Out of nowhere, p.1
Out of Nowhere, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Sandra Brown Management, Ltd.
Cover design by Albert Tang
Cover photograph of lightning by DEEPOL/plainpicture/Jason Persoff Stormdoctor
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBNs: 9781538742945 (hardcover), 9781538757062 (signed edition), 9781538757079 (signed edition, bn.com), 9781538766668 (large print), 9781538742976 (ebook)
E3-20230622-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 11
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 14
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 23
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
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Reading Group Guide Discussion Questions
Backstory
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Author’s Note
Out of Nowhere isn’t a story about death. It’s a story about survival.
The destinies of two strangers collide in an instant of unthinkable tragedy. If not for that unpredictable, inexplicable occurrence, it’s unlikely that Elle and Calder ever would have met. But because of a caprice of physics, their fates became intertwined.
I didn’t particularly want to write a story that begins with a mass shooting. In fact, it’s a subject I would ordinarily avoid. I react, as I’m sure you do—as we all do—to hearing of another shooting with dismay, repugnance, and abject sadness. Caught in a situation of such incomprehensible ruthlessness, I can’t even imagine the terror one experiences.
But, as storytellers are wont to do, I did. Imagined, that is.
I tried to imagine how one copes after surviving such a horrifying, traumatic event. How does one pick up where one’s life left off and attempt to rebuild it, reshape it into some form of normalcy when pieces of it are now fractured or missing?
I confess that even as I was writing this story, I knew my words were inadequate to describe the rending of heart and spirit that Elle and Calder were suffering.
To anyone reading it who has come even close to an experience such as that of my characters, I apologize for presuming that I know what it’s like. I don’t. But I did my best, with as much authenticity and empathy as I could, to portray the struggle of staying afloat in the wake of a catastrophe.
In news reports, “another mass shooting” has become such a familiar refrain that it’s far too easy to tune it out, to forget the name of that school, that town, that place of worship, that shopping mall or entertainment venue or office building where lives were lost and others shattered. We as a society, as individual human beings, must never become inured.
So, back to what motivated me to write this story? I suppose it was to honor the casualties. I rank the survivors among them.
Sandra Brown
Prologue
For the record…
In the unlikely event they catch me, it will be assumed that I am mad.
That will be correct, but only if people are using the word mad as a synonym for angry.
To do such a thing as what I’m planning, one doesn’t have to be mentally unstable. I’m quite sane. I’m rational. I don’t appear or act like a crazed individual, because I’m not.
Irate is what I am.
Fury roils inside me. It has for a while now. Others with a purpose similar to mine make the stupidest blunder possible by announcing to the world what they intend to do before they do it. They air their grievances on social media. They entrust so-called friends with their most morbid thoughts. They commit their maniacal fantasies to paper, drawing ghastly depictions of death and destruction. They fill notebooks with pages of scribbled nonsense that, afterward, psychiatrists and FBI profilers try to decipher in order to pinpoint a motive for their deed, which is usually described as “senseless.”
But what’s senseless is the analyzing. It’s a waste of time and tax revenue. The individual who committed the act wasn’t necessarily insane, or afflicted with a personality-altering brain tumor, or suffering a rare chemical imbalance, or cursed from conception with a domineering id.
No. Chances are he was simply pissed off.
That’s me. I’m pissed off but good. And I’m going to vent my anger in a way that will be remembered and lamented. But I’m not going to make the mistake of advertising it first. Those other morons who don’t exercise patience get captured, or annihilated by SWAT team bullets, or take their own lives.
I have no intention of any of that happening to me. I’m confident that I’ll get away with it.
I’ll use this gun. It’s untraceable. I made sure of that. It’s never been used in the commission of a crime. It’s portable and easily concealed but no less deadly than an AR-15 rifle.
See? I’ve thought this through.
There’s only one catch, a single, slightly worrisome hitch: I don’t know when or where my plan will be implemented. Out of necessity, I’ll have to go with the situation, whatever it is, when it presents itself.
But I’m no fool. If the setting doesn’t feel right, or there’s a large police presence, or any other unfavorable factor, I’ll know to scrub the assault and save it for another day.
I’ve been disappointed by several postponements. The circumstances would seem at first to be ideal, and I would think, This is it! Then something would happen that would prevent me from acting. Once it was a thunderstorm. Another time, where otherwise the conditions were ideal, an old man suffered a stroke. Wouldn’t you know it? Security guards and EMTs swarmed. I would have been a fool to proceed.
These delays are frustrating and infuriating and leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
But while being unable to choose my time and place is a drawback, immediacy could work to my advantage. I won’t give myself away by a slip of the tongue, no accidental tip-off that would alert someone to my intentions or arouse curiosity.
Another benefit to acting in the moment is that when the opportunity does present itself and I realize that all systems are go, I won’t have time to get nervous and overthink it. I’ll have to act purposefully and without hesitation.
Which is why I stay constantly prepared. I’m vigilant. At the drop of a hat, I’ll be ready. When the time is right, I’ll know it. And I’ll do it.
And the best part? No one will suspect me.
Chapter 1
You claimed to be the best, and, by damn, you are.” Beaming a smile, the CEO of John Zimmerman Industries handed over a bank receipt. “As of an hour ago, your fee plus the bonuses you chalked up were deposited into your account.”
“Thank you.” Calder Hudson checked the receipt for accuracy. The account number was correc
“Everything seems to be in order.” Calder folded the receipt and slid it into the breast pocket of his bespoke suit coat, smiling at the group of upper-management personnel clustered around him. “It’s been my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen. May I use JZI as a reference?”
The CEO replied on behalf of those assembled. “Of course, of course. We’ll provide a glowing review.”
Calder raised an eyebrow. “With an emphasis on discretion.”
There was a ripple of chuckles.
“Goes without saying,” said the CEO.
Calder nodded with satisfaction, thanked them as a group, then, with the bearing of a cleric doling out blessings, went around the circle shaking hands with each. He wished them a good evening, picked up his briefcase, and left the conference room.
As he made his way to the elevator, he kept his stride and carriage deceptively casual, but inside his head, it was Mardi Gras, baby! and he was grand marshal of the parade.
It was a long ride down from the top floor of the steel and glass Dallas skyscraper to the subterranean parking garage, but Calder’s blood was still fizzing with self-congratulations as he stepped off the elevator and gave himself a fist pump. His whoop echoed through the near-empty concrete cavern.
As prearranged, his Jaguar had been left in a first-row, VIP parking slot. For three months and change, he’d been tooling around in a rental car and was ever so glad to have his sleek sports model back.
He kissed his fingertips, then tapped them against the roof of the car. “Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?” He shrugged out of his coat and set it and his briefcase in the passenger seat, then started the motor, thrilling to the aggressive growl he’d sorely missed.
He backed out, and, as he took the sharp curves on his climb up the parking levels to the exit, his tires screeched menacingly. “Badass at the wheel,” he whispered through a smug grin as he shot out of the garage and onto the city street.
It was after business hours; rush-hour traffic had abated. But no other motorist would have dared to get in his way. Not today. He blew through yellow lights at several downtown intersections before taking a ramp onto the freeway.
He slid on his sunglasses against the blood orange–red streaks painted across the sky by the setting sun, then accessed his phone from the steering wheel.
Shauna answered on the second ring and said, “Helloooo there, handsome.”
“Helloooo, beautiful.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, can’t say the same for some, but I had a great day.”
“I can hear it in your voice. It’s oozing conceit.”
“I’m trying my best to suppress it, but, you know…”
“Yes, I do know. I’ve heard it before, and it’s insufferable.”
He grinned. “You suffer it, though, don’t you?”
“Don’t be smug. Where are you?”
“Headed home. What about you?”
“Home? You’re supposed to be on your way here.”
Calder’s elation dimmed several watts as he now remembered that Shauna had to work this evening. Damned if he could remember what she had scheduled. “You’re still at the studio?”
“No, on location at the fair. I’m killing time in the van while the crew sets up for the interview.” She huffed with exasperation. “You forgot, didn’t you? Honestly, Calder. You said you’d come.”
A fair. Right. “I said I would think about it.” He hadn’t had to think about it. He’d known when he’d told her he would that he wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to any county fair. “How long will you be?”
“I’m doing the interview an hour before the concert starts. I want to capture some of his backstage energy before his performance. I don’t have to stay for the entire thing, but I’ll be here for a while yet.”
None of what she’d said sat well with him. “I just completed my biggest contract. I’m over a hundred grand richer, and the bigwigs were practically kissing me over the privilege of paying me. I’m ready to get the party started.”
“We’ll party. It’ll just start a few hours later.”
A few hours?
She was saying, “… because at the last minute, the producer squeezed the interview into tonight’s ten o’clock newscast.”
“Who’s that important? Is the president in town?”
“Better. Bryce Conrad.”
“Who’s that?”
“Only the brightest rising star in country music,” she said, not even trying to conceal her excitement.
“Never heard of him.”
“You have so! I told you that he’s generally camera shy but that he’d granted me an interview. You and I talked about it for ten minutes.” A pause, then, “But I knew you weren’t paying attention.”
“Give me a break, okay? I’ve been focused on work. This was a high-stakes week for me.”
“For me, too, Calder,” she snapped. “If you’d been listening, you’d know that my getting a one-on-one with Bryce Conrad was a coup. A big one. Entertainment Tonight called this afternoon. They’re doing a feature on him over the weekend and may add some sound bites from my interview to it. So, you’re not the only one who had a great day, okay? By the way, thank you for asking.”
If they continued in this vein, the high he was on would crash and burn. He really didn’t want to lose the good buzz he had going to a quarrel over some Johnny-come-lately country singer.
He’d play nice. “Look, I’m sorry. I should have paid closer attention. That’s great about ET.”
Mollified, she said, “Even if they don’t air any of this interview, I’m at least on their radar.”
“All the more reason for us to celebrate tonight. What’s your ETA at home? I’ll have the champagne chilled.”
“Won’t you please come here as planned?”
“To that fair?” He snorted. “Shauna, get serious.”
“It’s a bit of a drive, but—”
“It’s practically in freakin’ Oklahoma.”
“It’s forty-five minutes if you use the express lanes. Please. It’ll be fun.”
“Compared to what? A colonoscopy? Besides, you’ll be working, which will leave me a hanger-on, standing around and playing pocket pool.”
“By the time you get here, I’ll probably be finished with the interview. Come on. It’s a beautiful evening.”
“Shauna—”
“I’ll leave a pass for you at the north gate. There’s reserved parking there, too. Text when you get here, and I’ll tell you where to find me. We’ll stay through a few songs and then leave. I promise.”
“I can’t think of anything I feel less like doing tonight than going to a county fair. Good luck with the interview. I’ll see you at home. Bye.”
Calder clicked off. Anger and resentment had deflated his buoyant mood. He punched up the volume of his car radio, then, irritated by the song selection, switched it off altogether.
Having felt flush with success, he’d anticipated Shauna’s hot body and cold champagne to be waiting for him between silk sheets when he got home. A crowded, gritty fairground was as far removed from that fantasy as you could get. He had every right to be pissed.
But after covering a mile or two on the freeway, he eased off the accelerator and grudgingly acknowledged that it was his fault he’d forgotten her commitment tonight. Obviously getting this interview was important to the furtherance of her career, and she was all about that escalation.
When she did get home, she would be sulky if not silent. He’d get the deep-freeze treatment. Forget about sex. Out of the question.
On the other hand, what if he showed up at the fairground unexpectedly and surprised her? He would say, I acted like an ass. I’m sorry. Which he wouldn’t mean in the depths of his soul, but the apology would, in all probability, create a thaw sufficient to get him laid tonight, which was a priority.
All things considered…
He whipped in front of an eighteen-wheeler, whose driver blasted him with his horn. Calder gave him the finger, gunned the Jag, and aimed it toward the exit.
“Charlie, Charlie, look here. Look at Mommy.”
Using her cell phone camera, Elle managed to capture a slobbery, toothy grin as her son glided past her on the mini carousel. On the next revolution, she got several seconds of video of him waving to her, coached to do so by her friend Glenda, who had graciously offered to take a turn on the ride since this was Charlie’s fifth time.
