I always knew this series would be emotional but…
…I've made myself cry writing Kyle, then Gabriel, and now Daniel. The trilogy about three men linked by a terrible past has been the hardest to write but at the same time has become the series of mine most full of love and hope.
Daniel is the youngest of the four men who took the stand to accuse Hank Castille of his terrible crimes in the Texas series (Jack & Riley Campbell-Hayes, Liam's story), and he has learned to live with what happened by burying the memories and the awful secrets really deep. When he meets Corey this becomes the catalyst for remembering things his brain had chosen to forget in order to protect himself.
The link between Corey Dryden, his uncle Drake, Hank Castille, and Daniel, is a twisted mess of lies and pain, but out of it, Daniel will find a new place in the world, with Corey.
Daniel is out early June.
Kyle (The first legacy) | Gabriel (The second legacy) | Daniel (The third legacy)
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Unedited Excerpt
Under the journals there was one last envelope, plain gray with no address on the front, it was thick with contents, and on the reverse, there was a logo, Hart Detective Agency, Dallas. Why did his dad have an envelope from a PI? Intrigued, Corey tipped the contents on the bed. The latest letter was dated only the week before his parentâs death. A simple handwritten letter, signed by a man called John McMillan, and the sentence, âas discussed re DDLâ. DDL? Was that Drake Dryden? Uncle Drake? That was the only DD he knew, but what the L stood for he had no idea.
Loser. The thought was uncharitable given that his uncle had died in the same plane crash as his parents, but there was no getting away from it, Corey hadnât liked him much. A chronic gambler, he was a man who needed his brother to dig him out of more than a few holes. He sometimes remembered his nephew and nieceâs birthdays, but not often.
Intrigued, Corey skimmed the contents of the envelope and the words grew progressively darker.
Then, there were the photos. They were in a separate wallet and he pulled the first out and couldnât quite make out the blurry image there. He flicked on the bedside light for extra illumination and his breath stuttered in his throat.
He fanned out the photos, young boys, with names and dates on the reverse, and only when he had every single one laid out on the bed, along with hospital reports and psychological assessments, did he begin to cry again.
But this time it wasnât grief. It was horror.
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