The Edge of Lost
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Praise for the novels of Kristina McMorris
The Pieces We Keep
“Kristina McMorris’s novel moves masterfully between past and present and locks us straight in the heart with a love story, a story between a mother and son, and a story of healing. The Pieces We Keep gripped me from the first page and didn’t let go.”
—Alyson Richman, bestselling author of The Lost Wife
“Readers will have a hard time putting this absorbing book down.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Kristina McMorris has written an utterly absorbing novel, which takes us from present-day Oregon to World War II London, and touches on profound themes. This is a beautifully woven story, at once gripping and uplifting.”
—Margaret Leroy, author of The Soldier’s Wife
“An expertly woven and richly satisfying work of historical fiction that will touch any reader who has experienced love, loss, tragedy, or the impact of family secrets.”
—The Boston Globe
“From the past to the present, The Pieces We Keep is a compelling tale with memorable characters, written in McMorris’ elegant and captivating prose. I didn’t want this novel to end.”
—Erika Robuck, bestselling author of Call Me Zelda
“Combined with true-to-life stories of German saboteurs on American soil from World War II . . . it is a story that is guaranteed to captivate and enthrall readers to the very end.”
—Times Record News
“The past collides with the present in this sensitive and multilayered story where the discovery of long-held family secrets leads to healing. The contemporary twist will be a treat for fans of World War II historical fiction.”
—Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
Please turn the page for more outstanding praise!
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
“McMorris’s second novel gracefully blossoms through swift prose and rich characters.... This gripping story about two ‘brothers’ in arms and a young woman caught in between them hits all the right chords.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sweeping yet intimate novel that will please both romantics and lovers of American history.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An unputdownable love story . . . [McMorris’s] attention to detail is meticulous, the East meets West clash between cultures—revelatory.”
—Lesley Kagen, New York Times bestselling author of Whistling in the Dark
“A wonderfully poignant tale, it’s at times terribly dramatic and others beautifully gentle.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Impeccably researched and beautifully written, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves is a story of loss, triumph, and awakening—and of forgiving those who have injured us the most. I highly recommend this book!”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The Time Between
“Rich in historical detail, peopled with well-developed characters, and spiced with tension and drama, Bridge of Scarlet Leaves is a novel to savor, and then to share with a friend.”
—The Historical Novel Reviews
“Fascinating and moving . . . an absolute pleasure to read.”
—Whitney Otto, author of How to Make an American Quilt
“A beautiful, timeless love story, rich in detail and emotion, Kristina McMorris’ words reach right off the page and grab at your heart. An altogether comforting and satisfying read.”
—Sarah Jio, New York Times bestselling author of The Violets of March
“Readers of World War II fiction will devour Kristina McMorris’s Bridge of Scarlet Leaves, a poignant, authentic story of Japanese and American lovers crossed not only by the stars but by the vagaries of war and their own country’s prejudices.”
—Jenna Blum
Letters from Home
“This sweeping debut novel is ambitious and compelling.... will appeal to historical fiction fans hungry for a romance of the ‘Greatest Generation.’ ”
—Publishers Weekly
“The tale is emotionally moving and the end is heartwarming. This is a tough book to put down!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Letters from Home is an absorbing debut, combining the emotional power of The Notebook with the stirring history and drama of Saving Private Ryan. An evocative and compelling storyteller, Kristina McMorris gives us a novel to savor and remember.”
—Ben Sherwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud
“McMorris gives readers a poignant and resonant ‘Greatest Generation’ story of love and loss during wartime.”
—Booklist
“McMorris writes of the people and the period with a great deal of insight and compassion. Through the three heroines she captures a cross-section of the myriad experiences and coping mechanisms of the women left behind with their hopes and dreams and fears.”
—The Historical Novel Reviews
“This poignant novel digs deep into the emotional and physical effects of war and is well written and well researched.... highlight [s] the harsh realities of both war and human nature.”
—New York Journal of Books
“A tender and heartfelt glimpse of a time long past. While wholly original, it’s filled with characters as beloved as your own grandparents. Propelled by the epic sweep of world war, yet warmed by intimate human moments, this story will linger in the reader’s memory long after the last page is turned.”
—Susan Wiggs
Books by Kristina McMorris
Letters from Home
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
The Pieces We Keep
The Edge of Lost
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The EDGE of LOST
KRISTINA McMORRIS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for the novels of Kristina McMorris
Books by Kristina McMorris
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
1919
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
1923
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
1935
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Teaser chapter
THE EDGE OF LOST
Copyright Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’m enormously grateful to two people who were essential in paving the path of this story while keeping me from panicking en route: my husband, Danny, and my mother, Linda Yoshida. Our countless brainstorming sessions, research excursions, and daily status updates were invaluable, but more than that t
heir belief in me always.
Likewise, I’m thankful for my beloved friend Tracy Callan, who somehow never fails to make me feel worthy of the Most Amazing Author in the Universe Award. Also for my father, Junki Yoshida, an immigrant whose deep love of America, family, and sense of home largely inspired this book.
I’m grateful to Brianna Gelow and Madison Elmer for the million ways they helped my family survive another deadline intact; Sue McMorris, Kathy Huston, and Sharon Shuman for their eagle-eye proofreading and ongoing support; Aimee Long for contributing input on everything from plotting and cover copy to the finished draft; and all of the incredible bloggers, reviewers, and readers who have not only allowed my stories into their lives, but also spread the word to others.
For keeping me sane and always assuring me I’m not alone, I’m indebted to my dear and talented friends Erika Robuck (one brain!) and Alyson “Twinsie” Richman. The same goes for the brilliant Therese Walsh, whose support and story insight have proven priceless yet again.
Tackling such a research-heavy novel would have been infinitely more daunting without the generous help of many people. I’m thankful to Sharon Haller, an “Alcatraz kid” and daughter of former associate warden Robert Weir, for painting a vivid picture of civilian life on the Rock; Alcatraz Gardens program manager Shelagh Fritz for providing a trove of essential details and photographs; Alcatraz park ranger Jim Nelson for enduring my endless list of questions; and author Michael Esslinger, whose feedback and thorough documentation of Alcatraz served as my gateway across the bay.
I send my sincere appreciation to author and U.S.P. Leavenworth historian Kenneth LaMaster for sharing hours of fascinating stories about prison life and jailbreaks; Claire Organ for ensuring the authenticity of my Irish characters and settings; and Florence Fois for doing the same with my Italian cast and language. I’m also thankful to Joan Swan for again guiding me through medical specifics; Steven Burke for details of courtroom proceedings and legalities; Derick Callan for help with plumbing logistics; and Jay Farrell for historical information about Navy recruiting stations. Of course, any errors are mine alone.
I’m convinced librarians are the saints of the literary world. Of them, I’m especially thankful to the Multnomah County research librarians for answering question after question on topics ranging from New York racetracks to 1930s military equipment; and to the research librarians at Leavenworth Public Library and Kansas State Library, who were also generous with their time and assistance.
As always, I thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his support and faith in my work from the beginning; superstar publicist Vida Engstrand for her unyielding enthusiasm; and the rest of the wonderful team at Kensington who work tirelessly behind the scenes.
Last, though far from least, my love and gratitude overflow for my sons, Tristan and Kiernan, who continue to be my most fearsome cheerleaders and the source of my deepest pride. Our family, above all, truly gives meaning to every page, milestone, and moment in my life.
Prologue
Alcatraz Island
October 1937
Fog encircled the island, a strangling grip, as search efforts mounted. In the moonless sky, dark clouds forged a dome over the icy currents of San Francisco Bay.
“You two check the docks,” shouted Warden Johnston, his voice muffled by rain and howling wind. “We’ll take the lighthouse. The rest of you spread out.”
More people traded directives, divvying up territory. They were off-duty guards and teenage sons who called Alcatraz their home, an odd place where a maze of fencing and concrete kept families of the prison staff safe from the country’s most notorious criminals.
At least in theory.
From inside the warden’s greenhouse, inmate 257 strained to listen—that was his number. Even his coveralls bore a stamp of his designation, branded like cattle. The beam of a searchlight brushed past the glass-lined walls.
Over and over in the dankness of his cell he had envisioned this very scene. Had seen it as clear as the picture shows he grew up watching in Brooklyn. The Mark of Zorro, he recalled. It was the first swashbuckler he’d ever viewed on the silver screen. The film was silent, long before talkies became all the rage, but the action and suspense had quickened his pulse, gripped his lungs. Same as now.
He drew a breath, let it out. Raindrops grew insistent. They tapped the ceiling like fifty anxious fingers. Seventy. A hundred.
“Eh! Capello!”
His heart jolted. Normally he stayed keenly aware of sounds behind him, a survival tool in the pen, but somehow he’d missed the creak of the door.
He tightened his hold on the garden trowel before turning around. It was Finley, a guard with the look and nose twitch of an oversize ferret.
“Yeah, boss?”
“You seen a little girl pass by? Ten years old, light brown hair. About so high?”
The answer needed to sound natural, eased out like fishing line. “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”
Atop the single entry step, Finley surveyed the room with an air of discomfort. He wasn’t a proponent of the rare freedoms afforded to passmen, the few trusted inmates assigned to work at the warden’s house.
“Aren’t you about done here?” Finley asked.
“Sure am. Then I’ll be heading to the lower greenhouse to finish up.”
Finley hesitated, an endless moment—of gauging? Of suspicion? At last he gave a partial nod and turned to exit.
The door swung closed.
Adrenaline rushed with the force of the pounding rain. The risks and consequences gained new clarity. Doubt invaded his thoughts.
It wasn’t too late to turn back. He could serve out his time by sticking to the grind, sleeping and eating and pissing when told, and one day walk out a free man . . .
But, no. No, it wasn’t that simple. Not anymore. He recalled just how much lay at stake, and any chance of reneging crumbled.
Through the fog, lightning cracked the sky. The air brightened with an eerie blue glow, and from it came a boost of certainty.
He could do this.
The plan could work.
So long as they didn’t find the girl.
1919
1
Dublin, Ireland
March 1919
The foul haze of whiskey and cigarettes was lighter tonight than usual—a shame the same couldn’t be said of the mood. Not that this surprised Shanley Keagan. At nearly twelve, he’d performed in enough pubs to understand the patterns in a calendar.
Fridays were a sure bet for nice crowds, men eager to spend their fresh wages. They would sing and laugh with old pals, toasting God’s grace shining down upon them. If in an especially generous mood, they’d even buy a round for strangers. And when they were hushed down enough to welcome Shan to the “stage”—sometimes a solid platform, more often a crate from the kitchen—they might mumble over the disruption, trading dirty looks, but by the delivery of his second joke, third at most, they were roaring with laughter, as attentive as parishioners at Easter Mass.
Mondays were the worst of the lot. Even Uncle Will, who was far from choosy when scheduling Shan’s shows, knew Mondays were to be avoided. If there was a crowd at all, it was mostly customers addicted to the drink, or veterans just back from the Great War hoping to drown their memories. The few others were brooders in search of refuge from their wives, having no more interest in being nagged about finding a job than in actually doing just that.
Wednesdays, on the other hand—now, those were tough to predict. They could resemble Fridays as easily as Mondays, or fall somewhere in between. And on this particular Wednesday, as Shan stepped onto a splintered crate, he sensed precisely which it was.
Of the dozen patrons seated about, two were passed out at their tables. Up in front a pair of scabby fellows looked deep in conversation with no mind for anything more. The rest stared at Shan, their eyes right quick to judge.
“Hoi, now! Get on with it,” ordered a grizzled man from his seat. “Or be Ja
ysus, bring on the dancing girls!”
Another shot back: “’Tis the closest you’d ever get to seeing a lady in her knickers. Aside from that ugly sister of yours.”
Several customers chuckled, egging on a retort.
Shan needed to regain the spotlight before sneers could turn to punches and squelch any chance of a show. Of this he was well aware, even before catching a glimpse of his uncle.
Across the room William O’Mara stood at the bar, scowling between sips of his pint. The freckled skin of his bony face, normally pale next to Shan’s dark features, was reddening to the shade of his patchy beard. Perform well, his firm eyes said, or I’ll be wise to drop you at an orphanage, where you’ll be sleepin’ with rats on a dingy floor and eatin’ rotten cabbage soup.
The man had spoken these words often enough that Shan could hear them in his mind. And he knew better than to ignore the warning.
With a loud clearing of his throat, Shan straightened to feel grander than his average build, ignoring the hollow ache in his stomach. “Good evening, ladies and gents. I’m Shan Keagan.”
He had learned early on not to use his proper christened name unless he wanted to be heckled—“Shanley” being traditionally reserved for a surname. He’d change it altogether if it weren’t among the few things left from his mam.