“So what’s the latest word on Mitch’s trial?” he said.
“Sometime next year. There are lots of motions and that kind of thing, so it’s going to be a while.” My faithful viewing of the Offender shows had prepared me for this. “I try not to think about it. You still having nightmares?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s normal, huh?”
“What’s normal?” I said.
He laughed. “Well, I’m late for class, so . . .”
I gathered my courage. “I’ve missed you, Dekker. A lot.”
“I’ve missed you too,” he said.
I could tell by the tone of his voice that he meant it the same way I did. I didn’t even need a chart to figure it out.
“I can’t wait to see you, Petty.”
We hung up, and I was warm all over, imagining seeing him again at his uncle’s house. I was sitting in a square of sunshine coming in through the big window, smiling at nothing when my grandma walked in.
“There you are! Are you ready to play some gin rummy today?”
“You bet.”
She sat in the chair opposite me and handed me the cards. “You deal. I can’t shuffle like I used to. I used to play bridge, you know. I was in tournaments. They used to call me Black Bart.”
“They did?” I said, even though I’d heard this exact thing from her nearly every day over the past two months. It didn’t bother me though.
I was still learning to shuffle, so the cards popped out of my hands in groups of three and four. I gathered them back up and tried again.
“Your hair looks nice,” I said.
Her hand went up to it. “Thank you,” she said. “Yours too. Did you get it cut?”
I mimicked her and touched my head. “Yes. You like it?”
“It’s very flattering. You’ve always had a great head of hair, Marianne.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, and dealt the cards.
Acknowledgments
I AM DEEPLY grateful to the following -people:
The brilliant, gifted Michelle Johnson of Inklings Literary Agency, who turned Super Bowl Sunday into my favorite holiday and changed my life forever in the best possible way.
The team at Harper-Collins Witness Impulse and especially the genius editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz, who spurred me to take Petty to the next level and who made the editing process almost as fun as the writing.
The staff of the Hand Hotel in Fairplay, Colorado, for the long, productive writers’ retreat weekends filled with great atmosphere, food, and wine.
Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Pikes Peak Writers, and Lighthouse Writers Workshop, who gave me the tools I needed to get here.
The members and staff of The Neighborhood Church, who acted as beta readers and lifted me up in prayer on a daily basis.
My small group, Dan and Lori Aguiar, Bob and Deirdre Byerly, Todd and Denise Lansing, and Kim and Michael Marks, who are my encouragers and cheerleaders.
Kathy Bradford, whose insight into the heart of my manuscript gave it what it needed to attract the perfect agent and the right publisher.
Bob Byerly, whose expertise in police procedure helped me keep it real.
John Rasmussen, whose legal counsel and road--trip oil cans were invaluable.
The late, great novelist and Lighthouse instructor Cort McMeel, whose enthusiasm and belief in my work gave me permission to believe in it.
My parents, Bob and Tanya Stormes, who encouraged me to dream big, and my siblings, Rob Stormes, Lori Malone, and Deveney Woodall Stormes.
My ridiculously accomplished and brainy cousins, Anne Marie Ross Mosqueda and Nancy Ross Dribin, whose confidence in me and this story made me feel accomplished and brainy too.
The world’s greatest critique group, the Highlands Ranch Fiction Writers (aka Because Magic), who will not let me get away with lazy or corny writing, and who’ve spent countless hours with me dissecting literary theory, geek culture, and the meaning of life. They encourage me with their wit, talent, wisdom, and skill. Lynn Bisesi, Deirdre Byerly, Claire Fishback, Marc Graham, Nicole Greene, Michael Haspil, Laura Main, Vicki Pierce, and Chris Scena, you are not only my critique partners, but my dear friends, without whom none of this would have been possible.
My daughter Chloe, whose creativity, fearlessness, intelligence, and discernment hearten everyone around her and whose inner light illuminates every good thing it touches.
My daughter Layla, who’s overcome more adversity in her short life than most ever will, but who manages to create mind--blowing art, and inspires and challenges me daily.
Most of all, I want to thank my husband, muse, and brainstorming partner, Andy Hawker, who pushed me to take my work seriously, do my best, and never give up. I’ll meet you out back.
About the Author