TFP501: Shadow Soldiers – Layne Parrish Behind The Scenes

Thriller Fiction Podcast

Visit jimheskett.com/seasonfive for podcast episode show notes. __________ Want the inside scoop on each Layne Parrish novel, including info on how it was created and the inspiration for each story? Want to read the first chapter? You're in luck! LAYNE PARRISH ALWAYS loved a good rumpus. Nestled in a cramped bed next to a little girl named Cameron, he flipped to the last page of Where the Wild Things Are. “Daddy,” she said. “Yes, little one.” “Why did Max go home? Why can’t he stay with the wild things?” “Because he missed his family.” Cameron stared at the page, an illustration of the protagonist sailing across the water toward home. Pale brow creased, her face riddled with confusion. Thinking. Her eyes were kaleidoscopic puddles of blue crystal, glistening under the meager light of the bedside lamp. The young child readjusted herself on the twin bed, and Layne had to pivot his weight to keep from slipping over the side. “He missed his mommy and daddy?” Layne nodded. “He did.” In his pocket, a phone buzzed. He slipped it out to find a call from an unknown number lighting up the screen. Unknown to the phone companies, but Layne had a strong suspicion who was on the line. The same person who had been calling and texting him relentlessly for the last two days. “Daddy, put it away. You said no more screens.” “You’re right,” he said as he jabbed it back into his pocket. “Watching screens after dark makes our eyes cross, right?” He crossed his eyes and let his tongue loll out. She giggled and poked his chest with a finger not much bigger than a toothpick. “Daddy, stop.” Cameron traced one of her fingers along his arm, gliding across one particular section of the tattoos that covered it from wrist to shoulder. A cherub in the middle of his forearm, obscuring a gunshot wound from long ago. The cherub now appeared faded and blurry on his forty-year-old arms. The phone squirmed inside his pocket again, demanding attention. A repeat call. This time, though, he ignored the eager person on the other end of the line. “It’s time for bed,” he said. She pondered this for a moment and then frowned. “Are the wild things going to get me?” “You’re a wild thing,” he said, and his fingers leaped to her belly for a tickle. She cackled, writhing, and he instantly regretted it. Bedtime was supposed to be calm time. But he couldn’t resist torturing such an easy target. “Okay, okay, little one. Time for bed, for real.” She pushed out a breath, the remnants of tickle energy fading. Her lids were heavy, her motions thick, like a person wading through swampy water. She was an inch away from sleep. Layne anticipated no bedtime false starts tonight. “I love you much, Daddy.” He kissed her forehead as he drew the covers up to her shoulders. “And I love you much, little one.” He sneaked across the room and rested a hand on the light switch. “I’ll be right downstairs, okay?” “Okay, Daddy.” Layne flicked out the light and stole one last look at her, a miniature head nestled on a Thomas the Tank Engine pillow. He closed the door behind him as his phone buzzed yet again. Didn’t bother to take it out. Next, a knock came at the front door, downstairs. He paused for a moment in front of his daughter’s room to make sure she wouldn’t call out. No way she was asleep already, but maybe she hadn’t heard it. The excitement of someone coming to the door would turn bedtime into a circus requiring a whole new set of little kid cooldown routines. She made no sound. No vibration through the door. Layne held perfectly still until another knock came. He wasn’t unreachable in this small town, but he almost never had visitors. And never unannounced or after dark. The neighbors knew about bedtime policy and wouldn’t betray Layne’s evening ritual. He hustled down the stairs, past the fireplace, and through the living room to the front door. Keeping his large body close to the wall, he eased toward the framed art print of a stretch of highway c...