“Always do what you are afraid to do.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Savannah, Georgia
Tuesday, October 25, 5:20 p.m.
Life had been difficult for Allison Cortland, particularly the past thirty-two years.
She stepped, one by one, out of her shoes. The grass was cold even with the setting sun doing all within its power to extend a little lingering warmth and light as it dropped behind the trees on this late October day. The task was an impossible one. There would never be enough light to chase away the cold, cold darkness encompassing Allison’s small world.
Shouldering out of her jacket, she let it fall to the ground as she stared out over the still water. Her father-in-law had given Allison and her husband this lake house forty years ago as a wedding present. He claimed he had lost the desire to visit this special place after his wife died. Allison hadn’t understood at the time. The water, the dense woods and the lovely cottage-style home were so peaceful, how could anyone not feel happy and serene here?
In time she had learned the harsh, painful truth that some losses could not be healed by anything in this big wide world.
The crisp breeze sent goose bumps spilling over her skin as she tossed her elegant silk blouse to the ground and reached for the side zipper of her trousers. Her husband often teased her about her obsession with beautiful clothes. Edward showered her with exquisite jewelry and she had always appreciated his generosity, yet there was something cold about jewels. Give her silk and cashmere any day.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—took that deep chill from her bones. Not once in these past thirty-two years had she felt truly warm. She lifted first one foot and then the other from the legs of her pants, leaving the light gray wool twisted on the grass. Reaching behind her, she unfastened her bra and let it fall. Her panties followed that same path. Her nipples stiffened in the cold air. Not even the many lovers she had discreetly taken over the years had been able to warm her.
On this night thirty-two years ago Allison Hall Cortland’s life had drained from her body, no matter that her traitorous heart had continued to beat. She dipped a toe into the icy water. Closing her eyes she put one foot in front of the other, stepping into the water.
All these years, no matter how much alcohol she consumed, no matter the various prescription medications she tried, nothing ever expelled the aching nothingness that had invaded her very soul. For any parent there existed no greater agony, no more devastating blow than losing a child. It was unquestionably the coldest fear that haunted every mother’s heart.
The chilly water rose above her chest, washed over her shoulders and lapped at her chin. All these years she had muddled through this cold, empty life for him. Her husband needed her. They had faced the horror, as best they could, together. They had survived together. Despite the ways in which each of them had privately struggled to conquer their pain, they had slogged through the months and years...together.
As if Fate was determined to land one last, shocking blow, two weeks ago the handsome young man to whom she had said “I do” forty years ago was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The numerous specialists could do nothing more. Her husband had a month to live, possibly more, probably less.
Allison sucked in one last breath of crisp night air before the water engulfed her face. If only the bastard had possessed the courage to take his vile secret with him to his grave.
But no. He’d had to confess his sins...he’d had to plead for her forgiveness.
She wasn’t like the others. She couldn’t go on knowing this awful thing and she damned sure could not forgive him. The idea of muddling through another single day with this new weight on her heart was unimaginable.
He had stolen the only reason she had bothered to go on at all.
Allison stopped holding her breath and welcomed the rush of death.
Atlanta, Georgia
Friday, October 28, 2:30 a.m.
The simple definition of fear according to Merriam-Webster: “an unpleasant emotion caused by being aware of danger; a feeling of being afraid.” Bobbie Gentry hadn’t felt that emotion for her personal safety in 309 days. It wasn’t that she no longer sensed danger or felt afraid, she did. The sense of danger that haunted her was always for the welfare of others.
As a detective with the Montgomery Police Department she encountered plenty of opportunities to fear for her well-being. Cops felt the cold, hard edge of fear on a daily basis. But it was difficult to fear death when all that mattered most in life was gone and the small steps she had dared take toward building a new one had been derailed.
A psychopathic serial killer known as the Storyteller had murdered her husband and caused the deaths of her child and the partner she loved like a father. Nearly a year later she had learned to some degree to live with the unthinkable reality and, wouldn’t you know, along came another crushing blow. A second serial