Get ready to be distracted by Julie Anne Lindsey and Mercy's story In Place of Never. Take a look at the awesome cover, learn all about the author, read an excerpt and take part in the giveaway!
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by Julie Anne Lindsey
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….
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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.
Author Links:
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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.
