It was the late fall of 1990. A couple of days before Christmas we turned in our old M1IP tanks with their 105 mm cannons. The reason was that we were getting new ones, M1A1‘s. The main differences with the new tanks was that they had 120 mm smoothbore cannons and greatly improved chemical warfare protection systems. It was like an early Christmas present (the most expensive Christmas present ever!), and Chuck Griego, my sergeant and gunner,, was immediately very busy getting everything squared away. 

We went to gunnery on Christmas Eve. For Griego, this was a competition… really it was for all of us. For me and the other loaders, it was about who could reload the cannon the fastest… that was a long time ago but my recollection is that the standard to beat was around 3 1/2 to 4 seconds. That’s fast when you’re taking a 40-ish pound tank round out of the ammo rack, flipping it over, and shoving it into the breach of the cannon, then getting out of the way so the gunner can fire. We were competing for which tanks completed the course the fastest and more importantly, with the most accurate shots. 

Anyway, before we went down range, Griego wired up an old cassette recorder to our intercom. The radio was on my side of the turret, and so an added responsibility for me, in addition to maintaining the machine gun and loading the cannon, was to press play just when we were ready to go downrange. The playlist included Queen’s We Will Rock You and We are the Champions. 

I don’t have anything profound to say about all this.  It was (and still is) like that for my Dad. Random and usually unexpected things would happen and suddenly I’d feel this gulf of emptiness and grief and loss.  My only regret about Griego is that for many years we’d lost touch and I didn’t know where he was or what was going on in his life. So I’m grateful we reconnected (just this year!) and especially grateful I got to visit him in the hospital a couple of months ago. It was already clear then that he would not recover from the cancer. It was a great visit anyway. 

There’s something about the shared experience of war that makes people like your tank crew or squad or whatever become as close a family. Anyway, I miss him. 

From the bestselling author of Just Remember to Breathe and The Last Hour, a shocking and poignant story of a family on the brink of destruction and the transformational events that could bring them back together—or tear them apart.

 
Every day, Cole Roberts reminds himself that life wasn’t always this bleak. He was once passionately in love with Erin. Sam used to be an artistic and lively kid. They hadn’t always lived in a shabby two-room house in rural Alabama, where he runs a mediocre restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

That was before Brenna disappeared. It was before Cole lost his job and they lost their home.

Every day it gets worse. Erin drinks wine out of the bottle and spends her days with a tormented expression, searching the web for signs of their daughter. Sam hides in his room and rarely speaks. And Cole works himself to a stupor for a paycheck a fraction of the size of his old salary. 

Until one day a phone call changes everything.

winter flower is at once a tragic tale of the disappearance of a child; struggling with gender identity; of the dark world of sex-trafficking and the transformation and healing of a family. Sheehan-Miles’s longest novel delves into the depths of family life—and how, sometimes, we can heal and find restoration.

Genre: Literary Fiction

Available Now:

Order from your local independent bookstore via Indiebound

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Thalia

Preview Chapters

Prologue

Chapter 1-1 Cole

Chapter 1-2 Sam

Chapter 2-1 Erin

Chapter 2-2 Sam

Chapter 3-1 Vanished. Erin

Chapter 3-2 Vanished. Sam

Chapter 3-3 Vanished. Cole

Chapter 4-1. Dreams. Sam.

Chapter 4-2. Dreams. Erin

Chapter 5-1. Cole.

Chapter 5-2. Erin

Chapter 5-3. Sam.

Chapter 5-4. Erin.

Chapter 5-5. Cole.

Chapter 6-1. Erin.

Chapter 7-1. Sam.

Chapter 7-2. Cole.

Chapter 8-1. Birthday. Cole.

Chapter 8-2. Birthday. Sam.

Chapter 8-3. Birthday. Erin

Chapter 9-1. Erin

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers. Click here to read previous chapters.

It took me four days after Brenna’s birthday before I finally came out of the deep emotional hole I’d fallen into. But I finally got up. I had to. I lectured Cole on the fact that he was never home and never did anything with Sam. But I was home, and I hardly ever did anything with Sam. I called Lori that morning, and after a hard cry, I made a promise to reengage with my son and get moving.

I had to do something, anything to break the depression. So I started in the kitchen, windows open, fan going. Mechanically washed the dishes, rinsed them, racked them up. The counters were filthy. I sprayed them down and began scrubbing. Sugar was encrusted on the counter near the coffee pot. Gross. I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t live like this anymore.

I was on my hands and knees, cleaning some god-awful spill from the floor, when my phone rang. I leaned back on my knees and wiped my hands on a paper towel, then reached in my pocket, my mind running through who it could be. My sister again? Cole, calling from work?

He rarely, if ever, called from the restaurant, unless it was to tell me he was going to be late. Sam’s school?

I wasn’t prepared for the number I saw, but I recognized it immediately. My heart instantly started pounding in my chest, my throat closing up in fear. 

It was the number for Stan Wilcox at the FBI. 

I fumbled, dropping the phone. It landed on the floor with a loud crack and I dived for it. It rang again, and I hit the answer button.

“Hello?” I said frantically.

“Mrs. Roberts? It’s Agent Wilcox.”

“Yes,” I choked out. 

“I’ve got some news.”

Time froze. In less than a second, my mind ran past all the incidents where Wilcox had given us news. When they found her car, with the broken phone. When they found the bracelet Lori gave her in Chase’s apartment. The weekly calls for a year, then less often since then. But he still called, and he almost always prefaced those calls with the statement, “I don’t have any news, I’m just checking in.”

Today he’d said, I’ve got some news. 

“Yes? Tell me.” 

“Three weeks ago, a young woman going by a, uh … street name … of Strawberry … she was picked up in Portland, Oregon. Arrested for prostitution. Apparently there was some kind of mix-up, the links to the National Crime Information Center were down, so the fingerprints didn’t get matched up until this morning. But, Erin, it was Brenna. She’s alive.”

I swallowed and sank back against the cabinet, my numb legs splayed out in front of me. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to say something. Anything. Tears ran down my face.

“Mrs. Roberts? Erin?”

“I’m here,” I whispered. She’d been arrested for prostitution. One of my worst fears had come alive, but I didn’t care. I just wanted her back. I just wanted her back.

“Did you understand what I said?”

“Brenna’s alive. And in Portland. Can I talk to her? I can fly up today.”

He was silent for just a moment, taking a breath, and replied, “Erin … she was released on bail. We’ve alerted the Portland PD, and they’re treating it as a trafficking case now. They didn’t know she was a minor when they picked her up, and … well … we don’t know exactly where she is.”

I screamed into the phone, “My daughter’s alive after two years missing and you can’t tell me where she is?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But I promise you, we’re putting every resource we have into the search. We’ll find her.”

“Who bailed her out?” I demanded.

“I’m working on getting the details.”

“I’m going to Portland.”

“Mrs. Roberts, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I hissed into the phone. “I don’t care anymore what you think. My daughter’s been missing for two years and she turns up alive and you can’t even tell me where she is? I’m going to Portland and finding my daughter.”

I hung up the phone, unable to think clearly. I’d have to fly to Portland, it was too far to drive and get there in a reasonable period of time. We didn’t have money, not any money at all, but maybe my sister or Cole’s parents could help. I tried to get my mind in order then took out my phone and dialed Cole at work.

He didn’t answer, so I moved to the bedroom and began wildly throwing clothes into a suitcase, not paying any attention to what I was putting in there. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting to Portland as quickly as I could.

I dialed again five minutes later. Still no answer. Damn it.

I threw the suitcase into the back of the minivan then went back in and changed into clothes that weren’t completely filthy from cleaning. On the way back out to the van, I dialed again.

This time he finally answered.

“Hey,” he said.

The second I heard his voice, I fell apart again. My knees let go, and I sank to the ground. For just a second, I wanted nothing more than to have my husband back, because I needed him. I needed to be able to lean on him; I needed him to be able to help.

“Cole?” I wailed.

“Erin? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice suddenly panicking.

I broke down instantly, sobbing. Then I said the words. The words I’d been desperately wanting to say, to hear, to believe. 

“Cole. She’s alive. Brenna’s alive!”

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers.

Preorders: 

Amazon

Apple Books

Barnes & Noble

Google Play Books

Kobo / Rakutan

Smashwords

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers. Click here to read previous chapters.

The old grandfather clock I’d bought at one of way-too-many estate sales in Fairfax County chimed twelve times at midnight. The clock was priceless. Dark polished mahogany. Nineteenth century. Incredible craftsmanship. The surface of the clock was highly polished—you could see your reflection in it. You could apply your makeup in the reflection, or shave, or get a good look at all of your shortcomings and faults. The only reason I still owned it was because we couldn’t find a buyer for such a priceless item. Although, undoubtedly when it got desperate enough (it already was) we’d unload that too, for far less than it was worth. 

I’d been sitting cross-legged on the couch, my eyes staring in the general direction of the pendulum as it swung lazily back and forth, back and forth. In my lap was a photo album. Photos of me and Cole and Brenna (and later Sam).

I shouldn’t have taken the album out. It was a window to another time, a happier, wonderful time in our lives. The first few pages were mostly baby pictures. We were so young. Brenna was born in 1996, just eighteen months after I graduated from Georgetown. Cole had dropped out of college, opting instead to go to work as a system administrator for a small startup, and we were renting a little two-bedroom in Tyson’s Corner. 

It was a little ironic. I had a bachelor’s degree in economics, but the law of supply and demand meant that my high-school-graduate husband—who happened to have computer skills—made more money than me. So with the kids, I quit my job to stay home. For years I was resentful about that. But now, I was grateful. 

Grateful, because I got that time at home with Brenna before she disappeared.

I swallowed the last of my wine and set the album to the side. It was an inexpensive wine, Autumn Blush, from the Bryant winery in Talladega. Undoubtedly, they made moonshine there after hours for the NASCAR crowd, who camped out for days waiting for the races while they played their scratch-off tickets and drank Budweiser.

There was a thought worthy of Cole. I knew better than to stereotype people.

Midnight was past. Brenna’s birthday was over. I slid off the bed and stood a little unsteadily. I’d finished off most of the bottle. 

Not exactly the first time, now, was it?

I opened the flimsy bedroom door and padded on the crappy carpet down the crappy hall and knocked on the equally crappy door halfway down the hall, then reached down to the handle. Locked again. I could probably push the hollow door open with little effort, but why bother?

“Sam?” I asked.

“Mom, I’m trying to sleep.” 

I rolled my eyes. I was sure Sam was still on the computer, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with it right now. I stumbled through the living room and into the kitchen and dumped my wine glass in the sink, which was piled with dirty dishes. I should do something about that,I thought.

Instead, I shrugged, then looked up at the clock. Where was my husband?

Not like I haven’t asked that before.

I shook my head, then picked my phone off the counter to dial it. But I didn’t finish, because that was when he walked in.

Cole looked exhausted. Black polyester pants—polyester because they didn’t stain with bleach. Not exactly a concern back when he was CIO. Before he fucked everything up. Black leather shoes. A blue, mostly polyester shirt, stained with bacon grease. His glasses were a little bit crooked on his face, and new lines ran down the sides of his mouth. I studied him a second. His hair was turning grey at the temples. We were both too young for that.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked.

He shrugged and shook his head. “Work. I told you I had to work a double. Stupid problems.” His eyes slid over the piled-up sink and cluttered counters, and looked away. He didn’t say anything about it. “I need to get some sleep,” he said.

He started to turn away again, and I said, “Cole?”

He stiffened then turned back. “Yeah?” 

“It’s her birthday,” I said. 

I swear to God I wasn’t going to say anything. I wasn’t going to mention it. I wasn’t going to do this.

His face clouded, and he looked to the floor. “I know,” he said in a rasping voice. “Eighteen.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. It was too much to think he’d come over and hug me. And I didn’t know how to approach him. Not anymore. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” I asked.

“Of course she is,” he replied. His tone had an edge in it. “Don’t ever say otherwise. She’s out there somewhere.”

I swallowed. “Then why doesn’t she call?”

“I don’t know.”

Bitterly, I asked, “Do you care?”

His eyes widened slightly as he recoiled from me. “How can you ask that?”

“Because I don’t know, Cole. You never talk to me.”

“I never do anything but work and sleep,” he replied. 

Poor him. It was the same thing I heard from him constantly, and it was true. He certainly didn’t do anything around the house, or with our remaining child. On the rare occasions he was awake, he was planted in front of the television with a beer.

“Is that supposed to be my fault?” I asked.

He leaned against the wall. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “Although it wouldn’t hurt if you got a fucking job.”

“I’ve tried,” I said. I was defensive, and I hated that. “I’ve tried the Army base, and the General Dynamics plant, and the fucking school system. I’ve tried at the department stores, and at the mall. You saw me this morning. All I hear is, I’ve got no experience.”

“You gotta start somewhere,” he said. “You could always wait tables. In case you hadn’t noticed it, Erin, we’re pretty goddamned broke, and all you do is sit around here and drink all day. You should start buying that shit in the box. At least then it’s a little cheaper.”

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to smash his smug face in. But then I heard it. A high-pitched, sad voice coming from down the hall. “Please stop arguing. I’m trying to sleep.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. 

Brenna had once asked us to stop fighting.

“I’m going to bed,” he said. His voice sounded dejected. “I’ve got to be back at the restaurant at six thirty.”

He turned and walked down the hall, his shoulders slumped. I didn’t follow. I watched him walk down the hall and wondered how I’d ended up here, in the middle of nowhere in the Bible Belt, married to a defeated man.

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers.

Preorders: 

Amazon

Apple Books

Barnes & Noble

Google Play Books

Kobo / Rakutan

Smashwords

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers. Click here to read previous chapters.

On Brenna’s birthday, I shut myself in my room and shut out the world. I couldn’t do anything else. I’d been online for hours when the incoming chat message popped up on my screen without warning.

Gemini: I heard you got into a fight with the mayor the other night.

I replied: Yeah. It turned out to be pointless. The girl we were trying to help ended up joining his faction.

Gemini: That happens. You ought to know that by now.

I did. Gemini had been one of the first people I met in the sim and had occasionally acted almost as a mentor, even though she wasn’t a member of any of the factions. Sometimes she creeped me out, though. She mostly sat at the bar and schemed, only rarely seemed to get out and role-play. I envisioned her almost like a spider, sitting there pulling strings here and there. I was well aware that in her world, I was at the end of one of the strings. But she’d also been a useful source of information. You had to give some to get some. 

I wasn’t currently on the sim; instead, I was shopping for a new dress and hairstyle. My avatar didn’t have a lot of clothing suitable for dates, and tonight I had one coming. The date was in character… we would play it out in the sim. That was fine. Everything hadto be completely in character. It would never be otherwise, because in this world I was Tamara, and to them, that’s all I’d ever be. 

I was looking at two dresses, one black and one red, trying to decide between them, when Gemini messaged me again. 

Gemini: You didn’t answer.

I sighed. Finally I typed, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. RL stuff.RL, of course, meant real life.

Gemini: Want to talk about it?

I swallowed. There was some safety in the anonymity of being online. And I didwant to talk about it. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t told Mrs. Mullins or Hayley that it was Brenna’s birthday. Finally I responded: It’s my sister’s birthday. She turns eighteen today.

Gemini: And this is a problem because…

Tamara: She went missing two years ago, and we haven’t seen her since. 

Gemini: Holy crap. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d realized.

Tamara: It’s okay. Maybe I need to talk about it. We were really close. Brenna’s the only person who treated me like I needed.

Gemini: What do you mean? 

I closed my eyes. No one in the world knew. Nobody. 

Except Brenna. She knew. I wanted to be able to talk about it. But … it’s not like this was the realworld.

I sighed. Then I typed: Can you keep a secret?

Gemini: Of course.

Well. I might as well. I type:I’m physically male. But not inside. Inside, I’m a girl. I always have been.

I picked the black dress, right-clicked on it. The price was $385L, or a little bit more than a dollar in real money. I bought it. Now for some matching shoes. New hairstyle? Yes. 

The lack of reply from Gemini was starting to scare me. Had I just made a huge mistake? We’d been talking a lot, but what did I really know about her? But finally she responded. I didn’t realize that. You’re transgender?

Tamara: I’ve never put a word on it. Not like that. Gay or transgender or … I’m just … I’m a girl. It’s who I am.

Gemini: And your sister was the only person in RL who knew?

Tamara: Knows. She knows. She’s not dead, just … missing.

Gemini: Sorry. I’m very sorry. All of that must be difficult for you.

Tamara: Sometimes there are good days.

Gemini: But you said today is her birthday. I’m guessing this isn’t one of the good ones.

I sighed. It was nice to have someone get it. I typed: Yeah. It’s not. I miss her.

Then a realization hit me. I’d told her Brenna’s name, and that she’d been missing two years. That would be enough information to find us with a simple Google search. To find out who I was andto learn that I wasn’t even eighteen yet.

People under eighteen weren’t allowed in the sim. They weren’t allowed on the sim at all. The only reason I was able to get in was because way back when I started playing, I’d stolen one of Dad’s credit cards long enough to get my account verified. As far as Second Lifewas concerned, I was forty-two-year-old Cole Roberts.

Shit. If Gemini Googled my family, that could be awful.

I was shaking. I needed to play it casual. 

Tamara: Anyway, thanks for listening. I just needed to talk some of that out. 

Gemini: Any time.

I checked the time. Twenty minutes before I was to meet Gunstock. I put Gemini out of my mind and teleported back to my apartment. 

Shoes.I checked the time. Shit. We’d see. I changed into the dress, my steampunk clothes morphing into a knee-length sleeveless black dress with a high collar. One by one I tried the different hair styles I had, finally settling on one that looked like a French braid.

Perfect. Perfect. I checked the time. Five minutes. 

In reality, we could do this wherever. We could meet in some other sim in Second Life. But we were playing this one-hundred-percent in character. That was the only way it could ever be, because I wasn’t a beautiful woman, and no one needed to know that. So when he asked me to go to dinner and dancing, I agreed. Our characters would be at one of the in-character bars in the sim. Our conversation would be in character. And I was thrilled about it, because it felt like I was really going on a date.

In my heads-up display I could see a green dot moving its way across the sim toward my apartment. That was almost certainly Gunstock. I felt my chest tighten in anticipation. 

What if he doesn’t like me?

Stop. I wasn’t mousy Sam. Here, I was Tamara. I was strong. I was a hero, a member of the Brigade, someone who protected the innocent. I didn’t need to let fear rule me.

Words appeared at the bottom of my screen: Gunstock Valor rings the doorbell.

I walked to the door and clicked on it. It opened.

Gunstock looked different than the last time we’d played two days ago. He’d been adjusting to the Brigade quickly, and we’d played together several nights. I tried to place it then realized he’d replaced the stock skin with a new one. His face was several shades darker than before and marked with a five o’clock shadow. 

Gunstock: Tamara, you look beautiful. 

I felt myself flush a little. 

A knock on the bedroom door yanked me out of the game. Goddamn it!

“What?”

“Sam?” It was Mom. “What are you doing?”

“Studying. I’ve got a test tomorrow.”

“Open the door, Sam.”

Christ, why now? I quickly typed: /OOC: I’m so sorry … BRB.I minimized Second Lifeon my screen and switched to PowerPoint, which still had a presentation from AP Biology open. Then I got up and opened the door.

“Sam…” Her eyes darted to the computer, where she took in the PowerPoint presentation on the screen then looked back at me. “I just wanted to check in with you. It’s Brenna’s birthday. Are you … are you doing okay?”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”

She looked distressed. “Sam … it’ll do some good.”

I felt guilty about the pained expression on her face. But right then I needed to get her out of there. “Mom, I need to study for my test and get some sleep. Please?”

Her shoulders sagged, and she looked down at the floor. Then she looked back at me. “If things are bad, will you talk with me? Brenna didn’t … and…”

I swallowed. A stab of grief sank through me at her words. I shoved it away. “Sure, I’ll talk with you, Mom. You know that.”

Mollified, she nodded, and said, “Good night, Sam. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

She walked away. I closed and locked the door and rushed back to my computer.

I typed: /OOC: back. I’m so sorry about that.

Gunstock: Shall we?

The two of us walked toward the Erie Hotel. The building had been modeled after a hotel in the New Orleans commercial district, with wrought iron detailing and rails on a wraparound two-storied porch. On the ground floor were several tables, which were far enough apart to be semi-private. For the next two hours we chatted. Only in character, but Gunstock continued to push. What was I like in real life? Where did I live? What kinds of things did I like? I had to push back and set hard boundaries. There is no real life,I said. Only here.

I looked at the clock. Brenna’s birthday was over.

A wave of exhaustion hit me. I seated my avatar at a table near the windows … I wanted to crawl into bed. But I didn’t want to blow it with Gunstock. I blinked my eyes, trying to decide what to do. I had school in the morning and really couldn’t afford to go without sleep another night. Last night, on the eve of her birthday, I hadn’t been able to sleep at all.

Tamara: /OOC: I don’t want to blow our fun, but I’m exhausted in RL. Would you be really upset if we picked this up another night?

Gunstock: /OOC: Sure, that’s fine. I’ve had a nice time. Get some rest.

Tamara: /OOC: Good night.

Gunstock:Good night.

Before I could change my mind I logged out. My eyes were aching from staring at the computer for so long. I stood up and stretched, feeling out of place and sad. My eyes went to the picture of Brenna that occupied the corner of my desk. 

I turned out the light and undressed in the dark so I couldn’t see myself. I slipped under the sheet and imagined I was Tamara, and that I mattered, and that I had my sister back.

I whispered, “Wherever you are, Happy Birthday, Brenna. I love you.” I squeezed my eyes shut to hold back tears, but then I gave up trying to hold them back.

That’s when I heard them—Mom and Dad arguing again in the kitchen.

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers.

Preorders: 

Amazon

Apple Books

Barnes & Noble

Google Play Books

Kobo / Rakutan

Smashwords

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers. Click here to read previous chapters.

On Thur

I was in the middle of the church rush when my boss walked in. 

Brian Ingram had been with the company for six years. A retired Army Lieutenant Colonel, he was now our division manager, responsible for nine restaurants spread across eastern Alabama from the Georgia border almost to Birmingham.

He’d taken a big chance on me.

When I first interviewed for the job, I’d been desperate. More than a year of job interviews after I got out of jail, and not a single bite. Even under the circumstances of Brenna’s disappearance, my status as a convicted felon was a roadblock too hard to overcome for any of the companies I’d interviewed with. We’d completely run out of cash, and the house was in foreclosure. I wasn’t even eligible for unemployment, because I’d been fired while in jail, and every company I had talked to declined a second interview. 

That’s the state I was in when I got a call from Jeremiah. While I’d worked a seemingly glamorous high tech career at a company that was now nonexistent, he’d taken a decidedly non-technical job, as unit manager for a restaurant. I’d hassled him about it at the time, but he’d risen quickly through the ranks. 

“Like it or not, there’s a good ol’ boy network. At Waffle House, that’s the Georgia Tech alumni.” When Jeremiah had said that to me years ago, I’d shaken my head. How could he choose that when he had so many other options? But Jeremiah had his own pressures. And that had turned out to be my saving grace after I got out of jail.

When he called me to suggest I interview for a job here, I jumped at the chance. Jeremiah set up the interview with Brian, and I was blunt about the conviction, and why it happened. He was blunt at the time: company policy said no convicted felons. But both of them went to bat with the company security department to make an exception in my case.

We’d have ended up homeless if it hadn’t been for that. Sometimes you have to be grateful for whatever you can get.

When Brian walked into the restaurant, it was obvious I was in the weeds. Plates were lined up on the sandwich board, the restaurant was full, and all three of my waitresses were calling orders faster than I could get them marked. Brian immediately came out on the floor, washed his hands and put on gloves, and took a position on the grill next to me.

“Morning, Cole,” he said, a grin on his face. “Busy?”

“Yeah, it’s been nuts the last little while.”

“Well, that’s a good thing,” he replied. 

We worked through the rush, and I was grateful for the help. I hadn’t been in this business long, and I’d had my own restaurant just a few weeks. I didn’t have the skill or experience to keep up with this kind of rush. 

Waffle House wasn’t the kind of job where managers sat in the back office doing paperwork and watching other people work. As a manager, my job was to be on the grill seven hours a day, six days a week. Paperwork, keeping the restaurant supplied and staffed, scheduling, orders—everything else happened outside of production hours. My usual day started at six a.m. and ended at four or five p.m., and I came back to the restaurant three nights a week, sometimes for hours. I’d been riding on the edge of continual exhaustion ever since I started training, and it didn’t look to be getting better any time soon. 

The lunch rush ended, though. I cleared the grill area then walked up the line, checking in with customers. Finally, I ducked into the back room. Brian was in my office, looking at the computer. I grabbed the bottle of water off my tiny desk and gulped back a drink.

“You’re getting better,” he said. He slid off the stool and stepped into the doorway. I traded places, sagging onto my desk.

“Thanks,” I said, almost gasping.

“Still, going forward, you need to schedule a second cook on the weekends. Sunday morning’s no time to be working alone. Especially on a race weekend.”

I nod. “Yeah, I had Jimmy on the schedule to come in at nine and work a double. He was going to back me up, then work second shift.” I said. “He called in around 8:55, and by then I was so busy I couldn’t get on the phone.”

Brian chuckles. “You can take a minute to let me know. That’s not just to save your ass. It’s so our customers don’t get stuck having to wait too long.”

I sank onto my stool. They’d start calling orders again any second. I was exhausted, it was only noon, and I didn’t have a second shift cook. 

“Who you got coming in for second shift?”

I shook my head. “Nobody. I’ll start calling.”

“You know, you can always work it yourself. Save you some payroll.”

I swallowed. True enough. It would be my second double shift in two days: this was a race weekend at Talladega, and our business was way up. Plus, today of all days, I did not want to go home. 

It was September 14.

Today was Brenna’s eighteenth birthday.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”

I looked through the one-way glass to the restaurant. Everyone was eating except one table, three men. They were regulars, each of them around fifty to sixty years old, and they always sat in Julie’s section. She was over there, taking the men’s order. You could practically see the old farts salivating.

“So it’s been a few weeks since you got your own restaurant. How you holding up?” 

I kept my gaze on the restaurant on the other side of the glass. What I wanted to say was, This is the worst job I’ve ever had in my life. I was exhausted, pushed harder than I could really take. But this was the bed I’d made. “It’s going well,” I said. “I’m not fast enough yet. At anything.”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s the way it is. You’ll get there, it just takes time and lots of practice. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. And this is a big change for you.”

I shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, Brian. I’m grateful for the job. When I finally get it down, I’ll be the best manager you have. It’s just taking some time.”

He grins. “I like that. You should be gunning for my job.”

“In the long run,” I said. Not the least being because he wasn’t working a grill forty hours a week. At my level and the one higher, all you did was work to the bone. But if you survived long enough to get a division, the job was very different. 

Today I didn’t mind staying busy. Today I needed to stay busy. I needed it so I wouldn’t think about where my daughter was. If I thought about it, I might break down. Again. 

I wondered how Erin was doing today. How she dealt with it? Would she sit at home and drink and dredge through all those awful ads? Or would she be keeping busy too? At least Sam had school to keep him busy.

But I knew it wasn’t enough.

Julie was heading to the back room. 

“Looks like I got an order,” I said, slipping off the stool.

“All right,” Brian said. “Keep up the good work.”

I returned to work.

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers.

Preorders: 

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I think what it comes down to is this. Like all human beings, we can make mistakes. War is an incredibly messy and terrible business. It involves the state sending young men and women to kill on our behalf for the goals of the state.
The only thing that makes that tolerable is that on the whole, with a few notable exceptions, we try to act as the “good guys.” I learned about the laws of land warfare in basic training before I ever touched a weapon. They taught us about professionalism, about what kinds of orders were legal, and what kinds of orders should not only be ignored, but reported to the appropriate authorities.

We were taught that once a prisoner is on our custody, its *required* that you provide them with food and shelter and the same standard of medical care that you would give your own troops. We were taught to follow rules of engagement, to follow orders, to stay professional. To follow a professional code of ethics.

Pardoning war criminals undermines those ethics and that professionalism. Understand, we’re not talking about guys who made a mistake on a chaotic battlefield. We’re talking about guys who were reported by their own peers, who face judgment in front of a military jury. We’re talking about a servicemember who stands accused by his own men of randomly shooting civilians including at least one little girl.

We’re talking about at least one military member who took a captured prisoner out into the desert, made him strip, and stabbed him to death. My grandfather was a prisoner of war, and gave an affidavit for a war crimes trial in 1945. I don’t remember, because I was 3 when he died, and my children never met him. He was still a relatively young man when he passed away, but from what my great-aunt told me as a child, his health was wrecked by the three years he spent as a prisoner of war.

Here’s what I learned in the Army:

We don’t execute prisoners without trial.

We don’t murder children.

When atrocities happen, as they inevitably do in war, we put those responsible on trial.

Without that veneer of professionalism, of ethical standards, what is there to distinguish us from the Taliban? If we can’t follow rules of engagement, if we can’t treat prisoners with humanity, if we can’t be expected to refrain from murdering children, then how are we different from the lunatics who broadcast beheadings on youtube?

Encouraging war crimes isn’t a policy decision. It’s not left/right/own the liberals thing. It undercuts everything our military works for, it disgraces and dishonors the millions of Americans who have served while doing the right thing. I’m furious about it, more than anything else this administration has done or tried to do.

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers. Click here to read previous chapters.

On Thursday morning at 9 a.m., I walked into the Calhoun County Courthouse, a large red brick neoclassical structure with white arches at the entrances. After I cleared security, I walked to the parole office, my shoes echoing off the marble floor. The waiting room had an institutional feel, with none-too-clean tile floors, and a window of thick, almost blue glass, behind which sat the receptionist.

After I signed in, the sour-faced receptionist told me to take a seat until I was called. I sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs. Experience had taught me that it might be a long wait; my monthly visits with the parole officer typically took up an entire morning. 

Ironic that I found myself here. Growing up, half my cousins had been in and out of jail. I’d sworn to myself a million times that I wouldn’t be like them, that I wouldn’t be the kind of white trash that Daddy came from. I kept that promise to myself, worked my way up the corporate ladder, bought a spectacular house in the suburbs of Washington DC, and yet, except for Lucas, I was the only one of the cousins who ended up as a felon.

After I was arrested, it took four days before I was finally arraigned. I’ll never forget the arraignment hearing. The county prosecutor described me in terms I couldn’t imagine. He said it was a vicious and unprovoked attack, and that I represented a danger to anyone I thought might have had anything to do with my daughter. Vicious and unprovoked.I felt—righteous. I was trying to protect my daughter. I was a fool.

My lawyer fought hard to get bail set, but the last straw was when the arresting officers testified that I had threatened repeatedly to kill Chase. It was true, I had, though it was in the passion of the moment. As a result of that, the judge denied bail. I was to stay in the Fairfax County jail until I went to trial.

I had to hand it to Brent, my lawyer: he was good. Before I had even been shuttled back from the courthouse to the jail, he’d already lodged an appeal with the state court of appeals. The next morning’s Washington Post carried the front page headline, Father of Missing Girl Denied Bail for Assault. Apparently it was a slow news day, and Brent was pretty good with the media—by lunchtime the cable networks had gone insane. The talking heads on the cable networks, and the public, seemed to be on my side. It took longer than expected, but far faster than it would have, had I not had access to those resources. Two weeks after my arrest, I was released on bail.

I was grateful to be out. But I’ll never forget the disappointment and anger on Erin and Sam’s faces when I was home. They’d needed me terribly, and I’d failed them.

Brent spent the next two months maneuvering but with little luck. I was scheduled to go to trial on December 11. The week before that, Brent came over to the house and pulled Erin and me into my office. His face had been grim.

“Cole,” he said. “I’ve done everything I could. The prosecutor’s got a hard-on … excuse me, Mrs. Roberts. He’s very aggressive, with all his public statements about vigilante justice. The bottom line is, you’re not going to be able to avoid going to trial on Monday.”

Erin began to cry silently. I’d already been placed on a leave of absence from work; a conviction would surely mean that I’d be fired. I had a golden parachute in my contract, but one of the clauses in that contract said that I lost the parachute if I was terminated due to a felony conviction. And that’s where it looked like we were heading.

“What are my odds?”

“Well, you have the jury on your side to an extent. Except that you fucked up that Morton kid pretty good. He’ll probably never regain the full use of his hand. The guidelines for assault with a deadly weapon is eight to fifteen years. You’ll probably end up at the lower end of that scale, meaning you’ll be eligible for parole in three or four years.”

I gasped. Three or four years? How was that possible? How could I possibly do three or four years in prison?

My next words came out in a rasp. “What are my options?”

Brent shrugged. “We can offer to plea bargain to a lesser charge. You’ll still almost certainly get a felony conviction, but we might be able to get them down to vanilla assault. With luck you’ll be out within a year. That’s really the best-case … if you go before a jury and they wheel Chase Morton into the courtroom, you don’t stand a chance.”

I rested my head in my hands. Even the best-case scenario … we’d lose the house. I’d racked up twenty thousand in legal fees already. We had the mortgage on a two-million-dollar home, three car payments, student loans … we couldn’t survive without a sizable salary.

We couldn’t leave the house with Brenna missing. What if she came home and we weren’t there anymore?

Without a word, Erin stood up and walked out. I felt like I’d been punched. But who could blame her? Who could blame her?

In the end, I took Brent’s advice and pled guilty to simple assault. I was sentenced to three years, with two-and-a-half of those years suspended. I actually served six months and five days in the Deep Meadow Correctional Center just outside Richmond.

Looking back, sometimes I wish I hadkilled Chase. That might’ve at least made it worthwhile. As it was, I had wrecked what was left of my family’s life for no purpose at all.

I almost hadn’t been able to take the job in Alabama, which would’ve been a real tragedy considering that I interviewed more than a hundred times for different positions after I got out of prison. After Jeremiah got me the interview with Brian, I jumped at the chance, even though I knew that my salary in this job wouldn’t be much more than ten percent of what I’d been making before. At least it was enough to buy food and pay rent for a crappy little house in Oxford. Offer in hand, I’d gone to the court and requested permission to transfer my probation to Alabama. Miraculously, it was approved.

So here I was. Waiting to see my probation officer for our monthly visits.

At eleven a.m. I was finally called in to see her. Sergeant Joyce Friendly had once been an Atlanta cop and had readily told me her story when I asked during our first meeting several months before. During a routine traffic stop in South Atlanta five years before, she’d been shot in the face and left for dead. She’d been medically retired from the police department, but after years of therapy and healing, she went looking for work. She finally found a spot with the Alabama Department of Corrections.

When I knocked on the door to her office, she waved me in. She was a physically formidable woman, probably somewhere around one hundred and ninety pounds of mostly muscle. She wore a grey uniform and smiled when I walked in. 

She spoke in a thick accent that reminded me of Dad’s relatives in the mountains of Georgia. “Cole Roberts. Have a seat, tell me how things are going for you.”

I took the proffered seat. “The job’s going well,” I said. That didn’t really answer her question, but I had no plans of getting into discussions about the state of my marriage.

“That’s good to hear. Your son’s getting settled in school okay?”

I nodded. “You know how it is … moving is a big change. Especially from a big city to … here.”

She nodded, eyes wide. “Oh, I know it is. I gotta ask you the routine questions. Have you been out of state?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’m going to ask for clearance to go to Atlanta in the next couple of weeks.”

“What takes you there?”

“My parents live there, and it’s time we visited.”

She nodded. “I don’t see that that’s a problem. Just make sure you notify me if and when you’re going to go. Are you drinking?”

I shook my head. “Not much. A beer sometimes when I get home from work.” I didn’t say, Erin does enough drinking for the both of us.

She nodded. Her face turned serious, and she said, “Have you had any news about your daughter?”

I shook my head. We talked briefly about Brenna during my first meeting with her. Sgt. Friendly had been surprisingly sympathetic. In response to my gesture, she frowned. 

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Cole.”

I didn’t answer. There wasn’t really anything to say.

She leaned back in her seat then shuffled in her desk drawer for a moment, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Well, then, that’s all I have for this month. I’ll need you to take this paperwork to one of the labs listed on the back, it’s time for a drug test.”

I nodded. I’d been through that routine twice already since we moved to Alabama. I took the papers.

As I stood, she leaned forward and spoke again. “If you do hear anything, whether it’s tomorrow or next year, you let me know. I’ve got a daughter too. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”I let out my breath in an exhalation that seemed to deflate my entire body.

Note: This is an unedited preview of my upcoming novel Winter Flower, releasing June 22, 2019. Pre-orders are available at all major retailers.

Preorders: 

Amazon

Apple Books

Barnes & Noble

Google Play Books

Kobo / Rakutan

Smashwords