My head hit the inside of my car so hard that part of my brain was pulverized into liquid brain matter, and parts of fractured skull were driven into my brain. How long we sat broken and bleeding in my car, no one will ever know.
In the quiet town of Wellfleet, located on Cape Cod, the wood ticks outnumber the year-round residents. The locals fish for a living, while the omnipresent seagulls circle overhead, waiting their chance for a free meal as the day’s catch is cleaned and made ready for sale. Sunshine and miles of sandy beaches make for a beautiful and serene way of life.
Unless, of course, you’re dead. More specifically, murdered.
A violent crime in Wellfleet is a rarity. Until now. First, Walter Harrington, the friendly mailman, is found dead, and then, Abigail Snow, sister of John Snow, Wellfleet’s Chief of Police, dies mysteriously. The State Police take over both investigations and quickly announce the cause of death, in both cases, to be “natural causes.”
No one believes it, but why the cover-up?
Walter Harrington’s son, Jack, an officer in Military Intelligence, returns home from Afghanistan and starts to ask questions about his father’s untimely death.
Unknowingly, Jack kicks a hornet’s nest of lies and deceit that puts him front and center in not only solving his father and Abigail’s deaths, but also on the front line of fighting today’s opioid crisis.
I didn’t sleep a wink, tossing and turning all night as I wrestled with how to deliver presents that would be opened without fear of being infected with COVID-19.
I hardly touched my breakfast of pancakes with candy-cane syrup, my favorite. Even the hot chocolate tasted bitter. That was an impossibility, but so was not delivering presents on Christmas Eve. Getting up from the table, I wondered if this was something I would have to get used to. My heart sank at the possibility, and the smile disappeared from my face.