Posts Tagged ‘historical’

 

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 Women’s Fiction / Historical Fiction / Romance
Date Published: 11-10-2026

 

 San Francisco, 1967. The Summer of Love promises radical freedom—but for
twenty-year-old Juliette, it becomes a dangerous trap.
Desperate
to escape her conventional family, Juliette shocks her parents by announcing
her engagement to David, a long-haired free spirit. When her father,
Tristan—a famous novelist harboring a tragic past—vehemently
forbids the union, Juliette acts on impulse. In the dead of night, she climbs
out her window and flees with David to the counterculture epicenter of
Haight-Ashbury.
But beneath the cloud of incense and rock ‘n’
roll, independence carries a steep price. As David drifts into a haze of drugs
and broken promises, Juliette’s bohemian dream shatters. Back home, her
flight reopens old wounds. Her fiercely protective mother, Lorna, must help
Tristan confront the shadows of his past as they desperately try to pull their
daughter back from the edge before it’s too late.

 

It’s
All About Love
is a poignant coming-of-age story about the fragile line
between rebellion and destruction and the enduring, messy grace of family.

 

About Author Cynthia Hilston

 

Bestselling and award-winning author of the Lorna
& Tristan Series, Cynthia Hilston is a stay-at-home mom of three young
kids, happily married, and lives in the Cleveland, Ohio, area. Writing has
always been like another child to her. After twenty years of waltzing in the
world of fan fiction, she has stepped away to do her debut dance with original
works of fiction, although she still dabbles in fan fiction.
In her spare
time–what spare time?–she devours books, pets her kitties, looks
at the stars, drinks wine or coffee with good friends, and dreams of what
other stories she wishes to tell.
Contact Links
TikTok: @cynthiahilston
Youtube:
@cyndihilston
Purchase Link

Amazon

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

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The Swamp Ghost by Christi Keating Sumich Banner

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THE SWAMP GHOST
by Christi Keating Sumich
October 12 – November 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
AN OLD NEW ORLEANS BOOKSHOP MYSTERY

  In 1833, Irish immigrants are hard at work digging the New Basin Canal, a waterway that will connect New Orleans to Lake Pontchartrain. When one of the workers sees a strange blue orb glowing in the swamp at night, he fears it is a Fifolet (fee-foo-lay) guarding Jean Lafitte’s buried treasure. Legend has it that pirates killed a crewman and buried his body with their loot, dooming his ghost to stand guard forever. The next morning, the worker is found dead. The men believe the site is cursed, and Aiden Doyle, the crew’s leader, must uncover the truth or risk losing his job. When the newly formed police force refuses to investigate, Aiden seeks help from Mary Catherine Whitney, now renowned throughout New Orleans for her mystery-solving skills after she and her husband, Tobias, unraveled the secrets of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte and wrote a popular adventure story about it. She’ll need all her cleverness and wit to unlock the secrets of the Fifolet, and she may even need a little help from Lafitte himself.

Continuing characters from Lafitte Lives, The Swamp Ghost is the first in the Old New Orleans Bookshop Mysteries, featuring Mary Catherine Whitney, irascible wife, mother, and amateur sleuth in this charming series set in nineteenth-century New Orleans.

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Praise for The Swamp Ghost:

“In The Swamp Ghost, the lovable Mary Catherine Whitney returns to lead readers on a captivating adventure through 1833 New Orleans as she investigates the mysterious death of a troublemaker who died while digging a canal. Word goes out that an evil spirit attacked him. A merry band of helpers joins Mary Catherine to find the true killer — or confirm the evil spirit tale. Along the way, they encounter pirates, gamblers, and drunkards. Once again, Christi Keating Sumich entertains us while immersing us in the sights, sounds, smells, and folklore of New Orleans.” ~ Marlie Parker Wasserman, author of First Daughter “If you love strong-willed women solving spooky mysteries in the heat of the bayou, this book is perfect for you! Introduced to the Whitney family in Sumich’s first book, THE SWAMP GHOST expands their world and the mysteries in it. Mary Catherine Whitney is a force to be reckoned with. Even the supernatural can’t hide from her investigations.” ~ Nicole Asselin, Author of the Minor League Mysteries, Host of Baseball, Books, and Banter podcast. ‘In Christi Sumich’s new novel featuring the Whitney family, feisty Mary Catherine continues to berate her rambunctious sons and, if I may say, saintly husband, but is now stepping not-so-quietly into the world of the amateur sleuth, with help from her equally acerbic cook, Mrs. Clarke. We return to New Orleans. It’s a divided city, where the Creoles and the influx of Irish are vying for economic and political dominance. At the heart of this novel is the death of an Irish “digger,” just one of hundreds who are digging a new canal out of a swamp. Was his death a murder, or did a ghost protecting pirate treasure kill him? Although this is your classic who-dun-it, albeit with ghosts and pirates, the background of a city and the plight of immigrants is nicely documented. I’m looking forward to Mary Catherine’s next “case”!’ ~ Claire M. Johnson, author of the Fog City Noir series

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Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery

Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: September 22, 2026 Number of Pages: 232 Series: An Old New Orleans Bookshop Mystery, Book 1

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

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MY REVIEW

When I first started reading this book I didn’t realize there was a prequel and this got me curious. Imagine my surprise when my digging revealed I actual had the previous book. Did I stop reading and start it. Nope. I continued on and easily came to know the characters and their places in the story.

About those characters. Mary Catherine is dead serious when it comes to investigating a murder. The victim might not have been looked on fondly but he still deserves justice. And she’s intrigued by claims he was killed by a malevolent ghost. This is where her own quirky spirit shines and the humor trickles through the pages, aided by her eager friends, her patient and supportive husband and her rambunctious sons.

I really had no idea about who the villain was. That’s always a bonus for me. And finding out if something from the spirit realm was involved made me even more eager to turn the pages and find out.

I almost forgot to mention some other bonuses in this story. It’s located in New Orleans, a close neighbor to where I live and a place I’ve enjoyed visiting and I love the name of the featured bookshop, Chapter And Verse. I’d happily explore it.

I very much enjoyed the mysteries and antics involved in The Swamp Ghost and the author’s writing kept the story going under a full head of steam. It’s a given I’ll be reading the prequel also and anticipate it will be every bit as entertaining.

4 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:

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Swamps Outside of New Orleans 1833
Chapter One
Sean Leery smacked his own cheek with such force that he felt like he was back in Ireland, on the receiving end of a blow in one of his many pub brawls. He missed County Cork and his cottage there. It hadn’t been much, but it was certainly better than his present circumstances, trying to catch some sleep in a sweltering Louisiana swamp. The pitiful cypress log hut that was his temporary home while he was out digging the New Basin Canal offered little comfort and couldn’t keep out the water from the daily rainstorms, let alone the mosquitoes that swarmed him and his fellow diggers. He wiped a smear of blood from his face, slightly mollified to see this one had a full belly, judging by the sizable blood splatter. Hell, most of it was probably his to begin with, but at least the menace would feast on him no more this evening. Not that it would do much good. Ridding the Louisiana bayous of one mosquito had about the same effect as plucking a snowflake off an avalanche. God, he even missed the snow and cold of his homeland, though he still recalled shivering next to the stove, trying to extract the last bit of warmth from the feeble coal remnants. It was just so hot here. And not only during the day. In the summer, which seemed to last most of the year, it was equally unbearable at night, especially in the swamp. Even now, in October, the air was so thick he felt he needed to chew it before he could breathe it in. He stretched his feet past the edge of his cot to restore circulation before tucking them back under the mosquito netting. Tomorrow, he’d have to find the hole where they were getting in and stitch it up. Cagey little suckers, they were. They’d weasel their way through the tiniest opening. He flopped onto his side, hoping sleep would envelop him again. He needed to rest if he had any hope of performing the arduous labor his job required. The sooner they finished their digging, the sooner he could high-tail it back to New Orleans and civilization. Though the working and living conditions were less than ideal, Sean considered himself lucky to be on Aiden Doyle’s digging crew. Aiden was a fair foreman, much better than some of the others. He treated his “ditchers” well, as the men digging out the swamp were called. They were the lead crew on the project, an ambitious plan by the New Orleans Canal and Banking Company to dig a navigable commercial waterway from Lake Pontchartrain to the American Sector of New Orleans, located behind the Vieux Carré, or the French Quarter, as the Americans called it. The canal was to be six to ten feet deep, sixty yards wide, and six miles long. It was being dug by a workforce composed mainly of Irish immigrants wielding picks, shovels, and wheelbarrows, slowly making their way through the swamps outside the city. It was dangerous, backbreaking work. Ditchers, even young ones, often did not fare well. Because Irish immigrants were arriving in New Orleans in large numbers and were willing to toil for low wages, the company hired them as “expendable labor,” knowing that excavating mosquito-infested swampland meant losing many workers to yellow fever, cholera, and malaria. Some of the foremen joked that to dig a canal, at least four things were necessary: a shovel, a pick, a wheelbarrow, and an Irishman. Aiden Doyle was Irish, so Sean supposed that might explain his more compassionate nature. Most bosses wouldn’t have taken on someone as old as Sean, let alone someone with his less-than-stellar reputation. Sean would be forty-two on his next birthday, but he looked far older. Hard living took its toll on a man. So did drinking too much whiskey and trying to live by his wits for too long, especially since he hadn’t been blessed with an abundance of them. His bulbous nose was a testament to his love of drink, and its crookedness to the brawling that generally followed. Sean also loved cards, and he owed debts to the sort of people who expressed their displeasure at not being promptly reimbursed in unfortunate physical ways. So when his debts began piling up and he feared the threats of bodily harm were no longer mere threats, he sought employment out of sheer necessity. He would work until he could pay the most pressing debts to the most violent of his creditors, then quit and resume his life of gambling, drinking, and enjoying the company of disreputable women. Such was his pattern, and Sean was eager to return to it—if he survived this present job. Sean flopped onto his back, blowing out a frustrated breath. In addition to the stifling heat and swarming blood suckers, his ability to fall back asleep was being hindered by Darren’s snoring and Murph’s farts. Might as well take a piss while I’m awake. Sean grunted as he shifted to his feet. They were sore after the day’s labors. Every inch of him hurt, but the worst was his shoulders. They ached and throbbed, adding to his insomnia. He needed to sleep if he was to get up the next day and do more digging. If he couldn’t work, Aiden would have to replace him on his crew. Sean wasn’t keen to find another crew. He didn’t particularly like any of the men he worked with out here in this godforsaken place, but he figured he had less than a month to go before he would have enough money to quit. What could be worse than having to beg your way back onto a job you hated? He needed to tough it out. He pulled on his boots and left the shack. The sliver of moon did little to dispel the swamp’s stygian darkness. As he made his way to the temporary privy the crew had erected, he was careful not to trip over the cypress knees poking out of the semi-solid earth and to avoid any snakes that might be hiding in the tall grass. No doubt there were alligators to avoid as well. He shuddered at the thought of disturbing a sleeping gator as he swatted futilely at the mosquitoes buzzing around his head. Suddenly, his hand froze in front of his face. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? The sight before him shouldn’t be there. A bright blue orb was dancing in the distance, just beyond a copse of water gum trees. Could it be his imagination? It was easy to think so. After all, this landscape was eerie and otherworldly at night. It occupied a nebulous space between water and earth, always wet and only sometimes solid. The densely packed cypress trees, dripping with tattered Spanish moss that reminded Sean of ghosts caught in the branches, crowded out the sun during the day, making it perpetual dusk at its brightest and forcing the humid air to hover over the swamp dwellers like a hot, moist blanket. Sean had seen some unusual sights out here, but this went beyond any of them. Could it be the moonlight illuminating some swamp gas? He knew this wasn’t it, but he was desperate for a logical explanation. Sean was not superstitious, unlike some of the men he worked with, fools still clinging to their Irish folklore like a lifeline in this strange place. Yet the sight before him sent chills down his body, straight through his aching arms and into his cramping feet. What was he looking at? There should not be a blue light shining in front of him out here in the desolate swamp. It was not a fire or a lantern, of that he was certain. Sean was not a religious man, yet he crossed himself in an unconscious, protective gesture. He needed to get back to the safety of the shack and the other diggers, but fear froze him in place. There was a terrifying moment of stasis, and then the blue orb advanced rapidly toward Sean, as if sensing his presence and locking onto him, preparing to give chase. Sean heard a scream and realized it was coming from his own throat. He turned and ran back through the swamp, trying to stay upright as he stumbled over the cypress knees and deep eddies, all thoughts of sleeping gators and rattlers driven from his mind. He burst into the shack, waking the rest of the crew. As they rubbed sleep from their eyes and sat up in astonishment, trying to make sense of what was happening, they took in the strange sight before them. Sean Leery, the ornery old bastard they had assumed feared nothing and no one, was gasping for breath, sputtering about something he’d spotted in the swamp. His face was as white as if he’d seen the very devil himself, and a dark, wet spot spread across the front of his breeches where he’d pissed himself.
*** Excerpt from The Swamp Ghost by Christi Keating Sumich. Copyright 2026 by Christi Keating Sumich. Reproduced with permission from Christi Keating Sumich. All rights reserved.

 

 

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About Author Christi Keating Sumich

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Christi Keating Sumich

Christi Keating Sumich holds a PhD in History and a master’s degree in English. Her writing combines her fascination with history with her love of the mystery genre. She is the author of Lafitte Lives (Level Best Books, February 2026), a historical mystery centered on her ancestor, the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. It is the prequel in the Old New Orleans Bookshop Mysteries, followed by The Swamp Ghost (Level Best Books, September 2026). She is also the author of the short story “The Night Doctor of New Orleans” in Crime Before Our Time (Level Best Books August 2026). Christi’s nonfiction titles include Hauntingly Good Spirits: New Orleans Cocktails to Die For (Wellfleet Press, 2024) and The Brandy Milk Punch (Louisiana State University Press, 2025), both written with her mother, Sharon Keating. Christi lives just outside New Orleans with her husband and too many pets, as she has a soft spot for “unconventionally attractive” animals in need of homes. She is the mother of three grown children (plus a daughter-in-law). Her claim to fame is being the winningest contestant on Hollywood Squares.

Catch Up With Christi Keating Sumich:

ChristiSumich.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @sumichchristi Instagram – @casumich Facebook – @christi.keating.sumich.author

 

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win! Click here to view the Tour Schedule  

 

Enter If You Dare…
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for The Swamp Ghost by Christi Keating Sumich. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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THE SWAMP GHOST by Christi Keating Sumich | Gift Card Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

 

Resurrection Kill by Laura Joh Rowland Banner

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RESURRECTION KILL
by Laura Joh Rowland
October 19 – November 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:

 

An amnesic psychiatrist returns to the hospital where she was institutionalized as a teen to find answers, perfect for fans of The Silent Patient and Shutter Island.

Forgetting can be dangerous. Remembering can be fatal. New York State, 1953. Dr. Claire Kendall is a psychiatrist-in-training at Resurrection Kill Hospital, a luxurious private and isolated mental institution for the wealthy. But under her mask of professionalism, Claire has a secret: She was a patient at the hospital when she was fourteen. With gaps in her memory, Claire is determined to discover what really happened the summer she was institutionalized… even if it means uncovering the dangerous secrets hiding at Resurrection Kill. Before long, Claire takes a special interest in a teenage patient, Rory Kirkpatrick, a free-spirited girl who is also determined to uncover Resurrection Kill Hospital’s dark past. Claire indulges Rory’s rebellious nature, hoping to glean clues that might help in her own search for the truth. But the hunt for answers triggers flashbacks of Claire’s painful childhood, her father’s cruelty, her mother’s alcoholism, her beloved older brother’s death. The deeper she probes her own past, the more she remembers about the summer that changed everything. And as she delves deeper into her own mind, she’ll come to find that her sanity grows more fragile by the day and that some secrets are meant to stay buried. She’ll discover that remembering may come at the cost of her life.

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Praise for Resurrection Kill:

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“Resurrection Kill by Laura Joh Rowland is everything I love in a thriller: intriguing and chilling, vivid and memorable, a compelling and deeply personal story about one woman’s search for answers in an era when women were committed to mental hospitals for virtually anything that was outside the cultural norm. That Resurrection Kill Hospital is an upscale facility for the super rich only makes the procedures the women are subjected to all the more barbaric. Claire’s courage and fearlessness under increasingly dangerous circumstances made me want to stand up and cheer. I loved this book!” ~ Karen Dionne, author of #1 international bestseller The Marsh King’s Daughter and The Wicked Sister

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Book Details:

Genre: Historical Fiction; Thriller/Suspense

Published by: Crooked Lane Books Publication Date: October 27, 2026 Number of Pages: 336 HC ISBN: 9798892427111

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Penguin Random House

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Enjoy this peek inside

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New York State, July 1953
A siren blares through the loudspeaker in the conference room where I sit with the four other new psychiatrists. A staticky voice repeats, “Code 1, East Drive.” Startled, we look to the man at the head of the table. Tall, dignified, and silver-haired, Superintendent Adrian Van Pelt raises his voice over the siren. “Welcome to your first day as residents at Resurrection Kill Hospital.” His manner is calm, faintly amused, his black suit impeccably tailored. “You might as well see what you’re getting into.” Beckoning, he strides out the door. We hurry after him along the wide hall, down the grand staircase. In the foyer, one resident catches up with Superintendent Van Pelt and opens the door. With his blond crewcut and conventional handsomeness, he looks like a movie star. The only other woman besides myself trots at his heels. She’s bespectacled, her reddish-brown hair coiled in a bun, and her skirt stretches across wide hips. I lag behind the other men. One is slender and older than the rest of us, his hairline receding; shadows underscore his deep-set eyes. The other looks Japanese, with straight black hair and an upright posture that adds to his less than average height. My colleagues are eager beavers, but I hesitate. I should join the front of the charge because first impressions are lasting, and my career depends on the success of my residency; I mustn’t look timid. But I need to avoid close attention. This is my colleagues’ first day here. But not mine. Twelve years ago, when I was fourteen, I was a patient at Resurrection Kill Hospital. The people with me don’t know. Nobody must ever know. The heavy carved door set with stained glass starts to swing shut in my face. The others are already outside, and the Japanese-looking man holds it open for me. He’s the only person who noticed that I’ve lagged behind. I take a deep breath, walk through the door, nod my thanks at him, and emerge into bright sunshine. The warm summer air smells of roses and freshly cut grass. I pause on the steps of the mansion that serves as the administration building. Around me as far as I can see spreads the hospital’s campus, located five miles from Resurrection—the town from which it took its name—and about fifty miles upstate from New York City. Kill is the Dutch word for a stream, and the campus nestles in a curve of Resurrection Kill, a tributary of the Hudson River. Founded in 1885, the hospital was built by an architect inspired by Frederick Law Olmstead, designer of Central Park and other landmark sites. Buildings constructed mostly in the nineteenth century, in various styles, cluster together at the middle of a hundred and thirty acres of gently rolling hills landscaped with gardens and surrounded by woods. I don’t recognize anything, which disappoints but doesn’t surprise me. The five months I spent here in 1941 are a black void in my memory, lit only by occasional, disturbing flashbacks. I returned to complete my training but also to reconstruct my past. I became a psychiatrist because I want to help the mentally ill, but I also need to find out what happened to me here and why I forgot it all. I catch up with Superintendent Van Pelt and the other residents on the main road that winds through the campus. Red-brick buildings from the Victorian era, separated by lawns and gardens, line the road. People who look to be patients or visitors stroll in the gardens. Yesterday, I had planned to arrive in time to move into my quarters, take a walk before dark, and search for scenes that evoke memories, but the drive from the city took longer than I expected due to heavy traffic, and my car had a flat tire. After getting the car towed and the tire fixed at a garage, I reached the hospital too late to explore the campus. Now I lift my gaze to the treetops, to the slate roofs of other buildings, to the smokestacks that rise from a power plant to the cloudless blue sky. It’s as if I’ve never been here before. I focus on Superintendent Van Pelt, at the head of our little parade. He moves with a rapid, athletic gait, as if the passage of his sixty years has diminished neither his strength nor his energy. I think I remember him, but perhaps my mind is filling the void with false memories. The sounds of automobile horns and racing engines interrupt my thoughts. A male voice shouts through a megaphone: “Stop!” We round a curve in the road. A dark green pickup truck speeds toward us, followed by a white sedan. A second white sedan comes from the opposite direction, on a collision course with the truck. I gasp, bracing myself for the crash. The other residents exclaim in alarm. Brakes screech as the second sedan slews around to block the road. The green truck veers to avoid hitting the sedan and comes straight at us. We scatter out of its way. The truck jumps the curb, rolls over grass, and crunches to a halt. Rakes, shovels, and buckets rattle in its bed. On the road, the first sedan stops near the second. Both have the hospital’s insignia—an oak tree spreading limbs over the letters RKH—and the word “Security” printed in green on the doors. The drivers, men clad in dark green uniforms, spring from the cars. They rush to the truck, whose front wheels have plowed over a ring of stones and low bushes that surround a flowerbed. The truck’s back wheels spin, churning up grass and dirt as its driver guns the engine. The flowerbed, bright with pink, mauve, and blue hydrangeas, is set in the lawn in the curve of a semicircular drive. The drive fronts a building, three stories of red brick and white-framed windows, the roof ornate with gables, dormers, and chimneys. A sign outside reads, “Serenity House.” Could it be where I lived when I was a patient? Nurses in white dresses and caps and orderlies in blue uniforms run out of the building and flock around the truck. The security guards are trying to open the truck’s doors, which are locked. One guard says, “It’s Rosemary Kirkpatrick. She sneaked out of Haven House and stole a groundskeeper’s truck.” “Rosemary is a problem patient,” Superintendent Van Pelt informs our band of residents. A guard strikes the truck’s passenger side window with his truncheon. The glass breaks. A shrill voice screams from inside the vehicle: “Go away, you bastards!” The truck’s engine revs; the wheels spin faster, in vain. The guard reaches through the broken window, unlocks and opens the door. The engine dies as he turns the key in the ignition. He and his partner reach inside the truck and pull Rosemary Kirkpatrick out. She flails so wildly that all I can see of her is a tangle of thin limbs, pink garment, and long, dark hair. Shrieking curses that would put a sailor to shame, she kicks one guard in the groin. He howls and doubles over. She pulls free of the other guard, leaving the ripped sleeve of her dress in his hands, and runs . . . straight to me. My heart clenches. Rosemary’s face is small, her features delicate, her complexion pale within the frame of unruly black hair. She’s just a girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. Everyone else is in motion—guards, nurses, and orderlies chasing Rosemary; the other residents backing away from her; Superintendent Van Pelt raising his hand, opening his mouth to issue commands. But Rosemary’s gaze snares mine, and I’m rooted to the spot. It’s as if she’s singled me out of the crowd, with some primal instinct that sensed—what? A sympathetic ally? A fellow mental case? She clutches my arms, her fingers hard against the gabardine of my suit jacket, digging into my flesh. Her eyes are wide, startlingly green, and fringed with long black lashes. “Help me!” she cries. I instinctively grasp her arms—whether to break her hold on me or to try to soothe her, I don’t know. Her arms are thin but strong. Her anguish strikes a deep chord in me. “Get me out of here!” she begs. “Please!” My lips move involuntarily, and my mind echoes with the sound of my own voice crying out the same words. An eerie shiver ripples through me. The scene around me blurs, and my heart drums hard and fast through a tide of vertigo. Locked together, Rosemary and I seem to spin a hundred and eighty degrees, switching places. The nurses and orderlies are after me, not her. I see us from a vantage point high above—her dark-haired and half-naked in the tatters of her pink dress; myself with a brown pageboy, trim gray suit, and black pumps. I forget which of us is the doctor, which is the fugitive inmate. A flash of memory like a lightning bolt illuminates the dark void. I once accosted some stranger in my own desperate attempt to escape this hospital. The orderlies yank Rosemary away from me, and our hands cling together for one last instant. Mouth wide with terror, she looks like she’s drowning and a riptide is pulling her away from her rescuer. I feel the same expression on my own face, as if we are mirror images. Please don’t let them take me back there! I don’t want to go! “Calm down, Rosemary, that’s a good girl,” Superintendent Van Pelt says, his gentle, firm tone laced with condescending tolerance. Rosemary screams as the orderlies wrestle her to the ground. A guard speaks into a walkie-talkie. The other residents look on with stoic expressions that mask whatever excitement or alarm they may be feeling. I rearrange my own face to match theirs as I take deep breaths to quell my panic. The superintendent walks over to the fray, confident as a zookeeper accustomed to wild beasts. A nurse places a hypodermic syringe in his hand. While the orderlies hold Rosemary down, he stabs the needle into her thigh and pushes the plunger. Her screams dwindle to whimpers; the fight goes out of her. Her eyes roll up inside her head, and her body relaxes into drugged sleep. The orderlies step back, panting and wiping sweat off their brows. Superintendent Van Pelt gives the syringe back to the nurse and dusts off his hands. An ambulance arrives. The attendants bring a gurney, lift the unconscious Rosemary onto it, strap her down, and load her into the ambulance. “I’ll see her back to the ward,” Superintendent Van Pelt tells our group of residents. “Wait for me in the conference room.” He climbs into the passenger seat of the ambulance and rides away. We retrace our steps to the administration building, the handsome blond man first, the other woman a step behind him; then the thin older man; then the Japanese-looking man and me, walking together. “Are you all right?” My companion sounds concerned; he noticed my distress. My cheeks warm. The other residents seem oblivious, and I’m glad he spoke quietly and didn’t call their attention to me. “I’m fine.” I’m shaken and trembling inside, but my voice is cool, calm, the product of training and discipline. I can’t afford to seem weak, lest the others shun me out of contempt. Triumph revives my strength. I’ve started to remember. Just as I’d hoped, coming back to Resurrection Kill Hospital has cracked open the void. After twelve years, light is shining through. I look from side to side and backward, eager to see what else might be revealed. In the flowerbed that Rosemary Kirkpatrick drove the truck into is a statue of a woman. Her stone skin is green with moss, her face hidden by ivy. What would she see if the ivy were torn away? Would she rather remain blind and ignorant? *** Excerpt from Resurrection Kill: A Novel by Laura Joh Rowland. Copyright 2026 by Laura Joh Rowland. Reproduced with permission from Laura Joh Rowland. All rights reserved.

 

 

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About Author Laura Joh Rowland:

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Laura Joh Rowland

Laura Joh Rowland is the award-winning author of the Sarah Bain Victorian Mystery series, the samurai detective Sano Ichirō mystery series set in seventeenth-century Japan, and a historical suspense series starring Charlotte Brontë. Her work has been published in twenty-one countries; nominated for the Anthony Award, the Hammett Prize, and the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Award; won RT Magazine‘s Reader’s Choice Award; and been included in the Wall Street Journal‘s list of the five best historical mystery novels. Laura holds a bachelor of science and a master of public health degree from the University of Michigan. She is a former aerospace scientist, a painter, and a cartoonist. She lives in New York City with her husband Marty.

Catch Up With Laura Joh Rowland:

LauraJohRowland.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @laurajohrowland Instagram – @laurajohrowland Facebook – @laurajohrowlandauthor

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Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win! Click here to view the Tour Schedule  

 

Unearth Your Chance to Win!
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Resurrection Kill. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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RESURRECTION KILL by Laura Joh Rowland | Gift Cards Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

 

It’s a Wonderful Wife

By Anna Valleria

 

(Lords Fall First, #3)
Publication date: October 27th 2026
Genres: Adult, Historical, Holiday, Romance

He wished he had never met her… until he saw the world without her.

James Reed, Lord St. George, the Baron of a struggling estate, has spent years in London avoiding the responsibilities of his title and the wife he married for her dowry. Mariah Reed, the daughter of an Irish linen mogul, has spent those same years saving the family estate, supporting the nearby mill town, and secretly nursing dreams of becoming a playwright.

When James returns to Bailey Hall with a secret plan to save his childhood home by pressuring Mariah’s father to lower worker wages, he finds a woman far more passionate and capable than the shy bride he left behind. After a drunken confrontation leads to the destruction of Mariah’s community project and her dreams, James is met by a mysterious figure who shows him what a charmed life he had.

Through a harrowing vision of a world where Mariah never entered his life, James witnesses the ruin of his brother and the total desolation of his town. Faced with the reality of his own selfishness, James must embark on a path of redemption to prove to Mariah, and himself, that he is worthy of the life she built for them.

Return to the Victorian world of the Lords Fall First series in this emotional, second-chance holiday romance!

Goodreads / Amazon

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Enjoy this peek inside:

He spent five years ignoring their arranged marriage until a brush with death made him realize she’s the only thing that matters. Too bad she isn’t interested in his apologies.

“Mariah,” he began purposefully, “something happened, I—” How could he explain what had happened without sounding like a madman? She would likely have him sent to Bedlam if he attempted to explain his revelations. “I don’t know how to say this to a person such as you.”

“A person such as m-me?” While her tone had previously leaned toward emotionlessness, he recognized his error as her body became rigid.

Double damn, he had only meant he did not know how to apologize to a woman, but he had well and truly put his foot in it.

“I’m sorry.” Was all he found he could say. “For the assembly hall, for Barrymore. Bloody hell, for everything. For spending your father’s hard-earned money on anything besides saving the estate. I’ve been…beyond selfish since we wed, it’s only taken me losing almost everything to see it.”

She stayed in the same position before him, her uneven breath the only indication she was at all affected by his words. For a moment, something softened in her eyes before that chilling emptiness returned.

“Very w-well. I accept your apology.”

“Mariah, you can’t—” he began before her words registered. “You do?” A previously unknown joy shot off within his chest. “Mariah, I don’t deserve you, thank heavens. I was thinking, perhaps… Perhaps we could start again, you and I—”

“James,” she said sharply. “I said that I f-forgive you, but I would still like for you to go to London.”

“My lord,” she continued, “I b-believe that we should carry on as we had before. Live s-separate lives.”

“But why should we when we have this?” He let out a low growl, closing the distance between them before ensnaring her waist in his firm embrace, hoisting her closer to his heat. His gaze descended to her pillowy lips, lingering for a heartbeat to offer her the chance to utter a denial.

When no denial came, he claimed her mouth with his own. She tasted of tea and fresh mint, a scent uniquely hers that he had relished upon many occasions, yet never before had their coupling kindled such a profound sense of exhilaration within him. Embracing her now sparked a previously unknown ecstasy as he finally acknowledged the truth of his own heart.

“How can we live apart when we have this?” he rasped, reluctantly pulling his lips from hers.

Her dilated eyes refocused, and she shoved his hands off of her and turned, wrapping her dressing gown around herself more tightly. “Just because I forgive you does not mean I trust you. Or wish to have a real marriage with you.”

“Mariah… I think I could love you. I’m…I’m falling in love with you.”

Mariah stared at him as something pulsed in those midnight blue eyes. Then, as if a curtain had been drawn, they went blank.

“You d-don’t know me, James. Not really.”

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About Author Anna Valleria:

Anna Valleria is an award-winning historical romance author who believes that everyone deserves to see themselves on the page. Her mission is to write steamy Regency and Victorian stories featuring socially active heroines and devoted heroes that reflect windows, mirrors, and sliding glass doors for all readers, including characters of different sizes, backgrounds, abilities, and neurodiversities. Her novel The Baron Takes a Wife was the 2025 winner of the Hearts Through History Romance Through the Ages Contest in the published Georgian/Victorian category.

Currently residing in a beautiful, historic city in the southeastern U.S. with her family and a rescue pup. If she’s not writing, she’s likely in a coffee shop, walking with her son or dog, or trivia with her team, Stone Cold Jane Austen.

Website / Instagram / Goodreads

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French Toast a la Santa Fe
by Suzanne Stauffer


French Toast a la Santa Fe
Historical Culinary Cozy Mystery
2nd in the Series
Setting – New Mexico
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Artemesia Publishing, LLC
Publication date ‏ : ‎ October 13, 2026
Print length ‏ : ‎ 230 pages
Paperback
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1963832612
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1963832617
Digital Info Coming Soon

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In 1929 New Mexico, Prudence Bates joins ten other Detourists, their Courier, and driver, on the three-day Fred Harvey Indian Detour from Las Vegas through Santa Fe and to Albuquerque.

During the trip small, valuable items belonging to the Detourists begin disappearing, and a retired Australian school teacher falls into a kiva. Or was she pushed? Prudence begins to suspect that someone is trying to kill her fellow traveler and wonders where the flapper from Kansas City disappears to at every stop. Or is La Llorona haunting the Detour? And what secrets are the two German men hiding? Prudence is determined to solve the mysteries and uncover the truth.

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Enjoy this peek inside:

June 1929. Hotel Castañeda, Las Vegas, New Mexico

“Mornin’, Clara,” the tall, lean man in the deputy sheriff’s uniform greeted the young woman behind the reception desk. His cowboy hat was tipped back on his head and he leaned casually on the counter.

“Good morning, Jim,” she responded, smiling. “And to you, as well, Mr. Simmons.”

“Good morning, Miss Morgan,” replied the young man in the grey suit, as he tipped his grey fedora.

“I forgot you’d know Bob,” Jim said.

“He’s been staying with us for the past several days,” Clara reminded him.

“Well, then you know he’s with the Bureau of Prohibition.”

Clara nodded. “Yes, I read about that in the Optic.” She looked at Bob. “That was quite a coup, arresting that gang of bootleggers.”

Bob grinned. “Just doin’ my job.” He winked at Jim. “With a little help from my friends.”

 “So, how can I help you gentlemen?”

Bob laid a sheet of paper on the desk. “Do you recognize any of the names on this list?”

Clara wrinkled her brow as she perused it. She stopped at one name and glanced at Jim, then continued reading. “No, just this one, Prudence Bates.” She looked at Bob. “She was staying here for the past week, but she left this morning on one of the three-day Indian Detours.”

“Any idea where they’re headed?”

Clara reached over and picked up a folded brochure from a stack on the desk. “I know they are spending tonight in Santa Fe. I think they stop at the Apache Inn for lunch and the Pecos ruins after that. This brochure has the complete itinerary.”

Bob glanced through the leaflet and nodded. “Thanks. This is helpful. Now, back to the names on the list. We have reason to believe that some of them were guests at the hotel last night. Mind checking? And which rooms.” He didn’t make it a question.

Clara looked at Jim. He nodded.

“It’s official business,” he confirmed.

“All right,” Clara said slowly. She turned the registration book around to face her, then began writing numbers next to some of the names on the list. “These are the room numbers of the people who stayed here last night. It looks like they all came in on the 10:10, except for Prudence,” she said, at last, handing the paper back to Bob. “She came in last week, as you probably know.”

 “Have the maids cleaned the rooms yet?”

She shook her head. “They don’t start until noon, after the last guest checks out.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. We’d like to search the rooms they occupied last night, if you don’t mind.” He didn’t make it a request. “You can just give us the keys to the rooms. No need to leave your work.”

Clara wrinkled her brow again and glanced at Jim, but didn’t say anything.

“Official business,” he repeated.

She reached under the desk and pulled out a key. She paused, then handed it to Jim. “That’s a master key. I’m making you responsible for it, Deputy Sheriff.” She smiled to soften the statement.

“You know you can trust me,” Jim said, grinning back. He turned to Bob. “Let’s go.”

“When we’re finished searching the rooms,” Bob said to Clara, “we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly. I’ll be here.”

Bob saluted with two fingers to his forehead, then he and Jim headed up the stairs. Clara slowly polished the shining countertop as she strained to hear their sotto voce conversation until they were completely out of earshot.

When the men returned an hour later, Clara was sitting on a stool at the desk, reading a large, thick book. She quickly closed it and looked up at them.

“Looks like one of my old college textbooks,” Bob chuckled.

 Clara nodded. “I’m studying teaching at the Normal University here. The manager doesn’t mind if I do a little reading when it’s quiet. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Jim handed Clara the master key and ignored her question. “I’ll be getting back to the station. Bob here has a couple of questions for you. It’s all official business,” he reiterated. He turned to Bob. “Stop by the station when you’re finished. We’ll grab some lunch and you can fill me in.”

“You got it, Chief,” Bob said, saluting with two fingers. Jim laughed as he walked away. Bob watched Jim leave the lobby, then turned back to Clara. He placed the list on the counter in front of her.

“You might have gathered that this is a list of people who left here this morning on an Indian Detour.”

Clara nodded. “I assumed they must be, since the ones who stayed here only stayed the one night. I’m guessing the others came in on this morning’s train.”

“You guess right,” Bob grinned. “What time did they leave on their Detour?”

“About nine o’clock, more or less,” Clara answered. “One of the passengers was late, but the other cars left on time.”

Bob consulted his watch. “So, about two hours ago. Any idea how many cars?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t paying too much attention. A couple of cars, I think. At least two, maybe three, of the buses. They hold eleven passengers each,” she added before he could ask. “And, yes, the lobby was crowded.”

“Any idea who went in which car — or bus?”

“No, I don’t have that information. The Couriers take care of all of that. You’d have to check with the office at the La Fonda in Santa Fe. We just give them a bed for the night, if they come in on the night train, and breakfast in the morning.”

“Pretty decent breakfast, I have to say,” Bob smiled. “Would you say that you know anything about any of the people on this list, other than Prudence Bates?” He grinned.

“No,” Clara shook her head. “They either arrived on the Navajo at 10:10 last night, after my shift was over, or they came in on the California Limited at 6:50 this morning.” She paused and quirked a smile. “I do remember one woman very upset about not being able to take all of her luggage on the HarveyCar. Her husband tried to bribe the porter.”

“And?” Bob asked.

“He wasn’t successful. There simply isn’t room for that kind of baggage. She had to transfer her jewel case to her valise.”

“Anything else unusual?”

“Oh, that isn’t unusual. There’s always at least one.” She paused and pursed her lips. “No, not that I can think of. They seemed to be the usual mix of middle-aged retired couples, college students on summer vacation, and foreign tourists.”

Bob raised his eyebrows. “Foreigners?”

“Yes,” Clara nodded. “I definitely heard some people speaking French — I took a couple of years in high school — and, I think, German. Spanish, of course, but whether they were foreigners, I can’t say.” She wrinkled her brow again. “And a few English accents. Martha—“

“The Harvey Girl waitress here?”

“Yes, she told me that one of the women asked for tea, rather than coffee. That isn’t so unusual, but Martha thought she sounded English.”

“Hmmm. Tell me about this passenger who was late.”

Clara laughed. “Oh, she came charging down the stairs about five minutes after nine, still in the clothes she’d worn the night before, lugging her valise with her. Practically threw her key on the desk. She looked as if she had quite a night last night.”

“Sounds like my kinda’ gal,” Bob laughed. “I’d love to meet her. Any idea what her name might be?”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize her and I didn’t pay any attention to the room number on the key.”

“She left without paying her bill?”

“No, the Detour is paid in advance.”

“Well, that’s all my questions. Thanks for being so helpful.”

“Do you mind if I ask what this is about?”

Bob shook his head. “You can ask, but — as Jim would say, official business.”

“Can you at least tell me whether Prudence is in danger?”

“I wouldn’t like to think so, but it depends on who else is in that HarveyCar with her.” He grimaced for a moment, then grinned, patted the desk, and saluted. “Thanks again, doll!”

He stepped jauntily through the lobby. Clara watched him walk down the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office. She wrinkled her brow, pursed her lips, and shook her head slightly, then opened her textbook and started to read.

***

“Hi, honey. Ready to go?” John asked. Clara nodded.

“I’ll be off now, Dan,” she said to the man behind the desk.

“You kids have a good evening,” he replied.

“Thank you.”

John put his arm around Clara’s shoulders as they left the hotel and she slipped her arm around his waist. “Have a good day?” He asked.

“Mmn-hmm,” she nodded.

“Where do you want to get dinner?”

“Oh, let’s just go to my place. I’ll rustle something up, even if it’s just scrambled eggs. I wanted to talk to you about something strange that happened today.”

“Hmm?”

“Bob Simmons, that prohibition agent, remember him?”

“Yeah.”

“He and Jim searched the rooms of the Detourists who stayed with us last night. ”

“That is strange. Any idea why?”

“They wouldn’t tell say. I tried to listen in on their conversation, but I could only catch a couple of words. John, Prudence’s was one of the rooms they searched.” She looked up at him, concern on her face.

“Really?” He shook his head. “I wonder why. She can’t be mixed up with anything illegal. Not Prudence.”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with the bootlegging gang that Simmons arrested.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Our Prudence? A gangster’s moll?”

“No, silly,” Clara laughed. “She’s hardly the type. Besides, you know her heart belongs to that Navajo school teacher. But, Simmons is a prohibition agent, and you know that he was here investigating bootlegging.”

“That’s true,” John agreed, “but Prudence wasn’t involved with any of that.”

“Not that we know of, but the newspaper did say that there was an unnamed ‘undercover agent.’”

“And you think that might have been Prudence? Her story about coming out here to be a Courier for the Indian Detours was just a cover? Seems like a pretty elaborate ruse. And if that were the case, why would Simmons be searching her room?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” Clara exclaimed. “It does sound unlikely when you put it that way. But what else could it be?”

John slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. As you say, Simmons is a prohis, so bootlegging seems reasonable, but, Prudence as an undercover agent?” He frowned. “If she is one, she’s a good one, because no one would ever guess she’s anything but a former librarian.”

“I thought I heard Simmons say something about ‘pot smuggling.’ Could it be to do with marijuana?”

John laughed loudly. “Prudence is even less likely to be messed up with bootleg dope, honey! Not that someone else on the Detour might not be, but not Prudence. She doesn’t even smoke legal cigarettes.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Clara said, as they approached the steps to her house, “I hope she’s not in danger.”

“So do I, honey, so do I,” John said as he held the door open for Clara to pass through.

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About Author Suzanne Stauffer

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After 20 years as a librarian and 20 as a professor of library science and library historian, Suzanne Stauffer has moved on to a third career as a mystery novelist. She currently lives in Albuquerque with her Australian husband and brown and white spotted rat terrier dogter, Treme. Her debut novel,  Fried Chicken Castañeda (Artemesia Publishing, May 2025), won the CIPA EVVY Bronze Medal in Mystery/Crime/Detection and the New Mexico Book Award for Cozy Mystery.

Author Links: Blog / Facebook / SubStack Newsletter Amuse-Bouche

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GIVEAWAY

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TOUR PARTICIPANTS

October 12 – Angel’s Book Nook – SPOTLIGHT

October 12 – Reading Is My SuperPower – SPOTLIGHT

October 13 – Ascroft, eh? – AUTHOR GUEST POST

October 14 – Sarandipity’s – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

October 14 – Salty Inspirations – CHARACTER GUEST POST

October 15 – Christy’s Cozy Corners – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

October 16 – Books, Ramblings, and Tea – SPOTLIGHT

October 16 – Jody’s Bookish Haven – SPOTLIGHT

October 17 – Socrates Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

October 18 – Cozy Up With Kathy – REVIEW, CHARACTER GUEST POST

October 18 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

October 19 – Sarcastically Yours, Jen – SPOTLIGHT

October 20 – Book HookUp – REVIEW

October 20 – Baroness Book Trove – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

October 21 – Boys’ Mom Reads! – REVIEW

October 22 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – REVIEW

October 23 – Romance Novel Giveaways – AUTHOR GUEST POST

October 24 – Books1987 – SPOTLIGHT

October 25 – Sapphyria’s Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

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Book Details:

 Soldier’s Joy: Book II of The Sentinel Heart Trilogy

By M.F. Jones

Category:  Adult Fiction (18 yrs +)
Genre: Romance:  historical, supernatural, military​
Publisher:  Fieldwood Books
Release date:   Sep 28, 2026
Content Rating: PG-13 + M: Soldier’s Joy contains wartime violence, the suicide of a minor character, two slightly explicit sex scenes though without gratuitous detail, and profanities like s**t, a**hole, and God damn it, though no f-words.

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Book Description:

Avery Gowan is barely home from Iraq when a ghost appears to him—one that looks disturbingly like him. The apparition says that Jessie Gibbs, a woman he’s just met, can help him escape the guilt of the mission that killed three of his friends and maimed another.

A few days earlier, at a service honoring his family’s Civil War relative, Lemuel Sanders, Avery was drawn to Jessie’s quiet strength and calm presence. Jessie, a musician, had been camping with her Civil War-style band the previous year when she discovered Lemuel’s unmarked woodland grave, leading to his identification and proper burial after 145 years.

Jessie and Avery begin a relationship, but his anger, recklessness, and self-doubt threaten to tear them apart. When the ghost saves him from a deadly motorcycle crash, Avery hides the truth about his spectral guardian, afraid Jessie will see him as broken beyond repair.

But Jessie is hiding something too—a secret about her true connection to Lemuel Sanders that may cost her Avery’s love.

The sequel to the award-winning Stones River, Soldier’s Joy nonetheless stands alone as a haunting, emotionally charged story about how the past refuses to stay buried, how healing demands facing it, and how love gives the courage to do so.

Buy the Book:
Amazon
B&N ~ BAM ~ Bookshop.org
add to Goodreads
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Interview With Author M. F. Jones:
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Thanks so much for the chance to talk about my writing! I thought it might be helpful to share some things I wish I’d known as a beginning writer.  

  1. 1. Just do it. It’s strange how reluctant we writers can be to actually sit down and do what we most want to do. I think it’s because the fear of doing it badly stops us. Try to produce something every day, even if it’s short.

I trick myself sometimes, telling myself, “Just write for 15 minutes and if it’s going nowhere you can stop.” Usually that carries me past the initial resistance and I get into the flow.

  1. 2. Don’t expect it to be any good at first. What kept me from pursuing my writing dream for far too long was how cringe-inducing my first attempts were. Believing that a real writer with real talent would never produce such junk, I quickly gave up.

But as I learned more about the writing process, I discovered that, for the great majority of writers, first drafts require suspension of all judgment as you hack your way through thickets of tangled ideas and slog through swamps of mucky language toward the goal of getting something—anything!—on paper or on screen. Because once you have that first draft, you’re on your way. You can cut it, add to it, shape it, polish it, and make something truly worthwhile of it.

Also, it’s virtually certain that, along the way in that messy first draft, you’ll produce sentences, paragraphs, scenes, maybe whole chapters, that give you chills of joy and may even make you think, did this really come from me? 

Having realized all this, my self-made obstacles toppled and I was able to write my way through this trying first stage to produce five books – so far.

  1. 3. Block negative self-talk. If, as you write, your inner disparager says something to you that you’d never say to a friend, tell it to get lost in your most vivid language, and keep on writing!
  2. 4. Find a supportive writers’ group. We writers can only improve through criticism, but that criticism has to be, first, kind, and, second, insightful. A good writers’ group, whether in person or online, is an invaluable asset. Look for fellow writers to share work with, in local writers’ organizations, through colleges or the library, or on websites devoted to writing. (Writers Digest magazine publishes an annual guide to best websites for writers.)
  3. 5. Filter feedback. At the same time as you need to be open to criticism, you also need to be selective. With my first effort at a novel, now in a bureau drawer never to emerge, I was a member of a group of smart and opinionated writers. Being a newbie, I accepted each of their critiques as a necessary change I needed to make. As a result, I gave up my own voice and vision in trying to please others, and the result was what could be expected from creativity by committee.

You’re the authority on your work. Be open to criticism, but weigh it carefully against your vision and your individual style. Reject any outright negativity; it reflects more on the limitations of the critic than on the work. Remember that reading taste is highly subjective.

  1. 6. Read a lot. It will develop your inner ear for language and sense of pacing and form. You’ll discover what you love in a book or story or essay, and that love will find expression in your own work. If you have a particular genre you’re writing in, read widely in that genre and join online groups devoted to it.
  2. Give yourself praise. No matter how a particular writing session may have gone, congratulate yourself for doing it. You wrote today. Tomorrow you’ll write again, a little or a lot better. You’re doing the work. You’re a writer.
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Meet Author M. F. Jones:

M. F. JONES is a former editor for Viking Press book publishers, and Redbook, Family Circle, and Reader’s Digest magazines. When not writing, she can be found reading, knitting (while listening to audiobooks), singing in a choir, or hiking in the beautiful Tennessee woods near the home she shares with her husband, composer Douglas Hedwig. ​

Connect with the author:   Website~ facebook ~ goodreads

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Welcome to My 31 Days Of Thrills And Chills 2026! I’m so excited to do it again. I’ll be sharing reviews and lots of extra spooky stuff every day leading up to Halloween. I hope you’ll join me!

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Free Computer Seeks photo and picture

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I’m sharing all kinds of books, movies, and other spooky stuff for every day in October. Gots to get those scares on for the 31st!

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 Don’t Go To Sleep

By Bryce Moore

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Genre: YA / Horror / Historical / Mystery

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MY REVIEW

I’m a big fan of true crime. Whether reading about it or watching documentaries. Though this book is fiction, The Axeman Of New Orleans was very real.

I enjoy historical mysteries. Especially those with a horror and supernatural element to them. The setting for this story is New Orleans during the Spanish Flu epidemic. I could relate after Covid. A serial killer is adding to his victim count and he has a specific type. Italians and Italian Americans. That doesn’t mean he’ll stick to the criteria and fear spreads.

I wasn’t expecting a supernatural twist and it didn’t quite hit for me. The main characters were interesting but for some reason I couldn’t get that anxious feeling for them that I should have. I did find the epidemic intriguing. And I was very curious about the killings. Enough to do some googling of my own.

Overall, I enjoyed the book and would try more from this author.

3 STARS

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Synopsis

A seventeen-year old girl goes up against the notorious axeman murderer in 1918 in this suspenseful historical fiction story from the author of The Perfect Place to Die.

Gianna is the average seventeen-year-old girl living in 1918 New Orleans. She worries about her family’s store, the great war, and a mysterious illness that’s about to take hold of the city she loves.

It doesn’t help that there also appears to be a mad man on the loose in her neighborhood. The attacks started as burglaries but soon escalate to cold blooded murder. There’s a killer out there, and the police can’t seem to figure out how to stop him.

Gianna enlists the help of her friend Enzo to investigate. And as they study the crimes, they see a common link between the victims, and Gianna can’t help but wonder if it’s the same man who attacked her family years before.

As Gianna gets closer to the killer, she discovers a connection between them that she never would have suspected.

Amazon /  B&N

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Holmes Away From Home (An Althea Adler Mystery)
by Samantha Larsen


Holmes Away From Home (An Althea Adler Mystery)
Historical Cozy Mystery
1st in Series
Setting – London, 1911
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Severn House
Publication date ‏ : ‎ October 6, 2026
Hardcover
Print length ‏ : ‎ 240 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1448322405
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1448322404
Digital Coming – September 16, 2026

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Introducing Althea Adler, accomplished thief and daring heroine with a mysterious link to Sherlock Holmes.

A heart-racing game of wits, murder and romance is about to commence . . .

London, 1911. Althea Adler receives a mysterious postcard with just four words, ‘Holmes away from home.’ Surely her mother, notorious thief and opera star Irene Adler, is instructing her to break into Sherlock Holmes’s safe? But when she does, Althea makes a shocking discovery . . .

Still reeling from events at 221b Baker Street, Althea accepts an invitation to a party at Twickenham Towers, the ancestral home of Lord Slough, where a murder throws her into further turmoil―as does handsome fellow guest William, the Marquess of Sheffield, who has been tasked with staking out Slough by the British Government.

Althea and William form an unlikely alliance as they set about catching a killer. But can they trust each other when they both have something to hide?

An addictive new cozy mystery trilogy featuring a super smart, lively heroine, a dashing lord and a fiendishly good whodunnit, perfect for fans of Sherlock Holmes’s classic mysteries, Deanna Raybourn’s Veronica Speedwell Mysteries, and Netflix’s The Residence.

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Enjoy this peek inside:

The private library at his gentlemen’s club felt very warm. William saw a lively fire blazing in the hearth. The only man in the room was his employer, who sat on a wingback chair beside a mahogany table. His superior had salt-and-pepper hair that was combed over his round head and reached his ears. He was a large man in height and size; his lips and nose were unremarkable, but his blue eyes, nearly black, were unsettling as they were sharp.

“You’re back early, Sheffield,” he drawled.

“Sir,” William said, bowing to his superior. “There’s been important developments in my assignment. On Monday, I broke into Lord Slough’s London flat and found a custom metal wax seal with the Red Dawn symbol. It matches the design seals on the threatening letters received by the prime minister and other members of government. I nicked a piece of the crimson wax stick from his desk and had the police lab compare it to the other wax seals from letters of the Red Dawn—the compound is identical. It definitely ties Slough and his group to the bombing of David Lloyd George’s London residence in January.”

“I should like to see this metal seal.”

William sighed. “I left it in the secret compartment in his desk, because I wanted Slough to lead me to the other members of the society. I didn’t want him to realize that he was under investigation. It is unlikely that he is working alone.”

“A shrewd choice.”

William tried not to let the blood rush to his face over such a small compliment. Particularly since he’d had no further luck. “I’ve been tailing Lord Slough for a week now, but I am no closer to knowing if the current members of the Red Dawn anarchist society are the same ones from Slough’s secret club at Eton.”

“I need to know as soon as possible. The Red Dawn is still sending threatening letters to Prime Minister Asquith and promising to assassinate him if he continues to support restricting and removing power from the House of Lords. Other parliamentary members have also received menacing letters if they support Irish home rule.”

William sighed. Their threat to the government was even greater.

When he’d returned to London a week and a half ago he’d recognized the sun symbol on the wax seal at once, for he’d lifted Saul’s secret-society card off him more than ten years ago. Stealing had been the only way that William could get revenge on the larger boys in school that used him as a punching bag. At Eton, William had thought that the secret society was just a way for the aristocratic boys to bully members of the working class. They egged storefronts, taunted male laborers, and tried to steal kisses from young female shop assistants. But it seemed that their thuggish ways had escalated into bombs and a real political threat.

The older man tapped his thick fingers against the side of his chair. “The crown supports restricting the House of Lords’ power from one of veto to one of delay. While you were still in Egypt, King Edward VII gave a speech from the throne on the twenty-first of February to that very effect. We have been tasked not only to protect the prime minister, but all the members of his Liberal party cabinet. We must find the members of the Red Dawn as soon as possible. The House of Commons intends to pass resolutions in the next two months that will remove the power of the House of Lords to veto money bills and to reduce the term of Parliament from seven years to five—the king would have preferred four years, but concessions must be made for progress.”

William placed his hands behind his back, gripping one wrist tightly with the other hand—a prickling of unease on his scalp. “Perhaps we should arrest Slough. Maybe if we promise leniency in his sentencing he will tell us the other members of the group.”

“Don’t second-guess yourself, Sheffield. It’s unlikely that he would tell us the truth and even if he did, it would be Slough’s word against another man’s. No, your theory makes perfect sense: a group of aristocratic young men who will one day inherit hereditary positions in the House of Lords are trying to protect their future power with violence and threats. Perhaps they are even being encouraged by their fathers who are current parliamentary members who don’t want Irish home rule to pass. We need to catch them in the act of conspiracy against the government or their privileged papas will tear us apart in court.”

William lifted his chin. “I thought I needed to get closer to Slough, so I made contact with him. I wangled an invitation to his family home, Twickenham Towers, for the weekend . . . I am hoping that he is less cautious at home with hiding information or that I can gain his trust and perhaps receive an invitation to join the secret group.”

His employer nodded and his eyes narrowed. “Then he doesn’t suspect you?”

“No, no,” William assured him as he shook his head. “I pretended to run into him at a department store and Slough was adequately distracted by the most beautiful young woman I have ever laid eyes upon.”

The older man brought one of his sausage-like fingers to his chin. “Describe her.”

“Venus, Aphrodite,” William admitted, feeling his face flush with color. “Blue eyes, rich-coffee colored hair that you long to run your fingers through, an angelic face, and a figure—”

There were no words for the perfection of Miss Adler’s figure, so William whistled.

His employer’s lips moved a little, but William wasn’t sure if the movement was enough to be called a smile. “Did you get her name?”

“Miss Adler.”

“Adler?” his employer said sharply and leaned forward. “An American?”

“Yes,” William admitted, blinking. “Do you know of her?”

“I once knew a Miss Adler. She had the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. She was a formidable thief and a potential political nightmare for Europe.”

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About Author Samantha Larsen

Samantha writes cozy mysteries under Samantha Larsen and historical romances under Samantha Hastings. She met her husband in a turkey sandwich line. They live in Salt Lake City, Utah, where she spends most of her time reading, eating popcorn, having tea parties, and chasing her four kids. She has degrees from Brigham Young University, University of North Texas, and University of Reading (UK). She’s the author of: The Last Word, The Invention of Sophie Carter, A Royal Christmas Quandary, The Girl with the Golden Eyes, Jane Austen Trivia, The Duchess Contract, Secret of the Sonnets, The Marquess and the Runaway Lady, and A Novel Disguise. Learn more at: www.SamanthaHastings.com

Author Links
Website      Instagram     Facebook      X     BookBub

Preorder Links 
Amazon – B&N

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TOUR PARTICIPANTS

September 16 – Ascroft, eh? – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

September 16 – Sarcastically Yours, Jen – SPOTLIGHT

September 17 – Jody’s Bookish Haven – SPOTLIGHT

September 17 – Storybook Lady – REVIEW 

September 18 – Books, Ramblings, and Tea – SPOTLIGHT 

September 18 – Baseball, Books, and Banter Podcast/YouTube – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

September 19 – Socrates Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

September 20 – Cozy Up With Kathy – REVIEW, CHARACTER GUEST POST

September 21 – Baroness Book Trove – REVIEW

September 21 – Angel’s Book Nook – AUTHOR GUEST POST

September 22 – Ruff Drafts – SPOTLIGHT

September 22 – Carstairs Considers – REVIEW

September 23 – Reading Reality – REVIEW

September 23 – Sarandipity’s – SPOTLIGHT

September 24 – Books1987 – SPOTLIGHT

September 24 – Salty Inspirations – SPOTLIGHT

September 25 – Boys’ Mom Reads! – REVIEW

September 25 – Sapphyria’s Book Reviews – SPOTLIGHT

September 26 – FUONLYKNEW – SPOTLIGHT

September 26 – Book HookUp – REVIEW

September 27 – Romance Novel Giveaways – SPOTLIGHT

September 28 – Novels Alive – REVIEW

September 29 – deal sharing aunt – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

September 29 – Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book – REVIEW

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The Harlot of St. Cecelia's by Darcy Graves Banner

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THE HARLOT OF ST. CECELIA’S
by Darcy Graves
September 21 – October 16, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
An Inspector Garrett Mystery

  London, 1923. American expat librarian Eden Brior thinks things are bad when she is accidentally locked overnight in the St. Cecelia’s Library vault with the charming and unreliable Simon Cross. Then she emerges to find the body of his estranged wife — a celebrated French actress — draped over a chair upstairs. Detective Inspector William Garrett is methodical, quietly perceptive, and already fairly certain he has his man. He tells Eden firmly to go home and leave the detecting to the professionals. But how can she? Racing to clear their names before Garrett closes the case, Eden follows the truth from the bright footlights of the London stage through the sleek drawing rooms of Jazz Age society, and into secrets that someone will kill to keep buried. Steeped in the style of the golden age of detective fiction, The Harlot of St. Cecelia’s captures a London still glittering on the surface and shadowed underneath — where every drawing room hides a secret and every secret has a price.

Perfect for fans of Jacqueline Winspear’s Maisie Dobbs series.

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Praise for The Harlot of St. Cecelia’s:

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“This novel consistently delights, from the spicy title to the last page.” ~ Kirkus Reviews

 

Book Details:

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Genre: Historical Mystery

Published by: Independently Published Publication Date: May 3, 2026 Number of Pages: 306 ISBN: 979-8195315580 Series: Inspector Garrett Mystery Series, Book 1

Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub

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Enjoy this peek inside:

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About Author Darcy Graves:

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Darcy Graves

Darcy Graves grew up in Boston and holds an MA in English history and a BS in copywriting. A marketing content writer for over thirty years, she brings to her work a deep love of the golden age of detective fiction — particularly Agatha Christie and P.D. James — and the whimsy of P.G. Wodehouse. Darcy lives in the Berkshires with her daughter, two ragdoll cats, and a very naughty terrier named Merial. The Harlot of St. Cecelia’s is her first novel.

Catch Up With Darcy Graves:

DarcyGravesAuthor.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @darcygravesauthor Instagram – @darcygravesauthor

 

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This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for The Harlot of St. Cecelia’s. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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Welcome to my stop on the virtual book for Killer Friends tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.

Author Chris Karlsen will be awarding a $20 Amazon or B&N Gift Card to a randomly drawn winner. Don’t forget to enter!

And you can click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

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Killer Friends

By Chris Karlsen

 

 

Genre: Historical Suspense

Synopsis

Henrietta Newell stormed into the detective bureau. She claimed her adult son was missing and feared for his safety. The detectives attempted to reassure her that the absence of a bachelor in his thirties, in a city like London, wasn’t extraordinary. Despite their efforts, she insisted an investigation be conducted, reminding them of her political connections.

Detective Rudyard Bloodstone and his partner were told to look into the matter. Their investigation reveals evidence of suspicious and unusual activity but no clues regarding the man’s disappearance. The few leads they develop take them from the world of wealthy families and into the secret society of sexual peculiarities.

The detectives discover the victim didn’t simply disappear. He was murdered. They have the evidence except for one problem, they’re missing the victim’s body.

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Enjoy this peek inside:

Newell counted to one hundred out of excess of caution in case Eric and Leo remained nearby. At one-hundred he stood by the door, delayed for a couple of seconds, searching for a way to open the door. His vision, cut off by the bag when they hustled him into the room, he was unaware the knob had been removed.

Newell kicked the lock housing. The door didn’t budge. He took a few steps back to build momentum and kicked the lock again. The force knocked him on his bum and sent a shock wave of pain from his ankle to his knee. He scrambled to his feet and, gave his kicking leg a few good jerks, hoping to shake off the pain. He couldn’t say why he thought that would help other than he’d seen workmen shake limbs after hurting themselves.

The effort didn’t ease the pain. No point in repeating another kick. He took the only option left and screamed for help.

No one came.

Outside, drunks shouted challenges and curses to each other. London was never truly quiet. The seedier the neighborhood, the louder the inhabitants. Foot traffic along the river was constant, increasing during the day, but still busy at night. Surely, someone should hear him. He yelled, loud as he could.

Nothing.

He shouted for help again and again.

No one came.

Newell’s throat felt like he’d swallowed broken glass when he finally stopped for the night. Exhausted, he curled up on the cold floor and tried to sleep. Every part of his back ached. Shoulders to his tailbone throbbed like he’d been beaten with an iron rod. The pain traveled and no matter how he positioned himself, his calves and thighs cramped. When he had found a sliver of comfort, rest continued to escape him. Questions plagued his thoughts. After a while he sat up with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head pressed to them.

Another gust of fetid air from the river wafted through the only window. Three millennia of foul matter, human and otherwise, hung like a cloud over the room. He idly wondered if there was ever a time the Thames wasn’t a filthy cesspit.

“Bloody hell.” To escape the worst of the stink, Newell moved to the far corner and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Initially, with all the daytime activity around the river, Newell didn’t think Eric could keep him prisoner for long. Someone would discover what Eric had done. A day passed and then another passed. He still hoped he’d be heard. He removed a shoe and pounded the wall that bordered the wharf. Between hits he and screamed and screamed, “Help me, please. Someone, help me. I’m locked inside. Help me.”

No one heard or if they did, they had no desire to heed the call. Still, someone should’ve been curious enough to investigate but who knew how thick the brick walls were? Eric was clever. It wouldn’t surprise Phillip if Eric had tested how well a scream traveled.

Newell lay in a fetal position on the floor, shivering. He began to sob as he waited for Eric’s return, waiting to beg for release. He was weeping when Eric finally arrived.

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About Author Chris Karlsen:

Chris is a Chicago native who grew up with a love of history and books.

Passionate about traveling her travels have taken her Europe, the Near East, and North Africa, in addition to most of the United States.

Chris spent twenty-five years in law enforcement with two agencies. Harboring a strong desire to write, upon retiring, Chris decided to pursue her desire. She writes three different series. Her Bloodstone series, which is set in Victorian London, features homicide Detective Rudyard Bloodstone.

She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four wild and crazy rescue dogs.

Website / Facebook

Amazon / B&N / KOBO / Goodreads / Audible

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GIVEAWAY

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.