Set in Stone Read online

  What readers are saying about The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone

  Easily the best of the series so far! Can't wait for book 4... – Steve

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  Definitely another thrilling installment in the Rembrandt Stone series and I'm looking forward to the next one. Start with book one and you'll be hooked like I am! – Kelly, Best in Suspense

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  My favorite one in the series so far! That may be because I have become so invested in this story line and these characters. – Nicole

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  All I can say is, jump on the DJW train. Best new author I've read in a long time. Thank you, Mr Warren for a few hours of life distraction. I appreciate it. – Todd

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  Like every Warren story, Rembrandt faces incredibly high stakes, and he battles all sorts of physical challenges, dangers, and threats to save the day. They’ll keep you on the edge of your seat – and isn’t that, really, the very best place to read? – Amy

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  Just when I think the authors can’t turn Rembrandt’s life more upside down, they throw in a major TWIST! – Sarita

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  Goodness. I feel like Rembrandt Stone is ruining me for other books. Like, nothing compares to Rem. Seriously, nothing compares. – Kelly

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  There is plenty of action and adrenaline...for how could this book be a Rembrandt Stone book without the chills-racing-down-the-spine suspense? – MJSH

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  It keeps getting better. This whirlpool we seem to have thrust ourselves into that won't let us quit. – Ochegba

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  I got my copy of this book at midnight last night, stayed up until 4 am reading it because I couldn't put it down, and still don't regret it this morning! – Linda

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  The combination of Susan May Warren, James L. Rubart and David Curtis Warren is, without a doubt, one of the best groupings I have ever read. – Jessica

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  Once again, I am sitting here, a bit at loss for words. This incredible, crazy, absolutely outstanding, thriller of a series...it continues! – Rosalyn

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  An engaging protagonist and a thrilling story will continue to entrance fans of the series. Definitely one to check out if you like cold-case fiction or suspense with a sci-fi twist. – Tressa

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  Sticks and Stone is fascinating and compelling. I cannot wait for the next installment. Read the first three books in this series...and I'm sure you'll agree with me! – Wren

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  Again, another winner!!! These books are phenomenal!!!!!! Don’t miss a one!!! Rembrandt and Eve are so remarkable!!! – Carolyn

  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

  Set In Stone

  David James Warren

  Soli Deo Gloria

  Tristone Media Inc.

  15100 Mckenzie Blvd

  Minnetonka, Minnesota, 55345

  Copyright © 2021 by Tristone Media

  ISBN: 978-1-954023-08-6

  www.RembrandtStone.com

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  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.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Blood from a Stone - Preview

  Meet David James Warren

  1

  What is happiness? Is it a place? A time? A choice?

  I am afraid of the answer. Because if it is either of the former two, it’s lost to me.

  Lost in time, a place that has vanished by my own making and I stand in the wasteland of my choices.

  Except, not a wasteland, really. Because I have nearly everything I want.

  Nearly.

  “Rembrandt, come to bed. It’s cold out.”

  The voice lifts from the beautiful woman under our covers, my wife of seven years, which is almost correct.

  Close enough, really, to the truth.

  Maybe this is my truth.

  I’m standing at the open window of my two-story craftsman home. The bare wood floor chills my feet, and a crispness layers the June air, as if the night is on alert.

  The sky is a deep indigo, stars staring down at me. The giant dead elm tree at the back of our yard, still here, despite my taking it down in a previous timeline, stretches skeletal arms across the yard and through moonlight waxing my backyard.

  In my dreams, I see a swing set there, a little girl, age seven, swinging, her braids flopping with every pump. Daddy, watch me!

  She is blonde and sweet, and her laughter fills my soul.

  My throat burns and I have my answer.

  Happiness is a person.

  Movement, the bed clothes rustling, then the creak of the floor and I still as Eve comes up and wraps her strong arms around me. She is warm and solid and real and this should be enough for me.

  A kiss to my spine sends a ripple of heat through me.

  I’ve missed her so much, my body aches.

  “Thinking about your new job?” She smells of the lavender cream she lathers onto her skin every night.

  It feels like a lifetime since I’ve wrapped my hands around hers, since we’ve shared this quiet awareness of each other.

  Three lifetimes, actually.

  Because this is my third try at rewriting my life, to find myself back at the beginning.

  And like I said, this time, I nearly got it right.

  “Yep,” I say to her question, lying.

  Eve’s referring to the job of interim police chief looming ahead of me.

  “You’ve wanted this your entire life,” she says. “Even before Booker died.”

  She comes around and stands in front of me. She’s wearing one of my white T-shirts, her legs bare, her kinky auburn hair spiraling out as if she’s been shocked. Her green eyes find mine in the darkness, and I’m caught.

  This woman loves me.

  And that has made all the difference in my life. It anchors me to now, to the fact that nearly right is a good place to be.

  I put my arms around her and pull Eve to myself. “I hope I can be half the chief Booker was.”

  “You will be.”

  I want to ask her what happened after Booker died—not from cancer, or then from an ambush-slash-bombing of a suspect’s house, but this time from a robbery-slash-shooting some twenty years ago.

  I found out last night, after returning from the past.

  Yeah, you heard right.

  I am a time traveler.

  It almost gives me relief to admit this, because the alternatives are dark and probably involve a long-term placement in a psychiatric clinic.

  How I got here, to this now, with Eve in my arms, is a long story, the details tangled and knotted. The short of it is, they involve a watch, bequeathed to me by my former mentor, John Booker, my cold cases, and a daughter my wife doesn’t remember, Ashley.
>
  It pains me to think she’ll never meet our daughter, even if we should have another child someday, and as I lift her chin, rub my thumb down her cheek, I see a grief in her eyes she probably can’t even name.

  Maybe somehow, deep in her soul, she knows.

  But this is not the end. Someday, we will have an Ashley. I have to believe that.

  “I love you, Eve.” The words unroll from me easily, words that before might have been less realized.

  But traveling through time makes a man sharper. Keener.

  Maybe a little bolder, at least when it comes to uncoiling the emotions deep inside.

  She smiles, and I’m a heartbeat from taking her back to our bed when she says, “I should have said yes the first time you asked.”

  The first time…

  She presses her hands onto my chest, sighs. “I keep thinking about the fact that it’s probably too late for us. That if we had started sooner, then maybe…” Her eyes are glistening now, and I’m cobbling up the fragments of our history, anything, so I can know how to respond.

  Is this because of Burke and Shelby? Because Shelby is pregnant? Shelby is roughly the same age as Eve, so maybe it’s not too late, if not risky.

  “I should have never taken that job in Miami.” Her smile is wry now, and I rub my thumb over a tear.

  She seems to be waiting for my response, something to tell her that I understand, but of course, I don’t.

  “We can’t live by our regrets,” I say, a piece of truth I recently embraced on my way through time.

  She swallows, and I wish I had more for her. I know it sounds like a platitude to her, but my mind is stuck on, what happened in Miami?

  “Will you still love me if we never have another child?”

  The question is so raw, and so unexpected I draw in a hard breath.

  “Of course,” I say. Eve had three miscarriages before we had Ashley. It’s a question I answered long ago.

  But she might see grief in my eyes as she lifts herself to kiss me. Still, Ashley was a surprise.

  Eve just doesn’t know she’s still in our tomorrows.

  In the sleek, velvet hours of the night, I find her, and she finds me.

  Of course.

  Because happiness is a person.

  I’m surrendering to slumber, my body sinking like a rock into a sweet, unfamiliar oblivion, Eve’s head tucked onto my shoulder when my phone ringing jars me awake.

  Eve pushes herself up, and away from me and I snatch my phone off the nightstand.

  The face of my partner, Andrew Burke, flashes on the screen a moment before I swipe open the call.

  I don’t know why, but I’m instantly awake, sitting up, my heart thumping.

  His breathing makes me picture him running. “Rem, she’s in labor.”

  It’s moments like these when I have to untangle the pronouns. Track through timelines to figure out the correct response.

  She. Burke’s wife Shelby, current Minneapolis Police Chief ready to give birth to their first child.

  “Wow, okay, um…good luck.” I’m not sure what to say, really.

  Especially since, in my last timeline, Shelby was dating me.

  I reach out and touch Eve’s shoulder, anchoring myself, just because.

  “No—I’m in Mankato. I had a gig.” A door slams behind his words.

  A gig. Burke—Sticks—is a jazz drummer. Mankato? What was he thinking going to a gig that far out?

  “You have to get her. Her water broke!”

  “Call 911—” The sheets fall to my waist, gooseflesh forming on my skin.

  Next to me, Eve’s head pops up.

  “I did. They put me on hold!”

  I hold back a word, then push the blankets off me and turn on the light. “Got it. We’re on our way.”

  Eve has gotten up, too, and reaches for a T-shirt.

  “Take her to Southdale.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t drive off the road.” I look at the clock. It’s after midnight. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

  I hang up and toss the phone on the bed. Eve is buttoning her jeans. “What?”

  “Shelby is in labor.”

  Her eyes widen. “But she’s not due for two weeks.”

  “I know.” I say it, but really, this is news to me. I reach for my jeans, too. “She’ll be okay. We’ll get there.”

  Her face is a little whitened, however, and I’m not sure why.

  “Eve—?”

  And just like that, the room shifts, and for a moment, I fear I’ve triggered time, and it’s reaching for me.

  But I don’t have the watch. I’ve lost it, somewhere between 1997 and today, and for now, I’m anchored in the now. I know you’re a little bit lost, but stay with me, it’s worth it. Right now, there’s a more urgent matter on the stove, we’ve got a baby to deliver.

  Except, even as the room resets, in my mind, I’m seeing Eve sitting on our bathroom floor, her face pale, the floor bloody. I’m losing the baby.

  It’s a real memory, but I don’t know if it’s from this time, or before.

  No wonder she’s pale as she grabs her shoes.

  I catch up to her at the door. “Shelby is going to be fine. I promise.”

  Eve turns and wraps her arms around my waist, her body trembling. Then she pushes me away, and she’s the Eve who is the Director of the Minneapolis Crime Lab, the woman who has won the August Vollmer Forensic Science Award (at least she did in my original life).

  She knows how to handle tragedy.

  Please, let this not be a tragedy.

  When I open the garage door, I’m momentarily jarred by the empty stall next to Eve’s car.

  My vintage Porsche, my touchstone to my real life, isn’t there. But I don’t have time to ask as we hop in Eve’s Escape. She drives to Shelby’s house, a suggestion I make as I hand her the keys.

  Because I haven’t a clue where Burke might live.

  To my surprise, less than ten minutes later she pulls up to a one-and-a-half story bungalow in the Lenox neighborhood of Minneapolis. It’s a tidy place, with a stone walk and the front light is on when we arrive.

  The door is open. “Shelby?” I give two quick raps on the wood, then push it open. The cop in me never likes arriving to a house with an open door, but she’s probably expecting us. I push Eve behind me anyway as we step inside.

  Shelby is kneeling on the floor, her arms braced on a gray sofa in the living room.

  “Shelby!” Eve pushes past me.

  Shelby’s blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and sweat sheens her face. Her head is down, and she’s breathing hard. “My water broke, and the contractions are fast and hard.” She is calm, but her voice trembles. Because she might be the Minneapolis Police Chief, and a pro when it comes to handling stressful situations, but this is her first baby.

  I pull up my phone and dial 911. Because from the looks of it, we don’t have much time.

  And I spy blood pooling on the carpet below her.

  So does Eve, but she pulls a blanket around Shelby’s shoulders and helps her off the floor. “Let’s go.”

  911 is still ringing, so I hang up and pocket my phone. “Methodist Hospital is six minutes away.”

  And I ignore any weird protocol between my boss and me, as I pick Shelby up.

  Eve follows me out and I put Shelby in the back seat. Eve slides in next to her. “You drive.”

  We’d left the car running, and in a moment, I’m pulling out onto Wooddale, taking the back roads.

  At this time of night, the road is mine.

  Four minutes, tops.

  Shelby is getting loud.

  Once, in my early days, I helped deliver a baby on the side of the road. It was during a pile-up, a spring storm that hit our area and John Booker and I happened to be caught in the mess of ice and snow.

  And the only officers on the scene.

  One of the most terrifying moments of my life, and it would have gone south if Booker hadn’t
been there.

  “Rem, I think—”

  “We’re almost there!” I’m crossing Highway 7 and heading toward Alabama Avenue.

  “Rem, pull over! She is having this baby, now.”

  “Tell her to breathe and hold it in!”

  Yeah, I hear you, I can’t believe I said that either.

  We should have waited for help.

  “Pull over!”

  I stomp on the gas. “Hang on.”

  Shelby Burke and her baby are not dying on my watch.

  Eve shouts and Shelby screams as I skid onto my turn onto Excelsior Boulevard.

  A siren sounds behind me, and Eve is shouting and—

  Rem, hurry!

  The voice clangs through me, and even as Eve is shouting in the background, her voice is fading into another voice.

  No, another version of her voice. This voice is attached to her grip on my arm, and I look over to the passenger seat and Eve is there, her hand on her belly.

  A belly that looks six months pregnant. She’s wearing a maternity shirt, her hair is short and curly and she’s younger, maybe. Her face is white. “I can’t lose another one…”

  “Look out!”

  I see the road again, and it’s still dark and the siren is whining, but the image is so vivid in my brain I look back again at the seat.

  She’s still sitting there, her eyes on me and I know, deep in my bones, this is a memory.

  Just one I’m not familiar with.