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In a small Texas town, murder brings home the unforgotten past. Twenty years ago, as Hurricane Althea lashed Central Texas, twelve-year-old Jordan Poteet and his friends decided to ride it out in their tree house. But in the still eye of the tempest, they raced for safety--and stumbled over the body of a beautiful girl. Now, the six schoolmates who shared the grisly sight of death so long ago are being coolly murdered, one by one, day by day. By whom? Why? Unless Jordan and Police Chief Junebug Moncrief, another survivor of the storm, can answer those questions fast, it will be their turn to die. . . . Read more Continue reading Read less ABOUT THE AUTHOR Jeff Abbott is the nationally bestselling, award-winning author of multiple novels of mystery and suspense. His novels have been called "exciting, shrewd, and beautifully crafted" (Chicago Tribune) , "fresh, original . . . intricately woven" (Publishers Weekly) , and "excellent" (South Florida Sun-Sentinel) . A fifth-generation Texan, he spent his childhood in Austin and Dallas with parents and grandparents who loved to tell stories. He lives in Austin with his wife and two sons. --This text refers to the paperback edition. FROM THE INSIDE FLAP In a small Texas town, murder brings home the unforgotten past. Twenty years ago, as Hurricane Althea lashed Central Texas, twelve-year-old Jordan Poteet and his friends decided to ride it out in their tree house. But in the still eye of the tempest, they raced for safety--and stumbled over the body of a beautiful girl. Now, the six schoolmates who shared the grisly sight of death so long ago are being coolly murdered, one by one, day by day. By whom? Why? Unless Jordan and Police Chief Junebug Moncrief, another survivor of the storm, can answer those questions fast, it will be their turn to die. . . . --This text refers to the massmarket edition. EXCERPT. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THEN Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them, where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. - Alfred, Lord Tennyson In Memoriam PROLOGUE AUGUST 12 - TWENTY YEARS AGO "What you fellows dont understand," Trey Slocum growled, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, "is that you got to stare death in the face to be a real man." The rest of us soon-to-be seventh-graders werent quite so sure; outside, the wind howled fiercely, rattling the tree house and moaning with the promise of tragedy. I knelt on the rough wooden floorboards and risked being called a yellow-liver sissy by peeking out the small, open window. "Whats wrong, Jordy, you got to see if the bad ol storms comin?" Trey jeered, kicking my sneakers with his muddy cowboy boots. He was awful proud of those boots, always claiming they were hand-tooled leather from his uncle over in Giddings. I had a half a mind to tear one off his foot, throw it into the storm, and let him fetch it. "My daddy says hurricanes are real bad news. They aint no ladies," Little Ed Dickensheets said, trying to keep a note of panic out of his voice. Hed been whining since birth. "Shut up, Dick-in-Mouth," Clevey Shivers teased, and then, of course, Little Ed was all over Clevey, pummeling him with fists. Clevey outweighed Little Ed by about twenty pounds, so he just rolled on the tree-house floor as Little Ed tried to inflict damage, laughing in counterpoint to the lament of the wind. Little Ed exhausted himself soon enough and gave up, rolling off Clevey, honor served by his effort. Clevey yawned, his normally red face a little more florid. I believed Little Eds daddy, Big Ed, was a wise man. Clouds blackened the sky above the Colorado River and the wind shrieked through the tree branches like a vengeful banshee. They called the storm Althea on the TV news, and she was bearing down on Central Texas like a mother who, sick and tired of calling you home for supper, brandished a hickory switch in her hand. "She was a hurricane only when she hit the coast," Trey said knowingly. "She done spent herself hitting Corpus Christi. They start dyin over land. Shes just a tropical storm now." Trey always spoke in this way, as if the secrets of the universe had been revealed to him and to no one else. We didnt much challenge him on it because he was too cool for words. "My mamas gonna whip me good for staying out in this," Junebug Moncrief fretted, scratching his brown bur of hair. I wouldnt be worried about his mama if I were him; I always thought his daddy was a sight meaner. My own daddy wasnt going to be too pleased about my afternoon, either. Trey pushed his black cowboy hat back and surveyed us sitting around him, scowling, his night-dark eyes ranging across each of us: me, Junebug, tanned Little Ed, red-haired Clevey, and blond and bespectacled Davis Foradory, who sat placidly playing solitaire, smoking a menthol cigarette, and ignoring the rest of us. "Yall are just a bunch of little chickenshits." Trey snorted. "Yall were all gung-ho to sit out this hurricane in the tree house and swear to be blood brothers in the very face of death itself, and now yall just want to run home and cry against your mamas aprons." The tree creaked loudly as the wind surged, and Little Eds brown eyes widened, as though that crying-in-the-apron suggestion wasnt a bad one at all. I patted him on the shoulder; Little Ed Dickensheets truly was the littlest of us, still eleven and scrawny for his age. We picked on him but didnt let anyone else. Plus, with that surname of his, he needed our protection. Davis Foradory pushed up his glasses and cut his playing cards in the slow, measured manner in which he did all things. "Theyre going to be looking for us, you numbnuts. We probably got another ten minutes left till one of yalls mamas calls my mamaw and she comes out here to see if this is where were at.&q