House of Giral

Mark Laurence Latowsky

Description

A fast paced medical thriller which follows Jo Hart’s progress at identity transformation, a necessary journey of self discovery that has brought her and a group of her closest friends, taking scattered fragments of forgotten memory, drawn from an unknown life of sexual and physical abuse at the hands of a psychopathic family killer, towards the dawning of a new found age of justice, recognizance and karmic consilience at end.
A fast paced medical thriller that sets and follows Jo Hart’s life long quest to recover and rediscover her principle identity. Pasting back fractured pieces of forgotten memories Jo, an orphan of Taurus, receives a little help from her friends, a loyal and lovable group, all of whom must embark on a dark forensic journey of transformative self discovery. Through song, dream and diary, Jo is met in secret disclosures whose images paint a horrific picture, a past life of sexual and physical abuse at the hands of Pablo her father, a psychopathic family killer in the House of Giral. All one can do is watch and wait as this charged group is propelled towards a new found justice of recognizance and consilience, a transformative destiny and karmic judgement of genomic sorts, passed forward at birth.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Mental (serie de televisión)
• Diagnóstico
• Diagnosis
• Psychedelic
• Health
• Journey
• Mood
• Identity
• Synchronicity
• Mental
• Self
• Transformation
• Discovery
• Thriller
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 20 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781663250490
• Langue: English

Extrait

HOUSE OF GIRAL
 
 
 
Mark Laurence Latowsky
 
 
 

 
HOUSE OF GIRAL
 
 
Copyright © 2023 Mark Laurence Latowsky Rob and Trish MacGregor.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.iuniverse.com
844-349-9409
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6632-5048-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-5050-6 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-5049-0 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023902296
 
iUniverse rev. date: 02/17/2023
Contents
Prologue
Part 1 Discovery
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 2 The Long Way Home
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part 3 All Is Among Us
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Appendix
 
 
 
Dedicated to: Rob and Trish MacGregor.
For Jessica, whose name is blessed of wealth;
Issac, her first born child, of laughter and promise.
And Jasper, her richly blessed treasure holder.
 
In memory of my late mother Evelyn Kallen and father Albert Latowsky.
 
 
 
 
 
The quickest road to easy street runs through the sewer
— John Madden
Prologue

 
March 9, 2022
The music drifted around her, a jazz piece she recognized from the 1920s. It boomed from the open doors of a bar or restaurant on Fort Lauderdale Beach and drew Jennifer “Jo” Hart like metal to a magnet.
She jogged here five evenings a week but never had done so on a Saturday evening, when the snowbirds were out in droves, enjoying the incredible South Florida weather. She loped through the dusk to the next intersection, and when traffic stopped, she trotted across the street, eager to see who was playing “Farewell Blues” by the New Orleans Rhythm Kings. Even when she thought of the name, she wondered how she knew. She’d always loved jazz in any form, but especially jazz from the twenties. She’d never studied it, didn’t play an instrument, yet for some strange reason this particular piece haunted her.
Midway down the street, the music got louder. She followed it into a large bar, the Bourbon Street Club. The place rocked with music that came from the stage, where an ethnically diverse band of seven men and one woman played “Farewell Blues.” She made her way up to the bar, ordered a bottle of water, and just stood there, watching them play a variety of instruments with such precision and soul that they could’ve been the New Orleans Rhythm Kings—except that the group from the twenties had consisted of eight white men.
How do I know that?
She didn’t have an answer, and that bothered her. But the longer she listened, the less the answer mattered. Her foot tapped to the rhythm, her body swayed, the music transported her.
She is fourteen, like Santiago Garcia, and they hurry through town, eager to hear the music. They aren’t allowed to be here without an adult, but who will know? Their nannies are napping. They probably haven’t heard that the Rhythm Kings are playing near the Las Olas drawbridge. It isn’t like the city fathers or anyone else announced it. All word of mouth, from one neighbor to ano ther.
She can hear the music now, and she and Santiago glance at each other and walk faster, faster. Pretty soon they are running, clutching each other’s hands, and suddenly, she sees them, the eight musicians on a makeshift stage. Sunlight spills over them, their instruments glint in the light, and “Farewell Blues” fills the sea air.
“Beautiful.” Santiago throws his arms out to his sides. “The music, the place, the smell of the air … ”
Then someone comes up behind them. “What the hell are you doing here, young lady?”
She and Santiago spin around, and her father stands there, his cheeks puffed out with rage, his eyes dark and large, his hands fisted at his sides. Her younger brother, Raul, is slightly behind him. She steps back, and Santiago steps forward. “Sir, we heard the band was going to be here and … ”
“I don’t give a goddamn what you heard, boy.”
“The fastest way to easy street runs through the gutter.” - John Ma dden
Jo wrenched back, deeply shaken, and glanced around wildly. Several people stood on either side of her now, and it seemed they stared at her like they knew she was struggling. The band played on. Jennifer made her way through the crowd, murmuring, “Excuse me, excuse me.” She made it to the front door and hurried out into the evening.
She ran. It didn’t matter where or in what direction, as long as she got away from here, from the music that had triggered the memory or flashback or whatever the hell it was. Run, run as fast as you can, away from that music, away. She didn’t know how far she had gone when her legs cramped up, she could barely breathe, and suddenly she just couldn’t run anymore. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, her body shaking with sobs.
What’s wrong wit h me?
“Nothing, nothing’s wrong with me,” she whispered, barely able to catch her breath.
She pressed her hands against her thighs and rocked back on her heels, glancing around to get her bearings. She didn’t have any idea where she was. Nothing looked familiar. When had it gotten so dark?
She pushed to her feet and glanced up and down the street, panic clawing in her chest, making its way into her throat. She knew where she was—on that country road outside her parents’ home, and her father was behind her, pushing her up the sidewalk, toward the front door, which Raul opened with a sweeping gesture of his arm, as though their father were a king.
“ No! ” she shrieked, and tore away from all of it, running with her arms tucked in tightly at her sides, her breath exploding from her chest, terror whipping her forward faster. “Help me!” she shrieked. “Help me, he’s going to …” And she tripped and pitched forward, and her arms shot out to break her fall. Someone ran over to her, a woman in jeans and a sweater. “Hey, are you okay? Should I call 911?”
“Are you real?” Jennifer asked. “You look real.” Curly brown hair, a cute face, a quick smile. “Please be real.”
“Yeah, I’m real.” She came over, touched Jennifer’s arm. “Listen, why don’t you just sit down right here.” She patted a section of wall behind her that marked the boundary of someone’s yard. “Tell me who to call. Husband? Boyfriend? Family? And what’s your name, anyway? I’m Annette. I live just down the block.”
Her name. What the hell was her name?
Where was her brutal father? Her sniveling brother? Her fiancé? No, no this was all mixed up. It was as if her brain had collapsed and was now rewiring itself a piece at a time, but the pieces didn’t fit. “I … I … don’t know my name.” She slumped to the wall, pressed her hands over her face, and wept.
She heard Annette on the phone, saying, “Yes, yes, that’s right. She’s melting down right here on the street.” Jennifer struggled to contain her sobs.
Humans don’t melt . Psyche s do.
She burst into hysterical laughter and rocked back and forth, back and forth, her arms locked at her waist. When she couldn’t laugh anymore, when it hurt to laugh, she slapped the pocket in her running pants and brought out her cell phone. Stared at it. “What’s my name?”
“Your name is Jennifer Hart. People call you Jo. Close friends call you JoJo.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m Siri. And I—”
“You’re a piece of shit!” she screamed, and she hurled the cell over her shoulder and into the yard behind her.
She heard sirens now, shrieks and squeals that sounded like a herd of wild animals. The air thundered with their approach. Jennifer grabbed onto the railing that sectioned off the yard, vaulted over it and ran until she was tackled from behind and struck the ground. “Alert Broward Mental Health,” said the man who now handcuffed her and pulled her to her feet. “We’ve got a wild one.”
Bet your ass . She slammed her knee into his groin, and he grunted and fell back. But another man grabbed her around the waist, lifted her up as though she weighed nothing at all, and carried her to an ambulance. She screamed and struggled to free herself, but now she was on a bed, and another man restrained her ankles, then strapped something around her middle.
“Please,” she sobbed. “I didn’t do it.”
He sank a needle deep into her neck, and darkness seized her.
Part 1 Discovery
Mistakes are the portals of discovery.
—James Joyce
Chapte r 1