Deadly Echoes (Finding Sanctuary Book #2) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Nancy Mehl

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159 pages

English

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After a youth filled with tragedy and upheaval, Sarah Miller's life is finally settled with all echoes of the past silent at last. She happily calls Sanctuary her home and spends her days teaching at the local school.Sarah's joy at her recent reunion with her sister, Hannah, and meeting the niece she didn't know she had is too soon interrupted when Deputy Sheriff Paul Gleason informs Sarah her sister has been killed. As she learns more about Hannah's death, the circumstances are eerily similar to their parents' murder. Sarah enlists Paul's help in digging deeper into the murders the police are dismissing as burglaries gone wrong. Paul's concern encourages Sarah's growing feelings for him, but as their investigation peels back the layers of lies almost twenty years old, they get close to uncovering the truth one person will do anything to hide--even if that means coming after the last remaining members of the Miller family.

Sujets

Romance

Thriller

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	27 janvier 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441265142
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0173€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2015 by Nancy Mehl
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www . bakerpublishinggroup . com
Ebook edition created 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6514-2
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Author is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.
To my friend and sister, Jolene, who taught me that true friends are friends forever
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Nancy Mehl
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter One

The old familiar fear returned with a vengeance, along with the musty smell of neglect and the sweet scent of sweat.
I was back in that small dusty place under the stairs. The one place in the house that escaped Mom’s rigorous weekly cleaning. It was used to store things that were only needed on special occasions, like our old luggage and the cane Dad had used when he sprained his ankle.
But this night, the often-ignored storage area was the most important place in the entire world. Hannah’s arms tightened around me, and she whispered in my ear that I must be quiet. That I couldn’t say a word, couldn’t sneeze, even though the dust tickled my nose. The terrible noises from outside had stopped, and now there was nothing except an awful silence. The only sound left was our rapid breathing. Hannah breathed in; I breathed out. Without meaning to, I began to inhale and exhale in harmony with my sister. In and out. In and out. Tears slipped down my face unbidden, but I ignored them and concentrated on our labored breaths. It was the one thing I could control.
Footsteps from the other side of the door stopped only inches from where we sat. Suddenly our breathing seemed too loud. Could he hear us? Something rose inside my throat. Fear turned into an urge to scream that would surely reveal us to the evil that lurked outside our secret spot. Hannah seemed to sense I was losing restraint, and she covered my mouth with her hand.
“Be still,” she whispered. “Whatever you do, Sarah, be still.”
I tried desperately to hold my breath, not knowing if I could do as she asked. Terror seemed to have wrapped my sister and me in a cocoon of unreality. Surely this could not be happening. Mom and Dad were okay. We would scurry out from beneath the stairs, and they’d laugh at us. Tell us how silly we were to be afraid. Then Mom would make tacos and we’d watch TV. Life would go on as it always had.
All of a sudden, the handle on the door of our safe haven rattled. Hannah gasped and took her hand off my mouth. The small door swung open and light washed over us, blinding me. I screamed and buried my head on Hannah’s shoulder.
Then there was blood. So much blood. Flowers began to rain down from the sky, white orchids mixed with crimson. I screamed again and again until I woke myself up. My body trembled uncontrollably from the fear that gripped me, my sheets soaked with sweat. Pushing myself into a sitting position, I could feel my heart pound. Why had the nightmare returned? I’d been free from it for almost two years.
I got out of bed and made my way into the bathroom. The person who looked back at me from the mirror wasn’t Sarah Miller, the twenty-four-year-old schoolteacher. She was Sarah Miller, the six-year-old child who hid in a closet the night her parents were murdered.
I splashed cold water on my face and dried it with a towel. Then I went into my small kitchen and checked the time. A little after four in the morning. Although I hadn’t experienced this particular dream for a long time, I remembered the routine that accompanied it. There would be no sleeping the rest of the night. I turned on the coffee maker. It would take several minutes to brew, so I opened the door that separated my apartment from the school and stepped into the large classroom. I loved walking through the school when it was empty, before the day began. Desks sat in the dark, waiting for the students who would soon fill them. Since I was still wearing my pajamas, I kept the light off. I walked toward the front window and gazed outside at a bleak winter’s day. The streets of Sanctuary were deserted, but an hour from now things would change. Randi Lindquist would arrive to open her restaurant, The Oil Lamp, while across the street, Mary Gessner and her daughter, Rosey, would get ready to greet customers at The Whistle Stop Café, the only other place to eat in town. Of course, Randi and Mary weren’t in competition. This was Sanctuary, Missouri. The two restaurant owners were close friends and worked together to serve good quality food to the small town. People in Sanctuary helped one another out whenever it was needed.
A couple of hours later, after the restaurants were already greeting their customers, Rachel Stoltz and her mother would turn on the lights in the quilt shop, while Abner Ingalls got ready to start business at the hardware store. Not long after that, Martha Kirsch would open the library next door, and Evan Bakker would arrive at the post office on the other side of the school. The three of us shared the large brick building that had once housed a saddle and tack store back when Sanctuary was called New Zion, a town founded in the 1800s by a group of Mennonites who sailed to America from Germany. As the Mennonite population dwindled and others moved here, the name of the town was changed to Sanctuary.
Around eight o’clock, the farmers would begin to ride into town. Some of them in trucks. Some of them in buggies. Sanctuary combined modern culture and the simplicity of its Conservative Mennonite citizens with complete success. This was a special place, and everyone who lived here protected the spirit of Sanctuary with quiet zeal. The town’s name was more than a label. It was a way of life for its residents, some of whom had come here because they were looking for a safe refuge from the past. Others because they were just looking for a simpler life.
I turned around and went back to my apartment. Once used as storage space, it had been converted to three rooms about a year ago. The efficiency kitchen took up a corner of the living area. A table in the kitchen held my laptop and printer. I used it as a desk to grade papers and create work sheets and tests. I had a desk in the schoolroom, but I didn’t like working there alone at night. The front of the room had large storefront windows, and I felt too exposed. I also used the table as a place to eat the meals I prepared when I didn’t go to my friend Janet’s house to eat. A tiny bedroom held my bed and a dresser. Next to that was a bathroom with a toilet and a tub. I had everything I needed, and I found my little home cozy and peaceful.
I ate a quick breakfast and then got dressed, trading my pajamas for a simple dress that was appropriate for a teacher in a conservative Christian school. After a time of prayer and Bible reading, I closed up my apartment and spent the next couple of hours at my school desk grading papers and preparing for another day of teaching bright, inquisitive minds. I loved teaching, and I loved my students. My life was quiet and safe. Exactly what I wanted.
Around seven-thirty, the front door swung open and my very first pupil arrived.
“Good morning, Jeremiah,” I said loudly.
“Good morning, Miss Miller.” The fourteen-year-old son of Conservative Mennonite parents, Jeremiah Ostrander always came early to help me prepare for the day. After taking off his coat and hanging it up on one of the hooks near the door, he went straight to the large blackboard at the front of the room and began erasing the lesson from yesterday. After that, he would clean the erasers, make sure the chalk was ready, and then sweep the floor. Jeremiah was a quiet boy, but he was fully committed to school. An illness as a baby had caused a profound loss of hearing, so I kept his desk in the front of the room and worked with him after school sometimes to make sure he had everything he needed to complete his lessons. Several months ago I’d started teaching him a little sign language. One sign in particular was extremely useful. When he had trouble hearing me, or when I accidentally turned away from him as I talked, he would make the sign for help —his right hand in a fist with his thumb up. Done correctly, the left hand should support the right hand and lift it up slightly, although Jeremiah didn’t usually add the second component. Since it embarrassed him to ask for assistance, he would make the sign so only I could see it. It was my signal to go back over what I’d just said without stopping the lesson because he’d missed something.
His lessons were progressing ve