Break Through

  BREAK THROUGH

  AMBER GARZA

  Cover: Mae I Design and Photography

  Interior Design and Typesetting by Sharon Kay

  Copyright © 2014 Amber Garza

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  For information: ambergarza.wordpress.com

  Other titles by Amber Garza

  Contemporary Romance:

  Break Free

  Head Above Water

  Falling to Pieces

  Star Struck

  Love Struck

  Tripping Me Up

  Winning Me Over

  Finding Me Again (Novella)

  Single Title Suspense:

  Engraved

  Delaney’s Gift Series:

  Dazzle

  Shatter

  Betray

  YA Christian Thrillers:

  The Prowl Trilogy

  Prowl

  Entice

  Unveil

  To connect with Amber Garza online:

  http://www.ambergarza.com

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Amber-Garza-author

  Or to sign up for the newsletter: http://eepurl.com/sp8Q9

  Table of Contents

  Contents:

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Excerpt

  Author's Note and Acknowledgements

  To my heavenly father who has been with me in dark times and times of joy, and has never for one moment left my side.

  PROLOGUE

  The man who kidnapped me wasn’t a stranger.

  He didn’t pull up in a big white van wearing a ski mask. He didn’t ask for directions, offer me candy, or invite me to pet his dog. If so, I would’ve surely screamed at the top of my lungs and raced away. At eight years old I had been warned all about “stranger danger.” I had been coached on what to do to avoid being abducted. The problem was that it didn’t happen the way I had been warned it could.

  When he drove up in his small blue car, motioning me inside, I recognized him as a man who had been to my house. My parents had shared laughs and conversation with him. He had sat on our couch, drank beer on the back patio, helped Dad flip burgers on the grill, and watched me swim in the pool.

  His smile was friendly. Maybe too friendly. It was a large, sweeping smile that covered his entire face, larger than a clown’s. All he was missing was the giant red nose and puffy orange hair. That should have tipped me off. But to a child, a big smile isn’t scary. It’s welcoming.

  Besides, it was raining that day. Before he pulled up I had been stomping through the puddles in my Converse tennis shoes. Water soaked the edge of my jeans, splashing its way up my calves, and splattering the denim like dark blue paint. Liquid swam inside my shoes, seeping through the thin material and soaking my socks. As raindrops slid down my face and dripped on my hair, I cursed myself for forgetting to wear my rain boots. Mom had told me to, but I argued with her. They were bright yellow with little white flowers on them, and I thought they were too babyish. But when my teeth began to chatter and my toes numbed, I wished I had listened.

  That’s why I got into the car. I knew it would be warm. In fact, heat spilled out of the open window when I bent my head inside. It radiated against my cold cheek. Ignoring the funny feeling that nagged in the pit of my stomach, I hopped in, grateful to be safe from the storm.

  It wasn’t until he locked me in that room, leaving me alone for days, that I realized what a huge mistake I’d made. My parents weren’t coming to pick me up at his house like he had promised. They didn’t know he took me.

  And I wasn’t ever going home.

  ONE

  It was raining the day I escaped. I took it as a sign.

  It’s funny the things we take for granted. Five years I spent in captivity, never stepping foot outside. The day he ripped me from the life I’d always known, I wanted nothing more than to be warm and dry, out of the rain. For years afterward I longed for rain, for icy air, for cool breezes. Hell, even scorching hot temperatures would do. I’d take anything to be out in the fresh air. To be free.

  I would wave my fingers out of the bars in the window, attempting to grasp the air and draw it inside. As if air was something to be captured. But it would slip through my fingers, sliding over my skin and disappearing. I envied it. If only I were that elusive. If only I were slippery and weightless, and couldn’t be tied down. Often I would close my eyes, imagining I was soaring high above the clouds like a colorful kite. One of those rainbow colored ones like my dad bought me for my sixth birthday. I loved to watch it flap in the breeze, blowing across the aqua blue sky. Yes, if I could’ve been anything it would have been a kite. Only I would have severed myself from the string so he’d never be able to catch me. So his thick fingers couldn’t yank me back to earth. I’d stay up in the clouds, allowing the wind to be my guide. There would be nothing anchoring me to the earth. It would just be me and the sky.

  That was the reason I danced in the rain on the day I found freedom. It was because the air was finally mine. Not for a fleeting moment, a temporary fix. No, this was for good. I knew that for sure. There was no way I’d ever let someone own me again. I held up my arms allowing the raindrops to skate down my shoulders and drip from my fingertips. Tilting my face, I savored the feeling of them as they cascaded down my face and soaked my hair. The air was frigid, but I embraced it, letting it wash over me. The goosebumps that rose on my skin made me feel alive.

  Even though I had been free for ten years now, the time I spent locked in that house haunted me, mocked me, residing in the recesses of my mind. It had shaped me into the person I was today. There’s a saying that time heals all wounds, but I wasn’t so sure about that. No amount of time and therapy could erase five years of being held captive. None of it could bring my childhood back, give me the years he’d stolen.

  Laying in the grass, my white blond hair fanned out around my head like a halo. The sun shone down on my face, warming my pale skin. As I tossed my arms up over my head, the grass feathered my skin, tickling the sensitive flesh. A shadow cast over me, blocking out the sun. Using my hand as a shield, I squinted.

  “Aspen, please tell me you didn’t sleep out here again.” Mom pursed her lips as if she’d sucked a lemon. She did that a lot.

  “No. I slept in the guesthouse.” I sighed, imagining that most twenty-three-year olds didn’t have their moms breathing down their necks twenty-four/seven. Then again, most moms hadn’t endured what mine had, so I granted her some grace. When I first came back, I snuck out every night and slept in our backyard. Being inside made me claustrophobic. I still found it hard to breathe indoors. Only when I stepped outside into the open air would my chest expand.

  On the mornings after I sl
ept outside, I would hear the screams from inside the house. Panicked shouts and frantic hollering. It made me feel like shit that I had scared them again; that I had made them believe they’d lost me a second time. And each time they would make me promise to stay inside.

  “It’s safer in here,” Mom would say.

  “We have an alarm system,” Dad would add.

  However, the next night my feet would glide down the stairs and head right out into the backyard as if they had a mind of their own. I couldn’t control them. I could only go where they took me. There was something magical about sleeping under the stars wearing only the air as a blanket. Fear had ruled me for far too long. I wouldn’t stay locked inside any longer.

  So my parents sold the house and moved out into the middle of the country here in Red Blossom. The home they bought had a guesthouse in the back. Dad built a skylight in it for me, so I wouldn’t feel constricted. It was the best compromise we could come up with. Even so, I longed to lie in the grass, to dream among the flowers.

  “You need to get cleaned up.” Mom pointed to my fingers that were caked in dirt and streaked in green. I had been gardening, planting flowers along the side of the yard. “That photographer from the National View is coming over today.”

  Hoisting myself up, I groaned. I ran a dirtied hand through my long, tangled hair. Agreeing to do that stupid article was something I regretted every day. But my parents had practically begged me to do it. They said it would be good for me, but I suspected it had more to do with the hefty paycheck. Why now? Why did I finally have to tell my story?

  It wasn’t just that I hated to talk about it. It wasn’t just the pain of remembering.

  It was because he was still out there.

  He wasn’t behind bars where he belonged.

  The National View had promised that my location wouldn’t be revealed; that they’d keep it under wraps. And honestly, I was sure he’d left the country by now. It’s not like he’d risk coming back here and getting caught. Besides, I wasn’t a child that he could lure away and capture again. I was an adult. Even so, it worried me, nagging at the back of my mind. I hated how he had power over me after all these years.

  “Fine.” I pushed myself up off the ground and stood. My hands weren’t the only things dirty. The skin on my knees was stained in dirt and grass too, and mud splattered my t-shirt and shorts. Mom wrinkled her nose, smoothing her hands down her khaki pants, her freshly manicured nails sparkling under the sunlight. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on her outfit, and her short, golden bob was sleek against her rosy cheeks.

  Her glossy lips curved upward. “Great. I got out your favorite sundress and hung it on the bathroom door.”

  Cringing, I maneuvered around her. The words “favorite” and “sundress” should not be used in the same sentence. I preferred jeans and t-shirts, maybe the occasional yoga pants or shorts. But I guess if I was having my picture taken I should attempt to look nice. As I walked up the steps to the back patio, I tried to remember the last time I got my picture taken. It must have been my school pictures the year I was abducted. That horrid picture where the photographer caught me with my eyes closed, and yet my parents still chose to hang it on the wall in the hallway. I was hoping my experience today would be better.

  As promised, the sundress hung on the door in the bathroom. Mom had also arranged some makeup and a curling iron on the counter. Admittedly, I acted younger than I was. There were days when I felt like time had stopped for me at eight years old. Like I was Peter Pan, a perpetual child. But seriously, my parents did not help at all. They treated me like I was incapable of doing anything on my own.

  What they didn’t realize was that even though I acted child-like, I was older in some ways too. Being kidnapped had forced me to forfeit my childhood, to grow up fast. I had to take care of myself, to learn things most kids don’t need to know at eight.

  It wasn’t that I was incapable of being an adult. It was that I wasn’t quite ready to be one yet. My youth had been cruelly taken from me, and sometimes my rebellious nature tried to snatch it back.

  Living in my parents’ home, and having my mom pick out my clothes, was definitely a way to catapult me back to childhood. Only I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted either. A good balance was apparently hard to find. As I peeled off my dirty clothes and discarded them on the floor, I wondered if this photographer would be as annoying as the reporter was.

  My skin crawled when I remembered the reporter’s dark, beady eyes. The way he stared at me too intensely as I responded to his questions. The way he prompted and goaded me as if feeding me the answers. It angered me, causing me to cut our last two interviews short. Mom had scolded me, saying I was throwing a tantrum like a child. But secretly I knew she liked it. She wasn’t ready for me to grow up either.

  As I turned on the shower, I decided that if the photographer made me uncomfortable I would call this whole thing off. I didn’t even want to do it in the first place, and I definitely didn’t need to go through with it if it stressed me out. Besides, it wasn’t my idea. It was the magazine who wanted the story; it was the public who desired all the salacious details. I never understood the world’s desire to invade someone else’s private pain. In the years after I came back home our phone rang relentlessly with reporters, authors, and television stations. Everyone wanted my story. Everyone wanted to capitalize on what was done to me.

  I had kept silent all these years. Now it seemed that I was finally going to open my mouth and speak. That I was going to expose the story to the nation. And, frankly, that scared the shit out of me.

  In more ways than one.

  TWO

  The knock on the door caused anxiety to rise inside of me like a tornado, whipping my insides around until they twirled and coiled, making it difficult to breathe. I smoothed my hair down and then wiped my palms down the length of my dress. Mom placed her hand on the small of my back and shoved me forward.

  “He’s here.” Her excitement annoyed me.

  I wanted to snap at her, to tell her that if she was so excited she should do the article. She should be the one to get her picture taken. My skin crawled when I thought about the camera lens pointed at me, capturing my face on film. I didn’t like attention. I liked to be left alone in solitude. That’s another reason I loved nature. It didn’t ask questions, and better yet, it didn’t demand answers.

  Swallowing hard, I took a step forward. Through the beveled glass window in the front door I could make out the figure of a man, a pale blurred face and brown hair. With a trembling hand, I reached forward and turned the doorknob. Mom stood behind me, breathing on my neck. After taking a deep breath, I flung the door open.

  Carter stood on the porch in slacks and a white dress shirt, a camera slung around his neck and some equipment near his feet. He was thin, his arms long, his hands slender. His face was tanned, his eyes were dark. When he smiled, a piece of his tousled dark brown hair fell over his forehead landing right above his eyebrow. Time stopped. He may have been the one holding the camera, but I was the one taking a picture. As I stared at his chiseled face and chocolate colored eyes, I forgot about Mom behind me. I no longer saw the large leafy tree in our yard or the rose bushes that lined the walkway. The ones I had spent hours tediously pruning. Everything of beauty out here that I loved more than anything seemed to pale in comparison to this man; this stranger on my porch. His surroundings blurred like an impressionist painting. But he remained vivid, clear, sharp.

  “You must be Aspen Fairchild.” He stuck out his hand, breaking through the spell I’d found myself under. “I’m Carter Johnston.”

  I cleared my throat and carefully took his hand in mine. His skin was warm to the touch. “Nice to meet you.”

  Mom came around me, standing at my side. She wore a smile which told me she was proud of how polite I was being. “I’m Aspen’s mom.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fairchild,” Carter said as he shook Mom’s hand. His voice was hypnotizing, like those late
night radio hosts whose voices could lull you to sleep because they were so easy to listen to.

  “Call me Caroline.”

  “Alright. Caroline it is.” His smooth response and easy smile reminded me of a movie star.

  “Come on in.” Mom motioned him forward with her hand. Apparently I had become mute. Carter reached down and picked up his equipment. Mom’s pointed look toward me was a silent suggestion that I offer to help Carter. But I couldn’t. I was so flustered I was afraid I would drop something. The truth was that I had been afraid of men ever since my kidnapping. Therefore, I was used to men making me uncomfortable. But this was different. Carter made me nervous alright, but for completely opposite reasons. And I wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing. As Carter stepped inside, I moved out of his way, pressing my back into the doorframe. His foreign scent washed over me as he passed. It was a combination of musky cologne and soap.

  “We’re so honored that you’re here,” Mom said as she guided him into the family room. I stayed near the door, my arms dangling by my sides. As they neared the couch, Mom glanced over her shoulder at me, narrowing her eyes. I forced myself to walk forward. My sandals clicked on the hardwood floors as I passed the old-fashioned sweeping staircase, and I suppressed the urge to steady myself on the bannister. What was it about this guy that made me feel so weird? I’d never felt this way before, and it was unnerving. As I entered the family room, with its antique furniture, expensive one-of-a-kind paintings filling the walls, Carter’s head bobbed up and his eyes met mine. I sucked in a breath. He didn’t look at me with crude fascination like the reporter had. No, he almost seemed to look right through me as if I was a window and what he wanted was to be outside enjoying the sunshine. It was like I was nothing more than his latest subject; a project to check off his list. The smile he gave wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t overly warm either. I reeled back from the sting of it, and then wondered why it bothered me. I should’ve been happy. Wasn’t anonymity what I craved? So why did I desire this man’s attention?