© 2019 by Ginny L. Yttrup
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-788-5
eBook Editions:
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture quotation marked ESV is from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
DEDICATION
I don’t know your name. I never had the chance to meet you, but I will never forget you. Your life was taken too soon, at the hands of a man who stalked you and ultimately killed you. Your death that early morning of May 17, 2017, shattered the peace of our quiet neighborhood and broke our hearts for your sons, left to face life without you. I pray for your sons each time I pass the place that was your home, the place where you were robbed of your life. May God bless your precious boys.
God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.
2 TIMOTHY 1:7 ESV
If weather portends outcome, as poets suggest, she’ll enjoy a perfect day.
A cool breeze caresses her face as the sun warms the tarmac beneath her feet. A mirage waves just above the runway in the distance, and the acrid scent of tar melds with the signature scents of spring, freshly cut grass and honeysuckle. She closes her eyes, lifts her face to the sun, and breathes deep. The aroma wafts then dissipates. When she opens her eyes, the azure expanse, watercolor clear, beckons.
But just beyond her view, charcoal-colored clouds coalesce on the horizon.
Anticipation, like the wings of hummingbirds, flutters within her. She adjusts the harness on her shoulders and thighs, then shields her eyes and looks at the sky again. This time a shiver trembles through her despite the warmth rising from the asphalt. Anticipation or fear? She wraps her arms around herself.
Behind her, unnoticed, a man stands in front of one of the hangars. Deep lines etch his clean-shaven face, the ink of his beard a shadow under his pale skin. He hides his eyes behind sunglasses while nursing wounds so deep they hemorrhage hatred. He takes a drag from the stub of a cigarette, exhales a ribbon of smoke, then drops the butt and grinds it under his foot. He stills, and watches her.
Another man, young, lanky, a chute packed on his back, breaks from a group of pros—professional skydivers, she was told—and saunters her way until he stands next to her. “Ready to ride the currents?”
She is familiar with currents, having spent almost as much time riding the white rapids of rivers as she’s spent on land. She knows rivers and respects their power. But air currents? The shake of her head is almost imperceptible. “Absolutely.” She attempts a smile as she bends the truth.
He studies her face for a moment, and then the fair skin around his eyes crinkles and he laughs. He turns and heads back to the group, tossing advice over his shoulder as he goes. “Stay loose and enjoy the ride. There’s nothing like it.”
She wipes damp palms on the jumpsuit she wears then glances at the group he rejoined. Divers practicing for an upcoming competition. Though she’ll ride up with them, the pros will jump from a lower altitude. She opted to do a tandem jump for her first experience. Attached to an instructor, they’ll jump from nearly twelve thousand feet. During the free fall, they’ll drop at a rate of nearly 120 miles per hour. She rehearses what she learned during the brief instruction she received.
An engine throttles in the distance, and soon sunlight glints off the silver wings of a small plane taxiing toward them. The plane rattles as it approaches. Loose nuts and bolts, she imagines. The sound unsettling.
“Betty!” one of the pros yells.
“Come to Daddy!” shouts another. Laughter and catcalls welcome the plane, Betty Boop, with her pouting red lips painted on its tail.
A man walks out the door of the office nearby and heads her way. He sticks out his hand when he reaches her. “I’m Mike. You’re jumping with me. This marks my thousandth jump, so let’s make it memorable. Deal?” His thick white hair lifts then falls with the breeze.
She wipes her hand again then takes his and shakes it. Her voice is lost to her now, so she only nods.
“Once those bozos jump”—he gestures to the others—“I’ll connect you to my harness, you in front of me, then we’ll go to the door. When I say ‘go,’ we jump. If you don’t jump, I will, and you’re going with me. Better if you take the lead.” He chuckles. “Ready?”
She nods.
“Good. Remember what you learned—arms stretched out, wrists straight, palms flat.” He demonstrates. “Got it?” Before she responds, he strides toward the plane that’s pulled up in front of the group. She follows behind him.
As she waits to board, she takes the young man’s advice and works to loosen up. She shakes her arms and hands, from shoulders to fingertips, then does a shimmy as though she can shake off the spiders of fear skittering up her spine. But then that’s the point, isn’t it? To shake off fear, once and for all. That’s what she’s come to do. To prove to herself that the phantom known as Fear no longer holds her in its grip.
She straightens, squares her shoulders, and takes a deep breath as she climbs aboard the plane. There are no seats, the other divers are piled close to one another on the floor. Mike points to an open space near him. She lowers herself, sits, pulls her knees to her chest, and then looks out the oval window next to her.
That’s when she sees him.
Her breath catches. She leans in, cups her hands on the glass to cut the glare, and peers out.
It can’t be…. Mouth dry, she tries to swallow. She looks away.
Her heart batters her chest and her pulse roars in her ears, nearly drowning out the clamor of the plane’s propeller. It isn’t him. You’re imagining things, she tells herself. She inhales then exh
ales. She takes another look then stares at the man near the hangar. He pulls something from his shirt pocket, sticks it in his mouth. A cigarette? She watches as he lights it. It isn’t him. He doesn’t smoke. Anyway, it’s impossible. She knows where he is, and it isn’t here.
He’s seen her staring at him through the window of the plane. He takes a drag, flicks ash to the ground, and smiles. But his eyes behind the sunglasses are cold. Hard.
She steadies herself as the plane shoots down the runway then lifts. As memories flash, perspiration trickles down her back. She inhales again, deeper this time. It wasn’t him. Let it go, she admonishes, then shakes her head.
Fear will not win. Not this time. Not ever again.
Within what feels to her like mere moments, the group of professional skydivers have all jumped, and she stands, back pressed against Mike, hooked to his harness. They brace themselves against the pummeling force of wind as they wait near the gaping opening in the side of the plane. She pulls goggles from the top of her head down over her eyes.
There’s no room in her mind now for thoughts of the man on the ground, or of the man who haunts her memories. There’s no room for thoughts of any kind. Terror, as she well knows, is all-consuming. Her breaths are shallow, her pulse races.
“Step to the edge,” Mike yells. When she doesn’t move, he yells again, this time his breath hot against her ear. She hesitates then steps forward, him stepping in sync with her. There’s nothing to see but the vast expanse.
“Go!” Mike shouts.
Heart hammering her rib cage, she leans forward, eyes squeezed shut, and falls more than jumps into nothingness, arms stretched wide. She anticipates the sensation of falling—stomach lifting to throat—but it isn’t evident as she’d expected. Nor is the velocity at which she knows they’re falling. She dares to open her eyes, only aware of the force of air pushing her cheeks back to her ears, which makes her laugh.
The free fall is like nothing she’s experienced. She laughs again, the sound carried heavenward on the drafts, she imagines. Too soon she’s jerked, hard, the harness cutting into her thighs, and pulled upward with what seems like exceeding force. She hadn’t expected the force.
But then they’re floating. Soaring. “Oh,” she whispers. She wants to take it all in, remember every exhilarating moment. These currents she could ride forever. Tension is replaced by peace, pervasive peace.
Quietude. Silence. Wonder.
“That was a hard pull.” Mike’s shouted words behind her threaten to break the spell, but she’s enchanted and pays little attention. She assumes the pull—the parachute opening and catching air—was harder than usual but fine. They’re fine. She doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know what’s to come. How could she?
As they float, her eyes are trained on the ground below. The earth is a patchwork of tones. She sees the river, a thread, stitched across the quilt of colors. She searches for familiar landmarks as her sense of confidence soars. She’s done it. Faced fear, terror even, and—
Suddenly they’re plummeting.
Tumbling.
Head first. Arms and legs akimbo.
Land and sky spin as they interchange. Her lungs deflate. Pressure. The currents, tumultuous, pull her under and then spit her out. She can’t breathe. Why can’t she breathe? She gasps. She’s drowning. Help! Someone, help! But no… There’s no water. Instead, she’s above, where there’s nothing. Just…
Nothing.
Nothing to reach for. Nothing to grab. Nothing to save her.
A scream sounds in her mind. Rings in her ears. Scathes her throat.
Her scream?
Awareness hits. She’s going to die. It’s her only thought. There are no thoughts of those she loves. Those who love her. Memories don’t flash. No, just the one thought. The only thought she has time for.
She is going to die.
Then…
Everything goes black.
On the ground he waits and watches as he’s done so many times before—patience his vice. He counts off as each of the pros lands. Finally, he sees it. A rainbow of color fluttering against the deep blue sky. A single parachute drifting. Flailing. Falling.
No one attached.
His heart pangs, a brief reminder of what she once meant to him. But no more.
She ruined all that.
This is goodbye.
He drops another cigarette butt, grinds it under the toe of his boot, and then turns and walks away. His laughter, like the cackle of a crow, carries on the breeze.
Perfect.
A perfect day.
PART ONE
You drown not by falling into a river but by staying submerged in it.
PAULO COELHO
CHAPTER ONE
Denilyn
January 9, 2017
I inhale, filling my lungs with cold air. I exhale, counting as I do. One, two, three, four. I inhale again, the air thick, damp. My chest rises as my lungs expand then fall as I exhale. One, two, three, four.
Rain beats a disjointed rhythm on the windshield and roof of the parked car. My hands rest on the steering wheel at the ten and twelve o’clock positions—the leather polished to a sheen with wear, firm and cold under my palms.
The interior of the SUV is icy, but warmth still radiates through me following a hard morning workout and a hot shower, yet goose bumps prickle my arms anyway.
“I’m in my car, in my driveway,” I whisper. “It’s Monday, January 9th, 2017, first day of the spring semester. I am going to work. Max has water. The house is secured. The alarm set.” I inhale. “My family is safe.” I exhale. Then I glance at the digital numerals on the dash—6:24 a.m. The numbers glow, casting a blue sheen in the dark interior of the SUV.
I intentionally inhale and exhale one more breath. The engine purrs. I back away from the garage and turn the car toward the gate at the front of the property. Gravel crunches under my wheels as I follow the narrow drive lit by landscape lanterns placed two feet apart along both sides of the drive. When I pull up in front of the smooth redwood-paneled gate nearly hidden in the redwood-paneled wall surrounding the property, I repeat my mantra.
“It’s Monday, January 9th,”
The gate yawns open.
“2017.”
My wipers screech across the windshield, smearing spatters of rain, making the road ahead nearly indistinguishable. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and slow. When was the last time I replaced the wipers? Before the drought—five, six years maybe? Could it really have been that long?
Like a child hiding in the folds of her mother’s skirt, the morning sun shrinks behind dark, billowing clouds, seeming to have forgotten its own power.
I focus on the terrain sheathed in hues of gray. As I maneuver the SUV through the turns in the road, light from my headlamps bounces off the embankment where rivulets of water and mud cascade onto the roadway. Somewhere below, the river roils and rushes, I imagine. But I don’t dare look.
California’s drought, daunting and devastating, has finally come to an end. Or, at the least, we’re offered a reprieve. The snowpack, well above average with several more months of potential snow in store, will yield water throughout California’s summer months. Plenty of water. Which translates into, among other things, raging rivers. White water. I can almost hear the owners of local rafting companies sighing with relief.
Water is good for the economy. It’s good for the psyche too.
When I finally pull into the faculty parking lot of Pacific Covenant University, situated cliffside along the northern fork of the upper American River, my neck and shoulders ache. I park and then grab the insulated mug in my cup holder and swallow the last of my coffee. I tuck the mug into the outside pocket of my briefcase. It’s definitely a two-, maybe three-mug morning.
I reach for the door handle then hesitate. Sheets of water curtain the windows. Raindrops ricochet off the car’s roof. Locks on the doors keep the world at bay. Reluctantly, I pull the handle and push the door open, get out, and
spring the umbrella. I duck under its cover, a poor substitute for the protective cocoon of the car.
Keys in hand, I sling my briefcase over my shoulder, tuck my hair into the collar of my coat, then slosh my way through the parking lot and follow one of the pathways through the verdant, tree-studded campus to the wide steps leading up to the psychology building. The brick building is the oldest on the campus, the original structure when PCU acquired the site.
I run up the steps and, once undercover, shake the umbrella until water puddles at my feet. I enter the building and make my way up the stairs to the second floor then down the quiet, dimly lit hallway. The scent of chalk dust, ground into every corner and crevice of the building, tickles my nose. Chalkboards were replaced with whiteboards more than a decade ago, so the lingering scent is more likely association than actuality. But the building, having been closed over the winter break, is indeed musty. I stop in front of one of the offices that line the hall and fumble with my keys until I find the right one.
“Hey, Deni.”
I jump, and my keys jangle as they drop to the floor. I turn from the door toward the voice, heart thumping against the cage of my chest. “Willow…”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, it’s just… I didn’t see you. Hi.” I bend to retrieve my keys, hands trembling. “Did you enjoy your break?” I slip my hands into the pockets of my coat.
Willow, a sophomore whose slender, graceful frame lives up to her name, shrugs. “It was okay. Family drama. The usual holiday stuff.”
“Ah… Makes dorm life look good, huh?”
“Totally.”
“Were you waiting to see me?”
“No. Dr. Alister.” She gestures to the office next to mine. “I’m meeting with him. I’m his TA this semester.”
I point down the hallway. “Dr. Alister’s office is—”
The door of the office next to mine swings open, and Ryan Alister steps into the hallway. “Thought I heard voices out here. Willow”—he glances at his watch—“you’re prompt. Thank you.” He turns to me, his smile warm.
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