PROLOGUE

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People say that miracles happen everyday.

Marketed as unexplained phenomenons, highly improbable, extraordinary events, everyday people cling to the notion of them, hoping they'll be mercifully granted one in their moment of deepest despair.

Olivia doesn't believe in miracles.

At least she doesn't think she does. There have been moments in her life that could certainly be characterized as such. Surely people of faith would describe the outcome in both the beach house and at the granary as godly-acts. But she knows better.

Death is a lot of things, but it does not discriminate.

She doesn't know why she's thinking about this now, of all times. Maybe because he is standing in front of her right now. She thought she'd die before she ever saw him again.

His eyes are the same, she thinks. Though it's hard to tell with absolute certainly, even with him this close to her. Her vision has tunneled. His figure is blurry.

They buried him three months ago. She stood next to his kids, she held Maureen against her chest as they lowered him into the ground.

But here he is standing in front of her defying all odds, defying God. He looks solid and hard, and so lifelike. Her fingers itch to touch him.

He's saying something to her, though she can't quite understand what it is he's trying to tell her. It must be important. Important enough to raise him from the dead.

Who the hell did we bury?

He's wearing that old leather jacket of his. The jacket still fits. Even after all this time.

He should be more angelic-like, she thinks. His face should be free of all its prior pain. Instead he looks worn-down and tired. His eye looks swollen and red, too.

She reaches out and he immediately steps towards her, encroaching upon her. She places her shaking hands on his shoulders, awkwardly attempting to steady herself. She eyes his chest. Her palm leaves his shoulder and moves lower, coming to a stop against the soft white material that covers his heart. Here. This is where the bullet entered. This is where the final blow was given to him. This is where blood seeped from him.

She's imagined it a hundred times: him bleeding out, alone, on a dirty concrete floor. It happened across the bay somewhere in New Jersey. She wasn't there.

Olivia slams her eyes shut at the images she's manifested into likeness, of his lifeless body laying in a pool of his own blood. She always assumed they'd go together; that way it wouldn't hurt so much.

She's losing her mind. When she comes to, surely she'll wake up strapped to a hospital bed.

"Olivia."

She can feel the timber of his voice in her toes; the syllables of her name echo through her in waves.

"Olivia, open your eyes! Look at me!"

She won't look at him. She can't handle him dying again.

"Olivia, look at me! We have to go, we have to get out of here!"

His grip on her shoulders, the urgency in his voice startles her enough for her eyes to snap open.

"Olivia, it's not safe for you here. We have to leave. Now!"

His eyes are burning holes into her skin. She wants to melt in the presence of their hot and purposeful gaze.

Her hands tingle painfully. She drops them, shakes them violently, attempting to bring the blood back to her limbs. Her mind is spinning, her vision is tunnels more.

She feels his hands frame her head, the pull of his eyes seeking hers. It's futile to fight it, so she lets herself have this one moment. It could be her last.

Her reflection in his dark irises unnerves her. Her mouth hangs open in disbelief. She feels her head shake left to right, then again, and once more.

This isn't real. He's not real.

Her eyes return to his, desperate for an answer.

"How?" She asks, her voice barley a whisper.

He's talking to her again, but she can't make sense of it. Her temple burns, her head is too hot. It's too hot in here.

She feels his hands grab at her, trying to steady her, cradle her as she begins to slip.

Then she is surrounded by darkness.

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tbc.