SOMEWHERE
A Sawtooth Mountains Story
by
Susan Fanetti
THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS
Somewhere © 2016 Susan Fanetti
All rights reserved
Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI
THE NIGHT HORDE MC SAGA:
The Signal Bend Series:
(The First Series)
Move the Sun, Book 1
Behold the Stars, Book 2
Into the Storm, Book 3
Alone on Earth, Book 4
In Dark Woods, Book 4.5
All the Sky, Book 5
Show the Fire, Book 6
Leave a Trail, Book 7
The Night Horde SoCal:
(The Second Series)
Strength & Courage, Book 1
Shadow & Soul, Book 2
Today & Tomorrow, Book 2.5
Fire & Dark, Book 3
Dream & Dare, Book 3.5
Knife & Flesh, Book 4
Rest & Trust, Book 5
Calm & Storm, Book 6
Nolan: Return to Signal Bend
Love & Friendship
The Brazen Bulls MC:
Crash, Book 1
Twist, Book 2
Slam, Book 3
The Pagano Family Series:
Footsteps, Book 1
Touch, Book 2
Rooted, Book 3
Deep, Book 4
Prayer, Book 5
Miracle, Book 6
The Pagano Family: The Complete Series
The Northwomen Sagas:
God’s Eye
Heart’s Ease
Soul’s Fire
Father’s Sun
For my husband, who is my somewhere.
Chapter List
Somewhere Song List
A Note from the Author
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
PART TWO
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
PART THREE
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
PART FOUR
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
PART FIVE
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
PART SIX
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Somewhere Song List:
Chapter 1: Noah and the Whale, “Blue Skies”
Chapter 2: The Lumineers, “Sleep on the Floor”
Chapter 3: U2, “Running to Stand Still”
Chapter 4: Jason Lytle, “Brand New Sun”
Chapter 5: Kenny Chesney, “Who’d You Be Today”
Chapter 6: Amber Run, “I Found Love”
Chapter 7: The Oh Hellos, “Hello My Old Heart”
Chapter 8: U2, “The First Time”
Chapter 9: JJ Heller, “Where I Land”
Chapter 10: Lady Antebellum, “Just a Kiss”
Chapter 11: Phillip Phillips, “Gone, Gone, Gone”
Chapter 12: Amos Lee, “Wait Up for Me”
Chapter 13: Eric Church, “Give Me Back My Hometown”
Chapter 14: The White Buffalo, “Love Song #1”
Chapter 15: Imagine Dragons, “Demons”
Chapter 16: Jewel, “Life Uncommon”
Chapter 17: Avril Lavigne, “Keep Holding On”
Chapter 18: The All-American Rejects, “Move Along”
Chapter 19: Beck, “Waking Light”
Chapter 20: Iron & Wine, “The Trapeze Swinger”
Chapter 21: For King & Country, “It’s Not Over Yet”
Chapter 22: Iron & Wine, “Resurrection Fern”
Chapter 23: The Wailin’ Jennys, “Storm Comin’”
Chapter 24: Joshua Radin, “Brand New Day”
A Note from the Author
I published this novel in 2016 under the pseudonym Jenny Gavin, but almost immediately had second thoughts about that choice and ended up unpublishing it after a couple of weeks. At the time, I planned to leave Somewhere and any plans for more books in a series about this world in the trash heap of mistakes made and lessons learned.
But lately, my muse wants to return to the world and write more, so I’ve decided to release it again, this time under my own name. I’ve learned something about pen names—to wit, that I’m not the kind of author, or person, who should try to write under a name not her own.
You can read a fuller explanation on my blog, here:
https://susanfanetti.com/2017/07/03/inspiration-upended-plans-third-thoughts-confessions-of-an-anxious-writer/
If you read Somewhere in its first life, then I want you to know that this version is the same, with only minor edits. The only real content edit is a significant reduction of the pet name Heath uses for Gabe, which ran away with me a bit in the book’s first iteration.
If you’re encountering this book for the first time, then I want you to know that this book is different from my other work, in that the world is much safer overall. It still came out of my head, and I wasn’t trying to write like anyone else, so there are similarities in theme, of course. But this is not a world where the characters are routinely armed or routinely encounter life or death situations.
In this world, I can and do guarantee ironclad HEAs for the lead characters.
I hope you enjoy your visit to Jasper Ridge, Idaho.
Cheers,
Susan
PART ONE
Chapter One
She’d been in courtrooms countless times during the past two-plus years, and in this one almost daily for weeks, but every time she sat down in the gallery, she felt the same sense of ill discomfort.
Nothing good happened in a room like this. Even if justice was served, whatever that meant, that justice was only offered because something terrible had happened.
It was an awful room, a room where awful things were relived and happened all over again, and where the only kind of hope that could breathe was a black hope for someone else’s pain.
That black hope was the only thing she knew how to feel anymore. It radiated from her scars and wrapped around her organs. It leaned on her thoughts every day and on her dreams each night.
But today would be the last day she’d have to sit on this hard seat and square her shoulders against the room’s ill air. Tomorrow, perhaps, she’d be able to shrug herself free of the past.
One more day in this room.
The first time she’d sat down in a room like this,
she’d been too terrified of what loomed ahead of her to really notice the room itself, or the people in it—besides the one who sat at the table on the left, facing the bench. Him, she always noticed. He seemed to fill that chair even when he wasn’t in the room.
In all the days since the first day, in the many long lulls between horrors, she’d had ample time to memorize this room—the walls, the seats, the tables, the seal on the wall behind the bench. This courtroom in the District Court in Santa Fe, New Mexico looked much like the courtrooms they showed on television. And yet it lacked the imposing substance of those make-believe rooms, even though, in this one, real cases were tried, and real people’s lives hung in the balance.
It was just a room. Empty, it was nearly featureless. One might even mistake it for innocuous.
When she’d sat down on this day, the room had been nearly empty. She liked to arrive as early as allowed, because she’d discovered that people noticed her less often when she was already seated. They paid attention to those who came in after them, not those who’d arrived before, and she didn’t want to be noticed. She’d had enough of notice in this room.
Today, she knew, she wouldn’t be able to avoid it. It might have been better to stay home and watch the news, or wait for a phone call. But she wanted to hear the words when they were spoken.
So she sat in the back row and watched the lawyers at their seemingly bland prep work, and watched the people file in, the looky-loos and reporters, and waited to hear the words.
By the time the defendant was brought in from a side door, wearing the one Men’s Wearhouse suit he owned—black—the one good dress shirt—white—the one silk tie—yellow—the one pair of dress shoes—black—and the ankle and wrist shackles—silver—the courtroom had filled to capacity, and the deputies had closed the doors. There was a rumble of rumor and gossip as the shackled man was led to his chair and the bailiff locked his bonds to the table. Even over that excited hum, she could hear the metallic jingle of the chains.
Between the heads of the spectators filling the distance between them, she saw him turn and scan the room. He always did that, every day. Normally, she did what she could to be sure he couldn’t pick her out of the crowd, and normally she was successful.
Today, though, she didn’t try. When he found her, their eyes locked, and for the first time in weeks, perhaps months, they really saw each other.
He smiled. She didn’t.
And then the bailiff called everyone to rise, and the defendant turned away.
The judge entered, and everyone sat again, and she stared at the back of the man in the Men’s Wearhouse suit. Normally, she didn’t bother to pay attention until the lawyers began to talk; she had the beginning part of each trial day memorized.
But today was different. The main part of the trial was over. A guilty verdict had been rendered. Evidence in the sentencing phase had been presented. Today, they had all gathered to hear the sentence imposed.
So once the bailiff had finished calling the case, the judge—a tiny woman with a grey bob and a white lace collar—said immediately, “The defendant will rise.”
And in the back row, it was all she could do to keep her seat.
The defendant rose, his shackles jingling. She noticed that he’d gotten a fresh haircut over the weekend. His iron-grey hair was military short, and the skin above his collar was baby smooth.
“Mr. Kincaid,” the little judge began, in her husky, two-packs-a-day voice, “You have been found guilty of three counts of capital murder, and one count of attempted murder. Evidence has been presented in this sentencing phase, and I am ready to rule. Before I do, is there anything you would like to say to the court?”
The defendant turned and scanned the gallery again, but his lawyer nudged him, and he returned his attention to the judge. “No, ma’am—uh, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Stuart Donald Kincaid, for the capital murders of Edgar Sandoval, Gloria Sandoval, and Maria Sandoval Kincaid, I sentence you to three life sentences without any possibility of parole, to be served consecutively. For the attempted murder of Gabriela Kincaid, I sentence you to eighteen years, to be served consecutively, following the capital sentences. You shall return immediately to the custody of the State of New Mexico to serve your sentence.”
The judge slammed the gavel, and the gallery erupted in chatter. Some people applauded.
From the back row, she could see that reporters were texting the verdict to their editors, or tweeting it, or whatever, and getting ready to find their interviews. She stood, intent upon leaving the room, and the building, as quickly as she could. If she hurried, maybe she could disappear before anyone thought to look.
She paused to watch as the defendant was led back to the door from which he’d been led in only a few minutes before. He struggled against the push of the deputies and turned to scan the room again.
Their eyes met. “Gabby!” he yelled. “Gabby! Baby, I love you! Please!”
Heads began to swivel her way.
Gabriela Kincaid turned away from her father and ran for the courthouse door.
*****
Mrs. Brant was old and hard of hearing. She hated her hearing aids and only wore them when she was away from home. At home, she compensated for her failing ears with volume—the television, the radio, the ringer on her telephone, all at maximum. When the windows were open, Gabby could hear everything Rush Limbaugh or Fox News had to say over at her neighbor’s house. Not to mention most of her side of her phone conversations.
On this afternoon, as she sat on the front porch with a bottle of Corona, she could hear the local news. Now that the story was no longer “breaking,” the reporters had had a few hours to put together an in-depth report, telling the story of the night her father had lost his mind.
No, that was too kind a way to say it. He had not lost his mind. He had been, he continued to be, perfectly sane. He had been drunk and angry. He had often been drunk and angry, but on that night, he had also had a commercial kitchen’s worth of weapons at his disposal.
How strange to hear strangers speak so knowledgeably, so matter-of-factly, about her own life. No one could know what it had been like, what it still was like. Only she. And, she supposed, her father.
Gabby closed her eyes and tried to drown out the calmly interested tones of the reporter describing the scene on that night more than two years earlier. Her father, barricaded in the kitchen of her grandparents’ cantina, holding his wounded daughter hostage, a carving knife to her throat, sitting in the spattered and pooling blood of his wife and in-laws.
She didn’t need a stranger to draw a picture for her. She could still feel the bite of the blade into her neck, could still feel the blood pulsing from her side, growing sticky as it spread over her skin and cooled. She could still feel the desperation as her breath became blood and began to drown her.
When she closed her eyes, she could see her mother’s body, drenched in red, her eyes open, one hand out as if reaching for her. She could see her grandfather, burned by frying oil, his head caved in. She could see her grandmother lying in a nearly perfect halo of her blood. She had been the first to die, her throat slit before anyone had known there was trouble.
The brave girl fought for her family and was nearly killed herself. By her own father.
Gabby chuckled bleakly at the sensationalized truth of the reporter’s words. She had fought, she supposed that was true, but ineffectively. She’d loved her father. Even in the ugliness of her parents’ separation, even as his anger grew and flared, she’d remembered her daddy and loved him. She hadn’t believed him capable of such things, and she’d sought to find him behind those chaotic, killing eyes and bring him back.
When her grandmother had fallen, and her father had gone for her mother, Gabby had lunged between them and tried to hold him off. The wound in her side had happened in the scuffle. The blade had sunk into her lung, and she’d fallen, desperate for breath, choking on blood, watching as her father fought her grandfath
er, threw hot oil in his face, and then beat him with a skillet until his head no longer looked like a head.
Gabby’s mother was dead because she hadn’t run when she’d had the chance. She’d tried to bring Gabby with her. Her father had pulled her mother off of her and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.
And then, as police sirens and lights flashed, he’d gathered Gabby up and put the bloody knife to her throat.
The last thing she remembered before she’d passed out—she’d thought she’d been dying—was him whispering, “You weren’t supposed to be here. Why are you here? Why are you here?”
Ms. Kincaid had no comment for reporters today, but when the trial began, she sat down with our own…
Unable to take it anymore, Gabby drank down the rest of her beer and went back inside to close up all the windows. Better stale air than refreshed pain.
*****
The next morning, Gabby stood in the living room with her third cup of coffee. She stared out the window at the news van. Just one, but it wasn’t yet six o’clock in the morning. There would be more. They hadn’t been happy with her headlong no comment the day before. She’d turned off the ringer on the landline phone last night, because there was no one in the world she wanted to talk to, and the only people who’d been calling had been reporters. So at least the house was quiet.
She took another sip of coffee and stared through the sheers at that blue van with the bright logo on its side and the satellite dish on its roof.
Fuck.
The mug she held was a cheap dollar-store thing with a generic pink rose glazed on one side, and the cheery pink words I Love My Mom! on the other. Gabby had given it to her mother when she was in grade school. She could remember using her allowance that Christmas at the dollar store, trying with the little bit of money she had saved to find something good for all the people she loved.
Somewhere (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 1) Page 1