by K. K. Allen
More tears spring to her eyes, and she nods. Her words come out strained at first. “I’ve been yours since the moment I laid eyes on you, Ridge Cross. I’m yours forever. Always.” She laughs. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”
I open the box and have to choke back my own tears when she realizes it’s the ring her father gave her mother when he proposed. Selena wanted Camila to have it, and after I asked her for her blessing, she was all too eager to hand it over.
Camila’s hand shakes as I slip the ring onto her finger, then I stand and take her into my arms while the crowd around us explodes with cheers and congratulations. The music starts again, and we finish our dance with Camila’s arms glued around my neck.
“I have news for you too,” she says against my ear.
I laugh, thinking nothing could top my proposal. “What is it?”
She giggles and whispers, “I’m pregnant.”
Surprise! Read the Bonus Epilogue HERE.
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AND…keep flipping the pages to read the opening chapter of my upcoming release, British Bachelor, releasing January 24, 2021.
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If you loved A Bridge Between Us then you will love Waterfall Effect, a small mountain town romantic suspense. Keeping flipping the pages to read the opening chapters.
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Acknowledgments
I’m sitting here staring at a notepad filled with people who supported me throughout my writing A Bridge Between Us, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. My tribe is strong and growing, you guys. It’s an incredible feeling. As always, I could not have done this without them.
I want to start at the very beginning of when this idea came to light. It was just a spark of an idea, fueled by a location, and burst to life with every bit of research I dove into—some of which was used in this story, some of which was not. Like all my books, A Bridge Between Us started as something completely different—a love story born on farmland, yes, but with every bit of information I learned about Telluride and the surrounding areas, the rich history, the beauty found in every single season, it’s safe to say this story grew into so much more than I ever could have dreamed up on my own.
With all that being said, I want to first thank you, T.R., for letting me talk your ear off at the very beginning stages of this novel. You provided invaluable reference material and ideas to help me keep the authenticity I aimed for.
To my son, Jagger, for accompanying me on an unforgettable research trip in Colorado—from the small campsite in Ridgway where we made our basecamp at a glamping site, to our day of hiking and swimming in the hot springs of Ouray, to taking an adventurous drive through the San Juan Mountains to reach Sutcliffe Vineyards, and then finally getting to spend a day riding gondolas and eating at High Pie Pizza in the town of Telluride. I could not have written this book without you, babe!
Speaking of our trip to Colorado, I want to thank the wonderful Basecamp 550 owners, Sam and Heather. I was completely out of my element and you two made me feel right at home. Thank you! I also want to thank John and Chloe and all the lovely people at Sutcliffe Vineyards for the tasting and tour. John, you are an extraordinary talent. I’ll be the first to read your book as soon as you’re ready to hit publish.
Sammie and Cyndi, as always, you two came through for me in a way that I could never ask of anyone else. I can’t count the number of times you read this story and provided your honest, no bullshit, feedback. Thank you for all the ass slaps it took to get us here.
Patricia and Brenna, you two stepped in earlier than normal, and wow, thank you so much for the incredible notes, the encouraging feedback, and putting in all the time that you two did. I am forever grateful.
Kimberly and Emily, I adore you two so much. Thank you for stepping up to be first-time beta readers for me! Having your farmland experience and your amazing eyes on the second draft of this story was something that was desperately needed. I hope I did you proud.
A major holler to Sarah Plocher and Karina Giblin for your last-minute eyes on my baby. I appreciate you both so much.
A special thank you to all my Native American sensitivity readers, two of whom are tribe members who have requested to remain anonymous, along with Patricia, who not only lives in Colorado, but has experience growing up near a Native American reservation in northern New Mexico, and Kimberly who has experience working with a Native American tribe. Thank you all for everything.
One of the most difficult tasks in publishing is coming up with the perfect cover. I struggled with the direction to go in for this story, but like a boss, Najla from Najla Qamber Designs was right there to hold my hand. I’m so impressed with the attention to detail, not only with the design, but throughout the process of designing. Thank you to you and your team, Najla.
Thank you to Regina Wamba who just so happened to have the perfect photos to bring Camila and Ridge to life. The combined effort of photography and design created perfection.
To Lynn and Susie at Red Adept Editing, thank you isn’t even enough. Lynn, your understanding and willingness to work with my timelines is such a blessing. I am so appreciative. To Susie, for your badass editing skills, it truly felt like we were the dream team. You are incredible.
Thanks to you, Lindsey, for your positivity and daily reminders, and everything you do for me. I love you to the moon and back.
To Renee, for all your incredible support and friendship. It means the world to me, an I just love you so much.
To my boo, Harloe, my writing buddy, and my dear friend. I love you so much. Thank you for always being there for me.
To Shain and Maria who lifted me at a time I desperately needed it. Thank you two babes so much.
I need to thank Sarah at Social Butterfly for being so wonderful to work with. This year has been crazy, but your constant positive energy is the best ever. You’re amazing.
To my street teams, Angsters and Booksters. I love that you guys ask me for more to share when I’m always trying not to bother you. LOL. You’re such a social media force, and I’m so blessed to have you all cheerleading me on.
A huge thank you to all the bloggers who supported this novel in any way. I don’t know how you all keep up with so many releases and promotions going on, so thank you so much for being there for me. I will forever be grateful.
To all my readers, I know you have a million choices when it comes with what to read. Thank you for choosing A Bridge Between Us. I truly hope you enjoyed this journey, and I hope to see you again.
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Much Love XO,
K.K. Allen
Waterfall Effect
Available NOW and FREE with Kindle Unlimited
Waterfall Effect (Sneak Peek)
Prologue
He enters the courtroom with his head down and feet shuffling, the shackles on his wrists and ankles providing minimal room for movement. His wiry body swims in his khaki slacks and blue button down top, appearing far too conservative to be a threat. Untamed salt and pepper hair frames his downturned head and emotionless face, and exhaustion is evident in his forehead creases and the pillows beneath his half-closed lids.
There’s a tremor in my chest I don’t quite understand. A medley of nerves, confusion, and sorrow. My life has become a circus of law enforcement, nosey media, and probing doctor visits since awakening from a coma nearly one year ago. And it’s all supposed to end today. A
t least, that’s what my aunt Cyndi tells me.
A frenzied whisper snakes through the crowd, drawing my eyes to the man the public has branded a monster. A monster with a mental disorder who has been labeled a threat to society—and to me.
Seven disappearances. Seven girls. Three years. The only tie between us, eerie carvings of our initials found on trees scattered around the woods near where each of us disappeared. Beside each one, a checkmark and a tally where he numbered his victims like we were trophies.
Ice fills my veins as it does every time I think of what could have been. They say I was Henry June’s seventh and last victim. The only one of us found alive. Somehow, I escaped the same fate as the others. Though the whereabouts of their bodies and the details of what happened remain a mystery.
My eyes steady on the man who slows his awkward gait to my left. My skin explodes with goosebumps. My chest fills to the brim with a panic I’m mostly able to suppress—thanks to my medication—but I’m not immune. Especially not when faced with an accused murderer. I’m seated directly behind the plaintiff’s table, between my aunt Cyndi and my best friend, Scott—only a few feet from the man who should riddle me with hurt and rage.
I’m too confused to pinpoint my reactions—the way my eyes bulge at the sight of him, the way my fingers sweep my bare-skinned knees like the flick of a brush, the way my chest feels heavy with fire while my veins still pump ice. None of it makes sense.
Chains rattle as the guard shakes the man’s arm to move him forward. The man resists, his whiskered chin tilting toward me as if he senses his prey, but his eyes remain fixed on the floor. Does he feel my presence? Because I’m more than certain that I would be able to feel his. I adjust my posture in an aim for comfort, but the effort is useless under the circumstances.
The man’s eyes snap to mine.
A hush falls over the room as he leans toward me, his stare dark and empty as a vibration takes over his body. It’s like he’s looking right through me. Would he hear me if I spoke?
I move to stand, to face him, to ask him if what the others say is true. Aunt Cyndi holds out her arm to stop me. I wish she wouldn’t. I need to know. Because if it is true—how could he be so cold, so heartless?
Schizophrenic delusions aside, the reality is that after over six months of court hearings, the evidence presented in the case of the other six victims has only made his guilt more unclear than ever.
“You were dead.” It’s just a gravelly whisper, sandpaper to my heart. “I saw you. I—I held your limp body in my hands.” He peers down at his shackled hands and shakes them hard. “You bled for your sins. You should be dead,” he hisses, then squeezes his lids together. His head whips left and right, as if trying to wake from a nightmare. When his eyes fly open again, they land on mine with conviction. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.” He whispers these words on repeat like they calm him.
Emotion crushes my throat as an unspoken plea fills my mind. Please make it stop, I want to scream. Just let the nightmare end.
“Let’s go, June. Straight ahead.” The corrections officer’s boom echoes through the room as he continues to wrestle with the man in chains, gripping his arm and tugging him forward. The prisoner gives in, but he keeps his bloodshot eyes locked on me from over his shoulder as he’s dragged away. No more words come, but he finally rips his eyes from mine as if the sight of me pains him. Maybe it does. Maybe he knows what he did. Maybe somewhere in that disturbed brain of his lies a man with compassion.
There’s a shuffle of feet as everyone settles into their seats again, somber, ready for the judge to read the final verdict. They may not have found enough evidence to try the man for murdering the other victims, but they have me, my blood on his hands the day I was found, and a convincing testimony from someone I allowed too close to my heart. The circumstantial evidence is enough to convict a person for decades, but not for life.
However, with the rumor of a plea deal on the table, who knows what will happen today. Not even I am privy to such information.
Aunt Cyndi’s dainty arm snakes around my stiff shoulders, yanking me from my thoughts and pulling me close.
“Are you okay?” Her whispered tone soothes me some. I know I’m not alone. Neither she nor Scott would ever let me go through something like this without a shoulder to lean on.
I don’t respond to her yet. I’m not sure how to. Of course I am not okay. Nothing about this situation is or ever will be okay.
“He’s sick, Aurora.” She takes a shaky breath, still doing her best to stay calm, but I detect anger there, too.
“His voices will never hurt you again,” she says. “He’s crazy. He’s a monster,” is what she means.
When I return her statement with a blank stare and silence, she gives my shoulders another squeeze. She understands well enough; no amount of comforting words or warm hugs can right the wrongs that led us all here.
They say that under the influence of alcohol, the danger of the man on trial grows, as it did the night of November twenty-sixth. The night I went missing, only to be found three days later in my father’s arms, bruised, disoriented, and on the brink of death.
Because the man on trial—my father—tried to kill me.
What’s worse? I don’t remember any of it.
Not guilty by reason of insanity.
The verdict rings in my ears long after security has forced everyone out of the courtroom. Except for me. They let me stay, my body frozen, as the doors close. I just need a minute to myself.
Eerie quiet settles in the air, bringing a sense of calm to the chaos I’ve felt since that day I awoke with tubes in odd parts of me and a mind as blank as the day I was born. Aunt Cyndi and Scott started to fill in some of the gaps, but with every kernel of knowledge they bestowed came a dozen more questions. Every day was a challenge, both mentally and physically. The more I remembered, the more painful it became to grasp. I didn’t want those memories. I didn’t want the pain that came with it. I’d already lived through the death of my mother, my father’s downward spiral, and the heartbreak that comes with first love. And with my memory returning in chunks at a time, I was having to relive each heart-wrenching event of my life all over again.
Still, after all that time, three days of darkness remain, blotting out my memory like an eclipse frozen at totality.
It all led to this: my father’s arrest, the trial, a sudden change in plea, and now the verdict that will be forever etched in history via public records, newspapers, and even an upcoming made-for-TV movie. I don’t think I ever wanted to be famous, but if I had, this would not be the way I’d envision it happening.
With medical testimony that confirmed my father’s diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, his crimes were explained away by mental illness—but there’s no sidestepping his guilt, no matter what he pleaded in the end. It was still my blood he wore on his hands. It was still my body he rocked in a state of shock and denial. And now, my father goes to a mental health facility. Ten years for first degree felonious restraint and committing bodily harm with the intent to kill.
It’s over.
The last nine months have been hell. Doctors, police, investigators, psychologists, lawyers, reporters. In an endless frenzy to collect evidence and witness testimonies, I’ve lost almost one year of my life. And while all I’ve wanted is for it to end, this isn’t the feeling I expected to have. This isn’t closure. This is a loss more tragic than death. In the past year, I’ve lost everything. My parents, my home, my—
The clang of the heavy courtroom door disrupts my thoughts. Loud chatter from activity in the halls fades in, then out as the door closes. I turn to the door, expecting to see a security guard, Scott, Aunt Cyndi…anyone but him.
Jaxon Mills.
Just the sight of him causes a mixture of love and devastation to swarm my chest, latch onto my ribs, and beg for entry. The last time we were left in a room alone together, I told him to leave. I pushed him away. And while it hurt more
than I could have ever imagined, it crushed me when he did as I said. But what else could either of us do?
His crisp, black button-down shirt makes him look like a fraud. Even with the sleeves rolled up to hug his forearms and the deep creases where it was once tucked into his gray dress pants, he looks and feels like a stranger to me now. The freckles on his creamy cheeks are gone, leaving only a sprinkling of light brown dots on his nose. His coppery brown hair is longer than when I last saw him, his wild curls dipping below his thick brows and reaching a good two inches past his ears. His normally confident smirk is conspicuously absent. And the fire that’s always burned from within him is nowhere to be found.
He looks just as lost as I feel.
My gaze travels up to meet his signature stormy eyes. They’re like lightning the way they fill me with the brightest light and zap me with their intensity, making me feel like I’m full of life and dying all at once. And all I can do is absorb every single second of it.
It’s funny how our memories latch onto the comfort of an embrace, the warmth of a smile, the tingling of affection when we find love. Those feelings are hard to part with, even when they no longer belong to us.
I exit the row and meet him in the aisle, stopping a few yards away. Any closer and this conversation will be harder than it already is. I tilt my chin downward, my thick, coffee brown hair swinging over my narrow shoulders. What’s left to say?
I knew Jaxon would come today. He was the first person I looked for when the Balsam Grove crowd arrived. It took me only a second to spot him sitting among the angry mob beside his parents. Just one glance was enough to undo me.
