fuonlyknew

.

Once you enter their world, there is no escape…in this gripping and
undeniably chilling thriller from Emmy-award winning journalist Linda
Hurtado Bond.

/

As a crime reporter for a Tampa TV news
station, Mari Alvarez knows when an investigation enters dangerous
territory. But with her estranged sister missing and almost no
information to go on, Mari can’t trust anyone but herself to find
the truth. Now she has just 48 hours to sneak into Cuba undetected,
track down her sister…and pray to her orisha that she’s not too
late.

.

This is nothing like reporting in her neighborhood,
though–a place she knows like the back of her hand. In Havana she
has no contacts and only an ice-cold trail of cryptic clues. When
Detective Tony Garcia offers to help, Mari puts aside her instincts
and tries to let someone in. But soon they’re caught in a maze of
lies, deception, and an undercurrent of the island’s own
witchcraft, a sinister Brujería.

.

Every lead draws Mari
further into this world of shadows, especially when her sister isn’t
the only young woman who’s gone missing. Each step pushes Mari and
Tony toward a revelation they never saw coming. And as they close in
on the horrifying truth, one thing becomes clear…no one will let
them leave Cuba alive.

.

Amazon
* Apple
* B&N
* Google
* Kobo
* Entangled
Publishing * Bookbub
* Goodreads

.

 

.

.

Day One

 

One a.m.

Forty-seven hours left

Tony’s family farm

We tiptoe through a dimly lit garage. Enrique goes first, Orlando

second, his GoPro out and recording. I’m holding on to Orlando’s shirt. Tony walks

behind me. We lug our gear with us, so moving isn’t easy.

 

As we enter the house through the kitchen, I take note of one single

light bulb hanging without a cover from the ceiling. It sways as we pass, casting light in

waves across the bare cement walls.

 

Towels cover the windows, even though it’s still dark outside.

Enrique pulls back a sheet hanging over an open archway, and as

soon as we walk through, nervous energy embraces me. Candles burn in place of

lamps, and the glow illuminates eager faces. Almost a dozen of them.

“Americano!” A one-armed man, in a faded Nike T-shirt and ripped jeans, pulls Tony in

with his stump and slaps him on the back with his good hand. “Americano!”

 

Tony gives a few pats but pulls away.

The Americano seems uncomfortable with raw emotion.

Similar greetings swirl around us, like an emotional tornado wanting

 

to suck Tony up.

 

They must all be relatives of his, crammed into this living room,

moving around so quickly, I can’t tell if the floor is shifting or it’s me. The heat and

humidity add to the feeling the room sways, like I’m riding waves.

 

Most of those gathered are older men, but there are two women, a

couple of teens, and one three-legged dog, an ugly, multicolored mutt with sad blue

eyes.

 

One of the women draws me into her arms, hugging me; Spanish

endearments roll into my ear. My heart swells in reaction to the smell of lavender on the

woman’s skin. The scent reminds me of my Abuela Bonita’s Violeta perfume. I squeeze

my eyes shut. I will not cry.

 

My clothes, moist from the five-hour boat ride from America, must

be dampening her dry clothes. I’m starting to tremble, so I don’t want to be held tightly. I

really need to pee, but I’m ashamed to ask, because Tony is busy being washed around

in this tsunami of a family reunion. Orlando is busy recording. All of that is more

important than my needs.

 

Tony hasn’t seen these family members since he left Cuba as a

baby. Twenty-eight years ago. It hits me—he, too, has lost family, if not to murder or

kidnapping, to separation by both water and politics.

 

The first time his mother invited me to dinner at her house in Tampa

a month ago, Tony didn’t eat, because he was too busy caring for his ninety-year-old

grandfather. Watching him feed the older man, stroking his hair, helping him to bed,

stirred something in me.

 

His grandfather must have meant a lot to the owners of this house,

too, because a painting of a younger version of him hangs on the living room wall. He’d

been a dissident, and because of a few rallies against Fidel Castro, he’d been arrested

and imprisoned. When he finally made it to America, his physical and mental state had

been damaged beyond repair. Tony became his caretaker, a constant reminder, he told

me, of Cuban suppression, imprisonment, and torture.

 

Tony’s temporal artery pulses. He didn’t come to Cuba only to help

me; he came for the revenge against those who wronged his family. And to save those

he could.

 

We stare at each other, no words needed.

His conflicted emotions weigh heavy in my chest. My heart aches. It

 

literally hurts. For him. For me. For us.

.

Also by the Author: 

.

.

All the Broken Girls

.

Get it on Amazon

.

.

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

.