Thank you to Revell for partnering with me on this series. I’m so grateful to Andrea Doering and Robin Turici, as well as the talented Barbara Curtis who has such an amazing memory of my previous books. And a big high-five goes to the Revell marketing department, especially Michele Misiak and Karen Steele. Thank you for your hard work.

And finally, to my amazing readers. Thank you for reading my books! I hope, in this series, you’ve been reminded of the incredible grace and second chances that the Lord offers. You are never without hope, without redemption, without the day when you can embrace forgiveness, put the past behind you, and start new.

Live in freedom. Live in hope. Live in joy.

The view is glorious.

In his grace,
Susie May

A Preview of another of Susan May Warren’s Gripping Books

ONE

He should have never left Alaska.

Sure, in Alaska Orion woke to his breath in a hover of mist over his face, his fireplace having simmered to a low flame, the room lit in gray, the sun denting the eternal night. But he belonged in all that cold and darkness, under the shadow of unforgiving Denali, buried under a numbing layer of ice and snow.

There, his anger couldn’t break through, couldn’t ignite with the injustice of the daily news.

Couldn’t consume him with helplessness.

It was better to be cold.

The vast aloneness of Alaska allowed him to breathe, despite the stinging cold in his lungs. Allowed him to scream without anyone knowing.

“I hate New York City,” Orion muttered now, just below his breath, but loud enough for Ham to hear as they boarded the 4 train.

“You just need coffee,” Ham said.

“Vats of it.” Orion tried to ignore the man who knocked into him, bumping him into the subway pole.

Orion wanted to blame his dark mood on the ache in his bum knee, the fact that his body should still be sleeping, the static in his brain evidence of his jet lag. Maybe he should attribute his general sour attitude about humanity at large on the fact that his buddy Ham had insisted they route through Memorial Park to spend a few moments staring into the acre-wide footprint of the North Tower.

Orion had fisted his hands into his canvas jacket, the wind bullying him, the sun glaring off the glass of One World Trade Center, and watched as the waterfalls stirred up a mist into the brisk April air.

He couldn’t escape the thud in his chest.

The start of the War on Terror, right here—a war that still hadn’t been won, despite the casualties, the sacrifices, the personal losses.

All of it put Orion into a humdinger of a stormy mood.

Then he spotted the punk kid with the look of a thug slide through the closing doors of the subway car.