Publication date: October 1st 2025
Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance
November 1899. New York society belle Louisa MacGregor, heartsick after a broken engagement, flees her old life aboard the last westbound train of the season, whose track cuts through the very heart of the steep and forbidding Sierra Nevada Mountains.
When an early blizzard traps her train in a remote mountain pass, Louisa is fast asleep in her luxurious palace car. The big train proves too heavy to make it over the snow-covered summit, and the engineer makes a fateful decision: to lighten the load, he crowds all his passengers into the first two cars and leave the rest of his train behind to the mercy of the elements.
Asleep, Louisa does not hear the conductor’s urgent cries, and she and her palace car are left behind. When she awakens, she finds herself cold, alone, and deserted in the most rugged wilderness on the continent.
She is near despair when a solitary mountain man—whom she comes to know only as ‘Bandit’—locates her abandoned train. The handsome, mysterious Bandit—who seems to carry with him a deep sadness of his own—leads Louisa over the mountaintops and down to his tidy cabin, nestled in a secluded valley surrounded by the towering peaks of the High Sierra.
With no prospect of rescue until spring, Lou and Bandit must find a way to survive the deadliest winter in fifty years. Trapped in a wild mountain paradise that is by turns unspeakably beautiful and utterly terrifying, these two lost people must learn to trust each other—and, perhaps, find the true meaning of life, love, and redemption.
Rich with historical detail, wilderness adventure, and heartfelt romance, Winter in the High Sierra is a sweeping, inspirational, clean love story perfect for readers who enjoy:
Heartfelt clean romances
Nature and healing journeys
Inspirational love stories with grace
Snowbound survival stories
Western mountain wilderness stories
Historical fiction with emotional depth
★★★★★ A beautifully written romance where love, trust, and survival intertwine. Absolute must-read!
What if your second chance came in the form of a snowstorm and a stranger who help you to see your worth before you did?
That’s the heart of Winter in the High Sierra, a powerful, clean historical romance set in the remote Sierra Nevada in 1899.
Louisa MacGregor is used to wealth, comfort, and being told what’s proper, until a broken engagement sends her fleeing west, heart in pieces. Boarding the last train out of New York, she hopes to disappear into the wilderness and leave her pain behind.
But when an unexpected storm traps the train in a mountain pass, Louisa’s car is quietly abandoned. She wakes to an empty train, deep snow, and no hope of rescue.
Then she meets Bandit, a quiet, deeply kind mountain man who offers her shelter in his isolated cabin. With no way out until spring, the two must face the elements, and their own guarded emotions.
Unlike the gruff, brooding heroes found in many survival stories, Bandit is gentle and introspective. He listens more than he speaks, and his kindness runs deep. As Lou finds her footing in this strange, wild world, she begins to rediscover her strength — and see herself through Bandit’s eyes.
Set against breathtaking landscapes and rich historical detail, Winter in the High Sierra blends survival, heartache, faith, and emotional redemption into a story that will leave you deeply moved and enjoying every word. Funny, moving, and a real page-turner. You won’t want to put it down, trust me.
you’ll love this clean, character-driven romance with a slow burn and a strong sense of place.
Don’t miss this unforgettable journey. Grab your copy of Winter in the High Sierra today and let it carry you away to a cozy escape.
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About Author Robert Brighton:
Acclaimed author Robert Brighton is an authority on the Gilded Age, and a great believer that the Victorian era was anything but stuffy. In his immersive fiction books, Brighton exposes the turbulence of the era – its passions, dreams, and disasters – against a backdrop of careful research on the places, sights, sounds, and smells of the time.
When he is not walking the streets in the footsteps of the Avenging Angels, sniffing out unsolved mysteries, Brighton is an adventurer. He has traveled in more than 50 countries around the world, personally throwing himself into every situation his characters will face – from underground ruins to opium dens – and (so far) living to tell about it.
A graduate of the Sorbonne, Paris, Brighton is an avid student of early 20th Century history and literature, an ardent and relentless investigator, and an admirer of Emily Dickinson and Jim Morrison. He lives in Virginia with his wife and their two cats.
Published by: Fire and Ice YA
Publication date: October 20th 2025
Genres: Fantasy, Paranormal, Young Adult
As if the rumors and whispers from the people of her seaside town, Oceanbrook, weren’t bad enough, 17-year-old Sarah D’Antonio is troubled by the whispers from the forest. It’s not her fault that she hears voices, that she sees auras, and that she has been sleepwalking along the shore. The townspeople, and Sarah’s parents among them, claim that it is all in response to stress, including her chronic migraines and panic attacks. They believe that she can’t come to grips with the fact that her cousin, Lena, is dead. But Sarah knows that the things she is experiencing are real and not something she is bringing on herself. She also knows that Lena is not dead, only missing. She believes that there is something more supernatural going on and that the town is hiding secrets.
Sarah’s feelings are validated when she suddenly becomes thrust into a world in which she has always sensed but never seen. A world of fairy witches, shape-shifters, and legendary creatures. The world of the astral plane. And now, it will be up to her to form alliances to save the magic, fix the astral plane, and most importantly, to bring her cousin home.
I had lost so much over the span of the last few years. Second-guessing everything but still trying to find a reason behind why bad things happen. It’s not like I didn’t know that life wasn’t fair, but living with chronic illness and how everyone reacted differently to Lena’s disappearance really drove home the fact that I would never be able to fully trust my relationships, my health, or even my beliefs. I think that’s what scared me the most. Everything that I had believed was shaken, and I had to build a new normal. I had to build myself back up. Only, I didn’t have a solid foundation on which to do it.
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About Author Jessica Natalie Reino:
Jessica Natalie Reino is a multi-genre author with a soft spot for sweet romance and the supernatural. Inspired by her Italian heritage and growing up in New England, she is constantly developing new story ideas that not only raise awareness for those with invisible illnesses, but also promote kindness and the importance of physical and mental health. When she is not working on her own writing, Jess can be found helping other writers achieve their goals, spending time with family and friends, or out on the Zumba® dance floor.
She comes home to mourn her father. She stays to uncover the shocking truth.
When college student Berry returns to her family’s small Southern California farm after her father’s sudden death, she believes she’s coming home to grieve and reassure her mother that she’ll soon be back for good to run the farm. With farming in her blood, she is eager to bring new life to the failing farm through modernization and sound financial management after receiving her degree in agricultural economics.
It doesn’t take long for Berry’s plans to collapse, as she discovers all is not well in the surrounding farming community. A foreign-owned agribusiness, Happy Sun Farm, is taking over all the small farms, something her father had resisted.
As she delves deeper into the company’s campaign of coercing farm sales, Berry suspects they may have been responsible for her father’s death. She learns that Happy Sun Farm is far from a happy place. Their strange farming practices don’t make sense to her, and the unexplained deaths and secrecy surrounding the farm leave many questions unanswered.
With help from law enforcement not forthcoming, Berry sets out to explore what she can, but soon finds her own life in danger. Not knowing whom she can trust, she uncovers a diabolical plan of mass proportions no one could have imagined.
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Praise for Happy Sun Farm: Behind the Facade
“I haven’t read a thriller so brilliant, creepy, and compelling in years.” ~ Readers’ Favorite
“Happy Sun Farm is an unputdownable read packed with realism and high-stakes intrigue.” ~ Indies Today
“Happy Sunny Farm: Behind the Façade by Deven Greene is a genre-bending tale that wears many disguises. At times, it feels like a Stephen King narrative rooted in small-town unease; at others, it channels John Grisham’s legal-tinged suspense.” ~ Literary Titan
“The blend of farming insights, thriller, and murder mystery builds intrigue and political confrontation to create a satisfyingly absorbing story that’s hard to put down.” ~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller
Published by: Panthera Publishing Publication Date: October 22, 2025 Number of Pages: 356 ISBN: 978-196462008
Fog rolled in as the sun set on the verdant hills, silent but for the small animals carrying out their daily tasks of finding food and safety while caring for their young. Below in the valley, the mist-shrouded a smattering of primitive structures—the permanent home of twenty-thousand guests of Hwasong, the largest political prisoner camp in North Korea.
All the inmates—men, women, and children—were serving a life sentence for anti-revolutionary activities or being within three generations of a person convicted of that same high crime, so-called guilt by association. Those imprisoned solely because they were related to a convicted enemy of the state lived separately on the grounds, never allowed to see their denounced relative again. Their living conditions were horrible, but not as horrible as those who had committed a serious offense.
A group of a hundred men, women, and teens wearing orange jumpsuits, tired after a long day of hard labor, shuffled into the large auditorium, hurried along by shoves and baton whacks from the guards. Already seated was an equal number of prisoners wearing blue jumpsuits, men, women, and teens who had arrived by bus a half-hour earlier from a nearby housing block. The inmates dressed in blue were emaciated, their skin loosely covering the bones underneath, while those in orange were thin but without signs of starvation. The people in orange were silent as they glanced around and sat in the vacant seats between those in blue. If the two groups of prisoners had questions about why those in orange and blue were intermingled in this way, none dared to speak up. Ten guards armed with guns and batons stood around the room’s perimeter. After all the inmates were seated, one of the officers stepped to the front of the room and commenced the evening ritual of indoctrination. The session of self-criticism would be next. Prisoners who occasionally slumped forward from exhaustion were struck with a baton. He or she would either straighten up or fall to the floor before being pulled by their arms out of the room, never to be seen again. As the officer droned on about the greatness of the country and their Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Un, the guards around the perimeter continued to look straight ahead. None of the convicts seemed to notice the fine aerosol being emitted from nozzles that had poked through small holes in the ceiling high above. The mist silently spread to all corners of the room for several minutes before the apertures closed, and the spouts crawled back into the ceiling. A short session followed in which several prisoners were required to admit to recent shortcomings, such as not working as hard as they could have or eating more than needed to survive. The other prisoners responded by agreeing that the behavior described was shameful. When the meeting appeared to be over, the inmates in orange looked around, ready for the usual order to file into the cafeteria for a small meal. However, the doors remained shut, and all were told to stay seated. The lights dimmed, and a movie began, showing scenes of happy North Koreans at parades and concerts, playing sports, and attending school. For eleven hours, during which time the guards were replaced by a fresh batch, one film after the other played as the prisoners were forced to watch. One of the prisoners in an orange jumpsuit began to moan. In the dim light, the officers exchanged knowing looks. The sounds of distress became louder and deeper as several more inmates, all wearing orange, began to groan. The guards started to place buckets at the feet of the prisoners in orange. Within three hours, almost all those wearing orange were groaning, doubled over in pain, as they vomited into buckets. The vomit became increasingly tinged with blood as the night turned to day. Blood and stomach contents spewed onto the floor as the prisoners became unable to control their forceful retching. Soon, the sounds of explosive diarrhea filled the air. Unable to exert any control over their bodies, the sick fell to the floor as bloody bodily fluids from both ends of their gastrointestinal systems streamed out of them, into their clothes, down their pant legs, and onto the floor. Blood oozed from their mouths, noses, and eyes. At first, the convicts wearing blue sat still in their seats, fear drawn on their faces, but without suffering physically. At some point, one, then another, abandoned their seats and stood near the back of the room. Seeing that there were no repercussions, others followed. Within eight hours of the start of vomiting, two prisoners in orange had died. The deaths began to mount as those in blue looked on in horror, wondering if they would be next. Two buckets were placed near them for their own hygiene needs while they waited. Seventy-two hours later, the doors opened. The prisoners in blue, still emaciated but as healthy as they were when they had entered the building, were escorted outside into waiting buses to return them to their housing block. All of the prisoners in orange lay on the floor—dead.
Chapter 1
I handed my driver’s license to the airport security agent at the Indianapolis airport and scanned the boarding pass on my phone. As I had come to expect, the gray-haired man looked up at me and smiled. “I ain’t never seen that name before. Kinda takes me back.” “I know,” I said. “I get that a lot.” My dad was only two when John Lennon was killed, but his parents indoctrinated their son on everything Beatles. He, in turn, spent countless hours listening to Beatles music with my mom. I think they got stoned a lot when they were doing it, but they never admitted it to me. Given that their favorite Beatles song was “Strawberry Fields Forever,” I strongly favored that hypothesis. When I was born, they couldn’t resist naming me Strawberry. Oh, and my last name is Fields. Now you know why people often have something to say about my name. I’m a run-of-the-mill blond, not a strawberry blond. I think that would have made my life unbearable. I pulled on the cuff of my long-sleeved shirt, grabbed my driver’s license, and was about to walk off when the man said, “You must be a student at Purdue. Going home to visit the folks?” “Something like that.” I was in no mood to talk. I know the man was trying to be pleasant and make his day pass more quickly with small talk. The large P on the front of my baseball cap was known by all in the area to signify Purdue University, where I was, in fact, a student. I forced a weak smile and adjusted the shoulder straps on my backpack before walking off. After passing through the luggage check without incident, I headed toward my gate. First class was already embarking, but I still had to wait a while before my boarding group was called. I had bought my ticket the previous night and was in the last group, my seat near the back of the plane. Fortunately, the flight to Bakersfield, with one stop in Phoenix, wasn’t in high demand, and almost a quarter of the seats in the rear were empty. With ample space in the overhead bin, I lobbed my backpack in and took my aisle seat. The man sitting next to the window glanced my way and nodded. I nodded back, glad he didn’t want to chat. I remember taking off, but not much after that until I heard a male voice asking me if I was okay. I must have dosed off and wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I opened my eyes to see the concerned look on the flight attendant’s face, a pudgy middle-aged man who was bent over, his face close to mine. We were cruising at altitude, and tears were running down my face. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe them away. “Sorry,” I said. “I was dreaming about my dad. I’m on my way to his funeral.” “So sorry, dear. If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll comp you a drink if that will help.” I declined but thanked him for his offer and reflected on my mother’s hysterical call the day before. She had come home after spending all afternoon with a friend shopping and going to lunch when she found my dad dead on the kitchen floor. She had often confided in me that she felt terrible going places without him, but since he refused to leave the farm, she’d been doing things independent of him for quite some time. He’d been in good health—physically, that is—so his death was a big shock. I reflected on the situation, different from what I had planned for before my dad died as the plane sat on the tarmac in Phoenix. I was all too aware that it was too late. I was heading home, ready or not. Hardly the family reunion I had anticipated. I started to study a book on the economics of short-run decisions. After reading the first paragraph three times and still having no clue what it was about, I shut my eyes as the plane took off for the last leg of my trip. I’d be landing in Bakersfield in a little over an hour. My rest was short-lived. The flight attendant came by with a cart and asked me if I would like vanilla, raspberry, or peach yogurt. I looked at the available items—individual servings of Happy Sun Farm yogurt. I’d had their yogurt before, and it was delicious. “You’re lucky,” the attendant said. “Happy Sun Farm has donated a ton of yogurt to be served on our flights all week.” I decided it was probably no use trying to sleep and chose the peach flavor even though I wasn’t hungry. As I started to eat, my mind wandered to Happy Sun Farm. I had never heard of them until about a year earlier when their dairy and agricultural products began popping up all over. The company heavily advertised on TV. They boasted about all their products being non-genetically modified, or non-GMO. I didn’t have a problem with genetically modified food myself but knew that a lot of Americans did. All the produce my dad grew was non-GMO because he suspected all genetically modified food to be part of a government conspiracy. A conspiracy to do what, I didn’t know. Although I didn’t have time to watch much television, when I did, it was hard to avoid the Happy Sun Farm commercials featuring wholesome families frolicking and picnicking in a green meadow. The smiling sun logo served to reinforce that warm and fuzzy feeling emanating from their commercials. I wondered if they had a model I could follow to pursue success for my family’s farm. I’d noticed their rock-bottom prices, which was surprising since they must have spent a ton on ads. What I wouldn’t give to find out the secret to their success. *** Excerpt from Happy Sun Farm: Behind the Facade by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.
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About Author Deven Greene:
Deven Greene enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry and medicine, and practiced pathology for over twenty years. Her other works include The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy, Ties That Kill, and The Organ Broker.
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(The Deceit Trilogy, #1)
Publication date: October 4th 2025
Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult
The nation of Seity.
Four ruling families.
One merciless tyrant.
When Eldon Durane executes a noble family and extinguishes all magic, he ignites a war that spans generations.
Two decades later, Lady Rosalie Yorke and her best friend, Silence, are uprooted from their comfortable lives to escape the spreading war. But Rosalie’s world shatters when ruthless raiders kidnap her—only for her fate to collide with Crowe, the notorious pirate captain of the Deceit.
Crowe wants nothing to do with Seity’s political turmoil, but the thirst for revenge leads him to Rosalie. Hoping to change his luck, he decides to extort Rosalie’s father for a ransom.
Rosalie refuses to be anyone’s pawn, and Crowe has no patience for nobility. As the two bicker and dodge danger, Seity’s long-buried secrets begin to emerge from the shadows.
With Eldon’s deadly plan looming, Rosalie and Crowe must set aside their differences. Should they fail, Rosalie may lose everything.
Perfect for fans of Adrienne Young’s Fable and Amie Kaufman’s The Isles of the Gods, The Silence of Deceit is a seafaring tale of betrayal, friendship, and survival. A must-read for fans of pirate fantasy, enemies-to-lovers tension, and sweeping adventures filled with magic and rebellion.
“You left your book lying around.” She picked it up and held it out to him. “Don’t want to lose one of your precious first editions.”
“I didn’t—I left that for you to read.” He didn’t move from the doorway to take it from her.
“You said—”
“I know what I said. But that’s not a first edition, and I was being generous. Don’t get used to it,” he said, and backed out of the cabin.
Rosalie lowered the book but didn’t release her grip.
“Every time I think I have him figured out,” she muttered.
Silence didn’t seem to hear her as she stifled a yawn. “I was up all night, so I’m going to take a nap.”
“Thank you for keeping me safe.” All the doubt in the world couldn’t put a wedge between her and Silence. “I wish I could do something for you in return.”
“I don’t need anything in return because I know you’d do the same for me.” She squeezed Rosalie’s shoulder before heading over to the pile of furs.
Rosalie’s legs were shaky as she stood and left the cabin. After a night of suffering a fever, the ocean air felt incredible on her skin. She found Crowe watching Danny spar with another crew member. She stood next to the captain and pressed the book to her chest.
They watched the duel side by side without saying a word. It was fun to watch two experienced fighters without the threat of harm. It almost looked like a dance—an art of quick steps and clever maneuvers. Out of nowhere, she felt a burning passion to wield a blade. The thought had never crossed her mind before. Before, she had only wanted to take
on the role of a lady who didn’t need any weapons aside from wit and charm.
But seeing the sabers glint in the sunlight sparked a deep desire. Maybe she’d spent too much time among pirates.
“Can I help you?” Crowe broke her fixation.
“What’s the book about?”
“I suppose the point of reading books is to find out what
they’re about,” he replied without looking at her.
“What changed your mind?”
“Nothing changed my mind. It’s an act of grace; savor it, because that’s the only book you’re getting.”
Although he was back to acting prickly, the gesture of giving her a book said more than his words did. “Why did you pick this one? Is it your least favorite?”
“On the contrary,” he said, still avoiding eye contact. “It’s my favorite, so I’d prefer nothing happen to it.”
She made a noise of interest but didn’t say anything else. The captain had lent her a book—not just any book, but his favorite one. It was hard to unravel, but in a way, she felt like she had won at least one round of bickering.
In her victory, she threw Crowe a smirk. But it faded when she saw the late morning sun beaming down on him. His eye color warmed, and the wave of his dark hair caught every ray and rustled a bit in the wind.
At the worst possible moment, he looked her way. When their eyes met, he looked… nervous? “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Huh?” she blurted with too much gusto. “Why are you looking at me?” When his eyebrow quirked up, she shuffled backward. “Thanks for the book.” She ducked her head and made a quick escape to hide her blush.
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About Author Jillian Eagan:
Jillian Eagan is an indie author from Massachusetts. She received her BA in Creative Writing from Emmanuel College. Currently, she lives in Cape Cod, where she reads and writes on the beach.
A relentless thriller that explores the unbreakable bonds
that transcend time.
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What Goes Around
by Michael Wendroff
Genre: Thriller
‘Relentless and gritty, Wendroff
expertly weaves a narrative that begs, “just one more page”.’ J.D. Barker, New York Times bestselling
author
EVIL HAS MANY FACES Chilling murders terrorize a town and bring together two detectives to face
the hardest tasks of their lives. Jack Ludlum, who relies on his brawn to get
things done, is now paired with his archenemy, Jill Jarred, a brilliant
investigator with keen intuition. As they delve into the secret world of incels
and white supremacists, and conflict between local authorities and the FBI
rages, a media frenzy further complicates the mission.
Is there a serial killer on the loose? Or something entirely different? Will
the detectives’ clashing personalities be their undoing, or can they unite to
stop the killer before they kill each other?
What Goes Around is a
dynamic thriller that examines the intricacies of love, loss, and the
unbreakable bonds that transcend time. With its pulse-pounding pace,
captivating characters, and a revelatory twist that challenges the boundaries
of life and death, this novel will keep you hooked from the first page to the
last, and thinking long afterwards. ‘Starts off at a breakneck pace and doesn’t let up until it reaches its
unexpected conclusion.’ Lisa Black, New
York Times bestselling author of the Locard Institute thrillers ‘An adrenaline-fueled novel, the action breathlessly driven by two
detectives relentlessly pursuing the bloody trails left by a serial killer with
a dark sense of justice, deadly groups of white supremacists, and one lonely,
alienated boy caught up in the violence.’ Kathleen Kent, New York Times bestselling author ‘Fast-paced propulsive thriller that doesn’t let up – highly
recommended!’ Lori Brand, author
‘I could barely put this book down! The
twists and turns. The references to current political climate and the
unanswered “who dun it” questions kept me engaged until the last page. Great
read. Fast paced and an unexpected ending. Kudos for Wendroff’s debut novel!’ –
Amazon review
‘I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The story
keeps you on the edge of your seat. He is a colorful writer and the characters
just come to life. They become very real, and the interplay between them is
really intriguing. I highly recommend this book.’ – Amazon review
**Paperback
edition just released Oct 7, 2025 – Get it now!**
“It was midnight in the garden-less apartment. Good and evil were still at odds.
A cold wind whipped by, rustling the leaves while he was wrestling with his thoughts.
He hadn’t slept at all the prior night and couldn’t think straight now. He didn’t want to be
there but ended up going along—mostly to make sure things didn’t get too out of hand.
He and Dylan had watched Jose enter the basement apartment a few minutes
earlier. They checked their supplies one more time under the moonless sky. They peered
at each other, dressed in black, faces covered in charcoal powder, the whites of their eyes
the most evident part of their visages. A cat screeched in the distance. An owl fled to the
heavens. Dylan nodded to him.
He took out his hammer, and with one loud crash, he smashed through the window,
pieces of glass exploding around him.”
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When did the title “What Goes Around” come to you?
I have to admit that it came from my publisher, not me. My name had been “Perennial.” My publisher came to me and said that for a thriller, they thought they could do better. Now, in my marketing career I would often have ad agencies come in and show me a number of ads and I would normally end up having them make revisions or come back with new ads. I thought the same thing would happen here, but it didn’t. As soon as they suggested What Goes Around, I knew that was it! Not only does it sound like a thriller, but it totally ties into the entire book’s theme. Plus I also think the potential reader that sees the title completes the phrase in their own mind, so I’ve already made a connection with them.
Described as relentless and gritty and about to go into second print…what do you want us to know about the book?
It’s actually now into its third printing, I’m proud to say. It was published in the USA,UK and Australia in hardcover. You can get it at The Island Book shop in Venice. It is also available on Amazon in eBook and audiobooks. I’m amazed how popular audiobooks have become. And to my surprise, my agent sold foreign translation rights in Japanese, Hungarian, and Italian.
You mentioned, “relentless and gritty,” and I was thrilled to see that the author who said that has now made it to #1 on the bestseller list. In fact, JD Barker’s full quote was, “Relentless and gritty, Wendroff weaves a narrative that begs, ‘just one more page…'” And that’s exactly what I wanted to achieve–a page turner that the reader can’t put down.
Promoting the book is a challenge but with an MBA in marketing and your background in the publishing field in a literary agency you may’ve seen what it takes. And now that you’ve achieved a lifelong goal of writing your own book, what’s next?
I always wanted to write a book and it was really the pandmic that got me going-there was that periodof time when you couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even play tennis or go to the beach. So I was out of excuses and went at it. Rightnow, I’m spending a lot of time promoting it. Authors have to realize that today, writing is only 50% of their time, the other 50% is marketing. I’ve done a lot of podcasts, been reviewed by a lot of bloggers (I’m really happy the reviews have been great), and attend a lot of events, including book clubs. The bookclubs sem to really enjoy having a real writer at their meetings, providing insights about the novel as well as the writing and publishing process. In fact, I’d be happy to join any of your readers book clubs (contact me at wendroffm@gmail.com).
My next goal is to write my second book. I’ve plotted it and researched it, so now time to start writing! It will be another thriller and feature the two main characters from What Goes Around, as publishers tend to like series. It’s like building a brand.
What inspires you to write and tell us about your process. Do you write at a certain time, place…You mentioned your office and pool area.I notice you recently enrolled in the Citizens Police Academy in Venice to learn to shoot a taser….what are other things you enjoy researching for your stories. Do you feel it worked for you starting with an outline?
I love writing, and my process is plot, research, write, and edit.
I usually write in the mornings, when I’m freshest, either in my office or at the pool. The water inspires me, that’s another reason Venice is great-beaches, ponds-I don’t even mind the alligators staring at me. I usually sit at my pc to get the story going, and not worry about things like grammer or the specific words, I just want to get the writing flowing. The next morning I will reread what I’d written, and try to make it real writing. Make sure every word fits with the others, make sure each sentence fits with the others. Add the analogies and metaphors. After that’s done, I’ll start scribbling out the next party of the story on my pc, which will be re-written the next day. That process of write then rewrite continues everyday, until I can write my favorite two words: The End
But before I actually start the writing itself, comes the plotting. There are actually two types of writers-plotters and pantsers.Pantsers simply sit in front of their computers and write by the seat of their pants. They have no idea where the story is going. That’s not be. I have to know everything upfront, so after ideating I write a detailed plot outline. I need to know not only what the ending will be, but where I’ll plant the red herrings, and where I’ll put the twists and turns. Nut it’s not like things won’t change. Once I became really attached to one of my characters, and the plot called for the character to die, but I couldn’t do it. I had to change the plot. Another time I did kill off a character I loved, but my wife yelled at me because I was walking around for a week in depression. She said “They’re not real!!.” But to an author, they are real!
The other thing I do before writing is the researching. Sure there’s Google and Chat GPT, but what I found is best is talking to people who do the types of things that are in your book. Living in Venice, I had a lot of resources. I’d come to know FBI agents and police officers and chiefs. And the Venice Police department is great. It was important for my book to talk to a female detective and they put me in touch with one of their own, Courtney Zak. She was great, and a lot of her insights are in the book. The Venice Police Department actually runs a “Citizens Police Academy” where you can learn about all the different facets of the things they do, and I just finished it, which I highly recommend for anyone.
So talking to people for research is critical. Now, I don’t think I spoke to any serial killers…
Anything you want to share about family, kids, upbringing? I like that quote your mother said when you were born, “Nice to see you again.”
My mother was an editor at major New York City publishing firms. I distinctly remember her on a weekend sitting cross-legged on her bed, manuscript pages, strewn about, and red pen in hand writing editorial comments all over the pages. So at least I was prepared for my editor’s comments on my book. They weren’t in red pen, but the comments in the margins of the word document were as instructive. But I wasn’t surprised.
She remarried a literary agent, who had many thriller and mystery writer clients, so I probably got my love of the genre from reading all those books, free! Unfortunately he’s no longer with us, but I think still had an impact. My agent had been shopping around my manuscript to publishers, which takes a lot of time. But the very next day after my stepfather died, my book was sold! So I think I had a little help from above.
Is there an anecdote you could share about authors you ran into when growing up?
Actually, I’ve got one for both!
My stepfather was a literary agent and one of his clients was the bestselling author, Robert Ludlum (many know him for the Jason Bourne movies with Matt Damon). Once I got to stay at his winter home in St. Thomas. I remember waking up one morning, going into his living room and seeing him on the couch writing on a yellow legal pad with a pencil. That’s how he wrote his 450 page novels, by hand! While I admired Ludlum’s plotting and prose, I couldn’t do that! Thankfully, when it came time for me to write What Goes Around, I had a PC!
Regarding Capote, I grew up in a bit of a literary milieu, then went to NYU for business. It was when writing my MBA thesis that I was able to marry my love of books with my new love of marketing, as my thesis was on “Marketing in the Publishing Industry.” In fact, the industry’s trade journal, Publishers Weekly, excerpted my thesis in 3 editions, and paid me. That was the first time I got paid for my writing–I liked that!
During the research for it I interviewed a lot of publishing executives. One time I was waiting outside the office of the Editor-in-Chief for Simon& Schuster, and finally the door opens, and I’m ushered in and who do I meet–Truman Capote! As a thriller writer, meeting the author of In Cold Blood was amazing! And he looked exactly as you’d imagine.
What advice do you have for aspiring writers?
Believe in yourself and never give up.
Write every day, even if it’s only 10 minutes.
Learn your craft–there are so many opportunities! Online courses (I took courses on BBC Maestro from Lee Child and Harlan Coben). Conventions-Thrillerfest in NYC puts on great craft seminars. There are writing groups too. Read in your genre and never stop learning.
What advice would you give to your neighbors about life?
Wow,that’s a big question.
But I guess it boils down to be nice. Because, What Goes Around, Comes Around!
Michael Wendroff
is the author of What Goes Around, a
debut thriller published by Bloomsbury, which bestselling author Eric Rickstad
calls a “brilliant debut,” and bestselling author Lisa Black says, “starts off
at a breakneck pace and doesn’t let up until it reaches its unexpected
conclusion.” Plus, #1 bestselling author J.D. Black says, “Relentless and
gritty, Wendroff expertly weaves a narrative that begs, ‘just one more page…’”
The book was
inspired by what his mother said to him the second he was born: “Oh! How nice
to see you–Again!”
Michael has an MBA
in marketing from NYU, and was inducted into their Hall of Fame. He is a global
marketing consultant. He shares his time between New York City, Sarasota,
Florida, and Lake Garda, Italy. He is married and has three wonderful children.
His mother was an
editor (watching his mother scribbling in red ink on manuscript pages at home
on weekends prepared him for his own editor’s comments!). She remarried a
literary agent, so Michael was friendly with many authors, and even spent a
vacation with Robert Ludlum. Watching Ludlum hand-write his 450 page novels on
yellow legal pads didn’t dissuade Michael from trying to write a novel (though
he’s thankful for his PC).
What Goes Around was launched in the USA, UK, and Australia,
and foreign language rights have been sold in Italian, Japanese, and Hungarian.
The hardcover went through 3 printings, and now the trade paperback is
available (along with audio book and e-book).
Fun fact:
Michael’s great-grandfather was brought over by Thomas Edison from the
University of Copenhagen to work with him. He holds a number of patents,
including for plastic buttons. Michael proudly wears button- down shirts
whenever he can.
Forensic handwriting expert Claudia Rose never expected much from her high school reunion, just the usual mix of mean girls, jocks, nerds, and bullies. But when she stumbles upon the lifeless body of someone she knew, the night takes a deadly turn. As secrets resurface and old rivalries ignite, Claudia finds herself caught in a dangerous game where the past is more than just a memory—it’s a motive for murder.
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Praise for Maximum Pressure:
“Fun high school reunion story…until, well, the murders. The ending will surprise you. Intelligent read.” ~ Karen Fox 5 star Amazon Review
“A fantastic read!! Sheila Lowe, as always, delivers a compelling story that’ll have you in the edge of your seat!” ~ MattsHonestReviews 5 star Amazon Review
“I love this series… So well written I could see these characters very clearly. I love this series and this may be my favorite case! The suspense was edge of your seat & I loved it.” ~ K-BRC 5 star Amazon Review
“Another great book from Sheila Lowe–Hard to put down ’til the end… This is a fun and exciting story, face-paced, and as always with Sheila Lowe’s books, full of great HWA insights and comments. I think this is one of her best stories and right up my alley as an amateur handwriting analyst!” ~ Vera 5 star Amazon Review
“Excellent, well-written mystery that takes off like a jet from an aircraft carrier in the opening pages and never lets up! With every book she writes Lowe continues to sculpt her craft and gets better & better. The characters are likable & attention holding. The plot and the sub-plots were both well-developed.” ~ Roger Fauble 5 star Amazon Review
Book Details:
Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Write Choice Ink Publication Date: June 2, 2024 Number of Pages: 314 ISBN: 978-1970181487 (print) Series: A Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery, #9
Everything had changed in Edentown, and nothing had changed. Twenty-five years ago, when Washington Boulevard was the main drag, the high school crowd hung out at the Fox theater on Saturday nights, then walked in a pack to Carl’s Jr. for burgers. There had been a shoe store, a drugstore, a barber shop and a hair salon, a couple of high-end dress boutiques. The no-tell hotel above Guido’s Café that rented rooms by the hour.
Those businesses were gone now, replaced by boxy modern high-rise office buildings, an ultra-modern museum, and a refurbished warehouse that housed upscale fast-food vendors, cheese shops, and a yoga studio. Enterprises that meant nothing to Claudia Rose in the context of her hometown. Making a right turn at Olive Avenue, she felt like Alice in Wonderland—as disoriented as if she had stumbled into an alternate reality. As she made another right, more than a little uneasy that she might not recognize the old neighborhood, the breath she had held too long whooshed out like a popped balloon. Her shoulder muscles let go. She needn’t have worried. Aside from the odd paint job here and there, the residential streets were much the same as when she had graduated from Edentown High School in 1999. She had driven the seventy miles from Playa de la Reina to work the registration desk at the opening event, a cocktail party in the school gym, with her best friend, Kelly Brennan. How many of her classmates would she be able to identify at the reunion, her first in all those years? Despite running late due to the standard stop-and-go traffic that made the 405 famous, she refused to hurry. It was a long time since she had last visited Charter Street, and now that she was here, it felt weirdly like peeping in on someone else’s life. There was the home her parents had bought when she was in junior high. It had been brand new, part of the creeping gentrification that devoured neighborhoods whole—Godzilla chomping its way to tracts of larger dwellings. Claudia had loved that house, not least because she no longer had to share a bedroom with her younger brother. With its three-car garage and faux-French Country kitchen, the two-story rambler had seemed like a mansion after their old two-bedroom apartment. Now, her eyes were seeing it for what it was: an ordinary house on an ordinary street, looking smaller than the picture she’d held in her mind. She stopped the car and sat there, calling up flashbacks of summer parties in the backyard. Hiding behind the bushes with her friends and getting high on weed; drinking beer filched from their parents’ coolers. What had happened to the families she had once known? Some of her classmates must have kids attending Edentown High. Her first wedding reception had been held in that backyard. Within five years, the marriage had tanked. More years after that, her parents put the house on the market and moved to Seattle. Today, it would sell for close to a million. Claudia loosed a long, nostalgic sigh. It felt as though she was sitting in the front row at a stage play that had ended long ago, the drama wrung out of it. The curtain had been raised; the scenery revealed as a plywood façade. The sound of her phone startled the melancholy out of her. Kelly’s ringtone. She touched the answer button. “Yes, ma’am?” “Where the blipity blam are you?” “Keep your panties on. I’m five minutes away.” “I need you here now, girlfriend. Here I am, womaning the desk all by my lonesome, and people are showing up early.” Claudia knew better than to take the gripe seriously. Parties lit Kelly up brighter than fireworks on the Fourth of July. In the background she could hear the tuning-up sounds of a rock band. “Who’s there?” “The committee members of course—the three Cathys—” Three friends who shared a name, each with a different spelling. Cathi Soden, Cathy Brewer, Kathy McCarty. Kelly reeled off more names. “Sharon Bernstein, Espie Rodriguez, Ginny Vernon, Eleni Boukidis, Becky Condren. Lemme think … Mark Lukeman, Don Baker—” Claudia broke into the litany. “Got it. I’ll see you in a few.” “No detours.” Too late. “No detours.” She ended the call and entered the school’s address into the GPS—something she had not needed to do twenty-five years ago. The mile-long walk straight up Charter Street had terminated at the rear entrance to the school’s swimming pool. Not anymore. The snippy electronic voice directed her to an underpass constructed years after she had left home.
Chapter two
Claudia entered the gym through the back door, at once hit by the disembodied voice of a young Christina Aguilera singing about a genie in a bottle. She paused there to take in the frenetic preparations for the reunion: A custodian on a ladder, hanging a “Class of 1999” banner. Caterers hurrying to offload chafing dishes of hors d’oeuvres onto a long buffet. Early arrivals milling around the portable bars, waiting for them to open. Volunteers decorating the round tables with baskets of chrysanthemums dyed in the blue and gold of the school’s colors. Her eyes were drawn to the back wall, where “EDENTOWN HIGH SCHOOL” was freshly painted in six-foot-high letters. The bleachers that normally stood there had been folded away for the evening’s event, but Claudia had not forgotten the countless times she and her friends had stood on them cheering on their basketball team, the Pioneers, to a long string of winning games. The registration desk was set up on the other side of the gym from where she had entered. Crossing the highly polished polyurethane floor, she could see Kelly laughing and bantering with a handful of classmates lined up to receive their name tags. Whether the reunion committee was ready or not, the party was getting started. Claudia gave her friend a quick appraisal and dropped into the vacant chair beside her. “The dress rocks,” she said approvingly. Kelly had dragged her along on a shopping trip, determined to dazzle the mean girls with her adult fashion sense, even if most of the mean girls had matured and forgotten her existence. She had found a sultry blue-grey A-line that brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Claudia’s pick was a one-shoulder black number that her husband, Joel, had judged as “extremely sexy.” Her eyes were sparkling, her extra-white smile gleaming as Kelly pushed a box of name tags towards Claudia. “You look a-mayzing, you auburn-headed hussy.” Cathi Soden, the reunion chair, had told them that almost half of the class was expected to attend one or more of the weekend events, which meant they had more than two hundred classmates to check in. “What took you so long?” Kelly asked. “I thought you’d gotten lost.” “As much as this town has changed, it would be no big mystery if I had.” Now that there were two of them, several people at the back of Kelly’s line moved to stand in front of Claudia. She looked up at the first woman in line and got a vague sense of familiarity, but no name. The woman wore a pink chiffon dress that billowed on a slender frame, making it look a size too large. And something about the glossy chestnut brown pageboy hairstyle jarred with her pasty complexion, and hazel eyes that burned brightly. The woman gave her a knowing smile, challenging her with a winding “wrap it up” motion with her index finger. “C’mon, Claudia, I sat behind you in AP English our entire senior year. We passed a bazillion notes to each other—” Before she could control her face, Claudia’s brows shot up and she felt her eyes widen in surprise. How could this pale shadow be the pudgy, rosy-cheeked classmate of her memory? “Omigod, Andie Adams. I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—” Andie’s expression relaxed into a good-natured grin. “It’s okay, I’m not the only one here who doesn’t look like they did in high school. Unlike you, I might add. You haven’t changed much.” She glanced around the gym. “Isn’t it weird, seeing all these ‘old’ people and knowing you’re one of them?” Claudia, thumbing through the “A’s” for her name tag, felt compelled to protest. “Hey, forty-two is not old.” Andie laughed. “Depends on your attitude, I guess.” She pointed to the box of names. “Could I get Nat’s, too? You remember my cousin, Natalie Parker?” A clear image of two teenage girls popped into Claudia’s head—Andrea, sweet and shy—the ever-ready gopher to her bossy cousin, the bubbly captain of the cheer squad. “It would be hard to forget her,” she said “Are you two still ‘Nat’nAndie?’” The two had borne the nickname throughout their school years, as though one name covered both of them. Andie shook her head. “I work for Nat, but these days we have separate identities.” Wondering whether there was a silent “finally” behind the remark, Claudia handed the badges over with a warm smile. “It’s great to see you, Andie. Have fun.” “Why don’t you come find us when you’re done here. I’ll save you a seat. We can catch up.” “Thanks, I will.” The invitation pleased Claudia. After all these years, it felt good to reconnect with old friends. As Andie started to walk away, Kelly chimed in, “Save a seat for me too.” She turned back. “Of course! See you both later.” Waiting until Andie was out of earshot, Kelly cupped a hand to Claudia’s ear and whispered, “When was the last time that girl got some sun? She’s as white as tofu.” “Her hands were like ice. Maybe she’s been sick.” “Yeah, sick of following Nat around like a slave, doing her bidding.” “Let’s hope they’ve both outgrown that by now.” Kelly gave a small snort of derision. “I doubt it. She just picked up Nat’s badge for her, didn’t she?” *** *** Excerpt from Maximum Pressure by Sheila Lowe. Copyright 2025 by Sheila Lowe. Reproduced with permission from Sheila Lowe. All rights reserved.
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About Author Sheila Lowe:
.
Sheila Lowe is a forensic handwriting examiner, author, and educator with over fifty years of experience decoding the written word. Her nonfiction books include Reading Between the Lines: Decoding Handwriting and her memoir, Growing From the Ashes. In the bestselling Forensic Handwriting suspense series, Sheila’s real-world expertise drives unforgettable fiction as she bridges science and mystery with every stroke of the pen. Her Beyond the Veil paranormal suspense series features a woman who talks to dead people.
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Two rival interns. One art museum. And a missing art museum exhibit.
Dylan Alexander doesn’t need a boyfriend. Having one will only slow him down.
Freshly graduated from university, Dylan’s arrived in London, England from Vancouver, Canada for a summer internship at the London Art & Design Museum. He’s also looking for strings-free fun and a fresh dating scene. This is Dylan’s dream chance to start his career and land a permanent job in London—or else he must return to Vancouver where museum jobs are rare, and the dating pool is old news. Everything’s going great in his new life—except for one thing. Dylan must put up with rival museum intern William Martin-Greene.
Will is everything Dylan can’t stand: flashy, arrogant, and entitled. Forget that he’s too handsome for his own good and knows it. It’s bad luck that they both started on the same internship program. At least they work safely apart in different departments—until one day, they’re forced to work together when Will unexpectedly joins Dylan’s Curatorial team. So much for the avoidance strategy that had worked so far. Will’s arrival on his team is also not helping his unmistakable attraction. When Dylan and Will end up stranded together while collecting exhibits, with only one bed to share, they can’t deny their chemistry.
With only one permanent job on offer at the end of the summer, the competition is on to be the best intern. They both share the blame when an important design exhibit goes missing and risks the unexpected summer romance between them. Then, everything is on the line—including hearts, careers, and a chance at love.
A rivals-to-lovers, opposites attract, only one bed, and boy-next-door romance!
Keep going, Dylan. I splash along a London street that must be hundreds of years old. It’s lined with brick buildings, a mirrored office tower reflecting the moody sky, and followed by even more brick buildings. Then, at street level, there’re all the glass-fronted shops. The museum’s got to be close. You’ve gotten halfway around the world, after all.
With the help of printed out maps and free Wi-Fi, of course.
It’s not far now.
And I can’t stop smiling. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Forget the rain.
It’s a soggy, blustery London day, which admittedly does no favors for my leather shoes or my styled hair. Or for making a good impression on the first day of a new job in a country I landed in three days ago. And it’s the first day where jet lag isn’t totally kicking my ass.
I get a little lost on my way from London Bridge station somewhere along the modern gray tiled path leading past the Old London City Hall. The problem being something called Old London City Hall looks very modern and new, with its endless windows and curved oval structure, which is part of what got me confused. Because everything old in London’s supposed to be, well, old. Like really old. And this building is anything but. I squint at the building through the rain at the edge of an equally sleek plaza, dotted with leafy trees boxed in with low hedges, concrete benches, and contemporary art installations, all overlooking the Thames.
Old London City Hall looks like it was built yesterday.
This must be some prank to play on the tourists.
I pull out a slightly crumpled page from my pocket with one hand and hold on to the umbrella with my other hand. I haven’t sorted out my phone yet, and I don’t want to pay roaming charges. My printed-out map reliably shows Potters Field Park beside the Thames and the Old London City Hall plaza. Plus, there’s the iconic Tower Bridge nearby as a key landmark, and an X in blue pen marks the museum to the east. Raindrops splatter the page with dark spots before I hurriedly tuck it away.
I’m back on track.
The museum must be straight ahead, past the park—my destination—down at the end of the road or the block or whatever people call it here. I start walking again with purpose. Like I belong here amid the Londoners who happen to know where they’re going.
At least, I think it’s the museum at the end of the street. I haven’t actually seen it before, except on Google Street View.
Distracted, I end up making an unscheduled detour down a side street to see more of the surrounding area, which has one-way traffic. But there’re more modern buildings again down this way, and I work on figuring out how to loop back on course before I’m late.
Look right, then left. I keep repeating my new mantra when I cross the street, then hurry up another street toward the museum as the weather worsens. Everyone drives on the opposite side of the street from what I’m used to.
I grip my umbrella tight against another gust of wind.
A red sports car screams past as a wind gust turns my umbrella inside out.
Then an icy tidal wave hits me like a slap, and I reel.
“What the fuck—” I yelp, the umbrella useless in my hand.
An airborne puddle soaks me. Right from my head down to my now very ruined—rather than partly ruined—new shoes. Leather never deserves a flood of water, never mind my face.
Water pours off me in sheets. I’m left sopping wet, gasping and spluttering.
Me and my wet rage, dressed in soggy smart casual. My light cotton blazer, perfect for actual summer, turns out to be incredible at soaking up water like a sponge.
I stare after the red car rocketing up the road toward the museum, its taillights a sharp dazzle against the soft gray world even through the rain. My fists tighten while I drip.
Too bad I didn’t pack a towel in my bag, but I didn’t expect impromptu bathing today.
Asshole.
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About Author Hayden Stone:
More animal than mineral, Hayden Stone is a writer of fun queer fiction, especially with kissing. He currently lives in Victoria, Canada, and has previously lived in Vancouver, Canada and London, UK. He likes strong coffee and is owned by two cats. You can find out his latest news on Twitter or Instagram, or at his website: haydenstonebooks.com
Publication date: October 13th 2025
Genres: Adult, Horror, Paranormal, Suspense
A girl who feels invisible finally faces her worst fear on her sixteenth birthday and hastily makes a dark deal.
An old man returns to the same place every year on the anniversary of his wife’s death, to have one last moonlit dance with her.
A woman’s health concerns are ignored, and it leads to global chaos.
A young woman goes home to bury her father and sell his house but finds that the home is no longer hers.
An old man with Alzheimer’s becomes increasingly lost in his own house, which seems to be doing its own forgetting.
Two young girls find a Ouija board, thinking they’re communicating with a deceased relative, but find something much more cunning.
A woman, grieving the loss of her baby, takes a trip to a remote cabin in Tahoe. Her worried sister goes after her and isn’t prepared for what she finds.
A woman’s drive through California’s winding roads leads her to a perilous and sinister discovery lurking in the woods.
A woman takes a job as a nanny for two troublesome kids, only to find that the children aren’t the problem.
Once she was gone, the house grew quiet, the house got dark, even in daylight, even with all the lights on. He had taken to turning all the lights on most of the time, hoping it might give him some clarity, some help in understanding and navigating the house he knew inside and out. He’d flip the lights on, and then the nurse would come and shut most of them off behind him once he left the room. It was as if the house’s memory was beginning to slip, just like the old man’s. Things seemed to make less sense to both the man and the house. What might happen if the house couldn’t remember what its curving walls gave way to? What if it forgot where a door should be? Or even where the entrance and exit of the labyrinth in the backyard must be? He was certain the forgetfulness wasn’t all on him. Yes, his mind was playing tricks on him, but there was more to it than that. He played a part in it for sure, but there was something about the house. It was part of him, after all. His blood, sweat, and tears had gone into building it. The house was as much a part of him as his daughter was, perhaps even more.
—
SUNNY DAYS AHEAD
Tommy took a long sip of his milk, leaving a trail of a white mustache above his top lip. “She died.” He took the sleeve of his pajamas and wiped it across his lip, removing the stain. “She got sick. Sad sick.” He leaned back against a pillow on the sofa and pulled the corner of the throw blanket up to his chest.
“Oh, I am so sorry.”
“She got confused a lot. And cried a lot. She confused me and Danny. Didn’t know who was who. Sometimes she yelled at my father for no reason. Sometimes she got so sad and nervous that she would itch her arms until they bled. That’s what Dad said.”
Terry pulled her sleeves down low, so as not to call attention to the long red marks that now plagued her arms. They began to itch and tease at her, but she resisted the urge. Instead, she locked her hands around her teacup. “That is very sad.”
“When everyone went to sleep, she stayed awake. She would walk up and down the halls. Open our doors and just stand there at the bed watching us sleep.”
A chill of recognition swept over Terry.
“If we were bad, she would lock us up in our room.”
—
HYSTERIA
If only women’s health had been taken more seriously, perhaps the invasion would never have happened. If the Earth were a woman, it would be giving the human race the middle finger and saying, I told you so!” right about now. What’s left of Earth anyway. It might as well be called something else entirely. Or perhaps that is a human ego’s way of thinking. Since human life on this planet changed, why couldn’t it still be Earth?
I’d spoken to my doctor more in the past few months than my literary agent. It was my third visit in six months for the same problem. What started with what my doctor had called vague, benign symptoms, turned into a nightmare. Even she recommended we might have to consider more invasive methods to deal with it. Hysterectomy: that’s what she’d called it. Such a strange word. Such an offensive base. In ancient Greece, hysteria was thought to be caused by the uterus, thus hysterectomy, so the removal of the uterus would cure the hysteria. If anything in life was that easy. In hindsight, I’d have preferred to have been hysterical and called it a day.
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About Author D.M. Siciliano:
DM is a lover of all things creative. From the moment she could speak, growing up in Massachusetts, she had a passion for flair and drama, putting on concerts for anyone who was even remotely interested (and even for those who were not). A storyteller by nature, she first pursued her young dream of becoming a singing diva while living in Arizona. She soon found that stage life wasn’t the only form of storytelling she craved, so she dropped the mic and picked up a pencil instead. She still hasn’t given up on her diva-ness, and hopes her pencil stays as sharp as her tongue.
A dark sense of humor and curiosity for haunted houses and things out of the ordinary led her down the path of completing her first novel, Inside. Several other projects are constantly floating around in her head and her laptop daily, and sometimes keeping her up much too late at night. Occasionally, those projects are so dark and twisted, she needs to leave a nightlight on.
She now lives in Northern California with her two fluffy furbabies, Cezare and Michaleto.
When the body of a visitor is found in the woods by the local Shaker community, suspicion immediately falls on them. Rees is reluctant to believe anyone in this peaceful community committed murder. And Hans Bergin arrived with his wife, his brother-in-law and sister-in-law. They had their own reasons to want Bergin dead.
But as Rees investigates, he discovers everyone, including a recent Shaker convert, have secrets of their own, some stretching all the way back to the Revolutionary War.
Who, among the many suspects, decided to take matters in their own hands? Bergin’s wife and other family? The new Shaker? Or someone else entirely?
Book Details:
Genre: Historical Murder Mystery
Published by: Indie Publication Date: May 15, 2025 Number of Pages: 292 ISBN: 979-8312662825 Series: Will Rees/Shaker Series, #12
Constable Rouge and Will Rees rode south on Surry Road, past the Shaker community, until they reached the entrance at the southern end. They pulled into the small clearing and Rees parked his wagon. When he had first gone to town for supplies, Lydia needed both flour and sugar, he had not intended to join the constable in his search for a missing man. But, hearing of the disappearance, Rees’s curiosity had driven him into joining Rouge in the search.
“I still think we should have questioned the Shakers first,” Rouge said critically as he dismounted and tied his bay to a nearby tree. “On Sunday, Mr. Bergin told his wife he was going to Zion. He might still be there.”
“Was he planning to join the Shakers?” “No,” Rouge said with a grin. “Hardly. He came to Durham because he heard that the Shakers danced naked, and he wanted to see the ‘fair white forms’ of the women.” Rees could hear the quotation. “Huh,” Rees said. Although aware of the scurrilous slander concerning the Shakers, he could not understand why anyone would be foolish enough to believe it. The Shakers were a modest, quiet and industrious people. “The gullibility of men constantly amazes me.” “You should hear what I hear at the tavern,” Rouge muttered. “Besides,” Rees continued, ignoring the constable’s aside, “if there had been a problem at the Shaker community, wouldn’t someone inform you?” Rouge shook his head. After a moment, Rees reluctantly nodded in agreement. Maybe not. The community was notoriously insular and tried to handle any issues themselves. During the smallpox epidemic last year, the one that had sickened Rouge and left him severely scarred, they had refused all offers of assistance. “We may have to speak to them,” Rees agreed. He was not enthusiastic. Elder Jonathan was beginning to display some irritability towards Rees and his frequent requests for help. “Since you were told by Mr. Bergin’s friend that he rode this way, I suggest we begin our search here, in these woods. Maybe his horse threw him. Or,” he added, looking at the muddy track across the road, “he might have taken the lane across the street back into town?” Rouge shook his head. “Mr. Bergin did not return to town. I’m certain of that. We looked.” “It’s unlikely he disappeared on that path,” Rees said. It was just past midday, and the sun felt warm on his shoulders and face. They were at the end of April. Although snow from the last storm still lingered on the shadowed down – slopes of the hills and under the trees, he could see bright spring green beginning to fringe the trees. “Farms line both sides of that little road and all the farmers will be out in the fields now, beginning the spring planting. If something happened to Mr. Bergin, and his body was dumped there, most likely someone would have seen it. He disappeared during the day, yes?” At Rouge’s nod, Rees paused a moment, thinking. “Did his horse return?” “No. That’s gone too. Of course,” Rouge added cynically, “Mr. Bergin might have continued riding south, hoping to find a new life. His disappearance does not mean he was murdered.” “Someone was here,” Rees said, pointing to a relatively fresh pile of horse dung. “And recently too.” “So, Mr. Bergin stopped here,” Rouge said. “Close to Zion.” “It wasn’t necessarily Mr. Bergin. It could be another visitor.” Rees hoped that was so but feared the constable was correct. It was still too early in the spring for many visitors. Rees squatted to examine the soft slick mud underfoot. Although his wagon wheels had cut across the older tracks, he could see the horseshoe shaped indentations left by a shod horse. “Whoever rode in here,” he said, pointing out the marks to Rouge, “he tied up over there. See?” He pointed to a tree. “There are boot prints where the rider dismounted.” Rouge crossed the dirt and stared down at the impressions. “Look at the toes,” he said. “Riding boots.” “Yes. And here are the nicks left by the spurs,” Rees agreed, pointing. “Did Mr. Bergin wear riding boots? Could they be his prints?” Grimacing, Rouge nodded. “You were right.” Rees looked at Rouge. “Mr. Bergin went into Zion.” Rees followed the tracks to the bridge that went to Zion’s main street. When he crossed the bridge, he saw the same footprints on the other side. But, a few yards in, the riding boots were met by farmer’s boots. The riding boots turned around and returned to the other side of the bridge. “One of the Shaker Brothers prevented him from entering the village,” he said. “He walked back out to the road.” Rouge said. “Here are the marks of those boots here.” Taking care to avoid the boot impressions, Rees jumped across the soft earth. He misjudged his landing, and his right foot went into a deep puddle. Cold muddy water began seeping into his shoe. Rouge laughed. “It’s not funny,” Rees said, lifting his foot to shake it. Water flew in all directions. “Hey,” Rouge complained, jumping back. “Serves you right,” Rees muttered but without malice. He was too focused now on following the tracks. The riding boots went to the road where they were joined by another pair of shoes. The soil on the edge of the road was drier, more solid, so the imprint was shallow and harder to see. “I think these are ordinary shoes,” he muttered to himself. “Do you see any signs of another horse?” he called out to Rouge. “No,” the constable replied, adding sourly, “But I am not the great tracker you are.” “He met someone who walked here,” Rees said. “One of the Shaker Brothers, then,” Rouge said with the air of a man who has solved the problem. “Perhaps not,” Rees said. He was well used to Rouge’s propensity for jumping to the easiest and most obvious solution. “The second fellow could have tied up in the lane and then walked across the street to meet him here. Or,” he added quickly to forestall Rouge’s objection, “he could have even walked down the lane.” Rouge eyed Rees for a few seconds and then nodded. “Yes, all right. He could have seen Mr. Bergin from the lane,” he agreed. “It would have taken no time at all to cross Surry Road from town. But then where did they go?” Rees did not reply. Instead, he began following the tracks made by the riding boots south along the Surry Road and away from Zion. From the impressions, it seemed the man was walking slowly. Not running, not afraid, just ambling along. Every now and then, Rees spotted a footprint or two produced by the other boots. It seemed the two men were talking as they followed the road. He found the spot where the two people paused. But when he walked further down the road, he discovered he had lost the trail. There were no discernible footprints. He turned and walked back to the last spot he had seen them. This time, when he looked around, he saw scuff marks through the leaves descending the slope into the forest. “Here,” said Rouge, pointing to a downed tree several yards in. Muttering under his breath, Rees followed the constable further into the woods. Rouge’s path had obscured the marks left by the two men. But when Rees fought his way through the brambles and the stand of small fir trees, he saw why Rouge had summoned him. Right in front of the downed tree was a mess of overturned leaves, where the feet of the two men had disturbed them. “They sat down to talk,” Rees said, staring at the disordered leaves on the ground. He was beginning to believe these two men had nothing to do with Mr. Bergin’s disappearance and that this entire search had been a waste of time. The absence of the horse also made him wonder if Rouge was correct and Mr. Bergin had simply chosen to disappear. Rees was disappointed. Without really articulating his desire to himself, he had been hoping for something more serious. After several months spent inside at home, he was ready for some excitement. With a sigh, he examined the disturbance in the leaves. It looked as though one of the men had risen to his feet and begun pacing. But, as he neared the thicket, he smelled the barest whiff of the coppery rotten smell of old blood. The odor was so faint he wondered if he’d imagined it. Pausing, he lifted his face and took a deep inhalation into his nose. “What are you doing?” Rouge asked, staring at Rees in fascination. Rees threw him a glance but did not reply. Instead, he plunged forward, following the disturbances in the pad of last year’s leaves. Although the oaks and maples were just beginning to show the first bright green new leaves and the sun shone through the bare branches, the tall pines kept the ground below in shadow. Rees tracked the trail around tree trunks and through slick muddy patches. But he was halted by a large expanse of flat granite. He could not tell which way the trail went: straight down the slope or to one side or another. As he stared at the rock in consternation, Rouge toiled up behind him, puffing. “Why have you stopped?” he asked, panting for breath. “Not sure which way to go,” Rees admitted. Nodding, Rouge joined Rees on the rock slab and for a moment they were silent. “Wait,” Rouge said, holding up a hand. “Listen. Do you hear it? A horse.” For a moment Rees listened. Yes, he heard the faint whickering of a horse. The sound came from below them, but he couldn’t tell exactly in what direction. Rouge started forward, moving so quickly on the muddy and leaf strewn slope that he fell. “Damn,” he grumbled, staggering to his feet and continuing down the hill. Rees glanced at the steep gully, the bottom slick with trickling snow melt, and turned to the bare rock. He started across the granite, angling down the slope toward the distant creek. The rock was not uniformly flat. As Rees clambered over a ledge, stepping down to the slab below, he saw streaks across the gray. Dark brown streaks. Rees knelt beside them and lightly touched the stain. Blood. *** Excerpt from The Long Shadow of Murder by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2025 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.
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About Author Eleanor Kuhns:
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Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 winner of the Minotaur/Mystery Writers of America first novel prize for A Simple Murder. The Long Shadow of Murder is the twelfth in that series. She also has written a Bronze Age Crete series. A lifelong librarian, she transitioned to full time writing at the start of the pandemic. She lives in upstate New York with her husband and her dog.
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Publication date: October 14th 2025
Genres: Adult, Psychological Thriller
“Intense, a little bruising, and it doesn’t let you walk away untouched.”
— ★★★★★ Reader Review
Some weapons are born. Others are made.
She is the perfect operative.
A discarded orphan, remade by the very hands that broke her.
Trained to seduce. Conditioned to kill. Reborn as Elara Everhart.
They gave her new names. New faces. New identities, whichever the mission required.
Now, they call her Raina.
And they’ve sent her into the lion’s den.
Her target: Axel Voss. Billionaire. Powerbroker. Threat.
He’s everything she was trained to dismantle.
But he sees too much. Speaks too little.
And when he touches her, he wakes something she was never meant to feel.
She is the weapon they created.
But he’s the variable they never planned for.
What begins as a mission spirals into obsession.
And survival will cost more than her cover.
Because the most dangerous thing isn’t failing the mission,
It’s forgetting who the real enemy is.
If you love psychological thrillers with espionage, romantic suspense, and heart‑stopping twists, The Black Rose will keep you breathless until the very last page.
“To master the art of the strike, first let the target marinate in your charm and wit, until they are ripe for the taking.” – Elara Everhart
I stepped out of the cab and into the gallery, the air instantly changing around me. Heads turned. Eyes followed. The black Dolce & Gabbana dress I wore fit like it had been sewn onto my skin, elegant without trying, powerful without needing to speak. My hair, sleek and black, fell in glossy waves down my back, every strand precisely where it belonged. I walked with purpose, each step measured, as I took in the room.
It didn’t take long to find him.
Axel Voss stood in a more secluded wing of the gallery where the crowd had thinned. I spotted him across the space. His back was to me, dressed in a tailored dark gray suit that fit too perfectly to be anything but custom. His frame was lean and strong, his posture relaxed, hands tucked in his pockets as he studied a painting. He wasn’t just looking. He was dissecting it.
My attention moved to the guards. Two of them. Strategically placed in opposite corners of the room, trying not to look like security. They blended in well enough with the other patrons, but their eyes told the truth. Constantly scanning.
I inhaled and adjusted the strap of my dress. I ran my hands over my curves, making sure everything looked in place. My cue had come.
Each step felt burdened, as if what I was about to do had sunk deep into my limbs.
The rhythm of my heels against the marble echoed faintly. I moved closer, slipping into his orbit. I was near enough now for him to catch the light scent of my perfume, floral, soft, meant to linger without announcing itself.
I stopped beside him, eyes landing on the painting he was analyzing. It was abstract, wild with motion. Crimson slashed across the canvas, tangled with violent blues and fractured gold. The brushwork oscillated between jagged bursts and smooth sweeps, an unsettling mix of control and chaos.
I spoke, keeping my voice soft and level. Close enough to feel intimate, just loud enough to be heard.
“The intensity of the strokes is remarkable,” I said. “The way the colors collide feels almost violent, yet there’s a strange harmony in the chaos.”
He didn’t respond. Not verbally. But I felt it. His attention was on me now as much as the art. I let the silence stretch a second longer, then continued, my tone calm, analytical. “It’s as if the artist was fighting an inner battle. Conflict and catharsis, all bleeding onto the canvas. The jagged strokes speak of anger or defiance, but the way the hues blend reveals a deep vulnerability… like they couldn’t commit to full destruction.”
I leaned in just slightly, examining the layers of the painting, voice dropping.
“It’s the tension that makes it work. The pull between restraint and abandon. It feels… raw.”
The silence settled again, delicate but dense.
Then I allowed a smirk to touch my lips.
“Or maybe they just threw paint at the canvas after a bad day and decided to call it art.”
That broke it. He turned toward me, finally.
His eyes met mine.
Heat flashed between us. The force of his gaze hit harder than I expected.
My breath caught, not out of fear but from the pressure of it. He was already trying to read me.
I knew that look. He was hunting for the truth inside my performance.
I didn’t flinch.
Even when my pulse started to climb beneath my skin, I held my ground.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The gallery around us faded. It was just him. Just me.
Then I stepped back, breaking the moment on my terms.
I turned without hesitation and walked away, slipping into the flow of bodies beyond the archway. My retreat was smooth.
Behind me, I felt his gaze linger, and so did the eyes of his guards.
I didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching the space I had just walked away from.
Back in the main gallery, I finally exhaled. The encounter had gone as planned. I had said what
I needed to. Played the part.
But the crackle between us wasn’t part of the plan.
And I felt it. Still pulsing through me.
This was only the beginning. One step into a game layered with risk, manipulation, and consequences I wasn’t sure I fully understood.
But I had just stepped onto the board.
And Axel Voss had noticed.
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About Author Frances Paul:
Frances Paul is an author of emotionally charged, high-stakes fiction that captivates readers with its mix of psychological suspense, romance, and intricate plotting. Her work explores the fine line between love and survival, delving into themes of resilience, sacrifice, and the secrets we keep.
She is the author of Sea of Scars, a moving story of loss and redemption, and The Black Rose, a gripping psychological thriller that draws readers into a world where trust is dangerous and every choice carries lasting consequences.
With a distinctive voice and a cinematic style, Frances creates unforgettable characters and layered narratives that linger long after the final page. Her passion for storytelling comes from a lifelong fascination with the human heart and its capacity to endure even in the darkest of circumstances.
