Is there anything else I can say? Resurrectionists is available now!
From the digital back cover.
Detective Greg Loren faces his darkest hour in this thrilling prequel to Signs of Portents.
With his career joining his personal life on a downward slide toward oblivion, Loren is running out of time and patience. Pulled into yet another in an endless series of supernatural cases, he uncovers a series of grave robberies that are more than they seem.
What is the Church of the Second Coming? And what does it have to do with Loren’s deceased wife, Beth?
With everything on the line, will Loren sacrifice his future to reclaim his past? Will his partner and confidante, Soriya Greystone, stand with him or against him in his decision?
No one walks away unscathed in this scintillating chapter of the Greystone series.
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Chapter One
Kelli Andrews couldn’t sleep. It was the same routine every night: an hour or two of deep sleep…and then the nightmares started. Work, the kids, bills, the never-ending holidays. Plenty to choose from but the best were the mix and match set that spanned childhood fears with the mundane nature of her life.
Emptiness greeted her rousing, the other half of the bed vacant. Marc was missing again. Kelli sat up, rubbing the dreariness out of her eyes. The clock beamed in bright red. Barely 5:00 in the morning, the sky still black. She wondered how long he had been away, if he even came to bed.
She thought this was over, that Marc worked through this. The late nights. The disconnect from everyone and everything. Sleepless nights of channel surfing and roaming the neighborhood. Almost daily since the death of his mother three months earlier.
Kelli persevered, although she had no choice in the matter. Two kids not even in double digits and a job to keep them in their modest yet suffocating mortgage. A breakdown was not in the offering for her, though she could have used a nice stretch in a padded cell, if only for a decent night’s rest.
Death affected everyone differently. She hadn’t shed a tear over the last few months, the loss a blessing after years of suffering from debilitating illnesses and physical pain. But her husband of twelve years took the passing hard.
Things changed a month ago. A reprieve, a return to normalcy—or so Kelli thought. Seeing the empty bed, she wondered if she was trying to convince herself more than anyone. Out of need. For the kids. For herself.
Her ankles popped as her feet connected with the soft carpet. Despite the nightmares, she was surprised how long she had slept without interruption. It showed, her back struggling to straighten, her balance precarious on her trek to the hallway. She preferred the idea of another two or three hours of rest but her bladder won out.
The door squealed upon opening and she held her breath. Waking the kids was not an option, especially with the chance of a little more sleep still in the cards even after a trip to the bathroom. And the hunt for Marc. She would check the couch first. He was most likely passed out, drool running down his chin. There was the chance he was still awake, teary-eyed and lost in memory, the television a distraction from the photo albums that had become a permanent staple of the coffee table lately.
Halfway across the hall, inching slowly like a covert operative, Kelli stopped. A figure stood at the end of the hall—a small shadow centered among the darkness. Matted brown hair and wearing Spider-Man pajamas, her son startled her with his presence.
“Grandma’s here,” he said, his seven-year-old voice booming in the early morning graveyard that was their home.
Kelli shook her head. “What? Quinn, baby, it’s too early.”
Quinn walked up to her. His hand slipped into hers and he pulled her down the hall. The bathroom faded from view, like the nightmares of the last few hours.
Kelli struggled to keep up with the boy’s enthusiasm, her mind even slower to question their destination. They owned a small home, compact and single story. The hallway that led to their bedrooms and the single full bath (which would never be enough for all four of them) fed into the living room, which connected to the kitchen. The sound of movement from the latter caused her to hold back at the threshold of the former.
Quinn looked to her, puzzled, pulling harder. “Come on, Mommy.”
Her confusion didn’t subdue her senses. She recognized it: the sound of eggs frying on the stove and the smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle. It woke her up, the cloud of her deep sleep fading. Her smile returned.
Marc was back. Really back. For good this time. So ambitious, making up for lost time, he set to work making breakfast. A little early—by about two hours—but the effort behind it all bolstered her. Helping to keep her going after the burden of the last few months.
Her delusion ended quickly.
Lily, her four-year-old daughter, sat at the kitchen table. Quinn joined her, smiling and giggling, their plates full of food that would never be eaten. Next to her sat Marc, munching on a slice of bacon.
“What’s all this?” Kelli asked, confused by the sound of cooking while everyone sat around the table.
The confusion ended with her arrival. A figure rounded the corner, stepping into the light, carrying two plates of eggs—over-easy and dabbled with enough pepper to clear your sinuses. A staple of only one person Kelli Andrews knew.
Her mother-in-law stopped, pointing at the empty table chair. “Take a seat, dear. You look pale. Have you been eating enough?”
Kelli froze, unable to think. Unable to speak. Her husband grinned, digging into his freshly prepared breakfast.
“Isn’t it great, honey?”
His wife failed to agree. As she stared at the dead woman in her kitchen, she only had one response.
Kelli Andrews screamed.
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