Page 1 of A Matter of Time

THE WHY OF IT ALL

Way back in 2009 when I got the amazing news from a publisher in Canada that A Matter of Time would be published, two things happened. First, all my dreams of having a pen name went right out the window because I was so excited, I forgot to pick one. And second, I didn’t think I could say no as to the format. When someone agrees to publish you, for the first time, you just say yes to everything. At least that’s what I did.

So Jory’s story first came out in four parts. They didn’t do print there, so later, after I was established at Dreamspinner Press, I asked if they would be interested in the print rights. They were and I got two volumes in paperback. When I got the rights back from the publisher in Canada, I got two volumes in ebook format as well.

The truth is, never, ever, ever, had I wanted AMOT to be in more than one book. There was never supposed to be any stop from part one to part two. A flip of the page was all that was needed. And now, finally, it’s exactly how I always wanted it to be, in one volume. Is it long? Not to my son who reads books with 500 chapters, but to me, yes. And it’s been edited, so much, and some names have been changed to protect the innocent—and because there were duplicates—and things that were crazy confusing have been sorted out. And most importantly, there is an actual timeline that makes sense. Huzzah! I hope you all love it as it is now, Sam and Jory as it was always intended to be.

A MATTER OF TIME

Jory Harcourt leads a pretty normal life until, as the trouble magnet he is, when sent to do the simplest favor for a friend––ends up witnessing a murder. He’s saved by police Detective Sam Kage, but Jory refuses protective custody. Hiding is not something he does, plus, he has to work in the morning. He’s in real jeopardy though, especially after he agrees to testify about what he saw.

While trying to survive attempts on his life, well-meaning friends, an overprotective boss, and a slowly unfolding mystery that is far more sinister than he could have ever imagined, Jory also has to deal with falling in love for the first time. Sam is everything he’s always wanted, and he knows he could make the detective wildly happy… if only given the chance.

But fate has other plans.

After his life implodes, he’s left alone, but in time he emerges stronger, with a new career, and a true understanding of what he wants both personally and professionally. Everything is on track and balanced, which is, of course, when Sam Kage returns.

Jory doesn’t know if he can survive another heartbreak with the only man he’s ever truly loved. As he tries to stay alive and solve the mystery of who wants him dead, he’ll have to decide whether love is truly worth the risk one more time.

PART I

ONE

1999

After careful thought and consideration, I have come to the conclusion that things happen to me for two reasons. First, I have a terrible habit of tuning out in the middle of a conversation. I’ll hear the beginning, start thinking about what I’m going to do later, and then come back in time to hear the end. This gets particularly dicey when I’m getting directions, because you never want to ask someone to repeat something they’ve already gone over in specific detail. This is why I often end up in some spooky neighborhoods after dark. I’m winging it.

Second, I am not the most discriminating person on the planet. So when a friend of mine asks me to do them a favor, I’ll usually just do it without asking a lot of questions. Not that I would be listening to the whole explanation anyway, since like I said, I’m probably the poster child for ADHD, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, unless you’re my boss or a really hot guy. In both those examples, I’m laser focused.

The night my friend Anna called me, sobbing on the other end of the phone, I immediately went into nurture mode and walked out of the club where I was dancing at close to eleven thirty. There is no way to hear anything over trance music, so I had her wait to spill her guts. I was happily surprised to find out she was finally leaving her husband. She had stayed with me or her sister many times, but now, suddenly, after he’d hit her for the millionth time, she was finally ready to go.

It’s hard to watch your friends come to class wearing oversized sunglasses and makeup that’s been applied so thickly it could have been put on with a putty knife. Everyone knew her then-boyfriend beat her. I just never knew how bad or constant it was. I lost track of her after graduation, when she moved to the suburbs, but when she called, I was right back there, instantly in that place where I was ready to help in any way I could. I told her that, of course, I would do whatever she needed. And some people think, if he hit her once, he’d hit her again. Why stay, and for God’s sake, why marry him? I would agree about the choice, but that does not, in any way, take into consideration the heart. My own has led me down some dark roads, so I never judge another’s decisions. Resolve to be a friend at all times, in every situation, or not at all. That’s the only choice you have.

Now, in all the movies on the Lifetime Channel, which I watched the last time I was home sick—hungover and hurling—the wife always has to go back to get her kid’s stuffed animal from the house of horrors she lives in. Before she can put the pedal to the metal and point the late-model station wagon with the faux-wood paneling into the sunset, she has to return for Boo-Boo Bunny or Mr. Snuggles, or a teddy bear that has been loved so hard and long it now resembles an iguana. Anna didn’t have any kids, but what she did have was her beagle, George. She couldn’t go back, but nor could she leave without her partner in crime.

They had, she told me, executed all manner of petty crimes and misdemeanors against her husband over the years. From peeing in shoes on George’s part, to hiding miscellaneous items on Anna’s part, together they had made Brian Minor’s daily existence annoying, in exchange for the abuse he’d handed out with fist and word. It had given her some degree of satisfaction knowing that, one day, vengeance would be hers. She knew she’d been a coward to not just leave, but she suspected her husband was far more sinister than he let on. So Anna was finally ready to call it a day with Brian, but he would have caught on, and probably killed her, if she’d tried to take her dog. She needed me to get her baby to make a clean break of it. Because I wanted her out of there, and because I would have gone back for my own dog were he still alive, there was no way to say no.

After leaving my friends dancing at a club on Halsted, I took a cab and headed out to the suburbs. I tried never to leave the city, especially not in the fall, which it was at the moment—mid-November—and had only been outside of downtown Chicago on two previous occasions. On the way over there I focused on where she’d told me the dog was: in her bedroom, in a crate. That part I had wired.

The problem became finding the house itself. I forgot the address, and I didn’t want to call Anna back and let her know I hadn’t been listening because I didn’t want her to get mad. And by then enough time had gone by that if I had called her, she would have wondered why I didn’t just call her earlier, so…the cabbie and I took a tour of La Grange until I remembered the street in an energy-drink-fueled vision after I made him stop at a gas station. It had only taken two hours to get to her huge three-story apparition. I asked the driver to wait for me, and he said he’d rather drink Clorox. His statement seemed overly dramatic, but really, I understood. I could be exhausting at times. I watched him drive away before I headed toward the house.

I didn’t ring the doorbell. I was there on a secret mission, after all. Instead, I headed around the side, as Anna had advised me, and went in through the back door leading to the basement. It occurred to me, as I made my way up the stairs, that this was not the smartest thing I’d ever done. Brian could probably kill me, accidentally or on purpose, and tell everyone he thought I was an intruder. Hopefully, as Anna had said, he was still out and I wouldn’t even see him.

I made my way stealthily up to the first floor, then up much quieter, less creaky stairs to the second floor, and finally the third. I went right at the top, as the married couple had separate suites, not having shared a bedroom in years.

Once I slowly opened her bedroom door, there was George. He barked out a joyful hello, jumping up and down, and I closed the door fast so the whimpering and whining wouldn’t echo. He was very cute, and once I’d loved on him a bit, I looked around for anything like a leash. After checking closets, I finally perused the room and realized it looked like a hurricane had blown through. Anna had definitely packed in a hurry. Drawers were open, her jewelry box was empty, and a small safe in the wall that the picture of a greyhound now leaning against the wall had probably covered was open and empty. I had a moment to wonder what would go through Brian’s mind if he found me in here, and I had to take a breath to steady my nerves. This was possibly one of the dumber things I had agreed to do. But it was for Anna, and she had to have her puppy with her.

Thinking George’s leash might be in the kitchen hanging on a peg somewhere, I called him to me and scooped him up, and we left the room together. Of course, once we were in the hall, the dog got excited and squirmed in my arms, and I had no choice but to put him down before he fell. I was about to pick him back up when the little jerk bolted down the stairs.

“George,” I stage-whispered to absolutely no effect. He didn’t even slow down, which left me chasing him down two flights of stairs.

Once we were on the first floor, he took a left turn, ran around the side of the stairs through an open pocket door, and down a short hallway to a thick, heavy drape. It was, in my opinion, an odd place for a curtain, but I only had a moment to think about that before George, finding me behind him, was all over me again, jumping, dancing, whimpering softly, and wanting to be petted. His whole little body moved with his wagging tail as he tried like mad to claw through my jeans. When I bent to pick him up, ready to go back to the basement, he bolted down the hall, then came running right back.

“Stop right now,” I admonished, reaching for him a second time. When I did, he darted away and back to the drape before stopping and turning to face me, front legs spread, tail wagging, ready to play. “Come here,” I commanded.

Nothing. Dog didn’t move an iota.

“George.” I tried a second time.