Page 1 of Shattered Sanctuary

PROLOGUE

He stood over the rough-hewn wooden coffin, gazing at the face of his mother—the only person who had ever loved him. Who had ever understood him. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder.

“The angels done took her away, boy. We cannot contend with heaven. The angels know what’s best.”

He looked up at his grandmother, a hard woman who had spent her life trying to crush her free-spirited daughter with her heavy-handed judgments and religious bondages. A daughter who should have been adored, cherished. Who had spent her brief life searching for joy in a world that had refused to embrace her. They’d taken away her pretty shoes and forbade her to wear makeup, jewelry, or ribbons in her hair. Slowly but surely, the light in his mother’s eyes faded, and eventually she forgot about him. Forgot that he needed her. Left him here alone with his grandparents, people he loathed.

In that moment, he made a decision. Hewouldcontend with heaven.

And he would spend his life finding a way to make the angels cry.

ONE

Erin stood in the street outside a large dirty brick building that housed too many people in small rooms decorated with mold-infested etchings on crumbling pus-green walls.Human beings should not live like this. And tonight, some were not. Living, that is.

She felt something on her shoes and cast her gaze downward. The street where she stood was beginning to flood. The nearby streetlight flickered in the night, and she suddenly realized she was standing in blood—dark, thick, gooey. She wanted to run, but her feet were stuck. She couldn’t move.

“Erin!” someone yelled. “Erin!”

She looked up and saw her partner, Scott. He stood several yards away. She could barely make him out through a strange fog that swirled around them, but it was obvious he was struggling. He held his arms out toward her.

“Erin, save me. You’re my partner. You’re supposed to have my back.”

She watched in horror as the same crimson flood that held her fast swept him away. She fought as hard as she could to reach him, but it was impossible.

“Scott,” she called out to him. “Scott!”

And then he was gone.

Erin sat up in bed sobbing, her face wet with tears and her sheets soaked with sweat. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and put her face in her hands. When would these nightmares end? Would she ever heal from that night?

She looked at the clock next to her bed. It read 3:33 a.m. Again. Why did she wake up so many nights at the same time? It was eerie. Gave her the shivers. She got out of bed and walked over to her closet. After sliding the door open, she glanced up at the locked box on the top shelf. Her gun. She hadn’t touched it since ...

Every morning when she woke up, her feet led her to the closet as if they had a mind of their own. Why? She was drawn to the gun and yet repelled by it. It wasn’t the one she’d used that night. She’d turned that one in—along with her badge—when she quit the force. Erin stared at the box as the clock on her nightstand ticked loudly in the quiet room. It was as if the sound was a reminder that her life was slowly ticking away.

She shook her head and closed the closet door. Then she made her way to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would help. Her doctor had prescribed sleeping pills, but they remained untouched on her nightstand. She was afraid to open the bottle. Afraid she...

“Stop it,” she said to herself as she flipped the kitchen light on.

Erin finished brewing her tea and thought about going back to bed, but her sheets were still damp, and she didn’t feel like changing them. Even if she did, she wasn’t sure she had any clean ones. She hadn’t done laundry for a while. She’dfinally hired someone to come in and clean her house. It was embarrassing. She was basically unemployed, had nothing else to do, but she couldn’t take care of the relatively small space where she lived. Correction—where she existed. She used to pride herself on being able to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking down bad guys. But now she spent her time watching too much TV and trying to dodge calls from her editor, who wanted more books. She wasn’t sure she had another book in her. As it was, the one she’d written only existed because she needed something to do. A way to focus on anything besides that horrific night. Her novel was simply a way to release the dream she’d had inside for so many years. A dream that died the same night Scott had.

She sat at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the falling rain that streaked the glass. The light on her deck caused the rivulets of water to shimmer and dance. She stayed focused on the world outside until she finished her tea. She got up and grabbed the package of Mallomars from her cabinet. She hadn’t cooked for a long time. Some days all she ate were Mallomars. Her favorite food. She carried the package into the living room and laid down on the couch, turning on the TV. What should she watch this time? No cop shows. Those were too painful. Strangely, comedies made her angry. Seeing people laugh felt so wrong. Scott was dead. Her career was over. And she was lost. Utterly and completely lost. The life she had now was unsustainable. The only time she’d felt alive was when she was writing that stupid book. And that was fiction. Not real.

She glanced at her coffee table.Dark Mattersby Erin Delaney. She’d been able to live vicariously through her protagonist, Alex Caine. Alex was the FBI behavioral analyst Erinwould never be. Alex lived out Erin’s dead dream. The FBI didn’t want a broken ex-cop. The book had made a lot of money and even shot up to the top of theNew York Timesbestsellers list. But it hadn’t made her happy. All it did was make it clear how empty her life really was.

She knew how to write. She’d taken creative writing courses in college—along with her real interest, criminal justice. She’d even written a couple of novels distributed by a small publisher. She hadn’t made much money. She’d just written them for fun. ButDark Mattershad caught the interest of a large publisher, thanks to the retired FBI behavioral analyst who had been her source—and had become her friend. She’d hoped writing the book would be cathartic. She wrote about a police detective whose partner died in front of him. But it didn’t help. It only caused more trauma. Now, her editor wanted three more books. Not only did she have nothing else to say, she couldn’t face the additional pain that writing them could bring. Why did her editor keep calling? Why wouldn’t she take no for an answer? Money? Prestige? Nothing that Erin cared about.

She’d just popped a Mallomar into her mouth when her cell phone rang, causing her to jump. She quickly chewed and swallowed. There was only one human being alive who knew she woke up at the same time most nights.

“Hello, Kaely,” she said when she answered.

“Now you’ve got me waking up at 3:33,” Kaely said. “I felt like this was one of those nights.”

“You were right. I’m sorry. I’m sure Noah doesn’t appreciate being disturbed this early.”

Kaely Quinn-Hunter had walked Erin through the details ofDark Matters. Without her, Erin couldn’t have writtenit. As they shared things that only those in law enforcement could understand, they had bonded in a way she couldn’t with any of the therapists she’d seen. She’d been through three already, including the one the police had recommended. None of them had helped.

Kaely laughed. “Noah sleeps like a log. Nothing wakes him up.” She hesitated for a moment before saying, “Same nightmare?”

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