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Storms Over Secrets
Copyright © 2015 by J.A. DeRouen
Cover Design by Regina Wamba at Mae I Design and Photography
Editing by Madison Seidler
Proofreading by Alexis Durbin
Formatting by JT Formatting
Smashwords Edition
ISBN:
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Title Page
Andrea Gibson Quote
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Past –Six Years Ago
MY FEET POUND the pavement at a punishing pace, and my calves scream as I push myself forward, not going nearly fast enough. My ragged breath whistles into the night as I force air into my restricted lungs. Loose gravel and rocks bruise the bottoms of my feet, but none of that matters.
Please, God, this can’t be the end. I need more time to fix this … more time to fix him.
I pound my fists on the front door, twisting the doorknob and pushing on the splintered wood with all my might.
“Lucas! God, please! Lucas!” My screams pierce through the stillness of the night, and the neighborhood awakens like falling dominos, with porch lights illuminating one after the other.
It feels as though light-years pass before the light above my head flicks to life. Mrs. Cindy opens the door with sleepy eyes and disheveled hair. “My God, Celia, what on Earth?”
There’s no time for words as I shove her aside and race up the staircase. Sobbing. Stumbling. Clawing to get to him.
A boulder settles in my gut, the gnawing dread pulls me under, making it almost impossible to breathe. His text is etched in my brain, tattooed on my already broken heart, because I know what I’ll find when I finally reach him.
No matter where I am, I’ll always love you. I promise you always.
His vow is the only coherent thought I have as I fling open the bathroom door and fall to my knees, sliding on the pool of blood that welcomes me.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!”
“Today” by Joshua Radin
Present Day
“BOY, SOMETIMES I think you’ve got lead in your ass and shit for brains. Don’t make me come down there.”
Sarge’s voice cracks as he raises it an octave shy of hollering. My grandfather is a piece of work. Sometimes I’d like to thank the artist personally … possibly with a throat punch or jab to the gut.
“Cool your jets, old man,” I reply with a low chuckle. “I’m on my way now. This is ridiculous, though. I know I mailed the tenant her key with the lease. Who the hell loses their key before they even move in?” I juggle the phone between my ear and shoulder as I turn the steering wheel and drive through the streets of Providence.
“Don’t get smart with me, boy. The broad said she lost the key, so I don’t know what to tell you. Just open the house for her, and you can be on your merry little way. Lord knows I wouldn’t want to interrupt your morning of catching squirrels or climbing trees with a measly bit of work.” Sarge expels a huff of air, and I hear the creak of his old rocking chair. I can picture him now, pacing the porch and cursing under his breath.
“I’m a game warden, Sarge. I’m not on some camping trip frolicking in the fricking forest. We had a sting operation. A big group of duck hunters was baiting ponds, and we caught ‘em. I’ve been up since two o’clock in the morning,” I explain, although I know it’s on deaf ears. My gramps has a set way of looking at life—his way. He decided a long time ago I’d take over his rental property business, and he can’t, for the life of him, figure out why I mess with this game warden “hobby.”
The truth is, I see things a little differently than the old man. The rental property business feeds my wallet, and I’m grateful for it. The game warden gig feeds my soul. There’s nothing like being in the woods at dawn, the crack of a twig piercing the silence, and seeing a doe and her fawn walk up on you. Pure fucking beauty. Nothing in every day life comes close to those moments.