AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He wished she’d come out and join them. Day was fading fast into a violet dusk and Connor would have liked to have shared it.
But she was inside, in a walk-in closet, with a laptop, a microphone, and a script for a podcast she was narrating and producing. On the basis of her bestselling father’s success and the news stories that had swirled around the country when everything came out, Miranda had gotten a contract with Wondery to produce her own podcast about the crime and her own brush with death.
All along, it seemed that this kind of work was her outlet and not writing horror novels, which was what she had struggled so unsuccessfully with.
Connor was happy for her. Even though she left her degree incomplete, she’d found her true passion. He was pretty sure this podcast debut, tentatively calledToxic, would lead her to a prominent place among the crowded field of true-crime podcasts. Her honeyed voice, her slightly dry delivery, and her passion for story were just a few elements that Connor was certain would bring her the recognition and creative outlet she deserved.
She had a unique story; that was for sure. And when that story was done, who knew? There were stories of lots of fucked-up people in the world she could chronicle under a name likeToxic.
Connor couldn’t wait to see what his talented daughter would do next. But in the end, career goals and success didn’t much matter because, last summer, he’d almost lost her. She’d put up a valiant struggle with an evil man who was superior to her in size and strength—and won. Resiliency and a powerful will to live had been on her side.
Bruno Purdy had been fished, a week after their battle, from the steel-gray waters of Lake Union, a bloated and bruised mess, impotent to ever hurt anyone again.
No one, Connor was sure, mourned him.
Now, he and Jimmy entered the cabin by the back door. Connor was thinking of whipping up dinner—a spicy black bean stew to be served atop creamy polenta with a Belgian endive and avocado salad on the side.
He’d been cooking a lot more lately and found the process satisfying, maybe even more than his writing, which he’d yet to return to.
Maybe he never would.
Writing “cozy” about murder had lost its appeal. Connor couldn’t imagine why.
Miranda, forever the slob, had left some of her papers scattered across the kitchen table. While Jimmy went in to take a shower, Connor sat down and began organizing her stuff into a neat pile.
He discovered it was the script she’d composed for the podcast.
The first episode began with:
He stands by her bed, holding her hand. Deep in his heart, he clings to the belief that despite her being unconscious she’s aware of his presence, his healing love, his gratitude at the sacrifice she’s made for him.
She’s hooked up to machines with beeping monitors displaying ever-changing data about her heart, her respiration, pulse—but none that can broadcast her soul, which is, and has always been, kind. Kind is the word he’s always thought of when his daughter, with her red hair and sunny smile, appeared in his mind. She’s always put others first, even when it harmed her.
This last thought causes the ball in his throat to expand, constricting. Tears rise in his eyes, spill over.
“You knew. You always knew.”
He looked away. He couldn’t read any more. He was certain it would be good, but it was such a hot touch to his pain—of all he’d lost and almost lost.
With the script in hand, he padded to Miranda’s bedroom and set it on her nightstand. “Do good, baby, do good,” he whispered.
He leaned in to the closet door, which had become her recording studio, and could hear the low drone of her voice, the peaks and valleys of her emotion, her laughter, breathlessness, and sighs.
He knew the mantle of storyteller may have just been passed.
And that was fine with him. He had other things to think about these days—new love, cooking, hiking, and making the most of the second chance he’d been given.
