Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
But after Darin and Morgan were shot, some of those old nightmares came flooding back—that old light turned on again, twice as bright. This time around, he was the one trapped in the Tahoe with Morgan Emerson, and it was Worrell—not Duane Dupree—shooting them in a field outside Murfee, then setting them on fire on the riverbank.
Garrison struggling to get out of that burning car, dragging Morgan with him, his mouth full of blood again. Not Worrell’s, not even his own, but Morgan’s.
Her blood . . . and the thick ashes from her burning skin, choking him . . .
How the hell could he explain that to anyone?
So he didn’t. Not to a counselor or to Karen or the other agents he worked with.
He never talked about it, and instead spent months trying not to sleep at all.
—
HE SAT IN HIS EMPTY KITCHEN, looking through the hazy window at the even emptier pool. After Karen and the girls had left, it had slowly gone down—dried up—day after day. Taking care of the house and the pool had always been Karen’s job, and he wasn’t sure who to call anymore. The last time he’d looked down into it he’d seen little more than floating bugs and branches. Some ugly, wayward feathers; a thick detritus of El Paso dust hiding the Pebble Tec bottom. It was a hazard, and he should probably just fill the damn thing in with concrete. He wasn’t likely to ever swim in it again, and neither were the girls. The last time they’d used it they’d been celebrating Megan’s birthday—her last birthday in Texas—and Karen had strung up dozens of paper lanterns around the deck, glowing green and red and blue above the clear water. It had been beautiful, and he’d had three Coronas and two pieces of cake and then he and Karen had made love by that lantern light filtering in through their bedroom windows.
That was three weeks, maybe a month, before Darin and Morgan were shot in Murfee.
It was about six months after that when Karen and the girls left for good.
—
IT WASN’T THAT Karen couldn’t forgive him for the drinking and the anger again; it was the goddamn silence she couldn’t take the second time around. Day after day of him not saying anything at all, at least not to her. She’d begged him to get help, made the appointments for him, but when he ignored them—when he called her all those names after those long nights of drinking and had raised his hand like he was going to hit her (although he never would)—she’d packed up the girls and pretty much everything else and moved back east.