Andre Gonzalez
Wealth of Time Series: Books 1-3 (Boxset #1)
First published by M4L Publishing 2019
Copyright © 2019 by Andre Gonzalez
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Andre Gonzalez asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-951762-02-5
Editing by Stephanie Cohen
Cover art by ebooklaunch.com
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To my mom, Julie, for always believing in this wild dream.
To my dad, Larry. You may not remember, but you were my very first reader in 2002.
For my Auntie Chris. You helped me through a dark and confusing time of my life. Thank you for helping me see the road ahead more clearly.
“Time slips away like grains of sand never to return again.”
-Robin Sharma
Contents
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I. WEALTH OF TIME
Wealth of Time Cover
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
II. WARM SOULS
Warm Souls Cover
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
III. BAD FAITH
Bad Faith Cover
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
Pre-order Keeper of Time
Acknowledgements
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I
Wealth of Time
Wealth of Time Series, Book #1
1
Wealth of Time Cover
2
Chapter 1
One squeeze of the trigger and it’s all over.
The pistol was cold on his tongue, like a metallic popsicle. It weighed upon his jaw, keeping it pried open as saliva pooled between his tongue and the small hole where the slug would come blasting out to end his life.
Pull it, you coward. Darkness is waiting just on the other side. No more pain, no more regret. Just darkness.
His hands didn’t shake this time, nerves long gone after going through this same routine for the tenth time in just as many years. He already knew that this would play out with him removing the pistol, cursing the world, and passing out on the couch. The pills in his stomach swirled around the tide pool of whiskey, along for another ride.
Every September reminded Martin Briar of how much he hated his life. His once-normal life waited 22 years in the past. It was Labor Day of 2018 when Martin sat in his apartment with his pistol between his teeth. He had cried the first two years of attempting this, and knew that it was only a matter of time before the good graces of death would finally help him pull the trigger.
Minutes ago, he had smoked a cheap cigar while washing down a handful of colorful pills with a glass of whiskey. From the balcony of his rundown apartment, he had a view of the sunset with its blue mountains and orange glowing sky, but he took it for granted. Whiskey and tobacco came from the Earth, and that was the extent he cared for Mother Nature.
It was M
onday the 3rd, and the upcoming Sunday would officially mark 22 years since his daughter’s disappearance. The Imagine Dragons sang through his cell phone speakers from the balcony’s chipped and rough handrail. He stood with his elbows on it, the only other neighboring object being an ashtray he never used.
Lela, his ex-wife from many moons ago, had gifted him the ashtray. The bottom of the tray was a yellow circle with black lettering that read: World’s Greatest Dad!
He had been the world’s greatest dad, too, at least according to Izzy. Izzy, formally named Isabel, had grown up to be quite the daddy’s girl, always running to him when he arrived home from work and jumping into his embrace. She was only 12 years old when she had gone missing in 1996.
Kids have a way of distracting you from the fact that you are getting older with each passing day, and Izzy provided the same fountain of youth effect for Martin.
He was 32 when she disappeared. His entire twenties had gone by in a blur, thanks to Isabel. While his friends went out drinking and partying every weekend, Martin stayed home and watched shows like Rugrats and Arthur. He wouldn’t have traded it for a single night out, loving every moment with his little family in their first home, a small ranch-style house just north of Denver in Larkwood.
Martin grew up in Larkwood, his parents having moved there well before he was born. His mother still lived in his childhood home, just two blocks away. While most people would flee the quiet town after such a tragedy like losing a child, Martin couldn’t picture life anywhere else in the world. Larkwood was home and always would be. Going away wouldn’t bring Isabel back. If she were ever to return, it would likely be to the last place she could remember.
Now at the age of 54, Martin didn’t know if he’d even recognize his daughter. She would be 34 years old, a beautiful woman approaching the tail end of her prime. Of course you’ll know her face. You stare at it every day. From the small picture he kept in his wallet, to the 8x10 on his nightstand, he would damn well know his own daughter if she showed up all of these years later.
Martin stood in front of a mirror in his living room, staring at his pathetic self. His body had swollen over the years. What was once an athletic, six-foot frame of muscle was now a round collection of fast food and booze. His brown hair was plastered across his forehead with sweat. He started to wheeze, feeling his heart rate increase by the second as he stared at himself. His pale skin was now a light shade of red.
“Isabel,” he mumbled around the muzzle. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought their attempt to run down his face.
He ripped the pistol out of his mouth and threw it aside, falling into the soft couch waiting to catch him from behind.
Well, here we are again. You chickened out. Is the temptation really that hard to resist?
As he had done the previous nine times, Martin couldn’t pull the trigger, knowing that his mother would have to clean up the mess and bury her son. His brother had moved across the country years ago, around the same time that Izzy went missing, and had remained mostly estranged to the family. His father had passed when they were younger, leaving Marilyn Briar all alone, should Martin end his shitty life.
Just wait until she passes away – then we can ride off into the darkness together.
His mom was in great shape and nowhere near death, so it would take a few more years to reach that point. Once she was gone, though, there would be no more roadblocks, no hesitations from entering the darkness and leaving his lifelong sorrow behind.
Tuesday awaited with a full day of work at the post office, as if he needed an additional reason to shoot himself. He took the job for the guarantee of having Sundays and holidays off. Days off were all he looked forward to anymore. The customers were needy and whiny.
So many goddamn entitled little shits! he thought at the end of each shift. The days felt longer than eight hours as the clock on the wall teased him all day. His coworkers lacked any sort of personality and seemed to hate life as much as he did. At least they had that much in common.
Martin had fallen into the trap of monotonously going through the daily grind. Leave for work at seven in the morning, slog through five hours of mind-numbingly boring tasks until lunchtime, eat a bland sandwich made half-assed while drunk the night before, slog through until four o’clock, go home to drink booze and eat microwaveable dinners, make the bland sandwich for the next day, and then go to sleep. Work. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.
Sometimes he fantasized about being adventurous, but he had no clue what he would do. The numbness that remained in his chest since 1996 wasn’t going anywhere and made everyday life difficult to enjoy. He’d tried going to sporting events, the shooting range, even a book club. They all had the same result in leaving him unsatisfied and longing for the next day, one day closer to death where he could forget all of his problems and either start over or enjoy the darkness. Whatever the hell happens after this life can’t be worse.
The pistol was somewhere in the corner of the room as he started to doze off. He knew he wouldn’t have the urge to use it again until next year. The intensity of sticking an instrument of death in his mouth was enough to last him a full three hundred and sixty-five days.
Work. Drink. Sleep. Repeat. Tomorrow is another day in the glorious life of Martin Briar.
3
Chapter 2
Martin had a nail jammed into the back of his head when his alarm buzzed obnoxiously at six the next morning. God, I hate that fucking sound. He downed his usual breakfast of two aspirin pills and a glass of water to remedy the situation.
He slid into his uniform of a dark blue shirt and gray slacks. Larkwood Postal Services and his name were stitched across the shirt on opposite sides. “Hi, I’m Martin. Where would you like me to send your lovely package today, Mr. Asshole?” he said into the mirror with a drunken giggle. He kept the lights dim, not wanting to see the streaks of white and gray clawing their way through his brown hair. A scruffy beard had started to sprout on his face. “Oh, you need it overnighted to Australia? Let me pull out my magic mail monkey and have it swim across the ocean for you today!” His head throbbed when he laughed, but he couldn’t help himself.
Let’s go live that dream today, since you couldn’t complete your task last night. Martin winked at himself, the bags under his brown eyes remaining plump, having a slight regret at not pulling the trigger.
He maneuvered in the darkness to the kitchen to grab his lunchbox and left the apartment.
The outdoor air always helped eliminate the nausea that accompanied his daily hangover. To the east, the skyline glowed a magnificent purple and orange from the rising sun. Autumn had always been Martin’s favorite season – that was, until his daughter went missing all those Septembers ago. Now autumn served as a reminder that life doesn’t owe you an explanation. Bad shit happened to good people every day. Some rose, some crumpled. Martin liked to think he fell in the middle of the spectrum, functioning as a member of society, but having no interest in improving his life. Just get me to the finish line already, he often thought.
Hope kept him from pulling the trigger year after year. Hope that his daughter would return. Hope that his wife would come back and they could build a relationship for the twilight years of their lives. Hope that maybe one day, life would feel all right again. It couldn’t always be this bad.
He and his mother had dinner together twice a week, each taking turns on choosing where to dine. His mother had always been a graceful soul, willing to open her heart to anyone in need. When she saw Martin struggle after Izzy’s disappearance, and his resulting failed marriage, she convinced him to move into her basement until he could regain structure in his life.
Martin took joy in knowing his Tuesday evening would end with dinner with his mom. It was his turn to choose and he wanted nothing more than a juicy burger at the local joint, Roadhouse Diner. He might spend more time with his mother over the course of the week, with the anniversary of Izzy’s disappearance looming on Sunday.
The morni
ng dragged on as expected, but when lunch arrived he felt instant relief when he found the small break room deserted. The rusty microwave hummed in the corner while the stench of burnt popcorn filled the air.
Martin took the seat closest to the window with its breathtaking view of the parking lot for all of the mail trucks. He laid out his sandwich and chips before calling his mom.
“Hi, Marty,” she greeted him warmly.
“Hey, Mom, how’s it going today?”
“Oh, you know, just raked some leaves and made a pot of tea. Gonna be a long afternoon of soap operas.”
“Of course, can’t miss those. I just wanted to confirm that we’re still good for tonight. I was thinking we could go to Roadhouse.”
“Oh, perfect!” Her voice rose in excitement. “I just heard from Esther about a new antique shop that popped up a few blocks from the church. I don’t remember hearing anything about it, but it’s apparently open now. Do you mind if we stop by before dinner, since it’s on the way?”
“I don’t mind at all. I can pick you up at 5:30.”
“Great, I’ll be ready. See you then.”
They hung up and Martin wondered what his mother’s life was like. She spent her mornings in the yard, took a nap, and lazed the afternoons away on her recliner watching bad TV. Once a week she’d visit a thrift store or antique store with her friends in search of some rare find. Occasionally, she invited Martin to join her on these outings if her friends weren’t able to go. He didn’t mind keeping her company, but all these stores carried the same loads of useless shit and musty odors that reminded him of an attic.
Probably because all this shit is from someone’s attic.
Regardless, he set his focus on the double cheeseburger with bacon awaiting him at the end of his day’s journey.
4
Chapter 3
Martin’s stomach growled as he pulled into his childhood driveway. He made it through another day, and thanks to the short week, tomorrow was already Wednesday.
Wealth of Time Series Boxset Page 1
