She had been writing since eight that morning. She would like to be in the basement parking garage right now instead of her office. Her office suite on the thirty-fourth floor put her close enough to the storm she could hear the air sizzle in the split second before the boom. She frowned, crossed out the last sentence, added a new detail, then went on with her description of the farmer who had found the boy. The impact was necessary for the rest of the book. Sara did not pull back from writing the scene even though she knew it would leave a bitter taste of defeat in the mind of the reader. His family, the Oklahoma law enforcement community, even his kidnapper, did not realize it. The child had died within hours of his abduction. Despite the dark specificity of the scene, the flow of words never faltered. Writing longhand on a yellow legal pad of paper, she shaped the twenty-ninth chapter of her mystery novel. What she was writing was disturbing enough. The desk lamp as well as the overhead light were on in her office as she tried to prevent any shadows from forming. Sara Walsh ignored the storm as best she could, determined not to let it interrupt her train of thought. The summer storm lit up the night sky in a jagged display of energy, lightning bouncing, streaking, fragmenting between towering thunderheads.
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