First Fall: Six Seasons Suspense Series, #1

By Harley Christensen

Six seasons to live. Six seasons to die. Sometimes killing Time is the only way to cheat Death.

Since escaping her tragic childhood where she was abandoned by not one but both parents and left to a bitter, unforgiving family, Harper Storm has mastered the art of being alone and is perfectly content blending into the shadows while the world goes about its merry, indifferent way. To Harper, life isn't great, but it's all hers.

Great, that is, until a bizarre encounter with a mysterious stranger shifts Harper's world on its axis.

When this messenger relays a cryptic prediction of death—Harper's—within six season's time, she's not sure what to make of the unsettling prophecy and at first, deals with it in the same way she has every other obstacle—she ignores it.  Soon, she finds the prediction nagging her at every turn, hijacking the semblance of normal she's so carefully concocted. And that pisses her off.

Just as she sets out to track the stranger down and demand answers—if she can even find her—a friend vanishes without warning and Harper surprises everyone, including herself, when she volunteers to lead the search.

Before long, her stellar skills as a chameleon leave her spinning when Harper finds herself slipping outside her comfort zone and into harm's way as she delves into the shocking truth behind the girl's disappearance. She realizes that in order to save the girl, she must also face the demons of her past and confront the reality of her unknown future.

But can Harper crush through her own barriers and rise to the occasion before time runs out?

First Fall is the first installment in the gripping, suspense-filled Six Seasons series, crafted by Harley Christensen, author of the Mischievous Malamute Mysteries.

Grab a copy of First Fall today and join Harper on her journey as she tackles the questions—what would you do if Death came knocking? And who are you willing to become to outsmart it? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harley Christensen
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386445180

Book preview

Chapter One

Storm’s the name.

Harper Storm.

There’s a lot of stuff that goes on in this world I can’t even begin to understand, much less form an opinion on. There was one thing I was certain of—I didn’t need a psychic to tell me that my mother’s obsession with controlling the future would catch up with me. I just hadn’t anticipated that when it finally did, it would come in the form of an expiration date.

Mine.

The first twenty-three minutes of the last normal day of my life started the same as every other. It was no wonder I was almost bored as I negotiated the hordes swarming the Embarcadero, blending into the crowd.

I smiled—that was the point, wasn’t it?

To be invisible.

I was caught off-guard when a young woman, no more than sixteen or seventeen, held my gaze as she zig-zagged through the sea of bodies. Her destination became clear as she reached me, blocking my path. Before I had a chance to side-step her, she asked to read my palm.

Annoyed, I shook my head, gave her a tight smile and tried to brush past when she grabbed my wrist, causing the cell phone I had been carrying to slip. I cursed as it bounced off the pavement.

It had cost me a month’s pay.

She bent to retrieve it, her eyes going wide as she started to place it in my palm. The one attached to the wrist she was cutting the circulation off to.

Six seasons… she gasped, dropping my hand before shoving the phone at me and disappearing into the crowd.

I shook my head and continued on to my destination, muttering under my breath, Six seasons…for what?

Chapter Two

I thought no more about the encounter when I returned to my tiny studio apartment a dozen hours later, tired, hungry and ready for a beer that I knew my fridge didn’t contain.

I passed the bathroom mirror and stared at the stranger looking back—a gaunt 24-year-old with limp, dingy hair, eyes that were too big and clothes that had seen a better decade. I sighed. Perhaps only having one mirror had its benefits.

When I was young and had people to call family, some of them used to say I favored my mother. I’ll admit, she’d been an attractive woman—at least what I still remembered of her—and had it not been for her increasingly peculiar behavior, I would have considered it a compliment. But the more time that had passed, the worse she had gotten and any beauty she might have had slipped into the darkness, much like the delusions that clouded her mind.

My earliest memories were of her dragging me all over the city until she convinced herself she’d found the right seer—as she’d preferred to call them—who she could ply with just the right incentive to tell her exactly what she wanted to hear.

It wasn’t enough that my father loved her, had a good job that afforded her a modest lifestyle and indulged her, no matter her current whim. She wanted—needed—someone to tell her that her present state of happiness would last, that the well would never run dry and her world would always be filled with daisies and sunshine and fluffy things.

But as tolerant and patient of a man as he had been, he was only human and her neurosis eventually drove him away. Or at least that was what he penned in his Dear Joanne letter the day he walked out of our lives.

It was not ironic, as my mother’s name was Joanne, though she saw it as a sign of things to come and an excuse to continue to seek solace from her myriad of psychics, all too happy to take her money and offer prophecies about her future. Even that was short-lived, as the money started running out and she drifted farther and farther from reality.

One morning, our routine started the same as it always had, with my mother popping a fistful of what she insisted were herbs and laughingly referred to as her little helpers. Of course, after I’d caught her chasing them with vodka months earlier, I quickly realized they were anything but, and more likely uppers and downers her boyfriend du jour had supplied.

On that particular day, however, she surprised me as we walked to the subway on a brisk New York morning. Before sending me off to school, she pressed a small trinket in the shape of a carousel horse into my hand, gave me an awkward peck on the cheek, followed by a quick wink and a playful laugh.

The last time I saw my mother, she was heading in the opposite direction to do whatever it was she did during the hours we were apart.

I’d forgotten about the rare gift until my aunt was waiting for me as I left school that day. Known more for her brevity than her tact, she informed me that shortly after we had parted ways that morning my mother had stepped off the subway platform as the southbound train descended upon her.

Rather than allowing the things she feared the most to control her any longer, she beat the future to the punchline by giving it the finger.

A lot of people—my aunt included—said it was a selfish gesture and all my mother had succeeded in doing when she’d escaped her fears was transfer her burdens onto me.

But that was my mother for you. And no pity party was ever going to change that—regardless of how many people were eager to host it.

What seemed like a lifetime now separated my mother’s destiny from my own. I sighed, tucking a stray crop of hair behind my ear as I frowned at my reflection. I contemplated removing the mirror altogether so that I wouldn’t have to face the inevitable but was distracted by the buzzing of my cell phone.

I cursed, hoping my boss wasn’t expecting me to take another shift. It would be my third today on a week where I’d already tripled up more times than I cared to remember. Still, I needed the money, so I answered hesitantly, not bothering to check the screen.

After all, who else would be calling?

No one.

The voice on the other end of the connection was definitely not my boss’, a gruff transplant from the south who had a smoker’s voice that would make the Marlboro man wince. Instead, it was feminine and vaguely familiar.

Six seasons… she whispered.

Listen, I don’t know who this is, or how you got this number but you’d better spit it out—

You’ve got six seasons and counting, Harper Storm. Six seasons…to live.

Chapter Three

Before I had a chance to respond with some snarky comeback, the line went dead.

I looked at the phone, contemplating whether to throw it against the wall or have it exorcised. I went for option three and tossed it onto the makeshift counter in my kitchen, which was nothing more than a hotplate and a fridge so small it would have bewildered a college student trying to stash his beer. I usually grabbed leftovers at the diner and ate standing up anyway, though I’d been too tired to bother today, figuring it was just best to get some shut-eye before my morning shift.

Working my sneakers off my tired aching soles, I placed them alongside the only two other pairs I owned: a vintage pair of Doc Marten’s boots and my backup work shoes—no less worn than their counterparts—and tucked them in the stowaway bin under the sofa bed, which was calling my name.

My phone rang just as I had gotten my pillow all nice and comfy. I planned on ignoring it and was relieved when it stopped ringing. My hopes were dashed when it accosted me again from the counter. Cursing, I reached for it and barely avoided tumbling off the sofa.

Listen, Assmunch, I don’t know how you got this number but all this heavy-breathing-cryptic-message shit is getting old—

Assmunch? The voice drawled.

I muttered another curse under my breath. Bob. The guy who paid me every week.

A small chuckle rumbled over the line. Yup, that would be the Assmunch to whom you are currently speakin’. Nope, I had nowhere to go with that one. Fortunately, Bob had more pressing matters on his mind. I need you to come back to work, darlin’. Josie’s kid has got the flu somethin’ fierce and she had to take off.

I don’t suppose this kid could have gotten sick before I trudged all the way home, I grumbled, and her name’s not Josie. It’s Jess.

Bob had a weird thing about naming his staff after Josie and The Pussycats and other characters from the Archie Comics. He preferred to call me Veronica—or Ronnie for short—though the only similarity I could see to that particular character was the color of my hair. Then again, I guess I should have been happy he hadn’t decided to call me Jughead.

Whatever. You’ll be here in ten?

Politely impatient. That was Bob for ya.

Make it twenty-five. And Bob?

Yeah, darlin’?

You owe me. Again.

A snort reverberated in my ear before he disconnected, leaving me to stare longingly at my pillow.

It looked lonely.

Like a good little soldier, I was dressed and back to the diner in twenty. Bob impatiently waved his flipper at me from behind the grill, gesturing to the patrons awaiting their meals.

I nodded at a few of the regulars as I tied my apron and grabbed the nearest coffee pot. Making the rounds, I noticed Tara juggling an armful of plates as a group of trendy-looking hipsters—frat boy types—made catcalls, each taking a turn smacking her butt as she passed.

She offered me a shy nod as I grabbed a couple of the dishes before they went flying and delivered them to the rowdy table.

You’re not our waitress, the hipster who’d squeezed his blockhead into a fedora commented.

Observant.

We work as a team here at Bob’s Diner. I flashed a smile as I placed his burger and fries in front of him. Would you like ketchup or mustard with that?

What we want is our waitress, the one I decided to call Sweatervest whined, while the guy with the stupid-looking baseball cap perched high on his head chomped noisily on his onion rings.

Given the bullet holes that riddled his hat and poor tableside manners, I could only assume Sporty was the group’s designated meathead.

She’s busy right now, so you boys will just have to deal with me, I replied, my tone as sweet as Bob’s tea.

"Get Tara back