She’s caught in a deadly game. He’s the only one who can help her win.
Bronwyn Pierce has poured everything into The Haven, her family’s exclusive mountain resort in Gossamer Falls. But when financial discrepancies surface and the numbers suggest something far darker than simple mismanagement, she’s forced to call on the one person with the skills to help her: Mo Quinn, a former Army intelligence officer, her first love, and the last person she ever wanted to trust again. Mo has spent years avoiding the woman he once loved and the secrets that tore them apart. But when Bronwyn calls, he can’t walk away–especially when it’s clear someone wants her gone for good. As they dig deeper into the treacherous motives behind a blackmail scheme, their proximity reignites long-buried feelings neither of them are ready to face. And when the evidence points to an unexpected culprit, Mo faces an impossible choice: trust the proof in front of him or trust his heart. With danger closing in and no one else to turn to, Bronwyn must break years of silence with Mo to uncover who’s trying to destroy The Haven. They’ll have to risk everything–including their hearts–to expose the truth before it’s too late. The finale to Blackburn’s Gossamer Falls series is an exhilarating romantic suspense novel packed with tension. This gripping read will hook fans of the family rivalry, bodyguard, small town, second chance romance, and forced proximity tropes.
Book Details:
Genre: Christian Fiction, Romantic Suspense, Romance
Published by: Revell Publication Date: March 3, 2026 Number of Pages: 368 ISBN: 9780800745387 (ISBN10: 0800745388) Series: Gossamer Falls, Book #3 | Learn more on Amazon, Goodreads, & Baker Book House
I was a fan of the first book, Never Fall Again. It was an engaging introduction to Gossamer Falls and all of the characters. And the author built a solid foundation to make the series a hit. After reading this conclusion to the series I wanted to kick myself for missing the second book, Break My Fall. Not that the author didn’t give me what I needed in filling in the gaps. It was missing out on the changes and growth of her wonderful characters.
Each book features a different couple. This time we get Bronwyn and Mo. They’ve had their ups and downs and their relationship is challenged with sabotage and danger from multiple sides. I really was pulling for them. Things hadn’t worked out in the past and if the current situations were any hint, they get this last chance for a happy ending. Fingers crossed for that.
I zipped right through the story. It’s complexity with the characters and the intrigue of what was truly going on and the who and how of it kept me flipping those pages. It was a super fun read and had a very satisfying ending.
4 STARS
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Enjoy this peek inside:
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About Author Lynn H. Blackburn:
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Lynn H. Blackburn is the award-winning author of Never Fall Again, as well as the Dive Team Investigations and Defend and Protect series. She loves writing swoon-worthy Southern suspense because her childhood fantasy was to become a spy, but her grown-up reality is that she’s a huge chicken and would have been caught on her first mission. She prefers to live vicariously through her characters by putting them into terrifying situations while she sits at home in her pajamas. She lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina, with her true love, Brian, and their three children.
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Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing. Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn’t know. Now, fifteen years later, Simone’s murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral—she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave. Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother’s disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn’t know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die…but not the last.
Book Details:
Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Between the Lines Publishing Publication Date: November 18, 2025 Number of Pages: 334 (Pbk) ISBN: 978-1-965059-65-4
It’s been fifteen years since Connie’s mother disappeared. Fifteen years since her bad behavior had led to her being sent away to live with an aunt in California. She grew up. Made a life for herself bartending. Then, she gets a call. Her mother’s remains have been found. It’s time to go back to New Jersey for the funeral. Time to find out what happened.
I liked Connie right away. She came across so genuine. Lots of baggage and a little bit of self doubt and guilt. Living a life different from what she’d picture. I was really pulling for her. Hoping she’d solve the mystery of her mother’s death and put some ghosts to rest. And hoping she’d get a happy ending.
There were a lot of other characters that added depth to the mystery. I enjoyed that. Character driven stories are so intriguing.
I really had to use my brain pan with this one. There were secrets along with a murder to figure out and the author did a great job of hiding any clues I might have picked out. I gobbled this one up. Wanting answers. Getting them. Along with some surprises,
5 STARS
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Enjoy this peek inside:
Chapter 1
Now
“They found Mom. You need to come home.” Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words. Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance. She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother. The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous. Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest. 42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before. Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family. Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast. The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her. “Connie Tucker!” She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared. “Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen. She’d aged. And not well. Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.” Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years. “Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.” Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.” “Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?” The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—” Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her. Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere. Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt. Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish. The door swung open. With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect. A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air. Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother. A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night. *** Excerpt from The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth. Copyright 2025 by Suzanne Trauth. Reproduced with permission from Suzanne Trauth. All rights reserved.
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About Author Suzanne Trauth:
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Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include The First to Die, What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women’s Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time and Killing Time. Ms. Trauth has co-authored Sonia Moore and American Acting Training and co-edited Katrina on Stage: Five Plays. She is a former member of the theatre faculty at a university and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.
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When a hero dies and children vanish, PI JD Wolfe must confront a deadly conspiracy–and the ghost that’s haunted her since childhood.
A decorated military hero is found hanging from a rope. Two young boys vanish without a trace. And private investigator JD Wolfe’s world begins to unravel. The deeper she digs, the closer the danger creeps–not just to her, but to the family that saved her and the career that keeps her sane. JD knows these crimes aren’t random. They’re a message. And she might be the target. Once called Diamond in a grim orphanage, the Wolfe family adopted JD, but she’s never felt like she truly belonged. She harbors secrets too dark to speak. Secrets that landed her in an asylum. Secrets tied to a ghost that’s haunted her since the night her mother died in a fire. This ghost doesn’t sleep. It invades JD’s cases, her dreams, and even her heart. She’s kept it buried for years. But now, with lives on the line, JD must do the unthinkable. She must let the ghost in.
Praise for Haunted by a Broken Oath:
“Meet JD Wolfe—a tough, smart, quirky PI with special skills and a meddling ghost in tow. Buckle up for a wild ride!” ~ DP Lyle, Award-Winning Author of the Jake Longly and Cain/Harper Thriller Series and Co-Creator of the Outliers Writing University “Dee Armstrong is a refreshing new voice in action thrillers. Her new novel is packed with gut-gripping suspense, peppered with witty quips that had me chuckling, while her plot twists had me biting back a scream. Blazing brilliant!” ~ Kathleen Baldwin, Wall Street Journal and #1 Barnes & Noble bestselling author of A School for Unusual Girls “Haunted By A Broken Oath will grip you from the very first page and linger in your mind long after the last. Armstrong’s strong voice and resonant characters make this an unforgettable read.” ~ Kathleen Antrim, Bestselling Author “A highly eventful but fast-paced supernatural thriller.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
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Book Details:
Genre: Thriller with a touch of paranormal
Published by: Outliers Press . Suspense Publishing Publication Date: November 11, 2025 Number of Pages: 424 ISBN: 9798999682994 (Paperback) Series: A JD Wolfe Investigation, Book 1
The first rule on my “JD Wolfe’s Survival List” was: Don’t trust the ghost, because she couldn’t leave anything alone. Not when you were awake, not when you were asleep, not when she was haunting you. Not when the only surprise you received for your eighth birthday, other than the death of your mom in a fire, was for the ghost who had tormented her to transfer that torment to you. And torment you forever. During the thirteen years since the fire, I went from homeless to orphan to private eye. I reinvented myself. I became stronger. When life comes at you, and you have no one to protect you, and flight isn’t an option, you either fight or surrender. I chose fight. I took my adopted family’s surname and changed my name from Diamond, the girl with no last name, to Justyne Diamond Wolfe, or JD for short. I haven’t forgotten my survival rules. I’ve added more to the list. Past midnight, I sat hunched at the counter, scrolling through my phone in one of those diners you see in the movies with wide windows, cushy booths, a long counter, and pictures of All American Little League baseball teams lining the walls. You’d expect to see couples snuggled in the booths and a clean-cut, milkshake melt-in-your-mouth kind of guy in a starched button-down shirt. Instead, I was alone with Creepy Diner Guy working the counter. His hair slicked back, his shirt a stain-spattered rendering of a Jackson Pollock painting, his buttons playing hopscotch, missing every other hole. He wiped a dirty rag around a glass jar with a MISSING flier taped to the front. A pretty, fresh-faced, school-age girl smiled for the camera wearing decades-old clothes and a Hello Kitty backpack. The change and dollar bills stuffed into the jar suggested hope was still alive. I wasn’t so sure. In my experience, hope was for suckers. “Get you another coffee, Red?” His nasty meth-smile busted and blackened. “Still struggling with this one.” I swirled the sludge he called coffee in the bottom of my cup. It had created a tar pit inside my gut. I decided to check in with the office before the coffee killed me. On the stool at my nine, a ball of light appeared. Flickered. Sparked in shades between blue, violet and eye-piercing white. The air snapped. The skin on my arms tingled and puckered like a plucked goose’s butt. The light shifted from a pixelated pattern into a semi-transparent woman, all monochromatic shades of gray. Stringy hair stuck to her face, hiding her features. Only her silver eyes and charcoal lips showed through. A dingy nightgown hung from her shoulders and fluttered in shreds around her bare feet. Home, home, home, the ghost whispered in my brain, where the thoughts were supposed to be mine, not hers. One of many things about the Woman that ticked me off. Most people would call the ghost a spirit or specter, but I preferred “the Woman.” Or “Bitch.” Instead of playing patty-cake and singing nursery rhymes, I learned how to survive living with a not-so-dearly departed. I didn’t care how she died, only that she stuck to my mom like a nasty rash. The second rule I learned? Never tell anyone about the ghost. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re crazy and lock you up. Creepy Diner Guy didn’t react to his supernatural guest. He walked past and wiped down tables. That didn’t shock me. My mom had been the only other living person I’d known who could see or hear or smell the Woman. Even when the Woman didn’t appear, she watched. Listened. Waited for a way to interfere. It was inevitable. I lived with the dead. An overwhelming smell of lavender clung to the Woman. I gagged on the disgusting sweetness. My hand tugged at the collar of my leather jacket and the t-shirt beneath. “Why can’t you give me one day?” I whispered. “One day without your lavender scent up my nose, your annoying voice blabbing in my head, your bony butt blocking my way?” S-s-sorry, s-s-sorry, sorry, she repeated. “Yeah, right. If you were sorry, you’d go back to hell.” La-la-late. The staccato beat of her words pounded against my temples. As if the ghost cared if she didn’t get forty winks. “I’m on a job. Go away.” I worked in the family’s business, White Wolfe Investigations. Today’s job was more of a payback than a paycheck. My adopted father, Milt Wolfe—whom I liked to call Fixer Geezer in my head—owed a lifelong favor to his old Navy buddy, Master Chief Ben Palmer. I didn’t know why Master Chief had bought a 24-hour diner right off I-95. Senile? Maybe. This kind of debt could never be paid off. How could you put a price on someone saving your life? I understood Milt’s orders: Sit tight. Observe and report. Master Chief thought Creepy Diner Guy volunteered for the night shift to make money on the shady side of life—the side where things slip from white-lie gray to back-alley black; the side where cops close your restaurant and cart you off to jail. My phone buzzed. No doubt it was one of the Geezers. Two brothers I considered my real fathers, and my bosses. “Sweet cheeks, I’ll be home soon.” “Sweet cheeks?” Their voices blended into one. They’d put me on speakerphone. Great. Two opinionated, life-controlling Geezers for the price of one. I couldn’t bring myself to call Milt anything like Dad or Daddy or Pop. Some things took time and a barge load of counseling. “Is everything okay, Sweet Cheeks?” “Has he passed any packages? Drugs? Money?” Cliff Wolfe, a.k.a. Smarty Pants Geezer and my adopted uncle, was super stinkin’ smart. The type of smart that could send a rocket to the moon but not close the refrigerator door. “Nope. Only coffee.” I ignored the ghost and monitored Creepy Diner Guy. He picked at a stain on his shirt and popped something into his mouth. My stomach revolted. “Stolen anything?” Street smart and straight to the point, Milt didn’t waste words. “Nope. Nada. Not cash from the till or a quarter from the floor.” “Be smart.” Uncle Cliff’s voice geared into lecture mode. I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be smart.” “Don’t approach anyone. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Get the intel. Get home. You’re more important than a favor.” Milt, the man who fixed everything with what he had on hand, even if it was only his brute strength or a rubber band, sounded as strong and sure as the day he saved me from St. Francis’ Group Home for Lost Souls. A fancy name for an orphanage. People rebrand and rename. It’s all the same. Group home or orphanage. I preferred orphanage. Or St. Francis’ Hell Hole. The name didn’t catch on. “Pleeease.” Unwanted emotions compressed my chest. I struggled to remain in character. “I know better than to talk to strangers.” “She can handle this.” The rise in Cliff’s voice vetoed any worry. Creepy Diner Guy inched closer with each swipe of his rag. Unsure what he could hear, I kept my words soft. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.” The Woman leaned in. I leaned away, checking the diner’s clock. “It’s past midnight. Do you need me home?” “A few more hours. Nothing good happens between midnight and three,” said Cliff. “I don’t like her on her own.” Concern lined the deep timbre of Milt’s voice. “We’ll meet you there. Follow orders and stay safe.” My face burned solar-flare hot. He didn’t trust me. How could I prove myself if he didn’t give me a chance? “Sheesh. You don’t need to pick me up. I can drive home. I’m not eleven anymore.” Back ramrod-straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the Woman disapproved of my tone. You’d think after decades of death, she’d have pulled the sequoia-sized stick out of her spectral butt. “It’s been a long time since you lived on the streets.” Milt shouted into the speakerphone. Technology wasn’t one of his strengths. “Sweet cheeks, don’t yell.” A sick part of me enjoyed the charade. “I can hear you.” My gaze flickered to Creepy Diner Guy, and I clicked down the volume on my phone. “It’s a cellphone, not a handheld radio.” “Milt’s right. We shouldn’t have sent you in alone.” Cliff’s words rose decibels higher than his brother’s. They’d joined forces and wanted to pull the plug on my mission. I couldn’t let that happen. “I’m okay.” I kept my voice light and confident. To ease their angst, I added a hint of humor. “Worrying is only going to make you grayer.” By age seven, I’d mastered controlling my voice to manipulate adults. That was how you survived when you were the proxy adult because your mom had surrendered to another drug-enhanced dream. Bored with our conversation, the Woman hummed a song—not a pop or a rap or a country song, but that lullaby. I rubbed my temples, biting my tongue to prevent myself from begging her to stop. “Keep us posted.” Milt barked out the order as if I was a newbie boot on his ship. I suppressed an aye, aye, Sir, and replied, “Be home soon.” I hung up and glared at the Woman. “Don’t you start.” The Woman switched to a jazzy tune. I passed the time naming the stains on Creepy Diner Guy’s shirt. Red—ketchup. Yellow—mustard. There was a slick of brown across his midriff. Grease? Gravy? The coffee pit in my belly bubbled. I didn’t want to know. He shuffled into the back and returned with a plate stacked high with raw hamburger patties and a bag of frozen fries. He tossed the meat on the grill, dumped the fries into a basket, lowered them into grease, and wiped the grill’s metal front with his rag. In the mirror above the grills, I scanned the parking lot behind me through the diner’s gigantic windows. Empty except for my Jeep. Through the same mirror, Creepy Diner Guy gave me a hey-baby-I’m-the-answer-to-your-prayers look. I shot back a don’t-make-me-shove-that-rag-down-your-throat glare. The ghost’s laughter rang in my head. A girly giggle slipped from my throat before I could kill it. Creepy Diner Guy flipped the hamburgers. He turned, wiping his hands down his shirt. “Waiting for a boyfriend?” “Expecting a midnight rush?” I countered. The meat smelled a little off, or maybe the nauseous odor came from him. “Nonya.” Was that code for something? “Nonya?” “None ya business.” His shrill laugh shredded my eardrums. He planted his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Lived in Rubyville long?” His lunch haunted his breath. Hamburger with extra onions. Home, home, home. “Kinda,” I replied with my own one-word cryptic answer and snubbed the ghost. Home, Home, HOME. The Woman didn’t like to be left out or ignored. The longer it went, the more insistent she’d become. At least her humming stopped. Creepy Diner Guy turned back to the grill, removed the hamburgers, and lifted the basket of fries from the grease. He came around the counter. Sat on a ripped vinyl stool, sandwiched me between his onion breath and the Woman’s putrid potpourri. He leaned close. “I like green eyes and red hair. You look real good in black.” As if I cared what he thought. Shades from onyx to ebony filled ninety percent of my wardrobe. My leather jacket and knee-high boots fell comfortably in the range. Black was easy to accessorize. It went with more black. “Uh-huh. Thanks.” Truck pipes rumbled. I checked the parking lot in the mirror. A baby-blue, nineteen-eighty-two Ford parked out front. I’d love to have a truck like that. All shiny and clean. Home, Home, Home. I raised my phone as a shield between his breath and me. I texted the Geezers: Got movement, adding the truck’s description and license plate number. In a low voice, I told the Woman, “Hit the bricks.” “No need to be like that. I’m not going to hurt you,” Creepy Diner Guy replied, his tone operator-smooth. He rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. My hair. “Red’s my favorite color.” My muscles tensed. One swift back fist. That’s all it would take. He could add fresh blood to the stains on his shirt. Bright red would enhance his color palette. Besides, red was his favorite. But I was on a job. A job I couldn’t mess up by spilling his blood. “Don’t you have more burgers to flip? Potatoes to peel?” “You wanna peel my potato?” The coffee tar backed up into my throat. Leaning into my third rule—keep everything important safe in your boots and everything important will keep you safe—I palmed the knife from my boot and showed him the blade. “I can peel more than that. Wanna play?” Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, the Woman chanted. The lights in the diner flashed. I slid the blade of my knife against his jaw, giving him a free shave. “You’re not really bad, are you?” The diner’s door opened. I shifted, keeping my back between the door and the knife. No need to frighten a customer or warn off the pick-up guy. Creepy Diner Guy’s face turned morgue gray. Scared stiff worked for him. He scrambled backward, helter-skelter, and side slipped from the stool. “That’s what I thought.” I lowered my knife. Like a buck caught in the crosshairs, he froze. A tsunami of fear flowed over his face. He gazed over my head. Neither my blade nor the Woman caused his locked stare. Someone scarier than a knife to his throat stood behind me. Dread dripped down my backbone like bacon grease from a hot pan, setting my nerves on fire. I tucked my chin and snuck a peek over my shoulder. Scary didn’t do the guy justice. He was a mashup of Godzilla and King Kong—butt ugly and horribly wrong. A massive neck—a monster mama would be proud of—steel-studded earlobes, his hair spiky and nuclear green. He’d claimed this cement jungle and declared himself king. And I? I was the bug in his way. But I wasn’t Diamond, the girl with no last name, anymore. I was JD Wolfe, Private Eye. *** Excerpt from Haunted by a Broken Oath by Dee Armstrong. Copyright 2025 by Dee Armstrong. Reproduced with permission from Dee Armstrong. All rights reserved.
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MY REVIEW
It’s exciting to try a new author. I’d not read anything by Dee Armstrong before. I do like private investigator stories. Sleuthing is fun to do while I’m reading. A female protagonist also interests me. I got both in PI JD Wolfe.
JD had a lot of baggage. She wore some of it like armor. Aggressive and impulsive. She grew on me. I enjoyed how she tagged people. Godzilla Kong and Creepy Diner Guy. The names fit. She even had one for the ghost who’d been haunting her ever since her mother’s death. She called her the Woman.
JD had to finally accept the Woman wasn’t going away and actually started to prove useful. It’s intriguing to think of a ghost as being kind of a friend. Not sure I’d want that for myself though.
As JD got deeper into the investigation, it almost felt like the Wild West. There were some very quirky characters. Some were quite dangerous. It had an air of lawlessness. That sure added to the action and suspense.
I’ve become a fan of JD and the Woman and want to read more about them. I had a lot of fun and sure hope this is part of a series.
4 STARS
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About Author Dee Armstrong:
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Dee Armstrong writes thrillers and romantic suspense with a paranormal twist — stories that squeeze the heart, rattle the nerves, and still leave room for love, laughter, and sass. She pits tough heroines against bad guys you’ll love to hate — with twists that keep the pages flying and endings that fight for hope. A former U.S. Air Force Russian linguist and three-time Taekwondo Black Belt National Sparring Champion, Dee believes the vulnerable should be protected and justice must be fierce—because the past never stays buried, and the truth never sleeps. When she’s not writing about danger and desire, Dee is chasing after her littles, sipping tea on the porch, and plotting against the weeds in her garden. Find her on social @DeeArmstrongAuthor for sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes chaos, and stories that leave a fingerprint on your heart.
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No one but Hannah Johansson believes her father was murdered. Not even her mother. The doctors say he had a stroke, but Hannah knows he was poisoned. She just doesn’t know who did it or why. One thing she does know is that the answers can be found at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, a pristine 9,000 acre nature preserve where her father was superintendent. When she goes back to the Refuge, instead of answers, all she finds are more questions. Ominous questions. Where are all the birds? Why is there a heavily armed guard at the gate? What’s in the mysterious bundles being dropped off there in the middle of the night? When the police won’t investigate, Hannah is determined to find the answers herself, and she won’t quit until she learns the truth. Not even after she is shot at, thrown in jail, and beaten up by a 300-pound lesbian biker.
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Praise for Hard Headed Woman:
“A gamesome detective story, dramatically absorbing and intelligently wrought.” ~ Kirkus Reviews “Hard Headed Woman is a refreshingly original story, free of many of the tropes often associated with mystery novels. That alone makes it deliciously difficult for the reader to guess who did what, and that makes this story one of the better mysteries we’ve read recently.” ~ The Mystery Review Crew “The writing was exquisite, with vivid descriptions of all the events. It was a gripping read, especially with all the changes happening in the wildlife refuge. I found the story thoroughly enjoyable and was engrossed until the final page. The conclusion was a major surprise, and I did not expect it at all.” ~ Readers’ Favorite
Book Details:
Genre: Mystromedy (a mystery comedy)
Published by: MYSTROMEDY BOOKS Publication Date: June 22, 2024 Number of Pages: 416 ISBN: 979-8990761513
Hannah Johansson stood at the lectern in front of 300 people staring at her, waiting for her to say something heartfelt and meaningful. She looked around the room. A room that was unfamiliar to her even though she’d been in it thousands of times. But that was when it was the multipurpose room at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. She played in the large barn-like structure as a child with her dolls and toys and electric trains. She practiced her jumpshot here when her father put up a hoop after she made her junior high team. And when she was a little older, it was where she came when she needed to be alone with her thoughts and her guitar. But the room that Hannah knew was gone. It was now the Axel Johansson Memorial Auditorium, renamed to honor her father’s memory. Every seat was filled. The first two rows were reserved for relatives and VIPs. Hannah’s aunt Gilda and cousins Catherine and Phillip were sitting in the middle of the front row, flanked by officials from the Mayor’s Office, the New York City Parks Department, the National Parks Service and local assemblymen and state senators. The second row held representatives from a half-dozen environmental organizations including the Sierra Club, the National Audubon Society and the World Wildlife Fund. The rest of the packed hall was crammed with children from neighborhood schools, birdwatching enthusiasts from all over the city and beyond, and men and women of all ages and ethnicities who loved the beauty and tranquility of the Refuge and wanted to show their appreciation and gratitude for the man who created and nurtured it. Michael Leigh, the president of the east coast chapter of the National Environmental Conservancy and the organizer of the event, had just finished the last of a dozen tributes to her father, the man who transformed a rat infested, garbage strewn swamp into one of New York City’s environmental treasures. Before Leigh left the stage he said, “Our final speaker, Superintendent Johansson’s daughter Hannah, would like to say a few words.” On one side of the podium an easel held a portrait of her father in his khaki superintendent’s uniform, surrounded by a snowy egret, a great blue heron and a glossy ibis, painted by the celebrated wildlife artist Arthur Singer. On the other side was a wrought iron plant stand, but in place of a plant it held a hand-enameled aluminum urn containing her father’s ashes. Tiny pearls of sweat formed on Hannah’s forehead. She gripped the lectern for support. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, fighting to maintain composure. “I know my father meant a lot to you. He meant everything to me. He was my hero. My mentor. My best friend. I loved him more than I could ever possibly say.” Her face contorted. Her eyes welled up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I killed him,” she wailed. *** Excerpt from Hard Headed Woman by Howard Gimple. Copyright 2024 by Howard Gimple. Reproduced with permission from Howard Gimple. All rights reserved.
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MY REVIEW
A mystromedy. Hmm… I thought. I like the sound of that. I like mystery. I like comedy. And now I’m intrigued.
It didn’t take me long to like Hannah. Life may have knocked her down. She had to start over and move back home. Not what she pictured for her future. But, as the title says, she’s a hard headed woman. Even when things kept going wrong, she kept on trying. And who knew she’d be cast into the role of amateur sleuth. That’s where I found her character so relatable. She’s reactionary, like me. And that’s where you get the mystromedy. A surprisingly deep mystery, and Hannah’s antics and impulsiveness are the comedy relief.
I like a mystromedy and I really liked Hard Headed Woman. The author kept the story moving forward and I appreciated the chuckles she pulled out of me.
4 STARS
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About Author Howard Gimple:
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Howard Gimple was a writer at Newsday, the editor of a newsletter for the New York Giants football team, and a copywriter and creative director for several New York ad agencies. He has written English dialogue for the American releases of Japanese anime cartoons, reviewed books for the Long Island History Journal, and written movie scripts for a pay-per-view television network. Howard was Chief Creative Officer at TajMania Entertainment, a film and TV production company dedicated to creating socially conscious programming. He wrote the award-winning documentary, ‘The Garbageman,’ about a waste management executive who helped save the lives of more than 50,000 children with congenital heart disease. He was a writer and sports editor for the Stony Brook University alumni magazine. He also taught two seminars at the university, ‘Rock & Relevance,’ about the political influence of 60’s rock & roll and ‘Filthy Shakespeare, ‘ exploring the dramatic use of sexual puns and innuendos in the Bard’s plays and poems. He grew up in Brooklyn, lived in Manhattan and Long Island, and now lives in Glendora, California, with his wife and goldendoodle.
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Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. If you want to know someone’s dirty secrets, kill them. It works every time.
Oliver “Tuck” Tucker, the dead detective, is back—not just for another case, but from the dead—or vice versa. It all starts when a Federal Agent is killed by a mysterious force in front of dozens of witnesses—including Angel, his historian wife, and Tuck. Among the many suspects is a dark, clandestine Federal agency responsible for advanced research and weaponry, a university doctoral candidate who won’t stay dead, and the leader of a secret southern society bent on rekindling the Civil War. With the aid of a ten-year-old psychic and the spirit of Tuck’s Civil War grandmother—Sally Elizabeth Mosby—Tuck has to stay one step ahead of the Feds who are hellbent on capturing him—alive? But through all this, what’s a two-hundred-year-old lost fortune in gold got to do with dead agents, secret death rays, and rogue policemen?
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DYING WITH A SECRET Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Paranormal Mystery, PI Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: December 9, 2025 Number of Pages: 324 ISBN: 979-8898201111 (pbk) Series: The Dead Detective Casefiles, Book 4
Ooh, I read the description for this fourth book in the series and my face had such a big grin. Federal agent killed by a mysterious force? Who would be better to solve the crime than a dead detective. Yep. Tuck is back on the case and this one is really testing him. He needs help and his crew steps up to the plate.
Psychics, federal agents, conspiracy, and….. a two hundred year old fortune in gold. So many answers to seek. so much adventure. Who or what is killing agents? Will Tuck and his crew stay out of federal clutches? Who will find the gold? Or, will it be found? I wanted those answers. Read a bunch. Read some more. Raced to the ending. I enjoyed this one every bit as much as the other three. So much fun!
Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder. So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one. It works every time. What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead. More about that later. At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date. Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago. This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true. Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level. Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces. Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret. All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part. “Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?” She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see. “Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?” She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look. “Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?” “No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.” His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.” Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet. “I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?” “Yes, Professor Tucker.” “It’s not personal, Andrew.” He shrugged. “Okay.” Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?” “Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?” “Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.” Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets. “Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.” “Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked. She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.” “Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.” “No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase. “Who?” he asked. I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?” She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.” “Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.” “Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.” “Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.” I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance. “I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.” “Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.” “It’s coming back in style.” She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?” “He doesn’t stare. He ogles.” “Yes, he ogles.” “I can get Bear to check him—” “No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.” Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly. We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat. A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip. “That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.” A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that. “I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.” “I am somewhere. I’m here.” She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby. As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats. Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors. Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him. Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed… “Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench. Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace. “Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?” Hell if I knew. Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark. When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed. Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside. The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo. Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included. Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else. What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me. *** Excerpt from Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.
About Author Tj O’Connor:
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Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in antiterrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who are supplying a growing tribe of grands.
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A peaceful retreat. A maze of smoke and murder. Is their remote getaway about to become a death trap?
Sheriff Jax Turner is worried about going off-grid and leaving his young team of deputies behind. But while his getaway with his ex is meant to help them reconnect, Jax is distracted by signs of a break-in at their rented lookout. After a string of unsettling events and an approaching wildfire turn their isolated retreat into a danger zone, he’s stunned to find a dead body with marks tying it to a killer he put away a decade ago. Terrified that his attempt at reconciliation has led them both into a fatal setup, Jax rushes back to his estranged wife before she joins the list of victims. But his dedication to serving and protecting could become an Achilles heel as other players join them among the darkening trees. Can he fight his way out of the woods before the flames of revenge consume everything?
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MY REVIEW
This is the third book in the series and while some things seem to not be changed, they actually did. For instance, the reconciliation between Jax and Abby. This time around I sensed a seriousness on both sides. And once again things get in the way. The seclusion they seek becomes more like a trap. No phones, strange characters, and a fire racing towards them. Meanwhile, things are crazy back at the station and Sheriff Jax can’t be reached.
I thought the two different story lines might take away from my enjoyment. You know what I mean? You get into one story and then it flips to the other. Not so for this reader. I was sensing the stories would converge and I needed both sides.
There’s lots of new characters and mysteries of all kinds. I was caught off guard many times. Such fun.
4 STARS
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Praise for Killer Tracks:
“Keliikoa is the Queen of immersive small-town mystery. Killer Tracks is cleverly plotted with deftly drawn relatable characters who face off with a deadly threat from the past.” ~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series “Mary Keliikoa’s Killer Tracks is a wonderful addition to the Misty Pines mystery series. Great pacing, strong plotting, and compelling characters. Highly recommended!” ~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files
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Killer Tracks Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Police Procedural; Detective and Mystery; Crime Fiction; Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: September 30, 2025 Number of Pages: 319 ISBN: 979-8-89820-033-6 (pb) Series: A Misty Pines Mystery, #3 || Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books
Click. Slide. Clang. If he never heard that sound again, it’d be far too soon. That, and the sleepless nights under a thread-bare wool blanket that chafed his exposed skin, the looming threat of death… in the yard, the shower, the halls to and from the cafeteria or his cell. Death and desperation seeped from the pores of this godforsaken place. So thick he could almost taste it. No amount of soap, no amount of ritual, would rid him of the stench that clung to him—though he’d be willing to try. It was over now. Dying among these second-class men would not be his fate. A man of his intellect, a man far superior to the minions around him, deserved better than what he’d endured these past years. He’d eagerly reeducate those who believed otherwise. They’d all see it by the time he was through with them, just like those that came before. Click. Slide. Clang. A voice echoed off the concrete walls. “Inmate 22-A-4242. Gather your crap. Time to go.” He stood, hands to his sides. “Ready to face the world?” He remained silent. None would get the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. The voice continued. “They gave you a goddamn Hail Mary. Bleeding heart liberals anyway. Don’t screw it up.” He bowed his head to obscure his smirk. “Right. I know your type. You’re innocent.” The guard continued rambling. “That’s what all you convicts say. ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘I was framed.’ ‘It’s unconstitutional.’” The guard’s voice dropped to a growl, prickling his skin. “Tell that to the victims and their families. I’d reckon less than one percent of you bastards got a legit claim.” The guard had forgotten betrayed, of which he surely had been. But he shrugged, not to agree, but to stave off the urge to wrap his hands around the guard’s throat. So close to freedom… Whether he was innocent or not had no bearing; it had not been among the criteria for the help he’d received. Being wrongfully convicted qualified. According to the junior team that had embraced his cause when he’d written the letter, they agreed that’s what had happened in his case. Even if it took them ten years, he loved a system that allowed more loopholes than the cable-knit sweater Mother had dressed him in for school. “Sell it to someone else, you psycho,” the guard snapped. “Bet you money. We’ll see you again real soon.” A jagged smile crossed his face. The guard had part of it correct—but he’d never be back here. Next time, he’d be less gullible. And he intended to snuff out anything that could hurt him, like the light of every other woman who hadn’t seen his worth. CHAPTER ONE Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed. Sheriff Jax Turner had experienced more than his fair share of those mornings in the past six years. First, when his daughter Lulu died from leukemia. Then, when his marriage dissolved—more like shattered into a million pieces. Followed by a couple of cases that had tested his limits of trust. They’d destroyed some, too. Today was different. Abby Kanekoa, his ex-wife with whom he’d shared the gutting grief of those past years, had offered hope for reconciliation—the chance to glue a few of those pieces back together. It would never be the same without their little girl… but perhaps they could create something new. Leaving for the mountains just after Labor Day was less than ideal. Though with the tourist season coming to an end in Misty Pines, and Abby due a vacation at the Bureau, it was the best time. Deputy Rachel Killian, his new hire and right hand, was turning out to be as capable as he’d hoped. Applicants for filling the gaps at their station had been sparse. Few, it seemed, wanted to work these days—or work at the often cool and foggy Oregon coast. He’d at least been able to get most of his young crew on full-time payroll, so Rachel had help. Bottom line, getting away was Abby’s idea. He would not tell her no. Now to get through the pep talk with the team. The two major events of the past year had allowed them to punch a few notches into their experience belt, but wisdom and reliance on gut instinct were born with time. Leaving them to run Misty Pines without his guidance had his muscles taut. He entered the sheriff’s office with his duffle flung over his shoulder. “Oh hon, don’t tell me that’s all you’re taking for the week?” Trudy said. Jax’s long-time secretary, and overall, Team Mother to him and his ragtag group of deputies, lifted the headset off her ears. He suppressed a smile. “Glad to see your accident hasn’t made you any less opinionated.” Eight months had passed since the event that had nearly stolen her from him and the team. A warm and fuzzy Trudy would be hard to get used to—he was grateful he didn’t have to learn. Trudy rested the headset around her neck. “Looks like Abby hasn’t given you any clue about where you’re going.” “Other than the mountains, not much. I’ve tossed a few essentials in my truck.” “Like?” “A good book and a board game.” He smiled. “A couple of bottles of wine.” She arched her brow. “What? I’m assuming she’s arranged for us to be at some luxury resort.” “You think so?” “Abby likes her massages, saunas, breakfast in bed.” Not to mention time basking on the deck with a steaming cup of coffee. For being a tough no-nonsense woman, and a hell of an FBI agent, she liked the finer things—and she’d earned every damn one of them. “And what do you like?” Trudy asked. He chuckled. Not much of what he’d just mentioned. “Roughing it.” “Hmmm…and she arranged this for the two of you to reconnect?” His smile faded; he dropped the bag at his feet. “Are we camping?” Trudy laughed and shook her head. “When it comes to women, you do take a minute to catch up. Might I suggest a few more items?” “Like a tent?” He’d have to dig it out of his garage, which wouldn’t take long. “No. But a communication device might come in handy.” “Abby said something about our phones being off for the week.” He shifted on his feet. “Are you saying we’re headed somewhere with no service?” She returned to her desk in response. Of course they were. Several interruptions to his and Abby’s conversations had come from the station over the past months. Too often, when they’d just settled into talk or were on the edge of a sensitive topic. Tourist season was like that every year with the random fender bender, a too-loud party on the beach, a drunken brawl at the pub. Some infraction demanding his attention. Added to that, Brody had slid his motorcycle on wet pavement and nearly dislocated his shoulder in the spring. Garrett had a few interviews in Portland, one in Seattle. Matt was called in to stock shelves by his boss at the IGA grocery store when they were short staffed, which had become more consistent. Time with Abby had been the price, although the last time they’d carved out a night together still brought a smile to his face. Maybe this trip signaled her intention of wanting more quality togetherness. That thought alone made having limited phone access worth it regardless of where they went, even as the uneasiness of being out of contact with his crew niggled at him. He flung the bag back over his shoulder and headed to his office. The click of claws on the linoleum sounded behind him. “Boss.” Rachel and Koa, her black lab, came out of the kitchen. “You all set?” “Almost. Picking Abby up soon for what appears might be a wilderness retreat.” Rachel laughed. “Don’t look so concerned.” “I’m not.” “Uh-huh. That’s why you have a crease between your eyebrows.” He rubbed the spot. “Guess I’m not fond of surprises.” “Never have been myself, but I have a feeling you’ll have fun.” “According to Trudy, I will. Hope Abby does.” It was sweet she’d chosen a place that appealed to him—more imperative if she enjoyed herself. She’d never been one to sleep on the ground. “Believe me, she did good.” “Take it you know where we’re headed?” “Not precisely.” “How about a hint of what you do know, so I’m better prepared?” Having spent far too much time in the dark, he preferred to be ahead of things these days. She did a zipping motion in front of her mouth. “I get that it’ll be difficult for you, but try not to worry. The men and I have everything covered.” He nodded. Letting go of the wheel would never be easy, and in law enforcement things could change quickly. But Rachel was solid, and he trusted her… despite his former partner Jameson not agreeing with him hiring his only daughter. Jax had made the right call; he stood by it. There should be no hesitation about him and Abby taking a week for themselves. “You’ll get a hold of me if there’s a problem?” he said. “You won’t have any way…” “I’m taking the satellite phone.” Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Suppose that’s smart after the last trek in the wilderness…” “Exactly my thought.” Rachel pursed her lips, likely recalling that day when radio silence had left her and the team wrought with worry as they waited for word on whether Jax and Abby were alive. But Abby should understand his decision, if it came up. Probably better it didn’t. “Let’s do a briefing before I head out,” he said. Rachel winked. “The men are waiting for you in the strategy room.” He chuckled. That’s why there’d been no sign of them when he’d arrived. In his office, he set his duffle bag on a chair, and retrieved the satellite phone, burying it near the bottom in a T-shirt. Once he checked his email for the tenth time and cleared his desk, he started toward the meeting room, until he heard voices in the reception area. Trudy was holding open the station’s door. The men were grabbing their gear about to file out, Rachel and Koa behind them. “What’d I miss?” Jax said. Koa turned at the sound of his voice, trotting to his side. Jax squatted next to her, draping his arm gently over her back. “Nothing to worry about, boss,” Rachel said. “Just a routine traffic revision, chief,” Brody said. “We’ve got it.” He’d gelled down his wispy brown hair today, making him look young. Too young. “I’ve got forty minutes before…” “Oh no you don’t, Jax Turner,” Trudy said. “It’s a half-hour drive to Abby, and you will not be late.” “I—” “We’ve got it, Sheriff,” Rachel said, calling Koa to her. Koa didn’t budge. “Koa’s siding with me on this,” he said. Rachel lifted a brow at her black lab, who promptly returned to her side. Fine. Jax stood. He’d wanted a team he could rely on, and he had one. So why did he feel left out? “Who’s in need of traffic revision anyway?” “Fire department,” Trudy said. “There’s an apartment complex on fire at the edge of town,” Rachel said. Battalion Chief Mike O’Brien rarely requested assistance. With the remaining tourists eking out the last of their holiday weekend there could be a traffic log, he supposed. “I’ll go with you,” Jax said. Rachel held up her hands in a stop gesture. “Please. Get out of here and have a good time.” Before he could protest, Rachel was out the door and Trudy shut it behind them. Through the glass, Jax watched his team slide into two of the patrol cars. “You heard your deputy, hon. Get your stuff and head to Abby’s. And don’t come back until you and that saint of a woman have worked everything out.” Trudy was right. He needed to check his ego. Misty Pines could handle a week without him. A call came through Trudy’s headset which she tapped to answer. She settled behind her desk as he grabbed his bag, her voice fading as he walked outside. “Yes, Mrs. Harper. Just a small fire. Nothing to worry about.” *** Excerpt from Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2025 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.
,
About Author Mary Keliikoa:
.
Eighteen years in the legal field, and an over-active imagination, led Mary Keliikoa to plot murder—novels that is. She is the author of the domestic thriller DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW, the newly released KILLER TRACKS, the third book in the Misty Pines mystery series which is an IPPY Silver and Bronze Award winner, Silver Falchion finalist, and a Foreword Indies award finalist, and the Shamus and CLUE Finalist, and Lefty, Agatha and Anthony nominated “PI Kelly Pruett” mystery series. Her short stories have appeared in Woman’s World and the anthology Peace, Love and Crime.
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway! Click here to view the Tour Schedule
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Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Mary Keliikoa. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
A peaceful retreat. A maze of smoke and murder. Is their remote getaway about to become a death trap?
Sheriff Jax Turner is worried about going off-grid and leaving his young team of deputies behind. But while his getaway with his ex is meant to help them reconnect, Jax is distracted by signs of a break-in at their rented lookout. After a string of unsettling events and an approaching wildfire turn their isolated retreat into a danger zone, he’s stunned to find a dead body with marks tying it to a killer he put away a decade ago. Terrified that his attempt at reconciliation has led them both into a fatal setup, Jax rushes back to his estranged wife before she joins the list of victims. But his dedication to serving and protecting could become an Achilles heel as other players join them among the darkening trees. Can he fight his way out of the woods before the flames of revenge consume everything?
Praise for Killer Tracks:
“Keliikoa is the Queen of immersive small-town mystery. Killer Tracks is cleverly plotted with deftly drawn relatable characters who face off with a deadly threat from the past.” ~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series “Mary Keliikoa’s Killer Tracks is a wonderful addition to the Misty Pines mystery series. Great pacing, strong plotting, and compelling characters. Highly recommended!” ~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files
Killer Tracks Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Police Procedural; Detective and Mystery; Crime Fiction; Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: September 30, 2025 Number of Pages: 319 ISBN: 979-8-89820-033-6 (pb) Series: A Misty Pines Mystery, #3 || Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books
I enjoyed the first book, Hidden Pieces, and that had me curious to find out what might be happening next. Sheriff Jax Turner is back. He’s made a vow to himself to turn his life around and mend fences with his ex-wife, Abby. First things first he has a potential homicide case that requires all his attention. Abby’s working a case that might have connections to his, so they keep their personal lives out of it and get to work.
There was a lot going on in this book. So many personal difficulties to sort out. And some new characters that stuck out to me. And, of course, a strange case to solve. The personal stuff slowed the plot down somewhat. But as the ending drew near, things picked up and I was caught by surprise at it’s conclusion. This series is getting real interesting.
4 STARS
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The Misty Pines Mystery Series
Step into the thrilling world of Misty Pines today with the first ebook, HIDDEN PIECES, now just $0.99!
Click. Slide. Clang. If he never heard that sound again, it’d be far too soon. That, and the sleepless nights under a thread-bare wool blanket that chafed his exposed skin, the looming threat of death… in the yard, the shower, the halls to and from the cafeteria or his cell. Death and desperation seeped from the pores of this godforsaken place. So thick he could almost taste it. No amount of soap, no amount of ritual, would rid him of the stench that clung to him—though he’d be willing to try. It was over now. Dying among these second-class men would not be his fate. A man of his intellect, a man far superior to the minions around him, deserved better than what he’d endured these past years. He’d eagerly reeducate those who believed otherwise. They’d all see it by the time he was through with them, just like those that came before. Click. Slide. Clang. A voice echoed off the concrete walls. “Inmate 22-A-4242. Gather your crap. Time to go.” He stood, hands to his sides. “Ready to face the world?” He remained silent. None would get the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. The voice continued. “They gave you a goddamn Hail Mary. Bleeding heart liberals anyway. Don’t screw it up.” He bowed his head to obscure his smirk. “Right. I know your type. You’re innocent.” The guard continued rambling. “That’s what all you convicts say. ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘I was framed.’ ‘It’s unconstitutional.’” The guard’s voice dropped to a growl, prickling his skin. “Tell that to the victims and their families. I’d reckon less than one percent of you bastards got a legit claim.” The guard had forgotten betrayed, of which he surely had been. But he shrugged, not to agree, but to stave off the urge to wrap his hands around the guard’s throat. So close to freedom… Whether he was innocent or not had no bearing; it had not been among the criteria for the help he’d received. Being wrongfully convicted qualified. According to the junior team that had embraced his cause when he’d written the letter, they agreed that’s what had happened in his case. Even if it took them ten years, he loved a system that allowed more loopholes than the cable-knit sweater Mother had dressed him in for school. “Sell it to someone else, you psycho,” the guard snapped. “Bet you money. We’ll see you again real soon.” A jagged smile crossed his face. The guard had part of it correct—but he’d never be back here. Next time, he’d be less gullible. And he intended to snuff out anything that could hurt him, like the light of every other woman who hadn’t seen his worth. CHAPTER ONE Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed. Sheriff Jax Turner had experienced more than his fair share of those mornings in the past six years. First, when his daughter Lulu died from leukemia. Then, when his marriage dissolved—more like shattered into a million pieces. Followed by a couple of cases that had tested his limits of trust. They’d destroyed some, too. Today was different. Abby Kanekoa, his ex-wife with whom he’d shared the gutting grief of those past years, had offered hope for reconciliation—the chance to glue a few of those pieces back together. It would never be the same without their little girl… but perhaps they could create something new. Leaving for the mountains just after Labor Day was less than ideal. Though with the tourist season coming to an end in Misty Pines, and Abby due a vacation at the Bureau, it was the best time. Deputy Rachel Killian, his new hire and right hand, was turning out to be as capable as he’d hoped. Applicants for filling the gaps at their station had been sparse. Few, it seemed, wanted to work these days—or work at the often cool and foggy Oregon coast. He’d at least been able to get most of his young crew on full-time payroll, so Rachel had help. Bottom line, getting away was Abby’s idea. He would not tell her no. Now to get through the pep talk with the team. The two major events of the past year had allowed them to punch a few notches into their experience belt, but wisdom and reliance on gut instinct were born with time. Leaving them to run Misty Pines without his guidance had his muscles taut. He entered the sheriff’s office with his duffle flung over his shoulder. “Oh hon, don’t tell me that’s all you’re taking for the week?” Trudy said. Jax’s long-time secretary, and overall, Team Mother to him and his ragtag group of deputies, lifted the headset off her ears. He suppressed a smile. “Glad to see your accident hasn’t made you any less opinionated.” Eight months had passed since the event that had nearly stolen her from him and the team. A warm and fuzzy Trudy would be hard to get used to—he was grateful he didn’t have to learn. Trudy rested the headset around her neck. “Looks like Abby hasn’t given you any clue about where you’re going.” “Other than the mountains, not much. I’ve tossed a few essentials in my truck.” “Like?” “A good book and a board game.” He smiled. “A couple of bottles of wine.” She arched her brow. “What? I’m assuming she’s arranged for us to be at some luxury resort.” “You think so?” “Abby likes her massages, saunas, breakfast in bed.” Not to mention time basking on the deck with a steaming cup of coffee. For being a tough no-nonsense woman, and a hell of an FBI agent, she liked the finer things—and she’d earned every damn one of them. “And what do you like?” Trudy asked. He chuckled. Not much of what he’d just mentioned. “Roughing it.” “Hmmm…and she arranged this for the two of you to reconnect?” His smile faded; he dropped the bag at his feet. “Are we camping?” Trudy laughed and shook her head. “When it comes to women, you do take a minute to catch up. Might I suggest a few more items?” “Like a tent?” He’d have to dig it out of his garage, which wouldn’t take long. “No. But a communication device might come in handy.” “Abby said something about our phones being off for the week.” He shifted on his feet. “Are you saying we’re headed somewhere with no service?” She returned to her desk in response. Of course they were. Several interruptions to his and Abby’s conversations had come from the station over the past months. Too often, when they’d just settled into talk or were on the edge of a sensitive topic. Tourist season was like that every year with the random fender bender, a too-loud party on the beach, a drunken brawl at the pub. Some infraction demanding his attention. Added to that, Brody had slid his motorcycle on wet pavement and nearly dislocated his shoulder in the spring. Garrett had a few interviews in Portland, one in Seattle. Matt was called in to stock shelves by his boss at the IGA grocery store when they were short staffed, which had become more consistent. Time with Abby had been the price, although the last time they’d carved out a night together still brought a smile to his face. Maybe this trip signaled her intention of wanting more quality togetherness. That thought alone made having limited phone access worth it regardless of where they went, even as the uneasiness of being out of contact with his crew niggled at him. He flung the bag back over his shoulder and headed to his office. The click of claws on the linoleum sounded behind him. “Boss.” Rachel and Koa, her black lab, came out of the kitchen. “You all set?” “Almost. Picking Abby up soon for what appears might be a wilderness retreat.” Rachel laughed. “Don’t look so concerned.” “I’m not.” “Uh-huh. That’s why you have a crease between your eyebrows.” He rubbed the spot. “Guess I’m not fond of surprises.” “Never have been myself, but I have a feeling you’ll have fun.” “According to Trudy, I will. Hope Abby does.” It was sweet she’d chosen a place that appealed to him—more imperative if she enjoyed herself. She’d never been one to sleep on the ground. “Believe me, she did good.” “Take it you know where we’re headed?” “Not precisely.” “How about a hint of what you do know, so I’m better prepared?” Having spent far too much time in the dark, he preferred to be ahead of things these days. She did a zipping motion in front of her mouth. “I get that it’ll be difficult for you, but try not to worry. The men and I have everything covered.” He nodded. Letting go of the wheel would never be easy, and in law enforcement things could change quickly. But Rachel was solid, and he trusted her… despite his former partner Jameson not agreeing with him hiring his only daughter. Jax had made the right call; he stood by it. There should be no hesitation about him and Abby taking a week for themselves. “You’ll get a hold of me if there’s a problem?” he said. “You won’t have any way…” “I’m taking the satellite phone.” Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Suppose that’s smart after the last trek in the wilderness…” “Exactly my thought.” Rachel pursed her lips, likely recalling that day when radio silence had left her and the team wrought with worry as they waited for word on whether Jax and Abby were alive. But Abby should understand his decision, if it came up. Probably better it didn’t. “Let’s do a briefing before I head out,” he said. Rachel winked. “The men are waiting for you in the strategy room.” He chuckled. That’s why there’d been no sign of them when he’d arrived. In his office, he set his duffle bag on a chair, and retrieved the satellite phone, burying it near the bottom in a T-shirt. Once he checked his email for the tenth time and cleared his desk, he started toward the meeting room, until he heard voices in the reception area. Trudy was holding open the station’s door. The men were grabbing their gear about to file out, Rachel and Koa behind them. “What’d I miss?” Jax said. Koa turned at the sound of his voice, trotting to his side. Jax squatted next to her, draping his arm gently over her back. “Nothing to worry about, boss,” Rachel said. “Just a routine traffic revision, chief,” Brody said. “We’ve got it.” He’d gelled down his wispy brown hair today, making him look young. Too young. “I’ve got forty minutes before…” “Oh no you don’t, Jax Turner,” Trudy said. “It’s a half-hour drive to Abby, and you will not be late.” “I—” “We’ve got it, Sheriff,” Rachel said, calling Koa to her. Koa didn’t budge. “Koa’s siding with me on this,” he said. Rachel lifted a brow at her black lab, who promptly returned to her side. Fine. Jax stood. He’d wanted a team he could rely on, and he had one. So why did he feel left out? “Who’s in need of traffic revision anyway?” “Fire department,” Trudy said. “There’s an apartment complex on fire at the edge of town,” Rachel said. Battalion Chief Mike O’Brien rarely requested assistance. With the remaining tourists eking out the last of their holiday weekend there could be a traffic log, he supposed. “I’ll go with you,” Jax said. Rachel held up her hands in a stop gesture. “Please. Get out of here and have a good time.” Before he could protest, Rachel was out the door and Trudy shut it behind them. Through the glass, Jax watched his team slide into two of the patrol cars. “You heard your deputy, hon. Get your stuff and head to Abby’s. And don’t come back until you and that saint of a woman have worked everything out.” Trudy was right. He needed to check his ego. Misty Pines could handle a week without him. A call came through Trudy’s headset which she tapped to answer. She settled behind her desk as he grabbed his bag, her voice fading as he walked outside. “Yes, Mrs. Harper. Just a small fire. Nothing to worry about.” *** Excerpt from Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2025 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.
About Author Mary Keliikoa:
.
Eighteen years in the legal field, and an over-active imagination, led Mary Keliikoa to plot murder—novels that is. She is the author of the domestic thriller DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW, the newly released KILLER TRACKS, the third book in the Misty Pines mystery series which is an IPPY Silver and Bronze Award winner, Silver Falchion finalist, and a Foreword Indies award finalist, and the Shamus and CLUE Finalist, and Lefty, Agatha and Anthony nominated “PI Kelly Pruett” mystery series. Her short stories have appeared in Woman’s World and the anthology Peace, Love and Crime.
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway! Click here to view the Tour Schedule
Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Mary Keliikoa. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
A peaceful retreat. A maze of smoke and murder. Is their remote getaway about to become a death trap?
Sheriff Jax Turner is worried about going off-grid and leaving his young team of deputies behind. But while his getaway with his ex is meant to help them reconnect, Jax is distracted by signs of a break-in at their rented lookout. After a string of unsettling events and an approaching wildfire turn their isolated retreat into a danger zone, he’s stunned to find a dead body with marks tying it to a killer he put away a decade ago. Terrified that his attempt at reconciliation has led them both into a fatal setup, Jax rushes back to his estranged wife before she joins the list of victims. But his dedication to serving and protecting could become an Achilles heel as other players join them among the darkening trees. Can he fight his way out of the woods before the flames of revenge consume everything?
Praise for Killer Tracks:
“Keliikoa is the Queen of immersive small-town mystery. Killer Tracks is cleverly plotted with deftly drawn relatable characters who face off with a deadly threat from the past.” ~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series “Mary Keliikoa’s Killer Tracks is a wonderful addition to the Misty Pines mystery series. Great pacing, strong plotting, and compelling characters. Highly recommended!” ~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files
Killer Tracks Trailer:
.
Book Details:
Genre: Police Procedural; Detective and Mystery; Crime Fiction; Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: September 30, 2025 Number of Pages: 319 ISBN: 979-8-89820-033-6 (pb) Series: A Misty Pines Mystery, #3 || Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books
Step into the thrilling world of Misty Pines today with the first ebook, HIDDEN PIECES, now just $0.99!
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Hidden Pieces
Misty Pines Mystery #1
Synopsis:
Sheriff Jax Turner is staring down the barrel of his broken past. On the brink of ending it all, he feels like a failure following his daughter’s tragic passing and his subsequent divorce. But when a schoolgirl vanishes and her backpack is found in a sex offender’s backseat, the weary lawman drags himself into action and vows to nail one last sociopath. Shocked to discover the teen’s aunt had lost her life in an abduction years prior, the devastating outcome that he’s taken personally, Jax believes the killer has returned with a vengeance. But as the desperate cop frantically hunts down a mysterious relative in search of a suspect, the girl’s time keeps ticking away… Can the jaded sheriff take down the culprit in time to bring the young girl home alive?
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MY REVIEW
Take a close look at the cover. The story that unfolds is very much like a jigsaw puzzle. As is the main character, Sheriff Jax Turner. A man with a lot of baggage. He’s teetering on the brink of giving up. He can’t find a path to handle the loss of his daughter and the end of his marriage. A peculiar case comes to his attention. A young girl is abducted and years earlier he worked a case where her aunt was abducted and murdered. He has to dust off his investigating skills and get back in the game before there’s another deadly outcome. And time is running out.
I’m big into documentaries and shows about missing persons and solving crimes. It’s the ins and outs of following clues, false leads and finally solving the cases that grips me. Hidden Pieces is very much a procedural. You follow Sheriff Turner as he follows those clues. And that’s not all he does. He also has to train his deputies to assist him as he works the case as his usual partner is on vacation.
I felt a strong connection to Jax Turner. He’s had so much tragedy and he struggled to find a way out of his despair. I was pulling for his salvation every bit as much as I wanted him to save the girl. It’s a winding road to the conclusion with many a sharp turn along the way. I was captivated from the first sentence to the last word.
Click. Slide. Clang. If he never heard that sound again, it’d be far too soon. That, and the sleepless nights under a thread-bare wool blanket that chafed his exposed skin, the looming threat of death… in the yard, the shower, the halls to and from the cafeteria or his cell. Death and desperation seeped from the pores of this godforsaken place. So thick he could almost taste it. No amount of soap, no amount of ritual, would rid him of the stench that clung to him—though he’d be willing to try. It was over now. Dying among these second-class men would not be his fate. A man of his intellect, a man far superior to the minions around him, deserved better than what he’d endured these past years. He’d eagerly reeducate those who believed otherwise. They’d all see it by the time he was through with them, just like those that came before. Click. Slide. Clang. A voice echoed off the concrete walls. “Inmate 22-A-4242. Gather your crap. Time to go.” He stood, hands to his sides. “Ready to face the world?” He remained silent. None would get the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. The voice continued. “They gave you a goddamn Hail Mary. Bleeding heart liberals anyway. Don’t screw it up.” He bowed his head to obscure his smirk. “Right. I know your type. You’re innocent.” The guard continued rambling. “That’s what all you convicts say. ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘I was framed.’ ‘It’s unconstitutional.’” The guard’s voice dropped to a growl, prickling his skin. “Tell that to the victims and their families. I’d reckon less than one percent of you bastards got a legit claim.” The guard had forgotten betrayed, of which he surely had been. But he shrugged, not to agree, but to stave off the urge to wrap his hands around the guard’s throat. So close to freedom… Whether he was innocent or not had no bearing; it had not been among the criteria for the help he’d received. Being wrongfully convicted qualified. According to the junior team that had embraced his cause when he’d written the letter, they agreed that’s what had happened in his case. Even if it took them ten years, he loved a system that allowed more loopholes than the cable-knit sweater Mother had dressed him in for school. “Sell it to someone else, you psycho,” the guard snapped. “Bet you money. We’ll see you again real soon.” A jagged smile crossed his face. The guard had part of it correct—but he’d never be back here. Next time, he’d be less gullible. And he intended to snuff out anything that could hurt him, like the light of every other woman who hadn’t seen his worth. CHAPTER ONE Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed. Sheriff Jax Turner had experienced more than his fair share of those mornings in the past six years. First, when his daughter Lulu died from leukemia. Then, when his marriage dissolved—more like shattered into a million pieces. Followed by a couple of cases that had tested his limits of trust. They’d destroyed some, too. Today was different. Abby Kanekoa, his ex-wife with whom he’d shared the gutting grief of those past years, had offered hope for reconciliation—the chance to glue a few of those pieces back together. It would never be the same without their little girl… but perhaps they could create something new. Leaving for the mountains just after Labor Day was less than ideal. Though with the tourist season coming to an end in Misty Pines, and Abby due a vacation at the Bureau, it was the best time. Deputy Rachel Killian, his new hire and right hand, was turning out to be as capable as he’d hoped. Applicants for filling the gaps at their station had been sparse. Few, it seemed, wanted to work these days—or work at the often cool and foggy Oregon coast. He’d at least been able to get most of his young crew on full-time payroll, so Rachel had help. Bottom line, getting away was Abby’s idea. He would not tell her no. Now to get through the pep talk with the team. The two major events of the past year had allowed them to punch a few notches into their experience belt, but wisdom and reliance on gut instinct were born with time. Leaving them to run Misty Pines without his guidance had his muscles taut. He entered the sheriff’s office with his duffle flung over his shoulder. “Oh hon, don’t tell me that’s all you’re taking for the week?” Trudy said. Jax’s long-time secretary, and overall, Team Mother to him and his ragtag group of deputies, lifted the headset off her ears. He suppressed a smile. “Glad to see your accident hasn’t made you any less opinionated.” Eight months had passed since the event that had nearly stolen her from him and the team. A warm and fuzzy Trudy would be hard to get used to—he was grateful he didn’t have to learn. Trudy rested the headset around her neck. “Looks like Abby hasn’t given you any clue about where you’re going.” “Other than the mountains, not much. I’ve tossed a few essentials in my truck.” “Like?” “A good book and a board game.” He smiled. “A couple of bottles of wine.” She arched her brow. “What? I’m assuming she’s arranged for us to be at some luxury resort.” “You think so?” “Abby likes her massages, saunas, breakfast in bed.” Not to mention time basking on the deck with a steaming cup of coffee. For being a tough no-nonsense woman, and a hell of an FBI agent, she liked the finer things—and she’d earned every damn one of them. “And what do you like?” Trudy asked. He chuckled. Not much of what he’d just mentioned. “Roughing it.” “Hmmm…and she arranged this for the two of you to reconnect?” His smile faded; he dropped the bag at his feet. “Are we camping?” Trudy laughed and shook her head. “When it comes to women, you do take a minute to catch up. Might I suggest a few more items?” “Like a tent?” He’d have to dig it out of his garage, which wouldn’t take long. “No. But a communication device might come in handy.” “Abby said something about our phones being off for the week.” He shifted on his feet. “Are you saying we’re headed somewhere with no service?” She returned to her desk in response. Of course they were. Several interruptions to his and Abby’s conversations had come from the station over the past months. Too often, when they’d just settled into talk or were on the edge of a sensitive topic. Tourist season was like that every year with the random fender bender, a too-loud party on the beach, a drunken brawl at the pub. Some infraction demanding his attention. Added to that, Brody had slid his motorcycle on wet pavement and nearly dislocated his shoulder in the spring. Garrett had a few interviews in Portland, one in Seattle. Matt was called in to stock shelves by his boss at the IGA grocery store when they were short staffed, which had become more consistent. Time with Abby had been the price, although the last time they’d carved out a night together still brought a smile to his face. Maybe this trip signaled her intention of wanting more quality togetherness. That thought alone made having limited phone access worth it regardless of where they went, even as the uneasiness of being out of contact with his crew niggled at him. He flung the bag back over his shoulder and headed to his office. The click of claws on the linoleum sounded behind him. “Boss.” Rachel and Koa, her black lab, came out of the kitchen. “You all set?” “Almost. Picking Abby up soon for what appears might be a wilderness retreat.” Rachel laughed. “Don’t look so concerned.” “I’m not.” “Uh-huh. That’s why you have a crease between your eyebrows.” He rubbed the spot. “Guess I’m not fond of surprises.” “Never have been myself, but I have a feeling you’ll have fun.” “According to Trudy, I will. Hope Abby does.” It was sweet she’d chosen a place that appealed to him—more imperative if she enjoyed herself. She’d never been one to sleep on the ground. “Believe me, she did good.” “Take it you know where we’re headed?” “Not precisely.” “How about a hint of what you do know, so I’m better prepared?” Having spent far too much time in the dark, he preferred to be ahead of things these days. She did a zipping motion in front of her mouth. “I get that it’ll be difficult for you, but try not to worry. The men and I have everything covered.” He nodded. Letting go of the wheel would never be easy, and in law enforcement things could change quickly. But Rachel was solid, and he trusted her… despite his former partner Jameson not agreeing with him hiring his only daughter. Jax had made the right call; he stood by it. There should be no hesitation about him and Abby taking a week for themselves. “You’ll get a hold of me if there’s a problem?” he said. “You won’t have any way…” “I’m taking the satellite phone.” Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Suppose that’s smart after the last trek in the wilderness…” “Exactly my thought.” Rachel pursed her lips, likely recalling that day when radio silence had left her and the team wrought with worry as they waited for word on whether Jax and Abby were alive. But Abby should understand his decision, if it came up. Probably better it didn’t. “Let’s do a briefing before I head out,” he said. Rachel winked. “The men are waiting for you in the strategy room.” He chuckled. That’s why there’d been no sign of them when he’d arrived. In his office, he set his duffle bag on a chair, and retrieved the satellite phone, burying it near the bottom in a T-shirt. Once he checked his email for the tenth time and cleared his desk, he started toward the meeting room, until he heard voices in the reception area. Trudy was holding open the station’s door. The men were grabbing their gear about to file out, Rachel and Koa behind them. “What’d I miss?” Jax said. Koa turned at the sound of his voice, trotting to his side. Jax squatted next to her, draping his arm gently over her back. “Nothing to worry about, boss,” Rachel said. “Just a routine traffic revision, chief,” Brody said. “We’ve got it.” He’d gelled down his wispy brown hair today, making him look young. Too young. “I’ve got forty minutes before…” “Oh no you don’t, Jax Turner,” Trudy said. “It’s a half-hour drive to Abby, and you will not be late.” “I—” “We’ve got it, Sheriff,” Rachel said, calling Koa to her. Koa didn’t budge. “Koa’s siding with me on this,” he said. Rachel lifted a brow at her black lab, who promptly returned to her side. Fine. Jax stood. He’d wanted a team he could rely on, and he had one. So why did he feel left out? “Who’s in need of traffic revision anyway?” “Fire department,” Trudy said. “There’s an apartment complex on fire at the edge of town,” Rachel said. Battalion Chief Mike O’Brien rarely requested assistance. With the remaining tourists eking out the last of their holiday weekend there could be a traffic log, he supposed. “I’ll go with you,” Jax said. Rachel held up her hands in a stop gesture. “Please. Get out of here and have a good time.” Before he could protest, Rachel was out the door and Trudy shut it behind them. Through the glass, Jax watched his team slide into two of the patrol cars. “You heard your deputy, hon. Get your stuff and head to Abby’s. And don’t come back until you and that saint of a woman have worked everything out.” Trudy was right. He needed to check his ego. Misty Pines could handle a week without him. A call came through Trudy’s headset which she tapped to answer. She settled behind her desk as he grabbed his bag, her voice fading as he walked outside. “Yes, Mrs. Harper. Just a small fire. Nothing to worry about.” *** Excerpt from Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2025 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.
About Author Mary Keliikoa:
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Eighteen years in the legal field, and an over-active imagination, led Mary Keliikoa to plot murder—novels that is. She is the author of the domestic thriller DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW, the newly released KILLER TRACKS, the third book in the Misty Pines mystery series which is an IPPY Silver and Bronze Award winner, Silver Falchion finalist, and a Foreword Indies award finalist, and the Shamus and CLUE Finalist, and Lefty, Agatha and Anthony nominated “PI Kelly Pruett” mystery series. Her short stories have appeared in Woman’s World and the anthology Peace, Love and Crime.
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It’s Christmas. It’s cozy. It’s culinary. It’s chaos! It’s the fourth book in this fabulous mystery series with a vintage flair from USA Today bestselling and Agatha Award–winning author Ellen Byron.
Have yourself a merry little . . . murder? Ricki James-Diaz gets the best present ever when her parents arrive in New Orleans for the holidays. Not only is it a chance to catch up, it’s also an opportunity to jog her mom Josepha’s memory about Ricki’s adoption. The details have always been shrouded in mystery. And Ricki understands why when she learns her mother was blackmailed for years, simply for not wanting to lose her precious daughter. But digging into the past soon lands the James-Diaz clan in water hotter than a big pot of gumbo! When the woman who extorted Ricki’s mom is found dead at her home, Josepha becomes the primary suspect. Now Ricki has another murder to solve, and tracking down a killer in Crescent City is going to take a miracle. Luckily, ‘tis the season! And Ricki has all the staff at the Bon Vee Culinary House Museum on hand to help. Can she prove her mother’s innocence and have the case wrapped up in time for Christmas?
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CRESCENT CITY CHRISTMAS CHAOS Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Culinary Cozy Mystery
Published by: Severn House Publication Date: November 4, 2025 Number of Pages: 240 (HC) ISBN: 9781448313181 (ISBN10: 144831318X) (HC) Series: A Vintage Cookbook Mystery, #4 • Learn More at Amazon & Goodreads
What could be better. Christmas is coming. The weather is getting colder. Decorations are starting to show up around the neighborhood. It all increases the excitement, the anticipation. Then….. there’s all the holiday books. I was excited to put on my fluffy jammies and cuddle up on the sofa with my favorite blankie and some hot tea and settle in for a fun cozy mystery. So, here I go.
I love the setting. It’s New Orleans. That’s not too far a drive from where I live. Ricki is excited to be hosting her parents for the holiday. Now, we know something always goes wrong during Christmas. But she has to deal with a secret her mother has been keeping for years. And then someone connected to that secret dies and her mother becomes suspect number one. Looks like it’s a working holiday for the family. They need a Christmas miracle to sort it out.
A holiday setting in the south. Animals that claim their own spots in the plot. A a mystery to solve with many bread crumbs. Are the gingerbread crumbs? Yum. I had loads of fun.
4 STARS
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Enjoy this peek inside:
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TWO
Crescent City Christmas Chaos
Since Eugenia was possibly the last purist on the planet who refused to put up a single strand of Christmas lights before Thanksgiving, the day after turned into an all-hands-on deck day of decorating for the holidays instead of Black Friday. Ricki was grateful to landlady Kitty Kat for hosting her parents, freeing her up to turn Miss Vee’s Vintage Cookbook and Kitchenware into a must-shop holiday destination. Olivia Felice, Eugenia’s granddaughter—which made her another of Ricki’s newly discovered cousins—blew into the shop through its mullioned glass French doors. Miss Vee’s was located in a lovely room formerly known as the nineteenth century mansion’s “Ladies Parlor.” Pale green damask covered its walls and ornate molding painted white encircled the room. A glistening chandelier dangled from an intricately carved ceiling medallion. The instant Ricki had stepped foot in the parlor it felt like the perfect home for a gift shop dedicated to sharing the culinary past with fans of all things vintage. “Ugh, I’m so glad to be here and out of the school library. Can I tell you how much I hate finals?” Olivia accompanied the statement with an eye roll and flip of her thick, dirty blonde ponytail. A junior at Tulane majoring in Communication, she’d added a minor in Psychology, motivated by a recent misjudgment of someone’s character that had almost led to her death. She’d transitioned from intern to Ricki’s sole part-time employee and lifetime young friend as well as relative. “I’m glad you’re here. I could use help decorating this.” Ricki motioned to an artificial Christmas tree that exceeded her petite height by a foot. “I think I’ve bought up food-themed ornaments at every thrift shop in town. I thought we could fill in with smaller kitchenware items like these old measuring spoons.” She held up a set of nesting tin spoons. “Every item on the tree will be for sale, so I’m going with white lights. Colored lights would be too busy.” “I’m on it.” Olivia reached into one of two big boxes loaded with holiday paraphernalia. She pulled out a long strand of tiny white lights. “And no, I haven’t heard anything from a krewe.” “I was afraid to ask.” While Ricki was born in the Big Easy, she’d moved to Los Angeles as a child when Josepha met and married Luis. She was still learning the ways of the quirky city she now called home. Olivia had educated her on the machinations of krewes, the organizations responsible for the city’s elaborate Mardi Gras parades and balls. The krewes chose local young women, mostly debutantes, for their courts. While carnival season didn’t officially kick off until January 6th—Twelfth Night—invitations to join the courts were delivered much earlier via a “court call” paid to the future queen and maids by representatives of the krewe. New Orleans may celebrate the winter holidays in a big way, but to Ricki, the local greeting of “Happy Almost Mardi Gras!” made the city’s priorities clear. Olivia threaded the lights through the tree’s branches. “I honestly don’t care if I get a court call or not. I might even say no if they ask me to be on one.” “Liar,” Ricki teased. A fierce squawking disrupted the conversation. Ricki and Olivia dropped what they were doing to peer outside the shop’s bay window, where they saw Bon Vee’s resident peacocks Gumbo and Jambalaya chasing co-worker Theo Charbonnet—Eugenia’s nephew and yet another cousin to Ricki—across the mansion’s verdant green side yard. “You OK?” Ricki called to Theo. “I read somewhere that the Victorians put stuffed peacocks on top of their trees instead of stars or angels,” he called back. “Think about it.” He disappeared around the corner. The women left the window and resumed decorating. “Have you noticed Cousin Theo’s been acting more weird than usual?” Olivia asked as she added a second strand of lights to the tree. “I wouldn’t call it weird,” Ricki said. “More like he’s being squirrelly. Secretive. I think he’s up to something.” “That’s a scary thought.” Ricki nodded in agreement. While she and Theo had achieved a rapprochement, she still wasn’t sure she could completely trust him. “So, your parents are really nice,” Olivia said, providing a change of subject. “Oh, thanks. They’re the best. I’m so glad you got to meet them.” “Are you going to do anything special while they’re here? Like, a swamp tour or something?” Ricki, who was about to hang a ceramic beignet ornament, paused. “Actually . . . since Dad will be busy on the TV shoot, I thought Mom and I could work together and dig up clues about my bio mom.” Ricki had been abandoned as an infant New Orleans’ infamous Charity Hospital, her teen mother disappearing after giving birth. She thanked the universe for Josepha, a NICU nurse who fell in love with the parentless baby and adopted her, parenting as a single mother until she met and fell in love with Luis, who happened to be in town working on a film. Ricki adored her parents beyond belief, but questions about her past drove her to seek answers. So far, she’d learned that Genevieve Charbonnet had secretly given birth to a baby who would have been Ricki’s grandparent. Her friend Mordant, who’d added private investigator to a list of occupations that included haunted tour guide and Bon Vee handyman, had tracked down the father of Genevieve’s baby. Sadly, he’d died at the age of twenty-four of a rare heart condition. Ricki resumed hanging ornaments. “Mordant hasn’t been able to come up with any leads since he discovered my great-grandfather’s grave. And I haven’t come across any new connections on my genealogy sites. I thought I’d drive Mom around to some of the places from when we lived here and see if anything jogs a memory that might be useful.” “Sounds like a plan. I’m starving.” Ricki grinned, amused by Olivia’s 180-degree turn to her own needs. “You keep decorating, I’ll get us a snack.” She left the shop and headed down the mansion’s capacious center hallway. Cookie waved from the beautifully appointed living room, which she was showing off to a group of tourists. Bon Vee was currently low on both tour guides, who were paid part-timers, and docents who volunteered their time, so Cookie and other staff members had been drafted to lead tours. Ricki gestured to her and Cookie detached from her group. “I’m making a run to the café. You want anything?” “An iced coffee would be great. It’s on me.” Cookie reached into the phone pocket of her leggings and extracted a twenty. She gave it to Ricki. “Plenty more where this came from,” she said in a low voice. “This group’s a mix of Houston and Dallas-ites, or whatever you call ’em. We just started the tour and they’re already trying to out-tip each other to prove their city is better.” “Nice.” “I want to buy Nat the best Christmas present I can, so I need these groups to make it rain.” Cookie rubbed her thumb to her index and middle finger, indicating money. She was dating the neighbor next door to Bon Vee and determined to make him the future Mr. Cookie Yanover. “Any idea what you’re getting Virgil?” “Not a clue,” Ricki said. “I better get to the café before it closes.” Ricki continued down the hallway, embarrassed by her obvious change of subject and feeling guilty because she hadn’t even thought about getting Virgil a gift. It’s because our relationship is so new, she told herself, batting back the insecurity that led her to fear she and the handsome, successful chef weren’t destined to go the distance. * By the time Olivia reluctantly left a few hours later to continue studying for finals, Miss Vee’s was decorated to the point of kitschy. No shelf was left untouched by thrift shop Santas, nutcrackers, ornaments, and a variety of small artificial trees in materials ranging from silvery mylar to one made of oyster shells wired together as branches. Ricki’s favorites were the items that were Louisiana-themed, like the alligator nutcracker wearing a Santa hat, which claimed a space next to a ceramic ornament of Santa riding an alligator. “You could put together a whole display of gator items.” Ricki started, not realizing she had company. She turned to see Josepha. “Mom, hey.” The women hugged. “I thought your dad might wanna have dinner, but he and Virgil still have a lot to go over. He’s taking a break, though.” Josepha indicated the bay window. Ricki glanced out of it and saw Luis doing a series of choreographed movements in slow motion. “Dad’s still doing tai chi?” “Yup. It relaxes him. And Lord knows that man could use some relaxing.” Josepha delivered this in a droll but affectionate tone. “Anyhoo, I thought me and my darlin’ daughter might go out for dinner.” “A giant yes to that.” A thought occurred to Ricki. “I just want to make one stop on the way.” Ricki locked up the shop and led her mother to the small staff lot where she parked her Prius. They followed Washington Avenue past lovely historic homes swathed in holiday lights and garlands, eventually reaching Claiborne Avenue, a much less scenic thoroughfare of dollar stores, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants. Ricki made a right on Tulane Avenue, followed by two more right turns that placed them in front of what was once Charity Hospital, rendered uninhabitable after Hurricane Katrina and now on the cusp of a new life as Tulane University’s new downtown medical school. Scaffolding covered the center of the massive twenty-story edifice, but even at the tail end of twilight much of the building’s 1930s structure was still evident and impressive despite years of decay. Josepha stared out the car window, her expression unreadable. “Why are we here?” “You haven’t been to New Orleans in so long. I thought maybe seeing Charity again might bring back memories.” “About your bio mom.” Ricki nodded. Josepha clasped her hand and held it tight as she continued to stare out the window. She and Luis had been nothing but supportive in Ricki’s quest for answers about her past but Ricki sensed her mother’s pain as she took in the abandoned monolith where she’d once pursued a career she loved. The two were silent for several minutes. “I wish I could remember something that would help,” Josepha finally said in a husky voice. “All I keep seeing is your tiny body in the NICU and how my heart broke for you and how that turned into burning, all-consuming passion to be your mama.” “Oooh . . .” Ricki fought back tears. “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have brought you here.” “Nothing to be sorry about, baby girl.” Josepha gave Ricki’s hand another squeeze then released it. “I’m glad to see the old place and know it’s gonna be brought back to do good things in this city. Hey, we’re not too far from Mother’s restaurant here. I could go for one of their oyster po’boys.” “Let’s do it,” Ricki said, knowing a change of subject when she heard one. Ricki circled back to Tulane Avenue. As they drove, Josepha cheerfully recalled memories inspired by locations they passed. Ricki noted that none involved Charity or her experiences as a nurse. Ricki mused that perhaps it was too painful for Josepha to recall that time in her life. But another thought loomed larger: Josepha was hiding something. And what she was hiding was tied to Ricki’s birth. *** Excerpt from Crescent City Christmas Chaos by Ellen Byron. Copyright 2025 by Ellen Byron. Reproduced with permission from Ellen Byron. All rights reserved.
About Author Ellen Byron:
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Ellen Byron is a USA Today bestselling author and recipient of multiple Agatha (Best Contemporary Novel) and Lefty (Best Humorous Mystery) awards for her Cajun Country Mysteries (published by Crooked Lane), Vintage Cookbook Mysteries (Berkley and Severn House), Catering Hall Mysteries (Kensington, as Maria DiRico) and Golden Motel Mysteries (Kensington). She is also an Anthony Award nominee and an award-winning playwright. Byron spent twenty-five years writing TV hits like Wings, Just Shoot Me, and Fairly OddParents, plus pilots for all the major networks, before segueing into writing humorous mysteries. She blogs with Chicks on the Case, is a lifetime member of the Writers Guild of America, and serves on the national board of Mystery Writers of America. But she’ll always consider her most impressive achievement working as a cater-waiter for the iconic Martha Stewart. A native New Yorker, Byron is a graduate of Tulane University and lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, daughter, and a rotating crew of rescue pups.
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Category: Middle-Grade Fiction & Juvenile Fiction (10 to 15 yrs old), 198 pages Genre: Adventure, dystopian, suspense Publisher: FriesenPress Release date: January 2025 Content Rating: PG. I would have chosen G because there is no swearing or graphic scenes; however, based on the definitions given by ireads, the two teenage characters do kiss
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Book Description:
In the wilderness of Nova Scotia, Charlotte and Anna confront the formidable challenges of survival such as finding food, building a shelter, and establishing a new life. Their bond is tested, however, when an unknown individual enters the scene, potentially driving a wedge between them. As tensions rise, a catastrophic event further complicates their situation, leading to a separation that leaves them struggling to reunite.
Book Two of The After Series explores themes of resilience, friendship, and the harsh realities of survival, highlighting both the strength of Charlotte and Anna’s connection and the obstacles that threaten to tear them apart.
Category: Middle-Grade Fiction & Juvenile Fiction (10 to 15 yrs old), 198 pages Genre: Adventure, dystopian, suspense Publisher: FriesenPress Release date: July 2025 Content Rating: PG. I would have chosen G because there is no swearing or graphic scenes; however, based on the definitions given by ireads, the two teenage characters do kiss
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Book Description:
With no central government to support Canada, chaos reigns as invaders seek control, and the Resistance rises to challenge them. Charlotte and Anna find themselves entangled with those protecting their country, desperate to prevent the intruders from seizing power and dismantling what remains of their nation.
Fleeing through unfamiliar territory, Charlotte and Anna’s resolve is tested as they evade relentless pursuers determined to capture or eliminate them. Although hopeful they can make a difference, every step forward is fraught with uncertainty, the looming threat of captivity pushing them to their limits.
Despite fear and exhaustion, the determination to protect Canada’s future keeps the girls moving, even as the shadows of war close in around them.
It’s such great fun when you find a series and it keeps getting better book by book. How does that happen? Maybe it’s your attachment to the characters. Maybe it’s what events are focused on. Or, perhaps it because you begin to grasp the author’s vision. Begin to see where she’s taking you. Or, maybe something else entirely. Regardless, The After series is one of those that gets better and better.
The After, the first book, was the introduction to a dystopian way of life. Then the characters start to take hold of you. That’s where the anxiety sets in. Will things get worse? They do. How will two young teenage girls manage to survive? Can’t tell you that. The spoiler thing. But you’ll be wanting to reach the end and find out. Then you’ll be wanting more. Relax. The second book, Survival continues the series.
And then theirs the third book, Invasion. I think it’s the most intense in the series. Things get harder, darker, more serious. But the characters shine light through all that. Sometimes hope builds. Faith in humanity rises. I love character driven stories and these characters will stay with me.
5 STARS
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Interview With Author J. Taylor
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1) There are many books out there written for teenagers and featuring teenagers. What makes yours different?
As a teacher, I often struggled to find clean adventure reads (for 10-14 year olds) featuring strong female protagonists. Don’t get me wrong, Hatchet and Percy Jackson are fantastic reads, but I wanted an adventure series centered on two teenage girls who problem-solve—embrace adventure, show compassion while remaining strong, balance humour with seriousness, take risks, and ultimately act heroically. Those types of series are hard to find.
I also believe the Canadian setting is one of the elements that truly sets my series apart from many others.
2) If you were a character in your series, who would you be?
Ha, ha! I love this question. No doubt about it, I would definitely be Anna. I’m an action oriented problem solver who speaks her mind (sometimes without thinking—my husband would say) and jumps in feet first!
3) Do you have another profession besides writing?
Yes, I’m a teacher. I entered the profession excited about teaching and after 30+ years I still love what I do! Not many people can say that about their career!
4) What is the last great book you’ve read?
I am obsessed with my latest read:
What She Said
by Elizabeth Renzetti
(Conversations About Equality).
A snippet from the book:
“The fight for women’s rights was supposed to have been settled. Or, to put it another way, women were supposed to have settled—for what we were grudgingly given, for the crumbs from the table that we had set. For thirty per cent of the seats in Canada’s Parliament; for five per cent of the CEO’s offices; for a tenth of the salary of male athletes; for the tiny per cent of sexual assault cases that result in convictions; for tenuous control over our health and bodies. “Aren’t we over it yet? No, we’re not,” Elizabeth Renzetti writes.”
5) If you’re a mom writer, how do you balance your time?
Although my five children are now adults, my youngest has Prader-Willi Syndrome, lives at home and requires 1:1 support 24/7, so my writing is often in fits and starts. It does make it a bit tricky when I have an idea or feel the urge to write, so I keep a notepad in the kitchen to scribble down ideas when I can’t get to my computer.
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Meet Author J. Taylor:
J. Taylor leads a fulfilling life balancing her roles as a mother, teacher and author. Creating memorable experiences for her family and loved ones brings her joy. Large family dinners filled with lively conversation and great food are a cherished tradition. These aspects of her life contribute to her personal fulfillment as well as inspire her writing and the themes of connection and family in her stories.
Taylor’s upbringing in Nova Scotia notably influences her storytelling, as she incorporates elements of the region’s culture and environment into her narratives. This background enriches her characters and the overall themes of her stories, making them relatable and inspiring.
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