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Prologue
Amelia
My daddy is gone.
It still feels like some sort of bad dream that I’m going to wake up from. I wish it was a dream I could wake up from.
Anguished sobs wrack my body as I stand in the basement of Dad’s house. Our house. I just haven’t been here as much lately.
Dad and I used to spend hours down here. It was supposed to be his man cave, but it might as well have been my playground when I was little.
My dad was a single father. Mom died when I was seven, so my memories with her are vague and few.
Dad never remarried and instead gave his all to raising me. For a family met with such tragedy, Dad and I were happy.
Dad made me happy.
He stretched himself thin to make sure he was present for me despite his work.
The work that killed him.
More sobs bubble up in my throat as I remember the solemn expression on the face of the officer who showed up at my aunt’s house.
They wouldn’t give us details of what really happened, so all we know is that Dad was an undercover cop who got caught by the bad guys.
Fresh pain stabs at my heart as I look over at his desk, still cluttered like he’d been there only a while ago.
“What am I going to do without you, Dad?” I can’t stop crying. “How could they take you from me?”
Yes. Dad didn’t leave me. He was taken by some criminals who were still out there, living scot-free.
My pain takes a turn, quickly becoming rage as frustration buzzes at my fingertips.
“They are living scot-free and no one will even tell me who they are!” I yell. I ball my fingers into fists by my side, struggling to control my anger.
“Anger clouds the mind, my love. When you react in anger, you set yourself up to lose.”My dad’s voice comes back to me in my mind, and my shoulders sag with the weight of my sadness.
“But I’ve already lost. Why wouldn’t I be angry?”
I crumple to my knees, holding my chest. As I cry, something catches my eye.
“What’s that?” A frown rumples my forehead as I wipe my tears to get a better look at the wall underneath the table.
Oh! It’s my old treasure hole from when I was little.
Dad made me a space under his desk where I used to stash things. It was a fun little game we shared that kept me busy.
I feel sentiment tickle my heart at the memories, but I am distracted by something else amiss.
There’s something sticking out of the hole, like it was roughly shoved in there recently.
Did Dad put this here?
As I take it out for closer inspection, I realize it’s a journal. It’s full of Dad’s handwriting, random scribbles here and there, and disjointed information about the mission he was carrying out for the police.
I piece together the details of the job that got my father killed with wide eyes.
A few hours later, I’m standing over a fire on the kitchen stove, burning away the pages of my dad’s journal and the secrets I’ve just learned.
