Listen ...Conquering Venus

CONQUERING VENUS by Collin Kelley
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Prologue
The Reflecting Hands

For here there is no place that does not see you.
You must change your life. – Rilke

In his dreams he can remember her name. From the shadowy first glimpses when she was peripheral, on the edge of a crowd or morphing into a friend or family member, to the day the plane lifted off from Memphis Airport bound for London and her face and body finally synchronized in mid-flight slumber. Upon waking, her image remains sharp and clear, but her name slips into the ether of his subconscious.

She is older, but stunning, like a French movie star; her mouth down-turned at the corners, dark eyes, hair long and blonde. She has a place now, too, not just random locations in unrelated dreams, but a balcony over a street. She appears, a palm raised in what seems like greeting, until she begins tracing her life line, a delicate finger circling the pad under her thumb, the mound of Venus. I don’t know what you mean, -----, he says with frustration. She smiles and rests her hands on the railing, their whiteness shocking against the black metal, and on the back of her left hand, between the thumb and index finger, is a tattoo of small interlocking crosses. He knows this marking, knows it like the back of his own hand, because in the summer of 1995 as Martin Page stares at himself in the mirror of his London hotel room, he can see the same tattoo inked into his skin – a South American symbol meaning “equal but opposite” – and her name is on the tip of his tongue.

Listen ...Bartlett's Rule

BARTLETT'S RULE by Chelle Cordero
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

Prologue

“He is a pompous ass!”

“I agree. But he is also a big name and he has to be kept happy if we are going to pull this acquisition off successfully.”

Paige sat and fumed. She couldn’t believe that Jeanmarie was asking her to charm and entertain this male chauvinist pig who penned a weekly column on how men were God’s gift to women.

“Why can’t you just buy him dinner and tickets to a Broadway show for him and one of his many adoring hordes?”

“Excuse me?” Jeanmarie grinned mischievously.

“I said hordes.” Paige emphasized the “D” sound. “Seriously, I’m sure that Lon Bartlett would prefer to choose his own company for the evening.”

“Paige that would be fine if we were just sending some executive a simple holiday remembrance but we need to court this publication. And if we want the publisher happy, we make his star writer happy.” She looked down at her phone as if trying to hurry the young woman from her office. “This requires a more personal touch. Take him out, wine and dine him. Do whatever you have to and make him happy.”

Slowly a frown settled on Paige’s face. “I hope you’re not suggesting...”

Jeanmarie laughed suddenly. “Oh gosh no! All I want you to do is schmooze with him a little bit. Make sure his evening is pleasant.” She stopped and stared at the young woman pensively. “You know Paige, a lot of the women in the secretarial pool would die for this chance to spend an evening with a man like Bartlett. This is a great opportunity for you... professionally.”

Paige bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting. She spent two years in the secretarial pool waiting for a promotion into the public relations department of this company. Of course though, she thought to herself, the first time she was given an opportunity to prove herself it had to be with someone whose ethics she couldn’t tolerate.

“I just need to know that you can do this Paige.” Jeanmarie had taken a huge personal gamble by pushing Paige’s name when this opening came up.

“I’ll make sure he’s happy.” She nodded even though she was filled with all kinds of self doubts. In reality, Paige wasn’t worried about refusing the man’s possible advances, she was afraid she would be tempted to accept them.

Listen ...To Be Continued

NOW WHAT? by Charmaine Gordon
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Chapter 1

Sun sneaked through blinds. Eyes shut tight. Not quite ready to open.

Elizabeth Malone wanted to revel in memories of the great sex she and Frank, her husband of forty years, had last night. At his insistence, for God’s sake. She practically had to seduce him before they did it anymore; was on the verge of suggesting those little blue pills the girls talked about, when out of nowhere he became amorous. And it was great. No. . .wonderful. No. . .Fan—fargin’—tastic!

“Mmmm.”

Fingers crept along the sheets searching for her mate. They groped to where Frank could be found most early mornings except on golf days or scheduled surgery. She touched the edge of his pillow but no Frank.

Turning her head, she called his name. At the same time she saw an envelope lying on top of the pillow. Never like Frank to leave a note but how sweet is this? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she sat up. The sheet slipped down and there she was. Naked. Liz, you’re such a slut. Where oh where is your nightie, you naughty girl. A heap of green satin lay on the floor next to the bed, evidence of last night’s pleasure.

With care, one long polished nail sliced through the envelope. The nail snagged on an edge and broke. “Shit.” Nothing was going to spoil the moment because this was the first letter from Frank in all the years of togetherness and she planned to keep it. She withdrew the letter.

Stumbling off the bed, letter clutched in her hand, she groped for reading glasses, found them, dropped them, on hands and knees patting the carpet, found them again. Naked on the floor, she read:

Dear Lizzie, It’s not you. It’s me. I have been uncomfortable in my own skin for a long time and have decided I must make a change in my life. I sold my half of the practice to George. You, dear Lizzie, are well taken care of. Call Bruce Bradley. He has all the papers, investments, everything you will need to live in comfort. The house is yours. Last but not least, I signed my portion of divorce papers so whenever you want to, sign yours. Bruce will take care of it.”

She leapt up—made it to the toilet and retched. Foul taste in her mouth, Elizabeth returned to the bedroom and stared down at the despicable letter. “He called me Lizzie. Twice. He knows I hate that name. Liz was okay but the despised Lizzie, never.” Her skin crawled with pain and fury. “Oh God. What am I going to do?” No answer in the silent room. “Divorce,” She shouted to the empty house. “People like us, we don’t divorce, you stupid ..” Tears streaming, she pounded her chest with the letter, crumpled it into a ball and flung it across the room.

She staggered to his closet, slid open the mirrored doors, heard empty hangers clicking against each other before they came in sight. Gone. Wiped out. Nothing left but dust and a few empty shoe boxes, lids tipped over. Elizabeth’s knees buckled and she sank to the floor, head in hands. After a few moments, her head snapped up. When did he do this? Maybe he slipped a little something in my drink last night to make sure I slept while he packed and flew the coop. “That son of a bitch. That God damn son of a bitch.”

Listen ...A Chaunce of Riches

A CHAUNCE OF RICHES
by Chelle Cordero
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PROLOGUE

He was sitting in the large den feigning patience while waiting for his new assignment to show up. The room was expensively and garishly decorated and Ben wondered about the owner who lived here. As far as he was concerned, the room was merely a boastful display of riches that screamed, “I think I’m better than you” to all who entered. Ben knew by the address his employer had given him that he was going to be spending some time in the wealthier section of town, but he still had to curb his cynicism when a butler answered the door. People with money had always bugged him ever since he was just a little kid looking, and looking, at all the rich kids’ toys.

He thumbed his way through the file he was carrying again. Even though Ben had already read about the case multiple times, it gave him something to do while he waited for the widow of the late Julian Chaunce to make an appearance. He was growing more disgusted by the minute and he silently fumed that she was so inconsiderate of another person’s time. But then, as far as Ben was concerned, people with money always thought they were the only thing that mattered anyway.

Chaunce had been a very successful tycoon and was renowned in the publishing world. The trade magazine that had started his company, Chaunce Publications, was still out there and very much alive in the roofing industry. He had sold it years ago and used the tremendous profits to establish new magazines that were all equally successful. Even the security agency Ben worked for had a Chaunce publication delivered to their main office every month. The magazines had called him a self-made man but Ben was convinced that he must have help from somewhere.

Only in his fifties, Chaunce had died suddenly while using a treadmill at a private gym. He left a wife and son and loads of business rivals behind. Now someone was sending threatening notes to the company and the house. Flipping through the folder, Ben frowned and shook his head. The family had tried to keep themselves isolated from the public, probably in an attempt to protect themselves from the same kind of journalists their own publications paid on staff. While there was an occasional headshot of Julian Chaunce, Ben had seen no pictures of the family. He was expecting to see a bland middle-age woman when the door finally opened.

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting. My son was having a bit of a crisis...”

She stopped short as Ben stood up from his chair and turned to face her.

After seeing him her face drained of color. Other than that, he could only think how young she still looked in her light blue slacks and the tailored striped man’s shirt she was wearing. Her hips were a little wider, a little womanlier, but she was still as lithe as she ever was. His gaze traveled up to her face. It had been years since he had seen those eyes staring back at him.

“Sam?” His lips felt parched as he managed to say her name.

Listen ...Courage of the Heart

COURAGE OF THE HEART
by Chelle Cordero
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

PROLOGUE

He trailed kisses down her neck while he let his hands explore the recesses of her body. Davie shuddered when he found the warmth between her thighs with his fingers.

"Am I hurting you?" He was concerned. Even though he had made it a habit not to get involved with any of his partners, she had made him pause. There was something special about this girl; there was something about her that had stayed in his mind ever since their first meeting.

"No…oh, Adam, that feels so good." Davie kissed him back as she felt her response spiraling toward the unknown. "Adam…Adam…" Her breath caught.

"What Sweetheart?" It was easy to see how excited she had become and it felt good to know that he had that effect on her.

"Adam…" She felt very timid. "I've never felt like this before."

"I'm glad." He thought of how good it was going to feel when he entered her. "I'm so very glad."

"Adam…teach me…"

He mated their lips and wrestled his tongue with hers. "What do you want me to teach you?" He smiled against her neck.

"Teach me how to…ooh…" She arched her back and pressed herself into his palm. "How to make it good for you."

Oh lord, so sweet, he thought as he took a delicate nub into his mouth. "How could it not be good for me? You are so beautiful…"

Davie felt another shudder run through her. "But, I don't know…Adam, I," She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers probing inside her. "Adam…I've never…"

For the first time, Adam remained motionless. "Never…what?"

"I've…never been with a man before." She sensed his withdrawal before he actually pulled away.

Adam's brow was furrowed, "What are you saying, Davie?"

The icy chill that Davie felt left her feeling embarrassed to be lying naked in bed with this man. She pulled the bedsheet over her exposed breasts. "I've never been with a man…before"

He sat upright in bed seemingly unaware that he was just as naked as she was. "Are you telling me that you're a virgin?"

Davie sat up clutching the bed linens tightly to her body. "Yes."

"Damnation!" Adam got up from the bed angrily. "You couldn't have told me that before?"

Her eyes welled with tears. "I didn't know we were going to wind up in your bed…"

They had gone out to dinner, again, and a walk in the park. His kisses turned into an invitation back to his apartment. She wasn't naïve, she knew that they might…get closer, but she was so spellbound by him…

"Dammit Davie! I have never taken a virgin before and I certainly don't intend to start with you!"

She watched incredulously as he pulled a pair of jeans on. "I'm sorry…I…" Suddenly Davie felt angry. " If you thought that I thought it was going to be some kind of commitment, you don't need to worry. I got carried away…don't worry, it won't happen again." She stood taking the bedsheet with her to cover herself. "If you don't mind giving me some privacy, I'll get dressed."

Her anger made him feel contrite and he responded in much gentler tones. "I'll take you home as soon as you're ready."

"Don't bother! I'll manage on my own." She stared at the bedroom door pointedly, but he didn't budge. "Fine!" Davie dropped the linen to the floor and picked up her clothing.

Earlier, Adam's body had felt as cold as if he had been blasted with icy water, but as he got another glimpse of her astonishingly beautiful naked body again, he was happy he had donned his pants to hide his reaction.

"I…I'm sorry", he turned his back to her. "I…I just can't be…the first…"

"What?!"

"I'm sorry…" He left the room.

Listen ...Hostage Heart

HOSTAGE HEART by Chelle Cordero
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

Prologue

Deanna had a heavy feeling as she headed to work. Maybe it was just those extra bills that had come due. She had been sending a large portion of her paycheck back home to her folks ever since she came to the city. There really wasn’t that much paycheck to go around. She hadn’t been prepared for that assessment the landlord passed on to his tenants for the boiler repair. There just wasn’t any place else where she could cut spending. She already walked to and from work, never went out and spent money with her friends, and she even bought day old breads and produce rather than fresh. She counted her blessings on a daily basis that she had a job and a roof over her head, no matter how meager, but she found herself bordering on frustration every time she balanced her checkbook.

She made up her mind, today she was going to ask Rob if there was any way he could raise her salary a bit. She was willing to take on extra work; she just needed to be able to keep sending money home. The hurricanes had pretty much devastated parts of Louisiana over the last few years. The resulting tornadoes hit surrounding areas and wiped her folks out. There was no way they were able to rebuild their home and the business. She graduated high school out of a makeshift building before the last round of storms hit. Her original plans were to remain at home for a while and maybe find a job down there. Her parents had always figured she could come into the shop with them but there was no more shop to generate money. Deanna decided to go someplace where she could earn some money to send home to them. Deanna made the move to New York City and had been trying to build a life for nearly a year. A trailer sat on the site near where Deanna remembered her favorite tire swing ever since Katrina and Rita ravaged the area. Her parents didn’t complain. There was no way she wanted to let them know how tight things were for her. She let them believe that money was rolling in or they never would have accepted the money she sent back home.

Clutching her purse tightly to her side, Deanna entered the bank. She was supposed to get some smaller bills for the register this morning on her way into work. She didn’t like walking around with so much money, but Rob insisted that he trusted her to take care of things. Deanna wasn’t naïve; she knew that her neighborhood wasn’t exactly the most crime free in the city. She worried about the responsibility of carrying that much money. If she lost it, there was no way at all that she’d be able to replace it. There never had been any temptation to take what didn’t belong to her but she did allow herself a brief fantasy during the night that the wad of bills in her purse was really hers.

She stepped in line with about half a dozen other customers. She stood behind a very broad shouldered man in a suit and she had to stand on tip-toe to try to look around him to see how fast the line wasn’t moving. He turned towards her and smiled as he adjusted his glasses. His brown wavy hair and bronze complexion stood out against his light brown suit. The ends of his hair brushed his collar. Deanna smiled back politely while hoping she wouldn’t encourage him into a conversation. He was very attractive and she kept looking towards him when he wasn’t looking at her. Under other circumstances, she wouldn’t have minded trying to engage him in a conversation. But as it was, she needed to be at work soon and she couldn’t forget the money she was carrying. He kept checking his watch and she wondered if he was late for some important business meeting. Deanna checked her own watch and hoped she could make it to the store in time to open the doors on schedule.

Finally the gentleman in front of her was the next in line. Suddenly there was a shout and a scream. Deanna turned and saw two men –and there a third–with stocking-covered faces waving very large and frightening handguns.

“Everybody get down! And keep your faces to the floor.”

All of the bank’s customers obeyed immediately. When Deanna raised her head to watch what was happening, the man who had been standing in front of her gently pushed her back down.

“Do as they say,” he cautiously whispered to her from his own position on the floor.

She could see the feet of the frightened tellers as they were ushered toward the front of the counter to join the rest of the customers. One poor young man was stopped and dragged back behind the counter to empty the cash drawers into a sack. Deanna heard muffled sobbing around her.

One of the masked robbers was moving through the mass of people on the floor demanding wallets, purses and jewelry. Perhaps foolishly, Deanna decided she wasn’t going to give up the store money without some kind of protest. She also slid her grandmother’s birthstone ruby ring off of her hand and slipped it down her bra front for protection.

“Open your purse.”

“No.” He grabbed for it and she wouldn’t let it go.

“Damn it, it’s not worth dying for.” The man spoke to her again in a harsh whisper. She saw that he was eagerly handing over his own wallet.

The purse was wrested from her hand. “No. Give it back!”

He heard the gentle twang in her voice and was intrigued by it. “Don’t be an idiot!” he grumbled under his breath.

Deanna raised her head and her voice in anger. “Will you just be quiet! Ow!” She felt her head being yanked backwards by the hair and she found herself staring at the stocking face of one of the robbers.

“Stand up!” She was forced to her feet. “You want to fight?” A gun was pressed against her ribcage. “I’ll give you something to fight about.” He started to push her towards one of the office doors.

“Where are you taking me?” Sudden terror seized her. She tried to break away but found his grip on her was too strong. “Please. I’m sorry...” Her imagination ran wild with horrible possibilities. Tears began to sting her cheeks.

“Well gee, I got me Scarlett O’Hara, boys.” The bank robber laughed as he announced his find to his cohorts.

“Let her go.” The man from the front of the line made a meek plea for her safety.

“Mind your frigging business!”

Deanna continued to struggle and finally broke free. The robber lunged for her. Faster than she was aware, the suited customer was standing and pushed her protectively behind him. He blocked the robber and they scuffled. She stepped backward and was terrified to see the robber gain the advantage and hold the gun to the man’s temple. One arm wound its way around the would-be rescuer’s neck and he was quickly subdued.

She stood trembling. “Oh Gosh, I’m sorry...”

No one else wanted to take a risk. Everyone obeyed the robbers’ demands. The young teller finished filling the bag, customer pockets were emptied of valuables. The gun was still being held on the attractive stranger.

“Get back down on the floor!” The robber commanded Deanna to lie down on the floor.

She was shaking with fear and with guilt. “Please let him go.”

“Lie down!”

She hesitated briefly and then did as she was told.

“Now everyone just remain where you are. Count slowly to three-hundred. If I hear any police sirens or see any cop cars, I will kill this man.” The robbers began to back out of the bank with one of them dragging the struggling man with him.

Deanna couldn’t let them just take the man with them, not after he had risked himself to save her. She looked up and saw a large ceramic demonstration piggy bank on the counter; as soon as she saw the robber look away, she jumped to her feet and grabbed it. She ran after the robber holding the hostage and struck him in the back of the head.

The robber stumbled. “Run!” She screamed at the stranger. He stared at her in disbelief. “Run!” Finally he made a hasty retreat to the street.

Before Deanna could get safely back into the bank, she found herself being grabbed again and this time the gun was held to her head.

“You little bitch.” The robber’s voice was raspy. “You’re coming with us instead, then.” He dragged her pleading out the doors and threw her into a van just outside on the street.

Another one of the assailants grabbed her to tie and gag her as the vehicle made a hasty retreat. About a block later, the van made a quick stop and Deanna was surprised to see the suited customer step into the van.

He looked at her in anger. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

Listen ...Common Bond, Tangled Hearts

COMMON BOND, TANGLED HEARTS
by Chelle Cordero
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats

Prologue

If he was reading her surprised expression right, she was expecting somebody else to be on the other side of the door when she swung it wide open. Cautiously, the willowy blonde pushed the door partly closed before politely inquiring if she could help him.

Justin took his time letting his eyes roam from her short, tousled hair down to her very long legs. He noticed, in typical male fashion, how very shapely those long legs were. She was wearing a loose fitting shirt and cut off jeans, her feet were bare.

Layne felt uncomfortable as the stranger's eyes made their leisurely excursion. She closed the door just a little bit more and then fortified her courage with the thought that her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Addamson, would open her door at the least little yell she might make.

"Is there something you want?" She impatiently asked him and then blushed when his eyes flew up to meet hers with an amused smile.

Oh baby, where have you been all my life? He thought and then smiled politely. "I was looking for…" he carefully checked a piece of paper he held in his hand. "…for Layne Gillette." Justin said 'Lane'.

She refrained from correcting his pronunciation. For the last few years, Layne had explained to people that it was pronounced like Janie except with an L.

"Who's asking?" No matter that he seemed to fit the exact description of tall, dark and handsome that she and her friends always joked about, she was wary of any stranger who came looking for her.

"My name is Justin Ross…" He waited just a moment to see if there was any recognition, he was disappointed. "I was told that Layne Gillette lives here."

"It's Lay-nee…" She was expressionless.

"Hi, I take it you're Lay-nee?" His eyebrows arched as he emphasized the proper pronunciation.

"What do you want?" Layne inconspicuously braced herself against the door so she could slam it forcefully in his face if need be.

"It's… uh… personal. May I come in?" He was mesmerized by her golden eyes.

"No." She was firm.

It took a moment before her refusal totally sunk in. Not many dared to refuse Justin Ross anything. He took a deep breath in and started to patiently explain to her that he needed to speak with her privately. "Look, I just came a long way… and we really need to talk…"

"Hey Mom, is that Rita?" The childlike voice startled the both of them. Layne turned her head to answer when Justin pushed on the door with his hand and knocked her off-balance. The door swung open and Justin got his first look at the little boy who had his mother's golden eyes. Like his own hair, the boy had jet-black curly locks and the contrast was extraordinary.

"Is that him?" Justin pushed his way past Layne and went to the boy. "Are you Dennis?"

The little boy stared at the stranger who had pushed past his mother. Justin didn’t mean to scare him and started to smile.

She was ready to physically tackle him as she shouted at her son. "Go to your room… now!"

"But Mom…" The boy looked between the stranger and his mother.

"And close your door!" She put herself between the stranger and her child. The door to the hallway swung wide open.

"Mommmm…" He did his best to hide his trembling lower lip.

"Now!" Layne stared at him until he obeyed. She stood with her hands against Justin's firm chest to block his advance. She swung her gaze back to Justin, he could have sworn her eyes glowed with rage. "Did Charlie send you?"

He was puzzled by her strange behavior. She seemed overly melodramatic. All he wanted to do was see the boy. "Who's Charlie?" He was annoyed when he heard the click of the boy's bedroom door.

"Just answer the damn question!" Layne had tried to mentally prepare herself for just this kind of confrontation for the last six years, but she never thought her anger or her fear would be so great.

"I don't know… who the hell… Charlie is!" He forcefully brushed her hands off of him. "Look, I came to speak to you because…"

"If Charlie didn't send you, who did?" She cut him off.

Justin tried to control his own frustration. He understood this woman's need to protect the boy from someone she didn't know, but he needed desperately to see the boy. He resented her refusal.

"No one sent me!" He made sure not to yell.

"Then why are you here?" She wouldn't trust him.

"Because… we need to talk." It was harder to say it than he realized.

Layne was prepared to defend her son with her life if she had to. "…about what?"

"You and I need to talk. I'd really like to do this calmly." Justin knew she wasn't going to react very well. She was being too overprotective without knowing the reason for his visit. Once she found out…

"What do you and I have to talk about? There’s nothing for us to talk about." She wasn't letting her guard down for anything. And if he thought he could just come in here and shove her around, he'd soon learn differently.

"Layne…" He tried to reach out for her, she sidestepped him. "We need to talk about… our son." He saw her look of shock. "We need to talk about Dennis."

She slowly turned her head to look at a photograph of Dennis that was sitting on the top of her television set and made the comparison to the man standing in front of her.

Suddenly she screamed at him and began to beat at his chest with her clenched fists. "Get out! Get out of here! Get the hell out of my home!"

Listen ...Homesong

HOMESONG by Misha Crews
Available in Print and All Ebook Formats


Prologue

August 1989

Everything about the little house said dead and gone.

It stood, empty and alone, at the intersection of two old dirt roads. Scraggly bushes had grown up over the peeling walls, poking their way inside through broken window panes. The skeletal remains of an old vegetable garden jutted long bony fingers out of the brown scrap of yard by the front door, and the house's shingled sides had been spray-painted with graffiti. But that too had turned brown, as if even the vandals had moved on to greener pastures.

Reed sat silently in his car, biting on his thumb as he looked out at the place where he had grown up. Cicadas, stirred by the heavy heat of the early August morning, whirred their drowsing song in the tall grass by the side of the road. The sun hadn't even crested the far hills yet, and already the inside of his ancient yellow VW felt like an oven, with sweat gathering along his hairline to drip down his neck, sticking his shirt to the small of his back.

It was strange to think that he hadn't laid eyes on the place in almost a year. He had been born in that house, as had generations of Fitzgeralds before him. His grandmother had raised him there: he had crawled along the bare, uneven floorboards, taken his first wobbly steps in the patchy front yard. The old place had never been beautiful. It wasn't some picturesque cottage nestled in the heart of rural Virginia. It was a squat, ugly dwelling that had seen too many deaths and not enough births, but which knew the pain of both.

The original foundation had been laid by a long-ago Fitzgerald ancestor in the hardscrabble years following the Civil War – a tough little house built by a tough little man, who had gone on to found the very town that sprawled not two miles from here. Later, of course, the Fitzgerald family had built themselves a home more suited to their own sense of importance – an elegant country house high on the hill. It had been a gracious building that rode the crest of the hill as pretty as a boat on the water. From the front of its wide wraparound porch, you could look right past this tiny hovel to the town that lay beyond.

The big house had burned down when Reed's grandmother was a child. But money and a kind of careless confidence had resurrected it in the late '60s, just a few years before Reed had been born. A new family – outsiders, as his grandmother always said, her voice thick with anger – had come in from out of town, snapped up the land, and rebuilt the house from the original blueprints.

Kate's family, Reed reminded himself, trying not to notice the way his heart snaked in his chest at the thought of her. He tugged at the handle on the car door and pushed outward with his shoulder, ignoring the painful squeal of rusty hinges as the door swung open. He unfolded himself from the front seat, peeling himself carefully away from the old plastic covers, then stretched his long and lanky frame before leaning backward against the car, crossing his ankles with a casualness that he did not actually feel.

If he had turned his head and looked upward, he would have been able to see that big house – empty now, but still all white and shining with majestic beauty. Instead, he just shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down, contemplating the dirt at his feet. He was on his way out of town. Everything that he owned was packed into two cardboard boxes on the cracked back seat of his car. One box held his clothes, which were secondhand but clean and carefully folded. The other held a dozen books and what Grand had once scornfully called the family legacy – an old photo album covered in crumbling black leather, and lined with stained and threadbare purple silk.

And that was it. That was all that was left of his family. Generations of men and women who had lived and loved, killed and healed, taught and raised children. Some kind and generous, some mean and scheming. But all of them Fitzgeralds, and all of them dead. And with all of that history…there was nothing left but a broken, faded photo album at the bottom of an old cardboard box. By this time next week, even the shack in front of him would be gone.

And so would he.