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New Release Spotlight — SERPENT’S DOOM: A Zodiac Mystery by Connie di Marco

As San Francisco’s Chinatown prepares for the Lunar New Year festivities in the fogbound month of February, astrologer Julia Bonatti finds herself with three new clients, all in desperate straits who don’t seem to heed her advice. Tracy is the victim of a brutal husband with nowhere to run and Jeanette is worried sick about her son, whom she suspects has fallen in with a bad lot.

But most frightening of all to Julia is Frankie Chang’s dilemma. Frankie’s only eleven years old and he’s terrified. His mother is missing and no one will help him. Julia’s heart goes out to him but her hands are tied. Frankie won’t let her talk to the police and neither will his family.

Julia eventually discovers that the three worlds of her clients intertwine. Those lives inevitably collide exposing a dangerous smuggling cabal. Julia knows too much and becomes a victim of both a ruthless environmental group and criminals who will stop at nothing, including murder.

Kudos for Serpent’s Doom

“Connie di Marco’s twin loves of Astrology and the detective fiction genre are on full display in her latest installment of the Zodiac Mysteries: Serpent’s Doom. It makes perfect sense to fuse these two disciplines in which intelligence, intuition, and interpretation play such a key role. It’s also a delight to see Astrology driving the plot forward rather than employed as a mere gimmick. This adds dimension and suspense to how the mystery plays out and di Marco’s wonderfully cinematic prose keeps you turning the pages in increasing anticipation.”
-Christopher Renstrom, astrologer for the San Francisco Chronicle, SF Gate and Astrology Hub, author of The Cosmic Calendar and creator of rulingplanets.com

“Intriguing and riveting, Connie di Marco’s latest Zodiac Mystery, Serpent’s Doom, is a new year’s firecracker of an adventure. Told with heart and conscience, Serpent’s Doom features a superb cast and setting, with a plot right out of the headlines. The best yet in this highly original series.”
-James W. Ziskin, author of the award-winning Ellie Stone Mysteries

“Connie di Marco’s Zodiac Mysteries have it all: vibrant characters, sharp and suspenseful plots and comedic interludes. I love the added bonus of astrology and metaphysics and eagerly await the next installment.”
-Karen Christino, astrologer and author of Foreseeing the Future

“San Francisco Astrologer Julia Bonatti will need more than the stars when she tries to help a boy find his missing mother. di Marco takes us on a thrill ride from Chinatown to famed Bay City locales. An enticing mystery with compelling characters who pull you in. ‘Dear Zodia, is it in the stars that Connie di Marco will write more Zodiac Mysteries?’ I certainly hope so, because I’m hooked!”
-Laurie Stevens, author of the award-winning Gabriel McKay suspense novels

“Another page-turner with San Francisco astrologer, Julia Bonatti. I alternately wanted to shake her and cheer her on as she reluctantly becomes entangled with a boy who needs her help. A fascinating look into a different culture, where involving the police is a bad idea, prompting Julia to take matters into her own hands.”
-Sheila Lowe, best-selling author of the Forensic Handwriting Mysteries and the Beyond the Veil Mysteries suspense novels

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery
Published by: Suspense Publishing
Publication Date: April 26, 2022
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 0578326566 (ISBN13: 9780578326566)
Series: A Zodiac Mystery, 4th (Each is a Stand-Alone Work)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Cheryl, the manager of The Mystic Eye, signaled to me. I was at the Eye to fill in at the evening’s psychic fair. She indicated a young woman in a cotton skirt and denim jacket. Her dark hair was cut in bangs and pulled back in a low ponytail. She wore no makeup and clutched a small, zippered plastic purse in her hand. I nodded to Cheryl and headed down the narrow side corridor to the small reading room I had been assigned for the evening, each space protected by a heavy drape.

I took my seat and cleared my astro program for my upcoming visitor. She was slender, young, mid-twenties at a guess. Her legs were bare under her cotton skirt and I was sure her denim jacket didn’t sport a designer label. She was hardly dressed adequately for the chilly night. Her jaw was clenched and her hands were red and raw, her nails bitten to the quick. As she took her seat across the small table from me, the collar of her denim jacket pulled away betraying darkened discolored skin at her collarbone. A bruise? She was so tense she seemed to vibrate. The electricity was difficult to ignore. Was it anger? Fear? Maybe an unnecessary terror of the occult? That might explain her tension, but still…that bruise raised a red flag.

I smiled, said hello and introduced myself. She nodded and watched me intently. I asked if she was familiar with astrology and she said she wasn’t. “Well, let me explain a little. Your natal chart is a map of the heavens at the time of your birth. It shows the gifts and talents you bring to this incarnation. It also shows the difficulties you’ll contend with in life. Do you have your birth information?”

“Yes.” She nodded and passed a slip of paper to me. There were two birthdates, with time and location, jotted down hastily. She knew enough to offer the information I needed to set up a chart. Perhaps she wasn’t as clueless about astrology as she first claimed.

“Can I ask you your name?”

“Tracy. Tracy Wyler. The second birthdate is my husband’s.”

“Okay, Tracy.” I plugged the information into the program on my laptop and two charts were instantly generated. “Would you like to focus on your chart? Or perhaps on your relationship with your husband?” She nodded but didn’t answer. I clicked on the bi-wheel option where I could see both charts at once, displayed in inner and outer rings. Then I set up a composite chart. I didn’t like what I saw. There were connections between the charts that indicated physical attraction, but I didn’t like the Mars and Saturn and even Pluto connections from her husband’s chart to her personal planets. I checked the composite chart, hoping something more positive would be indicated. As often happens in astrology, the composite echoed the synastry, or comparison, of the two individual charts.

This was not a good relationship for her. Her body language told me a lot, even without the insight of the charts. There was no choice but to go for it. She obviously needed help and I had only fifteen minutes to offer her what I could. I had to be blunt. She’d either listen or react with anger. “Tracy, you already know what I’m about to say. You need to escape this marriage.”

She gasped. Her eyes widened. She nodded her head quickly and tears sprang to her eyes. “I know things aren’t good but I don’t know what I can do. I have no place else to go.”

“He’s hurt you, hasn’t he?” The Mars and Uranus aspects to her husband’s Sun sign indicated anger and the possibility of violence if unchecked. There was that, but it was more the connections between these two individuals that concerned me. She reached over and rolled up one of the sleeves of her jacket. Dark bruises lined her arm. She craned her neck and showed me another mark on the side of her neck. “How long has this been going on?”

“We got married three months ago. It started a few days after. He keeps telling me I can’t do anything right. That I’m stupid.” She stifled a sob and took a deep breath. “He says…he says I’m so ugly that I better behave because no one else would want me.” Tears were filling her eyes, her breathing was shallow. I passed a small box of tissues across the table. “But then, when he cools down, he says he’s sorry, that he really loves me and he won’t do it again…”

“I have to say this, Tracy. I doubt this will change. Even with a lot of psychological help, even if he was willing…it’s a recurring pattern.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried.

“Do you have any family?”

“Only my mother and she’s in Indiana.”

“What does she have to say?”

“She says I should listen to my husband. After all, he works and he supports me.”

I felt a slow rage rise in my chest. What kind of a woman would advise her daughter to submit to physical abuse? Any kind of abuse? “What he’s doing is against the law, Tracy. You may not be aware of this, but we have serious laws in California against this type of thing. The police are required to arrest anyone accused of abuse. It’s not up to the cops to decide. They must arrest the accused party. All you have to do is call the police, show them what he’s done to you, and he won’t be coming home.”

“They won’t arrest him. They won’t. He’ll convince them, he’s so persuasive.”

I reached across the table and grasped her hand. “You don’t understand. Here the laws are different. The police have no choice. He’ll be held, maybe without bail, and he’ll be charged. That would give you time to get away and find shelter.”

She began to cry in earnest. “It won’t matter. Eventually he’ll get out and come after me. It’ll be worse than before.”

“All the more reason. Once the police take him away, you can go to a women’s shelter. Listen….” I had to break through her wall of hopelessness. “I keep lists of all kinds of resources for my clients.” I quickly opened a document on my laptop. I wasn’t attached to a printer in the tiny reading room, but I grabbed a notebook from my purse and jotted down the addresses of the three nearest shelters and passed the slip of paper to her. “The police will even take you there and they are not allowed to give out your location. And if you want, they’ll escort you home to retrieve your personal belongings. Do you have children?”

“No,” she said. “Thank God I don’t.”

A dark foreboding swept over me. This woman should not return home tonight. “What do you say, we go into the office here and call them right now? I’ll stay with you till they arrive.”

“I…I don’t know….” She twisted her fingers together. “He says he loves me, that he’s sorry. That it’ll never happen again.”

Yeah, right, I thought. Heard that one before. I waited, trying to see which way she’d go. There were aspects in her natal chart that indicated introversion and shyness. If she had met another type of man her fate would be quite different, but whoever this guy was…he’d use her like a punching bag.

“Tracy, do you have any idea how many women are killed by their husbands or partners in this country? I happen to know these statistics. It’s important in my line of work. Clients come to me with all sorts of problems.” It’s all well and good to talk about Moon signs and romance and money opportunities, but some people are already on the ropes, already at their weakest and most vulnerable, and one of them was sitting across from me right now. “Of the women murdered in the U.S. alone, ninety-seven percent are killed by their partners or husbands. Every single day three women die because of domestic violence. Those are real bad odds, Tracy. You can be safe. You can divorce this man and you can find a way to support yourself. It won’t be easy, but at least no one will be hurting you. And there are people who will help you.”

“I’m so afraid,” she wailed. “I…there’s something else…. I…oh God, I’ve….” She stifled a sob. “I’ve met someone else.” At this, she burst into tears. “If my husband ever finds out, he’ll kill me. He’ll—”

“Look, Tracy, first things first. You need help. You need to get to a safe place. Later, you can sort out all your feelings, but first you need to find shelter so you can get your head on straight.”

“I know,” she said, nodding.

“Come on. Come with me. We can have privacy in the office.” I reached out for her hand, a hand that was ice-cold. She quickly pulled away and clutched the slip of paper in her hand.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered. She stood and ran out of the reading alcove. I hurried after her, but she was too fast. She had pushed through the front door. I caught a glimpse of her through the plate glass window, running toward Columbus Avenue. I hurried to the door, hoping to catch up with her, but when I reached the sidewalk she had already turned the corner at the end of the block. I ran down the street but she was nowhere in sight. I sighed and walked back to the front door of The Mystic Eye. If she was afraid to turn her husband in, I hoped she’d at least head to a shelter to protect herself.

***

Excerpt from Serpent’s Doom by Connie di Marco. Copyright 2022 by Connie di Marco. Reproduced with permission from Connie di Marco. All rights reserved.

Interview with Connie di Marco

What was the inspiration behind this story?

A very unusual thing happened as I was doing my best to work out the plot for Serpent’s Doom.  A character actually appeared before my eyes.  I’ve invented lots of characters, but this was the first (and only) time one appeared to me fully formed.  His name is Frankie Chang and he’s eleven years old.  He’s quite a character for a little kid, but he has a big problem.  That’s how the story started.  It’s Frankie’s dilemma that’s at the core of this book. 

Tell us about your main character.

Julia Bonatti is an astrologer.  I wanted my protagonist to have an unusual occupation, one that would put her in touch with people from all walks of life.  She wasn’t always involved in the occult world, but it’s a path she chose after the hit and run death of her fiancé.  No longer able to pursue a teaching career, she discovered an interest in astrology and just knew this study was right for her.  Julia is compassionate, determined, and even a bit reckless in helping her clients. 

Which is your favorite minor character and why?

When I first started writing this series, I didn’t intend for The Mystic Eye bookshop to be such an important location in the story, must less all the unusual characters who work there – psychics, Tarot card readers, past life readers and regression hypnotists.  But one of the characters who’s played an important role in several stories is Zora.  Zora is a psychic and a medium with psychometric abilities.  She’s a gravelly-voiced, plus-sized lady who dresses in long flowing garments with tons of scarves and jewelry.  Zora dominates every room whenever she appears.  She’s been quite useful in many instances and I always enjoy writing about the indomitable Zora. 

I’m inviting your main character to dinner. What should I make?

If it’s Julia who’s invited, you can make just about anything.  She’ll be grateful.  There’s nothing she won’t eat, but often she forgets to eat.  Her refrigerator doesn’t hold much except a half-eaten apple, a mushy banana and a jar of mustard.  Julia doesn’t cook.  She subsists on plastic containers that her grandmother, Gloria, donates to her.  Julia’s freezer is full, thanks to Gloria who’s a fabulous cook and one of Julia’s favorite dishes is Gloria’s lasagna.  But even if it’s not lasagna, Julia will still eat anything you put in front of her. 

Please share a few favorite lines or one paragraph.

“Is there a creature on earth more reviled than the snake?  Silent, with lidless unblinking eyes, it strikes with stealth and atavistic cunning.  Yet in legends throughout the centuries, serpents appear offering protection and regeneration.  Sumerian myth regarded the snake as a symbol of healing.  The pharaoh’s crown displayed a cobra with hood spread as a protective emblem.  Greek myth held humans could acquire second sight if their eyes were licked by a snake.  Ancient native tribes built the Serpent Mound in Ohio, believed to align with the solstices, and serpents whispered the secrets of the universe into the ears of the Mayan sky goddess.” 

Tell us about your cover art and how it pertains to your story.

I was so lucky to find a wonderful cover designer (Hannah Linder Designs).  The first publisher who released the first three books in this series insisted on cozy covers, which I felt were all wrong for these books.  So, with my new publisher, I was free to choose the covers that I wanted.  And I have to say I’m absolutely in love with all the covers I have now.

For this book, Serpent’s Doom, I wanted an image that said ‘Chinatown,’ where much of the action takes place.  I pored over stock images on the Chinese New Year parades which are fabulous and colorful, but these were just too “busy” for my purposes.  I finally thought of the Dragon Gate at the entrance to Grant Avenue and that created exactly what I wanted to convey.  The serpent coiled around the gate . . . well, that would be a spoiler.   You’d have to read the book. 

When you first begin writing a new book, is your main focus on the characters or the plot?

The good thing about writing a series is that your characters are in place.  They’re waiting in the wings and can be trotted out whenever they’re needed.  But most importantly, the work has to start with the plot.  Mysteries need a certain structure and once the plot and timelines, along with clues and red herrings, are in place, the rest is frosting on the cake.  That’s not to say it’s easy, but there’s a roadmap to follow that keeps me from getting lost. 

Why do you write within your chosen genre?

Crime writing is endlessly fascinating because it delves into the motives and the psychology of why people commit crimes, specifically murder.  We’ve all held murderous fantasies, I’m sure, but hopefully we’ve never acted on them.  Crime writing is an exploration of the factors that will finally push a normal person over the edge to commit murder. 

If you won a paid vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Istanbul!  The history is incredible!  I’ve wanted to visit that city for a long time, but the opportunity has never come up.  Right now, with the current political climate, it’s probably not a good place to be a tourist, but hopefully some day I might get there.  I love the Jason Goodwin books set in the late Ottoman Empire with his eunuch detective, Yashim.  It reawakened my interest in visiting. 

Some people believe we can tell a lot about a person by the books on their shelves. Share 3 titles from your bookshelf and tell us what you think they say about you.

The Darkest Evening (Ann Cleeves)
Death in a Strange Country (Donna Leon)
Y is for Yesterday (Sue Grafton)

What do they say about me?  Mystery – Crime – Murder!

Author Bio:

Connie di Marco is the author of the Zodiac Mysteries featuring Julia Bonatti, a San Francisco astrologer who never thought murder would be part of her practice. Writing as Connie Archer, she’s the national bestselling author of the Soup Lovers’ Mysteries from Berkeley Prime Crime. Her recipes and excerpts can be found in The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook and The Cozy Cookbook. Connie is a member of the Crime Writers Association (UK), Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime.

Catch Up With Connie di Marco:
www.ConniediMarco.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @Connie_di_Marco
Instagram – @Connie_di_Marco
Twitter – @askzodia
Facebook – @zodiacmysteries

 

 

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The post New Release Spotlight — SERPENT’S DOOM: A Zodiac Mystery by Connie di Marco appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.

Spotlight on HOOKER AVENUE: A Queen City Crimes Novel by Jode Millman

Being a Good Samaritan is hazardous.

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

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

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

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

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

Praise for Hooker Avenue:

“Dark, dangerous and deviously suspenseful, Hooker Avenue kept me turning pages late into the night. I adored the fascinating cast of characters and the rich Hudson Valley setting. A truly terrific book!”– Alison Gaylin, USA Today Bestselling, and Edgar Award-winning author of THE COLLECTIVE

“So many skeletons are banging on the closet doors to be set free, in this heady mix of sizzle, punch, and danger. And, even more intriguing, it’s all based on a true crime.”–Steve Berry, International and New York Times bestselling author of THE KAISER’S WEB

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: April 19, 2022
Number of Pages: 360
ISBN: 9781685120825
Series: Queen City Crimes, #2
Book Links: Amazon || Goodreads

Read an excerpt:Chapter 1

There was no doubt about it. Jessie Martin felt a storm brewing.

Without warning, the blue sky darkened to an ominous purplish gray. A blade of lightning sliced open the sky, releasing a sudden downpour, and illuminating the Hudson Valley landscape as though it were a grainy black-and-white photograph. Seconds later, a crack of thunder shook her car.

Staring ahead through the blurry windshield, Jessie gripped the leather steering wheel as her heart mimicked the rhythm of the windshield wipers battling the deluge. It felt as though the world was ending, and all she wanted to do was get home to her boyfriend, Hal Samuels, and her baby, Lily.

The shrill ringing of her cellphone made her swerve toward the oncoming traffic on the slick roadway. Jessie righted her Jeep, and reflexively tapped the button on her steering wheel, activating the Bluetooth connection to her cellphone. The act was second nature and offered a brief respite from the hazards demanding her attention.

“Hal?” she asked, believing he was checking in. “I’m on my way home from Adams Market and I’m caught up in a pop-up storm. I should be home in a few minutes, unless there are road closures because of accidents.” There was a long silence and unease curled in her midsection. “Hello, Hal? Are you there?”

“Jessica, that’s extremely interesting, but why aren’t you taking my calls?” The low, raspy voice of her former mentor, Terrence Butterfield, resonated throughout the interior of the car. “How rude, my dear. After all we’ve meant to each other. And the secrets we’ve shared.” He paused.

His menacing tone turned her skin to gooseflesh, and before he could speak again, she smashed the phone button with her fist, disconnecting the call.

“What the—” she screamed, stopping before an expletive slipped out. Like an idiot, she’d let her guard down. She should have known that even after she’d helped put him away for murder, Terrence wouldn’t let her go.

Terrence had always been possessive of her, even when she’d been his student at Poughkeepsie High School over a decade ago. But something deeper, more disturbing, lurked beneath the surface. Last summer, he’d lured her teenage friend, Ryan Paige, into his home with drugs and booze. Ryan, who had been like a younger brother to her, was never seen alive again. And after the cops discovered his dismembered body in Terrence’s basement, Terrence was charged with his murder.

It still alarmed her that Terrence, her father’s best friend and one of the most popular faculty members at the school where her father was principal, was a psychotic, cold-blooded butcher. And as unreasonable as it may be, she felt responsible for Ryan’s death because she’d been blind to Terrence’s true nature, the monster hiding behind the charming mask.

Minutes ago on the phone, his voice had sounded so crisp and clear that he’d seemed to be sitting next to her in the passenger’s seat, his icy breath whispering in her ear. With Terrence’s vampiric presence lingering inside her car, Jessie’s eyes cut to the rearview mirror. Only the pitch-blackness of the stormy night reflected at her. Then, out of habit, her eyes whipped to the car seat buckled in the back seat. It was empty. Thankfully, nine-month-old Lily had stayed at home with Jessie’s mother while she’d made the quick trip to the grocery store.

The storm, the traffic, and the groceries rattling around in the hatchback had monopolized Jessie’s thoughts, as they should have; she’d been too focused on them to expect that Terrence would call her. Again. It had been two days since Terrence’s last call, and the problem was he never contacted her from the same number. He was a sneaky bastard. Sometimes he’d call her house and sometimes her cellphone, but he always phoned when he assumed she was alone.

It was unbelievable that a murderer, albeit a murderer acquitted on the grounds of criminal insanity and institutionalized in a state-run psychiatric center, could contact her. Or as she viewed it, stalk her. Jessie wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t eating. She flinched whenever the doorbell or the phone rang, even if it was her parents, or Lily’s father, Kyle Emory, or Hal. She’d kept Terrence’s calls a secret from everyone, but Jessie felt like she was about to snap.

Another downpour engulfed the Jeep, and Jessie’s gaze darted back to the highway. She hadn’t thought it could rain any harder, but in an instant, Mother Nature had unleashed a tantrum.

Squinting to see through the misty sheets of rain, Jessie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Her fingernails sliced into her palms and her arms trembled as she fought to steady the Jeep on the slippery roadway.

She needed to pull off the road. She needed to get it together.

Jessie switched on her turn signal and then flipped on the emergency flashers. She coasted off the highway onto the narrow shoulder, parking a safe distance from the road on a grassy patch enclosing a strip mall parking lot, and exhaled a deep breath. As the storm swirled around her, she wondered why her life was so damn complicated.

For years, Terrence had been her friend, her teacher, and her mentor, even her confidante. Then, he’d become her greatest betrayer. To get the murder charges against him dismissed, he’d accused her of violating his attorney-client privilege, jeopardizing her law license. He’d alleged that she’d informed the cops about Ryan’s murder after he’d confided in her about the killing. But she hadn’t talked. Kyle had called the cops and had only admitted it under oath at the pre-trial hearing to dismiss the charges. Although Jessie had been exonerated of all wrongdoing, Terrence’s unfounded accusations had caused her irreparable damage. She’d lost her prestigious job, her fiancé Kyle, and almost her life and child.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jessie mumbled under her breath, battling the aftershock of Terrence’s call. “He’s been locked up for nine months and won’t be released, ever.” While the thought reassured her, Terrence had been harassing her since his commitment, and she hadn’t done a damn thing to stop him. She’d believed she was rid of him. But her inaction, her passivity, was allowing him to ruin her new life with Lily and Hal.

The nagging tightness in her shoulders relaxed as she decided, there and then, to seize control. Resolving the Terrence crisis was on her, not him. She’d hatch a plan, and if necessary, seek Hal’s help. After all, he was the District Attorney who’d prosecuted Terrence.

The rain was letting up and her yellow emergency signals pulsated in an eerie disco beat over the shimmering landscape. She switched them off and flicked on the high beams as she wiped away the condensation blanketing the inside of her windshield.

As her eyes adjusted, her vision followed the muted light of her Jeep’s headlights deep into the rain-drenched darkness. A car length or two ahead, the lights reflected off a glittering object lying in a shallow puddle. For a second, the lights twinkling like tiny snowflakes mesmerized her. Then her sight expanded, focusing on what appeared to be a bulky, glistening mass.

At first glance, it appeared to be the size and shape of a small child. But it couldn’t be. Logic told her that the object was probably a bouquet of deflated Mylar balloons, a pile of white garbage bags, or a golf umbrella blown off to the side of the road. Her eyes, and imagination, had to be screwing with her because any reasonable person would have taken shelter in the storm.

Jessie’s thoughts flickered back to Lily, and the news stories about toddlers wandering out of their homes and into the woods. Her paranoia might be farfetched, but the shiny rolling waves looked more like the curve of a shoulder than deflated balloons. Another glance at the toddler-shaped mass confirmed that it was too human to ignore.

She needed a closer look.

Jessie opened her car door and stepped outside into the rain, a cold shower so fine and intense that the drops perforated her clothing like needles. She shivered. Her damp skinny jeans and silk blouse clung to her like a second skin.

The amber glare of the parking lot’s lights shimmered along a narrow ditch lining the edge of the lot, and the beams of her headlights shone like a spotlight across the grassy roadside. Never veering from the path of light, Jessie inched closer to the slippery ridge of the ditch.

In a flash, the landscape became bathed in a blinding white light and then faded back to black. A sudden clap of thunder made her start and, losing her footing, Jessie tumbled forward onto the slick, rain-soaked earth. Her hands and knees sunk into the mud as she caught her breath and collected her wits. Water dripped into her eyes, and she blinked it away to regain sight.

Her eyes searched frantically through the storm for whatever she believed she’d seen.

Scrambling to her feet, Jessie crept toward the trench. The gully was about five feet deep, shoulder height for her, and was collecting runoff from the storm.

She sucked in her breath as realization dawned. She had not been mistaken. There, in the darkness, she spied the sole of a bare foot, pale and pink against the murky water. A sudden coldness seized her core as her eyes traveled up what appeared to be a leg toward a body partially submerged in the puddle. The person wore a silver sequined bomber jacket and jeans smeared with dirt and brush, which had camouflaged it, preventing easy detection. It had been pure luck that her headlights had reflected off the jacket at just the right angle to attract her attention.

From where Jessie stood, it was difficult to say whether it was a man or woman, dead or alive, but there was definitely a body lying in the mud curled up in the fetal position. The person’s face was hidden beneath a mass of long, straggly hair that floated like a halo in the black water accumulating around it.

She thought she heard a moan, but the pulse throbbing in her ears and the rain pulverizing the ground muffled all other sounds.

“Hey,” Jessie yelled. “Hey, can you hear me?”

She received no answer.

Jessie shouted again. This time, an arm and leg twitched in apparent response to her call. Those minute movements signaled she was staring down at a person who was still alive, still breathing, at least for the moment. From the volume of water streaming into the trench, every minute, every second counted.

Juiced by adrenaline, her thoughts bounced between whether to climb down into the gully or call for help. The retaining walls of the ditch were already crumbling and sliding down into the bottom of the trench, making them steep and slick. If she climbed down, it might be impossible to scale back up the muddy slopes, and then they’d both be stuck in the ditch. Or worse, they could both drown.

And she’d left her phone in the car.

“I’m going to get help,” she shouted. The whipping wind blew the words back into her face. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but hang on. I’m calling for help.”

Jessie’s legs grew weak as she turned and dashed back to the car, her feet skating through the grass and mud. Breathless, Jessie slid inside, rummaged through her bag, and dialed 9-1-1.

“Dutchess 911. What is the address of the emergency?” asked the dispatcher.

“Hello, operator? I need your help,” Jessie said, her voice ragged with terror. “There’s a person lying in a ditch and we need an ambulance right away.”

“Ma’am, please slow down. What’s your location?”

“What? I’ve got a dying person here. I need your help.”

“Ma’am, first we need to pinpoint your location in case we’re disconnected. Now, what’s the intersection or landmark closest to you?”

Jessie sighed in frustration and slowly repeated her plea for help. “I’m in the City of Poughkeepsie on Dutchess Turnpike, right across from Adams Farm Stand, near the Starbucks. There’s an injured person trapped in a storm drain. The water is rising fast, and I can’t get to them.”

“Okay,” the operator said. “What is your phone number and your name?”

“Jessie Martin,” she replied, and provided her cell number.

“Thank you, Jessie. Can you tell me if the person is still breathing?”

“Yes, they appear to be, but not for long if they don’t get help.” Panicked, she’d been rushing through her responses and paused to compose herself. “He or she appears to be semiconscious. I don’t know how they ended up there or how long they’ve been there, but the rainwater is collecting in the ditch and they’re going to drown if you don’t send help. Please, please send someone right away.”

The dispatcher repeated the facts to her—injured person, storm drain, rising water, Dutchess Turnpike—and asked Jessie to confirm, which she did. “Thank you, Ms. Martin. Are you in any danger?”

The operator’s robotic, monotone inquiries made her question her involving the authorities. Recently, she’d learned that contacting them wasn’t always the best course of action. Before Ryan’s murder, she’d trusted the criminal justice system wholeheartedly. But that was before she’d almost lost everything she cherished. She couldn’t face another attack on her integrity and professionalism without imperiling the fragile sanity she clung to like a life preserver. Yet, here she was repeating the same stupid mistake.

“No, I’m fine. I’m in my car, but there’s a person outside whose life is in immediate danger.” The dispatcher had asked her so many damn questions without providing one iota of help that Jessie felt like screaming. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down and keep her emotions in check.

“Yes, I understand. I want you to remain in your car, and I’d like to keep you on the line until emergency services arrive. Someone will be on the scene shortly.”

Shortly was a subjective, if not relative term, which could mean anytime between ten and twenty minutes. In this rainstorm, maybe even longer. Hopefully, the person would survive that long.

Screw this, Jessie thought, scanning the interior of the car for her first aid kit and anything that could serve as a lifeline.

As the line went dead, a flash of white light caught her eye. In the rearview mirror, Jessie detected headlights careening toward the rear of her Jeep. Right toward her.

***

Excerpt from Hooker Avenue by Jodé Millman. Copyright 2022 by Jodé Millman. Reproduced with permission from Jodé Millman. All rights reserved.

Interview with Jode Millman

What was the inspiration behind the story?

The idea behind HOOKER AVENUE fell onto the front steps of my law office on Cannon Street in Poughkeepsie, N.Y.

In the autumn of 1995, my business partner and I purchased a converted two-family brick building for our law offices in downtown Poughkeepsie. Unbeknownst to us, the property came with a major flaw. Prostitutes plied their wares on our front porch and serviced their patrons in the abandoned covered garage across the street.

Our persistent complaints to the police initially yielded no results. However, gradually, the women vanished from our porch steps, and we believed the cops were doing their job. Years later, we discovered the grisly truth.

In early September 1998, I learned about Kendall Francois. Francois was a 27-year-old black man employed as a hall monitor at the Arlington Middle School. The gigantic, 300-pound Army veteran was chameleon-quiet and unassuming, and he moved unobserved through the community. However, from October 1996 to August 1998, Francois solicited, engaged in sex with, and strangled eight women. Each of his victims had documented histories of prostitution and drug addiction, and were white, petite and between the ages of twenty-seven and fifty-one. His favorite pickup spot—the front porch of my law office.

The failure of the police to investigate these missing women incentivized me to write a mystery incorporating the characters I created in my debut thriller, THE MIDNIGHT CALL.

Tell us about your main character.

HOOKER AVENUE is the continuation of single mom attorney Jessie Martin’s journey, which began in the award-winning series debut, THE MIDNIGHT CALL. She’s being hounded by her former teacher/mentor/confidante turned killer, Terrence Butterfield. Shaken after receiving another harassing phone from him from inside the psychiatric center where he is hospitalized, Jessie pulls off the road during a Spring thunderstorm. She spies something in the culvert and discovers an unconscious woman on the verge of drowning. And Jessie springs into action.

Being a Good Samaritan, thrusts Jessie into the path of her estranged best friend, Detective Ebony Jones, her former nemesis, Jeremy Kaplan, and unreliable sex worker, Lissie Sexton and Lissie’s assailant, John Doe.

Jessie has the smarts and the determination to learn criminal law on-the-job and to walk the fine line between professional ethics and duty to her community.

Which is your favorite minor character and why?

HOOKER AVENUE features two strong female protagonists, Jessie Martin and her estranged best friend, Detective Ebony Jones. Ebony is not a minor character, and she deserves equal attention for solving the mystery.

Ebony is investigating a string of sex worker disappearances in the Hudson Valley, and the near-fatal drowning victim, Lissie Sexton, bears a striking resemblance to the other women who have disappeared. Ebony and her partner discover nine vanishings up and down the Hudson Valley. The missing women have been reported, but the local authorities have allocated no resources to find them. Ebony wonders whether the vanishings are related to one perpetrator or is something more foul afoot in Poughkeepsie?

The two former besties clash as Jessie is, once again, faced with an ethical dilemma. She must represent her new boss’s client, Lissie Sexton, while Ebony presses her to prioritize the community first. The cop and the lawyer are at practical, professional and philosophical odds, but can they reconcile their conflicting goals to help catch a criminal? Can they ever be as close as they were growing up?

Fiction can often provide powerful life lessons. What message do you hope readers get from your book?

In my novel, HOOKER AVENUE, the fates of a single mom attorney and her former BFF, a black female detective, collide when a mysterious woman leads them down the path of a serial killer. Besides entertaining the lovers of crime fiction, mysteries and thrillers, I hope to draw attention to the failure of the criminal justice system to prevent, adequately investigate, and punish perpetrators of violence against women. And that all missing persons cases are not treated equally under the law and by the press. We are all entitled to equal protection under the law, regardless of sex, race, religion or economic status. Let’s hope that happens soon so that Francois’s victims have not died in vain.

How did you come up with the title?

Before I had even written one word, I had the title, “Hooker Avenue.” In the novel, Hooker Avenue is the nickname given by the cops to Reservoir Square Park, the spot where prostitutes congregate to seek tricks. But in Poughkeepsie, N.Y, there is an actual street named for James Hooker, a wealthy Poughkeepsie attorney, local politician and landowner in the mid-1800s. James Hooker, a contemporary of Matthew Vassar of Vassar College, was also on the committee that established the construction of the reservoir at the top of Cannon Street Hill—Reservoir Square Park. And in May 1836, the reservoir saved Poughkeepsie from the “Great Fire of Poughkeepsie.”

Interestingly, the derivation of the name “Hooker” (aka prostitute) dates back to the Civil War. General “Fighting Joe” Hooker was a party-hard career army man, whose division bore the reputation for disreputable morals, gambling and parties. His division became a magnet for a dedicated league of prostitutes who called themselves “General Hooker’s Army”, “Hooker’s Division” and “Hooker’s Brigade,” and who followed him around the war-torn countryside. Make the connection? These women became known as “Hookers.”

I’m inviting your main character to dinner. What should I make?

Since Ebony and Jessie are at odds, I wouldn’t suggest inviting them at the same time. It may be awkward, so I would suggest two dinners. For Ebony, she’s a craft burger and fries kind of gal. And make sure you have plenty of Rosé on hand. Jessie enjoys cooking and would know if you’re winging it, so you’d have to go fancier for her. Maybe Chicken Marsala with fresh green beans or Osso Bucco with pasta on the side. She prefers red wine. A Merlot, perhaps.

What is your favorite tv show?

Today, the word “television” has fluid meaning. With all the extraordinary programming available on the streaming services available, it’s difficult to pick one show that stands out. But I have a few favorites, which I have, and will, watch repeatedly: Outlander, Bridgerton, Schitts Creek, Seinfeld, and Downton Abbey. If I notice any of these shows on the schedule, my search for entertainment ends, and I’m sucked into the void.

Are you a morning or night person?

Definitely a morning person. Once the sun is up, I’m raring to go!

Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

From the answers I have given, you tell me!

Author Bio:

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

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

 

 

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ENTER TO WINThis is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Hooker Avenue by Jodé Millman. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

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The post Spotlight on HOOKER AVENUE: A Queen City Crimes Novel by Jode Millman appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.

New Release Spotlight — DEATH WARRANT by Bryan Johnston

Death Makes Great TV.

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

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

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

Praise for Death Warrant:

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

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: June 21st, 2022
Number of Pages: 352
ISBN: 074430508X (ISBN13: 9780744305081)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:Prologue

Jesus, thought Joey, stopping to catch his breath while simultaneously chastising himself for using the Lord’s name in vain. They’d said the hike was challenging, even by hardy Norwegian mountaineering standards. But he didn’t realize “challenging” was code for “your lungs will be bleeding.” Probably not too demanding for a younger person, but he grudgingly admitted he no longer fit that demographic. Those advancing “middle-years” made his little adventures even more important to him. He took a swig from his water bottle and checked his watch. He’d been making good time. “That’s why you trained for six months, dummy,” he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, not that anyone could hear him. He’d seen a few hikers coming back down the mountain, but to his surprise he hadn’t seen anyone else making the ascent. He’d purposefully picked the least touristy season that didn’t include several feet of snow to make his bucket list trip, but still, he’d expected to see a few more people. Not that he was complaining; he was enjoying the solitude. With one last cleansing breath and the taste of copper dissipating from his mouth, he got to his feet for the final push. On the climb he’d taken to talking to himself, carrying on conversations out loud, playing the part of all parties involved. He’d found it highly entertaining, and it helped keep his mind off the lactic acid burning in his thighs over the five-hour climb.

“Why in heaven’s name does it have to be Norway? It’s so far away,” Joey said out loud in the closest resemblance of his wife Joanie’s patent ed exasperated tone. He’d had thirty years of marriage to fine tune it.

“Because that’s where the Trolltunga is, hon!” Joey replied.

He vividly remembered when the holo-brochure had arrived. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” he’d asked her. She hadn’t. The 3D image projected by the brochure had been impressive, and even his wife couldn’t deny that. The Trolltunga was a rock formation that sprang 2,000 feet straight up above the north end of a Norwegian lake whose name Joanie never could pronounce and was topped with a cliff that jutted out preposterously far, like an enormous plank of a pirate ship. Watching the image slowly rotating over the brochure on their dining table had sealed the deal.

Joey could taste the copper again but powered through. He knew he was almost there.

“Should have brought the stick, genius,” he grumbled to himself. “That’s what hiking staffs are for.” But he’d been afraid some careless baggage handler would damage it. The staff had been too important to him. The entire Boy Scout Troop had carved their names into it along with the final inscription, “Thanks for all your years of service.” He wasn’t sure who was prouder of the gift, him, or Joanie. Regardless, the staff would have been a help.

His research showed that the round-trip climb would be about 22 kilometers—45,000 steps—and the equivalent of climbing and descending 341 floors. He guessed he was right around floor 170. Almost there.

As he rounded a large boulder, he thought back on all his training, preparation, and admittedly, the inconveniences he’d put Joanie through, and recited one of his wife’s favorite admonitions, “Joey Dahl, I swear you will be the death of me.” But then what he saw stopped him in his tracks. At that moment Joey felt complete validation. He also instantly understood what made the Trolltunga such a draw for thrill seekers. The cliff ’s edge reached out so far that the photo op was one for the books, the type of picture you frame and hang in your den. A conversation starter.

Bragging rights. The other church deacons were going to be sick of hearing about it.

“Oh, babe,” Joey said, more to himself this time, “I wish you were here to see this.” But even six months ago he knew that was never going to happen, what with her condition, but she was never going to begrudge him this trip. He’d been dreaming about it for years.

It took a certain person, one immune to heights and vertigo, to walk to that cliff’s edge and look out. Joey was one of those people. He set up the small, portable tripod he’d brought and mounted his mobile device, his optic, to take pictures and video remotely. He couldn’t wait to show it to Joanie and the kids. Through a little trial and error, he eventually got the framing right and strode out to the edge. He turned to face the camera and spread his arms wide in a “look at what I achieved” pose. The optic’s camera lens clicked once, twice, three times.

And then the bullet hit him right above the left eye.

Joey Dahl dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, toppling backwards off the cliff, falling into space. Like a base jumper without a wingsuit or parachute. His body tumbled down the sheer cliff face, yet he never quite hit the side. His body stayed clear of the rocky wall, due to the sharp drafts from the lake below. The constant pushing away from the wall, managed to keep him undamaged, bullet wound aside, until he finally met the ground below, by a lake whose name his wife never could pronounce. By then, however, he’d been long dead.

@@@

Six thousand miles away, a room full of people in finely tailored suits and skirts were watching intently, applauding with their approval. One of them, a woman with severe bangs, all business, smoothly pivoted from the wall of monitors, her eyes drawn to another, smaller screen where a series of numbers were appearing in real time. She allowed herself a trace of a smile. The ratings were in. Perhaps not matching those of the pop star’s demise from last summer, but still better than management had expected. Enough to trigger her bonus. Maybe she’d take the kids to Six Flags.

Chapter 1JANUARY

If you’re going to be summarily executed, you’d at least want the place that’s arranging your death to have a couple of nice rugs. Just for appearances. Nobody wants to be offed by some fly-by-night outfit that considers Ikea the height of corporate décor. As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. I really didn’t know what to expect, they don’t show the offices on the commercials. I knew it probably wouldn’t be like walking into a tax-prep firm on a strip mall—some tiny space filled with cheap furniture, all pleather and particleboard. It is anything but, and instantly fills me with a good vibe and reinforces my belief that I am making the right choice. The entry doors are an artistic combination of rich amber-hued wood, glass, and burnished metal, most likely brass, but buffed dull to appear understated. Classy. You feel like you are walking into a place of importance, where critical decisions are made on a by-minute basis, which I guess they are.

Upon entering I’m greeted by a kindly gentleman with open arms. “Welcome, Ms. Percival, we’re so pleased to see you,” he says with utter sincerity. “Our receptionist will take care of your every need.”

It takes me a second to realize the man is a hologram. I take a step closer and poke at it, which the holographic gentleman tolerates with a smile. Only the subtlest flicker gives away its true identity. From more than a few feet away you’d swear the man was flesh and blood. Holos are common these days, but this one takes the cake. The technology they have here obviously is top shelf stuff. Based on the greeting, they had me scanned and identified the moment I stepped through the front door.

I immediately pick up on the smell: lavender. It’s subtle but noticeable. Upon deeper consideration, the perfect scent. It’s probably the world’s most relaxing smell. Smells have a stronger link to memories than any of the senses, and I can feel myself imprinting the scent with the experience. What did my high school teacher always say? Smells ring bells. True that. I’ll probably go to my grave associating that smell with this place. Ha, go to my grave, bad choice of words for this visit.

The lobby floor is a combination of real hardwoods and Persian rugs so soft you instantly want to take your shoes off for the sheer sensory experience. The space feels more like the lobby of a four-star hotel: tasteful, elegant, contemporary without pressing the issue. The woman behind the reception desk is perfectly in line with the ambience. She is probably in her late thirties, attractive but non-threatening. I like the cut of her jib, as my mom used to say. Her clothes are professional but still fashionable. If I were to guess, they were most likely chosen for her by a consultant, like news anchors choose their clothes to project an image of trustworthiness. When I approach the desk, her face lights up with one of the most endearing smiles I have ever witnessed. I lean in a bit and squint to make sure she’s real. Yep, carbon-based life form.

“How may I help you?” she asks, and I absolutely believe she means it. “I’m here to get whacked.” I mimic guns with my fingers, firing off a couple rounds at her before blowing the non-existent smoke from the barrels. When I’m nervous I say stupid stuff. Stupid or snarky. Stupid, snarky, or sarcastic. I’ve been attempting to pare it down to just one for the last ten years with mixed results. I try to sound like being here is no biggie, but my voice sounds shrill in my ears, and I seriously doubt my anti-perspirant is up to the challenge.

The woman, unfazed by my cavalier attitude, nods with a soft, endearing smile. “Of course. You can speak with one of our sales associates. Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.”

She gestures to a cozy waiting area with a half-dozen comfortable looking chairs, one of them occupied by a distinguished looking woman idly paging through an issue of Vanity Fair, one of the last media hold outs that still clings to the quaint notion of publishing on paper. I can see an A-list actress of some substance gracing the cover, dressed in a bold red riding jacket, khaki jodhpurs and knee-high boots. I can practically hear the baying of the hounds. The actress is currently all the rage and the expected shoo-in come award time for her role in a recent high-profile drama that has captured the country’s imagination. A period piece that boasts betrayal, star-crossed love, and overcoming staggering odds in the face of adversity. Or at least that’s what the trailers led me to believe.

I turn back to the receptionist. “So, how’s it work?” “Pardon?” she asks innocently.

“I mean, do you get to choose? Sniper shot? Blown up? Pitched into a vat of acid? There was one episode, brutal, they dropped a piano on the guy, like in a cartoon.” I also yap when I’m nervous.

The receptionist’s smile doesn’t waver. “I remember it well.” She gives me a polite nod and says, “Your sales associate will answer all of your questions,” and then tips her head in the direction of where the woman with the magazine is sitting.

With a wink I fire off another round at the receptionist, holster my hands in my pockets, and turn toward the waiting area. Jesus, she must think I’m a moron. I take a seat several chairs away from my silver-haired counterpart. She glances up at me and gives the tiniest of polite smiles— held a beat longer than is socially necessary—before turning her attention back to her magazine. In that singular moment we become confederates, there for the same reason, and she is acknowledging to me with that brief exchange that regardless of my race, sex, social standing, or political leanings, that I—we—are about to become members of a rather unique club. All for one, one for all.

My distinguished clubmate looks distinguished, well, prominent. The cut of her suit speaks of dinner parties of the well-heeled, where talk of debutantes and cotillions is not simply language of earlier generations. And that’s what’s puzzling. I’d simply assumed this place was not frequented by the 1 percent. I mean, why would they need to resort to this measure? They’re all loaded. They’ve got the means to provide for their family members without going to the extremes this joint provides. It then dawns on me that maybe not everyone here is doing this for the money. But why else? Fame? Boredom?

A moment later, a slim middle-aged woman with flawless hair approaches and addresses my clubmate. She rises to her feet, shakes the proffered associate’s hand, and off they go. It is now just me and the glossy A-lister.

I don’t even have a chance to pick up the magazine before my appointed sales associate arrives to greet me. If there ever was a physical embodiment of warmth and compassion, he stands before me. He introduces himself as Benjamin and I can no sooner call him Ben than flap my arms and fly to the moon. To call him Ben would be an affront. This is Benjamin, the type of man who walks one step behind his wife, who enters a room of strangers with his hand on the small of her back to let her know he’s right there with her. Benjamin is clearly a man who listens more than he speaks and gives careful consideration before he does. This is my three-second impression.

Benjamin appears to be maybe a decade older than me, in the early throes of middle age with salt-and-pepper hair, receding, in baseball terms, at the power-alleys of his forehead.

He wears a nice-fitting suit of deep blue with the thinnest of pinstripes. His shoes, brown, match his eyes. It’s the eyes that support everything. His whole demeanor, his warmth, radiates from those dark twins. But I can see upon further review that the smile that rides along with them is what seals the deal. The smile and eyes work in tandem. One without the other, strong, but together, unimpeachable. I would buy a Rolex out of the trunk of this guy’s car.

Benjamin shakes my hand and asks me to join him in his office where we can chat. That’s what he says¾ chat, not talk. The perfect word to set my mind at ease.

Just two pals.

His office is small but nicely appointed and has a window overlooking a wooded urban park. The lavender scent follows us into the room, which I appreciate. Benjamin offers me a seat in front of his desk and takes the chair behind it. The desk is tidy, with nothing but a couple of framed family photos, a World’s Most Okayest Employee mug, and a glass computer tablet mounted on a small, low-profile frame to keep it upright when he chooses to use it in that position.

Benjamin steeples his hands on his desk and fixes me with those molten lava cake eyes.

“So, Frances,” he begins. Not Ms. Percival, but Frances. “You’d like to learn more about . . .” He glances at his glass tablet and looks up with a small smile. “. . . how to get whacked.”

“Pretty much. And by the way, you can call me Frankie.”

“Then Frankie it is. And by the way, it’s okay, you can call it by its official name, a death warrant.”

“Fair enough.”

“How much do you know about the process?” Benjamin asks evenly. He says process with a long o. Benjamin has what used to be called a Trans-Atlantic accent. You’d hear it all the time in ancient movies with actors like Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. It’s halfway between a British and American accent. Like something taught at a New England boarding school. It sounds divine.

I shrug. “Not much. How come there’s hardly anything about it on the Internet? I mean, that’s pretty crazy that you’re able to keep it so hush-hush.”

Benjamin nods and smiles compassionately. “It is rather amazing, isn’t it? You’d think someone would talk. Somebody always talks. I’m embarrassed to say I really don’t know.”

And I believe him.

“And yet virtually nothing shows up in the media,” I observe, probably a little more pointedly than intended.

But Benjamin doesn’t seem to mind. He holds his hands out, shoulders arched in the classic Beats me pose. “Those are the interior machinations of the machine that are a mystery even to me. Ask me what time it is, and I can tell you. Ask me how the watch works, and I can’t. Much of the information is purely on a need-to-know basis.”

“And you don’t need to know?” I ask.

“Way above my paygrade. We’re highly compartmentalized.” He can see my skepticism. “Rest assured; I can answer most of your questions.”

He settles back into his chair and that’s when it occurs to me. The eyes. Brown. The receptionist’s eyes were brown. The other sales associate’s eyes were brown. Don’t ask me how I notice this, it’s what I do. I notice things. Little stuff that often is of no consequence. That’s why I was always a fan of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. He noticed things. While others saw, he observed. I thought that was cool. We were kindred spirits. Of course, his gift of observation made nonsense of mine, but the one thing I have going for me is that I am nonfiction. I live in the real world. What I don’t have is the benefit of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle ensuring that I can spot a scuff on a shoe and divine that the culprit had brushed it against a curb in a rush to catch the number five bus. It’s bullshit, but it’s entertaining bullshit. Instead, my ability to notice things on a high but more realistic level has made me reasonably successful in my career—I’m a mentalist. My job is to observe. Take note. Listen and connect dots that others don’t see. I suppose I could be a cop or a private investigator, but that seems like work. Being a mentalist, on the other hand, is fun. We’re like magicians, but without the corny patter. Do I really have the gift of divination and clairvoyance? Sometimes it sure as hell feels like it. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack. However, a byproduct of my keen perception is an overactive imagination. I’ll sometimes see things for more than they are. But it does make life more interesting.

Back to the brown eyes. Of course. Brown eyes are soft, they’re compassionate. Blue eyes are striking, but in a place like this you don’t want striking, you want everything to be the Xanax of appearance. Calming. I’ll bet every public-facing employee here has brown eyes. In fact, I would imagine they’re all screened by a team of consultants to within an inch of their lives to fit specific criteria. A place like this probably only hires people who radiate kindness. I wonder how they measure that? There’s got to be some way to quantify a person’s level of kindness and compassion beyond spending five minutes in a room with them. With today’s technology, I’m sure someone’s found a way to figure out the analytics. To make it measurable.

Benjamin breaks into a smile no less cozy than an electric blanket. “So, what would you like to know?”

“Uh, how about you tell me what you can, and I’ll ask questions as they come to me.”

Benjamin gives a short nod. “Certainly. Let’s begin with the 30,000- foot view, and for clarity’s sake, I will use vernacular that I’m technically not supposed to: You will be killed, and your death will be televised.”

“Pretty damn clear vernacular,” I say.

Benjamin is all smiles. “I know, right? Gets to the meat of it pretty quick.”

“What did you mean by vernacular you’re not supposed to use?” I ask.

“Part of our internal policies. Company culture.” Benjamin says amiably. “Our programs are to be referred to as ‘episodes,’ not ‘shows.’ There are no ‘victims,’ but ‘participants’ or ‘souls.’ And all ‘participants’ will be shown the highest respect and dignity.”

“Mighty neighborly of you.”

“Thank you,” says Benjamin, looking sincerely appreciative of my comment, despite its snark. “Let me see if I can guess your next question,” he asks. “How does it work?”

“You’ve done this before, Benjamin.”

“Once or twice. We’ve got plenty of packages to choose from, depending on your budget, time frame, and other factors.”

“What kind of factors?”

Benjamin turns his eyes to his glass tablet, makes a few taps and swipes to call up the necessary information. “Do you care if it’s clean or messy? Quick and painless or would you rather feel the experience? Do you want a run-of-the-mill termination or something more exotic?”

“Who the hell wants to feel the experience of dying?”

“You’d be surprised. There are some people who want to embrace their last moments on earth. I’m told they think that’s when they feel most alive.”

“That’s whacko.”

“Preaching to the choir here, Frankie.” Just a couple of pals. “What do you mean by exotic?”

Benjamin leans back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Well, there was one we did a few years back that struck me as outside the lines, as well as being spectacularly challenging.”

“What was that?”

“Piranha attack. And he lived in the city.” “No shit?”

“That one took some serious production to pull off. We had to bring in twice our normal crew. But it was worth it; the ratings were outstanding.”

“How outstanding?” I ask.

“Are you familiar with ratings?” “A little.”

Benjamin taps on his glass tablet. “Piranha attack …… 48.8 rating, 71 share.”

He informs me that a rating point is a percentage of the total viewing population being polled and the share is the percentage of that population that’s watching at that moment. So that meant almost half of the country was watching and 70 percent of those who had their TVs, computers, or optics on were tuned in. I wonder what the other 30 percent were watching.

“Holy crap! Those are Super World Bowl numbers.”

“Actually, a little higher.”

“And I read that a thirty-second ad in that game runs for ten million dollars.”

Benjamin ruminates for a beat. “10.2, last I checked.”

This is where the rubber meets the road, where the money comes into play.

“So, how does it work? Money-wise, I mean.”

Benjamin clasps his hands in front of him and his face takes on an astonishing look of grace. I don’t know what they are paying him, but it isn’t enough.

My brain is having a difficult time reconciling the fact that this man who looks and sounds like a warm bath works for a company that kills people for profit.

“Certainly,” he says. “This is why you’ve come in. So your family will be sufficiently provided for after your passing.”

His demeanor strikes me as that of a funeral director talking costs for the casket, flowers, and organist. A tricky balancing act. Put the client at ease while doing your job to assure you’re keeping the company in the black, so the owner can continue to pay his gas bill, the mortgage, and take his kids to Disneyland.

“If you choose to move forward with our services you will pay a fee, earnest money, as it were, again based on some of the criteria I listed earlier—time frame, complexity.” Benjamin pauses for an instant, like it’s important to him that the following line land properly. “The up-front fee is to ensure we aren’t seen as preying on the desperate.”

“I can see how some might get that impression,” I reply with a straight face.

Benjamin smiles at my understanding. “Once our service is rendered and your passing is confirmed, your designee—the dependent, as it were—will receive a percentage of the advertising revenue brought in by the televised production.”

“And I’m guessing the more elaborate the production, the higher the ratings, and therefore more money for the . . . what did you call it? The designee?”

Benjamin cocks an eyebrow. “Usually, but not necessarily. I’ve seen some pretty pedestrian terminations receive quite robust ratings because of the backstory involved.”

“Backstory?”

“Well, a background that may give the episode a little more drama. Let me give you an example.” Benjamin does the glance-at-the-ceiling thing again, drawing on memories. “There was one episode where the method of death was a simple blow up. Explosives set to go off at a designated time and location. Nothing overly dramatic. But what gave it an extra twist was that on the day of the scheduled event our client decided to take his dog for a walk. An unexpected deviation from his normal schedule. We were embarrassingly unprepared for this. All our research gave us a 99 percent chance that he would be alone at the time of detonation. But as fate would have it, that miscue on our part became a ratings bonanza.”

“What did taking his dog for a walk have to do with any of that?” I ask.

@@@

Chris miller had no idea Max, the gray-muzzled little lab mix padding alongside him, was causing conniptions in a television studio four states away. Well, padding was generous, it was more like limping, or waddling; Max was pushing ninety-eight in people years and built like a kielbasa sausage—mostly due to Chris’s soft heart and table scraps. Chris figured Max could eat anything he damn well pleased for as long as he lived. Seven years previously, Chris and Max had been hiking in Zion National Park when Chris fell down a crevasse and was pinned. He only had enough water to last about a day. But Max had run for help, just like in the classic Timmy-fell-down-the-well scenario. Ever since, Chris spoiled his aging mutt mercilessly.

And that’s what the people in the television studio hadn’t foreseen. “How long before he’s at the optimal detonation coordinates?” asked the director. He dabbed an already moist handkerchief across his brow for the dozenth time in the last fifteen minutes.

“Ten minutes,” replied the field producer, an edge to her voice. She was crumpling and uncrumpling a paper cup in her fist that moments earlier had been half filled with water which she had slugged down, desperately wishing it was something stronger. “My team has the space cleared. No civilians present. At least for now. For the time being, everything is go.”

Nothing was go, thought the director. Things were far from go. But he had to keep a lid on it. He glanced up at the bank of monitors covering the control room wall. A half dozen or so showed audiences from around the globe watching the action. Most at impromptu Death Warrant parties. The public did seem to bond in these instances. The director liked to see how the audience was reacting to the circumstances; it helped him craft the story arc and emotional payout by seeing first-hand what they were responding to. At that moment the audience members were generally freaking out. Nobody wanted to see a cute, albeit fat, little dog blown to bits. In the pre-show the audience is given the opportunity to know the method of termination. It was impossible to guess which way they’d lean from episode to episode. Sometimes they wanted to know, other times they wanted to be surprised.

On this night, however, the votes were for knowing. When the hosts shared that the death would be delivered by explosion, the initial reaction was overwhelmingly positive. Detonation was always a crowd pleaser. But the closer they got to boom-time, the antsier the audience became. They didn’t know the exact moment, but they did know that a little dog was more than likely going to be caught in the line of fire. Thus, the freaking out.

“How could nobody have seen this coming?” shouted a large, imposing executive from the back of the room, a hint of a German accent in his voice. Not a soul dared make eye contact or a feeble excuse; that would have been career suicide. In circumstances like this they resorted to their training, experience, and professionalism, which ran in abundance in this control room. They were the cream of the crop and liked to think they were prepared for any emergency.

The director turned to a small, earnest looking man huddled over a computer screen in the corner of the studio. “Stats. What the hell? Why the dog? He was supposed to be solo.”

The lead statistician gave a shrug. “Over the past 245 days since the job was approved, the featured participant made a nightly walk to this park 232 times.” The man glanced back down to his monitor. “He always left between 6:00 and 6:10 p.m.” The statistician turned back to the director. “It was, to use a more colloquial term, his evening constitutional. You could set your watch by him. Over those 232 times he brought his dog along a grand total of two times.” The man pointed at his screen. “Based on our numbers, the odds of the featured participant taking the dog were less than 1 percent. Well below our threshold.”

The field producer cleared her throat. “Uh, evidently one of those new doggy cafes just opened on the far side of the park. You know, one of those trendy coffee shops that sell dog biscuits along with cappuccinos? Our, um, best guess is that Mr. Miller may be taking his dog there for a treat.”

Back over in the corner, the statistician shrugged again. “Human nature is always the wild card.”

***

Excerpt from Death Warrant by Bryan Johnston. Copyright 2022 by Bryan Johnston. Reproduced with permission from Bryan Johnston. All rights reserved.

Interview with Bryan Johnston

What was the inspiration behind this story?

I was driving to work and brainstorming ideas for my next book and a question came to me—Would you want to know when you are going to die? Which then somehow led me to the question of whether someone could monetize that. I just kept pushing the absurdity of that thought which led me to a reality TV show that kills people on worldwide television.

Tell us about your main character.

Frankie is a woman in her early thirties. She is a mentalist. She performs at low-rent theaters, office parties, bar mitzvahs. She dreams of hitting the big time. She loves old movies, old music, and wine. Too much wine. She hasn’t dated in ten years, but that’s about to change.

Which is your favorite minor character and why?

Frankie’s BFFH (Best Friend For Hire), Audrey. She’s British (we think), she’s got attitude, she’s got killer fashion sense.

What is your favorite personality trait of your main character?

Sarcasm.

What is your favorite personality trait of your bad guy/girl?

Utter professionalism.

One of your characters is going on a shopping spree. Where does he/she go and what does he/she buy?

Frankie buys a Pink Floyd concert tee shirt, probably from Hot Topic. That’s about as fashion forward as she gets.

Your character is at a bookstore. Which section is he/she shopping in? What book is in his/her hand right now?

Frankie is in the mystery section buying the collective works of Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Your character has the music blasting. What’s playing, and what is he/she doing while listening?

She’s listening to the album Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd. Most likely cued up to The Great Gig in the Sky. She’s lying on her couch chilling after finishing off a bottle of wine.

Were you surprised by the behavior of any of your characters or the direction of your plot at any point while writing?

Nope. They all did exactly as they were told. By me.

How long did it take you to write this book?

From start to finish? A couple of years. I worked on it for a year. Took a year off. Then went back and did massive rewrites.

How did you come up with the title?

I dunno. Just seemed to fit. When you agree to be on the TV show that’s going to kill you you have to sign an agreement. You are signing your death warrant to be on the TV show Death Warrant.

Of all the books out there, why should readers choose this one?

I loooooove the concept. The concept that you agree to be assassinated on worldwide television but that after you sign up your memory of the agreement is wiped clean. You go about your life not knowing that every person you meet could be your killer. Every time I describe the concept people always say, “Okay, that’s interesting,” and you can tell they actually mean it.

When you first begin writing a new book, is your main focus on the characters or the plot?

Usually the plot. However, a book I’m currently writing started with simply an idea for a character and I figured out a plot later.

Why do you write within your chosen genre?

This just happens to be the genre I was attracted to at this time. I’ve written non-fiction, true crime, YA, children’s books, biographies. I don’t stick with one genre.

How much research goes into your fiction writing? What is your approach?

Lots and lots of research. That’s half the fun of writing a book. You want to create a world that is believable for the reader. When I create the book’s outline it becomes clear what I need to bone up on, and so I do.

Is there a time of day or night when you’re most creative?

I’m more of a morning person but I usually don’t get the opportunity to write until the evenings, so I better be more creative in the evenings!

Describe your writing environment.

I need absolute silence. And as for my work area? I prefer the term tidy clutter.

What do you find the easiest to write: the beginning, middle or end? Why?

The beginning. Because that’s the part of the story I’ve been kicking around in my head for the longest time. The middle and end I must come up with based on the beginning. And that’s hard work!

Tell us about your process for naming your characters.

Names are hard! Sometimes I’ll steal names from my friends and family. Sometimes I’ll look around my environment and see what names jump to mind. Sometimes I’ll go online and search for cool names.

Do you write a book sequentially, from beginning to end? Or do you sometimes write scenes out of order?

I always write sequentially. Doesn’t mean I don’t go back and completely rewrite earlier scenes.

What is the biggest challenge for you in writing from the opposite gender’s POV?

It’s funny but it never occurred to me that it would be a challenge, and it wasn’t. I simply tried to put into words and actions that I’ve observed in my female friends over the years.

Do you outline first or take an idea and run blindly?

Outline. Outline. Outline.

Do you edit as you write? Or do you write an entire rough draft before doing any edits?

I edit as I write. Then go back and reedit after I’ve finished the whole thing. Then go back and do it again.

Do you have a specific writing routine?

I try to discipline myself to sit down to write most evenings. Otherwise, I won’t get anything done.

Where do your ideas come from?

Everywhere. They come from places I’ve been, people I’ve met, TV shows I’ve watched, experiences I’ve had.

When and how did you discover your passion for fiction writing?

It started in Jr. High. I loved to tell stories.

Tell us about your process for designing a cover.

I will always design it myself first before passing it along to the publisher’s designer. This way it gives them a sense of what I’m looking for.

Have you ever received a negative review? If so, how did you handle the criticism?

I try to avoid reading any reviews for my books. I know that I will only fixate on the negative ones.

If you could bring any one of your characters to life, which would you choose and why?

I would bring my protagonist Frankie to life. She’s so much damn fun!

What are your three most treasured material possessions?

My music. My photos. My memorabilia. I’m quite nostalgic.

What scares you the most and why?

Dying of Alzheimer’s like my mother.

Do you believe in destiny?

Nope. You create your own.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Doing what I love and not being judged.

If your personality was a color, what would it be?

Purple.

What book(s) has most influenced you?

Wooden: A Lifetime of observations and reflections on and off the court. By John Wooden and Steve Jameson.

If you could change any one thing about yourself, what would it be and why?

To be more patient. To slow down. To not say stupid stuff without thinking.

If you won a paid vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?

I’d start in Ireland and slowly head south.

What personality traits do you most admire in others?

Kindness.

Some people believe we can tell a lot about a person by the books on their shelves. Share 3 titles from your bookshelf and tell us what you think they say about you.

A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles (kind), The Lord of the Rings, by JRR Tolkien (romantic), The Martian, by Andy Weir (funny).

If your life had a theme song, what would it be? Please share a bit of the lyrics and what they mean to you.

It was a very good year, by Frank Sinatra. (And now I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs. From the brim to the dregs, it pours sweet and clear. It was a very good year.) That sums things up nicely, I think.

Author Bio:

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

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

Join us in the InstaChat at #bryanjohnston

 

 

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The post New Release Spotlight — DEATH WARRANT by Bryan Johnston appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.

New Thriller — EXIT STRATEGY by Linda L. Richards

A shattered life. A killer for hire. Can she stop?

Her assignments were always to kill someone. That’s what a hitman—or hitwoman—is paid to do, and that is what she does. Then comes a surprise assignment—keep someone alive!

She is hired to protect Virginia Martin, the stunning and brilliant chief technology officer of a hot startup with an innovation that will change the world. This new job catches her at a time in her life when she’s hanging on by a thread. Despair and hopelessness—now more intense than she’d felt after the tragic loss of her family—led her to abruptly launch this career. But over time, the life of a hired killer is decimating her spirit and she keeps thinking of ending her life.

She’s confused about the “why” of her new assignment but she addresses her mission as she always does, with skill and stealth, determined to keep this young CTO alive in the midst of the twinned worlds of innovation and high finance.

Some people have to die as she discharges her responsibly to protect this superstar woman amid the crumbling worlds of money and future technical wonders.

The spirit of an assassin—and her nameless dog—permeates this struggle to help a young woman as powerful forces build to deny her.

Fans of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Dexter will love Exit Strategy.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: May 17th 2022
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 1608094227 (ISBN13: 9781608094226)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:CHAPTER ONEToday

He proves to be a genial companion. I’d never doubted that he would. Across the table from him in a romantic restaurant, I can see his pale eyes are sparked with amber. Or is it gold? Maybe it depends on your perspective. A trick of the light.

So much of life, I’ve found, are those things: perspective and also light. Or maybe that’s saying exactly the same thing.

He tells me he’s in “finance,” a term that is vague enough to accommodate a whole range of activities. I’ve done some research, though, and I know he is a hedge fund manager; that his apartment in this town is a playpen: weekends only. I know he is based in the City and that he flies down here for the occasional weekend, especially since his divorce, which was messy. He doesn’t say that: “messy.” But when he briefly skates over that episode of his life—the period of time in which “we” became “me” —he makes a face that is unpleasant, like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. I let it ride. Where we are going, it won’t make a difference.

He tells me funny, self-deprecating stories. I reflect that he is someone I would date—in another lifetime. If I dated. If I still had a heart.

“This is a fun first date,” he says in that moment, as though he has read my mind. His thick dark hair flops over his eye endearingly, and my heart gives a little flutter. I’d try to stop it, but I don’t hate the feeling. That flutter. It feels good, in this moment, to simply feel alive.

“Yesterday, Brett. Wasn’t that our first date?” I ask, more for interaction than anything real. Because, of course, the few moments on a rooftop we shared were not a date by any standard. Especially since I was trying to think how to kill him for part of that time. But he doesn’t know that, so maybe it doesn’t count?

“Nope,” he says firmly. “That was a meeting. This,” he indicates our wine and the delicate nibbles between us, “this is a date.”

“How does it end?” I ask pertly. Knowing the answer. Knowing he doesn’t. Wanting to know what he thinks.

He looks at me searchingly for a moment, then smiles raffishly, a certain boyish charm bubbling through. It’s a practiced look. He’s used that smile before, to good effect, I can tell. He’s probably done that his whole life. I don’t dislike him for any of that. It distresses me slightly that I don’t dislike him at all. It would be beneficial to me if I could find it in myself to dislike him.

“It ends well,” he says. A beat. And then: “It ends as it should.”

There is more conversation, just like that. An ancient dance.

After a while he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

Once he’s out of sight, I slip a vial out of my purse. It contains a powder I made myself. Oleander flowers, dried, crushed and mixed with salt and a few strong spices, intended to cover the plant’s bitter taste. I don’t know how well those spices mask the taste. It’s not as though I can test it, and none of my customers have ever complained.

I quickly sprinkle some of this concoction judiciously on the food that remains. I do it using natural motions. Anyone watching would think I was eating. A little OCD, maybe, but it wouldn’t look anywhere close to what is true. I mix it quickly into the salsa, the guacamole. I salt the chips with it. Sprinkle it on what is left of the chicken wings. I don’t dust the calamari. I’d noted he hadn’t been eating that. It will give me a safe spot to nibble, not that I plan on needing much time to eat. All of this will happen quickly, my experience tells me that.

Before he returns, I have this moment of absolute indecision. I very nearly call out to a nearby server; have her clear the table. I’m not even super sure why I don’t. All of this is going well. Textbook. And yet, I have qualms. Why? He’s lovely of course, there’s that. But beyond the way he looks or how he looks at me. Not long ago, things had happened that had made me resolve to do my life in a different way. Then I’d gotten an assignment and instinct had more or less kicked in. And it was easy to reason around it and to rationalize: if not me, then someone else, right? There would always be some other person ready to do the job. Viewed in that light, there was no earthly reason for me not to do what I do.

But still.

I don’t call a server. And the moment passes.

He comes back looking refreshed, like he’s maybe splashed water on his face or combed his hair, which is behaving for now. Not, for the moment, flopping into his eyes. I figure he probably did both—splashed and combed. He looks good.

He smiles when his eyes meet mine. A 24-karat smile that lights his whole face. My heart gives a little bump. “Fuck,” I say. But it isn’t out loud.

He takes his seat and starts talking again, picking up where we left off. He is easy. Comfortable. But I’m having trouble tracking the conversation; my mind is elsewhere. I’m thinking about what my next steps will be. After. And does it matter what he says right now? Really? If it does, it won’t matter for long.

I try not to follow his actions. Try instead to listen to what he is saying. These words will be his last ones, I know that. And part of me thinks I should do him that courtesy. At least. The courtesy of attention. But it’s difficult to follow his words now. I watch one corn chip as he picks it up, dips it into salsa. I watch him consume it, and it feels like all of it is happening in slow motion. All the while I am listening to his words—I am! —participating in the conversation, not wanting to miss any cues. And wanting to honor the small amount of time he has left. It’s all I can do.

The chip is consumed. I detect no reaction to the bitterness, so that’s a plus. He picks up a chicken wing, swirls it in the blue cheese dip, which makes me realize that, in my haste, I’d missed an opportunity by skipping doctoring the dip. He consumes the wing while we talk; a slight sucking, the meat peeling gently off the bone, all the while, the words flow, though it doesn’t come off as rude. He seems adept at eating and talking so everything stays and sounds as it should.

I listen closely, interjecting as appropriate when I think it’s necessary, all the while watching for . . . signs. I detect nothing until another wing and several chips later. His eyes are suddenly glassy. Sweat stands on his forehead. His hands shake.

“Brett, are you all right?” I ask, but it is pure form. I know he is far from all right. All right no longer exists for him.

“I don’t know. I’ve never . . . never felt like this before.”

I give it another minute. A little less than that. I know it’s all we’ve got. I make the right sounds, the correct motions of my hand. Even when no one is watching, people are watching. Physically, I am unremarkable. A middle-aged woman, so some would say I am invisible, certainly there is nothing about my appearance that makes me stand out. But there will be a future, when questions are asked and people are perhaps looking for clues. I don’t want them to be looking for me.

When he collapses, face directly into salsa, I scream, as one does. Not bone chilling, but an alarmed scream. Our server trots over, clearly distressed. The manager is on her heels. All as expected: it’s pretty terrible for business when customers collapse into their food.

“My date . . . he’s . . . taken ill . . . I don’t know what to do” etcetera. All as one would expect. I don’t deviate from the script.

An ambulance is called. Paramedics arrive quickly. The manager has already pulled Brett from the salsa, but it’s clear he is not all right. They take him away, one of the paramedics offering to let me ride in the ambulance. I decline.

“I’ll follow you,” I say, heading for my rental. And I start out following, but a few blocks from the restaurant I make the turn I know will lead me to the freeway and then the airport. My bag is in the trunk and it’s all mapped out: I am ready to go.

With this moment in mind, I’d left a ballcap on the passenger seat before I entered the restaurant. It is emblazoned with the logo of a local team. While I drive, I push my hair into the cap and wiggle out of the jacket I know I’ll leave behind. These are simple changes—hat on, jacket off—but it will change my appearance enough. I don’t anticipate anyone will be looking for me, but I like to think forward. Just in case.

I have no way of knowing for sure what will happen to him, but I can guess. From the amount of food I watched him consume, I figure he’ll probably have a heart attack before he reaches the hospital and will likely arrive DOA. And at the age and heft of him, and with a high stress job, they will probably not test for poison. And the woman with him at the restaurant? I figure no one will be looking for a girl who doesn’t follow up on the date that ended in hell.

From there it all goes like it’s being managed by a metronome: tick tock, tick tock. Arrive at airport. Drop off rental car. Get through security. Get to plane while they’re boarding. Claim aisle seat at the back of the plane. Keep my eyes peeled for both watchers or people who might recognize me from the airport. But everything goes exactly as it should. No watchers this time. No one looking at me in ways I don’t understand. In fact, everything is perfect. Everything is exactly as it should be. Except.

CHAPTER TWOLast week

I had not planned on killing again. That is, it wasn’t in the plan. That’s not to say it was an accident. You don’t arrive for a date with a poison in your pocket unless you’re preparing to do some bodily harm. But, as I said, that hadn’t been the plan. Not before.

When the call came, I had been eyeballing my gun again. A darkness of spirit. A feeling I can’t fight or name.

For a while I had spent a lot of time wondering why I kept bothering at all. In recent weeks, there had been darkness all around me. Times that, if it wasn’t for the dog, I wouldn’t bother hanging around.

At times I wonder why I am still showing up every morning. For life, I mean. What’s the big appeal? What is the motivating factor? Is there a mirror beyond the darkness? A pool; some reprieve. I don’t know. Here’s the thing, though: at this point, I’m less convinced that I need to hang around to find out. It’s a battle I wage every day.

Most days.

Before the call comes, there are times it takes me a while to get out of bed. This is new. And when I do get out of bed, it takes a while longer still to orient. Motivating factor, that’s the question. Is there one? What is supposed to be motivating me? I don’t know for sure. So I wait it out.

And the call doesn’t come right away. First, and for a long while, everything is very silent. And not a churchlike silence. The sort one dreads when pieces fly together. First there was this and this and it all made sense. Then we added that other thing and we’re done.

I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. I mostly don’t bother anymore.

Why would one even bother anymore?

It wasn’t always like this.

Let’s put it that way.

There was a time when I didn’t live alone.

There was a time when someone loved me.

Several people loved me.

I don’t remember that time anymore. Not exactly. I’m like a ghost looking back at her memories from a previous lifetime. They are my memories, but they might as well belong to someone else.

Let me tell you this as I try to bring you up to speed.

I live at the forest’s edge. My house is small and simple. It is all I need. My garden is incomplete, though it is occasionally vibrant. I am alone but for the company of a golden dog.

I am alone.

These are the things I think about. Vibrant gardens. Forest’s edge. Seasons in motion. The padding about of golden feet. I don’t dwell on the past. I try not to dwell on the past. For the most part, I have released everything that has happened. It no longer has a hold on me.

Mostly.

I have tried a lot of things to bring some sort of meaning to my life. Attempted. For instance, recently I have begun to keep a gratitude journal. It is a practice I read about somewhere. I try very hard to begin every day with that notebook, pen in hand. In gratitude. It changes the heart, I’m told. It changes the mind.

I have charged myself with finding five things every day for which I am grateful. It’s like an affirmation.

It is an affirmation.

Some days it is easy. Five things to affirm. How hard can that be? I have air. Sufficient food. There is a roof over my head. The beautiful golden dog. Some days there is rain. On others, sun. Both of those are things to be grateful for. The air is clean. The ground is firm. All reasons to give thanks. Most of the time.

On other days it is more difficult. On those days I sit there, stare at the blank page. Maybe a tear falls. Or more than one. Sometimes I begin to write and then stop; picking up and putting down my pen. The past is closer on those days, I guess. The past is nipping at my heels; my heart. On days like that I am filled with that unnamable darkness.

It is unnamed, but I recognize some of the contents. Guilt. Remorse. Regret. And variations on all of those things that incorporate measures of each. I don’t believe in regret, and yet there it is. Regret does not bother checking in with me about my beliefs.

***

Excerpt from Exit Strategy by Linda L. Richards. Copyright 2022 by Linda L. Richards. Reproduced with permission from Linda L. Richards. All rights reserved.

Interview with Linda L. Richards

What was the inspiration behind this story?

Exit Strategy is the second in a series – though, of course, it stands alone. The main character is a hired killer who has also suffered great personal tragedy and she’s really trying to find the light, in many ways.

In this second book in the series, the narrating character is assigned to protect a life, rather than take one. It’s enough of a twist. But the person she is hired to protect is an Elizabeth Holmes-style CTO of a unicorn high tech start up. That character has her own set of dubious morals and ethics. It makes for an interesting set of juxtapositions between high powered females in very different milieus.

Tell us about your main character.

She is broken and damaged and struggling towards the light. Sometimes those attempts are more successful than others. Spiritually, these have been difficult books to write because you find yourself slogging through dark places so often which is not my nature, at all.

One of your characters is going on a shopping spree. Where does he/she go and what does he/she buy?

As it happens, the main character in Exit Strategy goes on a couple of big shopping sprees. She’s doing it because she’s basically going undercover and needs to look the part of a wealthy investor, and that’s not her usual thing at all. So she does it up: the clothes, the handbag (the price of which shocks her), the shoes, makeup and then, on her way back to the car and lugging all this stuff, she stops at a pet store and buys an elegant collar for her dog. Just because.

Your character is at a bookstore. Which section is he/she shopping in? What book is in his/her hand right now?

She’s a hired killer, so I’m thinking her reading material is probably pretty banal. She’s probably buying cookbooks and maybe something on meditation techniques. She’s tightly strung, so I’m thinking she’s wondering how to unwind.

Were you surprised by the behavior of any of your characters or the direction of your plot at any point while writing?

Pretty much always. I never know where they are going next!

Please share a few favorite lines or one paragraph.

This from Exit Strategy:

“I know she replies something, but I don’t hear the words. I’m already gone. No doubt what she said was appropriate. Sympathetic. But what I see on her face seems more on point. There is pity and doubt and maybe even a little fear. Who knows what to do in the face of real grief ? Who knows who to be. Most people, I’ve found, do not. I do, of course, but that’s a different kind of knowledge. Sometimes you saddle up. Put your head down. Move on.”

How did you come up with the title?

In business, there is always an exit strategy. Also, the main character spends a lot of this book thinking about how her own life might end. (Spoiler alert: it does not.) But that, of course, is a different sort of exit strategy. And since the main plot of this book focuses on a high tech strt up… well Exit Strategy always seemed like the only possible title!

Why do you write within your chosen genre?

I don’t know! It’s the oddest thing, I always sit down to write the book that is in my heart. And those books always seem to show up with thriller or mystery themes. Crime fiction. And so here I am.

Is there a time of day or night when you’re most creative?

No. I have no schedule. Every day is different. What’s wrong with me?

Describe your writing environment.

I’m so lucky! I can – and often do – write anywhere.

I have a beautiful office. It has everything a writer could want. Yet, I seldom write there. Or I write there for a bit, and then move on. I write in my beautiful dining room. Or on the terrace, with the fountain playing. Or I head out for coffee and write with the noise of baristas, coffee making and yacht rock in the background. Or a restaurant at happy hour. Or an airport lounge. Or a plane.

I am so lucky! And my heart fills with gratitude all the time. All of it feels like a gift.

Tell us about your process for naming your characters.

It’s the silliest thing! Most of the time I give this part of the process pretty much zero attention. I’ll need a character name and look up from my work, pluck a name out of the clouds, and move on.

Do you write a book sequentially, from beginning to end? Or do you sometimes write scenes out of order?

I write the scenes sequentially out of order, if that makes sense. I’ll write a scene where everything is happening now. Next I’ll write the scene as it will appear in the book, but it’s from a different timeline. And so on. My process is mystical to me. I am in constant awe.

Do your characters sometimes surprise you with their behavior? Or do you always have complete control?

They always surprise me! I never know what is coming next.

Do you have a specific writing routine?

I know it’s not a popular position, but when I’m working on a book, I write every day. Even if it’s just a few words. I find that it is necessary in order to keep the work alive and moving forward in my heart.

Do you set your books in real locations or do you make them up?

It depends. If horrid things happen there, the places are always fictional.

Tell us about your process for designing a cover.

I have very little say. I get to say if I don’t like it. Or – more likely – if there some element I think can be strengthened. Contractually I have no say but I am lucky: my publishers are generous and respectful and they want me to be happy with and proud of my book.

Have you ever received a negative review? If so, how did you handle the criticism?

Goodness! What author has not received a negative review? It makes me happy when people read my books closely enough to have an opinion. Not everyone is going to love everything. That’s why there are so many books: different things resonate with all of us. I feel lucky: so many of my reviews have been so very good. It takes the sting out of the bad ones!

If you could bring any one of your characters to life, which would you choose and why?

They’re not alive?

What are the 10 most played songs on your iPod/Mp3 player?

From my Spotify playlist:

Soulflight, The Revivalists
Manu Chao, Morta Liberta
Reaper, Sia
Someone You Loved, Lewis Capaldi
Blister in the Sun, Violent Femmes
4 Mains, Wim Mertens
Formation, Beyonce
I’m Yours, Jason Mraz
True Love, Anna Ash
Still Out There Running, Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats

About the Author

Linda L. Richards is a journalist, photographer and the author of 15 books, including three series of novels featuring strong female protagonists. She is the former publisher of Self-Counsel Press and the founder and publisher of January Magazine. Linda’s 2021 novel, ENDINGS, was recently optioned by a major studio for series production.

Catch Up With Linda L. Richards:
LindaLRichards.com
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BookBub – @linda1841
Instagram – @lindalrichards
Twitter – @lindalrichards
Facebook – @lindalrichardsauthor
TikTok – @lindalrichards

 

 

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New Release Spotlight — TOXIC SOUP by RR Rowley

The Poisoning Must End

Toxic waste at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation has been poisoning the environment, human beings, and wildlife for more than six decades. When her brother dies a horrible death at Hanford, Casey Long, a kayaker and windsurfer by day and bartender by night in the Columbia River Gorge, Oregon/Washington, swears to put an end to the upriver contamination. But, how can she possibly take on the entrenched fortress of a facility?

After she confides in Little Bear, a bitter Native American fisherman, they contrive a dangerous plan. Joined by a peculiar mishmash of collaborators, they risk everything to save the environment and achieve justice for all injured parties, past and present.

Book Details:

Genre: Environmental Thriller
Published by: The Wild Rose Press
Publication Date: April 11, 2022
Number of Pages: 272
ISBN: 1509241167 (ISBN-13: 978-1509241163)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

When the abandoned reactor sites came into view, they swung their kayaks into a backwater eddy. Spooked ducks sprang into flight in front of them. Boats gliding, they studied the depth of the water, avoiding the chance of running aground. Before them, some sickly grasses appeared at the edge of the river. Was this it? Casey paddled closer, excitement rising. Pointing to a spot upon the bank, she called to Rex, “See that? See that? Is water trickling out of the ground over there?”

He removed his sunglasses and squinted. “You’re right. There is a wet spot over there.”

Straggly, yellowed grasses drooped away from the seeping water. They moved even closer to get a better view. A foam rose from the trickle of liquid and spread to a nasty orange and pink gunk smeared over exposed rocks. “I see it!” Rex cried out, a jolt of fear zapping through him. “Radioactivity!” he screamed, quickly backstroking. “You’ve got your evidence. Let’s get out of here! I don’t want to be anywhere near that stuff.”

She had her proof. Toxicity flowed into the river. How many other places existed? Perhaps beneath the water, the contamination was much worse. Untouchable Hanford is getting away with whatever they want. Something needed to be done, but what? Something not only for Charley but for the birds, the fish, and all the little creatures suffering at the hand of man’s dereliction of duty. She knew what she had to do.

***

Excerpt from Toxic Soup by RR Rowley. Copyright 2022 by RR Rowley. Reproduced with permission from RR Rowley. All rights reserved.

Interview with RR Rowley

What was the inspiration behind this story?

I have long been appalled by the life-threatening accumulations of nuclear waste worldwide. However, when I moved to the Columbia River Gorge area, I became aware of the decades of contamination flowing from the Hanford Nuclear Reservation into the spectacular Columbia River.

The Hanford story is a terrible and tragic one that has been kept secret for the most part, even      from persons in the Pacific Northwest region. My intent for Toxic Soup is to call attention to that poisoning through an imagined horrific motivating event reacted to by a cast of characters drawn  from profiles of persons working and playing upon the river and in the surrounding forested mountains and clear watered streams.

Tell us about your main character.

Casey Long is a feisty windsurfer and kayaker whose world is turned upside down by her brother’s death at the Hanford Reservation. She is bi-sexual and endured a childhood in poverty, protected by her now-deceased brother and ignored by her drunken mother. Driven by her love for her brother, she seeks a way to avenge his death. Informed of Hanford’s derelict history, her anger deepens. Essentially a good person, she must cross her moral bridge to claim victory. Helping her along the way is her brother’s ghost and a fierce wolf spirit conjured by a Native American accomplice. But, there is a price to pay.

Which is your favorite minor character, and why?

Little Bear, a Native American fisherman on the Columbia River, is my favorite minor character. His deep love of the river and the damage done by The Hanford Reservation to his tribe, his family, and the river motivates him to join Casey in her vengeful plan to achieve justice. His insights, sense of humor, and loyalty to Casey endear me to him. Not a little bear but a great bear.

How did you come up with the title?

It sprang into my mind as an ah-hah moment. I was involved in a passage describing the horrible contents of one of the massive waste storage tanks, and it struck me that the ingredients were stewed together like a soup. That led me to carry the metaphor over to Casey’s predicament, the thickening soup brewing within her vengeful quest, and it was then that I knew the title worked for me.

Were you surprised by the behavior of any of your characters at any point while writing?

Yes. Casey surprised me. She begins the story with a female lover, but the relationship becomes testy by the novel’s end. She likes men, challenges them, and tends to get them to do want she wants, even sometimes taking one to bed when left alone by her lady lover. This action stems from low self-esteem derived from her damaged childhood. What surprised me was her slowly developed turn towards exploring an emotional involvement with a man. Something even she did not expect.

Of all the books out there, why should readers choose this one?

There are several reasons. Toxic Soup is not just a straight genre romp. The thrills and suspense required to justify the thriller heading are there, but along with the edge comes romance, adventure, literary descriptions and insights concerning nature, and many moral questions to consider. Finally, the underlying environmental issue of nuclear waste and what it means for all of humanity make this novel relevant to the times we live.

About the Author

R R Rowley has lived coast to coast in the USA, in London, UK, and has spent many years on his farm in Grenada, West Indies. He has owned and operated several companies and was involved in start-ups. Currently, he resides in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State.

Catch Up With RR Rowley:
RRRowley.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @robroyukusa
Twitter – @rrrowleywrites
Facebook – RR Rowley/Author

 

 

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New Release Spotlight — NEVER COMING HOME by Hannah Mary McKinnon

Gone Girl meets Fargo in this deliciously sinister suspense novel about a man who plots his wife’s murder to cash in on her inheritance, only to have his brilliant plan turned around on him.

First comes love, then comes murder

Set to inherit his in-laws’ significant fortune, which would help him care for his ailing father, Lucas Forester decides to help things along by ordering a hit on his wife. (Michelle’s not exactly the most lovable person, anyway.) Everything is going according to his meticulous plan, until he receives a potentially recent photograph of Michelle. Frantic that his plan is being foiled, Lucas must find out if she’s alive, and silence her forever before she can expose him.

NEVER COMING HOME
Author: Hannah Mary McKinnon
ISBN: 9780778386100
Publication Date: May 24, 2022
Publisher: MIRA Books

Buy Links:
BookShop.org
Harlequin
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
Books-A-Million
Powell’s

Excerpt

1

SUNDAY

The steady noise from the antique French carriage clock on the mantelpiecehad somehow amplified itself, a rhyth­mic tick-tick, tick-tick, which usually went unnoticed. After I’d been sitting in the same position and holding my ailing mother-in-law’s hand for almost an hour, the incessant click­ing had long wormed its way deep into my brain where it grated on my nerves, stirring up fantasies of hammers, bent copper coils, and shattered glass.

Nora looked considerably worse than when I’d visited her earlier this week. She was propped up in bed, surrounded by a multitude of pillows. She’d lost more weight, something her pre-illness slender physique couldn’t afford. Her bones jutted out like rocks on a cliff, turning a kiss on the cheek into an extreme sport in which you might lose an eye. The ghostly hue on her face resembled the kids who’d come dressed up as ghouls for Halloween a few days ago, emphasizing the dark circles that had transformed her eyes into mini sink­holes. It wasn’t clear how much time she had left. I was no medical professional, but we could all tell it wouldn’t be long. When she’d shared her doctor’s diagnosis with me barely three weeks ago, they’d estimated around two months, but at the rate of Nora’s decline, it wouldn’t have come as a sur­prise if it turned out to be a matter of days.

Ovarian cancer. As a thirty-two-year-old Englishman who wasn’t yet half Nora’s age I’d had no idea it was dubbed the silent killer but now understood why. Despite the considerable wealth and social notoriety Nora enjoyed in the upscale and picturesque town of Chelmswood on the outskirts of Bos­ton, by the time she’d seen someone because of a bad back and they’d worked out what was going on, her vital organs were under siege. The disease was a formidable opponent, the stealthiest of snipers, destroying her from the inside out before she had any indication something was wrong.

A shame, truly, because Nora was the only one in the Ward family I actually liked. I wouldn’t have sat here this long with my arse going numb for my father-in-law’s benefit, that’s for sure. Given half the chance I’d have smothered him with a pillow while the nurse wasn’t looking. But not Nora. She was kindhearted, gentle. The type of person who quietly gave time and money to multiple causes and charities without expecting a single accolade in return. Sometimes I imagined my mother would’ve been like Nora, had she survived, and fleetingly wondered what might have become of me if she hadn’t died so young, if I’d have grown up to be a good person.

I gradually pulled my hand away from Nora’s and reached for my phone, decided on playing a game or two of back­gammon until she woke up. The app had thrashed me the last three rounds and I was due, but Nora’s fingers twitched be­fore I made my first move. I studied her brow, which seemed furrowed in pain even as she slept. Not for the first time I hoped the Grim Reaper would stake his or her claim sooner rather than later. If I were death, I’d be swift, efficient, and merciful, not prescribe a drawn-out, painful process during which body, mind, or both, wasted away. People shouldn’t be made to suffer as they died. Not all of them, anyway.

“Lucas?”

I jumped as Diane, Nora’s nurse and my neighbor, put a hand on my shoulder. She’d only left the room for a couple of minutes but always wore those soft-soled shoes when she worked, which meant I never heard her coming until she was next to me. Kind of sneaky, when I thought about it, and I decided I wouldn’t sit with my back to the door again.

As she walked past, the air filled with the distinctive me­dicinal scent of hand sanitizer and antiseptic. I hated that smell. Too many bad memories I couldn’t shake. Diane set a glass of water on the bedside table, checked Nora’s vitals, and turned around. Hands on hips, she peered down at me from her six-foot frame, her tight dark curls bouncing alongside her jawbone like a set of tiny corkscrews.

“You can go home now. I’ll take the evening from here.” Regardless of her amicable delivery, there was no mistak­ing the instruction, but she still added, “Get some rest. God knows you look like you need it.”

“Thanks a lot,” I replied with mock indignation. “You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

Diane cocked her head to one side, folded her arms, and gave me another long stare, which to anyone else would’ve been in­timidating. “How long since you slept? I mean properly.”

I waved a hand. “It’s only seven o’clock.”

“Yeah, I guess given the circumstances I wouldn’t want to be home alone, either.”

I looked away. “That’s not what this is about. I’ll wait until Nora wakes up again. I want to say goodbye. You know, in case she…” My voice cracked a little on the last word and I feigned a cough as I pressed the heels of my palms over my eyes.

“She won’t,” Diane whispered. “Not tonight. Trust me. She’s not ready to go.”

I knew Diane had worked in hospice for two decades and had seen more than her fair share of people taking their last breaths. If she said Nora wouldn’t die tonight, then Nora would still be here in the morning.

“I’ll leave in a bit. After she wakes up.”

Diane let out a resigned sigh and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. A comfortable silence settled between us despite the fact we didn’t know each other very well. I’d first met Diane and her wife Karina, who were both in their forties, when they’d struck up a conversation with me and my wife Michelle as we’d moved into our house on the other side of Chelmswood almost three years prior. Some­thing about garbage days and recycling rules, I think. The mundane discussion could’ve led to a multitude of drinks, shared meals, and the swapping ofembarrassing childhood stories, except we were all what Michelle had calledbusy pro­fessionals with (quote) hectic work schedules that make forging new friendships difficult. My Captain Subtext translated her com­ment as can’t be bothered and, consequently, the four of us had never made the transition from neighbors to close friends.

Aside from the occasional holiday party invitation or look­ing after each other’s places whenever we were away—pick­ing up the mail, watering the plants, that kind of thing—we only saw each other in passing. Nevertheless, Karina regularly left a Welcome Back note on our kitchen counter along with flowers from their garden and a bottle of wine. Not one to be outdone on anything, Michelle reciprocated, except she’d always chosen more elaborate bouquets and fancier booze. My wife’s silent little pissing contests, which I’d pretended to be too dense to notice, had irked me to hell and back, but when Nora fell ill and Diane had been assigned as one of her nurses, I’d been relieved it was someone I knew and trusted.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you,” Diane said, rescu­ing me from the spousal memories. “It’s not fair. I mean, it’s never fair, obviously, but on top of what you’re going through with Michelle. I can’t imagine. It’s so awful…”

I acknowledged the rest of the words she left hanging in the air with a nod. There was nothing left to say about my wife’s situation we hadn’t already discussed, rediscussed, dissected, reconstructed, and pulled apart all over again. We’d not solved the mystery of her whereabouts or found more clues. Nothing new, helpful or hopeful, anyway. We never would.

Silence descended upon us again, the gaudy carriage clock ticking away, reviving the images of me with hammer in hand until the doorbell masked the sound.

“I’ll go,” Diane muttered, and before I had the chance to stand, she left the room and pulled the door shut. I couldn’t help wondering if her swift departure was because she needed to escape from me, the man who’d used her supportive shoul­der almost daily for the past month. I decided to tone it down a little. Nobody wanted to be around an overdramatic, con­stant crybaby regardless of their circumstances.

I listened for voices but couldn’t hear any despite my lean­ing toward the door and craning my neck. I couldn’t risk moving in case Nora woke up. Her body was failing, but her mind remained sharp as a box of tacks. She’d wonder what I was up to if she saw my ear pressed against the mahogany panel. Solid mahogany. The best money could buy thanks to the Ward family’s three-generations-old construction empire. No cheap building materials in this house, as my father-in-law had pointed out when he’d first given me the tour of the six bedrooms, four reception rooms, indoor and outdoor kitchens (never mind the abhorrent freezing Boston winters), and what could only be described as grounds because yard im­plied it was manageable with a push-along mower.

“Only the best for my family,” Gideon had said in his characteristic rumbly, pompous way as he’d knocked back another glass of Laphroaig, the broad East Coast accent he worked hard to hide making more of a reappearance with each gluttonous glug. “No MDF, vinyl or laminate garbage, thank you. That’s not what I’m about. Not at all.”

It’s in the houses you build for others , I’d thought as I’d grunted an inaudible reply he no doubt mistook for agreement because people rarely contradicted him. As I raised my glass of scotch, I didn’t mention the council flats I grew up in on what Gideon dismissed as the lesser side of the pond, or the multiple times Dad and I had been kicked out of our dingy digs because he couldn’t pay the rent, and we’d ended up on the streets. My childhood had been vastly different to my wife’s, and I imag­ined the pleasure I’d find in watching Gideon’s eyes bulge as I described the squalor I’d lived in, and he realized my back­ground was worlds away from the shiny and elitist version I’d led everyone to believe was the truth. I pictured myself laugh­ing as he understood his perfect daughter had married so far beneath her, she may as well have pulled me up from the dirt like a carrot, and not the expensive organic kind.

Of course, I hadn’t told him anything. I’d taken another swig of the scotch I loathed, but otherwise kept my mouth shut. As satisfying as it would’ve been, my father-in-law knowing the truth about my background had never been part of my long-term agenda. In any case, and despite Gide­on’s efforts, things were working to plan. Better than. The smug bastard was dead.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Excerpted from Never Coming Home by Hannah Mary McKinnon. Copyright © 2022 by Hannah Mary McKinnon. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author

Hannah Mary McKinnon was born in the UK, grew up in Switzerland and moved to Canada in 2010. After a successful career in recruitment, she quit the corporate world in favor of writing, and is now the author of The Neighbors, Her Secret Son, Sister Dear and You Will Remember Me. She lives in Oakville, Ontario, with her husband and three sons, and is delighted by her twenty-second commute.

Social Links:
Author Website
Twitter: @HannahMMcKinnon
Instagram: @hannahmarymckinnon
Facebook: @HannahMaryMcKinnon
Goodreads

The post New Release Spotlight — NEVER COMING HOME by Hannah Mary McKinnon appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.

New Romance Novel — UNBRIDLED COWBOY by Maisey Yates

Welcome to Four Corners Ranch, where the west is still wild…and when a cowboy needs a wife, he decides to find her the old-fashioned way.

Cowboy Sawyer Garrett has no intention of settling down. But when he becomes a single dad to tiny baby June, stepping up to the responsibility is non-negotiable. And so is finding a wife to be a mother to his infant daughter. So he decides to do it how the pioneers did: He puts out an ad for a mail order bride.

Evelyn Moore can’t believe she’s agreed to uproot her city life to marry a stranger in Oregon. But having escaped one near-disastrous marriage, she’s desperate for change. Her love for baby June is instant. Her feelings for Sawyer are more complicated. Her gruff cowboy husband ignites thrilling desire in her, but Sawyer is determined to keep their marriage all about the baby. But what happens if Evelyn wants it all?

UNBRIDLED COWBOY
Author: Maisey Yates
ISBN: 9781335503213
Publication Date: May 24, 2022
Publisher: HQN Books

Buy Links:
BookShop.org
Harlequin
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
Books-A-Million
Powell’s

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

“There’s no way around it. I’m going to need a wife.”

Sawyer Garrett looked across the table at his brother, Wolf, and his sister, Elsie, and then down at the tiny pink bundle he was holding in his arms.

It wasn’t like this was an entirely new idea.

It was just that he had been thinking the entire time that Missy might change her mind, which would put him in a different position. She hadn’t, though. She had stuck to her guns. When she found out she was pregnant, she told him that she wanted nothing to do with having a baby. She wanted to go through with the pregnancy, but not with being a mother. Not even when he proposed marriage. Oh, they hadn’t been in a relationship or anything like that. She was just a woman that he saw from time to time.

In fact, Sawyer Garrett could honestly say that he had a very low opinion of relationships and family.

Present company excluded, of course.

But when Missy had said she was pregnant, he’d known there was only one thing to do. His dad had been a flawed man. Deeply so. He’d acted like the kids were an after­thought and all he’d really done was let them live under his roof.

Sawyer wanted more for his child. Better. He’d deter­mined he would be there, not just providing housing and food, but actually being there.

If he could spare his child the feeling of being unwanted, he would.

And that was where this idea had been turning over in his head for a while.

The fact of the matter was, Garrett’s Watch had a lousy track record when it came to marriage.

The thirteen-thousand-acre spread had been settled back in the late 1800s, with equal adjoining spreads settled by the Kings, the McClouds and the Sullivans, all of whom had now worked what was known in combination as Four Corners Ranch in the generations since.

And where the Garrett clan was concerned… There was nothing but a long history of abandonment and divorces. The one exception being Sawyer’s grandparents. Oh, not his grandfather’s first marriage. His biological grandmother had run off just like every other woman in their family tree. As if the ground itself was cursed.

But then the old man had happened upon an idea. He thought to write a letter to one of the newspapers back east asking for a woman who wanted to come out to Oregon and be a mother to his children. They’d had the only successful marriage in his direct line. And it was because it was based on mutual respect and understanding and not the emotional bullshit that had been a hallmark of his own childhood. He barely remembered his own mother. He remembered Wolf’s and Elsie’s, though. Two different women. Only around for a small number of years.

Just long enough to leave some scars.

Hell, he didn’t know how he wound up in this position. He was a man who liked to play hard. He worked hard. It seemed fair enough. But he was careful. He always used a condom. And Missy had been no exception.He’d just been subject to that small percentage of failure. Failure.

He hated that. He hated that feeling. He hated that word. If there was one thing he could fault his father for it was the fact that the man hadn’t taken charge. The fact that he just sat there in the shit when everything went to hell. That wasn’t who Sawyer was. But Sawyer had to be responsi­ble for his siblings far sooner than he should’ve had to be, thanks in part due to his father’s passivity. If there was one thing Sawyer had learned, it was that you had to be respon­sible when responsibility was needed.

He wasn’t a stranger to failing people in his life, but unlike his father, he’d learned. He’d never let anyone who needed him down, not again.

“Marriage,” Wolf said. “Really.”

“Unless you and Elsie want a full-time job as a nanny.”

Elsie snorted, leaned back in her chair and put her boots up on the table—which she didn’t normally do, but she was just trying to be as feral as possible in the moment. “Not likely,” she said.

“Right. Well. So, do you think there’s a better idea?”

“Reconsider being a single father?” Wolf said.

“I am,” Sawyer said. “I’m aiming to find a wife.”

Wolf shook his head. “I mean, reconsider having a baby at all.”

A fierce protectiveness gripped Sawyer’s chest. “It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

“Wasn’t too late for Missy to walk away yesterday,” Wolf said.

“Too late for me,” Sawyer said.

It had been. From the moment he’d first heard her cry. The weight of… Of everything that he felt on his shoulders when this tiny little thing was placed into his arms. It was difficult to describe. Impossible. He wasn’t good with feel­ings when they were simple. But this was complicated. A burden, but one he grabbed hold of willingly. One he felt simultaneously uniquely suited for and completely unequal to. He didn’t know the first thing about babies. Yeah, he had done quite a bit to take care of Elsie and Wolf, and… He could see where he’d fallen short. Elsie was just a hair shy of a bobcat in human form, and Wolf suited his name, and, well…big, a little bit dangerous, loyal to his pack, but that was about it.

“It’s not too late,” Elsie said. “In the strictest sense. You haven’t even given her name.”

No. It was true. He hadn’t settled on anything yet. And he knew there was paperwork that he had to do.

“You want me to give her back?” He shook his head. “It’s not like I have a receipt, Els.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Elsie said. “It’s just… It’s a hard life here.”

“And I aim to make it a little less hard.”

“So, you’re going to… What? Put an ad in the paper?”

“Granddad did,” he said.

And it had changed their lives for the better. The history of Garrett’s Watch might be rich with failed love stories, but it was a marriage of convenience that had brought real love to the ranch.

Their grandmother—their real grandmother (blood didn’t matter here, staying mattered)—had loved them all with a ferocity their own mothers hadn’t managed, let alone their father.

She had taught Sawyer to tie his shoes and ride a bike. She’d hugged him when he’d fallen and scraped his knees.

She taught him tenderness. And he was damned grate­ful for it now, because he had this tiny life in his care, and if it weren’t for her, he would have never, ever known where to begin.

And thanks to his grandfather, he knew what else he might need.

However crazy his siblings thought it was.

“It’s not 1950,” Wolf pointed out.

Though, sometimes, on Four Corners you could be for­given for not realizing that. For not realizing it wasn’t 1880, even.

Time passed slowly, and by and large the landscape didn’t change. Sure, the farm implements got a little bit shinier.

On a particularly good year, the savings account got a little bit fatter.

But the land itself remained. The large imposing moun­tains that surrounded the property that backed Garrett’s Watch. The river that ran through the property, cutting across the field and the base of the mountain. The pine trees, green all through the year, growing taller with the passage of time.

They were lucky to have done well enough in the last few years that the large main house was completely up­dated, though it was ridiculously huge for Sawyer by him­self. Wolf and Elsie had gone to their own cabins on the property, which were also sturdy and well kept.

In truth, this whole thing with the baby had been a wake-up call. Because whether or not he could look out the win­dow and see it, time was passing. And when Missy had asked him what he wanted to do about the baby, the an­swer had seemed simple. It had seemed simple because… He had no excuse. He had plenty of money, and had the sort of life that meant he could include a kid in most any­thing. His dad had done him a favor by showing him what not to do. They were largely left to their own devices, but it was a great place to be left to your devices. And he’d had to ask himself… What was he hanging on to? A life of going out drinking whenever he wanted, sleeping with whoever he wanted.

He was at the age where it wasn’t all that attractive, not anymore.

Thirty-four and with no sign of change on the horizon. In the end, he decided to aim for more. To take the change that was coming whether he was ready or not.

Turns out not very ready. But again, that was where his plan came in.

“I’m aware that is not 1950,” he shot back at his brother. “I can…sign up for a… A website.”

As if he knew how the hell to do that. They had a com­puter. Hell, he had a smartphone. They had a business to manage and it made sense. But the fact remained, he didn’t have a lot of use for either.

Elsie cackled, slinging her boots off the table and flip­ping her dark braid over her shoulder. “A website? I don’t think people swipe on their phones looking for marriage. I think they look for… Well, stuff you seem to be able to find without the help of the internet.”

His sister wasn’t wrong. He found sex just fine with­out the help of his phone. That was what Smokey’s Tav­ern was for.

“The way I see it,” Sawyer said, speaking as if Elsie hadn’t spoken, which as far as he was concerned was the way it should be with younger siblings, “marriage can work, relationships can work, as long as you have the same set of goals as the other person. It’s all these modern ideals… That’s what doesn’t work.”

“Which modern ideals?” Elsie asked. “The kind that saw every woman in our bloodline leaving every man in our bloodline all the way back to when people were riding around in horse-drawn carriages?”

“Yes,” he said. “That is what I mean. People think­ing that they needed to marry for something other than…common need.”

He was pretty sure his grandparents had loved each other in the end. But it reminded him of something other than ro­mance. It reminded him of his connection to the land. You cared for that which cared for you. It sustained you. You worked it, and the dirt got under your nails. The air was in your lungs. It became part of you. Of all that you were.

That was something better than romance.

Excerpted from Unbridled Cowboy by Maisey Yates. Copyright © 2022 by Maisey Yates. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author

Maisey Yates is a New York Times bestselling author of over one hundred romance novels. Whether she’s writing strong, hard working cowboys, dissolute princes or multigenerational family stories, she loves getting lost in fictional worlds. An avid knitter with a dangerous yarn addiction and an aversion to housework, Maisey lives with her husband and three kids in rural Oregon. Check out her website, maiseyyates.com or find her on Facebook.

Social Links:
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New Historical Fiction — OUR LAST DAYS IN BARCELONA by Chanel Cleeton

When Isabel Perez travels to Barcelona to save her sister Beatriz, she discovers a shocking family secret in New York Times bestselling author Chanel Cleeton’s new novel.

Barcelona, 1964. Exiled from Cuba after the revolution, Isabel Perez has learned to guard her heart and protect her family at all costs. After Isabel’s sister Beatriz disappears in Barcelona, Isabel goes to Spain in search of her. Joining forces with an unlikely ally thrusts Isabel into her sister’s dangerous world of espionage, but it’s an unearthed piece of family history that transforms Isabel’s life.

Barcelona, 1936. Alicia Perez arrives in Barcelona after a difficult voyage from Cuba, her marriage in jeopardy and her young daughter Isabel in tow. Violence brews in Spain, the country on the brink of civil war, the rise of fascism threatening the world. When Cubans journey to Spain to join the International Brigades, Alicia’s past comes back to haunt her as she is unexpectedly reunited with the man who once held her heart.

Alicia and Isabel’s lives intertwine, and the past and present collide, as a mother and daughter are forced to choose between their family’s expectations and following their hearts.

Release Date: May 24, 2022

Amazon | Goodreads

Excerpt

OUR LAST DAYS IN BARCELONA by Chanel Cleeton

Berkley Trade Paperback Original | On Sale May 24, 2022

Excerpt

As I sit on the flight from Palm Beach to Barcelona, wondering what possessed me to embark on this misguided adventure, it’s the look in Nicholas Preston’s eyes from our conversation a few days earlier that I remember most. There was no doubt that this was what he wanted, that he was worried about Beatriz as I was, but given their breakup and his desire to respect the boundaries they’d set, he was reluctant to involve himself, choosing instead to appeal to my romantic and sympathetic nature so I would do his bidding for him.

It’s a move Beatriz would make in a heartbeat, and it’s crystal clear how two people could be both utterly perfect for each other and impossibly doomed.

It’s been my experience that relationships are often about balance: one person tends to be the star, and the other is there to support them, to play those all-important background roles of advice and support. And sometimes, maybe, the roles shift a bit, although in my reality it has been almost entirely the man who is held in such a place of honor and esteem. Knowing my sister as I do, and her inevitable draw to the limelight whether intentional or otherwise, I can’t see her playing the role of the-woman-behind-the-man while Nicholas Preston ascends to political greatness. And I can’t imagine a man with such political ambitions and connections being happy throwing it all away for a life of relative obscurity.

If Beatriz is in Barcelona nursing a broken heart, the big sister in me wants to be there for her.

The flight is uneventful, the last hours passed staring out the window, questioning the decision to send me rather than Elisa as the family envoy, weighing the odds of Beatriz being happy to see me against the far more likely possibility that she’ll be less than enthused.

“I have a four-year-old,” Elisa pointed out when I suggested she would be more successful and welcomed by Beatriz. “How am I supposed to leave for Spain? Do you suggest I take Miguel with me?” She laughed at that, and given how energetic my nephew is, I can’t quite blame her for not wanting to bring him on an international flight to Europe by herself.

In the end, after much prevarication, and a fair dose of pleading with Thomas, who thought it both unseemly for his wife to travel by herself and has always harbored a strong dislike for Beatriz and her reputation, he reluctantly acquiesced, giving me a week away.

Armed with the return address on Beatriz’s letters to Elisa, a bit of money, my suitcase, and little else, I step off the plane when it lands at the airport in Barcelona and hire a taxi to take me to Beatriz’s home.

After a few initial minutes of conversation in Spanish, the driver leaves me to my own devices, and I stare out the window of the cab as he makes the twenty-minute journey, my gaze on the city.

I thought of dialing Beatriz’s number from the airport, warning her of my arrival before I showed up on her doorstep, but any attempts to call her before this trip have been met with silence, and I must admit I worried a bit that if Beatriz did answer the phone this time, she might tell me to turn back around and return to Palm Beach.

The farther we get from the airport, the more congested the city becomes, and I realize we’re near the center of Barcelona now.

Beatriz’s return address from her letter is a smart building on Las Ramblas with a beige stone facade and little balconies with red wrought iron railings. The taxi lets me off right before it.

It’s the sort of place I can imagine Beatriz living—elegant with a dash of whimsy. I can envision my sister leaning over the balcony railing, her dark hair billowing around her as she calls out good-naturedly to pedestrians, her laughter ringing down Las Ramblas. It is quintessentially Beatriz, both the privilege seeped in living in one of the city’s most desirable locales and the slight bohemian bent a city like Barcelona thrives on: art, music, and culture seemingly on every street corner.

It is a far cry from my life and the one our mother wanted for us in Palm Beach; no doubt, much of the allure for Beatriz was escaping to a place where there is anonymity in the crowded streets and bustling pace, where the need to see and be seen does not reign paramount.

But still, it raises the ever-important question that has been on my mind since Elisa first told me Beatriz had left:

Why?

Why Barcelona?

And given the environs where she’s chosen to live, who is funding this adventure?

A list of names of apartment residents is affixed near the building entry. I scan the directory until I settle on a “B. Perez.”

I set my suitcase down on the ground and lift my gloved hand, my heart pounding as I press the buzzer next to Beatriz’s name.

Excerpted from Our Last Days in Barcelona by Chanel Cleeton Copyright © 2022 by Chanel Cleeton. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.

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New Release Spotlight — FINDING LIGHT IN A LOST YEAR by Carin Fahr Shulusky

Roni Wright thought she had everything; huge home, successful husband, kids, and a brilliant career. That is until the worse pandemic in 100 years swept away the shallow façade of her life and she nearly lost it all.

This is the story of how a broken family navigated the most difficult year of their lives and found hope in the middle of so much loss. You will recognize many of the things that nearly broke us all as we struggled with pandemic restrictions and the new normal. But you will cheer as they work their way out of darkness into a better world.

Book DetailsGenre: Family & Relationship, Biographical Fiction
Published by: Fossil Creek Press
Publication Date: May 2022
Number of Pages: 170
ISBN: 978-1-7362417-2-1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble Read an excerpt:April 2020 – When It Rains, It PoursOn April 1, I picked up my calendar, as I did at the beginning of every month—usually to see what we had coming up and to schedule more—and started crossing off everything. I had already crossed off the March trip to Paris. Now I crossed off this month’s planned trip to the banking conference in San Francisco. I slashed through the conference in New York. And with a little more pain, I crossed off the two Broadway shows to which I had tickets. An old college girlfriend was going to go with me to one and Dan the other. Broadway closed. New York closed. All crossed off, as was the St. Louis Symphony concert to which we had tickets. Canceled. Hockey, canceled. Three birthday parties, canceled. My appointment at the nail salon, canceled. Hairdresser, canceled. Canceled, canceled, canceled. April was looking so gloomy.The only exercise I was getting was walking through one of our beautiful parks with the kids. Sometimes, we took bikes and rode a trail. But with April came gloom and rain and even that little bit of escape became impossible. Then the St. Louis County Executive closed all county parks. We were now required to wear a mask if we were out in public, especially indoors, and to stay six feet apart wherever we were. The gloom was growing daily. My life had no order. We were in free fall.On April 9, we got a big shot in the arm, as it were, when $2,400 appeared in our checking account—a gift from the U.S. government. Officially the money was part of the Economic Impact Payment, but the payments were more often called stimulus checks. We just called it salvation. Like many families, we weren’t sure how we would make ends meet. This money was a gift from heaven—or the government, depending on your point of view.By the second week of April, our school district was making an effort at learning. They asked parents to pick up “home learning packets” from the school. When I drove up to the school, someone handed me the packet for our kids’ grade levels. But when I got home, there was little explanation about the work. It was terribly disorganized and made little sense to me. Katlin wanted to learn more, and Oliver wanted to learn less. I just wanted more alcohol. Lots more. I decided hard times called for hard alcohol. Wine was OK now with lunch, but by dinner time, I needed a cocktail.I set up a place in the basement family room for the kids to study. I tried hard to make Oliver work on letters and sight words. He would work with me for maybe thirty minutes, then he’d start disrupting everything I did. He’d rip papers and run away. Meanwhile, Katlin was trying to figure out her lessons with great frustration. She didn’t know what was wanted of her, and I couldn’t figure it out either. Oliver did everything in his considerable ability to disrupt our efforts. Most sessions ended with all three of us crying.Not only was I failing at trying to teach my kids, I was failing at keeping them out of Nathan’s living room office. Every time Oliver ran away from me, he ran right into one of Nathan’s meetings. No order. No peace. No joy.—Excerpt from Finding Light in a Lost Year by Carin Fahr Shulusky. Copyright 2022 by Carin Fahr Shulusky. Reproduced with permission from Carin Fahr Shulusky. All rights reserved.Interview with Carin Fahr Shulusky

What was the inspiration behind this story?

I was having a conversation with friends about how the lock down affected the lives of people who went to the office everyday and spent little time at home. I talked to several people who had to find a way to work from home. They discussed the difficulties of suddenly having children, they have little seen during the week now under foot as they tried to continue to work from home. One friend said he missed the conversations around the water cooler and all the office intrigue. That set fire to my creative process and I’d wake up with more and more ideas of how to make this into a book. I had actually started another book, but set it aside because I thought this more timely.

Tell us about your main character.

The main character is Veronica (Roni) Wright. She’s a very successful and focused travel professional. She manages the St. Louis office of an international incentive travel company. She is married to a successful architect and they have two school age children with a nanny. The pandemic reveals that their marriage is more rocky than either would admit. Roni speaks three languages fluently with a working knowledge of others. As her job requires, she traveled around the world, before the pandemic, that is. The pandemic affects her life profoundly, nearly destroying all her family relations. She has to re-invent herself completely to help her children study remotely, run a household, repair her marriage, and find a new career, meanwhile navigating the worst pandemic in a 100 years.

Your main character is planning a vacation. Where is she going?

As a world traveler, Roni probably would have picked a four-star resort in Japan, before Covid. With the options limited to the extreme by the pandemic, she has to find a way to safely take her family on a vacation within driving distance. This experience I “borrowed” from my niece who found a rented house on a lake for a family get-away.

Were you surprised by the behavior of any of your characters or the direction of your plot at any point while writing?

I wrote this book during Covid and discovered new Covid-based experiences as I wrote. Some of my character’s experiences were taken from my observations of how friends and family handled the Covid life restrictions. As I encountered new experiences, I went back and added them to the story.

How long did it take you to write this book?

It took me about a year to write this book.

How did you come up with the title?

My first title was My Lost Year, but as first reviews came in, some said the hope that the characters found in the pandemic was more central to the story than the title indicated. My characters did find light in this very dark time, leading me to the new title, Finding Light in a Lost Year.

Tell us about your cover art and how it pertains to your story.

The cover art was created by Janic Schoultz Mudd.Her work is in galleries all over the midwest.  I’ve known Janice for at least ten years and always loved her art. We met at church and kept in touch.I bought one of her pieces at a charity auction. They’re very expensive. I called her and asked her to create the art for my first book and she was thrilled. As soon as she read Finding Light in a Lost Year she agreed to create the art for this book as well. I hope she will provide  cover art for all my books. We are each other’s biggest fans.

Of all the books out there, why should readers choose this one?

There are very few books about the Covid experience. No novels that I know of. This book will provide memories for many people about their Covid experiences, so good, some not so good. But it is a shared life experience for all people around the world and well worth revisiting and remembering. I”m hoping some years from now, people will take the book back off the shelf and tell their children and grandchildren, this is what the pandemic felt like.

Fiction can often provide powerful life lessons. What message do you hope readers get from your book?

The underlying theme of this book is hope through faith. Just when you think Roni and her family are beyond saving, they find faith, and through faith hope. That is what I want people to take away, the ability to find a light in the darkest days.

When you first begin writing a new book, is your main focus on the characters or the plot?

The plot comes first. The story drives the characters, but once I know where the story is going, I spend days “playing” with character names and identity.

Why do you write within your chosen genre?

I’ve tried writing other genres, but I’ve found when I stick with things I know, I’m a better writer. Most of my writing comes from somewhere in my collective experiences.

What do you find the easiest to write: the beginning, middle, or end? Why?

Definitely the end. My first book, In the Middle, I just couldn’t find the right words for the end. I put it on a shelf for nearly a year. A luncheon conversation gave me the idea for the end and I finished it in a week. There were parts of Finding LIght in a Lost Year that were so soul wrenching I had to step away for a week or more and get my bearings. I had only a vague idea of the end when I started, but it became clear as I wrote.

What inspires you?

The drama of life inspires me. I think I’ve become a pretty good observer of the human condition. Life is often more interesting than fiction.

If you could go back to any place and time in history, where would you go and why?

That’s easy. 1904 World’s Fair. I would love to see that. Of course, I would want to be wealthy.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Riding my bike down the Greenway along the Meramac River on a beautiful day. Doesn’t get much better than that.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Riding my bike down the Greenway along the Meramac River on a beautiful day. Doesn’t get much better than that.

What is your favorite childhood memory?

Camping with my family on the river.

A weekend camping in the woods or in a luxury hotel with a spa?

Now that I’m too old for camping, a luxury hotel appeals more.

If your personality were a color, what would it be?

Bright orange

What book(s) have most influenced you?

Jane Austen taught me to love reading.

What is your favorite cartoon character?

Mighty Mouse. I’m old

Are you a morning or night person?

Morning. I’m old

What is your favorite TV show?

Modern Family. Even the reruns I’ve seen many times make me laugh.

If you were to place yourself as a character in a novel, would the story be Mystery/Suspense, Fantasy, or Romance?

Definitely romance

Do you prefer summer or winter?

Summer

Are you an introvert or extrovert?

extrovert.

Do you prefer the country or the city?

That’s too hard. I love visiting cities. They have so much to offer, but the beauty of nature is in the country.

Are you spontaneous or are you a planner?

Planner, to the distraction of my family.

What is your favorite rainy-day activity?

Writing

Do you prefer cats or dogs?

I love dogs. All dogs. But I like cats too.

What is your favorite food? Least favorite?

Ice cream. I don’t have any least favorite.

What personality traits do you most admire in others?

Kindness, gentleness and patience.

Some people believe we can tell a lot about a person by the books on their shelves. Share 3 titles from your bookshelf and tell us what you think they say about you.

Jane Austen. All of them
Harry Potter. All of them
Killer Angels and others by Michael or Jeffery Shaara
Amelia Peabody by Elizabeth Peters. All of them

About the Author

Carin Fahr Shulusky was born and raised in west St. Louis County. She attended the University of Missouri, Columbia, where she received a B.J (Bachelor of Journalism). After college she worked in advertising for GE and Monsanto. She was the first professional woman in her division of each. After 25 years in Marketing, she created her own firm, Marketing Alliance. She was president of Marketing Alliance, from 2002 – 2014. She is a past-president of the Business Marketing Association of St. Louis. Carin Fahr is married to Richard Shulusky. They have two grown children and one marvelous granddaughter. Grandma Carin has a life long love of cooking, even writing her own cookbook. In 2014 Carin retired to devote full time to writing. Her first book, In the Middle was inspired by her own battle to care for her beloved mother, Dorothy Fahr. Many of the stories Carrie Young’s mother tells her in In the Middle came from Carin’s mother. Carin is a lifelong member of, Pathfinder Church in Ellisville, Missouri, where she volunteers in early childhood.

Find Carin Online:carinshulusky.comGoodreadsInstagram – @cshuluskyTwitter – @shuluskyFacebook Tour Host Participants:Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!    This is a giveaway hosted by Providence Book Promotions for Finding Light in a Lost Year by Carin Fahr Shulusky. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited. Find Your Next Great Read at Providence Book Promotions!

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New Romance Novel — AN AFFAIR AT STONECLIFFE by Candace Camp

In this delightful new Regency romance from New York Times bestseller Candace Camp, a feisty commoner and a ruthless aristocrat spar in all the right ways.

Noelle Rutherford would do anything for her young son, Gil. A fiercely independent woman recently widowed, Noelle is determined to raise Gil alone. After all, her late husband Adam Rutherford married her for love, which infuriated his aristocratic family. Gil is Noelle’s whole world, and she will not have him wrested from her by haughty nobles.

But she may not have a choice unless she’s prepared to run.

One awful night, Noelle is confronted by Carlisle Thorne, a handsome yet severe, irascible man sent by the Rutherfords. Noelle is horrified when Carlisle offers her money in exchange for taking Gil to be raised at the Rutherford estate, Stonecliffe. Knowing that Carlisle will use any means necessary to take her son from her, Noelle flees, Gil at her side.

Thus begins an epic rivalry that spans five years—a battle of wits between two unforgettable characters bound together by fate and fortune. However, when danger threatens, these enemies must come together to protect what matters most… even if it means losing their hearts.

AN AFFAIR AT STONECLIFFE
Author: Candace Camp
ISBN: 9781335513076
Publication Date: May 24, 2022
Publisher: HQN Books

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Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Noelle gazed down at the sleeping baby. How were they to live?

At first she had been too numb to think, moving through the past few days in a dazed state, unable to believe that this was real. Adam was too young,too full of life to die. Why had he been so reckless? And why, dear God, why had she argued with him that night?

She shivered. Their home was still and silent, empty of his laughter, his words, even his scowls or curses when his work went badly. Noelle wished she could return to her earlier befogged state. But this morning, as she had stood at his graveside, the Paris sky fit­tingly gray and drizzling, her heart had accepted what her mind refused to the past three days. Never again would she see her husband’s smile or feel the touch of his lips on hers.

But she could not allow herself to sink into a morass of grief. She had a baby to care for. As she watched her child sleep, a fierce surge of protectiveness rose in her. She must face the harsh truths, the bitter reality, for Gil’s sake. There was no one to solve her problems—or even to give her advice.

Adam’s artist friends? His models? They were all as penniless as she was. Her father was far away in Ox­ford, and in any case, he was an impoverished academic who could barely manage to support himself. Even less likely to help was Adam’s aristocratic father, who had been so opposed to Adam marrying “beneath him” that he cut his son out of his life.

Noelle glanced around their flat, forcing herself to take stock of her situation. There was no money here. Noelle had used the pittance she had stashed away just to pay for Adam’s burial and the small headstone—and oh, how it hurt that a man of his artistry should have so little to mark his passing! The butcher refused to sell anything to her until she paid their bill. The wine merchant was already dunning them—that was what set off her argument with Adam and sent him storming out into the night. The flat itself was paid only through the end of the next week, and their landlord was a hard man who would not care that he was tossing a widow and a fatherless baby into the street.

It was enough to make her dissolve into sobs, but Noelle had cried so much the last few days that she was utterly drained of tears, and in any case, it would do no good. Crying never solved anything. She must think of what to do. Madame Bissonet would take her back at the millinery where Noelle had worked before Gil was born. Noelle had been a good clerk as well as an excellent model for Madame’s hats, not to mention the added benefit of being able to converse with English customers.

But how was she to work there—or anywhere—with a small baby? She could hardly carry an infant about the showroom with her or take time from making bon­nets to feed and tend to him. Even if she could find a way to do so, the money she could earn would be very little. They had always lived on the stipend Adam’s fam­ily sent him despite his estrangement from them. No­elle’s salary had merely helped make ends meet when Adam’s extravagant spending sent them into dun terri­tory. It wouldn’t be enough to live on. And she had no hope that the Rutherfords would continue to provide Adam’s much-disliked widow any aid after his death.

She could sell Adam’s work. She looked across the room to where his easel stood by the window. Finished paintings crowded all around it—the fruit of his genius, the rich glimpses into his soul—some dark and stormy, others visions of stunning beauty, and all of them com­pelling. It made her heart ache to think of letting them go, but she would have to try to sell at least some of them. That would bring in enough to live for a while, but he had been able to sell too few of them in the past for her to think she would be able to reap any great sums. They were worth far more to her than they ever would be to someone else.

Noelle turned away, going to the alcove that served as their bedroom, and began to take off the black dress she had worn to Adam’s funeral. Adam would have hated that; he had always said she was suited only for color. She had but one black dress. It was old and un­comfortably tight across her breasts, so full now since the baby was born. Tossing it onto the bed, she pulled on the bright silk wrapper Adam had bought her. It was far too extravagant, as were so many of the things that he bought, but it was soft and comfortably loose, and it made her feel closer to Adam.

Taking an ornate box from the dresser, she sat down on the bed and opened it. The jewelry Adam had bought her was the most valuable asset she possessed. She began to pull out the pieces, laying them out on the bed beside her. The diamond earrings Adam had given her when Gil was born. Gold bangles. An enameled brooch. A jeweled hairpin that looked like a dragon­fly. Pendants, earrings. That foolish narrow ruby-and-diamond tiara that Noelle would never attend anything formal enough to wear.

Indeed, she would never wear most of them. She had protested time and again that Adam spent too much on jewels and clothes for her; it would have been far more useful for him to pay the rent. But Adam was the son of an earl, and he’d never completely adjusted to his new financial circumstances. He would complain about his lack of funds and call the monthly payment he received from England “blood money.” He would make periodic vows to follow a budget. But then he would see some­thing he wanted, and he would buy it on the spot, with­out regard to the price.

That first bracelet he’d given her, she had promptly handed back to him, saying heatedly that she was not the sort of girl to accept such a present from a man. She smiled to herself, stroking her finger over the delicate chain of sapphire flowers. Adam had kept it and presented it to her again after they married, smiling in that irresistible, mischievous way of his and saying he believed she could accept it now.

Noelle swallowed the lump in her throat and fastened the bracelet on her wrist, holding her arm out to ad­mire it. She pulled out the matching necklace that he’d given her on their first anniversary. Going to the mir­ror, she fastened it around her neck. She smoothed her finger over the delicate stones, remembering the way he looked as he gave it to her. Tears welled in her eyes.

A thunderous knock sounded at the door, breaking into her reverie. Whirling, she ran for the door in the futile hope she might keep the visitor from waking the baby. But, naturally, Gil began to howl, his tiny face screwing up and turning red. In exasperation, she flung the door open.

A tall, lean man stood outside her door, his strong-boned face set in a stony expression and his eyes the cold gray of a winter storm. His brown hair had no sil­ver to it, but his fierceness gave him an authority that his age, and even his obvious peerage, didn’t.

Noelle took an instinctive step back. The man’s eyes flicked down her and beyond to the cradle. “I believe your child is crying.”

“Not until you started banging on the door.” Her tem­per flashed at his tone. Turning, Noelle scooped Gil up and held him against her chest, murmuring soothing noises. When she pivoted back to the door, she saw that the man had walked into the room uninvited and closed the door behind him. He stood there silently, his coolly assessing gaze roaming over the small living quarters.

His eyes fell on the unmade bed, the contents of the jewelry box spread across it, and his lips lifted in a sneer. “Sorry to disturb you. I can see that you are deep in…um, sorrow.”

His tone gave a sarcastic twist to the words that made them sting and brought a flush of embarrassment to No­elle’s cheeks even as they angered her. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Suspicion of the man’s identity was already tickling at the back of her mind. English, aristocratic, contemp­tuous…and surely she had seen a charcoal drawing of this man among Adam’s sketches.

“I am Carlisle Thorne. I am a friend of the Ruther­ford family.”

“I see.” Adam had spoken of him several times. Though not related to Adam by blood, Thorne had been the earl’s ward. He had lived with Adam’s family for some time and had been something of an older brother to him. When Adam first mentioned him, it had been with affection, but after their marriage, his references to the man had turned bitter. Adam had believed Thorne would intercede with his father, but instead he had, like the earl, opposed the marriage.

Noelle remembered well the letter Adam had re­ceived from Carlisle Thorne. He’d torn it up and flung it on the ground, but Noelle had pieced it together and read it: It is entirely understandable, even expected, that you should dally with the lasses while you are at university, but it is out of the question for a man of your heritage to marry one of these common girls .

It had only exposed the man’s arrogance and narrow mind, but the words had made Noelle feel ashamed. Even now, she could remember the pang of hurt, as­suaged only partially by Adam’s fierce denouncement of Thorne.

It was not surprising that this icy man was the au­thor of that missive. She felt sure his opinion of her had not changed. Certainly, she had no liking for him. But still, she could not help but feel a quiver of hope. Thorne had been something of an emissary between Adam’s father and his renounced son in the past; the earl had sent Adam his monthly stipend through Thorne. If the earl had sent Thorne himself to pay a visit, surely that meant he would help his son’s widow and child, no mat­ter what he thought of Noelle herself.

Thorne’s gaze went to the bundle in Noelle’s arms. Gil had once again fallen asleep against her chest. Thorne shifted awkwardly, tilting his head to look at the baby’s face. “Is this…”

“Yes. This is Gil. Adam’s son.”

He gave a short nod and turned away. For a moment Noelle thought he was about to simply walk out the door, but then he swiveled back to face her. “I am here to return Adam to his family.”

“Return him to his family! They would not accept Adam when he was alive, but now that my husband has died, they want his body?” Noelle flared. “It’s a trifle late, isn’t it?”

His eyes darkened and for the first time it was fire, not ice, that flared from them. “I am well aware that I did not arrive in time to save Adam from the disastrous consequences of his marriage to you.”

Noelle drew in a sharp breath, shocked. “Are you implying that I harmed Adam?”

“I am implying nothing. I am saying plainly what we both know—if he had not run off with you, Adam would be alive today.” His words pierced her, and Noelle could say nothing as he continued, “I will regret to my dying day that I did not keep him out of your clutches. But I am not too late to save his son.”

Tears sprang into her eyes, and Noelle turned away to hide them from him. She laid Gil back in his little bed, buying herself time to force down the pain and anger that threatened to swamp her. She hated this arrogant man. But she had to think of her son. She must take care of him, and Carlisle Thorne was the only person who might do that. If he was offering to provide sup­port for Adam’s baby, then she must accept it, no mat­ter how humiliating, no matter how much it galled her.

Not looking at him, carefully keeping her voice drained of emotion, she said, “And how do you pro­pose to do that?”

“Ah. Yes. Now we are at the heart of the matter, aren’t we? No need for any pretense; you are ready to bargain. What is your price?”

“My price?” She turned to face him, confused. Was she supposed to figure out how much it would cost to raise her child? And what an odd way to put it. “I—I’m not sure—”

“You must have a number in mind. What will you take to give me Adam’s son?”

Noelle stared at him, stunned. “You want to buy my baby?”

“If you want to call it that.” He frowned. “Did you expect me to hand over a pile of banknotes and leave him here with you? To let the earl’s grandson be raised in…” he gestured vaguely around the apartment “…in this? In the sort of life you will lead? No. I can assure you I will not. The earl is his legal guardian, as you must know. The child will be earl one day, and he shall be raised at Stonecliffe, just as Adam was, in the care of his grandmother and grandfather. You will take the money and be on your way. A thousand pounds.”

“No,” Noelle said weakly. She was too shocked to put her thoughts into order. He could not really expect her to sell him her child.

His mouth tightened. “Two thousand, then. You’ll have money, your jewelry, your clothes, and you won’t have the burden of a child. Even a woman of your face and form would find it difficult to attract a protector with a baby in tow. Here.” He reached inside his jacket to pull out a small pouch. “I haven’t that much in coin with me. I will have to visit the bank. But here is a de­posit on that.” He tossed the pouch down on the table. “I’ll return tomorrow for the boy.”

Excerpted from An Affair at Stonecliffe by Candace Camp. Copyright © 2022 by Candace Camp. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

About the Author

Candace Camp is a New York Times bestselling author of over sixty novels of contemporary and historical romance. She grew up in Texas in a newspaper family, which explains her love of writing, but she earned a law degree and practiced law before making the decision to write full-time. She has received several writing awards, including the RT Book Reviews Lifetime Achievement Award for Western Romances.

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Author Website: https://www.candace-camp.com/
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