Cast the First Stone by David Warren (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

Praise for

The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone:

“Cast the First Stone is a mind-bender of the first order. Fast paced, strong characters, great twists and Rembrandt Stone is a hero I predict will be grabbing readers around the throat for a long time. This is one to pick up because you won’t want to put it down.”

~Ted Dekker – New York Times bestselling author

“Cast the First Stone grabs the crime genre by the collar and shows it a thing or two! With time travel, cold cases, and flawed, relatable characters who feel like old friends, this story hooked me from the very first line.

Sleep? Who needs sleep? Give me a True Lies of Rembrandt Stone novel. Masterful writing from three powerhouse storytellers.”

-Tosca Lee – New York Times bestselling author

“A thrilling tale from an exciting new voice. The combination of Susan May Warren, James L. Rubart and newcomer David Curtis Warren is seamless. Even better, CAST THE FIRST STONE, utterly shines.”

~Rachel Hauck – New York Times bestselling author

“Holy what?! DO NOT MISS THIS STORY!

David James Warren kills it with this time-travel story that explores regrets and mistakes and the importance of living in the now. I tried explaining to Rembrandt Stone the dangers of messing with the timeline, but would he listen? Of course, not.

This was truly a riveting story that gutted me!

Now. Where the fluff is book 2?”

~Ronie Kendig – author of the bestselling, award-winning The Tox Files

The True Lies

of Rembrandt Stone

Cast the First Stone

No Unturned Stone

Sticks and Stone

Set in Stone

Blood from a Stone

Heart of Stone

Cast the First Stone

TriStone Media Group

Minneapolis, MN

Tristone Media Inc.

15100 Mckenzie Blvd

Minnetonka, Minnesota, 55345

Copyright © 2021 by Tristone Media

ISBN: 978-1-954023-00-0

www.RembrandtStone.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or as provided by US Copyright Law.

Chapter 1

It’s the regrets that keep me awake.

The broken hearts, the lives ripped apart. The bitter finales.

The sense that, frankly, it’s not finished.

I’m not finished, no matter how much I try to lie to myself.

With every crime, a clock starts ticking. A forty-eight hour fuse that ignites, chewing away at the evidence. It begins with the victim and from that moment, time gnaws at every scrap of evidence. Eyewitness memories fade, clues are scattered to the wind by the daily congestion of life.

The colder the trail grows, the lower the likelihood of finding the perpetrators. This accounts for hundreds of thousands of cold cases in dusty file rooms and backup databases around the world.

It also accounts for the fist in my gut every time I have to face the bereaved with a despairing update. And, for too long, it accounted for the indentation in a stool down at the Gold Nugget where Jericho Bloom started pouring the minute I darkened the door.

Days past, but the cases still haunt me, some waking me in the still of night, Eve’s sleeping body like an anchor in the darkness, tethering me to the now. Sometimes she too, awakens, and knowing, finds me and urges the ghosts to quiet, tucking them back inside.

They never stay silent for long. The whispers always return.

What if?

What if I could go back to the moment, the beginning of the forty-eight hour window? What if I had been smarter or faster? Maybe everything would be different.

But you can’t change the past.

None of this is any consolation to the seven-year-old cherub standing in front of me.

“I’m sorry. Gomer’s been missing over a month.” I’m using my most stoic, former homicide Inspector voice, despite the pull of those big blue eyes staring at me. “I don’t have any leads—”

“But Daddy, you’re a detective.” My accuser has curly, golden blonde hair and the way she stares at me, hands on her hips, so much belief in her eyes, I am undone. “You know how to find things.”

Except for Eve, standing in the door frame, her arms folded over her chest, I would make a thousand promises, swear on my soul to unearth the ratty bear I gave Ashley three years ago. Just a gift shop souvenir, a desperation offering because, in the chaos of the moment I’d forgotten her birthday. Of course, out of all the things I gave her, this stupid bear has to be the one she cherishes.

Eve quirks an eyebrow. Her curly auburn hair is tied up, as tidy as she can make it, but corkscrews fall from behind her ears and for a moment, the swift memory of earlier this morning, the softness of her hair between my fingers, derails me.

“Please, Daddy. I miss him. It’s all I want for my birthday—Gomer back.”

Of course it is.

Ashley inherited her mother’s stubbornness, something that has probably kept her mom and me together, a chronic commitment-phobe, this long. She too raises an eyebrow, the expression of an only child who, more than likely, knows the power she has over me. The tiny scar just above her forehead where she ran into a pole at the park is just fading, but the memory of all that blood can still make me nauseous.

There is nothing I won’t do for her, and we all know that.

She’s wearing a dress—refuses anything else—and isn’t moved by the voices gathering in the back yard.

Answers. We all want them, and yes maybe Eve is right—Ash is too old to need a teddy bear. But I’m her father. “Okay, baby. I’ll find Gomer, I promise.”

I hear a huff in the corner, and I catch Eve rolling her eyes even as she turns away.

But I see the smirk, the I-knew-it grin.

Once a detective, always a detective, perhaps. Something I should probably get around to admitting.

“Thank you, Daddy!” I get a quick hug before Ash heads downstairs.

I’m not even sure where to look for the confounded bear, but I do a cursory walk-through of Ashley’s bedroom, stopping at the window