Shift: A Novel

Dallas, TX

November 19, 1963

“Boo.”

The slim, russet-haired man gasped when Melchior stepped from behind the flaking bark of a sycamore tree. He stumbled backward several steps, barely managing to keep from falling. Melchior might’ve liked to think he still had that kind of effect on Caspar after all these years, but the sweet smell of whiskey carried in the warm air.

When the man had finally recovered his balance, he squinted against the shadows, his right hand already inside his jacket.

“Tommy? Is it really you?”

“Hey, Caspar,” Melchior said. “It’s been a while.”