Reveal
Copyright © 2015 Elle Brooks Author Ltd
Editing by Marie Piquette
Cover design by Indie Solutions
Formatting by JT Formatting
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication many be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
A Preview of Promises Hurt
Other Titles
About the Author
“The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short;
but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.”
– Michelangelo
WHEN I WAS eight years old my father took me on a hunting trip. I was excited, elated to be spending time with him, just the two of us. ‘Quality time’ he’d called it. All my free days were spent with my mom as she ferried me to-and-from my dance recitals. Dad and I were like passing ships in the night. I’d see him at dinner if he wasn’t working late and I cherished those days. He’d sit beside me at the table, tweak my nose, call me kiddo and ask about my day. The day of the hunt we drove for a long time before leaving the car and walking out into the woods. I remember him telling me to stay quiet, not make any sudden movements that might alert our prey as we descended upon it. I held my breath, my lungs burning, screaming for oxygen, but I stayed still, not making noise. The deer knew we were there; it sensed the danger even though we were camouflaged by the long grass and as still as a photograph. I watched as Dad lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger, but he was too late. The deer had bolted, barely escaping with its life. One more second and it would have been too late. I was pumped with adrenaline and eager to carry on and find a new target. I never spared a thought for how terrified the poor animal must have felt knowing it was being stalked. I was the predator, top of the food chain, and the upper hand was mine.
Tonight I’m the prey.
I watch—skittish and on high alert like that deer as the door rattles on its rusted orange-brown hinges. The pounding is so strong, so undeterred and fierce, it sounds like the persistent unwavering beat of a healthy heart. Each bang echoes around the shoebox that is my small apartment, reverberating through my chest as I rock back and forth, silently praying the tired old locks will hold out. I can’t open it—I don’t dare— something tells me if I don’t give my caller what he wants right here and now, my front door won’t be the only thing that takes a beating.
“There’s no one home, sonny,” I hear Mrs. Heckles, my eighty-nine-year-old neighbor shout from across the hall, and the hammering stops. My momentary solace dissolves quicker than it arrived as the silence is replaced with the sound of my racing pulse thrashing wildly in my ears.
“You see him leave?” he bites back at her in a scathingly harsh tone, and I wince.
“Him? Oh, you mean, Daniel. Yes, he up and left early last week and hasn’t been back since. Good job, too. If I get my hands on that darn boy I’ll strangle him for deserting poor Robyn. What business do you have with him, anyway?”
God love her, Mrs. Heckles is the sweetest old lady I’ve ever known, but she must be the nosiest too. There isn’t a single ounce of privacy on the fourth floor—my floor—with Mary Heckles walking the halls. She’s the eyes and ears of this building. Nothing and nobody get past her without her acknowledgement.
“He owes me money. Don’t suppose you know if he’ll be back?”
“Don’t suppose even Robyn does. Headed back out west as far as I’m aware. Took that poor girl’s heart and all her money with him,” she sighs.
Oh God, please be quiet and go back inside.