ACCLAIM FOR
CENTER OF GRAVITY
“McNeill’s debut is a heartstopping, nail-biting suspense novel that held me captive until I read the last page. Evocative writing and a compelling voice add to the mesmerizing effect of this excellent debut. I’ll be looking for her next book!”
— Colleen Coble, USA Today Bestselling author of The Inn at Ocean’s Edge and the Hope Beach novels
“A breathless, gut-wrenching, satisfying page turner about the real superheroes of the world who stand up to evil and won’t back down.”
— Erin Healy, author of Motherless and The Baker's Wife
“A bold and poignant look into an imploding marriage, told in a chorus of assured voices. I found myself so invested in Ava, a woman finally ready to examine the dysfunctional family dynamics that have shaped her and rise to courage. The story took me by the hand, bold and tender, and didn’t let me go until it’s extremely satisfying conclusion. Center of Gravity is a compelling, fierce, and ultimately hopeful tale, and McNeill is a writer to watch.”
— Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Someone Else’s Love Story
Copyright © 2015 by Laura McNeill
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
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Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-7180-3091-9 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McNeill, Laura.
Center of gravity / Laura McNeill.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-7180-3090-2 (paperback)
I. Title.
PS3613.C58623E68 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015003950
15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For John David
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: AVA
CHAPTER 1: JACK
CHAPTER 2: AVA
CHAPTER 3: JACK
CHAPTER 4: AVA
CHAPTER 5: AVA
CHAPTER 6: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 7: JACK
CHAPTER 8: JACK
CHAPTER 9: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 10: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 11: AVA
CHAPTER 12: AVA
CHAPTER 13: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 14: JACK
CHAPTER 15: AVA
CHAPTER 16: JACK
CHAPTER 17: AVA
CHAPTER 18: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 19: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 20: JACK
CHAPTER 21: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 22: LUCY
CHAPTER 23: AVA
CHAPTER 24: LUCY
CHAPTER 25: AVA
CHAPTER 26: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 27: JACK
CHAPTER 28: AVA
CHAPTER 29: JACK
CHAPTER 30: JACK
CHAPTER 31: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 32: JACK
CHAPTER 33: AVA
CHAPTER 34: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 35: JACK
CHAPTER 36: LUCY
CHAPTER 37: AVA
CHAPTER 38: JACK
CHAPTER 39: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 40: JACK
CHAPTER 41: AVA
CHAPTER 42: AVA
CHAPTER 43: JACK
CHAPTER 44: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 45: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 46: JACK
CHAPTER 47: AVA
CHAPTER 48: JACK
CHAPTER 49: JACK
CHAPTER 50: AVA
CHAPTER 51: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 52: JACK
CHAPTER 53: AVA
CHAPTER 54: JACK
CHAPTER 55: JACK
CHAPTER 56: MITCHELL
CHAPTER 57: AVA
CHAPTER 58: JACK
CHAPTER 59: LUCY
CHAPTER 60: AVA
CHAPTER 61: LUCY
CHAPTER 62: JACK
CHAPTER 63: GRAHAM
CHAPTER 64: AVA
CHAPTER 65: JACK
CHAPTER 66: AVA
CHAPTER 67: AVA
CHAPTER 68: AVA
CHAPTER 69: JACK
EPILOGUE: JACK
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
AVA
When your children are stolen, the pain swallows you whole. Logic fades, reason retreats. Desperation permeates the tiniest crevices of your mind. Nothing soothes the ache in your wounded soul.
Right in front of me, my sweet, charmed life fell to pieces. Everything destroyed—a hailstorm’s wrath on a field of wildflowers. All I’d known . . . gone. Foolish me, I’d believed in magic, clung tight to false promises. The lies, spoken from tender lips, haunt me now, follow me, and whisper into my ear like a scorned lover.
What’s left is emptiness.
Give up, a voice urges. Let go.
No! I argue back. My children aren’t gone. Not yet. Precious and delicate, tiny fossils, they exist in glass-boxed isolation. Hidden. Protected.
And so tonight, I run. Blood pulses through my legs, my muscles protest; my lungs scream for more oxygen. Thick storm clouds brew in the distance. The rain falls in blinding sheets. The force of it pricks my skin like needles, but the pain only makes me push harder.
I will rescue them.
Lightning flashes across the wet driveway. I skid to a stop and catch my breath, pressing a hand to my heaving chest.
They’re here. My children are here.
Thunder booms and crashes, nearer now, and the wind whips my hair. A gust tosses tree branches to the ground. Birds cry and flutter to safety. An escaped sand bucket spins, clattering on the blacktop.
I grasp the railing and pull myself up the steps. At the top, the door is shiny-slick with water and humidity. Mother Nature howls and drowns out my knocking.
“Hello! Can you hear me?” With my palm open wide, I slap at the barrier, willing it to open. I will rescue my children. I will rescue them . . . or I will die trying.
CHAPTER 1
JACK
ONE MONTH EARLIER
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24
Every day, somebody somewhere needs a hero.
Think about it. The mom lifting a two-ton truck to save her son after a car crash. The dad—who can’t swim—who jumps in the water anyway to pull out his drowning daughter. The guy who kicks down the door of a burning building because his friend’s kid is trapped inside.
All of a sudden, getting hurt doesn’t matter. There’s no thinking twice. Just a gut-pumping, jump-off-the-cliff, no turning back.
For these regular people, thrown into crazy life-or-death situations, there’s that one big moment. Then they go back to work, their jobs, or school.
And it’s someone else’s turn.
I’m only in the third grade, but I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
Waiting for my chance—my moment to be a hero.
An ear-piercing shriek yanks me back to the school playground.
My best friend Mo runs up, breathless. “Emma Dunlop’s stuck up in the oak t
ree.” He bends over, chest heaving in the humidity, and puts both hands on his knees. “She’s freaking out.”
Shielding my eyes, I grit my teeth. The tree’s as big as a monster, with twisted brown branches that extend like arms, thick emerald leaves at the fingertips. Spanish moss hangs from the lowest limbs, the ends curling like a snake’s tail.
Though I can’t see her through the tangle of limbs, I picture Emma hanging on tight to the rough bark. Shaking. Really scared. Trying not to look down at the brick-red clay.
I run a hand through my hair.
She’s in trouble. And I know why.
Legend says a man’s head—a genie—is hidden in the leaves and branches. Weird, rough pieces of wood make up his face. He has knots for eyes. A bump for his chin. It’s for real. I’ve seen it.
All the kids know the story. If you touch the genie’s nose, your wish will come true. Of course my dad doesn’t believe in stuff like that and says I shouldn’t either. He’s a PhD and does an important job at the college. So I guess he knows what he’s talking about.
But that’s not going to save Emma now. I start to jog, then full-out sprint. At the base of the tree, I push through a crowd of my classmates. Third and fourth graders, gaping, heads tilted, mouths open like baby birds. When I reach the trunk, I squint up and find Emma’s brand-new saddle shoes dangling high above me. I see pale, thin legs and the crisp edges of her plaid jumper. And despite everyone talking and whispering, I hear Emma crying. It’s a whimpering wail, like a hurt animal.
“Y’all go on back inside now. Go back to class,” my teacher says, pushing the group back an inch or two. I end up jostled next to the school librarian, who’s holding her hands like she’s praying.
Our eyes meet. Mine flicker away.
“Don’t even think about it, Jack,” she warns.
But I kick off my shoes anyway and grab hold of the trunk. Deep down in my belly, I make myself act like I’m not scared. I don’t like heights or even hanging upside down from monkey bars. But Emma needs me. And no one else is doing a thing.
Ms. Martin gasps, but she knows she’s too late. I’m out of her reach before she can react. I think hard about one of my favorite superheroes, Daredevil. He’s like an Olympic athlete and a master of martial arts. He’s blind but uses his other senses to fight crime, beat up bad guys, and save the girl. If he can do it . . .
When I look back down at the ground, my stomach churns like I’ve eaten too many Snickers bars and guzzled a two-liter of Coke. I push the feeling away. Climb, Jack, I say to myself. Just climb. When I start to move my legs again, the first few feet are easy. Soon I’m above everyone’s heads.
“They’re going to get a ladder,” the librarian calls out. “Come on down here, Jack Carson, right this instant. Lord have mercy!”
At the sound of her screech, Emma wobbles. Her saddle shoes kick and knock some bark from a branch. I can’t come down now. She’s slipping.
“They’ve called the fire department,” my teacher adds. “Truck’s on the way.”
I pretend I don’t hear her and move closer. My head starts to hurt. My ears are ringing. But I take a deep breath and hold on tight to the tree, concentrating on Emma. She’s tiny, a first grader, with brown corkscrew curls and a yellow bow pinned to the side of her head. Her pink cheeks are streaked with dirt.
“Hey, Emma,” I say, making my voice calm. “Whatcha doing up here?”
She flushes pink. “I wanted to make a w-wish. For my birthday.”
A breeze ruffles the leaves, cooling the sweat on my forehead. My hands, gritty with dirt and bark, inch closer. I can almost reach her. “Well, let’s make sure you get to your party.”
“But I haven’t found the genie.” She begins to cry, which makes her body wobble. The branch moves up and down, and she starts sobbing harder.
“Emma,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ll help you.”
She snuffles and blinks a few times. “I’m scared.”
“I know. Me too,” I tell her. “But I won’t let you fall. Give me your hand.”
Her palm is slippery wet. I grip it and try to smile so that she’s not so nervous. “Slide your foot toward me. Then the other one.”
I watch Emma drag one foot about an inch. She tries the other one but gets her shoe caught on a bump. I inhale sharply, the scent of dirt and sweat filling my nose.
“Wait. Don’t move,” I say, squeezing her hand.
Sirens wail. The crowd below grows bigger. I swallow hard. Daredevil. Be like Daredevil.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I won’t let go.”
After what seems like forever, Emma moves her foot closer.
“Can you think of something great, like going on vacation or your birthday?” I ask.
“Or getting a pony.” For a moment, she sighs dreamily.
“Right,” I say. “Now, let’s go.”
We begin to climb lower, inch by inch, but my arm muscle cramps. Emma hesitates. I squeeze her hand. I need to get her down. And fast.
“Emma,” I whisper. “Look to the right.”
The face of the tree genie is right there.
“Oh,” Emma breathes.
“Touch his nose, quick.”
She reaches out a finger and brushes it, then giggles. Right then, another gust of wind blows through the branches. Her curls tickle my cheek. I almost want to laugh. But I can’t. Not yet.
Climbing down is simpler now; the limbs are wider, sturdier. The voices right below us are louder. The last big branch, large enough to hold both of us, is about ten feet up from the ground. We stop here, gasping for breath.
Firefighters are waiting underneath us with a blanket. An ambulance is there with the back door open. Teachers are waving their hands. And saying something.
Jump. They want Emma to jump.
“All right.” I use my most grown-up voice. “Emma, I need you to do one more thing.”
Her chin moves up and down.
“They want you to let go. So they can catch you.”
Emma’s arms and legs get stiff. Her eyes widen, and we both swallow a gulp. We’re taller than the high dive at Spring Hill Swim Club. I try not to sway when I look at the ground.
“Maybe pretend,” I tell her, thinking fast, “that you’re a butterfly. Or an eagle.”
“How about a unicorn?” She gives me a lopsided grin.
I bite my lip. Enough with the horses. I want to get down. This rescue stuff isn’t for sissies.
Emma looks at me.
“They’re waiting for you, Emma. On the count of three, okay?”
When the firefighter below calls out “one,” she jumps, and her uniform billows open like a plaid parachute. She lands square on the blanket and beams in delight. A firefighter reaches in, grabs Emma, and scoops her up.
Emma waves good-bye to me as the firefighter carries her to the ambulance.
“Think you’ll get the pony?” I yell after her.
She shakes her curls. “I can’t tell you my wish. It won’t come true!”
Emma’s mother runs up then, crying, hugging, and kissing her.
With Emma okay, the grown-ups turn back to me. Most of them have their arms crossed and don’t look happy. No doubt the principal is ready to dish out a detention or two.
“Dude, your dad’s going to freak when he finds out,” Mo says and rolls his eyes. “He hates your superhero stuff.”
“Don’t remind me.” Inside, I feel sick. I know that I am supposed to get good grades, play sports, and be polite. My dad isn’t a fan of making big scenes.
“It was pretty cool anyway.” Mo cocks his head. “Who are you today?”
“Daredevil.”
“Nice.” He grins and leans against the tree below me, waiting. “You coming down now, superhero?”
I lean back against the trunk, waiting for the firefighters to come back with the blanket. “Yep.”
“Go ahead,” Mo dares me, raising an eyebrow and grinning.
I hesitate, thinking I�
��d be crazy to jump. But superheroes take chances, don’t they? I’d seen Daredevil jump from this height before. So holding my breath, I let go. Somehow, though, I twist midair and land smack down on my face. Hard.
The belly flop knocks the breath from my lungs. Time stops.
The smell of cut grass makes me want to sneeze. And someone’s wearing really, really bad perfume. At least I’m not dead. Everyone is shouting and my ears hurt. There are hands touching my legs and arms. I roll my head an inch to one side. All I can see are shoes. A pair of black heels come closer.
“Jack, sweetheart, can you hear me?”
I push myself up with one arm and swipe at my hair with the back of my hand. “Sure thing,” I answer, jaw set at the ridiculous question. Even superheroes stumble sometimes.
“Jack—”
“I’m fine.” To prove it, I try to jump up and get to my feet. But like Superman with a mound of Kryptonite in the room, I am so weak that I almost fall over.
The office lady’s mouth stretches wide and yawns.
My brain won’t work. What is her name? Two of her now? Ink-stained fingers snap in front of my nose. My brain starts to rewind. My knees give out. Everything slides to the right and goes black.
CHAPTER 2
AVA
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24
Life never quite turns out the way you plan. Take my first attempt at gourmet cooking. The twelve-week-long class was a wedding gift from my husband, Mitchell. I think he secretly hoped the instruction would uncover my amazing talent and I’d be the next Giada De Laurentiis.
So armed with a new apron, thick, glossy new cookbooks, and dazzled by my new home’s professional kitchen—full of gleaming stainless steel utensils—I bounced fearlessly into the day of instruction.
I proceeded to set both oven mitts on fire, much to the horror of nearby students. The next week, my crème brûlée singed into a charcoal volcano. Week number three, the heady scent of cloves caused a wave of nausea so strong I had to run outside and gulp fresh air. I turned out to be pregnant, of course. So much for the Food Network and my budding career as a chef.
Since then, we keep a fire extinguisher handy, and I work from a collection of standby, no-fail recipes. We’ve decided that I do excel at comfort food: chicken salad, tacos, and oatmeal cookies. Tonight’s plan: fresh vegetables and pasta.
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