Some secrets are better left buried. Others are waiting to
pull you under.
Jill Davis is just trying to survive the hustle of New York
City. As a private dog walker for the elite residents of an Upper East Side
high-rise, she’s used to navigating the eccentricities of her wealthy clients.
From the icy and demanding Briar Whitney, to the mysterious and unnervingly
attractive Christopher Bennett. Jill prides herself on blending into the
background; but in a city where everyone is watching, staying invisible is
becoming a dangerous game.
While a serial killer that the media has dubbed the
“Socialite Strangler” stalks the shadows of Central Park, Jill’s carefully
curated life begins to unravel. A series of unexplained “glitches” in her daily
routine, and a questioning detective suggest that the danger isn’t just in the
park, but in the building where she works.
When a high-stakes Halloween party turns a theatrical hoax
into a gruesome reality, Jill is thrust into the centre of a nightmare. Caught
in a web of obsession and lethal deception, she must decide who to trust.
In a world where everyone is connected, there is nowhere
left to hide. Can Jill break free before her own toxic traits and those around
her, become her undoing?
Avid dog lover and Author Rebecca Christo was born in
Toronto, Ontario, where she developed an early love of both reading and
writing. Of particular interest to her was creating a story with emotionally
mature content that was still entertaining enough to be read for fun on a
relaxing vacation. She hopes she’s succeeded with her very first published
novel: Mirrored Wounds.
When she’s not travelling with her husband, Darcy Christo, Rebecca enjoys
spending time with him, her children Ali, Brittany and Maxwell, and her puppies
(Lucy and Winston) in Wasaga Beach, Ontario where she currently lives.
In this chilling romantic suspense, U.S. Marshals investigator Heather York stumbles into danger at a Maine lakeside lodge, with Jordan Kyndall’s protective instincts as her only hope. A woman hunted by corruption. Heather York thought her life was ordinary—until a sudden threat pulls her into a deadly game. In Shadow of Betrayal, she’s forced to question whether she’s a target—or collateral damage. A man who won’t walk away. Jordan Kyndall planned a weekend celebrating his college roommate’s wedding. Instead, he finds a grisly scene in the woods—a woman’s lifeless body—and a surge of protective instinct binds him to Heather in ways he never expected. A danger that could destroy them both. As threats multiply and secrets surface, Heather and Jordan must navigate corruption, desire, and deadly stakes—trusting each other may be the only way to survive.
THE DRIVE TO the dingy bar outside of the city had been rough when the directions led him down a series of dirt roads before reaching what managed to loosely be called civilization. The bell above the door chimed a dull sound, barely registering his presence. He shook his rain-soaked umbrella, drawing a few curious glances his way before the three men at the bar decided their cold beer and stale peanuts were more interesting than him. The bartender, a man in his late fifties with a marine tattoo on a bicep, asked him if he wanted anything. Though kind, if the bartender had offered him a bottle of the Alps’ finest water, he wouldn’t accept—not in a place like this—but he was trying to blend in. “Whatever is on tap,” he said, and found a table in a back corner. Although he had no intention of staying longer than necessary, the location offered him anonymity. The front door, with its surprisingly clean window, opened and brought with it a strong wind and his associate. The new arrival scanned the room, nodded at the others, and crossed the dark bar. “You’re late.” “I’m here now. You have something for me, Hewitt?” He’d made a mistake giving the man a name, even if it wouldn’t lead back to him. They’d agreed not to use names, not here, not ever. He removed a black, zippered deposit bag from the inside pocket of his rain slicker and slid it across the table. The man across from him chuckled and unzipped the bag. “What do you think you’re doing?” Hewitt asked, his whisper a low hiss. He quieted when the bartender set a beer in front of him. His associate raised an eyebrow and continued to wear his smile. “You’ve seen too many movies.” He closed the bag and leaned forward. “Do you honestly think anyone here cares who you are or what you’re doing? At least you dressed for the occasion—kind of.” Hewitt stared at the man across from him, confident that despite his off-balanced behavior at times, he’d get the job done. History had proven he was capable, if not entirely trustworthy, and willing to do anything—for a price. “You’re forgetting something,” he said. Hewitt hated this man. “It’s in the bag.” Another chuckle. “In the bag, I like that.” He pulled the colored photograph from the deposit bag and studied the image. “How’d you find me?” “Does it matter?” “I like to know what I’m getting into.” Hewitt studied him, unsure now of his idea but knowing he had to move forward. “All you need to know is I can make your other . . . inconvenience go away.” “And what might that be?” Hewitt pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket and slid it across the table. “I’m not sure I believe you.” “You know who I work for?” Hewitt asked. “I checked it out.” “Then you know I can do what I say,” Hewitt said, growing impatient. “Will it be a problem?” “No, no problem.” Instead of returning the picture to the bag, he slipped it into the pocket of his dark, denim shirt. “You going to drink this?” he asked before he lifted Hewitt’s beer and drank deeply.
From Chapter One
JORDAN EASED THE rented SUV into the graveled parking lot of the lakeside lodge. Nestled in the thick pine forest surrounding Moosehead Lake, the Highlands Lodge reminded him of the fishing camp his family frequented in Alaska. He stepped out and walked around to the back of the vehicle, breathing in the fresh northern air. Though nothing like his hometown of Stewart Crossing, which was tucked away on a remote Alaskan bay, Moose Creek, Maine, was a pleasant escape from the spring heat of North Carolina, where he operated the main branch of Eagle Wilderness Journeys. The parking lot was empty, but he heard voices coming from the back of the lodge, laughter carrying through the trees and echoing over the water. Adam, his college roommate and the reason Jordan trekked up north, ambled across the gravel and pulled Jordan into a big hug. Considering Adam stood four inches shorter than Jordan and weighed thirty pounds less, it wasn’t easy. “Dang, it’s good to see you.” Jordan returned the amiable smile. “You look happy.” “Wait till you meet her.” Adam opened the back of the SUV and lifted the duffel out before Jordan objected. “You’re going to love her. I mean, whoever thought I’d ever be monogamous.” Jordan laughed, closed the back door, and followed Adam to the lodge. “If I recall, you didn’t know the meaning of the word throughout our senior year.” “Well, yeah, but could you blame me?” Adam led him around the corner of the lodge and stopped. “Wait, there she is.” Adam had described her perfectly. Girl-next-door pretty and fresh off the cheerleading squad, Grace was only a year younger than his friend. Her pale, blond curls bounced as she walked on long legs across the lawn. “She’s something all right. I wouldn’t have expected—” It wasn’t often when life’s unexpected moments stunned Jordan into silence or immobilized him, but none stopped his breath quite like his first glimpse of the woman standing next to Adam’s fiancée. “Who is she?” “It’s Grace, man, who do you think . . . Ah.” Adam nudged Jordan’s ribs with his elbow and laughed. “That’s Heather, Grace’s maid of honor.” Jordan didn’t want to use the word “dumbstruck,” but at the moment, he couldn’t formulate another. His sister would have called him “twitterpated” and normally he would put her in a headlock until she cried “mercy” and take it back, but it had been a long time since she’d had cause to tease him about a girl. “Hey, buddy, close your mouth before you drool.” Jordan wiped his mouth before he realized Adam was messing with him. “Don’t forget, I can still kick your golf-playing butt from here to next Tuesday.” “Why don’t I introduce you instead, and then you can owe me one.” *** Excerpt from Shadow of Betrayal by Blaire Morgan. Copyright 2026 by Blaire Morgan. Reproduced with permission from Blaire Morgan. All rights reserved.
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About Author Blaire Morgan:
Blaire Morgan is a pseudonymous American author blending danger, emotion, and high-stakes storytelling into gripping romantic suspense. She lives wherever the next adventure takes her—usually somewhere with a lot of trees, or a place that exists only in her imagination.
Blindsided by the sudden death of his mother, 21-year-old Will Lockhart can no longer afford the rent or bear the haunting memories of their shared Massachusetts apartment. While packing up his mother’s belongings, he discovers his long-dead father’s deed to a house in upstate New York. With nowhere else to go, he settles there, intent on making a fresh start. But odd things happen as soon as Will moves in. He’s unnerved by evidence of fire damage in the cottage, and alarmed by the seizure his elderly next-door neighbor suffers upon meeting him. Most shocking of all are the rumors of a long-ago murder in his house. Now, trapped in a town full of strangers, unsure of whether local murmurings are true or simply small-town gossip, he’s determined to discover what really happened all those years ago, and how he’s connected to the chaos. The truth will set him free. Or get him killed.
Book Details:
Genre: Psychological Suspense, Domestic Suspense
Published by: Creative James Media Publication Date: September 22, 2026 Number of Pages: 344 ISBN: 9781965648919 (ISBN10: 1965648916)
Jennifer Sadera first worked in the publishing industry as a junior copywriter for NAL/Penguin. She has written and edited for newspapers and magazines as a freelancer and on the staffs of major women’s publications, Woman’s World and Redbook.
First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.
April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being scammed out of her life savings by a trusted friend, April is left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her position as an interior designer at her old architectural firm, even if it means a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex.
But that’s not the only hitch. When the owner of the firm turns up dead, the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.
Now the killer sets a plan for April and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Chased from her dream home and cornered like prey, April is hemmed by the wintry forests of Tennessee with few options. As chilling memories of childhood abandonment haunt her, it seems everyone has a hidden agenda to take April down.
Only one thing is certain. A monster is stalking Smoky Creek, and April must unmask them before they land the fatal blow.
Readers of Sarah Alderson and Kiersten Modglin will love the twisted betrayals and dark obsession of Lies to Forever, the latest standalone thriller by award-winning novelist Marlene M. Bell.
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Praise for Lies to Forever:
“A must-read for fans of smart, character-driven suspense fiction. Highly recommended” ~ The International Review of Books
“Author Marlene M. Bell has crafted a gripping, psychological thriller. …a suspense-laden drama where the twists and turns of the plot are genuinely surprising and rewarding.” ~ The Book Review Directory
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Lies to Forever Trailer:
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Book Details:
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Genre: Suspense, Crime
Published by: Ewephoric Publication Date: March 17, 2026 Number of Pages:316 ISBN: 9798986340982
I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.
When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.
The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover. He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door. Without so much as a warning. My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles. The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend? “April.” My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office. Whang. A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface. A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient. “I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.” The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes. “Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name. My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees. A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.” Haven’t heard that in a while. Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes. I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way. Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped. A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early. “Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm. “Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area. “Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.” “He must have a lot on his mind.” Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.” I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant. He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought. “Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair. I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.” From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable. I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.” “Miss.” I turn toward the voice. “I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.” My first slam-and-crash date request. It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared. Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table. “Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?” I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.” “April, he’s not coming in.” “That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.” “Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.” With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk. “I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?” “You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?” “Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.” “Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.” The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.” Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress. “Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.” “You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs. “It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds. “Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.” “Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks. “Been there a few times.” “You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso. Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment. Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say. When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude. The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take. Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out. While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain… A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather. I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps. Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow? A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace. I don’t smell burning wood. My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub. Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck. That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa. “Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?” I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—” A metallic odor hits me. “Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived. Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene. I can’t be implicated in this. *** Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.
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About Author Marlene M. Bell:
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Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world. When Marlene’s not busy plotting her next novel, she’s exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she’s always hunting for the next spark of inspiration – or the next adventure calling her name.
Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win! Click here to view the Tour Schedule
Lies, Deception… and a Deadly Giveaway
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Marlene M. Bell. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Welcome to my stop on the virtual book tour for What Remains After organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.
Author Pauline J. Grabia will be awarding a $10 Amazon or B&N Gift Crd to a randomly drawn winner. Don’t forget to enter!
And you can click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
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What Remains After
By Pauline J. Grabia
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Genre: Literary Psychological Suspense Fiction
Synopsis
SOME STORIES DO NOT END WHEN THE DANGER PASSES.
Beth Clark has not returned to her hometown in decades, since the childhood she survived there nearly destroyed her.
When her estranged mother dies, Beth comes back to rural Alberta for a funeral that feels carefully rewritten. The eulogies are tidy. The past is sanitized. But inside the abandoned bungalow where she and her brother once lived, Beth finds objects that shatter the illusion—and awaken memories of abuse, neglect, and the systems that failed to protect her.
When Beth’s younger brother is critically injured in a sudden accident, the present collides with the past. Keeping vigil at his hospital bedside, Beth is drawn back into the summer that changed everything: the violence in their home, the silence of those who should have intervened, and the foster family whose quiet faith offered the first real safety either child had known.
Told across dual timelines, What Remains After is a literary psychological suspense novel about trauma and memory, belief and betrayal, and the long, unfinished work of survival. It asks what it truly means to forgive—and what remains when the truth is finally spoken.
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Enjoy this peek inside:
Coverville Baptist Church smelled musty and old, like the memories trying to escape the recesses of Beth’s mind. That’s all that remained now of her mother. Like her life, nothing at the church had changed in over forty years. It had simply aged, with splintered oak pews and grubby carpets that had been there when she was growing up.
It was unnaturally quiet in the church, which she remembered used to almost roar after a service with the lively voices of congregants discussing the sermon or what was coming up in their week. Children used to run around, shrieking and squealing in both joy and frustration. Now, it was still. Eerily so.
Beth ignored the stares from the other mourners who had arrived early for the service. When she tried to meet their gazes to say hello, they looked briefly, with pity, before looking away. She stopped looking at people. She had only arrived when she had to so she could find Otto and talk to him before it started. He wasn’t in the lobby. Maybe he was in the sanctuary.
She waited in line at the guest registry, attended to by one of the funeral directors. When it was Beth’s turn, her hand trembled as she picked up the ridiculous feathered pen and hesitated before writing down her name. Should she use her married name or her maiden name? Her ex would have a conniption if she wrote down his, and she was changing her name back anyway, so she entered “Elizabeth Clark.”
When Beth had seen her mother’s obituary on Facebook, she’d realized that, despite her hesitation, she would go to the funeral. The only other attendees were townsfolk—mostly members of Virgie’s church—and family. She suspected that most came out of curiosity rather than grief. Beth’s reasons were less clear. Her hatred for her mother had lessened over the years, but had never completely gone; still, she felt an odd urge, almost a duty, to attend. She told herself it was just an excuse to see her brother, Otto, not the urn.
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About Author Pauline J. Grabia:
Pauline J. Grabia is a Canadian novelist whose work explores trauma, memory, faith, and the moral consequences of silence. Writing under the Stories of Consequence banner, she is drawn to stories that face difficult truths without spectacle and seek light without sentimentality. What Remains After is a literary psychological suspense novel rooted in rural Alberta and shaped by questions of survival, forgiveness, and what endures.
An eerie suspense novel, in which a grieving woman takes a job at an isolated mansion only to become wrapped up in the curse that seems to have befallen its eccentric owner.
Emily Grace has endured the worst loss imaginable. But can she survive a remote manor haunted by more than just memories . . .?
Drowning in grief, Emily Grace has lost everything: her home, her friends, her career. Only one lifeline remains—a job working for an eccentric millionaire. Along with his wife, he’s been building a mansion on a secluded island surrounded by a harsh and unforgiving sea. But when she disappears under mysterious circumstances, Emily Grace is hired to finish the project.
Locals believe the house is cursed, but their warnings go unheeded as Emily Grace works to rebuild her life. After what she’s been through, nothing can scare her—except perhaps the attention of a handsome man offering more than friendship. And yet, there’s something strange about this solitary fortress. Accidents. Mishaps. Ghostly whispers through the surrounding forest, footsteps when she’s completely alone . . .
Is there truly a curse or is the ethereal specter in the window an omen of something more sinister?
This spooky standalone from phenomenal crime author Elena Taylor will have readers sleeping with the light on for weeks! With vibes of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, fans of Riley Sager and thrillers with light horror elements will love The Haunting of Emily Grace!
NOW IN PAPERBACK!
Praise for The Haunting of Emily Grace:
“Taylor doesn’t just conjure suspense—she dissects it, peeling back the fragile layers of identity, memory, and trust until nothing feels safe. The Haunting of Emily Grace is deeply unsettling in all the best ways.” ~ Carter Wilson, bestselling author of Tell Me What You Did
“Beautifully evocative and atmospheric, The Haunting of Emily Grace is a one-sitting read. I couldn’t put it down.” ~ Lisa Hall, bestselling author of suspense
“gut-tightening suspense” ~ Edward J Leahy, author of the Dan Brady and Kim Brady mysteries
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The Haunting of Emily Grace Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Suspense with a touch of light paranormal/horror
Published by: Severn House Publication Date: May 21, 2026 Number of Pages: 288 pages ISBN: 9781448318889 (ISBN10: 1448318882), Paperback
Grief is a scab that I can’t stop picking at, no matter how hard I try. It pokes at me now as I sit in my truck on the deserted ferry dock, surrounded by dense morning fog and waiting for the boat to take me across an expanse of dark water to a house rumored to be cursed.
My fingers trace a photograph taped to my dashboard. My hand trembles, likely from an empty stomach or sleeplessness, as both are constant companions. But I outline the beloved face, forever frozen, like a precious object in amber. Lost to me in the real world, calling to me from the next.
The ferry slides into the dock in front of me with a bump against the pilings. A lone figure moves across the empty deck, while an old, grizzled seaman stays inside the tiny wheelhouse. One captain and one first mate. Tying the ferry off with ropes thicker than my arm, the mate’s actions are practiced and steady. He lowers a ramp and waves me forward. Ever so slowly, I roll across the water, fighting against holding my breath—the superstition I’ve clung to my entire life every time I cross a bridge. The thirty-minute sail to Salish Island, and tiny Monk’s Rock where my new job awaits, won’t allow me the indulgence, so I might as well continue to breathe despite my need to cling to anything, even a silly belief, to keep me safe. After parking the truck as the mate directs, I wait as he shoves bright orange chock blocks around all four wheels, as if, without a barrier, my vehicle might drive itself into the sea. I open my door a crack; our eyes meet. “Can I get out?” “Of course.” The first mate is rugged, with an air of confidence like he’d be good in a crisis. Smooth skin on his cheeks. Bright, inquisitive eyes. Broad shoulders visible under the bulky uniform of dark green waterproof overalls and a yellow slicker. He holds out his hand as I step out. “Careful. Parts of the deck can be slippery when it’s this wet.” Electricity flies between our fingers, and I pull away as if he poses a threat. I don’t want to feel desire. Intimacy is dangerous. But what does it mean that I’m looking at men again? He gives me an odd look. “We’ll be underway in a few minutes.” He walks back to the ramp, where two men unload a battered white cargo van. The three of them quickly stack boxes to one side, lashing them in place. No doubt provisions for an island that’s home to five hundred hearty souls—and me. At least for the time it takes to complete the finish carpentry in one enormous house. I’d once been a very good carpenter. Before my life exploded into hospitals and medical visits, overwhelming helplessness and all the endless paperwork connected to dying. Since then, I’ve done a poor job of putting myself back together. The rough pieces of grownup life refusing to fit a new pattern now that I’m alone. My mentor Bill Thomlinson had started this project less than a week ago but fell and broke his leg in multiple places. After he came through the surgery, metal pins in place, he convinced the homeowner to take a chance on me. “You need this,” he said to me over the phone, his voice surprisingly strong for someone coming out of anesthesia. “I’m done watching you flail. This job can save you. Don’t let me down.” Now I stand on the deck of a private ferry while the engines roar out a steady vibration under my feet, and wonder if I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. Crossing to the rail, I pin my eyes where the horizon must lie out beyond the mist. Clouds above and waves below. Indistinguishable from each other because of the heavy air, thick like smoke. My stomach lurches at the thought of everything that swims underneath my feet and the unknown depth of the sea. Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . focus on the future. Focus on the work. All I know about the job ahead of me is that the original carpenter vanished, forcing the owner, Cameron Lang, to bring in someone else, but then Bill ended up with pins in his leg. Given that I haven’t slept in so long that I shouldn’t be trusted with power tools, I hope that whatever the curse is, it doesn’t come in threes. When I feel like I’m losing my mind, it helps to ground myself with something physical, so I grip the hard, cold rail in my hands. No matter how much ending my life is a viable choice, some small part of me refuses to let death win again. The fog brightens, and we cross a physical line in space, plunging into a blue so pure it hurts my eyes. I gasp and grip even tighter as the sky separates from the water, which now spreads out below me in an endless black void. “Not quite got your sea legs?” The first mate watches me with barely disguised curiosity. Salt spray traces tears down my cheeks. I must look like I’m crying. “I didn’t expect to come out of the fog so abruptly.” “It does that sometimes. Now you see it, now you don’t. No matter how often we sail through a bank, it always feels like magic.” “I can imagine.” He lingers nearby. Maybe there’s little to do once the ferry is underway. Although small talk is beyond my ability, part of me longs to hear his voice again, even if I say things that sound insane. The temperature drops as we head further out to sea. We’re soon dodging between uninhabited land masses. “Some of these islands are so low they disappear in high tide.” He gestures to the slopes of land. Rocky outcroppings just under the surface. Dangerous, like unexploded mines in the sand. Panic rises. The water below us taunts me—my troubles will be over if I simply fall into a watery grave. The voice becomes louder and more insistent that I should do something I can’t take back. To keep my mind off the words in my head, my eyes search for the defiant piece of US rock thrusting out of Canadian waters. If I can make it back to dry land, I can get through another day. “That’s what you’re looking for.” The first mate’s breath tickles my ear as he comes closer, speaking over the hum of the engines, the slap of water on the hull, and the cry of seagulls. My gaze follows his arm to the far-off outline of Salish Island, where Monk’s Rock perches off the northern-most end, tethered to each other by the narrowest of bridges. “Take this.” He presses a business card into my hand. “Just in case.” Under his name is a single word, handyman, and a phone number. “Adrian Han?” I look up, his eyes capturing mine. “I thought you were the first mate.” “I’m a lot of things.” His words are casual, but something reflects in his expression, an emotion I can’t put my finger on. “You might realize at some point there’s a project you need help with. Nothing against your skills. Everyone needs another set of hands once in a while.” “I have a helper.” “Chuck, yeah. I’ve worked with him before.” His tone is carefully neutral. My new boss made the arrangements for Chuck to help me with anything that requires two people. Am I going to regret his choice? “How do you know why I’m here?” Adrian’s carefree expression returns. “Emily Grace Turner. Carpenter. Here to finish the End of the World.” It’s a jolt that he knows anything about me when I’ve worked so hard to become invisible. He reads me again, and his tone turns reassuring. “It’s a small town—people talk.” He gestures toward the wood rack that fits over my camper shell and the bumper sticker: Proud Member of the Carpenter’s Union. “Plus, your name was on your ferry registration.” I chuckle for thinking his words are sinister until a darker emotion, one that looks like fear, crosses his face. “That house—” His lips purse as if he holds something back. “Just call if you need help. Anytime.” The island takes clearer shape, and Adrian returns to the wheelhouse, his absence palpable, as if a physical hole remains in the air after he’s gone. He’s taken his fear with him, except for the small part he’s left behind with me. *** Excerpt from The Haunting of Emily Grace by Elena Taylor. Copyright 2025 by Elena Taylor. Reproduced with permission from Elena Taylor. All rights reserved.
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About Author Elena Taylor:
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Elena Taylor spent several years working in theater as a playwright, director, designer, and educator before turning her storytelling skills to novels. Her first series, the Eddie Shoes Mysteries, written under Elena Hartwell, introduced a quirky mother/daughter crime fighting duo. With the Sheriff Bet Rivers Mysteries, Elena returned to her dramatic roots to bring readers more serious and atmospheric novels. Located in her beloved Washington State, Elena uses her connection to the environment to produce tense and suspenseful investigations for a lone sheriff in an isolated community. The third in the series, Kill to Keep, launches summer 2026.
The Haunting of Emily Grace is Elena’s first standalone suspense novel.
Her favorite place to be is at Paradise, the property she lives on south of Spokane, Washington, with her equines, dogs, cats, and hubby.
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Category: Adult Fiction (18 +), 300 pages Genre: Psychological Suspense Publisher: Arcanum Books Release date: May 2026 Content Rating: PG +M: The book includes scenes of adultery, (mild) descriptions of sex, and some profanity
Book Description:
Three people. Three lies. One deadly reckoning.
When Oliver Troika meets Danielle Hampdon at a hot Manhattan nightclub, the attraction is immediate – and unsettlingly perfect. Oliver is handsome, charming, and newly wealthy; Danielle is poised, intelligent, and born into one of Park Avenue’s most illustrious families. They come from vastly different worlds, yet their connection feels inevitable.
Not everyone is convinced.
Ivan Abelov, Oliver’s childhood friend and business partner, senses something off about Danielle. Or is it wishful thinking born of jealousy? And the more Oliver falls under her spell, the more determined Ivan becomes to uncover who thinks she really is – even if he has to invent the truth about her.
What begins as unsupported suspicion soon escalates into a dangerous game of secrets and deception, where every revelation raises the stakes – and every move risks exposing a truth that could ruin them all.
In a story that echoes Othello, suspicion is carefully sown, and once it takes hold, it threatens to unravel everything. Who can be trusted? Who is hiding behind a carefully constructed past? And how far will each of them go to protect the life they’ve built?
FOR SHE HAD EYES is a gripping suspense novel about ambition, loyalty, and the fatal cost of believing the wrong person – right up to its startling final pages.
My new novel, FOR SHE HAD EYES, is told from three perspectives, none of them entirely reliable. As the story unfolds, readers begin to see how each character deceives not only others, but also themselves … and, at times, the reader. That’s the thrill of an unreliable narrator: realizing you may have been misled and piecing together the truth on your own.
Of course, writing from three perspectives is far less thrilling than reading it. I had to keep a constant mental ledger of each character’s actions and motivations, revisiting earlier scenes in light of new information while avoiding the trap of repetition. Each revelation needed to deepen the story, not stall it.
Creating three distinct voices was another challenge. I wanted readers to immediately recognize whose perspective they were in—without relying on clunky reminders or labels.
Perhaps most difficult of all was crafting three characters who, while far from exemplary, remain relatable and even sympathetic. That’s always a challenge, but it becomes even more complex when the characters don’t particularly like each other – and when I deliberately avoid inserting an omniscient authorial voice to guide the reader’s judgment.
So why choose such a demanding structure? In some ways, it chose me. I set out to write a story very (very) loosely inspired by Othello, the Shakespeare tragedy that left the deepest impression on me. I wanted to give Desdemona – Danni, in my version – more agency, to make her more than a passive victim. But telling the story solely through her eyes didn’t feel right. To fully explore the dynamics at play, I needed Oliver (Othello) and Ivan (Iago) to speak as well.
And then there’s the twist at the end—one that upends everything that came before and, to be honest, surprised even me.
Did I succeed in creating three unreliable narrators, each worthy of some sympathy? I’ll let you decide. Tell me what you think at sethjmargolis@gmail.com
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Meet Author Seth Margolis:
Seth has written and published several novels, including LOSING ISAIAH, which was adapted as a feature film starring Halle Berry and Jessica Lange, and, most recently, THE SEMPER SONNET. He lives with his wife, Carole, in New York City. They have two grown children, Maggie and Jack. Seth received a BA in English from the University of Rochester and an MBA in marketing from New York University’s Stern School of Business Administration. When not writing fiction, he is a branding consultant for a wide range of companies, primarily in the financial services, technology and pharmaceutical industries. He has written articles for the New York Times and other publications on travel and entertainment.
I’ll protect her—even if she hates me for it… until the day she actually needs saving.
Perfect for readers who love:
Dark conspiracy mysteries with emotional stakes
Romantic tension without overpowering the plot
Strong, unconventional heroines
Protective, duty-bound heroes
Stories where justice matters as much as love
Pastor Jane Angieski has never fit the mold—too outspoken for church politics, too compassionate to look the other way, and too stubborn to quit when lives are on the line.
When a high-profile scandal erupts inside a powerful Las Vegas mega church, Jane is pulled into an investigation far darker than corruption or infidelity. Behind the polished sermons and celebrity pastors lurks a brutal international trafficking ring—one that buys, sells, and returns unwanted children through a diabolical foreign adoption scheme.
Captain Frank Morales has spent his career protecting the city from monsters. He knows exactly how dangerous this case is—and exactly how reckless Jane is being by digging into it. The attraction between them is instant. The trust is nonexistent. And the closer Jane gets to the truth, the harder Frank has to fight to keep her alive… whether she wants protecting or not.
When a lost disabled child is found abandoned on the streets of Sin City, Jane and Frank are forced into an uneasy alliance.
Because this isn’t just one victim. It’s thousands.
To stop the operation, they’ll have to expose powerful men, corrupt ministries, and an international pipeline that treats children like merchandise. And someone is very willing to kill to keep it buried.
In a city built on secrets, faith and justice may not be enough to save them—but walking away isn’t an option.
Tropes include:
Law Enforcement x Civilian Investigator
Forced Partnership
Opposites Attract (Faith vs Procedure)
Slow Burn Romantic Suspense
“Stay Out of My Case” Dynamic
Protector Hero
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JANE WON’T QUIT Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Published by: Varus Publishing Publication Date: March 12, 2026 Number of Pages: 393 pages, Paperback ISBN: 9798249459451, Paperback
Place the blame where it should go: on chocolate. The good stuff. The variety that melts way too fast as you swirl it over your tongue and let it cuddle the inside of your mouth, knowing the sensation is fleeting, which makes it more delicious. Yeah, that’s the kind I’m talking about.
I opened the front door of my Vegas condo and instantly tried to slam it. Except, the man I faced handed me a golden, foil-wrapped box with the unmistakable Godiva logo. He placed it in the palm of his right hand and extended his arm. Then he stepped back. With elegance and skill, he had baited the hook, and I was snagged. Just like that. I’m fast and grab the box before he could pull away. Or maybe that was his plan all along. If it hadn’t been for the lure of delectable dark chocolate, I would have stayed happily ignorant about sex slaves, black-market babies, cheating preachers, and an assortment of lowlifes that suddenly intruded on my cluttered, frazzled life. If only I’d slammed the door, I would never have been rejected, arrested, and nearly exterminated. Wait, did you just say, “Back the truck up”? Sorry, writing a memoir is new to me, and I just got overly excited to tell you everything. Instead, I’m taking some deep yoga-style breaths and will give you the whole story, nothing but the truth, just like it happened. You see, at the stroke of another scorching Las Vegas summer midnight, I found myself feeling the still sizzling breeze swirling around my sleep shorts and tank top—front door open, air conditioning spewing out into the neighborhood. I stood and sniffed the corners of the box, knowing full well the pleasures that were inside. Why was this guy on my doorstep? It was wrong. It was a moment, much later, I wanted to stop time—like you can while watching Netflix. Instead, I ripped open the box, placed a scrumptious piece of heaven-on-earth into my mouth and eyed up and down what the devil had dumped on my doorstep. Medical studies have proven it’s a bad idea to let a woman with PMS eat a pound of Godiva at one time, or so some new report said. Trust me, however. It’s an even worse idea to try to take chocolate away from a woman, PMS or not. Fortunately, this guy certainly knew women. So he waited. I gobbled three more. In a row. Then handed him back the two-thirds empty box. I’m not greedy, see? Forget whatever you’re thinking. This man was not a hunka, hunka burning love, but seemed to be my pudgy grandfather. Or a doppelgänger dressed collar to cuffs in glitter galore, gold, and some gosh-awful alligator-esque cowboy boots. In blood red. He squinted in the light of the front steps of my townhouse/condo combo, and his chin dragged low. He grumbled, muttered, and withdrew his left hand from behind his back, producing yet another box with the chocolatier’s signature wrapping. I told you he was good. I salivated, snatched it, and stepped out of the way. I’m not addicted to the stuff; I just like it a lot, a whole lot. Okay, that gives you the abbreviated version of why, five minutes later, my disgruntled relative was huddled on the beige sofa in the sterile Las Vegas condo that came with my current job. It does not explain why I was stomping up and down in front of him, but I’ll get to that. You see, I’m usually the one who solves problems; that’s my field, being I’m a minister and all. You heard it right. I might not look like any preacher you’ve ever met, being that I’m rounded in all the right places, and I prefer a flashier wardrobe than you may have seen on church ladies. Like it or not, that’s me, Pastor Jane Angieski. I’m ordained and licensed, overly educated and fully confused a good portion of the time. I’ve been told, by the governing board of my denomination, that I should be more professional. It’s taken a long time and therapy, but I like me as I am. You’re not the first, you know, to wonder how a flashy gal like me got into the ministry business. Most folks do not come straight out and ask because they’re dumbfounded to find out I know the Good News backward, forward, and well done in the middle. My response when they sputter a question or raise both eyebrows to the ceiling? “You see. They have quotas. Recall affirmative action? The denomination needed more females who had curves and padding in their ranks. There were plenty of string bean ones.” Honestly? Hold on to something sturdy: When I returned to college to finish my master’s, I was working part-time in retail at Victoria’s Secret, then at a mortuary where I applied makeup to the dearly departed. I also gave out contraceptives and condoms at a free clinic in Watts, and did some hard time asking, “Do you want fries with that?” Along the way, I made enough to avoid incurring huge debt. Psychology was to be my field. I am outrageously curious about people. We humans are so weird, and I love it. One steamy Los Angeles day, I attended a program on campus because the AC in my apartment was broken. I also knew that with luck there’d be cake and coffee. The program, as I found out, was to recruit grad students into the ministry. It was probably the sugar talking, but I signed on the dotted line and started that summer attending seminary. Graduated with honors, accepted an assistant minister gig straight out of the seminary doors and got kicked out because I volunteered to help the cops in tracking down hoods in the hood where I was the pastor in this ghetto church. The church council didn’t mind that I nabbed the bad guys looking like a lady of the evening who could do it all night. What they didn’t like was that I appeared on the front of the L. A. Times in a hot pink leather miniskirt, strappy sandals that wound up to my knees and a blouse leaving little to the imagination of Great Aunt Tillie, or anyone else. The news story hit the floor running, and little old me was seen and talked about on PBS News Hour, CNN, Fox News, and then YouTube, and then it went viral. As if no one had seen a minister before. Go figure. People magazine beseeched and besought me for an interview, full four pages of me, but better judgment kicked in. I turned it down after a call from a member of my denomination’s district council put the brakes on that one. Besides I don’t always want to stay and play second fiddle in the church hierarchy. I do have some pride and ambition. I’d like to be known someday as an important voice in ministry, not one of those television evangelists with flapping eyelashes and hair like dear old Marge Simpson. No offense, Marge. It’s not a good look for either of us. The metaphorical knuckle-wrapping, to me, was worth it. It resulted in the dealing, drugging, and pimping partners in crime who went off to a helping place in another area of California, clogging an overstuffed prison system even more. Not my problem there. I got a letter of commendation from LA’s mayor and my backside booted to Vegas. I wasn’t exactly demoted, but I was no longer a full pastor. These days, if I should burp without saying, “pardonnez-moi,” the council hears about it. In detail. Hence, the youth minister I’m filling in for left exact instructions on the requirements of my professional demeanor so that I wouldn’t lead any teens down a slope where a flashing sign reads: Beware: She’s Crazy and Dangerous. Back to the man of the midnight hour littering my living room. His grumbling continued. Like waiting out a storm, I sat down next to the huddled mass of manhood whose name isn’t Woe Is Me, but Henry J. Angieski, Ph.D.—my grandfather who just happens to have an alternative personality, one of a classic rocker with the 70s band Slam Dunk. You may have heard of him when he was called Hank A. Yes, that’s Gramps. Although you wouldn’t recognize him. I didn’t. Gramps is a “let’s get coffee” kind, friends with Sir Paul, Bruce, Mick and a lot more you can name, if you like the older stuff. In all of my thirty-five years, I’d never known him to be defeated, never seen him without a sly smile and a plan to take on the world. Quick familial footnote: He and Gram couldn’t have children, and they knew it before they married. Gramps told me like this: “Uncle Sam really needed me and thought a tropical Asian trip might help me understand humanity better.” Translation? It was 1965. He’d dropped out of grad school to find his musical mojo. He was drafted, surprise, surprise, and sent directly to Vietnam where horrible things were happening, like an unpopular and soul-crushing war. Did you wonder how I got into this mix? Gramps said, “I found the son of my heart there, honey. The kid was always hanging around the barracks. He had red hair like your gorgeous gram and the most intense almond-shaped eyes I’d ever seen. He picked up English like it was nothing, and one day when I handed him a guitar, he started to play chords. He was six or seven, but he didn’t know his birthday and had forgotten his father’s name, if he’d ever known it. Mom died in childbirth, and the bio family shunned him. The other guys in my unit adopted him like a mascot. “I was finishing my deployment when I got word that I’d been accepted into the music program at the University of Southern California. Your Uncle Sam thought I deserved to return to California because, with this chunk of shrapnel in my knee, I was pretty useless as a foot soldier, and I told everyone the kid was mine.” That country was in shambles, already invaded by the French, English, and Russians before the US stepped into the mess. So Gramps returned to Gram with a ready-made son whom they adored. Fast forward ten years. Gram died after a painful battle with cancer, and a couple of months later I came into the world. My father somehow neglected to tell Gramps there was a teenager in his life who was about to birth their baby, and it was a surprise all around when she showed up one day with me in a pink blanket. Parenthood didn’t rock the Richter scale of life for this young couple. Gramps, once more, manned up, and he became the saving grace for me. The story goes that the twosome, my bio parents, piled their macrobiotic rice, pine nut smoothies, ceremonial drums, unfiltered carrot juice, and love beads inside a rusting, hand-painted purple VW bus, dotted with yellow daisies, and went in search of their bliss. I believe they were about ten years past the real hippies, but that didn’t seem to deter them. The last I heard, when I was sixteen, was that they were in Sedona, selling therapy rocks to tourists. I was happy for them; I had the best grandfather, the coolest Gramps in my school. However, getting a rock in the mail for one’s birthday stunk. Enough about me. At least for a few minutes—unless it has to do with the reason I wrote this memoir, which is to explain why I ended up a viral sensation on YouTube. Again. Although the in-between stuff scared me silly. Gramps interrupted my gallop down Memory Lane with a grunt that sounded suspiciously like he was swearing, which I knew he didn’t. Or the normal-ish grandfather I previously claimed didn’t swear. “Call me Onesimus,” he growled. “What-a-muss?” “Get a clue, you’re a preacher. You know this stuff. Always spouting it off as you do all that Bible-belting.” Then he grumbled about how his granddaughter could easily become a pompous prig. “I’ve never belted a Bible in my life, I’ll thank you.” And I wondered in a tiny spot in my heart if I should look up the definition of prig before I felt insulted. “Don’t give me that look, girl. I’m immune. Been looking at myself too long for one of your freeze-frame frowns to frazzle me and make me spill my guts.” “Are you talking Old Testament or New?” “Look it up, Pastor.” He never calls me, Pastor. Never before had he even raised his voice to me. “Who are you and what did you do with my grandfather?” I demanded. My now mostly-retired from sex, gals, and rock and roll, and teaching at the university, grandfather lived in the beachy town of Carlsbad, California. “It’s midnight, and my real grandfather is safety tucked in bed right now, not in Vegas, baby.” We stared at each other, then a flickering two-watt bulb flipped on. “Are you talking about Onesimus, as in the slave the Apostle Paul wrote about?” “Bing-a-ding ding, girl. Listen, Janey, I’m having a crisis, one that, well, is personal, as private as it can get for a man.” From the dancing rhinestones embedded on his denim shirt, past the belt buckle the size of Rhode Island, and the boots which had three-inch heels, the man was either auditioning for a low-budget movie or had lost his marbles. My real grandfather was a rock star, wore a lot of black, dragged a guitar everywhere and didn’t dress like a cowboy. He was dependable, had style, sure, and a heart for the next gal and guy. Always. Okay, there were some ladies of a certain age, groupies if I’m honest, who would have had their way with him, but Gramps was incredibly discreet about that stuff. Then again, I never had a conversation about the birds and the bees with him. “Oh, personal and private,” I muttered, regretting my decision to have that second Lean Cuisine Mexican Medley. I did not ever, ever, want to discuss my grandfather’s sexual inadequacies or his performance issues, and the souring sensation in my stomach agreed. Big time. Instead, I blurted, “Men your age are well past that. For Pete’s sake, don’t tell me you’re in Vegas to marry an 18-year-old, half-naked dancer who wears pink feathers that glow in the dark with matching pasties that barely cover her nipples. And that she’s just misunderstood and currently employed at a local strip joint because she’s putting herself through med school.” He just took off a boot. There was no denial. “She’s not some chorus babe, Jane. She has to be at least 18 or 19, however. Guess she could be 16 with a fake ID. I never asked.” *** Excerpt from Jane Won’t Quit by Eva Shaw. Copyright 2026 by Eva Shaw. Reproduced with permission from Eva Shaw. All rights reserved.
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About Author Eva Shaw:
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Mystery writer Eva Shaw, Ph.D. is one of the US’s premier ghostwriters specializing in memoirs. She’s the author of more than 100 award-winning books. Eva has been a university writing instructor with for two decades, mentoring more than 50,000 writers in her remote-learning classes through Education to Go. Novels with her byline include: Jane Won’t Quit (Vaus Publishing, March February 2026), The Beatrix Patterson Mystery Series from Torchflame Books (The Seer, The Finder, The Pursuer and The Conductor). Other novels include Games of the Heart and Doubts of the Heart.
She shares her life with Coco Rose, a rambunctious 7 year old Welsh terrier, loves reading, painting, traveling, spending time with friends and family, playing the banjolele, volunteering with her church, the American Cancer Society and other organizations. She lives in Carlsbad, California.
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A hundred different ways to break your heart, a hundred different ways to take your last breath. Sienna and Finn are exploring their strange attraction to each other until strange becomes something sinister. The clock is ticking as they fight to unravel the mystery of what draws them together on fateful Friday, the 13th.
Tamela Miles is a school psychologist with an Ed.S and PPS credential and a graduate of California State University San Bernardino and California State University Dominguez Hills. She is also a former flight attendant. She grew up in Altadena, California in that tumultuous time known as the 1980s. She now resides with her family in the Inland Empire, CA. She’s a horror/paranormal romance writer mainly because it feels so good having her characters do bad things and, later, pondering what makes them so bad and why they can never seem to change their wicked ways.
Category: Adult Fiction (18 +), 316 pages Genre: Suspense Thriller Publisher: Ewephoric Publishing Release date: March 2026 Content Rating: PG because: There are a couple of references such as “hell” or “damn” in the dialog. No sex. Mild attraction. Mild description of dead bodies. Not too graphic. No strong language.
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Book Description:
First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.
April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being conned out of her life savings she’s left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her old job at an architectural firm, even if it forces a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex-boyfriend.
There’s only one small hitch. The owner of the firm is dead, and the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.
As the killer runs free, disturbing reminders arise from April’s troubled childhood, and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Only one thing is certain. Death is stalking April, and she must unmask the killer before they land the fatal blow.
How would you describe your style of writing to someone who has never read your work?
I like building each scene where it has a life of its own—using the protagonist’s five senses, not just her visuals, but more emphasis on smells and tastes. Adding metaphors to give the reader a sensory ride brings realism into each chapter.
My books are easy to read with shorter sentences, utilizing words most of us use every day. My chapters always end on a cliffhanger. This assures the reader will want to turn pages to find the answers. Chapters are typically short and direct whenever possible. The Longest Chapter I’ve Written Award goes to A HUSH AT MIDNIGHT. Chapter one is 23 pages in order to introduce the history with the victim and my main character before the murder.
I write complicated mysteries to entice the reader to think about the twists in each book.
What mindset or routine do you feel the need to set when preparing to write (in general whether you are working on a project or just free writing)?
I’m too regimented to free write. One story at a time, one idea at a time, is my motto. From my thoughts onto 4 x 6 cards to detail out each scene, finally building the cards into complete chapters. I spend a great deal of time thinking about each scene, usually from the opening line, and making notations about what events will happen in the book. To weave a complicated mystery with numerous red herrings, I’ve found this practice works the best to ensure that all potential plot holes are covered. If you’ve read my mysteries, you’ll understand why this process leaves less room for errors.
Do you take your character prep to heart? Do you nurture the growth of each character all the way through to the page? Do you people watch to help with development? Or do you build upon your character during story creation?
Prior to starting a novel, I make a fictitious background and character profile for each individual who makes an appearance in the book. Each person gets a thorough family history and detailed personality including their political beliefs, habits, where they were raised, nationality, and vocation, among other things. I get to know each character a head of time and add more details as I write. Sometimes the characters speak to me if I’ve made a mistake in my calculations of how he/she should act in their roles. I like to layer on personality traits with every appearance they make in the book, but I refer to the Character Profiles often.
The hardest character to write is the villain, but they are my favorite to develop. Most of my characters have a frustrating side for the reader, which is part of the tension, but only one can truly be the ringleader bad guy in the end. I have to hold back tendencies to write the mustache-twisting guy or gal depicted best from old movies. My villains can be quirky yet likeable; that’s why they are harder to detect for the reader.
The tension between my series characters, Annalisse Drury and Alec Zavos is an ongoing adventure throughout four installments. My standalones, A HUSH AT MIDNIGHT AND LIES TO FOREVER show flawed female main characters who have to deal with the murder of a loved one in the first chapter. You’ll find me inside each of these women.
Do you have a character that you have been working on that you can’t wait to put to paper?
Yes! I find myself drawn to reading time travel fantasy that takes place in the 1800s or possibly the 1700s. (Before modern technology and the distractions we have in our time.) In a past life, I must have lived during this time because it calls to me. That may be why I wrote Annalisse as an antiquities valuator. History intrigues me as much as it does her. At some point, I’d like to write a time travel novel; a standalone perhaps, with the option to add series books. A woman protagonist will reside here too, since I can relate to women’s thoughts much better than getting into a man’s head.
Can you share your next creative project? If yes, can you give a few details?
My new release (March 2026) LIES TO FOREVER, is a suspense thriller that takes place in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. Here’s a short description of this book:
A stalker wants her. After being scammed out of her life savings by a friend, April Manning is left with an eviction notice, a dead boss, and gunshots flying at her. When the victim’s murder weapon appears on her doorstep and childhood horrors follow her, the monster from the snowy Tennessee Appalachian woods has April in the crosshairs.
**In addition, I’m currently outlining another standalone mystery from my past as a California resident. The Northern California Coastline is the focus, and a protagonist in a bad personal relationship in need of an escape rounds out the opening chapters. (Title and book details to be divulged at a later date.)
Thank you for sharing my thoughts with your readers!
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Meet Author Marlene M. Bell:
Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world. When Marlene’s not busy plotting her next novel, she’s exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she’s always hunting for the next spark of inspiration – or the next adventure calling her name. connect with the author: website ~ X ~ facebook ~ instagram ~ goodreads
