Archive for the ‘thriller’ Category

Hooker Avenue by Jode Millman ~ Peek Inside and Giveaway

Posted: June 8, 2022 in giveaways, thriller
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Hooker Avenue

by Jodé Millman

June 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:
Hooker Avenue by Jode Millman
Being a Good Samaritan is hazardous.

Single mom and attorney Jessie Martin learns that lesson the hard way.

During a violent spring thunderstorm, Jessie discovers an unconscious woman lying in a roadside ditch and dials 911 for help. Little does she know her compassion will propel her on a collision course with her estranged best friend, Detective Ebony Jones…and one of the most shocking mysteries in the Hudson Valley.

The badly beaten victim, Lissie Sexton, is a prostitute who claims she’s escaped from the clutches of a killer. She’s also a client of Jessie’s new boss, and former nemesis, Jeremy Kaplan, and fearing for Lissie’s life, he’s hidden her away from everyone.

Ebony is investigating a series of cold cases, and the missing women’s profiles bear a striking resemblance to Lissie’s. She’s willing to stake her career on the hooker being the key to solving the serial crimes. However, Jessie is the major obstacle to her investigation- she won’t give up Lissie’s location.

Jessie’s in a bind. She wants to help Ebony, but she can’t compromise her client, her boss, or her legal ethics. To catch the killer, can Jessie and Ebony put aside their past? Can they persuade Lissie to identify her assailant to prevent future attacks?

Praise for Hooker Avenue:

“Dark, dangerous and deviously suspenseful, Hooker Avenue kept me turning pages late into the night. I adored the fascinating cast of characters and the rich Hudson Valley setting. A truly terrific book!”– Alison Gaylin, USA Today Bestselling, and Edgar Award-winning author of THE COLLECTIVE “So many skeletons are banging on the closet doors to be set free, in this heady mix of sizzle, punch, and danger. And, even more intriguing, it’s all based on a true crime.”–Steve Berry, International and New York Times bestselling author of THE KAISER’S WEB

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: April 19, 2022 Number of Pages: 360 ISBN: 9781685120825 Series: Queen City Crimes, #2

Book Links: Amazon || Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

There was no doubt about it. Jessie Martin felt a storm brewing. Without warning, the blue sky darkened to an ominous purplish gray. A blade of lightning sliced open the sky, releasing a sudden downpour, and illuminating the Hudson Valley landscape as though it were a grainy black-and-white photograph. Seconds later, a crack of thunder shook her car. Staring ahead through the blurry windshield, Jessie gripped the leather steering wheel as her heart mimicked the rhythm of the windshield wipers battling the deluge. It felt as though the world was ending, and all she wanted to do was get home to her boyfriend, Hal Samuels, and her baby, Lily. The shrill ringing of her cellphone made her swerve toward the oncoming traffic on the slick roadway. Jessie righted her Jeep, and reflexively tapped the button on her steering wheel, activating the Bluetooth connection to her cellphone. The act was second nature and offered a brief respite from the hazards demanding her attention. “Hal?” she asked, believing he was checking in. “I’m on my way home from Adams Market and I’m caught up in a pop-up storm. I should be home in a few minutes, unless there are road closures because of accidents.” There was a long silence and unease curled in her midsection. “Hello, Hal? Are you there?” “Jessica, that’s extremely interesting, but why aren’t you taking my calls?” The low, raspy voice of her former mentor, Terrence Butterfield, resonated throughout the interior of the car. “How rude, my dear. After all we’ve meant to each other. And the secrets we’ve shared.” He paused. His menacing tone turned her skin to gooseflesh, and before he could speak again, she smashed the phone button with her fist, disconnecting the call. “What the—” she screamed, stopping before an expletive slipped out. Like an idiot, she’d let her guard down. She should have known that even after she’d helped put him away for murder, Terrence wouldn’t let her go. Terrence had always been possessive of her, even when she’d been his student at Poughkeepsie High School over a decade ago. But something deeper, more disturbing, lurked beneath the surface. Last summer, he’d lured her teenage friend, Ryan Paige, into his home with drugs and booze. Ryan, who had been like a younger brother to her, was never seen alive again. And after the cops discovered his dismembered body in Terrence’s basement, Terrence was charged with his murder. It still alarmed her that Terrence, her father’s best friend and one of the most popular faculty members at the school where her father was principal, was a psychotic, cold-blooded butcher. And as unreasonable as it may be, she felt responsible for Ryan’s death because she’d been blind to Terrence’s true nature, the monster hiding behind the charming mask. Minutes ago on the phone, his voice had sounded so crisp and clear that he’d seemed to be sitting next to her in the passenger’s seat, his icy breath whispering in her ear. With Terrence’s vampiric presence lingering inside her car, Jessie’s eyes cut to the rearview mirror. Only the pitch-blackness of the stormy night reflected at her. Then, out of habit, her eyes whipped to the car seat buckled in the back seat. It was empty. Thankfully, nine-month-old Lily had stayed at home with Jessie’s mother while she’d made the quick trip to the grocery store. The storm, the traffic, and the groceries rattling around in the hatchback had monopolized Jessie’s thoughts, as they should have; she’d been too focused on them to expect that Terrence would call her. Again. It had been two days since Terrence’s last call, and the problem was he never contacted her from the same number. He was a sneaky bastard. Sometimes he’d call her house and sometimes her cellphone, but he always phoned when he assumed she was alone. It was unbelievable that a murderer, albeit a murderer acquitted on the grounds of criminal insanity and institutionalized in a state-run psychiatric center, could contact her. Or as she viewed it, stalk her. Jessie wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t eating. She flinched whenever the doorbell or the phone rang, even if it was her parents, or Lily’s father, Kyle Emory, or Hal. She’d kept Terrence’s calls a secret from everyone, but Jessie felt like she was about to snap. Another downpour engulfed the Jeep, and Jessie’s gaze darted back to the highway. She hadn’t thought it could rain any harder, but in an instant, Mother Nature had unleashed a tantrum. Squinting to see through the misty sheets of rain, Jessie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Her fingernails sliced into her palms and her arms trembled as she fought to steady the Jeep on the slippery roadway. She needed to pull off the road. She needed to get it together. Jessie switched on her turn signal and then flipped on the emergency flashers. She coasted off the highway onto the narrow shoulder, parking a safe distance from the road on a grassy patch enclosing a strip mall parking lot, and exhaled a deep breath. As the storm swirled around her, she wondered why her life was so damn complicated. For years, Terrence had been her friend, her teacher, and her mentor, even her confidante. Then, he’d become her greatest betrayer. To get the murder charges against him dismissed, he’d accused her of violating his attorney-client privilege, jeopardizing her law license. He’d alleged that she’d informed the cops about Ryan’s murder after he’d confided in her about the killing. But she hadn’t talked. Kyle had called the cops and had only admitted it under oath at the pre-trial hearing to dismiss the charges. Although Jessie had been exonerated of all wrongdoing, Terrence’s unfounded accusations had caused her irreparable damage. She’d lost her prestigious job, her fiancé Kyle, and almost her life and child. “Don’t be stupid,” Jessie mumbled under her breath, battling the aftershock of Terrence’s call. “He’s been locked up for nine months and won’t be released, ever.” While the thought reassured her, Terrence had been harassing her since his commitment, and she hadn’t done a damn thing to stop him. She’d believed she was rid of him. But her inaction, her passivity, was allowing him to ruin her new life with Lily and Hal. The nagging tightness in her shoulders relaxed as she decided, there and then, to seize control. Resolving the Terrence crisis was on her, not him. She’d hatch a plan, and if necessary, seek Hal’s help. After all, he was the District Attorney who’d prosecuted Terrence. The rain was letting up and her yellow emergency signals pulsated in an eerie disco beat over the shimmering landscape. She switched them off and flicked on the high beams as she wiped away the condensation blanketing the inside of her windshield. As her eyes adjusted, her vision followed the muted light of her Jeep’s headlights deep into the rain-drenched darkness. A car length or two ahead, the lights reflected off a glittering object lying in a shallow puddle. For a second, the lights twinkling like tiny snowflakes mesmerized her. Then her sight expanded, focusing on what appeared to be a bulky, glistening mass. At first glance, it appeared to be the size and shape of a small child. But it couldn’t be. Logic told her that the object was probably a bouquet of deflated Mylar balloons, a pile of white garbage bags, or a golf umbrella blown off to the side of the road. Her eyes, and imagination, had to be screwing with her because any reasonable person would have taken shelter in the storm. Jessie’s thoughts flickered back to Lily, and the news stories about toddlers wandering out of their homes and into the woods. Her paranoia might be farfetched, but the shiny rolling waves looked more like the curve of a shoulder than deflated balloons. Another glance at the toddler-shaped mass confirmed that it was too human to ignore. She needed a closer look. Jessie opened her car door and stepped outside into the rain, a cold shower so fine and intense that the drops perforated her clothing like needles. She shivered. Her damp skinny jeans and silk blouse clung to her like a second skin. The amber glare of the parking lot’s lights shimmered along a narrow ditch lining the edge of the lot, and the beams of her headlights shone like a spotlight across the grassy roadside. Never veering from the path of light, Jessie inched closer to the slippery ridge of the ditch. In a flash, the landscape became bathed in a blinding white light and then faded back to black. A sudden clap of thunder made her start and, losing her footing, Jessie tumbled forward onto the slick, rain-soaked earth. Her hands and knees sunk into the mud as she caught her breath and collected her wits. Water dripped into her eyes, and she blinked it away to regain sight. Her eyes searched frantically through the storm for whatever she believed she’d seen. Scrambling to her feet, Jessie crept toward the trench. The gully was about five feet deep, shoulder height for her, and was collecting runoff from the storm. She sucked in her breath as realization dawned. She had not been mistaken. There, in the darkness, she spied the sole of a bare foot, pale and pink against the murky water. A sudden coldness seized her core as her eyes traveled up what appeared to be a leg toward a body partially submerged in the puddle. The person wore a silver sequined bomber jacket and jeans smeared with dirt and brush, which had camouflaged it, preventing easy detection. It had been pure luck that her headlights had reflected off the jacket at just the right angle to attract her attention. From where Jessie stood, it was difficult to say whether it was a man or woman, dead or alive, but there was definitely a body lying in the mud curled up in the fetal position. The person’s face was hidden beneath a mass of long, straggly hair that floated like a halo in the black water accumulating around it. She thought she heard a moan, but the pulse throbbing in her ears and the rain pulverizing the ground muffled all other sounds. “Hey,” Jessie yelled. “Hey, can you hear me?” She received no answer. Jessie shouted again. This time, an arm and leg twitched in apparent response to her call. Those minute movements signaled she was staring down at a person who was still alive, still breathing, at least for the moment. From the volume of water streaming into the trench, every minute, every second counted. Juiced by adrenaline, her thoughts bounced between whether to climb down into the gully or call for help. The retaining walls of the ditch were already crumbling and sliding down into the bottom of the trench, making them steep and slick. If she climbed down, it might be impossible to scale back up the muddy slopes, and then they’d both be stuck in the ditch. Or worse, they could both drown. And she’d left her phone in the car. “I’m going to get help,” she shouted. The whipping wind blew the words back into her face. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but hang on. I’m calling for help.” Jessie’s legs grew weak as she turned and dashed back to the car, her feet skating through the grass and mud. Breathless, Jessie slid inside, rummaged through her bag, and dialed 9-1-1. “Dutchess 911. What is the address of the emergency?” asked the dispatcher. “Hello, operator? I need your help,” Jessie said, her voice ragged with terror. “There’s a person lying in a ditch and we need an ambulance right away.” “Ma’am, please slow down. What’s your location?” “What? I’ve got a dying person here. I need your help.” “Ma’am, first we need to pinpoint your location in case we’re disconnected. Now, what’s the intersection or landmark closest to you?” Jessie sighed in frustration and slowly repeated her plea for help. “I’m in the City of Poughkeepsie on Dutchess Turnpike, right across from Adams Farm Stand, near the Starbucks. There’s an injured person trapped in a storm drain. The water is rising fast, and I can’t get to them.” “Okay,” the operator said. “What is your phone number and your name?” “Jessie Martin,” she replied, and provided her cell number. “Thank you, Jessie. Can you tell me if the person is still breathing?” “Yes, they appear to be, but not for long if they don’t get help.” Panicked, she’d been rushing through her responses and paused to compose herself. “He or she appears to be semiconscious. I don’t know how they ended up there or how long they’ve been there, but the rainwater is collecting in the ditch and they’re going to drown if you don’t send help. Please, please send someone right away.” The dispatcher repeated the facts to her—injured person, storm drain, rising water, Dutchess Turnpike—and asked Jessie to confirm, which she did. “Thank you, Ms. Martin. Are you in any danger?” The operator’s robotic, monotone inquiries made her question her involving the authorities. Recently, she’d learned that contacting them wasn’t always the best course of action. Before Ryan’s murder, she’d trusted the criminal justice system wholeheartedly. But that was before she’d almost lost everything she cherished. She couldn’t face another attack on her integrity and professionalism without imperiling the fragile sanity she clung to like a life preserver. Yet, here she was repeating the same stupid mistake. “No, I’m fine. I’m in my car, but there’s a person outside whose life is in immediate danger.” The dispatcher had asked her so many damn questions without providing one iota of help that Jessie felt like screaming. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down and keep her emotions in check. “Yes, I understand. I want you to remain in your car, and I’d like to keep you on the line until emergency services arrive. Someone will be on the scene shortly.” Shortly was a subjective, if not relative term, which could mean anytime between ten and twenty minutes. In this rainstorm, maybe even longer. Hopefully, the person would survive that long. Screw this, Jessie thought, scanning the interior of the car for her first aid kit and anything that could serve as a lifeline. As the line went dead, a flash of white light caught her eye. In the rearview mirror, Jessie detected headlights careening toward the rear of her Jeep. Right toward her. *** Excerpt from Hooker Avenue by Jodé Millman. Copyright 2022 by Jodé Millman. Reproduced with permission from Jodé Millman. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Jode Millman:
Jodé Millman

Jodé Millman is the multi-award winning author of THE MIDNIGHT CALL, and the best-selling SEATS: NEW YORK Theatre guidebooks. Her latest thriller, HOOKER AVENUE, is now available. She’s an attorney, a reviewer for Booktrib.com, the host/producer of the Backstage with the Bardavon podcast, and creator of The Writer’s Law School. Jodé lives with her family in the Hudson Valley, where she is at work on her next novel in her “Queen City Crime” series- novels inspired by true crimes in the valley she calls home.

Discover more about Jodé and her work at: www.jodemillman.com Goodreads BookBub – @JodeMillmanAuthor Instagram – @jodewrites Twitter – @worldseats Facebook – @JodeSusanMillmanAuthor

 

 

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Death Warrant by Bryan Johnston ~ Excerpt and Giveaway

Posted: June 7, 2022 in giveaways, thriller
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Death Warrant

by Bryan Johnston

June 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:
Death Warrant by Bryan Johnston
Death Makes Great TV.

Frankie Percival is cashing in her chips. To save her brother from financial ruin, Frankie―a single stage performer and mentalist who never made it big―agrees to be assassinated on the most popular television show on the planet: Death Warrant. Once she signs her life away, her memory is wiped clean of the agreement, leaving her with no idea she will soon be killed spectacularly for global entertainment.

After years of working in low-rent theaters, Frankie prepares for the biggest performance of her life as her Death Warrant assassin closes in on her. Every person she encounters could be her killer. Every day could be her last.

She could be a star, if only she lives that long.

Praise for Death Warrant:

“I absolutely loved Death Warrant! This will definitely make the ‘Best of 2022’ list.” —Elle Ellsberry, Content Acquisition & Partnerships, Scribd

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller

Published by: CamCat Books Publication Date: June 21st, 2022 Number of Pages: 352 ISBN: 074430508X (ISBN13: 9780744305081)

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

Jesus, thought Joey, stopping to catch his breath while simultaneously chastising himself for using the Lord’s name in vain. They’d said the hike was challenging, even by hardy Norwegian mountaineering standards. But he didn’t realize “challenging” was code for “your lungs will be bleeding.” Probably not too demanding for a younger person, but he grudgingly admitted he no longer fit that demographic. Those advancing “middle-years” made his little adventures even more important to him. He took a swig from his water bottle and checked his watch. He’d been making good time. “That’s why you trained for six months, dummy,” he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, not that anyone could hear him. He’d seen a few hikers coming back down the mountain, but to his surprise he hadn’t seen anyone else making the ascent. He’d purposefully picked the least touristy season that didn’t include several feet of snow to make his bucket list trip, but still, he’d expected to see a few more people. Not that he was complaining; he was enjoying the solitude. With one last cleansing breath and the taste of copper dissipating from his mouth, he got to his feet for the final push. On the climb he’d taken to talking to himself, carrying on conversations out loud, playing the part of all parties involved. He’d found it highly entertaining, and it helped keep his mind off the lactic acid burning in his thighs over the five-hour climb. “Why in heaven’s name does it have to be Norway? It’s so far away,” Joey said out loud in the closest resemblance of his wife Joanie’s patent ed exasperated tone. He’d had thirty years of marriage to fine tune it. “Because that’s where the Trolltunga is, hon!” Joey replied. He vividly remembered when the holo-brochure had arrived. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” he’d asked her. She hadn’t. The 3D image projected by the brochure had been impressive, and even his wife couldn’t deny that. The Trolltunga was a rock formation that sprang 2,000 feet straight up above the north end of a Norwegian lake whose name Joanie never could pronounce and was topped with a cliff that jutted out preposterously far, like an enormous plank of a pirate ship. Watching the image slowly rotating over the brochure on their dining table had sealed the deal. Joey could taste the copper again but powered through. He knew he was almost there. “Should have brought the stick, genius,” he grumbled to himself. “That’s what hiking staffs are for.” But he’d been afraid some careless baggage handler would damage it. The staff had been too important to him. The entire Boy Scout Troop had carved their names into it along with the final inscription, “Thanks for all your years of service.” He wasn’t sure who was prouder of the gift, him, or Joanie. Regardless, the staff would have been a help. His research showed that the round-trip climb would be about 22 kilometers—45,000 steps—and the equivalent of climbing and descending 341 floors. He guessed he was right around floor 170. Almost there. As he rounded a large boulder, he thought back on all his training, preparation, and admittedly, the inconveniences he’d put Joanie through, and recited one of his wife’s favorite admonitions, “Joey Dahl, I swear you will be the death of me.” But then what he saw stopped him in his tracks. At that moment Joey felt complete validation. He also instantly understood what made the Trolltunga such a draw for thrill seekers. The cliff ’s edge reached out so far that the photo op was one for the books, the type of picture you frame and hang in your den. A conversation starter. Bragging rights. The other church deacons were going to be sick of hearing about it. “Oh, babe,” Joey said, more to himself this time, “I wish you were here to see this.” But even six months ago he knew that was never going to happen, what with her condition, but she was never going to begrudge him this trip. He’d been dreaming about it for years. It took a certain person, one immune to heights and vertigo, to walk to that cliff’s edge and look out. Joey was one of those people. He set up the small, portable tripod he’d brought and mounted his mobile device, his optic, to take pictures and video remotely. He couldn’t wait to show it to Joanie and the kids. Through a little trial and error, he eventually got the framing right and strode out to the edge. He turned to face the camera and spread his arms wide in a “look at what I achieved” pose. The optic’s camera lens clicked once, twice, three times. And then the bullet hit him right above the left eye. Joey Dahl dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, toppling backwards off the cliff, falling into space. Like a base jumper without a wingsuit or parachute. His body tumbled down the sheer cliff face, yet he never quite hit the side. His body stayed clear of the rocky wall, due to the sharp drafts from the lake below. The constant pushing away from the wall, managed to keep him undamaged, bullet wound aside, until he finally met the ground below, by a lake whose name his wife never could pronounce. By then, however, he’d been long dead. @@@ Six thousand miles away, a room full of people in finely tailored suits and skirts were watching intently, applauding with their approval. One of them, a woman with severe bangs, all business, smoothly pivoted from the wall of monitors, her eyes drawn to another, smaller screen where a series of numbers were appearing in real time. She allowed herself a trace of a smile. The ratings were in. Perhaps not matching those of the pop star’s demise from last summer, but still better than management had expected. Enough to trigger her bonus. Maybe she’d take the kids to Six Flags.

Chapter 1

JANUARY
If you’re going to be summarily executed, you’d at least want the place that’s arranging your death to have a couple of nice rugs. Just for appearances. Nobody wants to be offed by some fly-by-night outfit that considers Ikea the height of corporate décor. As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. I really didn’t know what to expect, they don’t show the offices on the commercials. I knew it probably wouldn’t be like walking into a tax-prep firm on a strip mall—some tiny space filled with cheap furniture, all pleather and particleboard. It is anything but, and instantly fills me with a good vibe and reinforces my belief that I am making the right choice. The entry doors are an artistic combination of rich amber-hued wood, glass, and burnished metal, most likely brass, but buffed dull to appear understated. Classy. You feel like you are walking into a place of importance, where critical decisions are made on a by-minute basis, which I guess they are. Upon entering I’m greeted by a kindly gentleman with open arms. “Welcome, Ms. Percival, we’re so pleased to see you,” he says with utter sincerity. “Our receptionist will take care of your every need.” It takes me a second to realize the man is a hologram. I take a step closer and poke at it, which the holographic gentleman tolerates with a smile. Only the subtlest flicker gives away its true identity. From more than a few feet away you’d swear the man was flesh and blood. Holos are common these days, but this one takes the cake. The technology they have here obviously is top shelf stuff. Based on the greeting, they had me scanned and identified the moment I stepped through the front door. I immediately pick up on the smell: lavender. It’s subtle but noticeable. Upon deeper consideration, the perfect scent. It’s probably the world’s most relaxing smell. Smells have a stronger link to memories than any of the senses, and I can feel myself imprinting the scent with the experience. What did my high school teacher always say? Smells ring bells. True that. I’ll probably go to my grave associating that smell with this place. Ha, go to my grave, bad choice of words for this visit. The lobby floor is a combination of real hardwoods and Persian rugs so soft you instantly want to take your shoes off for the sheer sensory experience. The space feels more like the lobby of a four-star hotel: tasteful, elegant, contemporary without pressing the issue. The woman behind the reception desk is perfectly in line with the ambience. She is probably in her late thirties, attractive but non-threatening. I like the cut of her jib, as my mom used to say. Her clothes are professional but still fashionable. If I were to guess, they were most likely chosen for her by a consultant, like news anchors choose their clothes to project an image of trustworthiness. When I approach the desk, her face lights up with one of the most endearing smiles I have ever witnessed. I lean in a bit and squint to make sure she’s real. Yep, carbon-based life form. “How may I help you?” she asks, and I absolutely believe she means it. “I’m here to get whacked.” I mimic guns with my fingers, firing off a couple rounds at her before blowing the non-existent smoke from the barrels. When I’m nervous I say stupid stuff. Stupid or snarky. Stupid, snarky, or sarcastic. I’ve been attempting to pare it down to just one for the last ten years with mixed results. I try to sound like being here is no biggie, but my voice sounds shrill in my ears, and I seriously doubt my anti-perspirant is up to the challenge. The woman, unfazed by my cavalier attitude, nods with a soft, endearing smile. “Of course. You can speak with one of our sales associates. Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.” She gestures to a cozy waiting area with a half-dozen comfortable looking chairs, one of them occupied by a distinguished looking woman idly paging through an issue of Vanity Fair, one of the last media hold outs that still clings to the quaint notion of publishing on paper. I can see an A-list actress of some substance gracing the cover, dressed in a bold red riding jacket, khaki jodhpurs and knee-high boots. I can practically hear the baying of the hounds. The actress is currently all the rage and the expected shoo-in come award time for her role in a recent high-profile drama that has captured the country’s imagination. A period piece that boasts betrayal, star-crossed love, and overcoming staggering odds in the face of adversity. Or at least that’s what the trailers led me to believe. I turn back to the receptionist. “So, how’s it work?” “Pardon?” she asks innocently. “I mean, do you get to choose? Sniper shot? Blown up? Pitched into a vat of acid? There was one episode, brutal, they dropped a piano on the guy, like in a cartoon.” I also yap when I’m nervous. The receptionist’s smile doesn’t waver. “I remember it well.” She gives me a polite nod and says, “Your sales associate will answer all of your questions,” and then tips her head in the direction of where the woman with the magazine is sitting. With a wink I fire off another round at the receptionist, holster my hands in my pockets, and turn toward the waiting area. Jesus, she must think I’m a moron. I take a seat several chairs away from my silver-haired counterpart. She glances up at me and gives the tiniest of polite smiles— held a beat longer than is socially necessary—before turning her attention back to her magazine. In that singular moment we become confederates, there for the same reason, and she is acknowledging to me with that brief exchange that regardless of my race, sex, social standing, or political leanings, that I—we—are about to become members of a rather unique club. All for one, one for all. My distinguished clubmate looks distinguished, well, prominent. The cut of her suit speaks of dinner parties of the well-heeled, where talk of debutantes and cotillions is not simply language of earlier generations. And that’s what’s puzzling. I’d simply assumed this place was not frequented by the 1 percent. I mean, why would they need to resort to this measure? They’re all loaded. They’ve got the means to provide for their family members without going to the extremes this joint provides. It then dawns on me that maybe not everyone here is doing this for the money. But why else? Fame? Boredom? A moment later, a slim middle-aged woman with flawless hair approaches and addresses my clubmate. She rises to her feet, shakes the proffered associate’s hand, and off they go. It is now just me and the glossy A-lister. I don’t even have a chance to pick up the magazine before my appointed sales associate arrives to greet me. If there ever was a physical embodiment of warmth and compassion, he stands before me. He introduces himself as Benjamin and I can no sooner call him Ben than flap my arms and fly to the moon. To call him Ben would be an affront. This is Benjamin, the type of man who walks one step behind his wife, who enters a room of strangers with his hand on the small of her back to let her know he’s right there with her. Benjamin is clearly a man who listens more than he speaks and gives careful consideration before he does. This is my three-second impression. Benjamin appears to be maybe a decade older than me, in the early throes of middle age with salt-and-pepper hair, receding, in baseball terms, at the power-alleys of his forehead. He wears a nice-fitting suit of deep blue with the thinnest of pinstripes. His shoes, brown, match his eyes. It’s the eyes that support everything. His whole demeanor, his warmth, radiates from those dark twins. But I can see upon further review that the smile that rides along with them is what seals the deal. The smile and eyes work in tandem. One without the other, strong, but together, unimpeachable. I would buy a Rolex out of the trunk of this guy’s car. Benjamin shakes my hand and asks me to join him in his office where we can chat. That’s what he says¾ chat, not talk. The perfect word to set my mind at ease. Just two pals. His office is small but nicely appointed and has a window overlooking a wooded urban park. The lavender scent follows us into the room, which I appreciate. Benjamin offers me a seat in front of his desk and takes the chair behind it. The desk is tidy, with nothing but a couple of framed family photos, a World’s Most Okayest Employee mug, and a glass computer tablet mounted on a small, low-profile frame to keep it upright when he chooses to use it in that position. Benjamin steeples his hands on his desk and fixes me with those molten lava cake eyes. “So, Frances,” he begins. Not Ms. Percival, but Frances. “You’d like to learn more about . . .” He glances at his glass tablet and looks up with a small smile. “. . . how to get whacked.” “Pretty much. And by the way, you can call me Frankie.” “Then Frankie it is. And by the way, it’s okay, you can call it by its official name, a death warrant.” “Fair enough.” “How much do you know about the process?” Benjamin asks evenly. He says process with a long o. Benjamin has what used to be called a Trans-Atlantic accent. You’d hear it all the time in ancient movies with actors like Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. It’s halfway between a British and American accent. Like something taught at a New England boarding school. It sounds divine. I shrug. “Not much. How come there’s hardly anything about it on the Internet? I mean, that’s pretty crazy that you’re able to keep it so hush-hush.” Benjamin nods and smiles compassionately. “It is rather amazing, isn’t it? You’d think someone would talk. Somebody always talks. I’m embarrassed to say I really don’t know.” And I believe him. “And yet virtually nothing shows up in the media,” I observe, probably a little more pointedly than intended. But Benjamin doesn’t seem to mind. He holds his hands out, shoulders arched in the classic Beats me pose. “Those are the interior machinations of the machine that are a mystery even to me. Ask me what time it is, and I can tell you. Ask me how the watch works, and I can’t. Much of the information is purely on a need-to-know basis.” “And you don’t need to know?” I ask. “Way above my paygrade. We’re highly compartmentalized.” He can see my skepticism. “Rest assured; I can answer most of your questions.” He settles back into his chair and that’s when it occurs to me. The eyes. Brown. The receptionist’s eyes were brown. The other sales associate’s eyes were brown. Don’t ask me how I notice this, it’s what I do. I notice things. Little stuff that often is of no consequence. That’s why I was always a fan of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. He noticed things. While others saw, he observed. I thought that was cool. We were kindred spirits. Of course, his gift of observation made nonsense of mine, but the one thing I have going for me is that I am nonfiction. I live in the real world. What I don’t have is the benefit of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle ensuring that I can spot a scuff on a shoe and divine that the culprit had brushed it against a curb in a rush to catch the number five bus. It’s bullshit, but it’s entertaining bullshit. Instead, my ability to notice things on a high but more realistic level has made me reasonably successful in my career—I’m a mentalist. My job is to observe. Take note. Listen and connect dots that others don’t see. I suppose I could be a cop or a private investigator, but that seems like work. Being a mentalist, on the other hand, is fun. We’re like magicians, but without the corny patter. Do I really have the gift of divination and clairvoyance? Sometimes it sure as hell feels like it. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack. However, a byproduct of my keen perception is an overactive imagination. I’ll sometimes see things for more than they are. But it does make life more interesting. Back to the brown eyes. Of course. Brown eyes are soft, they’re compassionate. Blue eyes are striking, but in a place like this you don’t want striking, you want everything to be the Xanax of appearance. Calming. I’ll bet every public-facing employee here has brown eyes. In fact, I would imagine they’re all screened by a team of consultants to within an inch of their lives to fit specific criteria. A place like this probably only hires people who radiate kindness. I wonder how they measure that? There’s got to be some way to quantify a person’s level of kindness and compassion beyond spending five minutes in a room with them. With today’s technology, I’m sure someone’s found a way to figure out the analytics. To make it measurable. Benjamin breaks into a smile no less cozy than an electric blanket. “So, what would you like to know?” “Uh, how about you tell me what you can, and I’ll ask questions as they come to me.” Benjamin gives a short nod. “Certainly. Let’s begin with the 30,000- foot view, and for clarity’s sake, I will use vernacular that I’m technically not supposed to: You will be killed, and your death will be televised.” “Pretty damn clear vernacular,” I say. Benjamin is all smiles. “I know, right? Gets to the meat of it pretty quick.” “What did you mean by vernacular you’re not supposed to use?” I ask. “Part of our internal policies. Company culture.” Benjamin says amiably. “Our programs are to be referred to as ‘episodes,’ not ‘shows.’ There are no ‘victims,’ but ‘participants’ or ‘souls.’ And all ‘participants’ will be shown the highest respect and dignity.” “Mighty neighborly of you.” “Thank you,” says Benjamin, looking sincerely appreciative of my comment, despite its snark. “Let me see if I can guess your next question,” he asks. “How does it work?” “You’ve done this before, Benjamin.” “Once or twice. We’ve got plenty of packages to choose from, depending on your budget, time frame, and other factors.” “What kind of factors?” Benjamin turns his eyes to his glass tablet, makes a few taps and swipes to call up the necessary information. “Do you care if it’s clean or messy? Quick and painless or would you rather feel the experience? Do you want a run-of-the-mill termination or something more exotic?” “Who the hell wants to feel the experience of dying?” “You’d be surprised. There are some people who want to embrace their last moments on earth. I’m told they think that’s when they feel most alive.” “That’s whacko.” “Preaching to the choir here, Frankie.” Just a couple of pals. “What do you mean by exotic?” Benjamin leans back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Well, there was one we did a few years back that struck me as outside the lines, as well as being spectacularly challenging.” “What was that?” “Piranha attack. And he lived in the city.” “No shit?” “That one took some serious production to pull off. We had to bring in twice our normal crew. But it was worth it; the ratings were outstanding.” “How outstanding?” I ask. “Are you familiar with ratings?” “A little.” Benjamin taps on his glass tablet. “Piranha attack …… 48.8 rating, 71 share.” He informs me that a rating point is a percentage of the total viewing population being polled and the share is the percentage of that population that’s watching at that moment. So that meant almost half of the country was watching and 70 percent of those who had their TVs, computers, or optics on were tuned in. I wonder what the other 30 percent were watching. “Holy crap! Those are Super World Bowl numbers.” “Actually, a little higher.” “And I read that a thirty-second ad in that game runs for ten million dollars.” Benjamin ruminates for a beat. “10.2, last I checked.” This is where the rubber meets the road, where the money comes into play. “So, how does it work? Money-wise, I mean.” Benjamin clasps his hands in front of him and his face takes on an astonishing look of grace. I don’t know what they are paying him, but it isn’t enough. My brain is having a difficult time reconciling the fact that this man who looks and sounds like a warm bath works for a company that kills people for profit. “Certainly,” he says. “This is why you’ve come in. So your family will be sufficiently provided for after your passing.” His demeanor strikes me as that of a funeral director talking costs for the casket, flowers, and organist. A tricky balancing act. Put the client at ease while doing your job to assure you’re keeping the company in the black, so the owner can continue to pay his gas bill, the mortgage, and take his kids to Disneyland. “If you choose to move forward with our services you will pay a fee, earnest money, as it were, again based on some of the criteria I listed earlier—time frame, complexity.” Benjamin pauses for an instant, like it’s important to him that the following line land properly. “The up-front fee is to ensure we aren’t seen as preying on the desperate.” “I can see how some might get that impression,” I reply with a straight face. Benjamin smiles at my understanding. “Once our service is rendered and your passing is confirmed, your designee—the dependent, as it were—will receive a percentage of the advertising revenue brought in by the televised production.” “And I’m guessing the more elaborate the production, the higher the ratings, and therefore more money for the . . . what did you call it? The designee?” Benjamin cocks an eyebrow. “Usually, but not necessarily. I’ve seen some pretty pedestrian terminations receive quite robust ratings because of the backstory involved.” “Backstory?” “Well, a background that may give the episode a little more drama. Let me give you an example.” Benjamin does the glance-at-the-ceiling thing again, drawing on memories. “There was one episode where the method of death was a simple blow up. Explosives set to go off at a designated time and location. Nothing overly dramatic. But what gave it an extra twist was that on the day of the scheduled event our client decided to take his dog for a walk. An unexpected deviation from his normal schedule. We were embarrassingly unprepared for this. All our research gave us a 99 percent chance that he would be alone at the time of detonation. But as fate would have it, that miscue on our part became a ratings bonanza.” “What did taking his dog for a walk have to do with any of that?” I ask. @@@ Chris miller had no idea Max, the gray-muzzled little lab mix padding alongside him, was causing conniptions in a television studio four states away. Well, padding was generous, it was more like limping, or waddling; Max was pushing ninety-eight in people years and built like a kielbasa sausage—mostly due to Chris’s soft heart and table scraps. Chris figured Max could eat anything he damn well pleased for as long as he lived. Seven years previously, Chris and Max had been hiking in Zion National Park when Chris fell down a crevasse and was pinned. He only had enough water to last about a day. But Max had run for help, just like in the classic Timmy-fell-down-the-well scenario. Ever since, Chris spoiled his aging mutt mercilessly. And that’s what the people in the television studio hadn’t foreseen. “How long before he’s at the optimal detonation coordinates?” asked the director. He dabbed an already moist handkerchief across his brow for the dozenth time in the last fifteen minutes. “Ten minutes,” replied the field producer, an edge to her voice. She was crumpling and uncrumpling a paper cup in her fist that moments earlier had been half filled with water which she had slugged down, desperately wishing it was something stronger. “My team has the space cleared. No civilians present. At least for now. For the time being, everything is go.” Nothing was go, thought the director. Things were far from go. But he had to keep a lid on it. He glanced up at the bank of monitors covering the control room wall. A half dozen or so showed audiences from around the globe watching the action. Most at impromptu Death Warrant parties. The public did seem to bond in these instances. The director liked to see how the audience was reacting to the circumstances; it helped him craft the story arc and emotional payout by seeing first-hand what they were responding to. At that moment the audience members were generally freaking out. Nobody wanted to see a cute, albeit fat, little dog blown to bits. In the pre-show the audience is given the opportunity to know the method of termination. It was impossible to guess which way they’d lean from episode to episode. Sometimes they wanted to know, other times they wanted to be surprised. On this night, however, the votes were for knowing. When the hosts shared that the death would be delivered by explosion, the initial reaction was overwhelmingly positive. Detonation was always a crowd pleaser. But the closer they got to boom-time, the antsier the audience became. They didn’t know the exact moment, but they did know that a little dog was more than likely going to be caught in the line of fire. Thus, the freaking out. “How could nobody have seen this coming?” shouted a large, imposing executive from the back of the room, a hint of a German accent in his voice. Not a soul dared make eye contact or a feeble excuse; that would have been career suicide. In circumstances like this they resorted to their training, experience, and professionalism, which ran in abundance in this control room. They were the cream of the crop and liked to think they were prepared for any emergency. The director turned to a small, earnest looking man huddled over a computer screen in the corner of the studio. “Stats. What the hell? Why the dog? He was supposed to be solo.” The lead statistician gave a shrug. “Over the past 245 days since the job was approved, the featured participant made a nightly walk to this park 232 times.” The man glanced back down to his monitor. “He always left between 6:00 and 6:10 p.m.” The statistician turned back to the director. “It was, to use a more colloquial term, his evening constitutional. You could set your watch by him. Over those 232 times he brought his dog along a grand total of two times.” The man pointed at his screen. “Based on our numbers, the odds of the featured participant taking the dog were less than 1 percent. Well below our threshold.” The field producer cleared her throat. “Uh, evidently one of those new doggy cafes just opened on the far side of the park. You know, one of those trendy coffee shops that sell dog biscuits along with cappuccinos? Our, um, best guess is that Mr. Miller may be taking his dog there for a treat.” Back over in the corner, the statistician shrugged again. “Human nature is always the wild card.” *** Excerpt from Death Warrant by Bryan Johnston. Copyright 2022 by Bryan Johnston. Reproduced with permission from Bryan Johnston. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bryan Johnston:
Bryan Johnston

Bryan Johnston takes tremendous pride in being an eleven-time Emmy award-winning writer and producer during his 25 years in local network television. Following his career in broadcast, he became the Creative Director for a Seattle-based creative agency, developing concepts and writing scripts for companies like Microsoft, Starbucks, T-Mobile, and Amazon. He has authored several books and written for numerous magazines and websites. Bryan lives in the Seattle, Washington area with his wife, two kids, and one large Goldendoodle. He is a devout movie lover, sports fan, and avid reader. His one great hope is for the Seattle Mariners to make it to the World Series before he dies. He’s not holding his breath.

Catch Up With Bryan Johnston: www.BryanRJohnston.com Goodreads Twitter – @BryanRJohnston Facebook – @bryan.johnston.370

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Urban Boys ~ Discovery Of The Five Senses by K. N. Smith

Posted: May 27, 2022 in Action/Adventure, giveaways, thriller, urban fantasy
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TheUrbanBoys copy

Welcome to the book tour for YA Thriller, Discovery of the Five Senses by K.N. Smith! Read on for details and a chance to win one of two $50 Visa gift cards!

DFS Cover

Discovery of the Five Senses: The Urban Boys

Publication Date: September 15th, 2021 (Second Edition)

Genre: Young Adult Action-Adventure, Young Adult Thriller, Urban Fantasy, Mystery/ Thriller

Welcome or unwelcome. Fate has arrived.

“A captivating and poetic tale of mystery, fantasy, and reality tied together by action!” 5-stars, Lars Jackson, Amazon Customer

A suspenseful incident in a forbidden preserve heightens the senses of five friends. Sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell become super-gifts that forever change the world. But furious battles confront the boys as they try to understand their sensory super powers in a race to save mankind. With light beings and mysterious strangers complicating their plight, will the boys be able to defeat the evil Druth before it’s too late? Get prepared for the twisting and grinding of this award-winning, action-adventure story — an edge-of-your-seat narrative for young and mature readers alike.

Notes to Reviewers:

Reviewers are warned that the words “damn” and “hell” are occasionally present in the book, and there are vivid fight scenes. It is a uniquely descriptive novel with lots of detail to set the scenes. This novel has a large cast of characters. Reviewers who have a hard time following a large cast should not review the book. Characters and settings are introduced organically during the first part of the book but can prove too much for reviewers who have a hard time following large-character, multi-layered stories. But most reviewers can appreciate the quick pace, short chapters, vivid scenes, and cliffhangers throughout the story! To see what other reviewers are saying, please visit https://www.knsmith.com/reviews.

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About the Author

K.N. Smith

K.N. Smith, winner of the “Best of” in the category of “Outstanding Young Adult Novel” at the Jessie Redmon Fauset Book Awards, is an author and passionate advocate of literacy and arts programs throughout the world. Her lyrical flair sweeps across pages that twist and grind through action-adventure and urban fantasy in edge-of-your-seat narratives. K.N. has over twenty-five years’ experience in communications and creative design as an award-winning consultant. Reading is still her foremost hobby. K.N. inspires people of all ages to reach their highest potential in their creative, educational, and life pursuits. Visit K.N. Smith at www.knsmith.com.

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May 23rd

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Books From The Backlog #73 ~ You Let Me In

Posted: May 19, 2022 in horror, thriller
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If you’re like me, you have a pile of books beckoning to you from your lists. Carole hosts this fun feature where you can share some of those older books and perhaps nudge you to finally read them. If you want to join in on the fun, head over to Carole’s Random Life In Books and leave a link to your post.
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You Let Me In

by Camilla Bruce

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Genre: Horror / Thriller

Synopsis

I wanted someone to know, you see. To know my truth, now that I am gone. How everything and none of it happened.

Everyone knew bestselling novelist Cassandra Tipp had twice got away with murder.

Even her family were convinced of her guilt.

So when she disappears, leaving only a long letter behind, they can but suspect that her conscience finally killed her.

But the letter is not what anyone expected. It tells two chilling, darkly disturbing stories. One is a story of bloody nights and magical gifts, of children lost to the woods, of husbands made from twigs and leaves and feathers and bones . . .

The other is the story of a little girl who was cruelly treated and grew up crooked in the shadows . . .

But which story is true? And where is Cassie now?

Amazon

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I bought this back in March 2020.

This one sounds so me. And what a stunning cover!

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The above cover is the one I own. Here are some alternative covers.

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Which do you like the most?

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Dead Drift by Kelly Romo ~ Guest Post and Giveaway

Posted: May 19, 2022 in giveaways, thriller
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Dead Drift

A Whitewater Thriller Book 1

by Kelly Romo

Genre: Thriller

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Two teenage girls on the run with fake IDs and a beater car…what could go wrong?

Emmy has always been impulsive. She is no longer a minor and has aged out of foster care. When her best friend, Amber, is the target of a perverted uncle who lives in the basement of her group home, they plan her escape.

They head for Canada, where Amber will be safe, and the foster care system can no longer control their lives. When they come across a whitewater rafting brochure, they decide to take a detour for one last adventure before leaving the country. Emmy and Amber have no idea it will be a decision that will forever change their fates.

The rafting town is so far in the middle of nowhere that Emmy’s car radio catches nothing but static. They consider turning around until a truck pulls up, loaded with hot whitewater rafting guides and rubber rafts–just the fun they were looking for. Ignoring every instinct, they turn off the pavement and follow the truck down an isolated dirt road. They end up in Lodell, the town where a girl went missing the previous summer…and she will not be the last.

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Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Smashwords * Books2Read

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Can you, for those who don’t know you already, tell something about yourself and how you became an author?

I wanted to be a writer ever since I was in middle school, but I never had the patience to finish a story. I should have kept those and put them in their own book called “Kelly’s Book of Beginnings.” I could sell that to Language Arts teachers.

 

I became a teacher but never gave up on my passion for writing. I think I read every “How to Write” book out there and kept submitting my work. I have a pile of rejection letters that would come up to my knees.

 

I finally came to the conclusion that I did as much as I could on my own, and I enrolled in an MFA program at Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon. It was a low-residency program where we were in person twice a year for a week and a half. One was on campus during the summer, and we stayed in the dorms. The other was in January where we took over two hotels in Seaside, Oregon. Since I have summers off, I only had to take time off work in January. In between residencies, we worked with published authors as our advisors.

 

The program lasted two years, and I took my writing to a whole new level. I also made many author friends from all around the world…However, I did have to refinance my house to pay off the debt.

 

What is something unique/quirky about you?

I could say something really cool or that makes me look smart, but one of the biggest things people say about me is that I have a middle school boy sense of humor…I’m not sure how to take that. I also drink ice coffee in the morning, just brewed coffee over ice with no sugar or creamer. I’ve been told that the sound of ice in the morning reminds people of me.

 

Tell us something really interesting that’s happened to you!

I don’t know if it is interesting or miraculous, but I have been hit by a car three times. I was outside the car, one time on a bicycle, once on foot, and the last time on a moped. I was seven years old the first two times and fifteen the last time.

 

I should have died each time, especially the second one. I was crossing the highway in Rosarito, Mexico. I had been hit a month earlier, so I was a bit skittish. I saw the station wagon out of the corner of my eye and turned toward it like a deer in the headlights. It hit me at about 65 miles per hour. Each time I was hit, I was out and about playing the next day. I had no broken bones and no internal injuries, just concussions…which explains a lot.

 

Who is your hero and why?

My heroes are people who overcome the odds and accomplish their dreams. There are a lot of female aviators from the 1920s and 1930s who flew when it was a man’s world and found a way to do it. Most people know of Amelia Earhart–but there are many amazing aviatrixes such as Bessie Coleman, Ruth Elder, Florence Klingensmith, Louise Thaden, Ruth Nichols, Elinor Smith, and Beryl Markham.

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Kelly Romo grew up in California but has lived in Oregon for over twenty-five years. She teaches writing, literature, and social studies. She is the mother of three grown children: Brittany, Brennan, and Ryan. She is an avid outdoorswoman who loves to kayak, hike, and fish.

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Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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The Friday 56 #244 ~ The Third Grave

Posted: May 6, 2022 in Mystery, The Friday 56, thriller
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Welcome to The Friday 56 hosted by Freda’s Voice.

 

This is a really fun meme!

The only rules are to grab a book (any book), turn to page 56 or 56% in your eReader and find a sentence or a few (no spoilers) that grabs you and post it.

Then go over to Freda’s Voice and leave your link so we can visit your 56!

My 56 for this week is from:

The Third Grave

Savannah #4

  by Lisa Jackson

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Genre: Mystery / Thriller

From page 56 in the paperback.

She shuddered, knowing how cold that water could feel and now Morisette … no, she wouldn’t think about that now and pushed any worrisome thoughts aside.

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Synopsis

A thrilling new crime novel from the bestselling author of You Betrayed Me, perfect for fans of Sandra Brown and Iris Johansen! Return to the dark side of Savannah, Georgia where a crime writer and her detective husband are working a cold case, and hot on the trail of a killer who’s work isn’t done.

The old Beaumont mansion is a rotting shell of its once-grand self, especially after a disastrous hurricane sweeps through Georgia. The storm does more than dislodge shutters and shingles. It leads to a grisly find in the cellar. Three graves. But only two skeletons…

For Nikki, the discovery is a gift, the perfect subject for her next crime book—though Reed has made her promise not to keep involving herself in dangerous police business. But despite the increasing tension between them, Nikki can’t stay away from this story. Rumors are widespread that the burial site is the resting place of the Duval sisters—three young girls who went to the movies with their older brother, Owen, twenty years ago, and never returned. Forensics confirms that the remains belong to Holly and Poppy Duval. But where is the youngest sister, Rose?

Owen Duval was, and remains, the prime suspect, alibi or no. But as Nikki and Reed delve deep into the mystery, fractures in the case begin to show. There is more to the sisters’ disappearance than anyone ever guessed. Far from an isolated act, those deaths were just the beginning. And there will be no rest, and no relenting, until the killer has buried the twisted truth along with his victims…

Amazon

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I’ve been reading Lisa’s books for years and read the previous books in this series. I can’t warm up to some of the characters, but I can’t not continue with the series. It would haunt me. LOL

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There’s an alternative cover.

The one above is the paperback copy I own.

This one is the eBook cover.

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Which do you like more?

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Trial Of The Lovebird Butcher by Lumen Reese

Posted: May 2, 2022 in thriller, urban fantasy
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TrialoftheLoveBird copy

You are going to want to check out this book and find out what readers are saying about it! Read on for more info about Trial of the Lovebird Butcher by Lumen Reese!

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Trial of the Lovebird Butcher

Publication Date: May 13th, 2021

Genre: Urban Fantasy/ Crime Thriller

An antiquities dealer and amateur children’s magician named Edward Fox is charged with three murders dating back to the 1980’s, when he should have been only a child. But evidence suggests he has been around and interfering with the lives of humans for a very long time: back to 1920’s Chicago, through decades with a traveling circus, and during the Selma to Montgomery marches in Alabama, 1965

In New Haven, Connecticut, a decades-old cold case resurfaces. As charges are brought, the details grow stranger and stranger…

An antiquities dealer and amateur children’s magician named Edward Fox is charged with three murders, dating back to the 1980’s, when he should have been only a child. Fox is a wanderer and a fall-down drunk. The case’s unnatural timeline combined with one alleged victim’s status as a teen beauty queen set the stage for the State of Connecticut v. Fox to become the trial of the century.

Maggie Stowe -insomniac, Private Investigator, dream thief- has been following Fox for months. She is a crusader for women and girls and can still hear them screaming in Fox’s dreams every night. But reality has begun to blur for the exhausted Maggie. Soon she is unsure of anything except for the fact that she’s a pawn in a perilous game.

Defender Ben Cartwright -the son of a murdered civil rights activist- knows to never take justice for granted. To him, the case reeks of prosecutorial overreach. All three counts are alleged murders without cadavers, linked to his client by circumstantial evidence rooted out by an obsessive PI with a direct line to her girlfriend at the State’s Attorney’s Office. Edward insists that Ben is the man to defend him. Never mind that he’s young, or only just passed the Bar, or that he speaks a bit slowly because his mind works differently than most people’s.

The trial becomes a battle of wills. A jury and a nation are asked to consider -as the evidence strongly suggests- that Fox has been around and interfering with the lives of humans for a very long time; back to the Depression-era streets of Chicago, through decades with a traveling circus, and during the Selma to Montgomery marches that took place in Alabama, 1965…

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About Author Lumen Reese

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Lumen Reese is an author of diverse fantasy, sci-fi, historical and speculative fiction from Michigan.
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The Wrong Victim by Allison Brennan

Posted: April 29, 2022 in Author Interview, Excerpt, thriller
Tags: , ,
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The Wrong Victim : A Novel 

by Allison Brennan

On Sale Date: April 26, 2022

9780778312307

Hardcover

$26.99 USD

464 pages

 

ABOUT THE BOOK:

A bomb explodes on a sunset charter cruise out of Friday Harbor at the height of tourist season and kills everyone on board. Now this fishing and boating community is in shock and asking who would commit such a heinous crime—the largest act of mass murder in the history of the San Juan Islands.

 

Was the explosion an act of domestic terrorism, or was one of the dead the primary target? That is the first question Special Agent Matt Costa, Detective Kara Quinn, and the rest of the FBI team need to answer, but they have few clues and no witnesses.

 

Accused of putting profits before people after leaking fuel endangered an environmentally sensitive preserve, the West End Charter company may itself have been the target. As Matt and his team get closer to answers, they find one of their own caught in the crosshairs of a determined killer.

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

CHAPTER ONE

A killer walked among the peaceful community of Friday Harbor and retired FBI Agent Neil Devereaux couldn’t do one damn thing about it because he had no evidence.

Most cops had at least one case that haunted them long after the day they turned in their badge and retired. For Neil, that obsession was a cold case that his former law enforcement colleagues believed was closed. Not only closed, but not a double homicide at all—simply a tragic accident.

Neil knew they’d got it wrong; he just couldn’t prove it. He hadn’t been able to prove it thirteen years ago, and he couldn’t prove it now.

But he was close.

He knew that the two college boys didn’t drown “by accident;” they were murdered. He had a suspect and he’d even figured out why the boys had been targeted.

Knowing who and why meant nothing. He needed hard evidence. Hell, he’d settle for any evidence. All his theory got him was the FBI file on the deaths sent by an old friend, and the ear of a detective on the mainland who would be willing to investigate if Neil found more.

“I can’t open a closed death investigation without evidence, buddy.”

He would have said the same thing if he was in the same position.

Confronting the suspected killer would be dangerous, even for an experienced investigator like him. This wasn’t an Agatha Christie novel like his mother used to read, where he could bring the suspect and others into a room and run through the facts—only to have the killer jump up and confess.

Neil couldn’t stand to think that anyone might get away with such a brazen murder spree, sparked by revenge and deep bitterness. It’s why he couldn’t let it go, and why he felt for the first time that he was close…close to hard evidence that would compel a new investigation.

He was tired of being placated by the people he used to work with.

He’d spent so long following dead ends that he’d lost valuable time—and with time, the detailed memories of those who might still remember something about that fateful weekend. It was only the last year that Neil had turned his attention to other students at the university and realized the most likely suspect was living here, on San Juan Island, right under his nose.

All this was on his mind when he boarded the Water Lily, his favorite yacht in the West End Charter fleet. He went through his safety checklist, wondering why Cal McKinnon, the deckhand assigned to this sunset cruise, wasn’t already there.

If he wasn’t preoccupied with murder and irritated at Cal, Neil may have noticed the small hole in the bow of the ship, right above the water line, with fishing line coming out of it, taut in the water.

*

“I’m sorry. It’s last minute, I know,” Cal said to Kyle Richards in the clubhouse of West End Charter. “But I really need to talk to Jamie right away.”

“It’s that serious?” asked his longtime friend Kyle.

“I cannot lose her over this. I just can’t. I love her. We’re getting married.”

At least he hoped they were still getting married. Two months ago Jamie finally set a wedding date for the last Saturday in September—the fifth anniversary of their first date. And now this whole thing was a mess, and if Cal didn’t fix it now, he’d never be able to fix it.

You already blew it. You blew it five years ago. You should have told her the truth then!

“Alright then, go,” Kyle said. “I’ll take the cruise. I need the extra money, anyway. But you owe me—it’s Friday night. I had a date.”

Cal clapped Kyle on the back. “I definitely owe you, I’ll take your next crappy shift.”

“Better, give me your next corporate party boat.” Corporate parties on the largest yacht in their fleet had automatic eighteen percent tips added to the bill, which was split between a typical four-man crew in addition to salary. Plus, high-end parties often paid extra. Drunk rich people could become very generous with their pocket cash.

“You got it—it’s next Saturday night, the Fourth of July—so we good?”

Kyle gave him a high five, then left for the dock.

Cal clocked out and started for home. He passed a group of sign-carrying protesters and rolled his eyes.

West End Charter: Profit Over Protection

Protect Fish Not Profits!

Hey Hey Ho Ho Ted Colfax has to go!

Jeez, when would these people just stop? West End Charter had done nearly everything they wanted over the last two years—and then some—but it was never good enough.

Fortunately, the large crowds of protesters that started after the West End accident had dwindled over the last two years from hundreds to a half dozen. Maybe because they got bored, or maybe because West End fixed the problem with their older fleet, Cal didn’t know. But these few remaining were truly radical, and Cal hoped they didn’t cause any problems for the company over the lucrative Fourth of July holiday weekend.

He drove around them and headed home. He had more important things to deal with than this group of misfits.

Cal lived just outside of Friday Harbor with Jamie and their daughter. It was a small house, but all his, his savings covering the down payment after he left the Coast Guard six years ago. But it was Jamie who made the two-bedroom cottage a real home. She’d made curtains for the windows; put up cheery pictures that brightened even the grayest Washington day; and most recently, she’d framed some of Hazel’s colorful artwork for the kitchen nook he’d added on with Kyle’s help last summer.

He’d wanted to put Jamie on the deed when she moved in with him, but she wanted to go slower than that. He wanted to marry her, but she’d had a bad breakup with her longtime boyfriend before they met and was still struggling with the mind games her ex used to play on her. If that bastard ever set foot back on the island, Cal would beat him senseless.

But the ex was far out of the picture, living down in California, and Cal loved Jamie, so he respected her wishes not to pressure her into marriage. When she found out she was pregnant, he asked her to marry him again—she said yes but wanted to wait.

“There’s no rush. I love you, Cal, but I don’t want to get married just because I’m pregnant.”

He would move heaven and earth for Jamie and Hazel—why didn’t she know that?

That’s why when she finally settled on a date, confirmed it with invitations and an announcement in the San Juan Island newspaper, that he thought it would be smooth sailing.

And then she left.

As soon as he got home, he packed an overnight bag while trying to reach Jamie. She didn’t answer her cell phone. More than likely, there was no reception. Service was sketchy on the west side of the island.

He left another message.

“Jamie, we need to talk. I’m sorry, believe me I’m sorry. I love you. I love Hazel. I just want to talk and work this out. I’m coming to see you tonight, okay? Please call me.”

He was so frustrated. Not at Jamie—well, maybe a little because she’d taken off this morning for her dad’s place without even telling him. Just left him a note on the bathroom mirror.

Cal,

I need time to think. Give me a couple days, okay? I love you, but right now I just need a little perspective.

Jamie.

Cal didn’t like the “but” part. What was there to think about? He loved her. They had a life together. Jamie and their little girl Hazel meant everything to him. They were getting married in three months!

He’d given her all day to think and now they needed to talk. Jamie had a bad habit of remaining silent when she was upset, thanks to that prick she’d dated before Cal. Cal much preferred her to get angry, to yell at him, to say exactly how she felt, then they could move on.

He jumped in his old pickup truck and headed west, praying he could salvage his family, the only thing he truly cared about. Failure was not an option.

*

That night Kyle clocked in and told the staff supervisor, Gloria, that Cal was sick, and he was taking the sunset cruise for him.

“Are you lying to me?” Gloria asked, looking over the top of her glasses at him.

“No, well, I mean, he’s not sick sick.” Dammit, Kyle had always been a piss-poor liar. “But he and Jamie had a fight, I guess, and he wants to fix it.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to Cal tomorrow. Don’t you go lying for him.”

“Don’t get him in trouble, Gloria.”

She sighed, took off her large glasses and cleaned them on her cotton shirt. “I like Cal as much as everyone, I’m not going to jam him up, but he should have come to me. I’ll bet he gave you his slot on the Fourth, didn’t he?”

Kyle grinned. Gloria had worked for West End longer than Kyle had been alive. They couldn’t operate without her.

“Eight people total. A party of four and two parties of two.” Gloria handed him the clipboard with the information of those who had registered for tonight’s sunset cruise. “Four bottles of champagne, a case of water, and cheese and fruit trays are onboard. You have one minute.”

“Thanks Gloria!” He ran down the dock to the Water Lily. He texted his boyfriend as he ran.

Hey, taking Cal’s shift, docking at 10—want to meet up then?

He sent the message and almost ran into a group who were already standing at the docks. Two men, two women, drinks in hand from the West End Club bar, in to-go cups.

“Can we board?” the tallest of the four asked.

“Give me one minute. What group are you with?”

“Nava Software.”

Kyle looked at his watch. Technically boarding started in five minutes; they’d be pushing off in twenty.

“I need to get approval from the captain.” He smiled and jumped over the gate. He found Neil Devereaux on the bridge, reading weather reports.

“You’re late,” Neil said without looking up.

“Sorry, Skipper. Cal called in sick.”

Neil looked at him. “Oh, Kyle, I didn’t know it was you. I was expecting Cal.”

“He called out. Everything okay?” Neil didn’t look like his usual chipper self.

“I had a rough day.”

Rough day? Neil was a retired federal agent and got to pick any shift he wanted. Everyone liked him. If he didn’t want to work, he didn’t. He had a pension and didn’t even have to work but said once that he’d be bored if he didn’t have something to do. He spent most of his free time fishing or hanging out at the Fish & Brew. Kyle thought he was pretty cool for a Boomer.

“Your kids okay?” he asked.

Neil looked surprised at the question. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“You said you had a rough day—I just remember you talking about how one of your kids was deployed or something.”

He nodded with a half smile. “Good memory. Jill is doing great. She’s on base in Japan, a mechanic. She loves it. And Eric is good, just works too much at the hospital. Thanks for asking.”

“Four guests are waiting to board—is it okay?”

“There’s always someone early, isn’t there?”

“Better early than late,” Kyle said, parroting something that Neil often said to the crew.

Neil laughed, and Kyle was glad he was able to take the skipper’s mind off whatever was bothering him.

“Go ahead, let them on—rear deck only. Check the lines, supplies, and emergency gear, okay? No food or drink until we pass the marker.”

“Got it.”

Kyle slid down the ladder as his phone vibrated. It was Adam.

 

F&B only place open that late—meet at the club and we’ll walk over, k?

 

He responded with a thumbs-up emoji and a heart, then smiled at the group of four. “Come aboard!”

*

Madelyn Jeffries sat on the toilet—not because she had to pee, but because she didn’t want to go on this cruise, not even for only three hours. She didn’t want to smile and play nice with Tina Marshall just because Pierce wanted to discuss business with Tina’s husband Vince.

She hated Tina. That woman would do anything to make her miserable. All because Pierce had fallen in love with her, Madelyn Cordell, a smart girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Tacoma.

Pierce didn’t understand. He tried, God bless him, but he didn’t. He was from another generation. He understood sex and chivalry and generosity and respect. He was the sweetest man she’d ever met. But he didn’t understand female interactions.

“I know you and Tina had somewhat of a rivalry when we met. But sweetheart, I fell in love with you. There’s no reason for you to be insecure.”

She wasn’t insecure. She and Pierce had something special, something that no one else could understand. Even she didn’t completely understand how she fell so head over heels for a man older than her deadbeat father. Oh, there was probably some psychologist out there who had any number of theories, but all Madelyn knew was that she and Pierce were right.

But Tina made her see red.

Tina, on top of this pregnancy—a pregnancy Madelyn had wanted to keep quiet, between her and Pierce, until she was showing. But somehow Pierce’s kids had found out last week, and they went ballistic.

They were the reason she and Pierce decided to get away for a long weekend. Last night had been wonderful and romantic and exactly what she needed. Then at brunch this morning they ran into Tina and Vince who were on a “vacation” after their honeymoon.

Madelyn didn’t doubt that Tina had found out she was here and planned this. There was no doubt in her mind that Tina had come to put a wedge between her and Pierce. After five years, why couldn’t she just leave her alone?

Just seeing Tina brought back the fearful, insecure girl Madelyn used to be, and she didn’t want that. She loved her life, she loved her husband, and above all she loved the baby inside her.

She flushed the toilet and stepped out of the stall.

Tina stood there by the sink, lips freshly coated with bloodred.

Madelyn stepped around her and washed her hands.

“Vince took me to Paris for our honeymoon for two glorious weeks,” said Tina.

Madelyn didn’t respond.

“I heard that you went to Montana.” Tina giggled a fake, frivolous laugh.

It was true. They’d spent a month in the Centennial Valley for their honeymoon, in a beautiful lodge owned by Pierce. They went horseback riding, hiking, had picnics, and she even learned how to fish—Pierce wanted to teach her, and she found that she enjoyed it. Fishing was relaxing and wholesome, something she’d never considered before. It had been the best month of her life.

But she wasn’t sharing that with Madelyn. Her time with Pierce was private. It was sacred.

She dried her hands and said, “Excuse me.”

“You think you’ve changed, but you haven’t. You’re still the little bug-eyed girl who followed me around for years. I taught you how to walk, I taught you how to attract men, I taught you how to dress and talk and act like you were somebody. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have met Pierce Jeffries. And you took him from me.”

“The boat leaves in five minutes.” Madelyn desperately wanted to get away from Tina.

“Vince and Pierce are going into business together. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, you and me. You would do well to drop the holier-than-thou act and accept the fact that I am back in your life and I’m not going anywhere.”

Madelyn stared at Tina. Once she’d been in awe of the girl, a year older than she was, who always seemed to get what she wanted. Tina was bold, she was beautiful, she was driven.

But she would never be satisfied. Did she even love Vince Marshall? Or had she married him because of the money and status he could give her?

Madelyn hated that when she first met Pierce she had thought he was her ticket out of poverty and menial jobs. She hated that she had followed Tina’s advice on how to seduce an older man.

Madelyn had fallen in love with Pierce, not because he was rich or powerful or for what he could give her. She loved him because he was kind and compassionate. She loved him because he saw her as she was and loved her anyway. But when he proposed to her, she’d fallen apart. She’d told him that she loved him, but she could never marry him because everything she was had been built on a lie—how she got her job at the country club, now they first met, how she had targeted him because he was wealthy and single. She would never forgive herself; how could he? His marriage proposal had been romantic and beautiful—he’d taken her to the bench where they first had a conversation, along the water of Puget Sound. But she ran away, ashamed.

He’d found her, she’d told him everything, the entire truth about who she was—a poor girl from a poor neighborhood who pretended to be worldly and sophisticated to attract men.

He said he loved her even more.

“I knew, Madelyn, from the beginning. But more, I see you, inside and out, and that’s the woman I love.”

Madelyn stared at her onetime friend. “Tina, you would do well to mind your p’s and q’s, because if I tell Pierce to back off, he’ll back off.”

She sounded a lot more confident than she felt. When it came to business, Pierce would listen to her, but he deferred to his oldest son, who worked closely with him. And Madelyn had never given him an ultimatum. She’d never told him what to do about business. She’d never have considered it, except for Tina.

Tina scowled.

Madelyn passed by her, then snipped, “By the way, nice boob job.”

She left, the confrontation draining her. She didn’t want to do this cruise. She didn’t want to go head-to-head with Tina for the next three hours.

She didn’t want to use the baby as an excuse…but desperate times and all that.

Pierce was waiting for her on the dock, talking to Vince Marshall.

“Would you excuse us for one moment, Vince?” she said politely.

“Of course, I’ll catch up with Tina and meet you on the boat.”

She smiled and nodded as he walked back to the harbormaster’s building.

“What is it, love?” Concerned, worried, about her.

“I thought morning sickness was only in the morning. I’m sorry—I fear if I get on that boat, I’ll be ill again. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“Nonsense,” he said. He took her hand, kissed it. “You will never embarrass me.” He put their joined hands on her stomach. The warmth and affection in his eyes made her fall in love with him again. She felt like she loved Pierce a little more every day. “I can meet with Vince tomorrow. I’ll go back to the house with you.”

“This business meeting is important to you, isn’t it?”

“It might be.”

“Then go. Enjoy it. I can get home myself. Isn’t that what Ubers are for?”

“A sunset is not as pretty without the woman I love holding my hand.”

She wanted him home with her, but this was best. They had separate lives, at least in business; she didn’t want to pressure him in any way, just because she detested Tina. “I will wait up for you.”

He leaned over and kissed her. Gently. As if she would break. “Take good care of the woman I love, Bump,” he said to her stomach.

She melted, kissed him again, then turned and walked back down the dock, fighting an overwhelming urge to go back and ask Pierce to come home with her.

But she wouldn’t do it. It was silly and childish. Instead, she would go home, read a good book, and prepare a light meal for when Pierce came home. Then she would make love to her husband and put her past—and that hideous leech Tina Marshall—firmly out of her mind.

*

Jamie already regretted leaving Friday Harbor.

She listened to Cal’s message twice, then deleted it and cleaned up after dinner. Hazel was watching her half hour of PAW Patrol before bath, books, and bed.

Her dad’s remote house near Rogue Harbor was on the opposite side of the island from where they lived. Peaceful, quiet, what she thought she needed, especially since her dad wasn’t here. He was an airline pilot and had a condo in Seattle that he lived in more often than not, coming up here only when he had more than two days off in a row.

She left because she was hurt. She had every right to be hurt, dammit! But now that she was here, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

Cal hadn’t technically cheated on her. But he also hadn’t told her that his ex-girlfriend was living on the island, not until the woman befriended her. She wouldn’t have thought twice about it except for the fact that Cal had hidden it from her.

She had a bad habit of running away from any hint of approaching drama. She hated conflict and would avoid it at all costs. Her mother was drama personified. How many times had young Jamie run to her dad’s house to get away from her mother’s bullshit? Finally when she was fifteen she permanently moved in with her dad, changed schools, and her mother didn’t say squat.

“You should have stayed and talked it out,” she mumbled to herself as she dried the dishes. The only bad thing about her dad’s place was that there was no dishwasher.

But Cal was coming to see her tonight. He didn’t run away from conflict. She wanted to fix this but didn’t know how because she was hurt. But he had to work, so she figured she had a few hours to think everything through. To know the right thing to do.

“Just tell him. Tell him how you feel.”

Her phone buzzed and at first she thought it was an Amber Alert, because it was an odd sound.

Instead, it was an emergency alert from the San Juan Island Sheriff’s Office.

 

19:07 SJSO ALERT! VESSEL EXPLOSION ONE MILE OUT FROM FRIDAY HARBOR, INJURIES UNKNOWN. ALL VESSELS AVOID FRIDAY HARBOR UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Her stomach flipped and she grabbed the counter when a wave of dizziness washed over her.

She turned on the small television in the kitchen and switched to the local news. She watched in horror as the news anchor reported that a West End Charter yacht had exploded after leaving for a sunset cruise. He confirmed that it was the Water Lily and did not know at this time if there were survivors. Search and rescue crews were already out on the water, and authorities advised all vessels to dock immediately.

Cal had been scheduled to work the Water Lily tonight.

Hazel laughed at something silly on PAW Patrol. Jamie caught her breath, then suddenly tears fell. How could—? No. Not Cal. She loved him and even if they had problems, he loved Hazel more than anything in the world. He was the best father she could have hoped for. Hazel wasn’t planned, but she was loved so much, and Cal had made it clear that he was sticking, from the very beginning. How could she forget that? How could she have forgotten that Cal had never made her feel inadequate, he’d never hurt her, he always told her she could do anything she wanted? He was always there for her…when she was bedridden with Hazel for two months. When she broke her wrist and Hazel was still nursing, he held the baby to her breast every four hours. Changed every diaper. He sang to Hazel, read her books, giggled with her in makeshift blanket forts when thunder scared her.

And now he was gone.

There could be survivors. You have to go.

She couldn’t bring Hazel to the dock. The search, the sirens, the fear that filled the town. It would terrify the three-year-old.

But she couldn’t stay here. Cal needed her—injured or not, he needed her and she loved him. It was as simple as that. Rena would watch Hazel so Jamie could find Cal, make sure he was okay.

“Hazel, we’re going home.”

“I wanna sleep at Grandpa’s!”

“I forgot to feed Tabby.” Tabby was a stray cat who had adopted their carport on cold or rainy nights. He wouldn’t come into the house, and only on rare occasions would let Jamie pet him, but she’d started feeding him. Hazel had of course named him after a cat on her favorite show.

“Oh, Mommy! We gotta go rescue Tabby!”

And just like that, Hazel was ready.

Please, God, please please please please make Cal okay.

*

Ashley Dunlap didn’t like lying to her sister, but Whitney couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, and if Whitney said one word to their dad about Ashley’s involvement with Island Protectors, she’d be grounded until she graduated—and maybe even longer.

“We’re going to be late,” Whitney said.

“Dad will understand,” Ashley said, looking through the long lens of her camera at the West End Charter boat leaving port. She snapped a couple pictures, though they were too far away to see anything.

She was just one of several monitors who were keeping close tabs on West End boats in the hopes that they would catch them breaking the law. West End may have been able to convince most people in town that they had cleaned up their act, and some even believed their claims that the leakage two years ago was an accident, but as the founder of IP Donna Bell said time and time again, companies always put profit over people. And just because they hadn’t caught them breaking the law didn’t mean that they weren’t breaking the law. It was IP who documented the faulty fuel tanks two years ago that leaked their nasty fuel all over the coast. Who knows how many fish died because of their crimes? How long it would take the ecosystem to recover?

“Ash, Dad said not a minute past eight, and it’s already seven thirty. It’s going to take us thirty minutes just to dock and secure the boat.”

“It’s a beautiful evening,” Ashley said, turning her camera away from the Water Lily and toward the shore. Another boat was preparing to leave, but the largest yacht in the fleet—The Tempest—was already out with a group of fifty whale watching west of the island in the Haro Strait. Bobby and his brother were out that way, monitoring The Tempest.

Ashley was frustrated. They just didn’t have people who cared enough to take the time to monitor West End. There were only about eight or nine of them who were willing to spend all their free time standing up to West End, tracking their boats, making sure they were obeying the rules.

Everyone else just took West End’s word for it.

Whitney sighed. “I could tell Dad the sail snagged.”

“You can’t lie to save your life, sis,” Ashley said. “We’ll just tell him the truth. It’s a beautiful night and we got distracted by the beauty of the islands.”

Whitney laughed, then smiled. “It is pretty, isn’t it? Think those pictures are going to turn out? It’s getting a little choppy.”

“Some of them might,” she said.

Ashley turned her camera back to the Water Lily. The charter was still going only five knots as they left the harbor. She snapped a few pictures, saw that Neil Devereaux was piloting today. She liked Neil—he spent a lot of time at the Fish & Brew talking to her dad and anyone else who came in. He’d only lived here for a couple years, but he seemed like a native of the small community. She’d talked to him about the pollution problem from West End, and he kept saying that West End fixed the problem with the old tanks and he’d seen nothing to suggest that they had other problems or cut corners on the repairs. He told her he would look around, and if anything was wrong, he’d bring it to the Colfax family’s attention.

But could she believe him? Did he really care or was he just trying to get her to go away and leave West End alone?

Neil looked over at their sailboat, and both she and Whitney waved. He blew the horn and waved back.

A breeze rattled the sail, and Whitney grabbed the beam. “Shit!” she said.

Ashley put her camera back in its case and caught the rope dangling from the mast. “You good, Whit?”

“Yeah, it just slipped. Beautiful scenery is distracting. I got it.”

Whitney bent down to secure the line, and Ashley turned back toward the Water Lily as it passed the one-mile marker and picked up speed.

The bow shook so hard she thought they might have hit something, then a fireball erupted, shot into the air along with wood and—oh, God, people!—bright orange, then black smoke billowed from the Water Lily. The stern kept moving forward, the boat in two pieces—the front destroyed, the back collapsing.

Whitney screamed and Ashley stared. She saw a body in the water among the debris. The flames went out almost immediately, but the smoke filled the area.

“We have to help them,” Ashley said. “Whitney—”

Then a second explosion sent a shock wave toward their sailboat and it was all they could do to keep from going under themselves. Sirens on the shore sounded the alarm, and Ashley and Whitney headed back to the harbor as the sheriff’s rescue boats went toward the disaster.

Taking a final look back, Ashley pulled out her camera and took more pictures. If West End was to blame for this, Ashley would make sure they paid. Neil was a friend, a good man, like a grandfather to her. He…he couldn’t have survived. Could he?

She stared at the smoking boat, split in two.

No. She didn’t see how anyone survived that.

Tears streamed down her face and as soon as she and Whitney were docked, she hugged her sister tight.

I’ll get them, Neil. I promise you, I’ll prove that West End cut corners and killed you and everyone else.

Excerpted from The Wrong Victim by Allison Brennan, Copyright © 2022 by Allison Brennan. Published by MIRA Books. 

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Q&A with Allison Brennan

1.What type of research do you do when thinking of and writing your novel? The Wrong Victim uses both the FBI and local police department, do you speak with individuals who actually work in these fields?

I love research. It started long before I published my first book — I read true crime, watched true crime documentaries, read about current events. Once I was published, I found experts willing to talk to me! In 2008, I participated in the FBI Citizens Academy, and to this day the Public Information Officer (now retired) is happy to answer my questions. I’ve toured Quantico, visited the morgue (twice!) and viewed an autopsy, been on several ride-alongs with local police and sheriff, and have several people across all areas of law enforcement to ask questions. In fact, my oldest daughter is now a police officer, and she’s working on getting me a ride along in a specific precinct where I plan to set a future book. She also connected me with a K-9 officer when I was writing a short story about a retired K-9.

For THE WRONG VICTIM, I reached out to a writer friend of mine who is a retired ATF agent — he was instrumental in helping me with the explosives.

I write fiction and take a lot of liberties with the information I learn. However, I want to be as realistic as possible. To me, as long as what I’m writing is plausible, then I’ll go with it. I write to entertain first and foremost, and sometimes too many forensic details or investigative facts can slow down a story. I’m always seeking to find the right balance.

  1. How do you decide where to base your story? This book is based in the San Juan islands and I know Matt Costa’s special team travels.

The premise of the Quinn & Costa mobile response team series is that they are a well-trained group of FBI agents who travel to small, rural, and underserved communities — places where local police may not have the resources to handle a complex investigation such as a serial killer or, in the case of THE WRONG VICTIM, an explosion. So I look for places where setting fits the story. For this book, I had the idea first — a charter boat explodes, who was the intended victim? So that told me I needed a remote, water-based community and looked on a map. The San Juan Islands immediately drew me in, and after reading about the area, I quickly made the decision. I had planned to visit before I wrote the book, but alas, 2020 was not a year for travel, and so I relied on interviews and the internet for information.

  1. Do you travel or visit the places you write about first?

If I can, but unfortunately, sometimes that isn’t possible. That’s when research and interviews come in handy!

One of my earlier books, I thought I had researched very well — even talking to people who lived in the region (Seattle) and looking extensively on maps. But I made a mistake about how to get from Point A to Point B and a reader pointed it out. Now I take much more care in making sure I get these details right if I’m writing about a place I don’t know well.

I had wanted to visit the San Juan Islands before writing THE WRONG VICTIM — not just for the book, but because I’d always wanted to go there. Unfortunately, 2020 happened and that wasn’t possible. The book I recently finished writing, the currently untitled fourth Quinn & Costa book, takes place in the bayou in Louisiana. I’ve been to Louisiana many times, and my best friend lives there. While I created a fictional town, I drew upon my personal knowledge and the help of my bestie!

  1. How did you come up with your idea for a loaned LA officer who cannot return due to her undercover work?

When I was writing the first Quinn & Costa book, Kara Quinn — the Los Angeles detective on leave — wasn’t going to be a series character. She was going to be a catalyst of sorts for Matt Costa, the team leader. So creating her character, I thought it would be fun to have her as an undercover detective, someone has a unique skill set that would be valuable in Matt’s current investigation.

Well, by the time I finished writing the book, I knew Kara had to return. I just loved her character and felt she had the most growth to do in the series, plus would provide a different perspective to the crimes because of her background. I didn’t know even after I finished writing the book how or why she was going to be on loan to the FBI, I had to sit on that for a few days until I worked out something that made sense to me.

  1. How do you decide which books become a series versus a stand alone story?

This is a great question!

For me, all stories — stand alone or series — start with character. Without compelling, interesting, and complex characters, the story falls flat.

In a series, the characters must be interesting enough that readers will want to revisit them and see them in different situations. This is why police procedurals and amateur sleuths truly lend themselves to series books. You like the world, the characters, how they grow over time and want to revisit them over and over and see what’s going on in that world. The same way, I think, television viewers like favorite shows. The plots are interesting and often twisty, but readers (or viewers) really return to find out what happens to the people we’ve grown to love and hate and worry about.

So when I have an idea that is predominately character based — a team of FBI agents, for example — I focus on making those people as real and authentic as possible with an eye toward how they are going to grow and develop over multiple stories. I still want to have a strong plot — so I put them in situations or solving cases that are dangerous or interesting. By the end of the book, I want my characters to learn something about the team or themselves, to grow in some way, however small it might be. I want the series books to stand alone — so new readers can find the books in the middle of the series — while also giving regular readers a character growth arc from book to book.

For a stand alone, while characters are ALWAYS going to be important, they are there for one story only. They need to have a complete character arc from beginning to end so that the reader is fully satisfied at the story conclusion. Plot is important in both types of stories, but in a stand alone the situation/plot provides a stronger framework and backbone than in a series. There is often a universal theme that resonates, that is in some ways bigger than the story itself. Stand alones, at least for me, are about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances — so readers wouldn’t expect those characters to return in a different story.

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ABOUT AUTHOR ALLISON BRENNAN:

ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over thirty novels. She has been nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International Thriller Writers and the Daphne du Maurier Award. A former consultant in the California State Legislature, Allison lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets.

 

Social Links: Website / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Goodreads

 

Buy Links:

Bookshop / Indie Bound / B&N / Amazon / Books A Million / Kindle 

Nook / Kobo / Google Play / Ibooks

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You Should Have Seen This Coming by Shani Michelle

Posted: April 12, 2022 in giveaways, thriller, YA
Tags: , ,
5

You Should Have Seen This Coming
Shani Michelle
Published by: Swoon Reads
Publication date: April 12th 2022
Genres: Thriller, Young Adult

A teen girl who sees visions of the past must use her gift to save a kidnapped classmate in Shani Michelle’s high-stakes YA thriller You Should Have Seen This Coming!

Hayden sees the past. Just touching an object will occasionally give her flashes of the previous owner’s memories. And if that memory happens to be a deeply hidden secret, then she has no problem making you pay for your crime, in cash.

Cassie sees the future, and it sucks. She will randomly wake up from dreams filled with disasters that she feels compelled to stop, and she would really like to stop watching her boyfriend fall in love with someone else!

But when Cassie tries to warn Hayden that her latest blackmailing scheme is a trap, she knows she’s really in trouble. All her visions warn her of the upcoming kidnapping, nothing she does stops it. And it’s all Hayden’s fault!

Can Hayden’s gift help her find Cassie before it’s too late?

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play

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Enjoy this peek inside:

She doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t wait for her to protest. I squeeze her hand and get out of the car. “Thank you,” I call out, and wave as I head toward the building.

     Rehearsal hasn’t started yet, and the school feels really empty. Like it’s deserted. I know there must be a janitor or teacher somewhere, but still, it’s kind of eerie. I rush to my locker and take out my journal. I hug it to my chest and promise myself I will not forget it again.

     There’s a creak from down the hallway.

“Hello?”

     There’s no answer.

     Must be the wind, or the building settling. Nothing to worry about.

I start back to the door, but I hear it again. Footsteps this time.

“Who’s there?” I say. I turn around. Nothing.

 I look around again. It’s not dark, but it’s not bright, either. About half the hall lights are off, creating large shadows all around me. I know it’s my imagination, but I feel like they’re closing in.

     There’s a buzz, and I jump. It’s just my phone. I glance at it and see it’s Audra texting me. I’m about to respond when I hear a creak again.

     “I said, who’s there?” I call out.

Still no response.

     This isn’t a mind game or shadows messing with my head. I know someone’s there. They’re watching me. I can feel it.

     “Hello?”

     What do I do? What’s my best move? Leave.

     But how? What’s the safest way? The main entrance? The emergency exit? Scream and hope someone is nearby to help?

     Think, Cassie.

     I freeze in place, trying to sense where they’re hiding, to hear their breathing, to see something.

      I need to go. I need to get out. I need to get to people. Now. I race toward the emergency exit, my heartbeat quickening with each step. As my hand touches the door, someone slams me against the wall. I can’t move.

     A cold, hard piece of metal rests against my neck, and everything goes black.

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Author Shani Michelle:

Shani Michelle is the author of YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THIS COMING. She also works in TV news. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with her husband, family, friends, reading, watching way too much TV, and coming up with new story ideas. (She’s also written several rom-com and middle grade novels as Shani Petroff)

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At Any Cost ~ A Forensic Instincts Novel by Andrea Kane

Posted: March 23, 2022 in giveaways, suspense, thriller
Tags: , ,
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At Any Cost by Andrea Kane Banner

At Any Cost
by Andrea Kane
March 21 – April 15, 2022 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
At Any Cost by Andrea Kane

Aimee Bregman had the perfect life. She had an enviable job as head of marketing for an up-and-coming CBD-infused beer that was taking the tri-state area by storm. She had cultivated a massive social media following that showcased the beer at college campus parties and alumni events―and had fun doing it. She had an attentive, steady boyfriend and friends who believed in her. Everything was going right.

But when her long-time mentor, Rita, sets up a business meeting with an important influencer―her life crashes all around her. The casual meeting over drinks suddenly devolves into a shouting match between all parties, and any chance of a new business relationship is over before it begins. Hours later, when the NYPD shows up at Aimee’s apartment, questioning her about Rita’s abrupt disappearance―foul play suspected―Aimee realizes she’s in way over her head.

Fearing that Rita has been murdered, and that she may be next, Aimee hires Forensic Instincts to keep her safe and figure out what’s really going on.

Forensic Instincts, a brilliant investigative firm who walks the fine line between legal and illegal, solves challenging and high-profile cases when the bureaucratic restrictions imposed on law enforcement get in the way of achieving results. But neither Aimee nor Forensic Instincts realize how ruthless, how connected, their adversaries are. As dangerous and powerful people are threatened with exposure, anyone is fair game for elimination. And when multiple victims die at the hands of a sociopathic serial killer, it gets harder and harder to tell where the battle lines are drawn… and who might die next.

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense Thriller

Published by: Bonnie Meadow Publishing LLC Publication Date: March 22nd 2022 Number of Pages: 384 ISBN: 168232043X (ISBN13: 9781682320433) Series: Forensic Instincts #9 | Each Can Be Read as a Stand Alone Novel

Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

1

Brightington University Birchmont, Westchester County, New York
Eight years ago
A kill for a kill. Weeks of watching and waiting. Plans devised. Soon to be meticulously executed. Mid-November. Football season nearing its peak. Thursday night. Nine p.m. Campus in early-weekend party mode. Undergrads drinking. Smoking up at the frat houses. Athletic building deserted. Nearly deserted. His target was there. Alone. Thursday night was his late night during football season. That’s when he reviewed his game strategy and player weaknesses. That’s when he targeted the next eager kid to torture until he broke. The bastard wouldn’t be breaking anyone ever again. Not the way he’d broken Hank. As the star quarterback in high school, Hank had gotten a full-ride Division 1 scholarship. Since he’d come from a dirt-poor family, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. A first-rate college education with a shot at the NFL. It was supposed to be a life-changing event. Instead it turned out to be a death sentence. His executioner had been Pete Rice. Football coach? Bullshit. Rice hadn’t coached Hank; he’d tortured him, driven him—until he’d blown out his knee on a rain-soaked football field junior year, ending his college career, his dreams. And in the end, his life. It was first down and goal. Rice was about to find out the true meaning of payback. The campus grounds were soggy, leftover patches of wet leaves and an endless span of slick grass, made worse by the cold, steady rainfall. The bare trees swayed as rain pounded their branches. A wet mess. Treacherous, like a wet football field. Slugging through the debris, he approached the athletic building, pausing yards away to don the black ski mask. He then tugged his hood back into place. No point in taking chances. Security cameras were everywhere. He didn’t need his face to be captured. Other than the mask, he could be any college student. A waterproof parka that swallowed up his body. Jeans and combat boots. Standard college garb. He reached the building and slid Hank’s ID card into the entry slot. The card still worked. Too soon for it to be deactivated. He was in. He wriggled into his latex gloves. The office door was unlocked. Rice was at his desk, files spread across it. He was scribbling something on one of them, brows knit in concentration, totally focused on his work. Clueless that he was about to die. In one fluid motion, he was inside the office, the door closed behind him. Rice leapt to his feet, snatching the heavy football trophy on his desk as he rounded the front of it to defend himself against the intruder. Without a word, the killer whipped out a pistol and fired two bullets, one into each of Rice’s kneecaps. Rice howled, collapsing to the floor in pain. The trophy hit the floor beside him with a thud. The assailant moved quickly—four long strides until he was behind Rice, dragging him back to his chair and heaving him into it. He shoved a rag in the coach’s mouth to stifle his screams, then moved behind him, wrapping a strong arm in a choke hold around Rice’s throat. He pocketed his pistol, pulled out a zip tie, and leaned down to cinch the writhing man’s ankles together. That done, he slapped a digital voice recorder on the desk, with the record feature on. He yanked the rag out of Rice’s mouth, tossed it aside, and anchored his forearm against the left side of the coach’s neck, using his free hand to pull as tight against the carotid artery as he chose to—for now. A rush of power surged through him. He could taste victory. But there was work to be done before the final play. “You killed Hank Bishop,” he growled. “I want details.” When he got no answer, only a violent trembling of Rice’s body, he tightened the pressure around his neck. “Talk.” “Car crash…” the coach gasped. “I didn’t…” “Wrong answer.” His grip tightened still more, enough so Rice was on the verge of losing consciousness. The coach struggled in vain, his struggles weak and fading. His soon-to-be executioner eased the pressure the tiniest fraction. He knew just what it would take. And he wasn’t ready. Not until he got what he wanted. “Wanna die?” he asked in a flat tone that was chillingly devoid of emotion. Terrified, blood oozing down his legs, Rice gave a feeble shake of his head. “Good. Because this is what it will feel like.” He increased the pressure until Rice passed out. Slowly, he eased the choke hold until the scumbag came to. “Now I’ll ask my question again,” he said calmly. “Why is Hank dead? Why was he in that car crash? This is your last chance. I want to hear it all—what you did, how you did it, what you drove him to.” Rice was drenched in sweat, his entire body shuddering, choking sounds coming from his throat. No further coercion was necessary. Between gasps for air, the coach spilled his guts, revealing everything he’d done, everything that had happened—plus a whole lot more that was happening still. Interesting stuff. Some of which he knew about. Still more of which he didn’t. It was even bigger than what he’d come here to learn. But frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He’d originally planned to take the voice recorder with him to relive Rice’s agonized confession whenever he chose to. But it really didn’t matter. He’d committed the bastard’s words to memory. So instead, he’d leave the recorder here, let the cops hear the entire confession, including the big-picture part that had nothing to do with Hank but that would send their investigation in the entirely wrong direction—a direction his employer wouldn’t appreciate, but that was his problem. His adrenaline pumping, he tightened his choke hold into a death grip, pressing against the carotid artery, closing it off and squeezing the life out of his victim. A minute later, Rice was dead. *** Excerpt from At Any Cost by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2022 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Andrea Kane
Andrea Kane

Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-one novels, including seventeen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night. Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller. She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including No Way Out, Twisted and Drawn in Blood. Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, At Any Cost, showcases the dynamic, eclectic team of investigators as they square off against a criminal organization with a serial killer as a hit man. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the New York Times bestseller, The Girl Who Disappeared Twice, followed by The Line Between Here and Gone, The Stranger You Know, The Silence That Speaks, The Murder That Never Was, A Face To Die For, Dead In A Week, No Stone Unturned and At Any Cost.

Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include My Heart’s Desire, Samantha, Echoes in the Mist, and Wishes in the Wind.

With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages.

Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.

Catch Up With Andrea Kane: AndreaKane.com Goodreads BookBub Instagram – @authorandreakane Twitter – @andrea_kane Facebook – @AuthorAndreaKane

 

 

 

 

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