After the Greatest Revision Ever, here's a peak at the
first book in the Half Lives series, Dark Designs.
Kyler Withers decided it was safe to teach journalism again when he stopped dreaming of dead children.
He celebrated his decision by leaving of his townhouse and heading downtown to pick up a few things. San Jose had grown since he’d lived there as a teenager. The handful of tall buildings he remembered had grown, allowing the area to cast shadows over the surrounding space. At one time, it was the capital of California. Now, it crept out, inching into the surrounding towns and creating a sprawling cityscape.
Kyler lost himself in this man-made jungle. It reminded him of the green twilight of South America. It was far from the artificial façade of shopping centers and . . .
South America.
He was doing it again.
Kyler stalked from shop to shop, picking up a new briefcase, some notebooks, and, in an alley between two buildings, a knife camouflaged like a pen. The notebooks he placed in the case; the knife, an inner pocket inside his leather duster. He found it ironic that such a deadly thing could look so innocent.
The brooding thought followed Kyler back to his black Scion. He toyed with calling his old college roommate, but as he set the briefcase on the passenger seat Kyler knew he wouldn’t. He would be replacing Owen in the spring, and while Owen looked forward to starting his life over, Kyler feared his gloomy nature would taint his friend’s hopes. Life, he knew, could twist in a moment. Owen might change his mind. The San Jose/Evergreen Community College hiring committee might have another look through Kyler’s last book and become uneasy. The dreams might return.
Kyler started the car.
It took but a moment to leave the buildings’ shadows, another yet to blink against the sudden glare of daylight and see the road. He kept to the backstreets, making his way to the west side of San Jose, where the tree-lined streets offered the illusion of a small suburb.
Ahead, a light turned yellow, then red. Kyler slowed to a stop. In the car beside his, children laughed.
It was a sweet sound. When children cried, the tumbling sound echoed it. Kyler wondered if many people ever noticed how similar the sounds were.
The light turned green. Kyler stomped on the accelerator and jerked ahead.
A few minutes later, Kyler turned onto an oak-lined two-lane road. He drove halfway down the street, slowed, and then pulled in front of a two-story townhouse.
The house was too new to really feel comfortable, but the trees in front hid it from the street, and the red brick façade gave it a subtly elegant look. Anyone could live here. A new teacher. A Pulitzer-winning journalist. A rumored murderer.
Frowning, Kyler headed for the house. The memories he’d spent the day running from followed.
He’d originally gone to Colombia to investigate the dirty war and ended up substituting for a former lover in his school. When people began disappearing around town, Kyler stayed, first to investigate, and then, as he got to know the students, to protect.
And he had protected them, hadn’t he? He might not remember what happened the day the guerrillas came into his classroom, but he knew that some of the children got out alive. The scar that crept from the corner of his left eye to his hairline told him he’d been in danger, but it proved . . .
It proved nothing.
An ache blossomed in his stomach. He didn’t know what happened, but the surviving children did. They never spoke against him, but whenever he approached, they lit every light they could find and trembled. They were afraid of the dark. They were afraid of shadows. They were afraid of him.
Kyler unlocked his door and slipped inside, snapping the bolt shut behind him. Tearing himself apart over it hadn’t helped in the past. If he didn’t force himself to move on, it would kill him.
The ache in his stomach changed, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. The quiet pain comforted him, giving him something to focus on. Pizza, he decided, and maybe some coffee.
Kyler walked across the library, er, living room. When he’d moved in four days before, this room had been unpacked first.
At the entryway, he took two steps down to what he was currently calling the Valley of Kings, for most of the kitchen was still in boxes; three miniature pyramid-stacked structures set around the hard wood floor. Somewhere, hidden within one of the cardboard sarcophagi, was his Pulitzer.
The award had been his dream for years. Now it was just a slip of paper, a physical representation of missing time.
It had allowed him to pretty much choose his next place of work, though. Kyler could have walked into any university or newspaper in the area and been fairly certain they would offer him something. He could’ve tried his hand at Stanford, San Jose University, anywhere.
Instead, he chose City College. Or, to use the vernacular, Silly College. Ghetto College.
His choice had surprised many. Despite the new tech building on the corner of Bascom, the small community college was an old place, one that had little funding and had to do the best it could with the resources it had. Its students were a varied mix of race, gender, and age; its teachers and administration at once working together and yet apart. When Kyler was there, he felt . . . something. Alive. Needed. Nostalgic.
It was a Colombia thing, he suspected. Whatever may or may not have happened that dark afternoon, he had liked the man he’d briefly been. Since he’d left, he’d been living a half life. Perhaps, once he returned to teaching, he’d be whole again.
After ordering a pizza, Kyler picked up a package of coffee, put water to boil, and then rummaged for his favorite mug--a large black cup that one of his dead students had made him. He cradled the cool shape against him and carried it over to the counter.
Something glinted red out of the corner of his sight. Kyler followed it to the edge of the counter, and to a tabloid-sized newspaper.
His lips quirked. There were no mysterious deaths there. The staff would be his in the fall, so Kyler had gone through the eight-page issue that morning to get to know them. A couple hours fresh from the printer and he’d debauched it with red ink. A word in the caption was misspelled on page four. Someone relied a little too much on quotes on page six. And, Kyler’s personal pet peeve, they forgot to continue a story from one page to another.
Beautiful page design, though. If Kyler hadn’t known the editor was an art major, he would’ve suspected after seeing the boy’s strip on the entertainment page. The kid had talent. In a world that wanted something big and shiny to look at, he would get attention. Someone who drew readers to a publication could be forgiven a couple spelling mistakes. All Kyler needed to do was find him a copy editor and the Spectator would be perfect.
A luke-warm breeze stirred his hair.
Kyler jerked, turning.
Across the room, the back door crept open. Sunlight bled across the hardwood floor.
Unease threaded through him, sharp and cold. He always locked doors behind him.
Kyler crossed the room.
His image scowled at him from the door’s glass as he approached. Despite the scar, he was a handsome thing. Cerulean eyes, aristocratic nose, and wide lips. When he was with others, he set his shoulder length black hair free, letting it hide the scar. Alone, he preferred it out of his way. At thirty-six, he looked a brooding thirty.
Kyler shoved the door against the wall, knocking his doppelganger aside.
Outside, sunlight painted the small yard in an ethereal light. There was a patch of concrete, some grass, and a cluster of yellow flowers. The gate in the left corner was locked. No one was there.
Behind him, someone sighed.
Kyler turned.
A shadow spilled across the entryway to the kitchen, hinting at a thin frame.
Kyler’s heart thumped staccato-quick against his chest. In Colombia, the guerrillas had come up silently behind him.
They were dead, though. He’d seen the bodies, the way their heads had been nearly twisted off. They couldn’t be there.
Kyler reached into his coat and withdrew the penknife.
