For Rebecca, an excerpt from Whispers In The Shadows, a novel by Jason LaVelle

Chapter 1

A gunshot woke Delia from sleep. Her eyes flew open as the loud crack roared through the house, and she bolted upright in bed. She wore a long linen nightshirt, but gooseflesh raced across her body.

The shot came from within the house. She knew because, on occasion, her father had to put down one of the animals outside, which produced a muffled sound. This one sounded like it came from downstairs; the very walls had vibrated with its force.

She jumped out of bed.

Heavy footfalls stomped up the stairs, adding a thumping bassline to the echoes from the gunshot still ringing through the house. A confusing noise filled her head, the type of sound a windstorm made against her bedroom window.

Moments later, a scream bellowed up the stairs and found its way to her room.

She recognized the voice immediately, though something about it sounded terribly wrong.

Her father never screamed like that. His voice was usually soft and kind. A mere word from him offered hope and compassion. Not tonight, though. Tonight, he sounded strained and angry.

“Delia! Delia, come here!”

She hesitated for only a moment, then her feet moved toward the bedroom door.

What’s wrong with him?

Her hands shook, but she reached for the door handle anyway. As she pulled the door open, her father burst into the room.

His haggard face frightened her, his eyes wide against his leathery skin. He wore filthy jeans and a white t-shirt stained with dark red splotches.

Is that blood?

Delia’s breath hitched in fear.

“Go sit on the bed!” Anger and something else tinged her father’s normally kind voice.

Delia obeyed, though she moved slowly, unsure of every step. “Where did that gunshot come from, Daddy?”

“You sit there quietly.” Her father fumbled with the shotgun. He pulled a shell from one bulging pocket and attempted to load it into the weapon.

“Where’s Momma?”

“Sit quiet, ya hear me?” His clipped words came out loud as he concentrated on the gun.

Something cold and dark settled in the pit of Delia’s stomach. She trembled as she repeated, “Where’s Mother?”

The shell her father was fumbling with finally slid into place with a loud click, and he sighed with relief.

“She’s with our heavenly Father now, Delia.” He smiled sadly and cocked the shotgun. “But don’t worry, we’re going to see her soon.” Then he advanced on her.

She felt lightheaded with panic but, strangely, her senses sharpened.

The father she adored took a step toward her and raised the shotgun with trembling arms. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the dirty tang of steel in the air.

Making a split-second decision, she leapt off the bed and dove directly for him, but she wasn’t trying to reach for his gun—she wanted to escape. With a spectacular, waterless swan dive, she threw herself into the empty space between his legs, trying desperately to get to the blocked doorway.

She made it halfway through before he slammed them shut against her. His legs clamped down against her hips. “Delia, you mind me now! This is for your own good!”

She ignored him, using all her strength to pull her slender body out from under his grip. Though he tried to pin her in, she wriggled free and shot down the hallway to the stairs.

“Delia!” he screamed madly behind her. He came after her with an uneven lope, but because he was so much bigger, for every two steps she took, he only had to take one.

She made it down the steps without stumbling and somehow made it to the front door. As she reached for the handle, another shot filled the air. She dropped to the ground just as a shot blasted the top of the wooden door into splinters. She pinned herself to the floor for a moment, long enough to see the body of her mother lying motionless on the living room floor.

“Momma,” she whimpered.

Fear and heartache clawed their way into her chest and her breaths came fast and hard. Her father had lost his mind. He intended to murder her, and his steps followed closely on the staircase.

Loading the gun had taken him a while last time, and he now plodded down the staircase as if lost.

She had a chance—a slim one—but if she ran, she just might make it to safety.

Delia jumped up and grabbed the door handle. With one last look at her mother’s body, she swung open the door and bolted out into the night.

She ran through the backyard toward the field. A glance over her shoulder revealed her father exiting the house. She had to make it to the field before he caught up to her. She could hide in the tall wheat. The great moving sea of pale yellow loomed in the darkness ahead. She kept running, not pausing for a moment when the long stalks of wheat brushed against her arms and face.

Her farm girl’s feet were tough and calloused, so the rough clay underfoot didn’t hurt. She stopped once, thinking she would hide, but her father came crashing through the wheat in her direction, so she ran as fast as she could—the way she did at school when she was trying to win a race, which she always did. Tag had always been her favorite game, but now she played for her life. She didn’t know if she could outrun her father, whose breathing was getting louder behind her, but she had to try.

Her life depended on it.

She ran to the only place she knew, to her only hope. Her aunt and uncle lived on the other side of the field, in a small house with a large yellow barn. Uncle Don lived on the short side of the 200-acre wheat field. Even in the dead of night, his barn loomed ahead in her mind, a safe haven of bright yellow, a beacon of hope—as long as she didn’t tire out before making it through the mile of dark field in front of her.

“Delia!” her father called in a panting voice, already tiring.

So was she. Delia’s lungs burned with effort, but after being in the field for five minutes, she finally spotted the big sodium light on the top gambrel of Uncle Don’s barn.

“Delia, stop right now!”

She wanted to stop. Her lungs were on fire now and her feet felt sticky. She didn’t know if the stickiness was from the soft earth or if they were bleeding. The broken stalks of wheat that lay on the ground were razor sharp, and must have been cutting her feet, but her mind focused only on getting to her uncle’s house before getting shot.

What if he kills Uncle Don, too?

She couldn’t worry about her uncle right now; she just had to get there before her father killed her. A moment later, another shotgun blast rang out, and hot buckshot grazed her arm. Blood immediately flowed from the wound, and she almost stumbled in horror and shock.

He shot me! My own daddy shot me! He shot me!

She pushed on. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach and she vomited in her mouth. With no choice but to continue, she spat out what she could and swallowed the rest, batting away the tears streaming down her cheeks. She had almost made it through the mile of dense wheat field. The light on the barn grew brighter.

Behind her, Daddy cocked the shotgun again.

Then, in mid-stride, Delia burst out of the wheat field and broke into a dead run with all of the strength she had left.

Her father fell out of the field a moment later. “Stop running right now, Delia! You’re going to see your mother! We’ll all be together!”

Delia was only a dozen yards from the back porch of the house when she hit the knee-high manure-spreading cart. In the black of night, the dark red hunk of metal had been invisible. She ran straight into it, cartwheeled over the top, and landed on her shoulder. Her vision blurred momentarily, and she gasped to suck in a breath, only to start screaming as her father reached her.

“You,” he huffed, “need,” another deep breath, “to mind your father.”

Delia couldn’t hold back the tears. They poured from her eyes as she sobbed uncontrollably. “Why, Daddy? Why do you want to kill me?”

“Not kill you, darling,” he said in a soft tone. “I’m saving you.” He raised the shotgun and pointed it at her face. “Close your eyes, honey. We’ll be with your mother soon.”

“John!” A booming voice rang out over the yard.

Delia looked past her father and saw Uncle Don, carrying a long rifle, hurrying toward them. At almost sixty years old, Don was much older than his brother. A massive man, he stood six-foot-five and easily weighed three hundred pounds. Everyone liked and respected Uncle Don.

“Go back inside, Donald. This is no business of yours! This is my family business.”

“John! Goddammit, brother, don’t make me put a bullet in you. You get away from that little girl right now.”

“You don’t understand, Don.”

“I do. We’ve all had hard times. We’ve all hit rock bottom at some time or another. All we can do is keep on trucking, keep fighting the good fight.”

“Missy is dead.”

“Jesus,” Don whispered. “Let your daughter go, John. We can take care of her.”

“No one’s taking care of her but me. I told you, Don, this is family business.”

Delia’s dad turned back to her and cocked the shotgun’s hammer.

A bullet blew out the front of his chest, showering Delia with a heavy spray of blood as

her daddy fell to the ground.

Uncle Don walked over and stood above him. “She is my family.”