Prologue

With the sun rapidly disappearing on the horizon, he stumbled out of the alley. One hand gripped his right side tightly. The other hand held onto the brick wall for support. With three labored steps he stumbled out into the open. He didn't stop to take in his surroundings, instead moving quickly to get as much distance as he could. As he half-walked, half-stumbled, his eyes scanned around, searching for somebody, anybody. He was disappointed to find that like so many other times in his life, he was all by himself. Once again, he was going to have to find a way out of the mess he was in.

Spitting a gob of red onto the sidewalk, he tried to ignore the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He was dying, and he knew it. He'd never make it to the hospital across town, he knew. His best bet was finding a house with people home or a good Samaritan. In this neighborhood, he knew the chances of a good Samaritan was unlikely. He had to find somewhere nicer, somewhere where this kind of thing wasn't the norm.

His ankle throbbed, making him walk with a pronounced limp. Every breath he took made his lungs burn. The wound underneath his breastbone was seeping, making the black T-shirt he wore stick to him. He was sweating profusely, in spite of his body temperature falling with every minute that passed. His dishwater blond hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes. He didn't bother moving it, keeping his right hand firmly on his side. The left hand was reaching for anything that could keep him standing. He knew the moment he hit the ground, the battle was over. To sit down, to take a moment, was to sign his own death certificate, and he wasn't about to do that.

With no traffic in sight, he jaywalked, grabbing a tree for support as he stepped onto the sidewalk. His entire body felt heavy, his legs felt like they were made of lead. He wheezed, coughing and spitting blood onto the sidewalk every couple feet, but he kept moving, even as the ability to breathe became harder. He used the trees, street lights and fire hydrants to keep him standing. Redness oozed onto his hand from the wound in his side, sticky and warm. His clothing was wrecked beyond repair. He had seen this much blood before, back when he was younger and dumber. But the difference was that this time it was his blood, and that scared the hell out of him.

He coughed. A bubble of blood burst, staining his lips and his chin. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt too weak to call for help. There was an irremovable chill in his bones. The sound of the blade scraping his bones was still in his ear, a sound he was sure he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Crossing another road, he found himself in the nicer area of town, an area where he could only dream of living. Willow trees lined the streets. Houses that seemed palatial to him sat on emerald, well-maintained lawns, complete with gardens of colorful flowers. With his breath becoming more and more shallow, he began to half-walk, half-stumble up the hill towards a white house with a black Ford F-350 sitting in the driveway.

"Okay. Stop it. That's enough. You're cheating."

Mark Calaway rested his hand on his fist. He spoke with a mischievous growl. His face registered a mask of petulance, though his green eyes sparkled with amusement. Sitting beside him at the giant oak dining table was his twenty-two year-old daughter, Faith, who was home for the summer from college. She'd gotten in the week before. In two days, she would start working a secretary position at the police station, a job he hooked up for her while she was home. He looked into the green eyes of his daughter, eyes so much like his own. Everything else about his eldest child was a dead ringer for his first, long-departed wife.

"How am I cheating?" she demanded, exasperated. With a shake of her wrist she flung the dice across the backgammon board. It was an argument they had every time they played the game, but it was something she always looked forward to when she came home. The dice came back with another set of doubles, her third set, two sets of four. He exhaled, an over-the-top and drawn out sigh. He was getting ready to instate a rule that would have her missing turns for every three sets of doubles she rolled. When she was younger, he always accused her of eating horseshoes for breakfast, something that still made her giggle. Now, it just annoyed him.

"The way you're rolling..."

"Oh, stop it!" she snorted, moving her pieces on the board. Backgammon had always been a bond for the two of them, a game of strategy and math. Faith knew how to keep herself protected, no matter how she moved. They were both very good players; over the years, Faith had learned to be just as cutthroat as her father when it came to the game. Picking up the dice again, she rolled, dropping it on the board. A two and a six. Mark rolled his eyes.

"Finally..."

"Oh, stop. I don't even know why we still play this stupid game. All we do is bicker," she pointed out. Deep down, she knew that for all of his arguing, he looked forward to the games as much as she did. It was something that was just for them. "You are such a bear to play with."

Faith Margaret Calaway was tall like her father, though she only stood at five foot nine. She had the rounded, doll-like face of her mother. Her hair was copper and down to her chest, with bangs that were always cut perfectly. She was blessed with her father's ambition and her mother's compassion. For eight months of the year, Faith attended college in California, a far cry from Cincinnati, Ohio. Born and raised in Houston, Texas, Mark had relocated to Cincinnati two years prior to take the position of lead homicide detective.

"I'm a bear?" he grumbled incredulously. He was an imposing figure of six-ten and had the ability to stop people dead in their tracks with one glare.

"I could take the issue to Michelle. I bet you she'd agree," Faith told him. Mark shot her a look of amusement. Upstairs, his wife was bathing their two year-old twins. Faith took a sip of her tea as Mark rolled his own set of dice, coming up with two sets of sixes.

"Double sixes! Fuck yes!" he boomed, his voice bouncing off every wall of the house. It caught Faith by surprise, but she had to laugh.

"Mark! Language!" Michelle's voice rang out from the floor above. There was an edge of annoyance to her tone. Mark and Faith exchanged glances with each other before quickly averting their eyes, trying to hold back their laughter.

There was a loud thump at the door. Faith and Mark turned their head in the direction of the door. "I'll get that," Faith answered, standing. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she made a beeline to the door. The thump grew louder this time.

Faith unlocked the front door and flung it open. Her hands clasped over her mouth at the sight before her. She was frozen in place, stuck. She knew firsthand how tough and how cold the world could be. She had always considered herself an optimist in spite of what she knew. But seeing things firsthand hit her like an bucket of ice water to the face.

"Fucking...help..." he said weakly as he tripped over the threshold. As if a switch had snapped on in her brain, she rushed forward, trying to catch him before he hit the ground. He took her down to the floor with him. When she hit the ground and saw the blood on her hands and on her clothing, it was as if she had finally found her voicebox.

"Dad!" she called out before her voice rose two octaves and became more frantic, a primal scream. "Dad!"