Thomas Amo - An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken

No one ever truly writes a book alone. Along the way there are several people who in some way or another are instrumental in the delivery of the final product. If it were not for these heroes who sit silently on the sidelines giving you encouragement or fellow artists who help to inspire you to reach your final destination, none of this would be possible. For you, I am truly grateful. Firstly is my wife Ashton, who tirelessly read, read, and re-read the same chapters over and over again. Without your undying devotion this book would still be just notes in a journal. To my wonderfully talented cover artist Julija Lichman, you have given my book its first breath of life with your amazing talent thank you so much for taking on this project, because of you Julija, Zo is now immortal. Paige Comrie, meeting you was a breath of fresh air. Your willingness to jump in and collaborate gave me an insight that went way beyond my expectations. Your generosity took character creation to a whole new level for me. To my editor Annie Rapaport Hunt, your skill and objectiveness always helped to keep me on track and deliver a beautifully polished rich tapestry of written word. Thank you also to graphic artist Jeannifer Marciella Soeganda, your artwork of "Amanda" takes the reader away from the very beginning. Katelyn Hernandez, the initiative you showed from the beginning convinced me you were exactly the right artist for this project. A special thank you to Frank and Stacey Hernandez for your amazing support of the project and allowing Ashlyn to also be a part of it. You have made Ashley and I feel like family. To Carmen & Dan for being so generous and allowing me to use Casa De Carmen for the photo shoot! Love you Ma!

Finally I would be remiss if I did not thank Joanna Landingham. Jo, you were always the first to cheer and rally others to this book. In a way you have taken the torch from your father to carry on where he left off with me. He always kept encouraging me to finish. He would say, "It's already written, it just has to pass through your fingertips." He loved knowing he was reading it before anyone else was. He was my first audience, and my driving force behind finishing it. He was and always will be in my heart. I love him and miss him dearly and because of him I am a better artist today. Thank you~ All of you!

Thomas Amo ~January 5, 2011

For D.W. Landingham

~ This One's For You Duke ~

She looked perfect now. Her hair was combed just right. Lipstick applied with the expertise of a Hollywood make-up artist. Her hands neatly placed one on top of the other to show off her manicured nails. The fresh scent of perfume emanated from her blouse filling the room with a sweet euphoria. Her portrait loomed by her side, it showed an innocent smile that was underlined by a hint of sultriness that reflected in her eyes. Eyes that could catch the attention of any man she desired.

Flashbulbs popped and lit the room with the brief, yet intense, glow of a lightning storm. Finally her audience had arrived. She was at long last the center of attention. Everyone wanted to see her. Several policemen stood keeping reporters and spectators at a respectable distance. The media sat waiting, eager to learn every detail about Amanda Carlyle.

Thomas James looked at Amanda, noticing just how perfect she truly was. She was indeed the sort of woman that all men desire. He wondered how many men had she rejected. Denied the pleasure of her company or affections. Yet it now seemed that someone did get Amanda's attention and he had made her perfect in every detail. Her screams were now silent, all the blood gone, and Inspector Thomas James puzzled over the most bizarre crime scene of his career. His bespectacled hazel eyes looked down at Amanda Carlyle, who was bathed in a pink glow of dimmed lights and lit candles. The coffin lid open, exposing her only from the waist up. A Catholic set up was in place for potential mourners to come kneel and pray the rosary. She was completely prepared for her funeral, the problem was; Amanda Carlyle was alive just six hours earlier. James examined the note that had been carefully placed in her hands. To his astonishment the note was handwritten and not typed. In a world of word processors and text messaging, it was amazing that someone would actually leave behind a handwritten clue. He parted the folds of the note, his hands sweating inside the latex evidence gloves that were a size too small. James once again read the words written in the scrawl of a child. "Amanda you are the prettiest girl i have ever seen. i hope you do not have a boyfriend because i like you, i would be the best boyfriend in the world to you. You and me could be together and we would be so happy. So tell me if you like me too? Mark yes or no. hopefully your new boyfriend, Edmund Frayker."

A cold shiver ran down Inspector James' neck as he looked at the bottom of the note with two box shapes under the words yes and no. It reminded him of his grammar school days, when boys and girls would attempt to ask the all-important question of "I like you, do you like me?" The "no" box in the note was clearly marked with an "X" in the same childlike scribble. Even more confounding was the fact the suspect left a name. Was this a trick? Or was he dealing with a monster that possessed the mind of a child?

James crossed over to the manager's office. There he observed a seasoned looking funeral director who silently watching the rain patter against the window. A man used to spending his time with the dead, he appeared unusually calm considering the events he had witnessed this morning. James noticed that the man, dressed in traditional funeral black suit, white shirt and blue striped tie, shivered from the dampness of the morning rain as he held a lukewarm cup of coffee between his hands.

"Excuse me, Mr. Blackstone?" James smirked to himself as he consulted the director's name from his notes. Blackstone, how much more clich could a name be for a funeral director? thought James.

"Max," the man replied.

"Max, I'm Inspector Thomas James, Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" he said holding his badge up for Blackstone to see he was a homicide detective with the city of San Francisco. Glancing briefly at the badge, the funeral director nodded that he was willing.

"What time did you arrive here at the mortuary?"

Without blinking, or making eye contact, Blackstone continued to watch the rain. "7:00 a.m. like everyday."

"When did you find Miss Carlyle?"

"Seven fifteen exactly," he stated.

"How can you say exactly," asked James?

"The grandfather clock in the foyer. It chimes every quarter hour. It chimed as I entered the slumber room."

"Slumber room?"

Blackstone nodded. "That's what we call the viewing rooms, Inspector James. It's a Victorian term, not often used in the business any longer. However, we still find it quite fitting, adds to the ambiance."

"Ambiance," muttered James sarcastically.

Blackstone turned from the window and looked at James. "I wouldn't expect you to understand the measures we take to care for the deceased, inspector."

James was quickly tiring of Blackstone's snobbery. "I'm sure you guys do a bang up job here Max, but let's get back to the murdered girl you've got laying in your 'slumber room.' You said, you noticed her at seven fifteen." Blackstone nodded in agreement. James scribbled intently his notes. "Why not before then?" asked James. Blackstone spoke flatly. "Because she wasn't there."