Posts Tagged ‘review’

.

Ralph & Murray

by Rick Glaze

 

 

Synopsis (from Amazon):

In the quaint backdrop of a small southern town, circa 1959, an extraordinary tale unfolds through the charming narration of an unlikely storyteller – Ralph, a spirited four-legged companion with a knack for punchy humor.

Amidst a world where most dogs merely wag their tails and feline neighbors purr quietly, Ralph and his witty counterpart, Murray, emerge as remarkable exceptions, gifted with extraordinary abilities.

As they traverse the idyllic landscapes of their hometown, encountering ghosts, hobos, and even the iconic twist dance craze spearheaded by Chubby Checker himself, Ralph and Murray’s adventures take on a whimsical, yet deeply resonant quality.

Through their escapades, readers are treated to a delightful journey brimming with empathy, kindness, and compassion, serving as a poignant reminder of the power of standing up for others.

From unraveling the mysteries of why pencils have erasers to discovering who might have alligators for lunch, Ralph and Murray weave a tapestry of nostalgia from a bygone era with heartwarming humor and infectious charm.

Readers of all ages are invited to immerse themselves in a world where the bonds of friendship and the beauty of diversity reign supreme, leaving behind a trail of laughter, wisdom, and unforgettable memories.

~~~~~

Enjoy this peek inside:

Chapter 1 

 

After the car ride across town when they first brought me home, my stomach was rumbling around, and I upchucked on the kitchen floor. That’s when they  named me Ralph. It’s an average name for a dog. Especially suited for a pound puppy with short, white hair from the neck down, black and brown fur on my head distributed judiciously, lanky legs not quite eight inches long, and a nondescript tail wagging most of the time. I lie around the house and yard like dogs tend to do, waiting on some action from the people around here.

A cat started wandering over my fence and I raced out and pretended to catch him in my lockjaw fangs and tear him to shreds. Actually, it’s Murray next door and if he didn’t show up occasion- ally, it would be even more boring when the kids are off at school. So, I race out to intercept him, he screeches and arches his back and pretends he’s a vicious lion, and king of the fence. We have a Mexican standoff for a minute from his perch on top of the fence; then he jumps back to his yard and I go back to the shade of my patio. It breaks up the afternoon, what can I say?

Like most Americans, I don’t have a notable pedigree. And no, I don’t try to fabricate  the pedigree thing by showing off “designer” labels. Well, I actually don’t wear  labels. But if I had a well-placed blush of color across my back, I might have a  pedigree…at least for some folks. It’s a fun game, but actually I have more fun with  the Murray thing.

When I joined the family, Tommy was eleven, and Ricky was nine. I was almost six  months old and didn’t know much about a dog’s life or how people acted, but I  started watching everything. I noticed there was a hierarchy in the family, a kind of  pecking order, and it adjusted itself depending on who was in the house. For  example, when Dad was home, there was an unwritten deferral to him as the top dog, no pun intended. Mom was the default when Dad was on a trip, and when in  their rooms, big brother Tommy was the alpha, leaving Ricky on the bottom  rung…except for me, but I’m just a dog.

So telling a story from a dog’s perspective, you’d think it would be pretty limited. After all, I can’t speak, and I don’t have a place at the supper table to talk over the

day’s events, and all that sort of thing. But two things happened that changed all  that.

One April afternoon when the springtime sun was breaking through a cloudy gloom,  and drying the winter-soaked yard, I was making a security check around the  periphery of the back fence. I turned the corner and looked up to see Murray sitting  leisurely on a cross beam at the top. He was sprawled out so his red-white-and touches-of-black coat caught the waning sunlight in an almost shiny glisten. While  standing there motionless dismissing my gut reaction to defend the sanctity of my  turf, a small, quiet voice spoke into my ear. “How’s it going today, buddy?” I tilted my  head at this strange sound while I looked up at Murray. His mouth was stretched out  in a big grin and it looked like he actually winked at me. Bewildered, my head turned  back the other way. “It’s okay, you can do this,” the voice whispered. Looking back to Murray, I thought, “Are you talking to me?” “Yes, and it’s okay,” the voice said.

Over time, Murray showed me how to listen to everything around me including, and  most intriguingly, people. When he climbs to the top of the fence, I still run out as if  tearing him to pieces, because we both like doing it. But the world changed, and a lot  of the things that happen are no longer a mystery.

Okay, as if that’s not enough. In the evenings after dinner, the boys go to their rooms  and do homework. As I had no homework of my own to do, I broke up the boredom by shuttling back and forth between the two bedrooms. Snuggling into Tom’s bedspread, I watched him stare at books and quietly turn the pages, sometimes fast and other times deliberate, while writing on an adjacent pad. Watching Ricky was a different experience, and led to the second life-changing event. For one, he usually sat on the bed with a couple of pillows behind his back. Sometimes he had a pad of  paper out, but other times he leafed through books with a steady even pace, and  then I noticed the thing that was the defining moment. He was moving his lips as he read, literally mouthing the words. And get this, about half the time he actually whispered each word as he read…so low that people didn’t notice, but I have better hearing than people. After a while I found a position to sit where I could watch the page while hearing the words. Now sit down and take a deep breath, because what  I’m about to tell you is hard to swallow. Ready? Okay, here goes. Under this strange confluence of circumstances, I taught myself to read. Okay, I know. Believe me I get  it. I’m a dog. Dogs can be very smart, and some can think and even outwit their masters. But read?

Well, let it settle in for a bit while I tell you some stories of growing up in this small  Southern town.

~~~~~

MY REVIEW

Try to imagine navigating the world through the eyes and ears of a dog or a cat. You can enjoy that experience with Ralph and Murray. From grasping our language to learning how to read, their adventures are a delight to experience. Murray takes the young dog, Ralph, under his wing and guides him with a grudging tolerance that becomes a true friendship.

As people, we tend to give our beloved creatures human characteristics. It’s called anthropomorphism. What makes this such an enchanting, fun story is how the author makes me see the world as Murray, a cat, and Ralph, a dog. I walk in their shoes, or I should say paws. What fun.

4 STARS

~~~~~

Guest Post

How Ralph & Murray Came to Be

 

Ralph & Murray is a pandemic book. Yes, it was easy to find time to write while literally everything was shut down. But, as I’ve heard from writers and others, the whole uncertainty and anxiety of this unknown event took a toll on mental space. I’m grateful that a lighthearted book was on my agenda. Ralph and I shared serious chuckles writing it.

 

I had planned a memoir incorporating growing up in a small southern town in the 1950s, leading later to the abrupt changes and unhinged people I encountered in Silicon Valley. It had some nice twists to it. The California segment was planned to be live interviews with a group of disparate characters that I was hoping to be quite juicy. Sounds kind of fun, right?

 

Okay. Maybe you’re guessing what happened. My March 8, 2020 flight to Silicon Valley was postponed for a week or two until this little virus thing blew over. Instead, it blew under the rug, under the sheets, and stole all the toilet paper.

 

The interview format was going to be a stretch for me in the first place, because it was a new approach. So, with no visits to the west coast and no interviews, I was relieved to enlist Ralph, my dog, to tell this story. I gave serious thought to the format, because I had some concern that there was little in the way of a fixed plot running through the various vignettes.

 

One of the most popular contemporary memoirs was a favorite of mine, and this was a perfect time to re-read Tuesdays With Morrie, a deeply touching and intimate story where the only plot was that the story took place every Tuesday. Like with every book, I was worried whether or not the book would find an audience. Ralph and his zany buddy, Murray saved the day, and as you can tell there is overwhelming, laugh-out-loud interest.

 

During the writing, there is a chance if you were around me and had something whacky or offbeat going on, you got a little ink or maybe your own chapter. For example, I escaped to Florida for a week and visited the Everglades. The fan boats skidded across the swamp and the guide explained details of the food chain, as in the adult racoons eat the baby alligators and the adult reptiles eat the racoons. As you may know, Murray chewed this one up in the chapter called, “The Big Ones Eat the Little Ones.” Thank you, Murray!

 

Now a confession. When Ralph is reading the letters from Uncle Art, it may be pure plagiarism. Is it stealing if I wrote in a different format? I hope not. A couple of these came from my previous weekly column in Silicon Valley, The Uncle Art of Investing. I’m not surprised these short, whacky pieces made it into the book. But I am surprised they made it into the newspaper in the first place.

 

There is a grain of truth in most of the vignettes in the book, even though the dog and cat mix things up a bit. That is, except for Zeke, down by the creek. I created Zeke so he could wind through some stories and places that the dog, cat, and the kids couldn’t go. In the end this is my memoir, even though I recruited Ralph and Murray to do the heavy lifting, so the last chapter finishes on a nostalgic note, which makes me feel just fine.

~~~~~

Interview With Author Rick Glaze

On writing:

 

How did you do research for your book?

I did research during the pandemic by inviting my friend Buddy to reminisce about those times and our adventures when we were ten years old. Also, I took the short drive from Nashville to my hometown, where the book is set. I drove around and walked around the neighborhoods. I stopped frequently in front of my childhood home and studied the whole place letting my imagination run free.

 

In your book you make a reference to Zeke, the neighborhood character. How did you come up with this idea?

We were small-town kids and didn’t know much about the outside world. Zeke purported to have traveled the world and didn’t mind telling stories about exciting places and things he’d done…even if he made up most of them. His stories opened their world up to many possibilities.

 

Where do you get inspiration for your stories?

I listen a lot looking for twists and turns in people’s lives that might make a story. I also try to frequently read both fiction and non-fiction. I generally latch onto a big story idea and then watch and open up to elements that fit. For example, with Ralph & Murray, I toured the Everglades while writing it, and came back with a really fun twist on “who eats alligators for lunch.”

 

There are many books out there that are memoirs or about dogs. What makes yours different?

This book is a memoir about my growing up in a small southern town in the late 1950’s, but the narrator is two-feet high and walks on all fours. How could you not be Laugh-Out-Loud funny with that?

 

What advice would you give budding writers?

ABCD. Apply butt to chair daily. Okay…and get some training so you have a baseline to work from.

 

Your book is set in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Have you ever been there?

I was born there.

 

Do you have another profession besides writing?

I retired from a business career.

 

How long have you been writing?

I started writing a weekly business column for a local newspaper in California around 1995, but didn’t try fiction until I was in classes at Stanford University in 2006.

 

Do you ever get writer’s block? What helps you overcome it?

Writer’s block is just losing focus. I try to turn the anxiety and frustrations of the moment into great scenes or dialogue. I stand back and embrace the feelings, and learn not to let these emotions slip away unused. I try to not think about myself too much.

 

What is your next project?

We are editing Book two in the Pieces of Eight series called Eight Pieces of Eight. A new dog and cat book is on the drawing board called Ralph & Murray: The Parrot, the Poison, and the Ghost.

 

What is a favorite compliment you have received on your writing?

One reader said, “I had to leave the room, I was laughing so hard.”

 

If your book were made into a movie, what songs would be on the soundtrack?

I expect that I’ll write them.

 

Which authors inspired you to write?

My favorite writer is Jack London.

 

Where do you write?

I write in my home office.

 

Do you write every day?

When in the middle of a manuscript, I try to write 5 or 6 days a week for a few hours.

 

Fun stuff:

 

If there is one thing you want readers to remember about you, what would it be?

He is really good looking and he’s nice to dogs. But seriously, I like to paint word pictures for the reader. I like my characters to show their feelings and be relatable to readers. I want readers to be intrigued by the story and the plot.

 

What is something you’ve learned about yourself during the pandemic?

It’s okay to be alone!!

 

What is your theme song? 

I wrote a song called, “Nickel Beer.” It’s on Spotify, iTunes, and you’ll be glad you listened to it.

 

What song is currently playing on a loop in your head? 

I wrote a song for Ralph to sing about the mom of the house called “Looking After Me.” The recording is almost finished, but I haven’t released it, and it’s rolling around my head.

 

What is your go-to breakfast item?

I usually have Greek Yogurt, blueberries, granola and bacon on the side.

 

Tell us about your longest friendship.

My longest friendship is made clear in the pages of Ralph & Murray. He’s Buddy in the book.

 

Who was your childhood celebrity crush?

I wanted to be Elvis.

~~~~~

About Author Rick Glaze:

.

Rick Glaze published the kayaking adventure, The Purple River in 2021, Spanish Pieces of Eight, a sailing adventure/mystery, and Jackass: Short Story Collection in 2022. He was a Columnist at San Francisco’s Nob Hill Gazette, attended the Stanford University Creative Writing Program, and is a graduate of Peabody College, Vanderbilt University, and MTSU.

He is an award-winning songwriter with two CDs, a Pandora radio station, credits on Country Music Television (CMT), BBC Radio, as well as radio airplay. Rick has rafted the Grand Canyon, the Salmon and Rogue Rivers as well as sailed throughout the Caribbean Sea.

 

Author Links: Website / Facebook / Twitter/X / Instagram

Author Marketing Experts tags for social media:

Twitter / Instagram

 

Purchase Links: Amazon / Goodreads

Praise:

“”Rick Glaze does an amazing job of sharing what life was like in the 50s and 60s through the perspective of a dog and it makes for a hilarious and unique book.”

Red Headed Book Lover Blog

 

Ralph & Murray is a delightful journey into nostalgia that will resonate with readers of all ages, making it a perfect shared experience for the entire family.”

Going Dad Blog

 

“A funny, smartly observant, and philosophical animal tale; a heartwarming read.”

Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

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~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the CABARET MACABRE by Tom
Mead Blog Tour hosted by 
Rockstar Book Tours.

.

Check out my review and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

CABARET MACABRE: A Locked-Room Mystery
(Joseph Spector Series)

Author: Tom Mead

 

 

Pub. Date: July 16, 2024

Publisher: Mysterious Press

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 320

.

Find it: Goodreadshttps://books2read.com/CABARET-MACABRE 

 

This latest puzzle mystery from the author of Death and the
Conjuror
 and The Murder Wheel takes stage magician
sleuth Joseph Spector to a grand estate in the English countryside.

.

Victor Silvius has spent nine years as an inmate at The Grange, a private
sanatorium, for the crime of attacking judge Sir Giles Drury. Now, the judge’s
wife, Lady Elspeth Drury, believes that Silvius is the one responsible for a
series of threatening letters her husband has recently received. Eager to avoid
the scandal that involving the local police would entail, Lady Elspeth seeks
out retired stage magician Joseph Spector, whose discreet involvement in a case
Sir Giles recently presided over greatly impressed her.

.

Meanwhile, Miss Caroline Silvius is disturbed after a recent visit to her
brother Victor, convinced that he isn’t safe at The Grange. Someone is trying
to kill him and she suspects the judge, who has already made Silvius’ life a
living hell, may be behind it. Caroline hires Inspector George Flint of
Scotland Yard to investigate.

.

The two cases collide at Marchbanks, the Drury family seat of over four
hundred years, where a series of unnerving events interrupt the peace and quiet
of the snowy countryside. A body is discovered in the middle of a frozen pond
without any means of getting there and a rifle is fired through a closed
window, killing a man but not breaking the glass. Only Spector and his mastery
of the art of misdirection can uncover the logical explanations for these
impossible crimes.

.

An atmospheric and puzzling traditional mystery that pays homage to the
greatest writers of the genre’s Golden Age, Cabaret Macabre is
the third book in Tom Mead’s Joseph Spector series, hailed by the Wall
Street Journal
 as “a recipe for pure nostalgic pleasure.” The books
can be enjoyed in any order.

.

MY REVIEW

Dust off the old brain pan folks. This one will put it to the test. How does a man get shot to death in a locked room and there are no bullet holes in the windows? How does a body get in the middle of a frozen pond? See, I told you this would be a tough solve. I love it when it’s tough. Makes me wish I was Peter Falk’s character, Lt. Columbo. Remember that show. He knew who did it, how they did it and why from the first time he met the suspect. The fun was seeing how he figured it out and proved it.

The cast or characters couldn’t be more fascinating…. or different.  An inmate at an insane asylum. A judge and his wife. A retired stage magician. An inspector from Scotland Yard. They all brought something to the table.

And the author did his best to keep my thoughts spinning and leading me down the garden path to some dead ends. Gotta love it when you have no clue of the who and how and still derive so much pleasure in not knowing.

This is the third book in the series and didn’t require my having to read the first two. It read easily as a stand alone. But, I want more by this author and will be grabbing those too.

5 STARS

.

 

Reviews:

.

“Ingenious . . . Mead hides all
the clues in plain sight, constructing a fair-play puzzle that will delight and
challenge readers who love pitting their own wits against the author’s. It’s
another crackerjack entry in an exceptional series.”― Publishers
Weekly STARRED REVIEW

.

“Mind-bogglingly complex . . . A lovely valentine to Mead’s idol, John
Dickson Carr, and even more to Clayton Rawson’s tales of The Great
Merlini.”― Kirkus

 

 

Enjoy this peek inside:

.

Bit by bit, Joseph Spector’s
world was shrinking. He was an old man now; his friends were dying off one by
one; his legs and back ached. A new decade―the 1940s―was scarcely a year away,
but to Spector this felt less like a new beginning than an eked-out ending.

.

However, time had left two
of Spector’s attributes mercifully unharmed. The first was his mind, which was
as quick and devilishly brilliant as ever. The second was his hands, which had
lost none of their spindly dexterity. In the distant past he had been a music
hall conjuror, and he still dressed like one in a suit of black velvet, with a
cloak lined in red silk. He brought a touch of old-world flamboyance into the
murky 20th century; he walked with a silver-tipped cane and dabbled in the
occult. He was out of step with his era, and yet he was an indelible product of
it; an embodiment of the baroque, the Grand Guignol.

.

Spector was on his way back
from a meeting of the London Occult Practice Collective when he first realised
someone was following him. The meeting had been out in Greenwich. It was a
pleasant trip with good food, good conversation, and one or two amusing tricks
into the bargain. Spector waited for the train back into the City feeling fat
and happy. But as he perched on one of the metal benches which lined the
platform, he felt eyes on him.

.

It was mid-afternoon, and
already dusk was closing in. The platform’s overhead lamps flickered to life
and clutches of travellers chatted, smoked and stamped their feet to stave off
the chill. Spector sat motionless with his bare fingers twined around the
handle of his cane.

.

Once he realised he was
under scrutiny, he waited a moment or two to make sure it was not simply his
imagination, or a trick of the gathering dark. But it wasn’t. Somewhere among
the little clusters of waiting travellers, somebody was watching him. Very slowly,
Spector turned, and with a sweeping glance took in the entire vista of the
platform. There were a few lone commuters, but only one viable suspect: a tall
man whose head was now hidden behind a three-day-old Herald. Spector studied
the man’s lower half, which was all that could be seen of him. Smart, tailored
trousers and impeccable patent leather shoes; a poor choice for this weather.
Whoever the man was, he was certainly no professional.

.

Soon enough, the train
arrived in a shriek of steam, and Spector smiled to himself as he boarded.

.

He disembarked at Paddington
and took a gentle amble through the crowds. He was in no rush to get back to
Putney. And once again, the eyes were on him. The man followed him along the
central concourse, past the various concession stands, as he threaded his way
through the bustle and toward the stone steps down into the Underground. Before
he began his descent, Spector cast a quick glance in the man’s direction, just
to check that he had not lost him.

.

He hadn’t. There the fellow
was, loitering in the shadow of a nearby pillar beneath the clock. Spector
headed down the steps, and the man followed.

.

His pursuer maintained a
careful distance on the Tube, but even though he frequently employed his
out-of-date newspaper, Spector got a good look at the man’s face. He was
younger than Spector had first thought, which went a considerable way toward
explaining these idiotic “Boy’s Own” antics. He had a merciless
Gwynplainian grin, but there was a vacancy in his eyes that told of both
ignorance and arrogance. He was convinced that he had the upper hand.

.

Stepping off the train at
Putney, Spector ascended the steps to street level and wondered briefly how
best to go about dealing with this fellow. There were two places in which he
was truly comfortable: the first was his home in Jubilee Court, a weird ramshackle
dwelling crammed with decades’ worth of macabre bric-a-brac. The second was the
nearby public house, The Black Pig; an ill-lit, low-ceilinged Elizabethan
tavern. To step through its door was to step back in time. Spector was as much
of a fixture there as the brass beer taps; it would not be the same without the
grey fug of his cigarillo smoke choking the atmosphere, or his skeletal,
cheerily funereal figure seated by the fire in the snug. From time to time he
gave impromptu displays of legerdemain: cardistry or coin manipulation to
bamboozle the regulars.

.

The Black Pig glowed warmly
at the other end of the street, its painted sign swinging in the icy breeze.
The young man halted. The magician had pulled off some kind of vanishing
act―the street was empty. The young man continued at a slower pace, his brow
creasing. He tilted his trilby back, as though he might find Joseph Spector
hiding behind the brim.

.

“What in the
hell―” he said, before his words were cut off by a sudden, sweeping motion
at his feet. The silver-tipped cane clipped his ankles and sent him sprawling,
his hat scudding off into the darkness.

.

The young man rolled onto
his back with a groan, and Joseph Spector towered over him. The old conjuror
smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

 

About Tom Mead:

.

 

Tom Mead is a Derbyshire mystery writer
and aficionado of Golden Age crime fiction. His debut novel, Death and
the Conjuror
, was an international bestseller, nominated for several
awards, and named one of the best mysteries of the year by The Guardian and Publishers
Weekly
. Its sequel, The Murder Wheel, was described as “pure
nostalgic pleasure” by the Wall Street Journal and “a delight”
by the Daily Mail. It was also named one of the Best Traditional
Mysteries of 2023 by CrimeReads. His third novel, Cabaret
Macabre
, will be published in 2024.

Subscribe to Tom’s newsletter! Scroll to the bottom.

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub

 

Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive a finished copy of CABARET MACABRE, US Only.

Ends August 6th, midnight EST.

.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Schedule:

Week One:

7/1/2024

Two Chicks on Books

Interview/IG Post

7/2/2024

Lady Hawkeye

Excerpt/IG Post

7/3/2024

Book Review Virginia Lee Blog

Excerpt/IG Post

7/4/2024

Daily
Waffle

Excerpt

7/5/2024

Writer of Wrongs

Excerpt

7/6/2024

@darkfantasyreviews

Excerpt

Week Two:

7/7/2024

@dreaminginpages

IG Review

7/8/2024

Brandi Danielle Davis

IG Review/TikTok Post

7/9/2024

Books and Zebras

IG Review

7/10/2024

@evergirl200

IG Review

7/11/2024

GryffindorBookishnerd

IG Review

7/12/2024

@katemageau

Review/IG Post

7/13/2024

Bookborne Hunter

Review/IG Post

Week Three:

7/14/2024

Lifestyle of Me

Review

7/15/2024

Fire
and Ice

Review/IG Post

7/16/2024

@jaimes_mystical_library

IG Post

7/17/2024

Edith’s Little Free Library

IG Review/LFL Drop Pic/TikTok Post

7/18/2024

Country Mamas With Kids

Review/IG Post

7/19/2024

Kim’s Book Reviews and Writing Aha’s

Review/IG Post

7/20/2024

The Momma Spot

Review/IG Post

Week Four:

7/21/2024

@lara.maynard

IG Review

7/22/2024

Dana Loves Books

Review/IG Post

7/23/2024

heyashleyyreads

IG Review/TikTok Post

7/24/2024

Deal sharing aunt

Review/IG Post

7/25/2024

One More Exclamation

Review/IG Post

7/26/2024

@amysbookshelf82

IG Review

7/27/2024

A Blue Box Full of Books

IG Review/LFL Drop Pic/TikTok Post

Week Five:

7/28/2024

@nolareads504

IG Post

7/29/2024

two
points of interest

Review

7/30/2024

More Books Please blog

Review/IG Post

7/31/2024

FUONLYKNEW

Review

 

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Wormwood

by D.H. Nevins

 

(Wormwood, #1)
Publication date: October 10th 2011
Genres: Adult, Dystopian, Fantasy, Romance, Young Adult

Angels. Demons. Love. Deceit.
“Nevins should be at the top of the New York Times Best-sellers List with this series.” – Amazon Reviewer

Tiamat and his brothers, a legion of one hundred half-angels, have orders to end all of humanity. Yet in a moment of weakness, Tiamat risks his life to rescue a hiker named Kali from the very destruction he initiated.
Kali, thrust from the surety of her world into the boundless hell of Tiamat’s, must try to find a way to survive on the Earth’s vast, devastated landscape. Plagued by a legion of Nephilim bent on sending her on, she is forced to trust Tiamat – the one being who could prove to be her greatest enemy.

“OMG … Fabulous. Unputdownable. 5 stars” – Fundinmental Reviews

“A new kind of tormented romance that is absolutely captivating.” – Carlyle Lasbuchane, USA Today bestselling author

Goodreads / Amazon

Only 99c for a limited time!

~~~~~

MY REVIEW

The first chapter introduces you to Kali. She is a trail guide at Pinecrest National Park. A quiet hike up to her favorite spot, Lookout Peak, starts out normally enough, but a light breeze quickly becomes a tree snapping gale. The once clear skies have turned a heavy grey-black, the clouds tumbling over each other as they race towards her.

This would not be so bad if the woods had not suddenly gone silent. Not a sound could be heard. The winds had stopped and all was still. Not even a bird song was heard. Into this silence came a rumbling that turned into a roar. The ground began to vibrate under her feet and she could see something was coming. The trees started to shake and then to fall, the ground began to roll. Kali ran.

The earth twists and buckles as she tries to reach the safety of Lookout Peak.  Trees and shrubs reach out as if to grab her. She sees her goal and rushes forward. Stillness. All around her the earth is raging. Great rents appear, lava flows up from below, the skies open up and rain and hail lash down, but from her vantage point all she feels is a mild tremor under her feet. How can this be?

Kali wants to move out from under the overhanging rocks and edges around them to a clear space. The rocks could fall at any moment.  There is a campfire burning. She is not alone up here. A quick look around reveals a figure standing on the cliffs edge, his arms stretched out towards the devastation that is still raging below.

Tiamat.

I tell ya, I was not prepared for this.  I was exhausted from the tension I experienced following Kali’s mad dash to safety. My description is just a wee bit of what she goes through.

I am so excited just thinking about what I want to tell you. This happened and that happened! And what? I have never read a story quite like this. There is so much going on. The story raced to its conclusion, leaving me stunned.

At times I was scared. Other times I was so mad. And at one part, I realized I was crying, and it hurt.

D. H. Nevins has written a fantastic story of the end of the world and the last survivors. Perhaps this description is too simple, but I hesitate to tell much of the story. I want you to read it like I did. Unprepared and wide-eyed.  I want you to get to know each character and discover just what is really causing all the destruction.

I hope when you read Wormwood, you’ll tell me how it made you feel. Did you experience it like I did?

A huge Thank You to the author for an extremely well written story in which to immerse myself.

5 STARS

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EXCERPT:

I hastily threw the saddle on Hero and was up and riding before anyone in the group had a chance to ask me what was wrong. With my pulse thundering in my ears, I pushed the horse, leapt over crevasses and rode hard in a wide circle around the camp, scouring both sides of the stream and looking fiercely for anything that might indicate where my three friends had gone. But after a thorough, fruitless scout of the countryside, I began to slow my pace, the gravity of what may have transpired sinking in like a corrosive poison.

“Tiamat!” I screamed, my voice laced with venom. “What have you done with them? Where are they?” I turned the horse and scanned the gray skies but could see nothing. “Show yourself, you son-of-a-bitch!”

And he did.

Tiamat appeared as a speck on the western horizon. White wings spread out behind him, he grew larger by the second as he neared our location. And all around him, pacing his approach and stretching wide across the sky, rolled towering black clouds, thick and heavy with impending rain.

With my heart hammering in my chest, I kicked Hero into motion and raced back to the camp, watching Death approach on silent wings. He was incredibly fast—we reached the camp at almost the same moment—Tiamat, a vulture circling overhead while I thundered in on my horse.

There was a loud clang as the stew pot fell and splattered into the dirt. The group’s hunger was replaced by awe as they took in this supposed heavenly sign. They stood frozen, gawking at Tiamat in wonder and ignorance. Obviously unaware of the danger they faced, they looked expectantly at him, believing, perhaps, that mercy would come from above.

It did not. Like a warning, rain began to fall in a steady drizzle. It gathered and beaded on our upturned faces, and dripped from Tiamat’s wings and body as he circled overhead.

I watched him closely, my limbs shaking from anger and adrenalin. Keeping my eyes glued to his still passive movements, I slid from Hero’s saddle and scooped up the crossbow—Tiamat’s crossbow, actually. But while I loaded a bolt and cocked it, Tiamat matched my ante and calmly pulled out a knife. I was confused by this move at first. He could kill us in any number of ways; quickly and effortlessly. Why use a blade?

I moved to the center of the throng, trying to protect the others by maintaining a simple proximity to them. “Keep close to me,” I told them. “He’s come here to kill us.” A few of the group moved in toward me, but most looked at me like I was insane. Nellie and the tattered-looking business woman, whose name I had learned was Jennifer, actually stepped a few paces away, as if to show this celestial being they did not share my sentiment.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath. What was I to do? Did they think he was going to bless them with his knife? “If you want to slaughter them, you’ll have to kill me too!” I shouted at him. My hands shaking, I aimed the crossbow up into the drizzle.

Tiamat didn’t respond and made no move toward us, but instead brought the edge of the knife to his bared wrist. He held it there for a moment, appearing to exert pressure with the blade, and I lowered the crossbow in shock. “Tiamat, don’t…” I gasped.

With a swift, violent movement, he slashed his left wrist deeply and the blood pumped out like a river, running down his arm as he held his gashed limb above his head. Wasting no time, Tiamat flew straight up into the drizzling sky, gaining height at an incredible speed. Then he ceased flying and immediately began tumbling downward, plummeting as he deliberately smeared the blood from his wrist across the feathers of his right wing. At the last moment, he pulled out of the free fall and swooped above our heads, scattering bloody water droplets onto our upturned faces.

“Oh … oh shit!” I cried, realizing what he was doing. There was something with his blood … what was it about his blood? I raised the crossbow again, watching as he tightly bound his wounded left wrist while he circled us, flinging blood from his wings with every beat. I had to shoot him … I had to…

My hands were slippery on the crossbow and my eyes blurred with tears. With quick, angry swipes, I dragged my arm across my eyes to clear them, and tried to aim again. I had him in my sights; he was about to slice into his right wrist—all I had to do was pull the trigger. I could feel the tears running freely now as a sob escaped my throat. The crossbow shook, but I fought to hold it steady, and focused my aim on his chest, the only way I could be sure…

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About Author D.H. Nevins:

D.H. Nevins was born in Toronto and currently lives in a quiet area of Ontario, surrounded by forests and lakes. By day, she is a personable, friendly school teacher. By night, she silently chuckles as she writes about destroying the world. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys world travel, hiking, camping, flying around on her motorcycle or dabbling in live theatre.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram

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The Garden Girls by Jessica R. Patch Banner

THE GARDEN GIRLS
by Jessica R. Patch

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June 24 – July 19, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:
FBI: Strange Crimes Unit

 

On a remote Outer Banks island, a serial killer collects his prized specimens. And to stop him, an FBI agent must confront his own twisted past.

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FBI agent Tiberius Granger has seen his share of darkness. But a new case sets him on edge. It’s not just the macabre way both victims—found posed in front of lighthouses—are tattooed with flowers that match their names. There’s also the unsettling connection to the woman Ty once loved and to the shadowy cult they both risked everything to escape. Bexley Hemmingway’s sister has gone missing, and she’ll do anything to find her—including teaming up with Ty. That may prove a mistake, and not just because Ty doesn’t know he’s the father of her teenaged son. It seems the killer is taunting Ty, drawing everyone close to him into deeper danger. As the slashing winds and rain of a deadly hurricane approach the coast of North Carolina, the search leads Ty and Bex to an island that hides a grisly secret. But in his quest for the truth, Ty has ignored the fact that this time, he’s not just the hunter. Every move has been orchestrated by a killer into a perfect storm of terror, and they will need all their skills to survive…

Praise for The Garden Girls:

“A perfect storm of thrilling suspense and intricate plot twists that will leave readers breathless!” ~ Nancy Mehl, author of the Ryland & St. Clair seriesThe Garden Girls by Jessica R. Patch is a hold-your-breath-and-pray novel full of suspense and unexpected twists. This gritty and compelling story is outstanding in every way. Highly recommended!” ~ Colleen Coble, USA Today bestselling author “In a word, WOW! The story caught me up and didn’t let go to the final page. Tight action, beautiful pacing. **Highly Recommended**” ~ Carrie Stuart Parks, best-selling, award-winning author “‘Riveting!’ Jessica R. Patch has created an immaculate psychological thriller that will leave the reader racing through the pages. Well-written characters and a plot that sizzles and crackles with danger made this story impossible for me to put down, and yet I didn’t want it to end. . .it’s that good. The Garden Girls will leave you breathless from the non-stop suspense filling the pages and wanting more from this amazing author” ~ USA Today Bestselling Author Mary Alford, author of Among the Innocent “Buckle your seatbelt! Jessica R. Patch is about to blow you off the road with The Garden Girls. The story will grab you on the first page and won’t let go until The End!” ~ Patricia Bradley, USA Today Best-Selling romantic suspense author of Counter Attack Book 1 in the Pearl River Series

 

Book Details:

Genre: Christian Psychological Thriller

Published by: Love Inspired Trade Publication Date: April 23, 2024 Number of Pages: 367 ISBN: 9781335463074 (ISBN10: 1335463070) Series: FBI: Strange Crimes Unit, Book 3 || Each is a Stand-Alone Novel

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Harlequin | JessicaRPatch.com

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MY REVIEW

I’ve not read previous books in this series but The Garden Girls Was an easy stand alone read for me. The author filled in pertinent past events and personal history’s of her main characters. Ty Granger, an agent for the FBI’s Strange Crimes Unit which specializes in cases with religious elements, has lots of history. No stranger to how religion can be used for nefarious purposes as he was raised in a cult, Ty and his unit set off to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. Someone is murdering young women and posing their bodies at lighthouses. Each girl has tattoos she’d not had before being taken. One of the girl’s that’s missing is right out of his past. She escaped the cult but can she escape The Artist?

I’m a fan of psychological thrillers. I binge and re-watch tons of shows like Criminal Minds and lots of movies. And my book shelves are full of the genre. Give me a great teaser for an opening that sets the hook, which this author did, and I allow myself to be caught. Then, like a bloodhound, I’m on the scent, following the clues and trails given to me, but also letting my mind go off trail and pause to wonder what if this or what if that.

There are religious elements in the book too. It feels and flows naturally and the characters are more genuine because of it.

If you enjoy a complex psychological thriller that leaves you thinking about what you just read after finishing it, this is one I urge you to read.

4 STARS

 

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Enjoy this peek inside:
Prologue
Sharp claws scrape along my neck. Back and forth. Back and forth. Buzzing fills the room, and I strain to open my eyes but they’re like molasses, thick and sticky and slow-moving. My stomach jumps and the room shifts as my blurred vision registers red walls and coffee-colored concrete. I inhale a hint of bleach and incense with a spicy note as I shift to survey the rest of the room, but my muscles ripple like languid water. The air-conditioner kicks on, and the cold air raises chills across my naked body. I’m…naked. A fist squeezes my lungs as panic rips through my system. My memories are disjointed. Where am I? How did I arrive here? What is happening to me? What has already happened? Shoe soles click on the floor and silence my questions. I am not alone. Or…I wasn’t. The door closes with a quiet click. Get up. Move. Run! Gripping the sides of a massage table, I roll off, and my bare feet hit cool flooring. The walls close in and shift, and my stomach roils. Something is wrong. Off. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover an entire wall, and my breath catches as reality comes into view. Pink flower buds wend through a vine of black along my neck and upper back. Confusion clouds my senses, and I stand cemented in place gawking at the angry red skin, sore and tender and smeared with glossy petroleum jelly. A tight knot grows in my throat, and tears stab with heated force against the backs of my eyes. I have to get out of here. Behind me, I spot a twin bed with luxurious sheets and a thick white comforter as well as tattooing equipment. My hands tremble. Am I in a tattoo parlor? Why is a bed in here? Lying on the floor next to the bed is an old iron cuff attached to a thick, heavy chain that is anchored to the wall. Why is that in here and where are my clothes? I snatch the downy comforter and drape it over my exposed body. Run. Run. Run! I open the door but have no clue which way to go or where he is or how long until he finds and cuffs me to that bed. I’ve been trapped before at the hands of a vicious predator. Old memories surface and spur me across the carpeted flooring. The hall veers left. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness as I flee to safety—no. To a dead end. Defeat leaches like muddy water into my soul, and my chest aches. The only choice is to turn around. But he’s in that direction. Sweat slicks down my temples and spine, springing up through my pores like an underground fountain as I return the way I came. I see what might be a crack in the wall. Light seeps in from the other side. As I approach, I discover it’s a door made to look like part of the wall. I swallow hard and guide my fingers along the smooth wood until I feel a lever. I push it and the door releases, but it takes some grit to open it enough for me to slide through. I expect some kind of lair or dungeon or God knows what—a wall with torture devices and cages—but it’s not. It’s a living room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking dark water. Where is he? I suck in a breath as creaking registers on the stairs. There’s nowhere to hide, and the comforter is bulky and will easily give me away. I have no option but to ditch it in the corner. I can’t dwell on modesty. Outside. I dart toward the sliding glass door, silently slide it open and slip out into the warm night air before scrambling to the edge of the balcony. I crouch to make myself small, like when I was a child and needed to obscure myself. Maybe he doesn’t realize I’m gone, but then it hits me. I didn’t shut the secret door concealing the other rooms. A sob bubbles to the surface as I shake uncontrollably like I’ve woken from anesthesia. The ground is far below me. I’d die or break my legs, maybe my spine. But I’d rather die than go back to that room. To that chain. To more tattoo needles. To him. I draw up my knees and wait, pray. Hope. When the door doesn’t open, I scoot across the deck, the raw wood digging into tender flesh, but I need to see if the coast is clear. What if he’s standing at the door, waiting? Watching? I hear something and freeze. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi…I count silently until I reach Twenty Mississippi and scoot again. I can’t be sure if he’s nearby. If he is, deep in the marrow of my bones, I know the kinds of things that await me. I know what evil men can do. I’ve seen it. Experienced it. Finally, I muster the courage to peep through the door. The room is empty and dimly lit from the one glowing lamp. I creep inside; my brain is fuzzy and spins. No footsteps. Only bulging shadows in the corners. I slither across the Berber carpet and inhale the newness. A set of stairs is on the other side of the open living concept. About ten feet of space isn’t occupied with furniture which means when I make a run for it, and he enters the room, I’ll have no cover. If he doesn’t and I make it downstairs, he could still be waiting for me. I try to form a defense plan, but my brain might as well be sludge. Making my move, more out of my flight response than logic, I army-crawl across the open space to the stairs. Two sets of six. I practically roll down the first set and pause. He’s not there at the small landing. Six more to go. This time I move slower, ignoring the adrenaline shouting sprint. I can’t. He could be waiting and I need to listen. One…two…three…four…five…six. I pause again at the bottom of the stairs. No light befriends me on the ground floor. Only darkness—and darkness is never a friend. Darkness is deceptive, offering false security. Nothing good transpires in darkness. It’s not a refuge to hide. But a place to be found. In the dark, I can’t see my predator, but I know he’s lurking. The door is five feet away to freedom, and I sprint for it. Hope blooms in my chest. I mutter a prayer as I run. Three feet left. Two. Thank God, I’m here. I twist the knob. It’s locked. A cry cracks loose inside me, but I hold it down and fumble with the dead bolt. Shuffling sounds across tile. Closer. Closer. I manage to turn the dead bolt and pull on the door, but it sticks. He’s coming. The clicks are methodic, slow and measured as if he’s in no hurry. Like he knows I can’t escape. It’s a game. Please. Please. Come on! The door opens and I slip out, forcing myself to stay calm in case my mind is playing tricks on me and it’s not him. This time, I make sure to close the door behind me. The air is balmy and the wind rustles through the grass. The briny sea air washes over my tongue and the marsh grass swishes as I dart down a private boardwalk that leads…I don’t know where. I only know to run and eat up the ground and create distance between me and the house of horror. Between me and him. Thick walls of clouds block the moonlight. A door slams. Then I hear something. Thwupt. Thwupt. Thwupt. He’s dragging something across the boardwalk. I dare not turn to look. He’s coming. Slow and methodical. Silent. Only the awful dragging noise. Nothing comes into view but marshland and water surrounded by clusters of trees. Alligators lie in wait. I can’t remember how I know this. There are snakes and snapping turtles too. But he’s behind me. Plopping noises in the water draw my attention, and I freeze. What is it? Will it approach me or prey on me if I enter too? I can’t risk staying on the boardwalk. I ease myself into the icy depths and it steals my breath. Slime oozes over my feet, and I sink into mire. Murky water reaches my waist, sending a shock along my abdomen, but I can’t gasp. Instead, I push through the grass and hope the stirring due to my movement won’t alert him of my location. Sharp twigs and rocks gouge into the bottom of my feet, and I crunch my bottom lip to keep from crying. Marsh grass appears soft at a glance, but it’s strong and sharp like knitting needles and stabs into my flesh and tender places where I’ve been tattooed in flowers. Ahead is a patch of dense trees that would conceal me even in daylight. A huge splash sends ripples only a few feet away, startling resting birds to flight. Now I know what’s been causing the dragging noise. A canoe. He’s cutting through the narrow channels and at an advantage. I can’t stop now. I push through the mud, which tries to hold me captive, and toward the dense thicket of trees. I finagle my way inside, but it’s like camping in a thorn bush, and nettles rip my flesh. A quiet cry escapes my throat, and I cover my mouth. Did he hear me? Does he know I’m here? I shiver in the water, my teeth chattering as something lightweight drops onto the crown of my head and skitters into the thick layers before I can catch it. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw to muffle a scream. What hideous legged creature is creeping through my hair? What swims unseen below my waist? Plop. Plop. Plop. Fish, alligators, snakes…him? “Daaaah, daaaah, dah daaaah,” his rich buttery tone sings. It echoes through the wetland and sweeps over my skin like icy talons. “I’ve got all night,” he continues singing. “I’ll take my time.” I cup my hands over my mouth to silence my chattering teeth. He’s close. So close. “I’ll find you. There’s nowhere to hide,” he belts out as if we’re in a Broadway show. His voice is magical and terrifying. “You belong to meeeee…You want only meee…” I can’t stay here. He’ll find me. I work as silently as possible out of the thicket and away from the concentration of his voice. I hoist myself onto the wooden boardwalk because he believes I’m in the water. Rushing is out of the question. He’ll hear my footfalls. Slow and steady is about all I can muster anyway. My legs might as well be licorice sticks. He’s still singing and slicing an oar through the water as I forge ahead, quickening my steps by a small measure until I finally reach the end of the boardwalk and am on dry ground. In the woods. The woods mean I’ll find a road at the clearing. Help will drive by, and I’ll flag it down to freedom. I wait a beat while my eyes adjust to greater darkness. The trees loom overhead, and the ground is mushy and mixed with sand. I stub my toe, tripping over roots jutting out, but press on. There’s a path and I follow it. Bike path maybe? My feet are cut and bleeding and my head pounds. The path curves, then straightens out, and I halt. Not a road. Not freedom. Before me is a long stretch of beach littered with driftwood and shells that cut into my feet. Beyond the beach is the endless sea. No homes. Only wetland to my back and the sea everywhere else. I have no boat. No canoe. Nothing to propel me to freedom. I’m on a private island, and I finally remember how I arrived. *** Excerpt from The Garden Girls by Jessica R. Patch. Copyright 2024 by Jessica R. Patch. Reproduced with permission from Jessica R. Patch. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Jessica R. Patch:

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Jessica R. Patch

Publishers Weekly Bestselling Author, Jessica R. Patch is known for her dry wit and signature twists whether she’s penned a romantic suspense, a cold case thriller, or a small-town romance. When she’s not getting into fictional mischief with her characters, you can find her cozy on the couch in her mid-south home reading books by some of her favorite authors, watching movies with her family, and collecting recipes to amazing dishes she’ll probably never cook. Sign up for her newsletter “Patched In” at www.jessicarpatch.com and receive a FREE short thriller exclusive to subscribers. Jessica is represented by Rachel Kent of Books & Such Literary Management.

Catch Up With Jessica R. Patch: www.jessicarpatch.com Goodreads – @JessicaRPatch BookBub – @JessicaRPatch Instagram – @JessicaRPatch Threads – @JessicaRPatch Twitter/X – @JessicaRPatch Facebook – @JessicaRPatch TikTok – @readjessicarpatch

 

 

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The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir Banner

THE HONEYMOON HOMICIDES
by Jeannette de Beauvoir
June 17 – July 12, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A Sydney Riley Provincetown Mystery

  Despite an unforeseen disaster ruining her carefully planned wedding reception, hotelier Sydney Riley is undaunted as she and her brand-new husband Ali leave for their honeymoon in the dunes of Cape Cod’s National Seashore. But even in this deserted location, Sydney uncovers clues that might have a bearing on the wedding fiasco. Despite hoping for a new life, she’s drawn into yet another murder investigation—this time to protect Ali, who’s been called away on a secret and dangerous assignment.

Can Sydney find the murderer(s) before Ali is harmed, or will a week in the dunes be her only memory of their married life?

 

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy with an edge; Amateur Female Sleuth.

Published by: Homeport Press Publication Date: June 13, 2024 Number of Pages: 188 ISBN: 9798986865447 Series: Sydney Riley (Provincetown) Mystery, 10th in a Series of Stand-Alone Books

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

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MY REVIEW

I’m one of those readers who will jump into a series anywhere. Whether at the beginning, middle or end. If I really enjoy the book, which I did enjoy The Honeymoon Homicides, I try to go back and start at the beginning so I can meet the characters and see how they grow through the series. I hope to do that soon with this series.

Sydney’s and Ali’s wedding goes off without a hitch. The reception? Well, not so much. An uninvited guest crashes the party, as in falls from an upper floor of the hotel.  The murder ways on her mind and it’s all business when she returns from their honeymoon. Her initial investigation shows the murder victim had ties to a couple of men they had encountered on the dunes during the honeymoon. As she delves deeper and draws closer to the reason behind the murder and the threats on hers and Ali’s lives, it’s an explosive race to the end.

 I really liked the characters. That’s compelled me to take a closer look at the series, as I mentioned at the start of my review. And I had fun dusting off my sleuthing skills and being given an ending that caught me off guard. That’s always a bonus.

4 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:
Chapter One
The victim generously waited to be murdered until the final vows had been spoken and we were officially declared married. And that’s pretty much the best thing I can say about my wedding. Not that it hadn’t begun auspiciously. I used to be wedding coordinator at Provincetown’s Race Point Inn—of which I was now co-owner—and so I had considerable experience wrangling vendors, petulant family members, and weather forecasts. And my partner Ali and I had reached an uneasy compromise with my mother in terms of the size and lavishness of the affair—no small feat, as my mother is abnormally addicted to big weddings. We were in addition juggling two religions and two cultures, as Ali is Muslim and his parents and extended family are all Lebanese. And we had somehow navigated all that. What we hadn’t reckoned with, of course, was the body falling through the awning onto the terrace and, of course, the screams that followed. *** “Sydney, you are not going to make this stop you,” was what Mirela said. “Stop me from doing what?” I probably sounded distracted, mainly because I was distracted. The police, in the persons of a bunch of uniformed officers and my sometimes-sort-of-friend Julie Agassi, who was the head of Provincetown’s small detective unit, were swarming all over the place, putting up tape and directing people away from the immediate area. The rescue squad was there, too, though what they thought they could do to help a man who seemed to have broken every bone in his body and spread a great deal of his viscera around the patio was unknown. The wedding guests, in various stages of shock and occasional hysteria, had allowed themselves to be herded into the inn’s restaurant, already set up for the wedding dinner. My mother was demanding loudly how such a thing could have been allowed and asking about suing the owners, apparently forgetting for the moment that I was one of them. My newly minted husband, Ali, was dealing with his parents, who’d seen more than enough of this kind of violence before they’d permanently fled Beirut and were dealing with some sort of PTSD shock. And now my best friend Mirela was giving me… what? A pep talk? “You should go now,” she said. “Leave for the honeymoon. You and Ali. There is no dinner. There is no dancing.” “We weren’t doing dancing anyway,” I said blankly. After the initial shock, it was dawning on me that I was standing twenty feet from a corpse, wearing a bloodied wedding gown, and realizing—priorities being priorities—that I was not going to have, after all, a wedding feast catered by Adrienne the diva chef, who kept our restaurant’s Michelin stars intact and who has made P’town a destination for world-class dining. “This,” I said to Mirela, “is the worst wedding I’ve ever planned.” She tossed the blonde hair escaping from her up-do—not that she looked any less gorgeous a little bedraggled—and peered at me. “Are you feeling all right?” “No,” I said. She took my elbow and turned me away from the scene unfolding on the terrace. “What you need,” she said firmly, “is a drink.” “What I need is fourteen drinks,” I said. “But I should check on my mother—” “The last thing you do is check on your mother,” she said. Mirela and my mother are not what you might call simpatico, mostly due to my mother’s criticisms of Mirela’s single status and her underappreciation of Mirela’s art (which earned her grudging respect only when she learned that the work routinely sold in the six-figure range). “It doesn’t look like anything,” was her response to the abstract paintings that were now exhibited worldwide, and, “I don’t understand why she can’t find a husband.” Mirela steered me to the bar area, already filling up with wedding guests in various stages of shock and all, apparently, requiring alcohol. She caught the bartender’s eye—a skill all the Bulgarians I’ve ever met have perfected—and he uncorked a bottle of wine and handed it across to her. She grabbed it without letting go of my elbow, and pulled me out of the restaurant and over to the small lounge area that had the advantage of having a door, which she closed behind us right away. “Here,” she said, handing me the bottle, and rooting around in a cupboard for a glass. I was looking at the label in some dismay. “This is Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” I protested. “Of course it is.” Her voice was brisk. “You need a drink.” “A deplorable reason to drink this,” I insisted. It’s my favorite wine ever. “Even more deplorable, sunshine,” said Mirela, “is that your guests will drink it if you do not.” I sat down on the couch. I was understanding what romance writers were talking about when they used terms like “crumple.” I took a swig of wine straight out of the bottle, heaping blasphemy on blasphemy. “Where’s Ali?” “He will find us.” She gave up trying to locate a glass and slanted a look over. “You are regaining color,” she informed me. Which was more than we could say about the fellow out on the inn’s patio. When the door opened, it wasn’t Ali standing there, but Julie, officious and sharp, her blonde hair and blue eyes making her look, always, like some kind of ice princess. “I thought you might be hiding somewhere,” she said. I gave a weak gesture with the wine bottle. “Join the party,” I said. She narrowed her eyes. “Are you drunk?” “Not yet.” “Then hold off.” She half-turned and spoke to someone behind her, and another cop came in, pulling the door closed behind him. He looked around the room, fast, the way cops do when they go anywhere, and found a straight chair and pulled out a notebook. I know about what cops do. My husband is one of them. “It’s an odd word, isn’t it, husband?” I said. “Sounds sort of like a thump.” Julie ignored me and said to the uniform, “Interview Sydney Riley, eight-fifteen pm.” She sat on a chair she pulled over close to the couch, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Focus, Sydney,” she said. I sighed and put the bottle on the floor. Not too far away, just in case. She still wasn’t sure of me. “Can you go find Ali?” Julie asked Mirela, who nodded and slipped out the door. Even Mirela knows not to argue with her. “Tell us what happened here,” said Julie. I was having some trouble focusing on her. How can you feel drunk on one swig of wine? “I got married,” I said. “Somebody died.” I paused. “Who was he?” “Not one of your wedding guests,” Julie said, almost absently. She was looking at a list, probably supplied by Mike, the Race Point Inn’s co-owner. He’s frighteningly competent. “Unless he was a last-minute addition? Do you know someone named Barclay Cargill?” “That can’t be a real name,” I said automatically, then realized she was serious. “No. No, I’ve never heard of him.” “He was staying at your inn.” I stared at her. “We have eighty rooms,” I said. “I’m not the manager. You really think I know everybody?” “You may remember him.” She produced her iPhone, flipped around a bit, then extended it to me. The man in the photo had dark hair and a beard that were starting to turn gray; what was most remarkable was that he was wearing a three-piece suit. People in P’town don’t wear three-piece suits. Some people in P’town don’t wear much at all. Julie retrieved her phone. “He’s an attorney,” she said. She’d gotten her information remarkably quickly. “Okay,” I said. “So did he jump, or was he pushed?” She was unamused. “You’re being remarkably flippant about someone’s violent death.” “I’m remarkably flippant about anyone who gets murdered in the middle of my wedding.” I plucked at my ivory lace overskirt. “Just thought I’d remind you, in case you thought I was wearing this for a costume party. If he weren’t already dead, my mother would have killed him by now.” She sighed. Julie sighs a lot when she’s around me. She’s even been known to refer to me as Provincetown’s answer to Miss Marple, and she doesn’t mean that in a good way. It’s not exactly my fault that when someone gets murdered I end up having something to do with figuring it out. Julie thinks there’s some sort of cause and effect, but there really isn’t. I just know a lot of people—and it’s a small town. But having a murder committed during my wedding? That was taking this whole amateur sleuthing thing just a little too far. As though reading my thoughts, Julie said, “All right. You don’t know this man. Good. Can I take it that you won’t be trying to figure out what happened to him?” The events of the past hour were starting to turn nasty on me, and I really wanted to be with Ali, not Julie. “No more than you are,” I said sweetly. It was a jab, of course: in Massachusetts, possible homicides are investigated by the state police, not the local force. I knew it was a sore spot with Julie, who thinks she’s better at it than they are. She can secure the scene, take preliminary statements, and assist the Staties when they arrive. “Is that all? Because—” The door swung open and I’ve never, I think, been happier to see anyone. “Are you all right?” asked Ali. He didn’t even wait for me to respond. “She can give her statement later,” he said to Julie. “She needs to do it while it’s fresh in her mind,” Julie said. “Like most of our guests, she didn’t see anything until the individual was already on the ground,” said Ali. “She doesn’t need this now.” “Maybe you two could stop talking about me like I’m not here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I’d meant it to be. Ali came and sat beside me, carefully moving the bottle of Châteauneuf aside so he wouldn’t knock it over. He knew I’d need it later; it wasn’t exactly an occasion for Champagne, despite all the Veuve Clicquot that Martin, the maître d’, had waiting for us on ice. Not that Ali drank alcohol, anyway. I slid my hand into his; for all my rather aggressive petulance, I was feeling a little lost and a little sad. It was finally dawning on me that someone had died. At my inn. At my wedding. Ali looked, of course, wonderful. He annoyingly always does. He has beautiful dark eyes and beautiful olive skin and dark hair that curls ever so slightly and is always just a little too long, and designer stubble that makes him look sexy and a little dangerous. Well, he is an agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The danger is real. Julie was giving up. She jerked her head towards the other cop, who closed his notebook, stood up, and left the room. “You may be needed later on,” she said to me. “Both of you, in fact. Should the state police have any questions about the individual.” Oh, yeah, I’d hit a nerve. I liked that business about the “individual.” I’d come way too close to saying something about him crashing the party. It must have been the shock; I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it. “We’re leaving in the morning,” I said. “You can’t—” she started, automatically, and I interrupted her. “Honeymoon,” I said firmly. “We’ll be back next week,” said Ali. Even Julie Agassi knows when she’s beaten. She gave us one last stern official look, and fled. “Well,” said Ali, putting his arm around my shoulder. “How do you like married life so far? *** Excerpt from The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2024 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Jeannette de Beauvoir:

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Jeannette de Beauvoir

Jeannette de Beauvoir is the author of mystery and historical fiction—and novels that are a mix of the two—as well as a poet who lives and works in a cottage beside Cape Cod Bay. She is a member of the Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime.

Catch Up With Jeannette de Beauvoir: JeannettedeBeauvoir.com Goodreads BookBub – @JeannettedeBeauvoir Instagram – @JeannettedeBeauvoir Pinterest – @JeannettedeBeauvoir Facebook – @JeannettedeBeauvoir

 

 

 

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Secrets and Photographs by A. K. Ramirez Banner

SECRETS AND PHOTOGRAPHS
by A. K. Ramirez

   

June 17-28, 2024 Virtual Book Tour
The Marissa Ambrose Witness Series
Synopsis:

 

How do you stop a killer you can’t even see?

It’s been two years since Detective Marissa Ambrose nearly lost her life working the Couple’s Killer case, but time hasn’t stopped the vivid nightmares. She still carries the heavy guilt of her partner’s death, and the Seattle Police Department refuses to support her theory that the suspect they arrested had an accomplice. With her ex-husband regretfully out of the picture, Marissa was supposed to be focusing on adjusting back to something resembling normalcy in her quiet tourist town. Then the letters came.

Unmarked envelopes full of photographs have been arriving at Marissa’s door. Candid shots of her at home. Now, Marissa is certain the missing murderer is stalking her, tracking her every move to finish what he started. As she obsesses over the strange images, the Seattle PD unexpectedly asks for her help. A serial killer is on the loose and targeting members of the Port Townsend community. Despite a personal connection to the first victim, Marissa agrees to pin her badge on once more.

The photographs are piling up and the suspect can’t be seen by surveillance cameras. Like a ghost, this killer is haunting her.

Praise for Secrets and Photographs:

“This book is Amazing!! I couldn’t put it down. I need book 2!!!” ~ Nicola Jamieson

“We love a messy family and a plot thick with dark and winding paths. Truly enjoyed this book and read it very quickly! I am very excited to get a signed copy of the next book that was just released!! AK Ramirez is “one to watch” in the crime/thriller genre. You have a fan for life now.” ~ Molly Badgett

“I had the pleasure of meeting this author in Richmond at a convention. I really enjoyed the story. The author pulls you in from the first page. Quick read” ~ Chris Kennedy

“A friend recommended this book to me as I was looking for a new mystery novel and I was so sad when it ended because I wanted more! The writing was exceptional and the story captivated me. Twists I didn’t expect had me reading this book in record time. Absolutely recommend!” ~ Melissa Brown

“I’m a sucker for a good crime novel and this one kept me hooked. I also love books set in the Pacific Northwest – I might be biased since I live in the PNW but I thought the author did a good job of using the coziness of Port Townsend to contrast with the horror of the crimes. I’m looking forward to reading book 2!” ~ April O’Brien

“I was hooked on the book from the beginning. It was a great read. I really enjoyed it and would recommend it to anyone that likes mystery and suspense.” ~ Diana

“I wasn’t sure how much I enjoyed this book at the beginning. It felt like it was moving very slowly. In fact, I was wondering if there was ever going to be a murder when I was about a third done. Then a couple minutes later, a murder! That’s when the book sped up! I had a little trouble keeping the two investigations separate. The twist was great! And I did enjoy how the two cases crossed. I felt for Marissa that no one believed her and was thankful when the police started listening to her. She’s a great detective and I’m looking forward to revisiting her and hopefully solving the big mystery soon!” ~ CMC

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery Thriller Published by: 4 Horsemen Publications Publication Date: November 15, 2022 Number of Pages: 362 ISBN: 9781644506639 (ISBN10: 1644506637) Series: Marissa Ambrose Witness Series, #1

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | 4 Horsemen Publications

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MY REVIEW

This book…… How do I love thee. Let me count the ways.

One: Suspects. Plenty of them. In the shadows, hovering just out of sight, or right in my face. It creates a bigger challenge to sift out the red herrings and find the right direction that leads to the villain.

About those suspects.  In Secrets And Photographs, the first suspect that pinged my radar about a third of the way through the book ended up with me being right. It was something I now can’t quite put my finger on that made the character stand out. I reread that whole scene several times but never nailed it down. But, there’s more than one crime, and the second suspect that pinged my radar seemed kind of obvious. I knew better than to just assume and actually kind of forgot about that one for a while. But, the character kept popping into my head as I continued reading and is number one on my list. But, since that crime is continuing into the next book, I’ll have to wait and see if I was right.

Two: The title and cover are perfect for this book. I’ll explain. There are secrets. So many. And you won’t get to know all of them. That will come in the next book. And photographs. That’s the killer’s calling card. His signature. And a way to torment his victims. The cover perfectly compliments the title. Both beautiful and chilling.

Three: Characters. I came to care about several. Especially the main character, Detective Marissa Ambrose. She was kidnapped by a serial killer and was the only victim that had ever survived. So damaged. Emotionally and physically scarred. Medication and alcohol an important coping tool. Her panic attacks are debilitating. Leaving her vulnerable. Though she thinks she’s weak, I think she’s incredibly strong.

Four: The feels. So many. Marissa has some amazing support from long time friends and her family. The author worked her magic and made so many of them genuine. I laughed with them. Got mad with and at them. And cried. Several times. Whew….

Five: The ending. I got some answers. Was left hanging on others. I loved this book and so many of the characters. No way I won’t read more of this series.

5 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:
Chapter 1

Marissa felt cold. She couldn’t see anything, a blindfold tied tightly against her eyes. Music blared against her ears, the throbbing in her head synced with the beat of the music. The cold, rough concrete burned her bare legs, and every time she attempted to adjust them, she felt sharp sensations rush through. She was stiff and cold and tired. Her right hand was handcuffed to something that felt heavy and unbreakable, though she tried to pull away. Time had blurred, and her mind swam, unable to focus on anything. She was thirsty, hungry, and tired. Marissa had never been so frightened in her life.

Someone grabbed her by the arm, squeezing tight as they unlocked her cuff from whatever she was attached to and ushered her along. She whimpered in protest and tugged away from the fingers that dug into her. She thought she heard a laugh in her ear over the music before that hand shoved her hard. She nearly toppled over but fell into another set of hands that caught her in their arms. These weren’t as rough and didn’t grip her as tightly. They held her up as she pulled her legs back under her, and one of the hands rubbed her arm where the other had aggressively gripped. She could feel his breath on her neck as his lips touched her ear, whispering something she couldn’t quite hear.

She gasped, sat up with a start, and sighed, acknowledging she was safe in her room. Ellie was lying on top of her legs, her cold nose poking at her in concern. She rubbed Ellie’s ears, feeling her heartbeat slow to normal. Her chest heavily convulsed as tears fell down her cheeks. Pulling the dog in close, she hugged her tight—a solid reminder she was no longer in that place but inside her bedroom, in her home. Safe.

“Good girl,” she whispered, gripping Ellie’s fur. The shepherd leaned in close, burying her cold nose into her neck.

Leaning back, Marissa glanced over at her clock. It was nearly five. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.” With a heavy sigh, she shifted as Ellie bounced off the bed and toward the door. Marissa swung her legs over the side and winced, aches traveling through her body from her heels as they hit the floor. “It’s going to be a day,” she mumbled and forced herself to stand. It was still dark outside, and she was sure the air outside was cold, but the old house was warm. It may have been old, but her mom had updated everything except for the walls. Marissa wandered into the bathroom; she could still hear Ellie bouncing in the hallway, excited to start her day. She did not share the dog’s enthusiasm. She washed her hands and stared at the reflection that stared back at her. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, and dark circles were under her eyes. Marissa remembered when she took pride in how she looked, brushed her hair several times a day, and had a whole skincare routine. She had been a beauty queen when she was younger. It all seemed so pointless now. Her eyes drifted from her face down to her shoulder with the long, dark scar. Then they drifted to the scar that ran from the bottom of her collarbone across her chest. Her tank top covered most of it, but she knew the rest ran down her side and to her back. She was full of scars now. She turned the light off and followed Ellie to the hallway, stopping at the top of the stairs. It was the same every morning: the stairs were always daunting. Her ankles locked up like they usually did, forcing her to take slow and precise steps. Once she reached the bottom, she headed to the kitchen and opened the back door, letting Ellie bound out into the dark yard. Sunrise was still a way off, but the sky was beginning to lighten. She went to the cabinet above the sink and dug out her meds. Since her recovery from the events at the warehouse, Marissa had received a long list of diagnoses: fibromyalgia brought on by trauma, panic attacks, PTSD, and arthritis. Not to mention a rapid heart rate they couldn’t pin down, chronic migraines—so many meds. Putting on her tea kettle, she set up her teacup and waited for the water to boil. It had taken some time, but Marissa had made her childhood home her own again. Her mom had signed the house over to her while she healed, which gave her full rein to do as she pleased with the place, taking the opportunity to downsize without selling. Port Townsend was not where Marissa thought she would be, especially after so many years in Seattle. She loved the city: the noise, the crowds, the food. The fact that almost everything was open until at least midnight. Not like this tourist town, which felt like it had a town-wide bedtime of 9 p.m. It was known as a charming, quaint town by the sea, and as far as she was concerned, it had lost its charm decades ago. Slowly but surely, the house was coming together. She sighed, grabbed her hoodie off the hook by her back door, and threw it over her head while letting Ellie back inside. Her mom had done all the hard stuff, remodeling the upstairs and downstairs to an open-concept floorplan and updating the plumbing and electricity. Marissa could see her front door, the living room, the dining room, and a study from the kitchen. Below the stairs was a full bathroom. As the tea kettle screamed, she poured the water into the cup and watched the steam rise. This was not where Marissa expected to be at thirty-six. Growing up, all she wanted was to get the hell out of this town. She would be married to her high school sweetheart with kids, living in a big city, and making detective. The funny part was, Marissa had married her high school sweetheart. Twice. They’d also had two divorces. She had been living in a big city, owning not one but two properties in Seattle. She had made detective, reaching incredible heights as one of the youngest promoted in her unit. And now, she was back in her childhood home, divorced and alone, still a detective but benched for the unseen future. It felt like a punishment. Of course, some of it was her doing. She had pushed Jared away and moved back home. Her nightmare wasn’t only when she slept. Her precinct had done all but call her a liar during her recovery when she told them there was more than one assailant. She couldn’t see, so it was simply her word. She had undergone so much; she couldn’t have been sure. That was what her unit had said because it didn’t fit into the profile the SPD had given. People she had trusted with her life didn’t have her back. She paused for a moment before retrieving the hidden key from her hutch and carefully climbing onto her counter. Despite telling herself she wouldn’t, most mornings she would pull down the box. She winced, pain stretching through her leg as she reached the top of her cabinets to recover a lockbox. Once it was on the counter, she paused as her feet hit the ground. She hoped that one day, something new would stand out. Some tangible clue she could hold in her hands. Ellie came right alongside her and whined, sensing her discomfort. Marissa stretched a hand down, scratching her ear as she unlocked the box and let the photographs pour out onto the countertop. There were candid shots of her going about her day, walking down the street, leaving the bakery, checking her mail. A good stack of them was just Jared. Sometimes they would arrive weekly, and sometimes she would go a few weeks without receiving anything. Or maybe it was just a good reminder of why this was her life now. Why she had chosen to be here, alone. A reminder that her life was in danger. Local cops and SPD, while agreeing she was a victim of a stalker, wouldn’t connect it to that case because before the warehouse, Marissa hadn’t received any photos. She had been given police protection across the street, but she knew no one had taken her seriously. In the eyes of the law, she hadn’t been threatened and couldn’t identify anyone. She only had pictures that appeared on her doorstep or in her mailbox. She kept them safely locked away, spending most of her days trying hard to forget them. But too often, she found herself thumbing through them. It had become an almost daily ritual. Once she was satisfied the tea had steeped long enough, she returned the photos to the box and put everything back in its place. Her former partner, Tom, would tell her dwelling over the same pieces of evidence wouldn’t get her anywhere. He had always given her advice like that. He had been so much like the older brother she’d never had, having been the oldest of three sisters. Taking her mug with both hands, she headed out to the backyard, not bothering to turn the light on. She stretched out on her swinging bench and scrolled through her socials. Occasionally, she found her eyes wandering over the backyard, watching for anything or anyone out of place. She knew there was always an officer across the street, watching over her and her home, but they hadn’t proven very helpful yet. They hadn’t managed to see who or how things were being left on her doorstep. The early morning air was chilly and quiet. The only noises she could hear were Ellie’s panting as she plopped herself down next to Marissa and the occasional breeze blowing by. She glanced at the clock on her phone. Barely any time had passed. Putting her feet up, she finished her tea, put the empty cup down on the side table, and looked out into her dark yard. She needed to rest, but she knew sleep would keep eluding her. She didn’t want to sleep anymore; the nightmares had worsened. If she had stopped to think about it, she would have realized why. All that mattered was every time she closed her eyes, she was back there again. *** Excerpt from Secrets and Photographs by A. K. Ramirez. Copyright 2024 by A. K. Ramirez. Reproduced with permission from A. K. Ramirez. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author A.K. Ramirez:

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A. K. Ramirez

A.K. Ramirez is a mystery writer tucked in a corner of the Pacific Northwest. She likes to weave mystery, and family drama with a little bit of romance all in one. She has participated in NaNoWriMo on and off for years, reaching her goal three times with three different novels, in both the mystery and fantasy genres. When she isn’t writing, she runs a dog training, boarding, and daycare facility or spends time with her husband, kids, and pack of dogs.

Catch Up With A.K. Ramirez: www.akramirezwrites.com Goodreads Instagram – @AKRamirezWrites Threads – @AKRamirezWrites Twitter/X – @AKRamirezWrites TikTok – @AKRamirezWrites Facebook – @AKRamirezWrites

 

 

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The Golden Manuscripts is inspired by the real-life theft of medieval manuscript illuminations during World War II.

 

 

The Golden Manuscripts: A Novel

Author: Evy Journey

Pages: 360

Genre: Historical Fiction/Women’s Fiction/Mystery



goodreads add to

A young woman of Asian/American parentage has lived in seven different
countries and is anxious to find a place she could call home. An unusual
sale of rare medieval manuscripts sends her and Nathan—an art
journalist who moonlights as a doctor—on a quest into the dark world of
stolen art.  For Clarissa, these ancient manuscripts elicit cherished
memories of children’s picture books her mother read to her, nourishing a
passion for art.  When their earnest search for clues whisper of old
thieves and lead to the unexpected, they raise more questions about an
esoteric sometimes unscrupulous art world that defy easy answers.   Will
this quest reward Clarissa with the sense of home she longs for? This
cross-genre literary tale of self-discovery, art mystery, travel, and
love is based on the actual theft by an American soldier of illuminated
manuscripts during World War II.
Buy Links:

 

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MY REVIEW

Clarissa has lived in many places and now she’s trying to put down roots. This takes her back to the US, where she was born. Looking for a subject for her MA theses, she comes across an article in a art newspaper. It’s about illuminated manuscripts that were supposedly stolen during WWII and disappeared. Their reappearance raises many questions.

I’d not heard of illuminated manuscripts so I did a search to understand what they were. I got lost down the rabbit hole and quickly realized how this would be a great subject for Clarissa’s thesis. And how daunting the task would be to prove their authenticity and ownership. Of course, she’d need help and someone from her past is called upon to help. As Clarissa and Nathan dig deeper into the mystery of the manuscripts, their attraction to each other grows.

As much a mystery as a romance and a woman seeking a place to call home, The Golden Manuscripts was a fascinating and hopeful read.

4 STARS

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Book Excerpt:

November 2000

Rare Manuscripts

I sometimes wish I was your girl next door. The pretty one who listens to you and sympathizes. Doesn’t ask questions you can’t or don’t want to answer. Comes when you need to talk. 

She’s sweet, gracious, respectful, and sincere. An open book. Everybody’s ideal American girl. 

At other times, I wish I was the beautiful girl with creamy skin, come-hither eyes, and curvy lines every guy drools over. The one you can’t have, unless you’re a hunk of an athlete, or the most popular hunk around. Or you have a hunk of money.

But I’m afraid the image I project is that of a brain with meager social skills. The one you believe can outsmart you in so many ways that you keep out of her way—you know the type. Or at least you think you do. Just as you think you know the other two.

I want to believe I’m smart, though I know I can be dumb. I’m not an expert on anything. So, please wait to pass judgement until you get to know us better—all three of us. 

Who am I then? 

I’m not quite sure yet. I’m the one who’s still searching for where she belongs. 

I’m not a typical American girl. Dad is Asian and Mom is white. I was born into two different cultures, neither of which dug their roots into me. But you’ll see my heritage imprinted all over me—on beige skin with an olive undertone; big grey eyes, double-lidded but not deep-set; a small nose with a pronounced narrow bridge; thick, dark straight hair like Dad’s that glints with bronze under the sun, courtesy of Mom’s genes. 

I have a family: Mom, Dad, Brother. Sadly, we’re no longer one unit. Mom and Dad are about ten thousand miles apart. And my brother and I are somewhere in between.

I have no one I call friend. Except myself, of course. That part of me who perceives my actions for what they are. My inner voice. My constant companion and occasional nemesis. Moving often and developing friendships lasting three years at most, I’ve learned to turn inward. 

And then there’s Arthur, my beautiful brother. Though we were raised apart, we’ve become close. Like me, he was born in the US. But he grew up in my father’s home city where his friends call him Tisoy, a diminutive for Mestizo that sometimes hints at admiration, sometimes at mockery. Locals use the label for anyone with an obvious mix of Asian and Caucasian features. We share a few features, but he’s inherited a little more from Mom. Arthur has brown wavy hair and green eyes that invite remarks from new acquaintances. 

Little Arthur, not so little anymore. Taller than me now, in fact, by two inches. We’ve always gotten along quite well. Except the few times we were together when we were children and he’d keep trailing me, like a puppy, mimicking what I did until I got annoyed. I’d scowl at him, run away so fast he couldn’t catch up. Then I’d close my bedroom door on him. Sometimes I wondered if he annoyed me on purpose so that later he could hug me and say, “I love you” to soften me up. It always worked.

I love Arthur not only because we have some genes in common. He has genuinely lovable qualities—and I’m sure people can’t always say that of their siblings. He’s caring and loyal, and I trust him to be there through thick and thin. I also believe he’s better put together than I am, he whom my parents were too busy to raise. 

I am certain of only one thing about myself: I occupy time and space like everyone. My tiny space no one else can claim on this planet, in this new century. But I still do not have a place where I would choose to spend and end my days. I’m a citizen of a country, though. The country where I was born. And yet I can’t call that country home. I don’t know it much. But worse than that, I do not have much of a history there. 

Before today, I trudged around the globe for two decades. Cursed and blessed by having been born to a father who was a career diplomat sent on assignments to different countries, I’ve lived in different cities since I was born, usually for three to four years at a time. 

Those years of inhabiting different cities in Europe and Asia whizzed by. You could say I hardly noticed them because it was the way of life I was born into. But each of those cities must have left some lasting mark on me that goes into the sum of who I am. And yet, I’m still struggling to form a clear idea of the person that is Me. This Me can’t be whole until I single out a place to call home. 

Everyone has a home they’ve set roots in. We may not be aware of it, but a significant part of who we think we are—who others think we are—depends on where we’ve lived. The place we call home. A place I don’t have. Not yet. But I will.

I was three when I left this city. Having recently come back as an adult, I can’t tell whether, or for how long, I’m going to stay. You may wonder why, having lived in different places, I would choose to seek a home in this city—this country as alien to me as any other town or city I’ve passed through. 

By the end of my last school year at the Sorbonne, I was convinced that if I were to find a home, my birthplace might be my best choice. I was born here. In a country where I can claim citizenship. Where the primary language is English. My choice avoids language problems and pesky legal residency issues. Practical and logical reasons, I think.

 

 

About the Author

 

 

Evy Journey writes. Stories and blog posts. Novels that tend to cross genres. She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse. Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D. University of Illinois). So her fiction spins tales about nuanced characters dealing with contemporary life issues and problems. She believes in love and its many faces. Her one ungranted wish: To live in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has visited and stayed a few months at a time.

Author Links  

Website | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads

Evy Journey will be giving away nine $25 Amazon Gift Cards & nine boxed sets of the last 3 books in the series, Between Two Worlds! This is the way it works. Evy is touring for 6 months. At the end of each 2 month period she will be giving away 3 $25 Amazon Gift Cards and 3 boxed sets of the last 3 books in the series, Between Two Worlds. You will have a chance to win 3 times during her tour!

Terms & Conditions:

  • By entering the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
  • Nine winners will be chosen via Rafflecopter to receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card and a boxed set of the last 3 books in the series, Between Two Worlds.
  • This giveaway starts February 5 and ends July 30.
  • Winners will be contacted via email on March 28, May 31 and July 30.
  • Winner has 48 hours to reply.

Good luck everyone!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

 

 

Sponsored By:

 

 

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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Welcome to my spot on the THE NASTY: The Complete Series by John Lees & Adam Cahoon Blog Tour
hosted by 
Rockstar Book Tours.

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Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

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THE NASTY: The Complete Series

Authors: John Lees & Adam Cahoon (Illustrator)

 

 

Pub. Date: May 28, 2024

Publisher: Vault Comics

Formats:  Paperback, eBook

Pages: 200

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Find it: Goodreadshttps://books2read.com/THE-NASTY-The-Complete-Series

 

The Ring meets Empire Records in THE NASTY, a
coming-of-age horror story splattered with dark comedy, as a group of horror
movie-loving teens bites off more than they can handle when the most
sought-after video nasty ever slips through their fingers, and they are forced
to film their own video nasty slasher movie – where evil,
screams, and nightmares bleed into reality

Keep telling yourself: “IT’S ONLY A MOVIE!!!
Isn’t it?

Scotland, 1994.
Eighteen-year-old Graeme “Thumper” Connell still has an imaginary friend: the
masked killer from his favorite slasher film. Thumper is obsessed with horror
and always has been. He fills his time with scary VHS rentals and hanging out
with his friends and fellow fans, The Murder Club. But everything changes when
his local video shop acquires one of the notorious films known as “video
nasties” — films so scary they’re the target of the British Moral Decency
League’s crusade to ban and burn.
But it’s only a movie, right?
It’s all just imaginary, isn’t it?

The Nasty is a story about the perception of evil, the power
of genre, the love of fandom, the need to create art, oh, and crap-your-pants
TERROR! Become a bonafide member of The Murder Club: pick up this book!

For fans of Stranger ThingsStand By Me, IT, The Monster
Squad
Donnie Darko,Empire RecordsMy Best
Friend’s Exorcism 
and other books by Grady Hendrix, fans of Stephen
King and Neil Gaiman, Little Monsters (Jeff Lemire &
Dustin Nguyen), The Closet (James Tynion IV), The Me
You Love in the Dark
 (Skottie Young & Jorge Corona), Giant
Days
Afterlife With Archie, Killadelphia (Rodney Barnes
& Jason Shawn Alexander), and Proctor Valley Road.

PRAISE FOR THE NASTY:
Horror Comics To Watch For in 2023 – Fangoria

“There is no other title I have been more excited about than this because it is
a love letter to horror while tackling the conservatism we are seeing rise in
pop culture today…” – Fangoria

“The Nasty is a bloody valentine to slashers and the outsiders who
love them.”– AIPT

The Nasty is a love letter to slasher flicks and a
generation of kids who loved them. Tender, funny, surprising, endearing, with
an emerging horrific twist. We had Faces of Death as the taboo
underground horror tape that was whispered about but it wasn’t cursed. The
Nasty
 takes a fun nostalgic trip down memory lane and elevates it to a
new level of horror. – Lotusland Comics

 

MY REVIEW

I’ve been into the graphic novels for a while now and this is a fun one. Creepy story. Check. Interesting characters. Check. Plenty of horror and some comedy thrown in. Check. And awesome artwork. Check.

The plot was right up my alley. Being big on horror, it would have been a dream come true to make one of my own. But, I have to be satisfied with reading about these characters and the making of their horror movie.

A wild read from start to finish. My first by John Lees and Adam Cahoon and it didn’t disappoint.

4 STARS

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About John Lees:

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John Lees is an award-winning comic book writer from Glasgow, Scotland. He is
best known for his work on acclaimed horror series AND THEN EMILY WAS
GONE
, with artist Iain Laurie, and hard-boiled Glasgow crime saga SINK,
drawn by frequent collaborator Alex Cormack. Currently, Lees is the co-creator
and writer of THE NASTY from Vault Comics. John’s other credits include
superhero drama THE STANDARD, serial killer thriller OXYMORON:
THE LOVELIEST NIGHTMARE,
 psychedelic nightmare quest QUILTE, and
a story for TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES UNIVERSE. His
latest projects are MOUNTAINHEAD, a snow-
swept thriller from IDW Publishing, working with artist Ryan Lee, and HOTELL,
a horror anthology series from AWA Upshot, featuring artist Dalibor Talajic.

Newsletter subscription: www.deep-ender.johnleescomics.com.
Patreon: www.patreon.com/johnlees

Website | Twitter | Instagram

 

About Adam Cahoon:

Tuffs, Origin House: Spa and Retreat, and Anomaly, as well as
his design work with Second Rocket Comics. His other credits include the fan
comic Silver Surfer Grey, and the forth-coming I Was A
Teenage Ghost Rider
. He has design work as well as short comics in the
forthcoming books Everything Is Different Now from Justin
Richards, Morsels by J Donahue, and Dead Blood by
DB Andry.

Website | Twitter | Instagram

 

 

 

 

Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

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2 winners
will receive finished copies of THE NASTY: The Complete Series, US Only.

Ends June25th, midnight EST.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Schedule:

Week One:

5/27/2024

Two Chicks on Books

Excerpt/IG Post

5/28/2024

The Momma Spot

Excerpt

5/29/2024

@darkfantasyreviews

Excerpt

5/30/2024

Fire
and Ice Reads

Excerpt/IG Post

5/31/2024

Sadie’s
Spotlight

Interview Adam Cahoon/IG Post

6/1/2024

Writer of Wrongs

Excerpt

Week Two:

6/2/2024

@thepagelady

IG Review

6/3/2024

GryffindorBookishnerd

IG Review

6/4/2024

Comic Book Yeti

Interview John Lees/X Post

6/5/2024

Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer

Review/IG Post

6/6/2024

@evergirl200

IG Review

6/7/2024

@stargirls.magical.tale

IG Review

6/8/2024

@sparks_books

IG Review

Week Three:

6/9/2024

Books and Zebras

IG Review

6/10/2024

The Book Critic

Review/IG Post

6/11/2024

FUONLYKNEW

Review

6/12/2024

Country Mamas With Kids

Review/IG Post

6/13/2024

nerdophiles

Review

6/14/2024

Brandi Danielle Davis

IG Review/TikTok Post

6/15/2024

A Blue Box Full of Books

IG Review/LFL Drop Pic/TikTok Post

Week Four:

6/16/2024

@enthuse_reader

IG Review/TikTok Post

6/17/2024

@dana.loves.books

IG Review/TikTok Post

6/18/2024

@jaimes_mystical_library

IG Review

6/19/2024

jlreadstoperpetuity

IG Review/TikTok Post

6/20/2024

Two Points of Interest

Review/IG Post

6/21/2024

Lifestyle of Me

Review

 

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.



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Clowders

by Vanessa Morgan

 

Publication date: March 1st 2018
Genres: Adult, Supernatural, Thriller

Clervaux, Luxembourg. This secluded, picturesque town in the middle of Europe is home to more cats than people. For years, tourists have flocked to this place – also known as “cat haven” – to meet the cats and buy cat-related souvenirs.

When Aidan, Jess and their five-year-old daughter, Eleonore, move from America to Clervaux, it seems as if they’ve arrived in paradise. It soon becomes evident, though, that the inhabitants’ adoration of their cats is unhealthy. According to a local legend, each time a cat dies, nine human lives are taken as a punishment. To tourists, these tales are supernatural folklore, created to frighten children on cold winter nights. But for the inhabitants of Clervaux, the danger is horrifyingly real.

Initially, Aidan and Jess regard this as local superstition, but when Jess runs over a cat after a night on the town, people start dying, one by one, and each time it happens, a clowder of cats can be seen roaming the premises.

Are they falling victim to the collective paranoia infecting the entire town? Or is something unspeakably evil waiting for them?

Their move to Europe may just have been the worst decision they ever made.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble

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FREE for a limited time only!

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MY REVIEW

They say cats have nine lives. What that means in the lovely isolated town of Clervaux, Luxemburg is they take nine. That’s right. When a cat dies, nine human lives are taken.

When an American family moves to Clervaux, they believe the legend is just that, a legend. But then a cat is killed and not long after someone dies. One down, eight to go.

This started out so hopeful. A scenic little town, friendly inhabitants, and lots of cats. But slowly, the atmosphere darkens. Strange noises are heard. Something prowls in the house at night. Claws click across the floor. Food disappears, Shadows hide a hunched over figure. And the friendly neighbors become not so friendly. Sounds like a good movie, doesn’t it? Thanks to the author’s talent for showing the story, it felt like I was watching it.

It takes a lot to give me the creeps. I’ve read a bunch of horror stories and watched lots of movies. A few scenes in this book are so creeptastic! There’s this scene where something is stalking the next victim. It moves boldly through the crowd of tourists. They think it’s part of something put on to entertain and take pictures of it, even as it attacks. I’d like to think I’d know the difference. I read it over again and still got creeped out.

Soft kitty. Warm kitty. Little ball of fur….. Not!

4 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:

“Who is she?” Eleonore asked when Jess drove her to school Friday morning.

“Who’s who?” Jess countered, not sure what her daughter was talking about.

“The girl. The one who’s always watching us.”

“No one’s watching us,” Jess said.

“Yes, there is. All the girls in my baking class say the same.”

Normally, Jess wouldn’t have put much thought into such a remark – children can say weird things sometimes. But now it seemed Eleonore might be right. Jess felt like there was indeed someone watching them, no matter what they were doing.

She felt it everywhere she went. When she took Eleonore to baking class, when she was lying in bed at night, even in the shops. But not all the time.

Some of the time.

More often than not, everything seemed normal, and then all of a sudden, she felt as if someone was checking up on her. Sometimes it was only briefly, like a minute or so, but at other times, she could feel it for several hours.

Sometimes she could feel it on the streets.

But mostly at home.

And never outside Clervaux.

You’re imagining things, she told herself.

In fact, every day since she’d arrived in Europe, it had gotten worse. More and more, she’d get that tingly feeling, and know that someone behind her was watching her. She’d try to ignore it, tried to resist the urge to look over her shoulder, but eventually the hair on the back of her neck would stand up, and the tingling would turn into a chill, and finally, she’d turn around.

And nobody would be there.

Nobody, except for the cats. The sight of cats waddling along the pavement had never seemed eerie to her, but the fact that they were always there, no matter where she was – on the sidewalk, at the main square, in a café, in the forest – made her skin crawl.

Whenever she was running errands in Clervaux, she kept looking into store windows, but it wasn’t the merchandise she was looking at; it was the reflection in the glass.

The reflection of something sinister watching her.

Sometimes she could have sworn she saw something. The reflection of a small, squatting figure. But then she glanced over her shoulder and all she could see once more were the cats of Clervaux staring back at her.

She decided to not let her imagination get to her, to resist the urge to glance over her shoulder every few seconds.

And then her daughter muttered the words, “Who is she? The girl. The one who’s always watching us,” and the paranoia tightened its grip on her once more.

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About Author Vanessa Morgan:

Vanessa Morgan is the editor of the movie reference guides When Animals Attack: The 70 Best Horror Movies with Killer Animals, Strange Blood: 71 Essays on Offbeat and Underrated Vampire Movies, and Evil Seeds: The Ultimate Movie Guide to Villainous Children. She also has had one cat book (Avalon) and four supernatural thrillers (Drowned Sorrow, The Strangers Outside, A Good Man, and Clowders) published. Three of her stories have been turned into movies. She has written for myriad Belgian magazines and newspapers and introduces movie screenings at several European film festivals. She is also a programmer for the Offscreen Film Festival in Belgium. When she’s not working on her latest book, you can find her reading, watching movies, eating out, or photographing felines for her blog Traveling Cats.

Author Links: Website / Facebook / Instagram / Twitter / Pinterest / Amazon

 

Giveaway contest ribbon promo label prize. Vector giveaway banner badge design template

.
a Rafflecopter giveaway

.

~~~~~

Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

It started as a book club. It became a way to build a better life together.

 

Title: The Best Life Book Club

Author: Sheila Roberts

Publication Date: May 7, 2024

Pages: 368

Genre: Women’s Fiction/Romantic Comedy/ContemporaryRomance

Karissa Newcomb is ready for a new start in a new neighborhood, as far away as she can get from Seattle, where her husband cheated on her with the neighbor who was supposed to be her best friend. She and her nine-year-old daughter are moving on to the city of Gig Harbor on the bay in Puget Sound. She even has a new job as an assistant at a small publishing company right in Gig Harbor. Her new boss seems like a bit of a curmudgeon, but a job is a job, she loves to read, and the idea of possibly meeting writers sounds fabulous.

Soon she finds she’s not the only one in need of a refresh. Her new neighbors, Alice and Margot, are dealing with their own crises. Alice is still grieving her late husband and hasn’t been able to get behind the wheel of a car since a close call after his death. Margot is floundering after getting divorced and laid off in quick succession. They could all use a distraction, and a book club seems like just the ticket. Together, the three women, along with Alice’s grumpy older sister, Josie, embark on a literary journey that just might be the kick-start they need to begin building their best lives yet.

Buy Links:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | HarperCollins

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MY REVIEW

How could I resist a story that revolves around several women who start a book club. It quickly becomes more as friendships are forged and their stories unfold.

Karissa, along with her young daughter, is starting over after she discovers her husband is having an affair with her best friend. New town. New house. New job. And hopefully, new friends. The kind she can trust. Almost by accident, she discovers other women going through tough situations and the book club is formed.

This was my favorite part of the book. I enjoyed how each new character entered the story and learning what their circumstances were. You meet divorcees and widow’s of different ages dealing with things at different stages. As I continued reading their stories they really grew on me. I began to hope each would get a happy ending. Not my normal thing to mention in a review but, I had some favorites. The grouchy Josie with her tough exterior. And Gerald. His bark was worse than his bite. Maybe. They made me laugh.

Whether choosing this book for your own book club read or just for your own pleasure, I recommend you give it a try.

4 STARS

 

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Enjoy this peek inside:

Landing butt first in mud. How symbolic of Karissa Newcomb’s life. The old life. Not the new one, please, God.

She shouldn’t have crossed that corner of the lawn where the grass was sparse and slick in the pouring Northwest rain. Now here she was, wet and caked in mud. Like the cardboard box she’d dropped. At least the towels were still safely inside it. Something to be thankful for.

“See? There’s always a bright side somewhere,” her mother would say.

What was the bright side to Karissa’s marriage ending? There had to be one. It would be nice if she could find it before she turned thirty-five. It felt like a landmark birthday of sorts, but that was only a few months away though, so she wasn’t holding her breath.

Gig Harbor, Washington, a small maritime city, was a good place to start—close enough to Seattle for the obligatory bi-weekly child hand-off with the ex-husband, but far enough away that she wasn’t constantly having to look at the scene of the crime. Out of sight, out of mind. Someday, hopefully. Meanwhile, she needed to get up and get focused.

Brush the mud off your rear and get it in gear. That should be a bumper sticker.

She picked up her soggy box of towels and followed her brother Ethan and his friend Ike, who were making their way up her driveway, carrying her couch. Her eight-year-old daughter Macy was sitting on it, giggling.

The excitement of the new house had temporarily distracted Macy from the fact that she’d left behind her best friend. Who happened to be the daughter of Karissa’s former best friend. Like Karissa, Macy was going to have to find a new bestie.

Moving in the middle of February, in the middle of the school year, swimming through a deluge of icy rain wasn’t ideal, but that was how events had played out. The house in Seattle on which Karissa had lavished so much care had finally sold and now she had this house—a blue, two-story, Victorian-inspired one with three small bedrooms and a front porch. And a need for paint. The price had been right. Motivated sellers, the real estate agent had said. Karissa knew what that meant. She’d been a motivated seller, herself. Divorce had a way of motivating you. The house didn’t come with a water view like she’d originally dreamed of—water views were far outside her price point—but the neighborhood was pretty, and the street seemed quiet. She could hole up in her almost Victorian home and rebuild her life, the new start people expected you to make after your world collapsed.

“This is adorable,” her mother had gushed when she and Dad had made the trip to check out the house with Karissa and her Realtor.

Her parents were as enamored of Gig Harbor and its waterfront downtown as Karissa was. “I think Gig Harbor will be a perfect place to write the next chapter of your life,” Mom had told her.

“I hope I do a better job of writing this time around,” Karissa had muttered.

“It wasn’t you who messed up,” her dad had growled.

But maybe it was.

She jerked her mind away from that thought. She had a new house and a new job waiting for her. Between that and the spousal and child support her ex was paying she’d be okay financially. Certainly not rich, but okay. And she had free moving help. Look at all the good things she could focus on.

Inside the house, she followed one of the butcher-paper paths she’d made and set the box on the guest bathroom counter. Then she went back for the one with her clothes, brought that into the primary bedroom, which would be hers, and dug out a fresh pair of pants and panties. Think of this as peeling off all the bad parts from your past, she told herself as she ducked into the bathroom and stepped out of her pants.

It was hard peeling off the bad though. It stuck to you like dog poop on a shoe. There was always some little stinky bit that hung on. Like the memory of Mark walking out the door for the last time.

Dog poop, mud. She needed a new image to focus on. Rain. Rain washing away past sadness, bringing a rainbow and a promise of something better. Yes, that was a good image.

Her butt hurt.

Her cell phone rang, and she fished it out of her jacket pocket. “Hi, Mom,” she said, trying to sound the way a hopeful woman making a new start should sound.

“How’s it going?” Mom wanted to know.

“The guys are moving the furniture in now.”

“What’s the weather like there? It’s partly sunny up here.”

“It’s raining like crazy. I should have rented an ark instead of a moving van. I spent a fortune on plastic covering.”

“At least it’s not snow,” Mom said. “And the rain is what keeps everything so green.”

The Pacific Northwest was famous for its perpetual state of green and Seattle had been dubbed the Emerald City. Like Dorothy, Karissa had loved living in the Emerald City.

Until the witch showed up.

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About the Author

 

 

USA Today and Publishers Weekly best-selling author Sheila Roberts has written over fifty books under various names, ranging from romance and relationship fiction to self-improvement. Over three million of her novels have been sold and that number continues to climb. Her humor and heart have won her a legion of fans and her novels have been turned into movies for the Lifetime, Hallmark, and Great American Family channels. Sheila is also a popular speaker, and has been featured at women’s retreats, writers’ conferences, and banquets. When she’s not out dancing with her husband or hanging out with friends, she can be found writing about those things near and dear to women’s hearts: family, friends and chocolate.

Author Links

Website | Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram

 

 

Sponsored By:

 

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.