A Blind Eye is a story of finding truth through the lies of suspects, witnesses, and those unwilling to help. Paris fights his own demons in his relentless drive to uncover the secrets within this tight-lipped community, find the missing tourist before winter takes them. Or a killer does.

Chapter 1

A Year Ago

Sacramento, California

Jack Paris

I felt a shiver.

Some say it’s the feeling you get when the ghost of the dead pass through you, but I knew what it really meant. It meant I had to face the truth.

I stood before a floor-length mirror and looked at myself. Black suit, the one I had bought for the occasion. Rain started to fall. Water droplets pooled on broad green leaves beyond the window, spitting onto the glass, giving a kaleidoscope view of the outside world.

My wife Emily was standing to my right. I could see her reflection over my shoulder. Genuine warmth, her smile, the kind that beamed with every good thought. She wore a silky white dress, the V of the front displaying her neckline. Her skirt fell just below her knees. It was a vision of grace and beauty.

She looked magnificent, elegant.

My son, Michael sat to my left, his fingers drumming against the arm of the high-back chair. He looked uncomfortable.

I posed. “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

He feigned a grin that couldn’t have been more forced. 

“Your Mom likes it,”

His eyes sagged. Fingers stopped drumming. The rain started hammering at the window.

I pressed a hand on the front of my jacket, smoothed it down to the last button. “It was her choice,” I added. I couldn’t pick out a nice suit if it were labeled, Nice Suit.

Michael faked a smile but it quickly dissolved into a drawn tight lip and I saw his eyes glisten before they drifted toward the carpet.

I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. His entire body buckled.

“It’s okay,” I said. 

With a slight nod, Michael took in a deep breath, cleared his throat and gave me the grown-man look. “Time to go, pops.”

I smiled. I liked it when he called me pops. Most of the time he called me father. It always sounded so formal, distant and overly proper, like I was the stranger in the room. Pops sounded like I belonged.

“Give me a minute,” I replied. “I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

Michael paused uneasily, looked like he was considering whether to say something like, ‘no, I’ll wait,’ or ‘do you want some company?’ But he didn’t.

Hesitantly, he headed for the door.

I glanced over at Emily who was neatly folding a shirt I had tossed across a chair. Her green eyes met mine and I felt my throat tighten. 

“You two are going to make a great team,” Emily said.

I tugged on the double Winsor knot in my tie, acting as if it needed adjusting. I was buying time.

These past years had been difficult between me and Michael, maneuvering through a labyrinth of conflict and differences. Like walking barefoot through a field of broken glass. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on most anything, and what we did agree upon felt akin to finding fault in one’s soul. Me, being an FBI Agent, didn’t help. I enforced the law while Michael ended up breaking them. Nothing serious, more like teenage angst. But it pushed us apart. We both knew how much we loved each other, never doubting the lengths we’d go to for one another. We just couldn’t find a way to express it, get past the hurt. Under the circumstances we now faced, we were going to have to find a means to that end.

 “We’ll be fine,” I heard myself say. 

Emily nodded with a comforting assurance in her face that was undisputable. 

I turned back toward the door, hearing Michael and the others just outside, talking, low, the words indiscernible but the tone, clear. They were voices of condolences. And there were tears. A soft patting of a hand on Michael’s back, I could only imagine.

I looked back into the room and Emily was gone. The truth is, she was never there. Cancer took her. Left only to my imagination. Emily, the one that I could love no deeper, who fought to make life in a world of murderers and thieves a place of tranquil normalcy, was gone. The room suddenly felt cold and hollow.

I stood and smoothed my suit jacket, pressed my tie against my white shirt, and tried to gather my composure. I opened the door. Everyone stopped talking, all eyes now drawn toward me. Lips razor tight, arms and hands fighting to find comfort. There were mummers of sympathies and empty consolation, reverberating in the small space louder than a marching band down a packed hall.

They came to Emily’s funeral, to pay their respects. To see her off. I marshalled the energy to somehow convey the depth of my gratitude for coming but every word came through shuttered breaths. Once again, I placed a hand on my son’s shoulder, and it was at that moment that I realized just how strong he really was. My daughter Justine following close behind, gently touched me and began to cry.

We walked together into the next room, to see Emily for the last time and to do the one thing – at least for me - that would forever be a lie. 

To say good-bye.