Furious: Sailing into Terror Jeffrey James Higgins © Copyright Jeffrey James Higgins 2021 Black Rose Writing | Texas © 2021 by Jeffrey James Higgins All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal. The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author. First digital version All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-696-8 PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING www.blackrosewriting.com Print edition produced in the United States of America Thank you so much for reading one of our Horror novels. If you enjoyed our book, please check out our recommendation for your next great read! Doll House by John Hunt “Scary, disturbing, creepy, suspenseful. It might be too intense for some people.” –Amazon Review For Cynthia Farahat Higgins, the bravest woman in the world. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Writing a novel involves long hours alone with a manuscript, but no author succeeds without help. I could not have completed this novel without the support of Cynthia Farahat Higgins—my love, my wife, my life. She is the strongest person I know, and I write my books for her. My parents, James and Nadya Higgins, read to me at an early age and have supported all of my endeavors. I credit them with kindling my imagination and instilling in me a love of story. I could not have asked for better parents. Authors must learn the craft of writing, but the gift of storytelling is also genetic. With that in mind, I would like to acknowledge my grandfather, Nejm Aswad, an author, poet, philosopher, sculptor, and painter. I wish he had lived to read my first published novel. My beta readers bravely faced early drafts of Furious, and I am eternally thankful for their feedback. Thanks to Cynthia Farahat Higgins, James Higgins, Nadya Higgins, Adam Meyer, Stacy Woodson, Dr. John Hunt, Stephen Cone, Susan Stiglitz, Matthew Stiglitz, and Richard Elam. A good writing group is an author’s most valuable asset, and I appreciate the skillful critiques of my fellow scriveners in the Royal Writers Secret Society. I am honored to be a member of such a talented group. Also, thanks to International Thriller Writers for their continued support of mystery and thriller writers everywhere. I was honored to have my author portrait taken by Rowland Scherman, a Grammy Award winner and a talented photographer who has captured icons of American culture. View his work at www.rowlandscherman.com. Finally, thanks to Reagan Rothe and everyone at Black Rose Writing for taking a chance on a debut author. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Recommended Reading Dedication ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE CHAPTER FORTY-SIX CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FORTY-NINE CHAPTER FIFTY CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE CHAPTER SIXTY CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE ABOUT THE AUTHOR NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR BRW INFO CHAPTER ONE I wanted to die. I leaned into the crib and brushed my fingers over Emma’s teddy bear, a stuffed animal larger than she had ever been. The velour fabric felt cool and still—the opposite of Emma during her short life—her three-month, impossibly brief existence. She had come and gone so quickly; it was almost possible to imagine she had never lived at all. Almost. Some mornings, I awakened and experienced a few seconds of peace, before remembering what had happened, then reality would rush into me like a cold wind. My baby girl is dead. The teddy bear’s stitched eyes stared back at me. I had been so careful buying non-toxic bath toys and dolls free of choking hazards. Every object in the room was childproof, from the one-inch gaps between crib slats to the electrical outlet covers. I had given it all so much thought. A tear wet my cheek, smearing my mascara, and I hugged the teddy bear against my chest. I could still smell the sweet, floral scent of baby powder, and I pictured the first time Emma smiled at me—her cheeks fat and rosy. My eyes burned, and the crib blurred in my vision. The floor shifted under me, as if the carpet had transformed into desert sand, and the world rushed past me, moving on without me, jostling me like a leaf blowing down the side of the road, without direction, without hope. I reached over the crib and caressed a cloth elephant dangling from a mobile. I flicked it and the mobile spun in a circle—going nowhere—as it chimed Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Emma had giggled every time she heard it. My pregnancy had been unplanned and the months before Emma’s birth had been a flurry, a frantic rush to prepare for motherhood. We painted the nursery and purchased a crib, stroller, and pacifiers. I took vitamins and read how-to books, all so we would be ready when she came. Then she arrived, and everyone wanted to see her, touch her, share our joy. For three months she consumed our thoughts, our every waking moment. Then she was gone. She had my blonde hair. My knees buckled, and I wanted to fall through the floor, sink into the earth, lie with Emma in her grave. I wanted to hold her, kiss her, love her. I could not comprehend the unfairness of it, the cruelty. She had been healthy and full of life until the morning I found her cold and still. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. How could that be a real thing? How could anyone allow it to happen? I gripped the crib to steady myself. “Are you okay?” Brad asked from the doorway. My body stiffened. I had forgotten my husband was home and the need to hide my weakness from him overwhelmed me. I turned
