In Place of
Never
Release Date: February 2nd 2016
Lyrical Press
Summary from Goodreads:
Can the truth
set her free?…
A part of Mercy died the summer her sister tragically drowned. Now Mercy has a
chance to discover if Faith’s death was an accident—or murder. Her first
step is to confront the lead suspects: a band of traveling gypsies—the last
people who saw her sister alive. But Mercy finds an unexpected ally in Cross,
the soulful musician in their ranks. He’s a kindred spirit, someone who sees
into her heart for the first time in, well, forever. Yet stirring up the past
puts Mercy in danger…
Suddenly someone is shadowing Mercy’s every move, making her even more
determined to uncover the facts. With Cross by her side, she is ready to face
it all, even if that means opening up to him, knowing he may one day leave her.
What she discovers is a truth that rocks the foundation of her small river
town—and a love worth risking everything for….
Buy Links:
Chapter 1
The
Sideshow
Faith is
dead.
The words
had formed my first thought every day for three years. Strangely, on the
anniversary of her death, my mind was blank.
My bedroom
door stood open, courtesy of my little sister, Prudence, no doubt. This was her
way of nudging me into motion. Muted shades of gray light filtered through
rain-washed windows, barely enough to illuminate dust motes floating overhead.
Time to face the worst day of the year.
Sounds and
scents of breakfast climbed two flights of stairs and settled into my thoughts
with an eerie echo. I pulled clothes from the pile and brushed my teeth and
hair. These were the things I’d only begun to appreciate before everything
changed.
Far too
soon, my toes curled over the top step outside my room. I pulled in a deep
breath and braced my palms against cool stairwell walls, dragging my fingertips
over the grooves and planes in the wood paneling as I inched downstairs.
From the
quiet hallway outside our kitchen, life looked surreal, like the setting for a
play with actors in motion but no audience or script. Dad’s clothes were as
neat as a pin, and his hair fell in the same schoolboy style he’d outgrown
thirty years ago. The morning paper lay open in front of him, beside a full cup
of coffee that had lost its steam. Pru stood at the stove shoveling eggs from a
pan onto a plate. She, too, appeared ready for the day, if I ignored the tremor
in her hand and the strain in her brow. She nearly dropped the plate when she
turned from the stove.
“Mercy.” She
pressed a hand to her heart and stumbled to the table with the eggs. “Why are
you just standing there?”
Dad turned
blank eyes on me, unspeaking.
I moved to
the counter and filled Mom’s favorite travel mug with coffee, ignoring the
palpable tension. In sixty seconds, I’d be out the door with my free, portable
caffeine.
Pru untied
the apron from her waist and folded it on the counter. She stared at me.
“Aren’t you eating?”
I sealed the
mug. “No.” I needed to be anywhere but here.
Dad tensed.
The paper crumbled around his tightened grip, but he wouldn’t get involved,
especially not today. Today we’d pretend we were still a family. Three months
from now, we’d do it again.
Pru bit her
trembling lip. “Mercy.” The word was barely audible, even in the quietest house
on Earth.
Something
tore inside me, and I wavered, slowly sipping coffee until the bitter taste Mom
had loved turned my stomach.
Dad pressed
the paper against our ancient Formica tabletop and lifted cold coffee to his
lips.
I settled
onto a chair and tapped my nails over tiny flecks of gold and silver embedded
in the table’s white surface. He and Mom had received the kitchen set as a
wedding present from her parents. A grooved metal wrap curled around the
table’s perimeter. My sisters and I had done homework at that table. Birthday
cakes and Thanksgiving dinners were served there. When our family was whole,
we’d played cards and board games together every Friday night. Family night.
Lately, we were a family of ghosts, figurative and literal.
The legs of
Dad’s chair scraped over worn linoleum. He poured his coffee into the sink and
freed his jacket from the chair back where he’d sat. He threaded his arms
though too-large holes. “I’ll be home late.”
Pru flopped
her arms against her sides. “But you didn’t eat.”
He scooped
his Bible and keys off the counter and pulled the front door closed behind him.
Pru
collapsed into the seat across from me. Bony elbows slid across the tabletop.
“Please eat something.”
“No thank
you.”
Her frown
deepened. “No one eats around here. It isn’t healthy.”
“We don’t
sleep or talk either. At least we’re consistent.” A deep cringe pinched my
heart. I’d promised myself not to provoke Pru. She was only a kid. The least I
could do was use restraint and good manners. “Sorry.”
I stared
into her wide blue eyes, wanting to say a million things I couldn’t. “You
didn’t need to make breakfast. It’s not your responsibility.” The word lodged
in my throat, filling the space until air struggled past.
“Sorry.”
Hurt welled
in Pru’s eyes. “Whose responsibility is it then? Yours?” She stood in a burst
of energy I couldn’t fathom, rocking her chair onto two legs before it settled
with a thump. “I’m fifteen, not five.” Pru whirled through the room, dumping
eggs in the trash and shoving dishes into the sink. Defeated by her loved ones
before nine AM. It wasn’t fair.
She turned
on her heels and glared at me. “You’re leaving in six weeks. Then what?” She
bit her bottom lip and scrubbed a plate hard. “You could at least pretend you
don’t want to go. Even if it’s a lie.”
“I’m not
leaving. I’m going to college like everyone does.”
Her weary
eyes drooped at the corners. “Not everyone.”
“Not Faith.”
As if I needed the reminder. As if I didn’t think of that every day.
She dried
her hands and pursed her lips. “What are you doing today?”
Thunder
rocked the house. “I’m going out.”
“Out where?
There’s a storm. Besides, my friends are coming over for movies and popcorn.
Why don’t you stay? Company could take your mind off…stuff.”
Stuff. Right.
“Me,
Prudence, and the color guard?” I flipped a handful of sandy curls off Pru’s
shoulder. “I’m not sure that’d be fun for anyone.”
“Please.”
“Can’t. I’m
going to go see Mom and Faith. I’ll be home later.” Her doe-eyed expression
stopped me short. Since when was Pru so needy? She’d certainly never needed me.
Had she? Even if she had, what was I supposed to do about it? “If you want, you
can come up to my room when your friends leave. We’ll eat cold pizza and drink
warm soda after Dad falls asleep.” My throat constricted further with each
word. Faith and I had spent many nights that way when Pru was small and sound
asleep in her room next door.
She paled.
“Maybe.”
I narrowed
my eyes. “Maybe?” That was the best invitation I’d ever offered and she’d
turned me down. Something was up. “Why? Do you have plans after Dad falls
asleep?”
“Maybe.”
I sucked
air. “You can’t go out after curfew.”
She crossed
thin arms over her chest. “I said maybe. Anyways, since when do you care? Is
this a joke? You think you’re in charge?”
My gut
wrenched. Was I? Everyone ahead of me on the chain of command had either died
or otherwise checked out. “You can’t stay out all night.”
She clenched
her jaw.
I grabbed my
bag off the coat tree and secured it cross body before she lashed out. “I can’t
do this right now. I’ll be home soon. I won’t interrupt your movie day, but I
will look for you tonight.”
Pru scoffed
as I edged past her and out the door where Dad had disappeared minutes before.
My muddy
Chucks waited on the rack against the railing.
Pru glared
at me through the window.
I couldn’t
stay. I had to visit Mom and Faith before the storm washed the roads away.
I gathered
my hair into a knot as I sloshed through the rain toward the edge of town.
Puddles splashed warm water onto my ankles. Raindrops swiveled patterns over my
forehead into my eyes, blurring my vision and masking a hot tear of frustration
on one cheek. The streets were empty of pedestrians. Cars with wipers on warp
speed settled at stoplights or outside shops, collecting women in rain gear and
children wielding umbrellas shaped like storybook characters.
Dad’s car
sat alone in the church lot. He dreamed of inspiring the town and he prayed
fervently for a healing of our broken community. The concept was nice if you
weren’t one of his forgotten daughters.
I ducked my
head and moved faster, dashing through the lot and across the intersection at
Main Street. Soggy, wind-battered flyers waved from light posts on every
corner. The annual River Festival returned this month, assuming St. Mary’s
didn’t wash off the map before then. I tugged my hood over my ears and sloshed
onto the sidewalk. American flags lined store windows. Support our Troops
shirts and Uncle Sam bobbleheads monopolized every retail display in town. The
Fourth of July fun was right on schedule, only a few days until the big parade
and concert in the park. My family didn’t celebrate this weekend anymore.
Several
yards away, two guys took shelter under the awning outside our local
honky-tonk. Their laughter broke through the drumming of rain on rooftops and
pounding of truck tires through puddles. Both were tall, dark, and out of place
in my town. Instead of jeans and boots, like cowboys or country singers, or the
shorts and gym shoes of locals and tourists, this pair wore black pants and
dress shoes. Their matching V-neck shirts were equally out of place in St.
Mary’s, West Virginia.
The broader
one noticed me first. His smile vanished and his posture stiffened. He locked
his wrists behind his back and nodded. The short sleeves of his shirt nipped
his biceps. The ridiculous breadth of his chest
tested the
limits of the thin black material. His clothes probably hid the grotesquely
oversculpted figure of a body builder.
My feet
slowed instinctively, weighing the merits of crossing the street to avoid them.
Crossing meant moving away from my destination, staying meant eventually
sharing a three-foot patch of cement with two guys already filling every spare
inch.
The leaner,
younger-looking one turned his face toward me. Black ink crawled up his neck
from the collar of his shirt to his earlobe. A scar pierced one eyebrow and a thin
silver hoop graced the corner of his mouth.
Dad wouldn’t
approve.
I rounded my
shoulders, withdrawing into my hoodie and averting my eyes.
The broad
one whipped a hand out as I stepped onto their patch of cement. “Miss.”
I jumped
back, wrapping my fingertips around the strap of my bag.
His enormous
arm blocked my path. He clenched a mass of silk flowers in his fist. “For the
lady.”
“Uh.” I
pulled in a shallow breath. “No thank you.”
The younger
one’s eyebrows dove together. “I think you’re scaring her.” His dark eyes
settled on mine. His voice was deep and low. “Is he scaring you?”
The big guy
handed the flowers to his friend and stepped back, palms up.
The younger
one offered them to me, extending his arm slowly as if being careful not to
frighten a wild animal. “I’m Cross. This is Anton. Anton thinks he’s a
magician.”
I glanced
over one shoulder at the church behind me before accepting the strange offer. A
lifetime of forced manners pushed my name from my mouth. “Mercy.”
Cross’s lips
twitched. “He’s a lot to take in, but he’s a marshmallow.”
I bit back
an awkward smile as Anton protested the remark with a shove. “Mercy’s my name.
It wasn’t an exclamation.”
Cross
relaxed his posture. “Good to know.” He shoved his fingers into his pockets.
“Do you live here?”
“Yeah.” A
measure of unexplained confidence wound through me. “Not you, though.” I
scrutinized their strange ensembles again. Their clothes were almost like
costumes, or what I imagined a mortician would wear in the nineteen hundreds.
“What are you doing here?” I sidestepped them, exchanging my view of the
distant willows for a view of the church.
The low
tenor of their voices collided as Cross said, “Visiting,” and Anton said,
“Performing.”
Cross
narrowed his eyes at Anton.
Interesting.
A sign tucked into the corner of the honky-tonk’s window announced another
round of live bands. Cash prizes and a guaranteed Nashville record executive in
the audience meant lots of newcomers to St. Mary’s. Maybe these two were
country singers. “Performing what?”
Again with
the twin speak, Cross answered, “Nothing.”
Anton
answered, “Everything.”
I frowned.
“Well, that’s cleared up.” I waved the bouquet. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“You’re
welcome,” they answered.
Dad’s face
appeared in the church window, and I darted into the rain. “I have to go.”
I stuffed
the flowers into my bag as I jogged away from the street of shops, closing the
space between the willows and me. Thunder cracked in the distance. The storm
was passing for now. I stepped into the pavilion outside St. Mary’s Cemetery
with a sigh of relief. Willow trees lined our small town along the river’s west
edge. Their craggy branches swept the earth with every gust of wind. The town
cemetery stretched fingers of marble graves into the distance, marking lives
lost in the mid-eighteen hundreds beside others lost in my lifetime. Two of
those graves marked the lives of Porter women, Faith and Mary Porter. My older
sister and my mother.
When the drops
thinned to sprinkles, I made my way up muddy paths to their grave sites,
sliding down as often as I moved forward. Dad said he’d chosen the spots at the
top of the hill so Faith and Mom could look over our town. If they truly had a
view, theirs was perfect.
The sopping
earth squished under my weight as I left the path. A week of relentless rain
had ruined the dirt roads and flooded the lowlands mercilessly.
I knelt
before the headstones. “Hi. I bet you didn’t think I’d come in the storm.”
Tears burned my eyes. I’d come selfishly. “You’re the only one I can talk to.”
I rubbed my
wrist over each eye. “I am so amazingly sorry.”
Wind beat
against the trees, shaking limbs and freeing wads of green leaves from their
branches. “The storm’s gathering again.”
I wiped pine
needles and dirt off Faith’s name. Wind tossed sticks and tiny American flags
across the thick green grass. A batch of grave flowers rolled down the hill
toward the river, reminding me of the ones in my bag.
“I have
something today.” I unlatched my bag and pulled out the silk flowers. “Some
very weird guys outside Red’s gave these to me. I think you should have them,
Faith. I don’t bring you flowers enough. Maybe that’s why I ran into those two.
You needed flowers.” I stabbed their plastic stems into the mushy ground and
pressed the grass tight around them, anchoring them the best I could.
“I miss you.
I wish you knew how much. Dad’s still trying to save the town. Pru’s still
pretending she’s like everyone else. The color guard’s coming over for popcorn
and movies.” I rolled my eyes. “I think she’s planning to sneak out tonight,
and I don’t even know if it’s the first time.”
I settled in
the wet grass and tilted my face to the sky. “I’ve never minded our summer
storms. Remember when we used to dance in the rain until Dad begged us all
inside? He’d laugh and say,” I mocked Dad’s deeper voice, “‘I guess the rumors
are true. My girls don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain.’”
A sound in
the distance caught my attention. A rhythm. “Do you hear that?” Wind whipped
through the trees, but the eerie sound of tinny pipes and organs floated to my
ears. I rubbed my palms over gooseflesh-covered arms and an icy shiver slid
down my spine.
I stood on
wobbly knees and moved to the hill’s edge.
A line of
black vehicles crawled along the river toward the campground. Each truck was
marked with the symbol that once haunted my dreams. A fancy letter L,
circled in curlicue lines and tiny words from another language. “The Lovell
Traveling Sideshow came back?”
After three
years, it was back.
I turned to
my sister. “I bet they came for the River Festival. What should I do?”
I sensed her
presence and felt her voice in the wind, obscured by the ringing in my ears. My
weary conscience screamed, “Leave it alone,” but my every curious fiber
disagreed.
I’d
researched, cyberstalked, and obsessed over the Lovells off and on for two
years before I backed off. I squinted at the caravan of trucks below. If one of
them knew what happened to Faith, I needed to hear it. Maybe someone at their
campsite could help me.
Dad refused
me the courtesy of knowing what happened to my sister. When I’d followed him
through our home begging, he’d said I was too young. Faith was too young. I
should pray for peace. I’d scoured the local paper and Internet for
information. Three years later, the only things I knew for sure were Faith was
dead and Dad blamed the Lovells. I’d heard him and Mom after Faith’s funeral.
He hated them, but it didn’t make any sense. Faith drowned. Dad believed the
Lovells contributed to Faith’s death somehow, despite the coroner’s accidental
drowning conclusion.
I looked
over one shoulder at Faith’s headstone. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back.” I
rubbed wet palms against my jeans. My feet stumbled through the grass on
autopilot. This was my chance.
I sprinted
toward home, formulating a plan. First, I needed a shower and change of
clothes. Next, I needed a picture of Faith from that summer. The Lovells
probably saw thousands of new faces every year and three years had already
passed. Expecting them to remember one girl from a town as unremarkable as ours
was asking the impossible.
I slowed my
pace on Main Street. Outside the honky-tonk, a fresh banner hung from the awning,
a photo advertisement for the Lovell Traveling Sideshow. My mouth dropped open
as my gaze swept over the ad. I missed the curb and planted one foot in
ankle-deep runoff racing for the gutter. “Gross.” My palms hit the sidewalk,
stopping me from a complete fall. The open flap of my bag dripped against my
pant leg when I stood. I buckled the bag without looking, unable to drag my
focus away from the banner. A woman covered in tattoos posed with a set of
acrobats front and center. A shirtless strongman with a mask and endless
muscles stood behind her. I tried to match Anton and his flowers to the masked
man in the photograph. Was it possible?
A man in
tuxedo tails pulled fire from his hat and a woman in a ball gown swallowed
swords. Animals in black tutus and studded collars pranced at her feet. Behind
the others stood a brown-eyed guy with neck ink, a guitar, and a frown. Cross
was a performer all right. He was one of them. A Lovell.
Julie Anne Lindsey is a multi-genre author who writes the stories that keep her up at
night. She’s a self-proclaimed nerd with a penchant for words and proclivity
for fun. Mother of three, wife to a sane person and Ring Master at the Lindsey
Circus, most days you'll find her online, amped up on caffeine and wielding a
book. Julie started writing to make people smile. Someday she plans to change
the world.
Julie is a member of the
International Thriller Writers (ITW), Sisters in Crime (SinC) and the Canton
Writer’s Guild.
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