death and beyond.