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  Advanced Praise for Live Without You

  “Live Without You is a sweet story that touches on subjects we all can relate to. In a simple yet heartfelt tone, the author weaves a story about heartache, loss, and the power of love to overcome. The love and light of Christ shine through this little book in a deep and meaningful way. The focus on first responders is also unique and made me appreciate it all the more. Highly recommended.”

  —Jesseca Wheaton, author of the Questions of War series

  “Powerful, emotional, raw, and beautiful all at once. Sarah Grace truly has a talent for creating relatable characters who are just as flawed as we are, yet so amazing that we feel inspired. I loved every second of reading [Live Without You].”

  —Ivie Brooks, author of the upcoming Uprising Trilogy

  “Adorable, tear-jerking, and heartfelt! Live Without You is the best kind of story—one that the reader can slip into and experience the characters’ struggles and heartache for themselves. The threads of loss, grace, and love will not be quickly forgotten.”

  —Faith Potts, author of Dandelion Dust and Behold.

  A Novella by

  Sarah Grace Grzy

  Live Without You

  A novella by Sarah Grace Grzy

  Paperback ISBN: 9781793924087

  Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Grace Grzy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Similarities to any person, past, present, or future, are coincidental.

  Cover by Estetico Designs www.esteticodesigns.com

  Interior Formatting by Victoria Lynn Designs www.victorialynndesigns.com

  Copy Edit by Bridget Marshall

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the USA

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author Bio

  To the ones who feel unworthy:

  May you know the Father’s great love for you.

  1 John 4:10

  M ulticolored Christmas lights surrounded the outdoor skating rink, yet to be taken down after the holiday season. People of all shapes and sizes filled the rink and overflowed out into the immediate area, laughing and chatting in couples and groups. An early January chill was in the air, but a sense of peace and merriment pervaded it nonetheless.

  Seated on one of the numerous benches placed around the rink, Piper Redding took in the sight before her, a red plaid scarf pulled up around her neck and cheeks. She came to the rink alone, not to skate—she didn’t know how—but to watch. It was her favorite place to come and relax, especially on a Friday night when the crowd was larger and she could blend in and observe.

  There was something calming about people-watching on nights like tonight. There were few harsh words and laughter was frequently heard. It was a happy place, a place of community and relationship; things Piper rarely experienced. That was fine. She was a loner. And she liked it that way.

  She watched as a young towheaded boy grabbed a little girl’s hand and pulled her across the ice. Piper smiled bittersweetly, pain tightening her chest as she thought of her brother trying to teach her six-year-old self to skate—with little success. After the ice had broken and he’d fallen in up to his waist, she’d had no desire to try the experiment again, regardless of the fact that the ice refroze and her brother had not been injured. She leaned her head back against the bench and closed her eyes, letting her ears absorb the happy sounds around her as she tried to tune out her memories.

  So few of them were worth reliving.

  Just as she was considering heading home, a sharp, familiar, and dreaded sound echoed into the night, shattering the peaceful atmosphere.

  A gunshot.

  Piper’s heart rate kicked into double-time. She suddenly found it hard to breathe as she scrambled to her feet, feeling stuck in slow-motion. Her mind flashed to a dark Chicago alley, but she tried to push the memory away. This was one she never wanted to remember.

  Oh God, please no, her mind begged, forgetting that she’d decided praying was a waste of time.

  There was complete silence for a few brief heartbeats of time before more shots rang out and people screamed and surged in an attempt at self-preservation. But she couldn’t move. Her brain felt short-circuited. She was frozen. Numb. Until a blazing pain seared through her shoulder. Stumbling to her knees as her eyes glazed over, she clutched a hand to the pain as if to make it stop.

  Surely, she was dreaming this. She pulled her hand away and squinted at it.

  Blood. So much blood.

  Was it her blood? Or was it Paul’s?

  It was hers. This was it then. She was going to die, as she should have six years ago.

  If only he could have been spared.

  Conscious thought left her as the sights and sounds of the pandemonium around her faded into black nothingness.

  Exiting his car and tucking his hands in his back pockets, Ezra Bryant strolled aimlessly across the park. It was the perfect day for a walk. Most people would say it was too cold, but he didn’t care. Northern Washington wasn’t for wimps, and those who didn’t like the weather . . . well, they could move to Phoenix.

  A blast of wind pushed at his back and he shivered. Maybe it was a bit cold once the sun started to go down. . . .

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, wishing he could rid himself of the trauma of the day as easily. Someone had died. That was always depressing. A patient flatlining before even making it onto the ambulance gurney was something every paramedic dreaded, he more than others. It dredged up too many reminders of the past. He had continued resuscitation procedures the entire six-minute drive to the hospital, and the ER staff picked up where he left off. But he had known . . . It was too late.

  The sound of firecrackers and screams rent the air from the east side of the park, startling him. Eight days into the new year and people were still reveling, but today he felt anything but celebratory.

  Then his heart stuttered as realization dawned. Lord, have mercy.

  Those weren’t firecrackers.

  Ezra pulled his radio from his belt as he set off at a run back towards his car to grab his medic bag, prayers flying heavenward even as he radioed in the call.

  By the time he reached the ice rink, red and blue lights filled the area and sirens had replaced the sounds of gunshots. He pushed his way towards an officer to proffer his help, scanning the area for injured victims as he went. With as many shots as he had heard, there was no way there weren’t a few casualties.

  Then he saw her.

  She lay crumpled on her side on the ground, facing away from him, red-brown hair and blood intermixing across the cold pavement.

  Ezra dropped to his knees beside her and pulled a pair of latex gloves on, his mind already laser-focused on his job. He quickly
scanned the woman for further injuries before bracing her and gently rolling her onto her back. Heavy bleeding from the left clavicle, no spurting, and a steady, if labored, rise and fall of her chest. He pulled a large dressing out of his bag, packing the wound with it and applying pressure with the heel of his hand to slow the profuse bleeding. He put his fingertips against her neck. Her pulse was slow, weak, and erratic, her breathing shallow, and skin pale and clammy. No exit wound, and it didn’t look like the bullet hit either lung or heart. Lucky woman. Blessed. Glancing back at her face, he noticed her eyes had opened and stared unfocused into the distance beyond his head.

  He started. Why did she look familiar?

  “Ma’am, ma’am, can you hear me? My name is Ezra. I’m a paramedic. I’m going to help you. Just try to stay with me, all right? Can you tell me your name?”

  He was stalling for time. Another few minutes and she wasn’t going to make it. Keeping one hand still pressing against her wound, he was reaching for his radio to get an ambulance ETA when she spoke.

  “Pi-per . . . help . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper, and he read her lips more than heard her voice.

  She was in shock, her body rapidly shutting down from blood loss and pain. With his free hand he grabbed an emergency blanket and tucked it around her, then returned that hand to her neck to monitor her pulse.

  “All right, Piper. The ambulance is almost here,” he assured.

  Piper . . . her name sounded familiar, too, but he still couldn’t place it.

  The emergency vehicle screamed to a stop behind him and two EMTs unloaded a gurney. One of them, a co-worker, Aimee, stopped on the other side of him.

  “Ez? What are you doing here? Thought you were off shift.” Her quick eyes were already assessing their patient as she spoke.

  “I was, but I was in the area and stopped to help.” He hurriedly filled her in on what he knew as they worked to get the woman stabilized and in the ambulance.

  As Ezra climbed up into the vehicle after Aimee, pulling the door shut behind him, it hit him like a lightning bolt.

  Piper Redding. Paul Redding’s kid sister. He turned to look at her. Although she wasn’t much of a kid anymore. Nine years had changed her a lot—that much he could tell even with an oxygen mask obscuring half her face.

  The question was—what was she doing in Washington, halfway across the country from her Chicago home? And what about Paul?

  P iper attempted to open her eyes, but they felt glued shut. She finally pried them open, and the room around her blurred and spun, slowly coming into focus. Everything in her narrow line of vision was white. Where was she? Why couldn’t she remember anything? Why did nothing make sense? Her brain didn’t seem able to function beyond asking answerless questions.

  She tried to sit up, but at the movement, pain roared through her left shoulder, causing her head to spin in wild circles and making it hard to breathe. A groan seeped through her clenched teeth as she gingerly laid her head back against the pillow. She could take stock of the situation from a prone position then.

  Or not. Every heartbeat pulsed pain through her head, her neck, her shoulder. And her brain still felt dead. Sucking in a slow, deep breath as she slowly drifted off, she decided everything could wait until later. . . .

  When she awoke again, the room was dim. Piper decided not to sit up this time. Making the same mistake twice was always something she tried to avoid. Instead, she let her eyes travel the room, taking in her surroundings. Various monitors and gadgets blinked and beeped softly in the darkness. An IV protruded from the back of her right hand, and some kind of probe or monitor had attached itself to her index finger. Her left arm was heavily bandaged and taped to her chest. She wracked her still-foggy brain for answers.

  Then squeezed her eyes shut as it all rushed back in a flood. The screams, the pain, the rough gravel underneath her cheek.

  And the looming blackness and mocking voices inside her head.

  It’s all your fault. If it hadn’t been for you, he’d still be here. Loser. It should have been you. It’s your turn, now. This is what you deserve. It’s all your fault.

  All your fault.

  All her fault.

  Breathing heavily, Piper dragged her eyelids open again. She glanced wildly around the room, as if looking for the source of the voices that sounded so clear.

  Just then, the door pushed open and a woman in scrubs entered. “You’re awake!” Her mellow, African-accented voice soothed Piper instantly. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The woman grabbed a cup seemingly from nowhere and held the straw to Piper’s lips as she introduced herself. “My name is Cecile, and I’ll be your nurse for the next shift. If there’s anything at all you need, hon, you just press this lil’ button and I’ll come a-runnin’. All right?”

  Piper nodded, and, when she tried to speak again, she found her voice did indeed still work.

  “How long have I been out?” she asked.

  “Well, I’d say ’bout twenty-four hours now. You woke up a few times, but we’ve kept you pretty heavily sedated to give your body a head start at healin’.”

  “When can I go home?”

  Cecile chuckled. “Ain’t you an eager beaver? Not yet, child. I’d say Monday, if all goes well. It’s Saturday evening,” she added, seeing the question in Piper’s eyes.

  While she was speaking, the nurse had messed with Piper’s IV. She suddenly felt like weights were dragging her eyelids down and her brain was powering off.

  Patting her arm, Cecile spoke again in softer tones. “You just rest now, honey. And when you wake up, the doctor will explain everything.”

  Piper was out again before the nurse even left the room.

  Monday morning, Ezra followed the dark-skinned nurse down the hospital corridor that was bustling with an unusual number of visitors and staff. The nurse chattered on as if she knew him—which she probably did—although he couldn’t say he had ever officially met her before.

  What was becoming known as the Shiloh Park Shooting was making national news. A psychopath with a gun wreaking havoc in small-town Washington. He’d been keeping an eye on the news and was relieved that Piper’s name hadn’t been released to the media as of yet. But it was only a matter of time. . . .

  Finally reaching the designated door, the nurse gave it a light knock before pushing it open and entering. Ezra stayed in the doorway, a hand tucked in his jeans pocket. The nurse helped the girl in the bed to a sitting position as she spoke. “You got a special visitor today, hon.”

  “Who is it, Miss Cecile?” The girl’s voice was soft and strained as she sat up, favoring her left shoulder. The nurse motioned him forward with an introduction.

  “This young man was the one who saved your life the other day.”

  Ezra’s face grew warm, but he stepped forward and offered his right hand. “Ezra Bryant. And I really didn’t do much.” He smiled and met the girl’s—no, young woman’s—eyes. Light red-brown hair was gathered up in a messy bun, accentuating her familiar small oval face and brown eyes that flickered with confusion. The white hospital bed seemed to dwarf her already small frame, as did the sling on her left arm.

  She gave him a tentative, shy smile and shook his hand. “Piper Redding. Thank you for what you did.” Her words were simple, but he could hear the sincerity behind them. She motioned to a nearby chair and he pulled it closer to the bed before taking a seat.

  An awkward silence fell on the room, disturbed only by the nurse checking various machines.

  Ezra cleared his throat and spoke up. “Well, at least it’s not your right arm,” he said with a grin, gesturing to her sling.

  Piper stared at him blankly for a second before blinking.

  “I’m left-handed.”

  The grin slid off his face. “Oh.” He coughed. “I’m sorry.” And . . . the awkward silence was back.

  “So what do you do for a living?” Piper asked.

  He paused and glanced at the nurse now exiting the room. “I
’m a paramedic.”

  Color tinged her pale-white cheeks. “Oh. I guess that makes sense.” She smiled sheepishly.

  Ezra chuckled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t recognize me?”

  Piper stared at him contemplatively, confusion coloring her features. After a second, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. Should . . . should I?” Her voice was tentative.

  He shook his head as well, disappointed. “Guess not. It’s been nearly nine years.”

  “Nine years since what? I . . . I’m sorry, my brain is still foggy from the pain medicine, the doctor says.”

  “Since you saw me last. I was Paul’s roommate and friend. We went to school together. I guess I was surprised you didn’t know me because you hung around with us so much. How is—what’s wrong?” He broke off when he saw her face. As he had spoken, her face had gone even whiter—although he didn’t know how that was possible—and pain flickered through her eyes, darkening until a shutter covered them.

  She swallowed and shook her head, looking down at her lap now. “N-nothing. I’m fine. What were you asking?” Her voice quavered a bit in spite of her denial. He wasn’t believing for one moment “nothing” was wrong.

  “I was going to ask . . . how is Paul?”

  Piper seemed to crumple in on herself, and Ezra panicked. What had he said? Lord, give me wisdom. And help me not to say stupid stuff . . . for once in my life. He scooted closer to the bed and placed a hand on her good arm. “Piper, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  With a deep breath, a straightening of her spine, and a hardening of her eyes, she went from broken to emotionless robot in a matter of seconds; the transformation astounded him. How did she do that? She swallowed and finally spoke, looking him in the eye. “Paul died six years ago.” Her tone was flat, empty.

  Horror filled him—not just at her shocking revelation, but at the clumsiness of his words. He stared at her before squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his fingertips to his forehead as he processed her information. He dealt with death and loss every day as part of his job, yet it still hurt deeply each time. And this was more personal. He wanted to curl up in a ball, to scream “whys” heavenward, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was too late.