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My FugitiveHe’s silent... he’s dangerous... and he’s dying. Amid the ruins of a destroyed building, a young woman finds a fresh corpse, a tightly-bound prisoner of war with a bloody knife beside his one free hand... and a deadly choice to make. She knows this man is dangerous, and yet she’s drawn to him. He needs her help, and for a person who’s spent a lifetime defining herself by being strong for those who need her, that is enough. But the war-torn town is filled with her patient’s enemies, his presence puts her in danger, and his quiet strength awakens fears, desires and inner demons that she thought she’d put to rest long ago. Either the two of them will save each other, body and soul... or he’ll take her down with him. Poetic, suspenseful and profoundly moving, My Fugitive will make you cry, hold your breath, and fall deeply in love with two unforgettable characters. "The story moved me. I found myself still thinking about it hours after I finished the book." - Nicole L'Esperance. |
What people say about the Silent Fugitive series:
My Fugitive and Voice of a Silent Fugitive are parallel accounts, told from opposite perspectives. The story moves slowly out of necessity, but it doesn’t feel slow: Dostoevsky could take a lesson from Stephanie. It moves slowly when it needs to, and picks up the pace when appropriate, much like anything by Tom Clancy. The internal monologue will be familiar to anyone who’s read the Jack Ryan series as essential to telling the story. It may only encompass a few days, but it’s an immersive experience; you don’t want to put the book down. For both books in the series, prepare to have your heart violently torn from your chest. Simply put, read the books.
- Scott Williams
Wow. I REALLY enjoyed this book! I must admit that once I started reading this story, I couldn't put it down. Well, I didn't want to to put it down. It pulled me into this wartime environment that I hope to never have to experience. Yet, despite the awfulness of the environment, the author successfully tells a story of love, self-realization, and strength.
The story is told from the perspective of the main character. She is a strong-willed woman who struggles to save herself and an injured man in the most dire of settings. She self-identifies as a caregiver, one who saves, heals, and nurtures--a strong woman character most women, on some level, can relate to. I felt as if I had a front row seat as her perceptions and emotions unfolded in her mind. They took me with her. The story moved me. I found myself still thinking about it hours after I finished the book.
My Fugitive is very well crafted and well formatted. It is refreshing to read a novel for the Kindle that is free of distracting grammatical and spelling errors. I highly recommend reading this novel if you like good writing. It is very well done!
I liked this book so much I sent a gift copy to my mom. Looking forward to part 2!
- Kindle Customer
The story is told from the perspective of the main character. She is a strong-willed woman who struggles to save herself and an injured man in the most dire of settings. She self-identifies as a caregiver, one who saves, heals, and nurtures--a strong woman character most women, on some level, can relate to. I felt as if I had a front row seat as her perceptions and emotions unfolded in her mind. They took me with her. The story moved me. I found myself still thinking about it hours after I finished the book.
My Fugitive is very well crafted and well formatted. It is refreshing to read a novel for the Kindle that is free of distracting grammatical and spelling errors. I highly recommend reading this novel if you like good writing. It is very well done!
I liked this book so much I sent a gift copy to my mom. Looking forward to part 2!
- Kindle Customer
I found "My Fugitive" to be a moving read that intrigued me as much with its writing style as it did with its plot.
The story, which takes place in a world thrown upside-down by disaster and war, examines human cruelty but more essentially looks at the natural instinct to care for people in need. And it does so in a touching way that seems somehow deeply familiar.
The author uses a unique style of first-person narrative that quickly hooks you in, creating a sense of daze illustrated through the disaster-torn mind-set of the main character. The story then unfolds in a dark world through that character's feelings and emotions.
I found myself studying the writing, which at times borders on poetry, as I read along, and I have since gone back to look at parts. The style is not only unique but is thoroughly polished and natural.
"My Fugitive" was recommended by a friend and I will certainly recommend it to others. The author apparently is also working on a unique form of a sequel, which I look forward to reading, as well. This book is a moving read and also a smooth one.
- J. Sailors
The story, which takes place in a world thrown upside-down by disaster and war, examines human cruelty but more essentially looks at the natural instinct to care for people in need. And it does so in a touching way that seems somehow deeply familiar.
The author uses a unique style of first-person narrative that quickly hooks you in, creating a sense of daze illustrated through the disaster-torn mind-set of the main character. The story then unfolds in a dark world through that character's feelings and emotions.
I found myself studying the writing, which at times borders on poetry, as I read along, and I have since gone back to look at parts. The style is not only unique but is thoroughly polished and natural.
"My Fugitive" was recommended by a friend and I will certainly recommend it to others. The author apparently is also working on a unique form of a sequel, which I look forward to reading, as well. This book is a moving read and also a smooth one.
- J. Sailors
First sentence starts innocently and then in a whirr you're engulfed in God knows what. The main character is "lying on a wall" and we don't know if it's a male or female.
As the character starts moving through the rubble a head injury is revealed. We get a glimpse into the character's morality because he/she promises to help those if they're in need or skate by unnoticed if they're not in need.
Did an earthquake fell the building? Was it a suicide bomber or terrorist? Was it a missile from a precision military strike?
We soon discover the main character seems to be a civilian assessing the situation. She creeps into a room with 2 dead soldiers, a man tied to a chair who seems to have been tortured. I guess she's a woman because the character says "his dark eyes are deep inside my soul". I don't see a man ever saying that.
The chapters are short and quickly readable which I like. The suspense remains because even into chapter 3 the female character is a mystery. No name even given yet. She seems to be a caretaker or nurse who lost her parents long ago.
She feels the Florence Nightingale syndrome but doesn't have the experience, confidence or a mentor to tell her whether to trust, embrace or even indulge these urges. The reader twists and turns with her as she struggles through this emotional minefield.
It sucks you in and doesn't let go until you find out what happens. Does she continue to fight her feelings or does she release and indulge them?
I'd give it 4.5 stars if that rating was possible. The only thing I didn't like were parts of the book where body language was described in detail with lots of adjectives. But some readers enjoy when an author paints a vivid word picture so I chalk that up to my own reading style.
I enjoyed how easy it was to read and highly recommend it.
- Clint Evans
As the character starts moving through the rubble a head injury is revealed. We get a glimpse into the character's morality because he/she promises to help those if they're in need or skate by unnoticed if they're not in need.
Did an earthquake fell the building? Was it a suicide bomber or terrorist? Was it a missile from a precision military strike?
We soon discover the main character seems to be a civilian assessing the situation. She creeps into a room with 2 dead soldiers, a man tied to a chair who seems to have been tortured. I guess she's a woman because the character says "his dark eyes are deep inside my soul". I don't see a man ever saying that.
The chapters are short and quickly readable which I like. The suspense remains because even into chapter 3 the female character is a mystery. No name even given yet. She seems to be a caretaker or nurse who lost her parents long ago.
She feels the Florence Nightingale syndrome but doesn't have the experience, confidence or a mentor to tell her whether to trust, embrace or even indulge these urges. The reader twists and turns with her as she struggles through this emotional minefield.
It sucks you in and doesn't let go until you find out what happens. Does she continue to fight her feelings or does she release and indulge them?
I'd give it 4.5 stars if that rating was possible. The only thing I didn't like were parts of the book where body language was described in detail with lots of adjectives. But some readers enjoy when an author paints a vivid word picture so I chalk that up to my own reading style.
I enjoyed how easy it was to read and highly recommend it.
- Clint Evans
This isn't the sort of genre I usually read, but I still can't deny a well-written story when I see one. My Fugitive flows very well; in places it takes on the feeling of a prose-poem, consistent in its references to the story of the Beachwalker. As you read, it eventually pulls you in and makes you care about its characters. I read the majority of it in a single sitting, because I wanted to know what would happen, and by the end, the story had touched me enough that I almost started to cry. In short, grab your nearest box of tissues and give My Fugitive a read. ;)
- Samantha
- Samantha
Stephanie O'Brien is a new author to watch. My Fugitive is captivating like Jack London's To Build A Fire- she pulls you into her character's experience in an unforgettable way. Ms. O'Brien's intuitive skill shines in this work. -Lorraine Pursell, MA, BCET, Global Parent Mentor, yourkidslovinglife.com
- Lorraine Pursell
- Lorraine Pursell
This is one of those books that you don't want to put down! It touched a deep place within me that yearned for recognition. She has truly captured the heart and dilemma of those who have given above and beyond the call of duty. This is a must read!!
- Tracy O'Brien
- Tracy O'Brien
Want a sneak peek?
Scroll down to read a free excerpt of My Fugitive!
My mother told me a story once. A story about a wave that washed up all the starfish and left them on the shore, in a place where starfish can’t survive.
I can hear the ocean in the distance, but I know that it’s only my blood, pounding in my ears like the flying surf. Dust hangs in the air like sea spray, seeking a way into my lungs and eyes. It covers everything, and the place where it falls thickest is the wall I’m lying on.
The building is toppled on its side. A wave moved through the earth, and somewhere outside, the starfish are starting to stir. I can hear their muted voices, calling, crying.
These starfish are human, and that makes it all the worse.
There are people inside the building, too. I lost track of them when the world moved, but now I force myself to my feet, looking around, seeking the nerve to call out.
Do I want them to hear me?
A swirl of dizziness passes through my head, and my feet are unsteady beneath me. My surroundings shiver slightly, and I realize I have to move quickly, before an aftershock can turn this place into a tomb.
As I take my first uneven steps, I decide to remain silent. I’d rather see them before they see me.
A dull burning fills my skull, and it’s only now that I realize I hit my head as I fell. The vertigo remains, but I have already learned to disregard it, and the trembling ground no longer slows me down.
I know how to walk when everything wants me to fall.
A sound is reaching for me, and I move toward it, prowling like a cat. If I keep my body low enough, I can keep my balance—and perhaps avoid being noticed.
If they’re hurt or trapped, I’ll help them. Otherwise, I’ll run.
I can hear one moving around now, swearing to himself. His footsteps are uneven, but his anger doesn’t seem to focus on his injury. He’s speaking to someone.
I hear a jagged thumping, like heavy furniture tilting upright.
Then another impact, and that one sounded worse.
My silent motions quicken, following the noise. There’s a soft scuffling now, but it seems to be one-sided. Something is moving against the floor, but it doesn’t sound like feet. It’s more like wood on drywall.
Dark eyes flash through my memory, and I understand.
A sharp cry stabs through the floating dust, as if in angry protest. There is a grunt as the footsteps falter, and I can hear liquid falling to the floor, limp splashes like fish dying on the sand. A tearing sound, more wet noises, and then a heavy thud.
The moving wood goes still.
The voices from outside melt into the distance, swallowed by the beating of my heart. My breath trembles, and my feet move on their own.
My mother told me a story once. A story about a man who found a beach full of starfish, washed up by the sea.
She never told me what he’d do if one of those starfish was a shark.
I climb through a doorway, and the room paints itself in my dust-clouded eyes. The wall-turned-floor is stained with blood, spilled from a ruined stomach and throat. The light hangs pale in the air, and it looks more like a tombstone than a moment in life.
The world stands perfectly still, and the shark is dead.
I stand in the room, this desolate shore, and all my thoughts seem to gather on the person who sits beside the dead man. His head is down, and his long, black hair is a curtain round his face, hiding it from view. He might have fallen asleep in his chair, but I know that he was moving just seconds ago. A stab to the stomach, a slash to the falling throat—my mind draws the picture as if I had been watching.
His whole body is bound.
His wrists, his elbows, even his fingers are tied to the armrests, and his shoulders and waist are pressed to the back of the chair. Thighs, shanks, ankles, feet—all are held immobile. He is breathing deep and heavily, and I’m strangely glad that his chest is not restricted, even as I find myself reluctant to approach.
One of his hands is free. On the ground just below it, the knife lies sheathed in blood.
My foot nudges against something, and I look down to see another man, the second shark. There were two of them when I first came in, fleeing from the firefight only to find more soldiers. Two armed men, beside one who was shirtless and bound.
This one, too, is dead. He died when all the furniture fell, and I’m glad that I can’t see his head.
Swallowing hard, I walk past him with small, quick footsteps, flinching as a pen and notebook crackle beneath my feet. I glance down, and am bemused to see writing on the paper, a short phrase jotted in faltering script. I cannot read it; I never learned how, and I decide not to linger on it. I have to check the other one, the man trapped in the chair. The person he killed must have knocked the knife from his hand as he fell, or else he surely wouldn’t have dropped his only way to cut himself free. I don’t believe for a second that he fell asleep and let it go—a person strong enough to kill so easily does not pass out that fast.
He’s probably still awake even now, listening as I come.
Ten feet, five feet, close enough to touch. His raven head is still lowered, but his breath is far too deep and hard. I don’t think he can help it.
The knife is lying by the leg of his chair. The knots look tight, and cutting them would be easier than fighting with them, but I don’t want to get within reach of that hand. Not yet.
Not without poking his forehead first.
Instantly those dark eyes are deep inside my soul, saying nothing, asking everything. The brows above them are damp with sweat, low with concentration. He wants to know what kind of person pokes such a man in greeting, but there’s so much more behind that probing stare. There’s a dangerous, powerful mind churning in the night behind his gaze: the kind that should be filled with the puzzles of the universe, but instead its stormy intensity is focused on me.
The person in front of me is no shark. I have no idea what the sea has brought ashore.
My hand falls to my side, and as I slowly crouch and reach for the knife, I cannot help but smile.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I tell him, and I start to cut the ropes.