By Jeff Abbott

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From New York Times bestselling author Jeff Abbott comes a fast paced thriller that will leave you wondering how far you'll go to forget the worst moment in your life.

Everyone has a memory they'd like to forget. For federal witness Miles Kendrick, it's the shootout that left his best friend dead — and Miles a hunted and haunted man. While helping his psychiatrist with a mysterious favor, Miles stumbles upon an illegal research program that could free him — and millions of others with post-traumatic stress disorder–from crippling memories. But when his doctor ends up dead, Miles must run for his life from a murderous conspiracy that gives new meaning to the word "fear."


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A Preview of Downfall


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Miles stared at the words, black in their clean lines against the white of the paper. First time to write the truth. He put the pen back to the pad.

I didn't want to kill him, didn't mean to kill him. But I did.

"Baring your soul fixes nothing." Andy sat against the edge of the kitchen table, watching him write. "She'll just hate you."

Miles said, "No, she won't."

Andy lit a cigarette, exhaled a blue cloud over the confession as Miles wrote. "You've lied to Allison for weeks…"

"Lie's a bit strong."

"Not as strong as murder. Telling her what you did isn't going to make you better." He watched the smoke dance from the cigarette's tip.

"Shut up." Miles finished writing out his confession. Andy wandered to the kitchen, rummaged in the refrigerator, found an early-morning beer.

"Priests say confession is good for the soul, but this is an exceptionally bad idea. Even for your soul. We had a deal, Miles."

"This doesn't affect you." Miles signed his name—his real name, Miles Kendrick—at the bottom of the page. Allison had never seen his true name.

"You tell her what happened, it very much affects me." Andy slapped his hand on the table. "Let me read what you wrote." Miles slid the paper across the table to him, then went to the kitchen counter and poured black coffee into a cup. He usually drank his coffee first thing, but this morning he'd wanted to write the confession before he lost his nerve.

Miles went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face. Stared at himself in the mirror.

I used to be someone, he thought. I used to be me, a regular guy, the anybody American with a home and a business and a life, and now I don't know who I am anymore. The old me died. The new me doesn't want to be born.

"Lies!" Andy called from the kitchen.

Miles wiped his face and stepped back into the kitchen. "I'm telling the truth."

Andy slapped at the confession. "The truth you remember. Not the truth of what really happened."

"It's all I remember."

"You didn't save those cops."

"You know I did."

"And I think about the high price every day, Miles."

Miles stepped around Andy, took the paper, folded it, slipped it into an envelope. "I have to be honest with her."

"You're breaking our deal."

"The only deal we have is in your mind. I have to go. Don't be here when I get back."

"I don't want to get ugly, Miles," Andy said, "but you give her that confession, and I'll kill you."

Miles stopped by the apartment door. He yanked on his coat, slid the confession into his coat pocket.

"I will, Miles." Andy's voice was low and it prickled Miles's skin as if an ice cube ran along his ribs. "I'll slip a gun into your mouth. I'll pull the trigger. I'll settle the score." Andy paced the kitchen floor, arms crossed, glaring.

"You go ahead and try." Miles shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Then he hurried down the steps, past the comforting cinnamon smells of the bakery on the ground floor of his apartment building. He stopped right outside the building's front door, craned his neck out an inch, scanning both ways up the narrow streets, eyeing every car and pedestrian.

No one waited to kill him. No cars idling on the road, full of assassins to mow him down before he took five steps. He started his walk to Allison's office. He didn't drive anymore because he was afraid if the Barradas found him, they'd wire a bomb to his car's ignition. They'd blown up the last two people who had testified against them, scattering engine and glass and flesh across a driveway in Hialeah and an office parking lot near Miami. The center of Santa Fe, where he now lived and worked, was territory he could cover on foot. Santa Fe was so much smaller and quieter than the constant revving hum of Miami. He walked through the Plaza at the heart of the old city, past the Native Americans spreading turquoise and silver jewelry across black felt mats. He headed up Palace Avenue, past a beautiful young mother pushing a stroller with twin girls under a pink blanket, tourists ambling along an architectural route, joggers huffing in the crisp gray of the mountain morning. Jogging, Miles thought, he should try jogging. Good healthy exercise to heal all the rot inside him.

He glanced over his shoulder twice to see if Andy was following him. No Andy, although it wouldn't take him long to catch up if he decided to press his case.

The confession, inside his pocket, made a soft crinkling sound as he walked, and he smoothed the paper straight with a slide of his finger.

The paper would change everything in his life, once again.

He walked past the stone grandeur of Holy Faith Episcopal Church and the elegant Posada Hotel and Spa. Most of the homes along this stretch of Palace Avenue had been converted into office space. Allison Vance counseled in an old brick Victorian that stood out from the more common adobe-style buildings, its yard dotted with spruce pines and cottonwoods. The hum of a saw roared through an open upstairs window. The landlord was refurbishing the empty top two floors while Allison refurbished people's heads.

Miles went up to the house, glancing over his shoulder. Andy stood on the bricked sidewalk, huddled against the cold, his tropical print shirt and khakis out of place in the morning chill of a Santa Fe spring.

Go away, Miles mouthed at Andy.

"If you give her that confession," Andy said, "it changes nothing. It doesn't hurt me, it hurts you. You got me, Miles?"

Miles gestured at him to go.

"This ain't done." Andy tossed the cigarette onto the street, marched back toward the Plaza.

Miles found his breath and went inside. The door to his right read ALLISON VANCE, M.D., PSYCHIATRY. He opened it, stepped inside, rested his head against the door as he closed it.

"Good morning, Michael," Allison said to his back. "I'm glad you made it this morning."

"Made it early," he said. Certain days he couldn't face the appointment, the idea of sifting through the black sand of his memory, afraid of what he might unearth. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing at all," Allison said, and her tense expression faded. "Would you like a cup of green tea?"

He hated green tea but said, "Great, thanks." He took off his jacket, hung it on a hook—the confession still in its pocket—and sat down in the fat, worn leather chair across from hers.

She poured a steaming cup of tea and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said.

"You look tired, Michael." It was his new-life name, one conjured up by Witness Security.

"I'm not a morning person." He sipped.

"You probably worked a lot of nights, being an investigator." Attempt number one to get him to talk. His being a former private investigator was one of the three nuggets of truth she knew about his old life.

"Nighttime is the right time," he said. "Cheating spouses often burn the midnight oil."

"Is that who you shot? A cheating spouse?"

Attempt number two, based on nugget number two. The dance remained the same; she would try to get him to talk about the horrible instant when his old life died, glean details he couldn't remember, and he would duck and run, hiding behind jokes and chatter. "No. I never carried a gun." The words came out like molasses dripping from his lips. Get up and give her the confession, he told himself.

Andy stood behind Allison. "What's wrong, Miles? Lose your nerve? Go ahead, tell pretty lady exactly what you did to me."

Miles froze. His skin felt like it had been slathered in ice. Andy had never set foot in Allison's office before. Miles glanced at his coat, where the confession lay. He looked at Andy. Andy grinned and shook his head.

"Michael? Is something wrong?" Allison leaned forward with a frown.

Miles hid behind a long sip of his tea. Steadied his breath against the rim of the cup. Looked up again. Andy made a gun of his fingers, fired it at Miles.

"Michael, every time I mention the shooting, you freeze up."

"I know." He set the tea down. "I don't want… to not remember what happened anymore." The words felt thick in his throat. "I need you to help me."

She sat across from him. "Of course, Michael. This is a major step. Wanting to heal yourself—it's a critical element that's been missing from our work together."

"I don't want you to hate me," he said.

"I couldn't. Never." She offered a thin smile. "I think I understand you better than you know."

"Wait till you find out what I did," he said. "I don't even remember all the details of it—I can't."

"Your willingness to talk about your trauma is all that matters, Michael."

"I know I haven't been cooperative with you, but I want to be sure… I stay your patient. You're the only one who can help me."

"I'll take it as a welcome compliment, thank you, but—"

He held up his hand. "Don't give me the shrink line about every therapist is good, blah blah blah. And I don't want you sending me to a hospital; I can't, I won't, go to one of those places, they're not an option."

An expression of surprise, or of disappointment, he couldn't tell which, crossed her face, then vanished with her nod. "No hospitals. And I welcome the change in attitude toward your therapy. Where would you like to start?"

Prep her for the confession, he decided. "I keep seeing the person I shot. I can't live this way, I can't have him on my shoulder all the time, so it's either get fixed or go even crazier."

Her expression might have been cut from steel. "Is he here now?"

"Yes. He's a fever I can't shake. He told me this morning he wanted to kill me."

"What's his name?"


Behind her, Andy crossed his arms. "I really resent you bringing this do-gooder between you and me, Miles."

"Let's talk about the shooting," Allison said.

"I told you, I don't remember all the details."

"We'll go slow. Start with where the shooting happened."

The first word caught, a stone in his throat, but he coughed and said, "Miami."

"Your home?"

"I grew up there. So did Andy."

"Where in Miami did the shooting take place?"

"A warehouse. No one there but me and…" He stopped; he couldn't look at her. Handing her the confession now seemed impossible. He steadied his breath; the burn of panic inched along his bones.

"Me and two policemen and Andy…"

"The knife that's in the kitchen drawer," Andy said. "Wicked sharp. I'll put it in your hand, I'll help you draw a nice hot bath, and then you can slash your wrists, and we're cool again."

Miles stopped. "I want to be healthy again, I want my life back…" He stood and he paced and put his face into his hands.

"Let me help you. Go back to the story."

"But I can't remember, I can't remember, how can you help me if I can't remember?"

"Small steps. You shot this Andy."

"Yes, yes."


The pictures crossed his mind, a jumble, photos dropped at random on a floor. "We're laughing. Then—Andy freaked. He pulled a gun. Aimed at the head of one of the cops."

"And you shot him."

He sank into the chair. "Yes. But I don't remember it."

"Doesn't pretty lady deserve the truth," Andy whispered, "before you give her a letter full of lies?"

"Let's not try to remember," Allison said. "Let's just talk about what you visualize if you think about the shooting. That's different from the memory itself."

He sipped the green tea and wished the cup held bourbon. "I remember the laughing. But then the laughing stops and I raise the gun. I see Andy start to speak but I can't hear what he says. I pull the trigger. He shoots me."

"He shot you?"

"Yes. In the shoulder. I see him fall. I…" The scar on his shoulder began to ache, throbbing like a heartbeat. Sweat coated his palms, the close air of the building tightened in his chest—the smell of the paint, the faint hammering two floors above him faded and suddenly the office disappeared, the chill of New Mexico that pressed through the windows replaced with the humid blanket of Miami, the gunfire boomed a ceaseless roar in his ears, echoing in the cavernous warehouse, drowning out Andy's scream, his own voice filled with shock and horror, the chock of the bullet hitting Miles's flesh, a cannonball of pain.


Miles ran his hand along his forehead. He felt feverish, sick. He steadied his hands, pressing them against the soft leather of the chair. He was here. Not there. He could not go back there. Never.

"Michael. Michael."

Michael wasn't his name and he didn't want to answer to it and then he remembered, yes, he was Michael now and forever. If he wanted to live.

"Yes," he said.

"You were having a flashback. You're safe. No one will hurt you."

"I'm safe," he repeated after her. He blinked.

She cleared her throat. "Tell me about Andy."

His hand wanted to reach for the confession, just give it to her, but he didn't want his hands to shake when he gave her the envelope.

"I want… Michael, are you listening to me?"

He put his gaze on her. "Yes, Allison. But I don't want to remember any more. I'm sorry. I can't." End it, he thought. Tear up the confession, walk out. Never come back. Have Andy as the perpetual roommate until you die.

"You took a forward jump today. You said you want your health back, your life back. Fight for it, Michael."

"It's too hard." He found his breath again. "Let's talk about my mom and dad. Did I tell you my dad gambled a lot?"

"I don't think we can shy away from what you're facing with Andy. I want to introduce a new element to our therapy."

He heard, behind him, the door to her office opening.

Miles spun up from the chair, covered the five steps to the door, grabbed the man's neck, and pushed him hard against the wall. The man matched Miles's height and he closed a strong hand over Miles's hand, tried to wrench Miles's grip from his throat.

"Michael! Stop!" Allison yelled. "Let him go!"

Miles released his grip. The man had blond hair, blue eyes, a heavy build under the tailored suit. He gave Miles a cool stare.

"I dislike people coming up behind me," Miles said.

"Clearly," the man said.

"Michael. This is Doctor James Sorenson. I've known him for many years. He's done amazing work with people suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Then he should know not to sneak up on people," Miles said. "Sorry."

"I apologize… if I frightened you," Sorenson said. For a big man, he had a soft voice, raspy, as though he felt few words pass his lips. He smoothed his suit lapel.

Miles didn't care for the underlying tone of Sorenson's voice, the slightly superior way in which he'd said frightened. He returned to his seat and faced Allison.

"I don't want another doctor," Miles said. A hot anger surged in his chest. This wasn't how a doctor as caring as Allison behaved, springing another doctor on him. It was wrong. It wasn't her.

"I know. But Doctor Sorenson is running a new program I believe could help you. Could give you your old life back."

The confession. It would stop this shift, keep this other doctor out of the picture. So get up out of the chair and give her the confession and stop being petrified of what she will think of you.

Andy, standing behind Sorenson, said, "It's not about what she thinks of you. It's about knowing exactly what happened when I died. That's what you don't want to remember. How you killed me."

"My old life…" Miles shook his head at Allison, then at Sorenson. "I don't want my case discussed with anyone else."

"You don't need to worry about confidentiality, Michael," Sorenson said. "Your secrets are safe with me. I only want to help you."

Miles knew he could get up and leave. He didn't want to hand the confession to Allison, not with Sorenson here. Potentially reading what he wrote. No. Not now.

Sorenson seemed to study the indecision on Miles's face, and said, "I want to help. Your memories—whatever they are—must be very terrible to you."

"Less terrible than dying." He couldn't say, Andy died and I loved him like a brother. Best friend since I was three years old. He died and I killed him, God help me, God forgive me. I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't want to kill him. I was trying to save him.

Sorenson leaned forward and Miles saw muscles bunch in the man's big shoulders. His expression was flat and cold. "There's a theory about traumatic memories. Our most terrible memories take the deepest root. Because they're not like regular memories. After a trauma, we constantly dredge up the results of our worst, life-altering experiences. We examine them, we dissect them. What could I have done differently, what choice could I have made to avoid the tragedy? Leave for school two minutes earlier and my car doesn't crash into a truck and kill my child. Keep a more careful eye open and my friend doesn't get gunned down in a battle."

Miles waited.

"The traumatic memory is walled off from 'regular' memories, as it were, and fails to integrate with other memories. It's never processed as a nonthreatening memory would be—filed and put away, to borrow an office metaphor. So the terrible memory becomes more deeply rooted and so does the trauma associated with it—the nightmares, the crippling fear, the paranoia that fate will strike a deadly blow again. Even when you don't remember specific details, the memory is there, an engine for the trauma. It's a vicious circle."

Miles tucked his hands in between the armrests and the cushion of his chair in case the trembles returned.

"If you could forget the worst moment of your life—would you?" Sorenson asked.

"No one can forget."

"But if you could, would you? Forget all the trauma associated with killing this Andy person."

"Yes," Miles said. "Yeah, I would."

"Won't happen," Andy said, now sitting on the chair's arm, leaning close to inspect Sorenson. "We're freaking inseparable."

"Well, I can't wipe your brain clean, but I could lessen the trauma of the memory." Now Sorenson smiled. "Think of it as a shot of mental Botox, as it were, to smooth out the wrinkles in your memory that cause the pain."

Picturing Andy dying, with no guilt, no pain, no fear, no horror. No guilt. Miles looked at Allison. "This is for real?"

"I want to enter you in a special program for trauma victims. Allison thinks it might be helpful to you."

Allison studied her hands in her lap.

"Is this program what you think I need?" Miles asked.

Allison, wordlessly, nodded. She glanced at Sorenson and Miles saw this was why she'd been tense when he arrived, this other doctor hidden in her office. Waiting for him.

It all seemed—wrong.

"Will you let me help you, Michael? Allison is recommending two other patients of hers for the program. We're meeting here tonight at eight to discuss it. I hope you'll join us. Your case fascinates me."

"Thanks for the offer. I'll give it serious consideration." Miles stood. Session over, even though twenty minutes remained on the clock.

"You made real progress today," Allison said. "I appreciate your listening to and talking with Doctor Sorenson. Thank you for—understanding."

"I'll make my decision and let you know."

"Decision made," Andy said to Sorenson. "I vote he's not coming anywhere near you."

Sorenson shook Miles's hand with an iron grip. "I hope we can, together, make your pain go away."

"Speaking of which," Allison said, "here, Michael." She pressed a white plastic vial of pills into his hand.

"What's this?"

"A very mild sedative to help you if you have another flashback."

"Not necessary." He disliked pills and hated taking the antidepressants she prescribed for him. Swallowing each pill reminded him of his failure to be strong.

"Dosage directions inside," Allison said. "Call me if you have questions. I really hope we'll see you here tonight at eight."

Miles slipped the pills into his jacket. He heard his confession crinkle against the vial. He left, closing the office door behind him. Sweat coated his palms, ran in a trickle down his ribs.

Andy lounged by the entrance. "I knew you couldn't go through with it. Just tear up the confession and let's go home."

Miles said, "I'm going to work and forget about you." He stumbled outside. The bracing air slapped against his face.

"Sorenson," Andy said, "calling your case interesting, it made my skin crawl. I'm a lot more than a case."

"You're right," Miles said. "I don't like him either." He spoke low, into his cupped hand, as if he were warming his skin with his breath.

"Good, then, you don't need his dumb program." Andy slung an arm around his shoulder. "My favorite part of the confession was when you said you were trying to save me. That's rich. You don't save me, you don't get to save yourself, that's only fair, Miles."

Miles stopped. Closed his eyes, hunched his shoulders against the cold, counted to one hundred, listening to the distant hum of cars driving on Paseo de Peralta. He opened his eyes and Andy was gone.

Would you forget the worst moment of your life?

I can't go on this way, he thought. I can't. He'd join the stupid program, let Sorenson take apart his brain if it would banish Andy. If Allison believed going under Sorenson's wing would cure him, fine.

He touched the confession in his pocket, realizing he'd been rubbing at it like a praying man fingering a rosary. Tonight at eight. Tonight he'd give it to Allison as a show of faith, listen with an open, if broken, mind to Sorenson's proposal to fix his head.

"But I might kill you before tonight," Andy said, back again, leaning in close. "Make you step out in front of a speeding car. Put a gun in your mouth. Walk you up to the top of a tall building and right off the edge—"

Miles ran.


DENNIS GROOTE WAS LATE TO visit his daughter because he had to kill the last of the Duartes.

He'd tracked the man—an accountant who'd managed to duck under the police radar after the Duarte gang collapsed—to a meeting Monday night in San Diego at a luxury hotel near the beach. Groote had spent Monday night camped in an unoccupied room next to the target. He had slipped inside it at nine that evening using an illegal scramble card. If any late-arriving guests showed up to claim the room, he would simply send them back down to the front desk, claiming a mistake had been made, and leave. The kill would wait for another day. Patience meant success; patience meant life.

The accountant arrived shortly after nine-thirty Monday night, but wasn't alone. Groote heard the accountant and a woman, talking in awkward tones, then the accountant's laughter, hearty, trying to be macho. Then the unmistakable sounds of kissing, of clothes sliding along skin, of movement on mattress.

Groote played solitaire on his PDA during the love-making, yawning once, waiting for the accountant to be done. He could simply pick the lock on the adjoining room door, walk in, shoot them both, and not miss a second of visitation time with Amanda. But he did not see why he should kill a woman who simply had selected the wrong sexual partner for the evening. He hated the idea of an innocent person suffering needlessly. He waited and hoped that the target's girlfriend wouldn't stay the night.

But she did. Groote listened to them continue their intimacies until midnight, then they fell asleep. He gave them another hour, hoping the woman would rouse from the postcoital slumber. Still the sound of silence, of light snoring from both the accountant and the woman. Then Groote dozed himself, waking in the thin light of Tuesday morning.

He listened at the door. Hushed, steady snoring. But he heard a soft step, heard the shower next door rush to life.

Now. He could be done and gone while the woman showered, out of harm's way. Groote jimmied the lock of the door linking the two rooms, eased it open. The accountant was fortyish, tall, barrel-chested. He didn't look the part of a bean counter; more like a laborer, with his rough face and heavy jaw.

"Hi," Groote said.

The accountant's eyes opened in sleepy confusion and he said, "Uh, hi."

"You helped destroy my family. Just so you know." Groote shot him with his silenced gun, twice between the eyes.

He heard a scream from behind him, over the hiss of the shower. She'd started the hot water but hadn't stepped under the spray. He grabbed the woman, shoved her hard against the wall, covered her mouth with his hand. She was older than the accountant, in her late forties. Groote recognized her; a concierge at the hotel. Groote had noticed her last night; he'd noticed and taken account of every person in the lobby during his walk-through. She'd had a welcoming smile for him then, glancing up from her computer, and he had nodded in return.

Now Groote jabbed his gun against the woman's throat. "Answer me and I'll let you live."

The concierge closed her eyes, shuddering underneath his touch.

"You understand?"

She nodded.

"Why are you here?" Groote took his hand a centimeter off her mouth.

"Here?" The concierge sputtered in her terror. "Oh, please, oh, please…"

"Yes. Here. With him." Wrong place, wrong time, rattled in Groote's head, but he hated the phrase. He heard Cathy's final words: I'm taking your car, more room for junk in the trunk.

"He invited me. Please don't kill me. Please don't." The concierge tried to back away from the gun barrel pressed into her throat, but Groote kept a hard grip on the woman's hair.

"Does he stay at this hotel often?"

She nodded a yes.

"Did you know him before tonight?"


A predetermined choice then, not the random love-making of just one night. "You know what kind of man he is?"

She shuddered with fear. "He—he's just a CPA. For a boating company…"

"He had a different job before. His actions helped kill my wife, maim my daughter. He paid out the cash that bought the guns that destroyed my family."

She shivered under his touch. "Boating… company…"

"You should be more discerning about your friends, miss," he said gently.

"Yes, okay, I will, I promise…"

"I'm very sorry for the inconvenience."

And he shot the concierge once between astonished eyes.


  • "An expert thriller writer, Fear's nonstop action delivers a unique premise with fully developed characters, and as a bonus, terrific scenery. Abbott ratchets up Fear with surprising twists and hairpin turns."—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
  • "Heart-stopping."—Cleveland Plain Dealer
  • "Hypercharged."—Publishers Weekly
  • "An adrenaline-laced novel...Hard to put down."—San Francisco Chronicle

On Sale
Jun 25, 2013
Page Count
432 pages

Jeff Abbott

About the Author

Jeff Abbott is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-one novels. He is the winner of an International Thriller Writers Award (for the Sam Capra thriller The Last Minute) and is a three-time nominee for the Edgar award. He lives in Austin with his family. You can visit his website at http://www.JeffAbbott.com.


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