target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#u23b3ca3d-0df4-578e-93d4-18a3167d82da">Dear Reader,
I hope you’ve enjoyed Asia and Slade’s adventures in Silent Night Suspect.
These characters are especially dear to me because they’ve carried such heavy burdens for so long. Asia’s perceptions have tainted the way she sees everyone, even God. Slade realizes extending a tiny olive branch leads to his own healing.
If you’re carrying a heavy burden or feeling like the storm is never going to pass, I hope you find encouragement in Asia and Slade’s story. Rest assured, you’re never alone in the Lord and good can come from even the worst circumstances.
I love hearing from readers, so please find me on my webpage at www.shareestover.com, or email me at [email protected].
May the source of all our hope bless you,
Sharee Stover
To my Lord and Savior, Jesus. All glory and honor belong to You. And for Jim, Tawny, Cody and Andi because you see the best in me, even when I can’t.
Acknowledgments
I’ve heard it said it takes a village to raise a child, and I think that’s applicable to writing a book, as well. I am beyond grateful for the incredible group of people who support and encourage me through every sentence.
Many thanks to:
My editor, Emily Rodmell, for sticking with me as this story evolved and for your wisdom in its development.
Tina Radcliffe for seeing past the dry bones and helping me to revive and breathe life back into this book.
Connie, Jackie, Rhonda, Sherrinda and all of the Writing Sisters. You all are precious.
Contents
Note to Readers
Asia Stratton’s gaze remained transfixed on the lifeless eyes staring back at her. Dark pools—so black they appeared to be bottomless holes—silently demanded an explanation for the single bullet wound to the center of the man’s forehead.
An explanation she couldn’t provide.
“Asia, drop the gun. Put your hands up,” a male voice ordered.
She jerked at the mention of her name and squinted against the blinding light veiling the stranger in the doorway. Darkness had fallen, and Nebraska’s icy winter wind blasted through the unfamiliar living room.
The dead man’s silent inquisition beckoned, and Asia reverted her attention to him.
“I said, drop the gun,” the intruder repeated.
His words trickled through the fog in her brain and she gasped at the Glock gripped in her palm. Asia released her hold, and the weapon toppled from her shaking hands onto the dirty carpet. She lifted her arms in obedience, sending a jolt of pain radiating up her shoulder. She cried out, then caught sight of the crimson stain marring her white blouse.
“Keep your hands up! Don’t make any sudden moves.” In her peripheral, she saw the man enter, taking cautious, steady steps, gun trained on her. His familiar uniform publicized his law enforcement authority. “Don’t move,” he repeated, then kicked the door closed behind him, sending another wave of cold air her way.
She winced and shivered,
