The Beginning of Hope: The Killing of Faith Series, #2

By William Holms

"THE HIGHLY ANTICIPATED, MIND-BLOWING SEQUEL TO THE KILLING OF FAITH"
The Beginning of Hope continues the unforgettable story of Faith Brunick, a mother of three, trapped in a living nightmare. With no access to the outside world and no avenue of escape, her situation is hopeless. Faith is forgotten by everyone until Hope, her youngest daughter, sets out to find her mother. She will uncover the dark truths of love, family, betrayal, and the haunting question - Who can someone really trust? Her search for the truth will put her life in danger and may destroy the Brunick family forever.

How can anyone live with themselves after doing the unthinkable? How far would you go to keep your past a secret? In another page-turner, The Beginning of Hope will take you on an unforgettable ride full of twists and turns leading to a mind-blowing ending.

"WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

★★★★★ "Having thoroughly enjoyed The Killing of Faith I honestly did not think that the sequel would be so good but boy was I wrong. The Beginning of Hope was compelling reading which I found very hard to put down. I love the cliffhanger ending."

★★★★★. "Mr. Holms has outdone himself this time. The Beginning of Hope positions him as one of the best new thriller authors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Holms
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736190845

Book preview

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Thanks for reading my second book in my Killing of Faith series.

The incredible story continues with The Fall of Grace (Book 3) and the final book in the series, The Rise & Fall of Ryan (Book 4).

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Hope Brunick

To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose, under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die, A time to plant, A time to reap, A time to kill, a time to heal, A time to laugh, a time to weep.

….and a little child shall lead them

– CHAPTER 1 –

T

he alarm rings over the speakers waking me (and everyone else) from my sleep. It doesn’t sound like any alarm clock you’ve ever heard. It’s more like the chimes your doorbell makes when someone’s at the front door. Seven-thirty on the dot––always seven-thirty. I’ve been waking up to those same bells every morning for the last seven months. You see, sleeping in late is not part of the program.

My roommate (and now my best friend) and I roll out of bed, get dressed, and quickly wash our faces. Breakfast starts at eight. We get forty-five minutes to finish, which gives us plenty of time. After breakfast, I go back to my room, make my bed, and straighten things up. Keeping a clean room is a big part of the program, so I always clean it first thing in the morning. This starts your day with a positive feeling of accomplishment.

After I’m finished straightening

up my room, I go outside for my morning physical activity. Some girls jog, go on a hike, bicycle, rollerblade, or swim. When I first arrived, my roommate was really into yoga so I gave it a try. Now I love it and go every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning.

On Thursday mornings, I work in the fruit and vegetable garden I planted about a month after I arrived. It’s full of strawberries, eggplants, zucchini, lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, cantaloupes, and a handful of spices. After growing all summer, my little garden now helps feed everyone here. I’m especially proud of my strawberries. They’re bigger and sweeter than anything you can buy in the store. Several girls have gone out of their way to tell me how great they taste. It makes me feel good knowing I actually created something other people like.

Lunch starts at 11:30 a.m. There are lots of choices, and everything is pretty healthy. We always have plenty of time to eat and talk with each other. We never get tired of the talking part.

After lunch, everyone heads out for their normal daily activity. We can choose whatever activity we enjoy, but we’re encouraged to find one thing and stick with it. I try to paint once or twice a week. Otherwise, I play volleyball, canoe, or go horseback riding. I’ve developed a special bond with Daisy, the palomino paint I always ride. I’m happy just spending time alone with her. Every chance I get, I bring her carrots from my garden and brush her mane and tail.

Every evening after dinner, everyone meets for group therapy. This is just like it sounds. We all sit in a circle of chairs with a counselor guiding the discussions. After we break, we’re free to do whatever we want until bedtime. Sometimes I watch television, write letters, play games, or just hang out. Most of the time I just hang out.

Today is Tuesday. Every Tuesday, I go to my one-on-one counseling sessions with my therapist, Curtis Chastain. I walk into his office and sit in the same chair I’ve sat in since I first arrived. It’s a dark blue cloth chair with a matching blue and white pillow. I usually squeeze his pillow in my arms when things get tough. The deeper we dig, the tighter I squeeze.

Every time I walk into his office, Mr. Chastain stands up from his desk and welcomes me in like he’s inviting me into his house for dinner. Good morning, Hope, he says with the same cheerful voice he always has. It doesn’t matter if it’s rain or shine, cloudy or clear, summer or winter, he always greets me with the same voice and the same smile. I used to hate it because it sounded so fake––it had to be. No one can be that cheerful all the time. Surely he has bad days. He must argue with his wife, get angry at his kids, get stuck in traffic on the way to the office, or just arrive in a bad mood sometimes. Maybe he does or maybe he doesn’t, but you’d never know it in here. He always sounds like the best part of his day is me coming in, sitting on his blue chair, and telling him all about my problems.

Mr. Chastain closes his office door behind me. This blocks out all outside noise and keeps all my secrets safe inside. His office is soft and warm, with art on the wall and a bust of Sigmund Freud on a beautiful marble stand. He has diplomas hanging on the wall behind his desk from this and that university, different awards and certificates, and more psychology books on his shelves than I could read in my whole life. I once asked him if he’s actually read all these books. He looked at the shelves and said, Most of them. I didn't really believe him. It’s just too many books. I think most of these books are only here to convince us he’s some big shot who can solve all our problems.

There’s just one thing missing from his office––a couch to lie down on. On television there’s always a couch but not in here. On my second visit, I asked Mr. Chastain if he doesn’t have a couch because he’s afraid we might fall asleep. He laughed a little and wrote something down on his notebook pad. He’s always writing on his pad.

Now, seven months later, we’ve talked about everything. He knows more about me than anyone else in the world. I’d die if someone got their hands on his notebook pad and got to know the real me.

Believe it or not, I’m really going to miss this place. I have friends here who I love. Now it’s hard for me to see my life without them in it. I’m even going to miss Mr. Chastain. That’s right, I’ll even miss my therapist. 

This day might look like just another day, but it’s not. This is the first day of the rest of my life. So, this is your big day? Mr. Chastain begins after I’m settled in.

This is my big day, I agree.

How long has it been?

I sit up tall, smile, and say, Seven months, two weeks, four days, nine hours, and forty-two minutes. I made up the hours and minutes part, but the rest is spot on.

He laughs, gives me a little wink, and says, Forty-two minutes, huh?

I laugh back and say, Well, forty-three now.

I’m proud of you, Hope. You’ve come so far in that time. It takes some people years to come as far as you have in a matter of months. Some people never get there.

When I first came here, I hated this place. I hated my dad for sending me here.  I even hated you.

Me? he asks with a puzzled look.

Well, maybe not you, I tease back.

It’s no big surprise, he says. Most kids your age hate it at first.

You know, I say, getting a little choke up. I’ve made some great friends here. I’ll really miss them.

Hope, you’re going to be great. You have a personality that everyone loves. You’ll make new friends at school faster than you think.

I know, I say, closing my eyes and shrugging my shoulders. It just sucks, starting all over again.

Yes, but it’s also exciting. You have your whole life ahead of you.

The old ‘one door closes, and another one opens,’ I joke.

Exactly! he agrees. Hope, it’s impossible for you to understand, to fully grasp, how magnificent that really is. The world is waiting for you. Go out and embrace all it has to offer.

Mr. Chastain is full of these words of encouragement. I’ve committed many of them to memory. I haven’t told you this, I say, but I’ve been thinking about being a therapist just like you.

Really, he says, showing his surprise. How long have you been contemplating this?

I don’t know…over the last few weeks.

Hope, you have your diploma and your grades are great.  You made an excellent score on your SAT. You’re a smart young lady and you can be anything you want to be.

That’s what my dad says.

Well, he’s right, he says. After looking down at his notebook pad he looks up and asks, Have you heard back from any of the universities you applied to?

So far they’ve all been acceptance letters. I’m waiting to hear from Stanford.  I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

I’m sure you’ll do fine, he says. 

I should hear something any day now. The fact I haven’t heard anything yet is good news. They’ve already sent out rejection letters. I haven’t received one of those, so no news is good news.

So tell me, Hope, what’s your biggest fears going forward?

Here we go again. How’s that make you feel? What are you thinking right now? What’s your biggest fear? He asks these questions all the time. I was hoping on my last day that we would skip the, What’s your biggest fear question. I lower my head and think about his question, although I already know the answer. Honestly, my biggest fear is talking to my boyfriend. 

That can’t be easy, he agrees, giving me this sympathetic look. But you’re strong enough to do it.

I look down at my lap as the thought of seeing my boyfriend again runs through my mind. He’s all I wanted for years, and now it’s all over. It’s going to be so hard, I mumble. I know it’s right, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.

I’m really proud of you, Hope, he says, looking directly at me and then back down at his pad. What about your mom?

He knows I don’t enjoy talking about my mom (my real mom), but he always finds a way to bring her back into the conversation. I take a deep breath before I answer. My mom…I know you want me to find my mom, but ––

After I stop without saying more, he looks at me and asks, What is it?

I don’t know, I shrug.

What are you afraid of, Hope? he asks.

It’s just…. it’s just that it’s so hard. I haven’t seen her since I was six.  I don’t even remember her. I never really knew her.

Hope, I know you have a lot of anger towards your mom and that’s normal.

I raise my arms like I’m surrendering to the police or something. I just don’t see how any mom can walk out on her own kids. Who runs off with some guy and just disappears?

It hurts when our mom or dad abandons us, doesn’t it? he asks.

I nod my head in agreement. I wish he would change the subject, but I know he won’t.

Hope, so much of the hurt you feel today goes back to your relationship with your mom.

It makes me angry, I admit. It all makes me angry.

Anger is normal, but holding on to anger is like––

Just more of his words of wisdom. I know, I know, I say. Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.

That’s right Hope, he says. Have you had any luck finding her?.

I slowly shake my head, still showing my anger. Honestly, I haven’t really tried. I was hoping I could skip that part.

I think that would be a mistake, he warns me for the third time in less than a month.

I know almost nothing about her. Maybe my dad can help me when I get back home.

Very good. This will be your homework, okay?

Sure, I say, pretending to write with an imaginary pen on my imaginary pad. Homework number one…break up with my boyfriend.  Homework number two...find my mom who walked out on me when I was just a little girl.

Hope, when you get back to Austin, I want you to meet with a therapist once a week at first, then we’ll taper it down.

No problem, I say, and pull out my imaginary pen again. Number three, go to more therapy.

It’s not a permanent thing. Just to help you transition back into your new life.

No problem, I repeat.

Well….what time is your dad picking you up?

I wanted some time after lunch to pack my stuff and tell everyone goodbye.

Our sessions are always fifty minutes––except for the few at the beginning when I walked out early. Today, he stands up from his chair almost twenty minutes early and says, Well, you should probably get ready.

As he comes around his desk I follow his lead, but instead of leaving out the door like I’ve done every time before, I meet him at the corner of his desk, reach out, and give him a hug for the first time since we met. I lay my head on his chest as my eyes fill with tears. What the hell! I did not see this coming. As the first tear spills down my cheek, I hold him close and say, Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

You did it Hope, he says. I just helped a little.

I know, I whisper. I just wanted you to know how grateful I am.

Hope, this is why I chose this job. To see someone like you come such a long way makes it all worthwhile. You’re going to be great.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and pull away. I think I got your jacket wet, I joke.

You’re not the first, he says, giving me one last hug. I'm sure you won’t be the last.

Back in my room, I sit on my bed and look around. My bedroom here is small, with two beds and a nightstand along each wall and a tiny bathroom that I share with my roommate. It’s not nearly as big as the large, beautiful bedroom I have all to myself at home. That bedroom has a large bay window overlooking the swimming pool, a walk-in closet, and my own bathroom.

I pack everything I own (which ain’t much) and take my paintings off the wall. I plan on hanging them in my bedroom back home. Next, I clean out my desk. Sitting on my desk is a 5x7 photo of me and my mom and dad standing side-by-side on the Brooklyn Bridge when I was sixteen years old. Inside my desk, hidden in one of my favorite books, is a picture of my boyfriend and me. He’s wearing his football jersey, and I’m standing beside him in my cheerleader uniform with the giant corsage he bought me for homecoming pinned to my chest. I’m leaning against him with his arm around my shoulder. Mr. Chastain once talked to me about getting rid of it, but it’s my only reminder of him so I can’t let it go.

When I’m finished packing, I put all my belongings in a nice little stack on my bed and walk down the hall to the center lounge area where we all meet every evening for group therapy.

– CHAPTER 2 –

S

hortly after I walk in and sit down, all my friends come out of the kitchen carrying a chocolate cake (my favorite) with one large candle in the middle. I’ve laughed with, cried with, and shared things with these girls that no one else knows. I love most of them as much as I love my own sister, Grace. Every time someone leaves the program, we bake them a cake and bring them cards and gifts. I knew it was coming, but I still get emotional.

Things weren’t always like this. When I first came here, I refused to say anything. I was so angry at being taken away from my boyfriend, who I loved. I couldn’t make phone calls, text, or send emails because they took away my cell phone on the first day I arrived. I felt like I was somewhere between a prison and a mental hospital. Everyone seemed crazy. I hated being forced to listen to a bunch of strangers talk about all their personal problems, so I sat here without saying a word. I wasn’t one of them, and I didn’t belong here. I spent most my time waiting and planning for the right time to bolt.

The right time came two weeks later––about an hour before bedtime. I grabbed some carrots from the kitchen and told everyone I was going outside to brush Daisy. The horse stalls are located at the far end of the yard, which made for the perfect escape. I stayed in her stall for ten or fifteen minutes and then I ran, and ran, and ran––until I was free. Well, at least I thought I was free. I soon learned that freedom isn’t free at all. It comes with a price that I had no ability to pay.

I ran to the closest gas station and called my boyfriend to come pick me up. He answered my call, sounding a bit groggy and very surprised. He told me he’d catch the first plane to Florida the next morning. We agreed to meet back here at the same gas station.

I spent the night sleeping against a wall in a park. Between the chill in the air, dogs barking, and some creepy guy sleeping on a bench who kept looking over, I didn’t really get much sleep. I returned to the gas station the next day at our agreed meeting time and waited for my boyfriend to pick me up. I was pretty excited to get the heck out of Florida, but he never showed up. A terrible feeling swept over me when he didn’t pick up on my first call––or the next five.

Maybe he was on his way. All day and all night, I waited and called, and waited and called, but he never arrived or answered my calls. I finally gave up. I was all alone in a city where I knew no one, had no money, no change of clothes, and no car. At two o’clock in the morning, I finally gave up and returned to the Bluebonnet Recovery Center. By the time I got there, I was in tears. This was the point when I got serious about the program.

A week after I returned with my tail between my legs, I finally stood up and introduced myself to the group. Three days after that, I sat with my arms crossed and joined the conversation. Well, it wasn’t some great breakthrough––far from it. I stood up, told everyone I didn’t belong here, and walked right out the room. 

I’m not sure what came over me. I really wanted to belong, but I didn’t have the desire to take any steps––not even baby steps. This was not what I wanted––to be forced to be friends with crazy people and drug addicts. I wasn’t crazy or a drug addict––but here I was.

The very next day, I completely broke down and cried in front of everyone. I turned to the girl sitting next to me, who took me in her arms. Her name is Dawn, and she’s now my roommate and my best friend. 

Most girls in our group have spent so many years hiding their hurt from the rest of the world and looking for some way, any way, to cope. Some turn to alcohol, drugs, food, and sex. Some cut their own bodies. Others simply withdraw into their own world.

By sharing our stories (often for the first time in our lives) we learned from each other, developed a fellowship, built a strong bond, and started our emotional healing. The more everyone opened up, the more we understood and trusted each other.

I’ve watched so many girls join our group who, just like me, want to get the hell out of here. I eventually became a mentor. I helped other girls who were angry about being here to deal with their anger, take part in the program, and bond with each other. Eventually, I led many of our discussions. I’m leaving here today feeling really good that, in a small way, I made a difference in the world.

Now here we are––together for the very last time. Each time someone leaves, it’s bittersweet. Everyone’s happy I’m going home, but at the same time, they’re sad I’m leaving. We all hug, laugh, cry, and share stories from our time together. These friends know me, the real me, and I love them all. It’s really crazy, but now that I’m ready to leave this place, I no longer want to go. 

In the middle of our goodbye party, my father, Ryan, my step-mother, Kate, and my little brother, Ben, walk into the room. Kate may be my step-mom, but she’s my mother as far as I’m concerned. They’ve been here several times over the past seven months. They already met my therapist and most of my friends. When I see them walk in, I jump from my chair, and yell, Daddy, and run right up and throw my arms around my dad’s neck.

Hey baby, he says, picking me off my feet and lowering me back down again.

Next, I hug my mom and my brother who’s now sixteen years old. I grab three plates, cut them each a piece of cake, and add a scoop of ice cream. Everyone here already knows my dad, who’s been coming up at least once a week. I introduce my mom and brother, and we pick up where we left off.

A short time later, my therapist walks into the room and shakes my dad’s hand. Do you mind if we visit for a second? he asks.

Of course, my dad answers and follows him into his office. 

Once inside his office, Mr. Chastain says, You should be very proud of Hope.

I am, Ryan agrees with a smile.

Hope has a lot of healthy interests now. It’s important she continues the things she loves, like gardening, painting, yoga, and writing.

Definitely, my dad agrees.

Her grades are fantastic. There’s no reason she won’t be very successful in college. She’s even talking about being a therapist.

Ryan looks a little surprised. A therapist! I think that’s wonderful.

Hope understands there are people she’s better off not returning to. We think it’s better she breaks things off with her boyfriend. We don’t want the same temptations, do we? he warns.

Of course not, Ryan says,