The Guilty - Jason Pinter [0]
For Susan
Always, for you
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Linda McFall. To simply thank her for being a good editor
would be overlooking the thousand ways she makes the
writing and publishing process a joy. Linda forced me to
reach inside this manuscript and, kicking and screaming,
pull out a better book.
Adam Wilson, who was always there in a pinch and kept
everything on track.
Joe Veltre, whose insight and savvy make him an uber immortal among agents. Thanks also to Diane Bartoli and
Sara Wolski, who patiently answered all my fine-print
questions (some of which were half-intelligent).
My deepest thanks to Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy,
Margaret O'Neill Marbury, Craig Swinwood,
Loriana Sacilotto, Stacy Widdrington, Maureen Stead,
Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Heather Foy, Ana Luxton,
Jayne Hoogenberk and Valerie Gray, aka Team MIRA.
Whenever I don't think I could be more impressed with
my publisher's dedication and aptitude, they raise the
bar. I only hope I'm able to keep pace.
Cris Jaw, designer extraordinaire. Behind those bullet
holes lies her brilliance.
Michael Wallis, Professor James Starrs,
Frederick W. Nolan and Marcelle Brothers, whose sturdy
shoulders provided support in my research for this novel.
Timothy L. O'Brien, who shared the wonders of
journalism's most hallowed halls.
Mom, Dad and Ali, supportive and nurturing as always,
thank you again for helping me live my dream.
Wilson, who always gives me something to look forward
to when I come home.
Jeff, Jane and Sabrina, my beloved in-laws, who not
only bent over backward to spread the good word in
every way possible, but raised the wonderful girl who
became my wife. Great job!
And to Susan. My first reader, my best friend, my
soul mate. Thank you.
Prologue
They say it's better to have loved and lost than to never have
loved at all.
I disagree.
I've lost before. I lost the affection of my parents before
I was old enough to know that the world looked upon an
estranged child with sad eyes. I lost my first love because
I was too cowardly to protect her. I nearly lost my life due
to circumstances beyond my control. All of those losses
created holes in my life. Holes I've attempted to patch up,
to cover, but they'll always be there, even if they don't
leave a mark on the surface.
Doesn't mean I can't try to forget. Through life. Through
work.
Through Amanda.
If she wasn't here, lying next to me in our bed, her head
inches from mine, I wouldn't be here at all. It's not that I'd
be back in Oregon, paying my dues at the news desk of the
Bend Bulletin, skiing at Mount Bachelor, thirsting through
thirteen inches of annual rainfall, and paying two hundred
bucks a month in rent.
If she wasn't here, I would either be rotting in the ground
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Jason Pinter
somewhere or in a jail trying to stay alive while cursing a
simple twist of fate.
Her soft brown hair cascading down her back, eyes so
bright and big I get lost in them.
One year ago I was running for my life. A total stranger
saved me. Without her, everything would have been lost.
And God help me I can't lose her, because I don't have the
strength to patch that kind of hole.
So as I lie here, watching Amanda's chest rise and fall, all
I can do is hope I'm here to witness every last breath of her
life. And hope that, finally, the stories I report won't be my
own.
1
The limousine pulled up to the curb outside the Kitten
Club, and like a cult waiting for its leader, dozens of heads
turned at once. Hundreds of eyes widened. Pulses sped up,
hearts raced.
A black-clad bouncer stepped to the limo and opened the
door. A slender leg stepped onto the curb. Then it stopped, its
owner making sure the cameras had time to swallow up every
inch of perfect skin. Then another leg slipped out. The crowd
moaned, her body glitter giving the girl's normally pale skin
a translucent glow. The crowd gasped as her full form emerged.
Those who weren't too stunned to move pressed against the
velvet ropes, the bouncers going into full push-'em-back mode.
Flashbulbs popped by the