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Grant Frederickson finds the words “Time to pay” spray-painted on the walls of his apartment and is given twenty-four hours to come up with the money he owes a Houston gangster or die.
With nothing to live for, Grant chooses to accept the consequences and turn himself over to the criminal he believes murdered his wife a year ago.
Before he can, Grant finds himself in the right place at the right time to protect a mysterious woman, fleeing two dark-suited pursuers who she calls the Blank Men.
But was their meeting truly accidental? Maddy seems to know more than she should—not just about Grant, but about the Future itself and where it will inevitably lead them: To New Orleans and Death.
All Amazon reviews have been very positive with a ranking of 5 stars.Book sales in the first year of publication were light. I'm hoping to get more readers in other countries interested through more language translations.
Grant sat behind the wheel of his dented white 1995 Toyota Corolla and tried to come to some sort of peace with the fact that he was about to die. He held no romantic illusions about his life. He was a working-class man in the fourth largest city in the United States and was paid fairly well in a high stress profession. He had been given a deadline one year ago to come up with a particularly large amount of money—a sum that had required him to liquidate the last of his resources (including his life insurance policy), sell his house, work every extra overtime hour he could manage, and otherwise, live his life on a shoestring budget. He had even cut his food intake, sustaining himself, it seemed, on stress alone at times and moving through the motions of the drudgery of his life on sheer momentum. At one point, he had become so gaunt that the Safety representative at work asked him if he needed any time off for health reasons, all the while carefully circumnavigating the dreaded “C” word. After that confrontation, Grant had finally taken a good look at himself in the solitary mirror he owned in the one-bedroom apartment down the street from Bush International Airport and found looking back at him a pair of bulging eyes in a malnourished face with the same ebbing light he glimpsed in the starving children from the commercials on late night TV for non-profit organizations overseas. The company doctor that he had been obligated to see told him that if he did not start eating, he would be dead inside of a year. Not yet, Grant told himself. Not until after I’ve paid off what she had borrowed. Paying his debt to the hoodlum Arturo Torres had become his only reason for existence, as if by successfully accomplishing it he would somehow rid him of the guilt that had plagued him for the last year.
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Claudia González-Ramírez
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