And she did. The love I’d so desperately been searching for, so desperately needed, had been there all along. I just didn’t know it.
I closed my eyes and felt a tear roll down my cheek, then CJ’s warm hand on mine. She kept it there for a long time but said nothing. I opened my eyes and ran my fingers gently across the words, unable to look up at her. Not yet. It was just too hard.
“She loved you, Patrick,” CJ finally said.
I nodded, still staring at the note, wiping away fresh new tears.
“More than anything, she did.”
I looked up at her, and through a broken voice, I said, “Where did you get this?”
A gentle smile filled with warmth. “Aurora found it going through old records.”
Aurora. My guardian angel.
Something within me healed that day; a question found its answer, an empty space became filled. My world came full circle, and it felt as if my pain had finally found a place to rest—a safe one. I could go on now.
I
I still make my lists, although not as often as I did—at least, I don’t write
I know it’ll take time to heal the wounds left by Camilla and Warren. I also know that I’ll eventually need to forgive them. I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it. My Road to Peace is a long one, but I’ll get there. Besides, it can’t be any worse than the road that brought me to this point.
The dreams still come, though not nearly as often as they once did and not nearly as disturbing. The little boy is no longer there. He’s gone. I now know that it was Nathan standing on that bridge. Like wings ripped from an angel, so too was his identity, his innocence. I’d like to think that I’ve set him free, set myself free, that in some way he still lives through me.
The dog and I got off to a rough start but found our happy ending together. I named him Bullet. A single gunshot brought us together, and that single gunshot forever changed our lives for the better. The receptionist gave me the actual round they removed from his shoulder; I carry it in my pocket, a reminder that no matter how bad the circumstances, you can always rise from the ashes. Not that I really needed it: he and I are living, breathing proof.
He’s my best friend, and I love him dearly. Sometimes while we’re napping on the couch, his head tucked comfortably under my arm, he’ll suddenly awaken in the midst of what appears to be a bad dream. When he looks up at me, his fearful, restless gaze gives way to one of those priceless canine expressions that no words could ever communicate. He licks my face, tucks his head back under my arm, then goes quietly off to sleep again, thankful we’re together.
Me too, buddy, me too.
###
Excerpt from The #1 Bestseller,
PROLOGUE
Far beyond the rough-hewn mountaintops, beyond the pathless desert flowing with cacti, yucca, and sagebrush, two stony peaks rise through the air like massive, chiseled arms reaching for the heavens.
At first glance, they can almost pass for mirror images of each other; but as you steady your gaze and narrow your focus, the illusion begins to fade—so too, do the similarities, and it is there you find that the two are nothing alike.
High River Peak is green, picturesque, and well-traveled, its swift-moving rapids a sure bet for those seeking recreation as well as reprieve from New Mexico’s searing summer heat.
Sentry Peak is its antithesis.
Vacuous, dismal, and barren, it’s a no-man’s-land. The only sign of life is an old and abandoned six-story building resting along the easternmost bluff; although,
There is one thing the two peaks have in common, and that is Faith.
Tucked away like a well-kept secret, Faith, New Mexico lies nestled directly between them. It’s the kind of place, where, if you didn’t know better, you’d almost swear time stood still. No fast food chains here, no superstores, no multiplex movie theaters—everything is still mom-and-pop-operated. Residents dwell in cozy pastoral farmhouses passed down through generations, white sheets sway on clotheslines—wiggling and puffing to the commands of a fitful wind—and people get their milk, not at the corner convenience store, but from cows grazing just a few hundred feet from their front doors.
Highway Ten, the region’s time-honored thoroughfare, edges its way along the town’s outskirts. It captures the classic image Madison Avenue has, for years, tried duplicating in both TV and print ads: terrain dominated by flat, dusty stretches of sun-beaten blacktop, along with nostalgic-looking filling stations and greasy-spoon diners, each decked out in luminous, wandering neon. You can almost hear the scratchy old vinyl 45s spinning in the background as an unforgiving sun bakes the midday air, forcing temperatures to teeter just a few degrees beyond livable. It’s not Route 66, but it’s close, and Faith is about as apple pie as any town can get without tasting too saccharine.
The much-celebrated annual fair and rodeo begins on the Fourth of July, an unofficial induction to the dog days. Arcade games bang and clang, organ music swells, and auctioneers prattle. Through the causeway, the smell of fried grease and cotton candy locks horns with the moist, earthy tang of livestock, while amusement park rides dance in the distance against a moonlit sky. The whole scene is noisy, chaotic, and in its own sort of way, enchanting—a rhythm of life, effortlessly weaving together into one pleasing rhapsody. This is Faith at its best: a picture-perfect snapshot of good old Americana.
Not for a second could anyone imagine that the picture had another side. Nobody knew that beneath the broad smiles, the beaming faces, and the stirring moments—beneath the surface—hid something else.
Chapter One
Saddleback Ranch
Faith, New Mexico
The clock struck midnight.
Something in the air seemed to change. Something sudden, mysterious, and filled with bad intent. Wind-
