Michael couldn’t breathe. Tiny spots sprouted at the edge of his vision.
Uncle Phil did this. He did it to all of us.
“Let Jamie go, Uncle Phil.” His uncle’s name burned on his tongue, but he said it on purpose, reminding the man who was in the room. His family. “Things can’t get better if something happens to Jamie or Brian. There’s no way to spin this to get the public’s support. This is over.”
His uncle clenched his jaw, and Jamie winced. Michael focused on her face, blinking, trying to clear his head of the mess he’d just learned. All that mattered now was getting her out safely. Before loss of blood had him dropping his gun.
“Put down the knife, Uncle Phil.”
“No. This isn’t my fault.”
He sounded like a defiant child.
“I’ve done valuable things for this state. Just think what might not have been achieved if I wasn’t governor. Or during my years as a representative. I am important.”
He’s nuts. A new spike of fear rose in Michael’s chest.
“That woman was nobody. The type of person who wanted to use me to better herself. Two f*cking dates, and she tells me she’s pregnant? And it’s mine? I couldn’t risk it.” His uncle tightened his grip on Jamie, his pupils huge.
Something moved in Michael’s peripheral vision.
Phillip’s body slammed forward, and his head whipped back as he was tackled from behind. The momentum knocked him and Jamie to the floor, and she cried out as Michael’s father landed on top of them. The knife vanished between the wrestling brothers. Michael crawled across the floor to the group, his right arm collapsing under his weight. A gunshot thundered from behind him in the room, but his focus stayed on Jamie. He pulled up, lunged, and grabbed Phillip’s ankle. The man kicked, his heel catching Michael in the mouth. He tasted blood and spit.
The Senator straddled his brother’s back and slugged him in the right ear. Phillip thrashed, nearly throwing Maxwell Brody off to the side. Jamie twisted and shoved and pushed at the two men, trying to escape from underneath.
The knife appeared in Phillip’s hand, and he frantically stabbed backward at his brother’s thigh. Michael’s father shouted and grabbed at the knife, the blade slicing his hand. Blood quickly covered the floor and group.
Michael grabbed Jamie’s hand and tried to haul her out from under the men. His right arm screamed at the effort. His left hand held the gun, useless in his untrained hand, but he was unwilling to set it down. She rolled onto her back and kicked at both men, who fought each other on top of her covered legs.
Michael’s gaze locked on his father’s thigh. The blood wasn’t seeping; it was spurting in time to a heartbeat. Phillip had sliced the artery, and Maxwell’s heart would force the blood out of his body until it was gone.
He only had minutes to stop the blood flow.
Chris spotted the senator behind Phillip Brody a split second before the man rushed and tackled the governor. The action distracted the Ghost for a split second as the governor hit the floor. Chris bent over and charged. The Ghost jerked his gun away from Brian and pointed it at Chris. Chris saw the gun swing his way as if in slow motion. The muzzle coming into focus, aiming at his brain. He lunged forward and came up under the Ghostman’s gun arm, shoving it skyward as it went off.
The explosion made his ears ring.
Chris grabbed Brian’s shirtfront, ripping him from the Ghost’s slack arm, and flung him to the side. Chris pressed forward, chest-to-chest with his nightmare, tripping the Ghost backward into the wall, struggling with the man’s gun arm still trapped and pointing at the ceiling.
The Ghost’s hot breath covered his face as Chris pressed the tip of his gun into the man’s neck and dug. The Ghost fought, thrusting his knee and slamming his head forward. Chris ducked the head strike and shifted his weight to miss the knee. Distantly, he heard Brian scream for the man to let go of his dad.
“Brian, run!”
Jamie’s breath shot out of her as she crashed to the floor. The weight of two large male bodies crushed her, and she went into panic mode. She fought. Memories of her last attack ricocheting through her head. She clawed, she screamed, she kicked. She didn’t know where the knife was, and she didn’t care. A gunshot boomed, and she looked for Michael.
He was on the floor, crawling toward her. He had the gun in his left hand, slamming it against the floor as he moved. Michael’s right arm collapsed twice under his weight, his mouth bleeding.
Had he been shot in the mouth?
He grabbed her hand with his right and pulled, but the two fighting older men pinned her. She kicked harder, not caring who she hit. Dimly, she noticed the second man was Michael’s father, the senator. Grunting, the two brothers wrestled, the knife flashing between them. Warm, wet blood coated her legs and slicked the floor.
Was she cut? Had she not felt it?
Glancing at Michael, she saw his mouth was open, shock in his eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze and saw the blood spurting out of his father’s leg. She froze.
Tourniquet. Now.
“Shoot him!” she screamed at Michael. “Shoot him, now!”
He shook his head; it was too dangerous. She yanked her hand out of his, and alarm flashed across his face. With both hands, she shoved at the closest male body and the men rolled off her, thrashing and stabbing. She kicked at the governor, and he slashed at her legs. Michael’s father panted hard, his face crimson, and she saw an awareness of his injury in his eyes as he wrestled with his brother. The senator’s movements slowed, and Phillip gave a wallop to his chest that sent him flying onto his back. The senator lay still, gasping for breath as he stared at the ceiling.
He’s lost too much blood.
The governor froze, staring at his brother’s leg. He dropped the knife and reached for his belt buckle. Michael shot up from the floor and took his uncle down, slamming his head into the floor.
“Bind his leg,” Phillip yelled from beneath Michael. “He’s bleeding out.”
Michael scrambled off his uncle, who yanked his belt out of his loops. Phillip thrust the leather into Michael’s hands, who tore at his father’s pants, trying to see the wound. Blood spurted in arcs. Michael whipped the belt around his father’s leg at the groin and wrenched it tight, the blood slowing. Phillip moved to his knees, his gaze locked on his brother. The governor’s shoulders sagged, and he buried his face in his hands.
Jamie grabbed Michael’s gun.
Blood pounding in his ears, Chris swallowed hard, pressed into the Ghostman, and rested his finger on the gun’s trigger, grinding the weapon into the man’s jaw. The noise in the room faded away. Just Chris and his personal devil existed. The Ghostman stopped fighting and held perfectly still, trapped by Chris’s body against the wall. No safety on the Glock. Chris simply had to pull firmly. Once.
Nightmare over.
“Chris. Don’t do it.” Jamie’s voice came from behind him.
Chris’s finger twitched
“You’re better than this. Don’t start new nightmares.”
Chris stared into the eyes of his personal hell-creator. He could see the edge of the man’s contacts. He could see where he needed to touch up the hair dye. He could see the man’s fear. He could smell the Ghost, menthol and dusty, his scent eerily familiar and revolting.
“I’ve got him covered,” Jamie said. “You can back away.”
“Brian?” Chris croaked.
“Safe. I saw him run out of the room.”
“Michael?”
“He’s taking care of his father.” Jamie paused. “He and the governor are trying to stop the senator’s bleeding.”
Chris continued to lock stares with the Ghost, adrenaline pumping into his stomach, making him nauseous. He swallowed hard, fighting back visions of this man touching him as a child. He could feel the man’s heartbeat against his own. “Drop your gun.”
The Ghostman’s gun arm was still above his head, held motionless by Chris’s strength. Strength that he felt waning.
“Let go,” the Ghost sneered back, his lips exposing yellowed teeth.
“Gun first.”
“F*ck you.”
“You’ve got two guns pointed at your head. Drop yours.” Jamie sounded like she was disciplining one of her students. Her voice had moved closer. The sound of Michael talking frantically to his father entered Chris’s awareness.
The Ghost broke eye contact and looked over Chris’s shoulder. Presumably at Jamie. Resignation crossed his features. The Ghost’s arm muscles moved under Chris’s hand, and the Ghost’s gun fell to the ground.
Chris released his arm, took a half step back, and struck the Ghost across the face with his gun. His nose exploded in a shower of blood, and the Ghost dropped to his knees with a wail, his hands on his face.
“Chris!” Jamie cried.
Chris stood with his feet planted apart, his gun at his side, staring at the destroyer of his life, gasping deeply. He’d never seen the man grovel at his feet before.
Shoot him.
Do it.
He shook his head.
You have cause. Protect your son.
The Ghost cowered on his knees, blood seeping through his fingers, his shoulders shaking.
Chris swallowed hard and turned away. Jamie stood behind him, her gun still trained on the wretch of a human being. Her hair was tangled and smears of blood covered her body, but she stood strong. She met his gaze, and tears shone at the corners of her eyes.
“You did the right thing.”
Chris wondered.
She started to smile, but her gaze bolted behind him. Her mouth opened.
Chris whirled, raised his gun, and shot.
A mist of blood covered the wall as the Ghostman slumped onto his side, his fingertips on his gun.
Mason had placed one foot on the stairs to the governor’s front door when he heard the gunshot. He didn’t even look at Ray; he simply ran up the steps, pulling out his weapon. “Call for backup!” He hit the front door running.
Locked.
He pounded on the door in frustration. “Police!”
Shit.
He jogged back down the steps and looked up at the big mansion, scanning the windows, wondering where another entrance could be. Ray was on his cell phone, rattling off instructions.
Damn it! They had to check around the side of the home. Mason wished the backup would instantly appear. He jerked his head at Ray and had started to move to the right side of the building when a movement near the front door caught his eye. He stopped. Two wide eyes peered out from a decorative window beside the huge double doors. Mason had already reversed direction back to the doors when he realized it was a child. He lowered his weapon and pulled out his badge to show the child.
The boy vanished.
Mason sprinted up the stairs and pressed his face against the same section of glass and saw a small figure step farther out of his sight. “I’m with the police! I heard the gunshot. Are you hurt?” he hollered at the boy. “Can you open the door?”
The boy stepped back into his line of vision, caution etched in his face. Mason didn’t see any wounds and gave a mental sigh of relief.
“Is everyone okay?”
The boy simply stared at him, and Mason wondered if he could hear. He pressed his badge and ID against the glass. “I’ve called for more police. Can you get the door open?”
The boy still didn’t move. Mason was about to give up and head around the side of the house again when the boy started at something and glanced over his shoulder. A second later, he ran at the door, terror on his face, and Mason could hear him fumbling with the locks.
“He’s letting us in!” he yelled at Ray.
The door opened, and an alarm screeched a warning.
“Jesus Christ.” The sound was worse than a teenager’s car stereo.
The boy shrank back, clearly shaken by the continuous siren.
“Good boy. You did the right thing.”
The kid didn’t look like he believed him, and he put his hands over his ears, his eyes gigantic. Mason wanted to do the same. The squawking split his eardrums.
“Where’s the gunshot? Do you know?” Mason yelled. The boy nodded, spun around, and started to dash away.
“Wait!” Mason grabbed at the boy’s shoulder and tried to lead him out of the house. His first priority was the kid’s safety. The boy fought back.
“My dad’s in there! I can’t leave!”
Mason held tight to the boy’s shirt. “Who’s your dad?”
Ray jogged up the steps, wrapped an arm around the boy’s ribcage, and lifted him up. The boy screamed and kicked as they moved away from the house.
“We’re the police, kid. We’re here to help, and I can’t let you back in where there’re gunshots.” Over the alarm, Ray spoke calmly in the boy’s ear and carried him back to the vehicle. The kid ignored him and proceeded to pound away. On one hand, Mason admired the kid’s smarts for fighting back against strangers; on the other hand, he wanted the kid to shut up and hold still.
“Look in the car,” Ray said to the boy as they neared the car door. “You see all that equipment? We’re police.”
The kid stilled. Ray set him on his feet but kept a firm grip on him.
“That’s better,” Mason said. He squatted down to get on eye level with the boy. Near the car, the alarm sounds were a bit more bearable. “Now, where are the people in the house?”
Dark brown eyes studied Mason. The child was way too serious. “They’re in a dining room. Uncle Michael got shot. He’s bleeding. And my dad was fighting with the ghost. The ghost pushed his gun in my neck.” The boy touched his neck, and Mason saw the red circle. Anger burned in his gut.
“You’re Brian Jacobs,” Mason stated. Ghost? The albino guy? Mr. Tattoo is here?
The boy’s eyes widened, and he nodded. New sirens sounded in the distance. The cavalry was coming. “I want you to stay outside with the other police officers. Ray and I are gonna go get your dad.”
“And Aunt Jamie is hurt. She’s bleeding, too.”
Mason felt a wave of relief that the woman was still alive. But what hell were he and Ray about to walk into?
Two local police units pulled in, lights flashing, sirens adding to the din. Mason took Brian’s hand and led him to the officer stepping out of the car.
“I want two of you with me and—”
“Someone’s coming out!” an officer at the second car yelled.
All the men turned to the house, weapons ready, eyes sharp. Mason pushed Brian behind him and squinted at the figure at the door. It was female.
“We need an ambulance!” Jamie shouted. “At least three!”
Two Months Later.
Jamie followed the two men single file through the woods. The air was warm, but she could smell fall creeping into the air. A few more weeks and a definite chill would permeate the forest. She concentrated on placing her feet as she walked. If this was a trail, it didn’t get much use. Chris had been the only one to track it a few times. Maybe some deer.
Chris and Michael moved silently ahead of her, glancing back occasionally to see if she was keeping up. Or to make certain she didn’t vanish. The three of them had a hard time being out of each other’s sight for very long. There were daily phone calls or texts, simple check-ins for no reason, other than the mental well-being that their loved ones were still safe.
The Ghostman was dead.
The police had linked several cold cases to Gary Hinkes, aka Gerald Prentice, with the governor’s help. The crimes ranged from murder to rape. Katy Darby and the others in the pit from the forest had been just a few of the bodies he’d left in his invisible wake. The local and national media had gone on about the Ghostman for weeks, hounding Chris and Jamie. They’d refused all comments and tried to live normal lives. Michael and the senator had made statements to the media requesting privacy for a family who’d been to hell and back.
The governor sat in the county jail. He’d confessed to the death of the woman in his office twenty years before, and his lawyers were arguing over what to do next. His confession had solved a cold case involving a woman’s body who’d been dumped near the capitol building. The senator had spent a week in the hospital after surgery to repair his femoral artery. Luckily, the artery was only nicked, and the governor’s fast action with his belt as a tourniquet on his brother’s thigh had probably saved his life.
Michael’s family struggled to comprehend that a beloved relative had their son murdered and then had callously let them wallow in depression and grief for two decades. Helping to save his brother hadn’t redeemed Phillip in his family’s eyes, especially since he’d nearly killed him first. Armchair psychiatrists claimed Phillip suffered from a God complex, believing he was privileged and his actions unquestionably correct. His family abandoned all contact with the governor.
Jamie glanced ahead at her brother, leading the way. If Chris was suffering emotionally, he never showed it. He’d stayed at her house for the first two weeks and then moved into a rental close by. She’d loved having Brian in her home. He’d brought a light into the house that had never existed before. He loved to talk to his aunt. They talked for hours at her kitchen table, and Jamie had learned he was smart as a whip. School started in a week, and he was both excited and nervous to attend public school for the first time. Chris hated the idea but hadn’t fought her; deep down he knew school was the right place for his son. Brian would be at Jamie’s school, and she’d sworn to check in on him several times a day.
The nights had been silent, not like the nights she recalled as a kid with her brother waking up the household with his screams. She’d immediately put Brian in counseling with the best child therapist she knew. Brian had blossomed and seemed to put his incident with the Ghostman behind him. He’d talked freely to Jamie about “the bad man” and accepted his father’s need to have him in sight most of the time. Jamie knew he’d do well in school. Chris was the one who would struggle with his son out from under his wing. She urged Chris to see a therapist too.
“We’ll see,” he’d answered with a half smile. She’d brought it up two more times and then given up. She had a hunch he was seeing a therapist on his own, not wanting to discuss it with family. He never said a word about the Ghostman, but Jamie would catch him studying his surroundings and faces of strangers when they were out in public, searching for something. He maintained a high level of constant alertness that had to be exhausting.
At the hospital, Michael had told his parents who Chris really was. Both Cecilia and her husband had stared from Michael to Chris and back again. Cecilia burst into tears and nearly collapsed onto her husband’s hospital bed. The senator had reached out a hand to Chris.
“Is it true?” he’d asked.
Jamie heard his voice shake and watched him scan Chris’s face, gripping his hand, searching for a hint of the boy he’d known. He must have found it, because recognition suddenly shone in his eyes.
“Daniel,” he whispered.
Cecilia rushed him, wrapping her arms around him and wiping tears on Chris’s shirt.
“I…I think I need to go by Chris,” Chris mumbled. He slowly wrapped his arms around his mother and closed his eyes.
His arms trembled slightly, and Jamie felt the pain of how hard that intimate contact was for her reclusive brother.
“I don’t care what you want to be called,” Cecilia stated. “You’re back. I always knew you’d come back. I never gave up hope. Never!”
The frail woman got more than her son back; she got her life back. Chris had been a match for her kidney transplant. The only male in her family with two strong kidneys had immediately undergone surgery for his mother. Six weeks had passed, and Chris moved like he’d never been under the knife.
Brian had been delighted to find he had an extended family and took to his grandparents right away. He’d confided in Jamie that he’d always wanted grandparents, but his dad had said they’d died in a car wreck. “Just like my mom,” he’d said with solemn eyes.
Jamie did her best to step into that mothering role that Brian had needed so desperately. Chris had tried hard to create a young man, but every young man also needs some coddling. Every boy needed a dog, too. Sheriff Spencer had found Juan’s missing dog and turned him over to Brian. The pair was inseparable. Brian was a happy boy who laughed and loved to share his imagination. He drew, like his father had, and dreamed up stories, which he shared with Jamie day after day. Most of the stories were of a young boy, his dog, and his exciting adventures, but occasionally the boy faced evil demons.
In his stories, the boy always conquered the demons.
Jamie loved him. She’d given Chris a piece of her mind about keeping the boy’s existence from her and then promptly forgiven him. Chris had provided her with an incredible gift in her nephew. It was odd. Her real brother was long dead. But when she looked at Chris, she couldn’t feel the loss. She’d searched for the emotions, combed through old pictures, trying to remember the real Chris, but this man had been her brother for the last eighteen years. The real Chris she’d known for eight short years.
Her left leg gave a small spasm, and she glanced down at the scars from the governor’s knife. They’d fade in time. A few stitches had put her back together. Therapy sessions had done away with most of the nightmares of being kidnapped by a vicious killer and locked in a car trunk. The sudden claustrophobia at weird times was new but nothing she couldn’t deal with. She simply avoided small, enclosed spaces.
Michael had installed a top-of-the-line alarm system in her home. They’d discussed moving in together, and agreed it was too soon, but he spent every night and day at her house. When Chris moved out, they’d approached the moving-in idea again. They agreed it was still too soon, and things were going great, so why mess up a good thing?
Then Michael put his house on the market.
Jamie’s eyes had nearly popped out of her head as she’d pulled up to his home and seen the sign. “What? When did you do that? Why did you do that?”
He’d shrugged. “I’m never home.”
“But…but…”
“Why am I paying someone to clean a house and a service to take care of the yard if I’m never there?”
“Well…but, I mean…”
“Don’t worry, princess. I’ve got a nice apartment picked out not too far from you. I feel like renting for a bit.” Then he’d given her a look. A look that plainly told her he had no intention of renting. Ever.
His house hadn’t sold yet. But he’d moved half his belongings into her little home. For a man, he had an incredible amount of stuff. Maybe they should considered living in his…
“Doing okay?” Michael asked over his shoulder as he held a branch out of her way.
Jamie looked up, smiled, and nodded. And felt her heart beat a little faster. Michael made her feel good. For a man with a wild streak, he was all seriousness when it came to the two of them. He put her first, he made her try new things, he made her leave the dishes on the kitchen counter overnight, proving that life goes on even if everything isn’t in its place.
For her, he was steadfast.
She’d fallen head over heels for the man. And had no idea when it’d happened. It’d crept up on her and snuck under her heart when she wasn’t paying attention. When she’d been locked in that trunk, he’d been all she could think about and all she’d worried about. Obviously, her love for him had started before that. Maybe it’d been that steamy night at the bed-and-breakfast, or when he’d arrived to take charge after her attack. It didn’t matter.
She was in love with Michael Brody.
It was the biggest leap she’d ever taken.
He waited for her to pass him on the deer trail and took her hand, walking side-by-side as their space had widened.
“Hey, gorgeous.” His green gaze held hers.
“Hey,” she whispered back. The forest was silent except for the crush of the dirt under their feet. Jamie embraced the peace of the woods and simply smiled at her man, moving in unison with him as they hiked. She’d never felt a connection like this one.
Damn, she had eyes that didn’t let him look away. Michael took a deep breath to recalibrate his brain, which was suddenly full of images of Jamie. Some clothed, some not. The last two months had been the most intense of his life. A red-hot roller coaster that he didn’t want to end. Well, the good parts anyway. He could do without the vanishing girlfriend or gunshot parts.
His ribcage still ached if he took a deep breath or twisted a certain way. The bullet had run along a few ribs, removing a little bone and a lot of skin. No surgery needed, but it’d been an awkward place to heal, and the pain had stretched from his sternum to his spine. The stitches on his lips hadn’t been pleasant either. Hard to kiss the woman you love when your mouth hurts like hell. It didn’t help that the black stitches had looked like they’d been sewn by a five-year-old.
The stitches were gone, but he still had a weird numbness in some spots that the doctors assured him would return to normal. Then he wouldn’t be distracted when he kissed his woman.
His woman.
He didn’t dare say it out loud. She’d roll her eyes, but that didn’t matter. He knew what she meant to him, and he made certain she knew it, too. He knew exactly what he wanted in his future. Her. All of her. But she had some weird idea about going slow. Why? He knew they were fated to be together. Why did they have to dance around and learn about each other? They could do all that later. He wanted one hundred percent of her now.
Putting his house on the market might have spooked her a bit, but hey, he was living at her place. She seemed to be in denial. She had some socially acceptable idea of the path a relationship should follow, and moving in together after knowing each other for two weeks didn’t fit in her perfect world.
Screw her perfect world. He’d show her perfect.
Chris supported him completely. As did Brian and his parents. They all loved Jamie. She and Brian had brought an openness and affection out of his uptight parents that he’d never seen before. His father had resigned from the Senate and stood by his mother’s bedside as she healed from her surgery. And they’d never looked happier.
Brian was spending the day with his grandparents while Michael, Jamie, and Chris tramped through the forest. Chris stopped, staring at a fallen tree off to the right. Michael felt a brief shudder shoot through Jamie, and he squeezed her hand.
In front of the fallen tree was a pile of river rocks, which surrounded a thin, concrete-like marker. It wasn’t large, maybe eighteen inches high by a foot wide.
How had Chris hauled that into the woods?
Jamie let go of his hand and ran her knuckles under her eyes, moving closer to the marker. She squatted down and touched the pale concrete.
“I made the marker,” said Chris. “I’ve been here maybe five times over the years. The first time I managed to find him, I buried him.” He swallowed hard, his voice unnaturally hoarse. “I don’t know what you want to do, Jamie. Do you want him moved?”
Her fingers traced the letters, her face hidden by her long hair. Christopher Jacobs. Brother and Friend. There were no dates. Michael’s heart ached for her.
She picked up a small rock from the pile, wrapped her fingers around it, and stood, turning to face both the men. She looked lost. Michael watched her study Chris’s face. She had to be searching for the brother she remembered. Could she see the difference? Or had the years combined the two men into one? Her gaze locked with Chris’s, and she gave a small smile.
“Look around,” she said, her focus moving to the towering firs. “It’s beautiful here. It’s quiet and peaceful and calm. I feel a happiness and restfulness in the air. I can’t think of a better place to be. He needs to stay here.”
Michael felt the calmness, too. The forest was still and tranquil, almost welcoming. He studied the small marker, hating and loving the simpleness of it simultaneously. Part of him ached for it to be a huge monument, but most of him knew it was utterly appropriate.
He felt a kinship with the young man buried under the earth; it could have easily been his own brother. In a way, it was. Daniel hadn’t returned; Daniel had died, too. But the man next to him was definitely his brother. And Jamie’s brother, too.
“She’s right,” Michael said. “This is perfect.”
Chris looked from one of them to the other and back. His shoulders slumped a bit in relief, and he nodded. “I’d hoped I’d done the right thing. It seemed right.”
Jamie hugged him hard. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
Michael slapped his brother on his back. “You did good.” Chris surprised him by fiercely pulling him into the hug. Michael hugged him back and laid his cheek against Jamie’s hair, inhaling her scent.
“You’ve got a family here, princess.”
She met his gaze and smiled. “Always.”
I have an amazing group of people who support my writing in different ways. My agent, Jennifer Schober, who handles the legal wrangling of my books. My acquiring editor, Lindsay Guzzardo, who guides me every step of the way through the production of my books. Charlotte Herscher, my developmental editor, who gently lets me know when I’ve created unlikeable characters. Jessica Poore, my author-relations guru, who promptly answers my million e-mails and sends me chocolate. Melinda Leigh, fellow Montlake author, who shares my roller coaster ride of tears and squees on the publishing journey. My husband, Dan, who suggested I quit my day job and hire someone to clean the house. He’s a keeper.