Sufficient Ransom
Sylvia Sarno
Synopsis
"The role of religion in tragic circumstances is given a well-crafted twist in this intriguing thriller." ForeWord Clarion Reviews
What a mother wouldn't do for her child. Ann Olson takes her life for granted until her young son, Travis, disappears from the backyard one evening. Searching for her son, Ann throws caution to the wind. Soon, she finds herself enmeshed in the seedy world of Mexican drug dealers who operate just across the border in Tijuana. Does Ann, an atheist, embrace Christianity despite her husband warning that her pastor friend is more interested in converting her than in finding Travis? Does she make it out of the drug tunnel alive, or is her rashness her downfall? And is Travis’s disappearance related to that of other recently missing children in San Diego? A story of a mother’s love, courage in the face of evil, and her unexpected journey of self-discovery along the way.
What a mother wouldn't do for her child. Ann Olson takes her life for granted until her young son, Travis, disappears from the backyard one evening. Searching for her son, Ann throws caution to the wind. Soon, she finds herself enmeshed in the seedy world of Mexican drug dealers who operate just across the border in Tijuana. Does Ann, an atheist, embrace Christianity despite her husband warning that her pastor friend is more interested in converting her than in finding Travis? Does she make it out of the drug tunnel alive, or is her rashness her downfall? And is Travis’s disappearance related to that of other recently missing children in San Diego? A story of a mother’s love, courage in the face of evil, and her unexpected journey of self-discovery along the way.
Excerpt
Ann tensed.“Please, Richard. I can’t go out there.” Not to the backyard, the last place she saw their son.
Instead, she let Richard walk her around the house. They moved from room to room, holding hands. Everything was clean and tidy, just as Ann had always insisted it be. No specks of dried grass on the kitchen floor. No toys strewn all over the family room. The hand-embroidered pillows sat at perfect angles on the leather sofas. The cashmere throw from Rome was folded over the back of the winged armchair. The white mohair chaise was placed at just the right spot in front of the stone fireplace. No blankets and towels on the floors, part of makeshift forts. No chairs and tables toppled to make meandering tunnels. No childish pictures of rockets and volcanoes taped all over the walls. No shouts of, “Mommy, Daddy! Look what I did. Mommy, let’s play hide-and-seek. Daddy, do you like my picture? Does it look like a real snake?” No Lego pieces to trip over. No castles built to the ceiling.
The perfection Ann had always sought was finally hers, and it made her sick to her stomach.
About Sylvia Sarno
My love of stories started when I was very young. Listening to my father's simplified version of Shakespeare at bedtime awakened my imagination. When I was six, I moved from suburban Boston to Italy with my family. Living in a two-bedroom apartment in the industrial city of Turin we didn't own a television. I spent my free time reading The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and many other juvenile fiction classics. My passion for literature really took hold during those years.
We returned to the States when I was eleven, to the same house on an acre of grass and trees that we had left. The main floor of our home was always neat and clean, with plastic covers on the common area furniture to keep the children and the dust off, while downstairs my father's thousands of stacked books held dusty court. To this day, I love well-used books.
When I was younger, the thought of writing a book seemed so arduous to me. I wanted to work in business. At Boston College, I majored in English because I loved the subject. I figured I would learn about business by working in companies, not by studying them. After working in commercial real estate, investment banking, and in my own recruiting firm for many years, I decided that what I really wanted to do was write novels. We returned to the States when I was eleven, to the same house on an acre of grass and trees that we had left. The main floor of our home was always neat and clean, with plastic covers on the common area furniture to keep the children and the dust off, while downstairs my father's thousands of stacked books held dusty court. To this day, I love well-used books.
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