To my beautiful Pennsylvanian soul mate, Rachel. My original cherub. It seems like only yesterday that I sat down at your computer and wrote the prologue to PoF. Who knew, huh? We’ve come a long way, baby, and my love for you is still as strong as it was when you sent me that first online review. Your creative talents and your sunshine personality are so precious to me. You’re a truly wonderful friend, your family is beautiful, and I can’t wait to spend more laughter-filled summers with all of you.
To my superstar agent, Lorella Belli, the hardest working person in the literary world! What a journey it’s been. Never once did you let me get downhearted when things looked bleak, never once did you lose hope when I was ready to throw in the towel. You are the most inspiring of people. I am in awe of your faith and fight, and I know without either this book would still be just a dream. Thank you so much for everything you have done and continue to do for PoF and me. I am beyond grateful. And to my U.S. co-agent, Louise Fury. Your love for the characters of this story will forever make me smile. You rock. Thank you for being the most awesome of sidekicks.
To my fabulously fabulous editor, Micki Nuding, who’s put up with so much from me! You have the patience of a saint, woman. And to all the team at S & S and Gallery Books: Thank you for taking a chance on me and my story, and for making my dream a reality.
To Emily, for all of your work and enthusiasm, I thank you muchly.
Special thanks to Kate and Jo from Headline Eternal who not only have awesome taste in restaurants, but have also been amazingly patient with me, my technical ineptitude, and graciously answered the innumerable questions I’ve fired at them during this whole process. Thanks, ladies. You’re fab. And to the rest of the team at Headline Eternal, thank you for all your hard work and for giving me this opportunity. It means more than I can say.
And, finally, to you for getting to the end of this long-ass thank-you note. Here, have an Oreo and a Coke. You damned well deserve it.
PROLOGUE
The pound of flesh which I demand of him
Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it.
—The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, Scene 1
The hurried sound of their feet on the sidewalk matched the frantic pace of her heart, while her father’s grip on her hand was almost painful. Her short nine-year-old legs struggled to match his strides, causing her to stumble, all but jogging to keep up. There was a tightness in his jaw she’d never seen before, and his eyes, usually so bright and carefree, were as dark and angry as the sky above them. Foolishly, she felt the sudden urge to burst into tears.
A sound behind them made her look back. From out of the mouth of an alley slunk five hooded men who, despite keeping their heads down, kept up with her father’s swift gait, stalking them like wild animals.
Her father may have uttered words of comfort, words to soothe the fear that crept across her neck, but they were eaten up by the sidewalk when something hard and fast came from behind them, sending her father sprawling, taking her down with him. Disoriented, with knees that burned from skidding across the concrete, she looked up and screamed as a baseball bat connected with her father’s back twice, conjuring sickeningly dull thuds from his body.
She didn’t see the direction from which the hand came that struck her hard across the face, sending her tumbling over the curb and into the street, stars dancing in her vision and her father’s furious bellow ringing in her ears. He staggered to his feet and launched himself at one of their attackers. She watched in horror as fists, feet, and bats rained down on him in retaliation.
Above the cacophony of shouted demands for his wallet, through the barricade of bodies surrounding him, her father yelled at her to run. He pleaded and begged as they battered him, but cold struck her, freezing her solid. How could he ask her to leave? She had to help him, save him! Tears ran down her face and an animalistic cry erupted from her throat.
He groaned in agony when another fist met the side of his head, and his knees hit the ground as she started toward him. She reached out to him, but her arm was unexpectedly pulled hard in the opposite direction. She whimpered in relief, expecting to see a police officer or her father’s security detail—but it was someone not much taller than she was, in a dirty black hoodie.
She screamed loudly when he began to drag her away from where her father was being beaten, fighting and screaming at him to let her go when he hissed at her from under his hood. Did he not realize that her father needed her, that he would surely die without her help? But the stranger kept going, pulling her down the street into the doorway of an abandoned building, two blocks from where the terrifying sound of gunfire filled the air.
She screamed for her father, yanked her hand hard from her rescuer’s grip, and began running back in the direction of the attack. She hadn’t made it far when she was wrestled to the ground by strong hands that pinned her down. She continued to scream underneath him, fighting with everything she had, but soon her body became heavy and exhausted, and her cries and screams became wracked sobs that stuttered into the cold ground beneath her forehead.
The weight on top of her disappeared and two hands lifted her, pulling her back into the freezing doorway. She slumped against him and mewed in pain into his dirty hoodie. She needed to get back to her daddy. She needed to see that he was okay. He had to be okay. An arm around her shoulder and an icy hand against her cheek was her undoing, and she wilted further against her unknown rescuer.
She may have stayed that way for hours; she may have even fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, she was being carried by a man with a beard toward an ambulance. She opened her tear-swollen eyes and saw police and paramedics surrounded by a sea of red and blue flashing lights.
Their expressions, which would haunt her for the rest of her life, told her unequivocally that her father would not be tucking her into bed that night.
Or ever again.
1
Wesley James Carter, Arthur Kill Correctional Facility inmate and all-around punk, smirked at the disgruntled prison guard who’d been demanding his prison number for the past ten minutes. To say that Carter’s insolent behavior and amused expression were agitating the overweight, balding man would be an understatement. Dude was nearly foaming at the mouth.
It was Friday, and five minutes after the guard had clocked out.
All the more reason for Carter to be a difficult bastard.
The guard ran an impatient hand over the back of his plump neck and his tired eyes narrowed. “Listen,” he warned in a low, dangerous voice that no doubt worked like a knife to the throats of other inmates. “It’s very simple. You give me your number. I put it on this form that I have to complete for your corrections counselor, and then I get to go home.”
Carter raised a defiant eyebrow and glared at the pudgy shit.
Undeterred, the guard sat back in his swivel chair. “You don’t give me your number and my wife gets pissed. She gets pissed and I have to explain to her that some cocky punk kept me waiting. Then she’ll get more pissed and yell that our tax dollars are what keep losers like you in three meals a day and coveralls.” He sat forward. “So, last time. Number.”