Darcia Helle's Blog, page 32
October 30, 2021
Featured New Release — THE LAST LINE by Robert Dugoni
His old life in the rearview, Del Castigliano has left Wisconsin to work homicide for the Seattle PD. Breaking him in is veteran detective Moss Gunderson, and he’s handing Del a big catch: the bodies of two unidentified men fished from Lake Union. It’s a major opportunity for the new detective, and Del runs with it, chasing every lead—to every dead end. Despite the help of another section rookie, Vic Fazzio, Del is going nowhere fast. Until one shotgun theory looks to be dead right: the victims are casualties of a drug smuggling operation. But critical information is missing—or purposely hidden. It’s forcing Del into a crisis of character and duty that not even the people he trusts can help him resolve.
Title: The Last Line
Author: Robert Dugoni
Page Count: 53 pages
Release Date: October 21, 2021
Publisher: Amazon Original Stories
The Last Line Excerpt
Del drove from the parking garage into a blustery and cold November morning—cold being relative. In Madison, anything above freezing was balmy for November, though Del was starting to understand what Seattleites meant when they said it wasn’t the temperature that chills you; it’s the dampness. He could feel the cold in his bones. A stiff wind rocked his metallic-blue Oldsmobile Cutlass.The wind had started blowing late the prior evening; branches of a tree scraping against Del’s bedroom window had kept him awake half the night.
He drove from Capitol Hill with the defroster on high and worked his way around the southern edge of Lake Union, noting marinas and water-based businesses. He pulled into a parking lot where Moss stood beside a black Buick LeSabre, sipping coffee and towering over a patrol officer. Moss was almost as big as Del, who stood six foot five and weighed 250 pounds.
Del pulled up the collar of his coat against the howling wind as he approached the two men. He recognized the green logo on Moss’s Starbucks coffee cup, the company name taken from Captain Ahab’s first mate on the Pequod, the whaling ship Moby Dick sent to the bottom of the ocean. The logo, a green siren, tempted sailors to jump overboard and drown. Neither was a good omen.
“Look what the cat dragged out. Did we wake you, Elmo?”
“Funny.” Del had heard iterations of Elmo since his teens, when the beloved puppet first appeared on Sesame Street. Moss introduced Del to Mike Nuccitelli, the patrol sergeant. “How’d you get here so quick?” Del asked Moss. He understood Moss lived in West Seattle, twenty minutes farther from the marina than Del’s apartment.
“I didn’t take time to do my hair.” Moss rubbed the bristles of a crew cut. “I’m like my name. You know. A rolling stone.”
Del knew. More than once, Moss had told him his parents bequeathed him the moniker because as a child he never remained still. Vic Fazzio had said it was more likely Moss gave himself the nickname. His Norwegian first name was Asbjorn.
“Halloway here?” Del asked.
“At this hour of the morning?” Moss scoffed. “Stayaway doesn’t come out this early on a cold morning unless he thinks the brass might show up and he can shine their badges with his nose.”
“What do we got?” Del asked.
“Two grown men. Looks like they drowned,” Nuccitelli said. “We’re waiting for the ME.”
“What more do we know about the victims; anything?” Del asked.
Nuccitelli raised the fur collar of his duty jacket against the wind. “Hispanic is my guess, though the bodies are pretty bloated and their skin the color of soot. I’m guessing roughly late twenties to early thirties, but again . . .”
“They didn’t have any ID?” Del asked.
“Not on them,” Nuccitelli said.
“That strike you as odd—they didn’t have ID?”
Nuccitelli smiled.“Not my job.That’s your job.”
“How far out is the ME?” Moss looked and sounded disinterested.
Nuccitelli checked his watch.“Should be here in ten.”
“We’ll take it from here.”
About the Author
Robert Dugoni is the critically acclaimed New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and Amazon Charts bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite series, which has sold more than seven million books worldwide. He is also the author of the bestselling Charles Jenkins series; the bestselling David Sloane series; thestand-alone novels The 7th Canon, Damage Control,The World Played Chess, and The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell, Suspense Magazine’s 2018 Book of the Year, for which Dugoni won an AudioFile Earphones Awardfor narration; and the nonfiction exposé The Cyanide Canary, a Washington Post best book of the year. He is the recipient of the Nancy Pearl Book Award for fiction and a three-time winner of the Friends of Mystery Spotted Owl Award for best novel set in the Pacific Northwest. He is a two-time finalist for the Thriller Awards and the Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction, as well as a finalist for the Silver Falchion Award for mystery and the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Awards. His books are sold in more than twenty-five countries and have been translated into more than two dozen languages.
Social Media Links
Website: www.robertdugoni.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/robertdugoni
Facebook: www.fb.com/AuthorRobertDugoni
Instagram: www.instagram.com/robertdugoni
The post Featured New Release — THE LAST LINE by Robert Dugoni appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 29, 2021
New Release Spotlight — TRASHLANDS by Alison Stine
A resonant, visionary novel about the power of art and the sacrifices we are willing to make for the ones we love
A few generations from now, the coastlines of the continent have been redrawn by floods and tides. Global powers have agreed to not produce any new plastics, and what is left has become valuable: garbage is currency.
In the region-wide junkyard that Appalachia has become, Coral is a “plucker,” pulling plastic from the rivers and woods. She’s stuck in Trashlands, a dump named for the strip club at its edge, where the local women dance for an endless loop of strangers and the club’s violent owner rules as unofficial mayor.
Amid the polluted landscape, Coral works desperately to save up enough to rescue her child from the recycling factories, where he is forced to work. In her stolen free hours, she does something that seems impossible in this place: Coral makes art.
When a reporter from a struggling city on the coast arrives in Trashlands, Coral is presented with an opportunity to change her life. But is it possible to choose a future for herself?
Told in shifting perspectives, Trashlands is a beautifully drawn and wildly imaginative tale of a parent’s journey, a story of community and humanity in a changed world.
TRASHLANDS
Author: Alison Stine
ISBN: 9780778311270
Publication Date: October 26, 2021
Publisher: MIRA Books
Buy Links:
BookShop.org
Harlequin
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
Books-A-Million
Powell’s
1
Early coralroot
Corallorhiza trifida
Coral was pregnant then. She hid it well in a dress she had found in the road, sun-bleached and mud-dotted, only a little ripped. The dress billowed to her knees, over the tops of her boots. She was named for the wildflower which hadn’t been seen since before her birth, and for ocean life, poisoned and gone. It was too dangerous to go to the beach anymore. You never knew when storms might come.
Though they were going—to get a whale.
A boy had come from up north with a rumor: a whale had beached. Far off its course, but everything was off by then: the waterways, the paths to the ocean, its salt. You went where you had to go, where weather and work and family—but mostly weather—took you.
The villagers around Lake Erie were carving the creature up, taking all the good meat and fat. The strainer in its mouth could be used for bows, the bones in its chest for tent poles or greenhouse beams.
It was a lot of fuel for maybe nothing, a rumor spun by an out-of-breath boy. But there would be pickings along the road. And there was still gas, expensive but available. So the group went, led by Mr. Fall. They brought kayaks, lashed to the top of the bus, but in the end, the water was shallow enough they could wade.
They knew where to go because they could smell it. You got used to a lot of smells in the world: rotten food, chemicals, even shit. But death… Death was hard to get used to.
“Masks up,” Mr. Fall said.
Some of the men in the group—all men except Coral—had respirators, painter’s masks, or medical masks. Coral had a handkerchief of faded blue paisley, knotted around her neck. She pulled it up over her nose. She had dotted it with lavender oil from a vial, carefully tipping out the little she had left. She breathed shallowly through fabric and flowers. Mr. Fall just had a T-shirt, wound around his face. He could have gotten a better mask, Coral knew, but he was leading the crew. He saved the good things for the others.
She was the only girl on the trip, and probably the youngest person. Maybe fifteen, she thought. Months ago, she had lain in the icehouse with her teacher, a man who would not stay. He was old enough to have an old-fashioned name, Robert, to be called after people who had lived and died as they should. Old enough to know better, Mr. Fall had said, but what was better, anymore?
Everything was temporary. Robert touched her in the straw, the ice blocks sweltering around them. He let himself want her, or pretend to, for a few hours. She tried not to miss him. His hands that shook at her buttons would shake in a fire or in a swell of floodwater. Or maybe violence had killed him.
She remembered it felt cool in the icehouse, a relief from the outside where heat beat down. The last of the chillers sputtered out chemicals. The heat stayed trapped in people’s shelters, like ghosts circling the ceiling. Heat haunted. It would never leave.
News would stop for long stretches. The information that reached Scrappalachia would be written hastily on damp paper, across every scrawled inch. It was always old news.
The whale would be picked over by the time they reached it.
Mr. Fall led a practiced team. They would not bother Coral, were trained not to mess with anything except the mission. They parked the bus in an old lot, then descended through weeds to the beach. The stairs had washed away. And the beach, when they reached it, was not covered with dirt or rock as Coral had expected, but with a fine yellow grit so bright it hurt to look at, a blankness stretching on.
“Take off your boots,” Mr. Fall said.
Coral looked at him, but the others were listening, knot-ting plastic laces around their necks, stuffing socks into pockets.
“Go on, Coral. It’s all right.” Mr. Fall’s voice was gentle, muffled by the shirt.
Coral had her job to do. Only Mr. Fall and the midwife knew for sure she was pregnant, though others were talking. She knew how to move so that no one could see.
But maybe, she thought as she leaned on a fence post and popped off her boot, she wanted people to see. To tell her what to do, how to handle it. Help her. He had to have died, Robert—and that was the reason he didn’t come back for her. Or maybe he didn’t know about the baby?
People had thought there would be no more time, but there was. Just different time. Time moving slower. Time after disaster, when they still had to live.
She set her foot down on the yellow surface. It was warm. She shot a look at Mr. Fall.
The surface felt smooth, shifting beneath her toes. Coral slid her foot across, light and slightly painful. It was the first time she had felt sand.
The sand on the beach made only a thin layer. People had started to take it. Already, people knew sand, like everything, could be valuable, could be sold.
Coral took off her other boot. She didn’t have laces, to tie around her neck. She carried the boots under her arm. Sand clung to her, pebbles jabbing at her feet. Much of the trash on the beach had been picked through. What was left was diapers and food wrappers and cigarettes smoked down to filters.
“Watch yourselves,” Mr. Fall said.
Down the beach they followed the smell. It led them on, the sweet rot scent. They came around a rock outcropping, and there was the whale, massive as a ship run aground: red, purple, and white. The colors seemed not real. Birds were on it, the black birds of death. The enemies of scavengers, their competition. Two of the men ran forward, waving their arms and whooping to scare off the birds.
“All right everybody,” Mr. Fall said to the others. “You know what to look for.”
Except they didn’t. Not really. Animals weren’t their specialty.
Plastic was.
People had taken axes to the carcass, to carve off meat. More desperate people had taken spoons, whatever they could use to get at something to take home for candle wax or heating fuel, or to barter or beg for something else, something better.
“You ever seen a whale?” one of the men, New Orleans, asked Coral.
She shook her head. “No.”
“This isn’t a whale,” Mr. Fall said. “Not anymore. Keep your masks on.”
They approached it. The carcass sunk into the sand. Coral tried not to breathe deeply. Flesh draped from the bones of the whale. The bones were arched, soaring like buttresses, things that made up cathedrals—things she had read about in the book.
Bracing his arm over his mouth, Mr. Fall began to pry at the ribs. They were big and strong. They made a cracking sound, like a splitting tree.
New Orleans gagged and fell back.
Other men were dropping. Coral heard someone vomiting into the sand. The smell was so strong it filled her head and chest like a sound, a high ringing. She moved closer to give her feet something to do. She stood in front of the whale and looked into its gaping mouth.
There was something in the whale.
Something deep in its throat.
In one pocket she carried a knife always, and in the other she had a light: a precious flashlight that cast a weak beam. She switched it on and swept it over the whale’s tongue, picked black by the birds.
She saw a mass, opaque and shimmering, wide enough it blocked the whale’s throat. The whale had probably died of it, this blockage. The mass looked lumpy, twined with seaweed and muck, but in the mess, she could make out a water bottle.
It was plastic. Plastic in the animal’s mouth. It sparked in the beam of her flashlight.
Coral stepped into the whale.
Excerpted from Trashlands by Alison Stine, Copyright © 2021 by Alison Stine. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
About the Author
Alison Stine is an award-winning poet and author. Recipient of an Individual Artist Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), and an Ohio Arts Council grant, she was a Wallace Stegner Fellow and received the Studs Terkel Award for Media and Journalism. She works as a freelance reporter withThe New York Times, writes for The Washington Post, The Atlantic, The Guardian, 100 Days in Appalachia, ELLE, The Kenyon Review, and others, and has been a storyteller onThe Moth. After living in Appalachian Ohio for many years, she now lives and writes in Colorado with her partner, her son, and a small orange cat.
Social Links:
Author Website
Twitter: @AlisonStine
Instagram: @alistinewrites
Goodreads
The post New Release Spotlight — TRASHLANDS by Alison Stine appeared first on Quiet Fury Books.
October 28, 2021
New Release Spotlight — THE FATHER OF HER SONS by Christine Rimmer
She thought she knew everything she needed to know about him in New York Times bestselling author Christine Rimmer’s first book in the brand-new Wild Rose Sisters series!
How do you make up for four years of lost time?
No last names. No promises to meet again. No way for Payton Dahl to find the man who’s the father of her twin boys. Until fate reunites them four years later. Easton Wright now wants to be part of his sons’ lives—with the woman he fell hard for during those seven days and nights of bliss. Payton doesn’t want her sons to grow up fatherless like she did, but can she risk trusting Easton when she’s been burned in the past?
Add The Father of Her Sons to your Goodreads!
Buy The Father of Her Sons by Christine Rimmer Harlequin.com.
Excerpt of The Father of Her Sons by Christine Rimmer (Oct 26)
Harlequin Special Edition
Add The Father of H er Sons to your Goodreads!
It all started with a little innocent flirting.
And okay, yes. Payton Dahl had given up flirting. Flirting too easily led to fooling around. Fooling around often became romance and right now in her life, she had no time at all for romantic entanglements—not even brief ones, which were pretty much the only kind she’d ever known. She spent her nights tending bar and her days either helping at the family farm or huddled over her laptop.
For more than nine months, from January well into October, Payton had stuck with her plan to avoid men altogether. Yes, she’d been tempted more than once by a sexy smile or a smoldering pair of bedroom eyes. She’d kept her eyes on the prize, though. She’d said no to temptation. Payton had stories inside her head. She intended to get them written down. That required discipline and for months, she’d exercised strict self-control.
But then, on a Wednesday night in mid-October, a whole new level of temptation came calling, one that had irresistible written all over him.
That particular Wednesday night, the Larch Tree Lounge at the Heartwood Inn was deader than a frozen doorknob. In one of the booths, a very tired looking middle-aged couple argued in whispers without much enthusiasm. Cletus Carnigan, a nightly fixture in the lounge, sat slumped at one end of the bar gazing mournfully into his Logsdon Lager.
As usual, it promised to be a very long night—until a tall, broad-shouldered stranger with tousled dark blond hair and cheekbones sharp as knives in his stunning, angular face took the stool at the opposite end of the bar from Cletus.
No flirting , Payton sternly reminded herself. Pasting on her most professional smile, she marched down the bar to greet the smoking-hot newcomer. “Welcome to the Larch Tree Lounge. What can I get you?”
He ordered Redbreast Irish Whiskey, an admirable choice—both good quality and excellent value for the money. “And something to eat,” he added. “What’s good?”
“Right off the bat with the loaded question,” she muttered under her breath.
He narrowed his gorgeous blue eyes at her. “Is there a problem?”
“Sort of.” Unfortunately, not much was good at the Larch Tree Lounge. And while Payton despised lying to her customers, telling a guest that the food sucked wouldn’t do, either. She settled for evasion. “What are you in the mood for?”
He studied her face at length. She stared right back at him for way too long while hummingbirds flitted around in her belly and an electric current went snapping and popping beneath the surface of her skin. Finally, he folded his lean hands on the bar, canted toward her and spoke confidentially. “It’s all bad. Is that what you’re telling me?”
So much for evasion. What now? She didn’t want to lie about the food, but she didn’t want to get fired, either. Her best option at this point? Maybe a recommendation. The burgers were passable. “How about a burger?”
He was hiding a grin. She could see it kind of pulling at one corner of that fine mouth of his. “An honest woman.”
About the AuthorA New York Times bestselling author, Christine Rimmer has written over ninety contemporary romances for Harlequin Books. Christine has won the Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers Choice Award and has been nominated six times for the RITA Award. She lives in Oregon with her family.
Connect with the Author
Website: https://www.christinerimmer.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/christinerimmerauthor?ref=hl
Twitter: https://twitter.com/RimmerChristine
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/christinerimmerauthor/
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October 27, 2021
Book Review — HOLLYWOOD PARK: A Memoir by Mikel Jollett
HOLLYWOOD PARK is a remarkable memoir of a tumultuous life. Mikel Jollett was born into one of the country’s most infamous cults, and subjected to a childhood filled with poverty, addiction, and emotional abuse. Yet, ultimately, his is a story of fierce love and family loyalty told in a raw, poetic voice that signals the emergence of a uniquely gifted writer.
We were never young. We were just too afraid of ourselves. No one told us who we were or what we were or where all our parents went. They would arrive like ghosts, visiting us for a morning, an afternoon. They would sit with us or walk around the grounds, to laugh or cry or toss us in the air while we screamed. Then they’d disappear again, for weeks, for months, for years, leaving us alone with our memories and dreams, our questions and confusion. …
So begins Hollywood Park, Mikel Jollett’s remarkable memoir. His story opens in an experimental commune in California, which later morphed into the Church of Synanon, one of the country’s most infamous and dangerous cults. Per the leader’s mandate, all children, including Jollett and his older brother, were separated from their parents when they were six months old, and handed over to the cult’s “School.” After spending years in what was essentially an orphanage, Mikel escaped the cult one morning with his mother and older brother. But in many ways, life outside Synanon was even harder and more erratic.
In his raw, poetic and powerful voice, Jollett portrays a childhood filled with abject poverty, trauma, emotional abuse, delinquency and the lure of drugs and alcohol. Raised by a clinically depressed mother, tormented by his angry older brother, subjected to the unpredictability of troubled step-fathers and longing for contact with his father, a former heroin addict and ex-con, Jollett slowly, often painfully, builds a life that leads him to Stanford University and, eventually, to finding his voice as a writer and musician.
Hollywood Park is told at first through the limited perspective of a child, and then broadens as Jollett begins to understand the world around him. Although Mikel Jollett’s story is filled with heartbreak, it is ultimately an unforgettable portrayal of love at its fiercest and most loyal.
Nobody needs me to review this book. Just read it. Or listen to it. Or listen while reading.
The writing is lyrical, poetic, honest, raw, and thoroughly captivating.
We’re all broken inside, to varying extents, while wearing the masks signifying we have our shit together. We want to stand out as unique, but we don’t talk about our desperate need to belong somewhere, to fit in, to be accepted. While most of us don’t experience the kind of destructive childhood Mikel Jollett endured, I think we can all relate to this core issue.
I bought this book when it was released last year. Then, as I’m often guilty of with hyped books, I set it aside until the noise died down. I’d heard that the audiobook, which Jollett narrates himself, was incredible, so I thought I’d alternate between listening and reading. I put my headphones on, and I was immediately lost in his story. Absolutely one of the best audiobooks I’ve ever listened to.
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New Holiday Read — ROGUE CHRISTMAS OPERATION by Juno Rushdan
He’ll sacrifice his safety
…for a woman who could completely upend his Christmas.
After Gage Graham saves her from drowning, Hope Fischer revives, determined to learn the truth about her sister’s death. All she has to do is infiltrate a mysterious closed Virginia town and discover why the attractive—but secretive—Gage feels compelled to help her. Can she trust him? Will he risk being discovered by his former employer, the CIA, for a woman he just met? Neither will matter if a killer succeeds.
Add Rogue Christmas Operation to your Goodreads!
Buy Rogue Christmas Operation by Juno Rushdan
Harlequin.com: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781335555410_rogue-christmas-operation.html
She’d been warned. That’s what everyone wanted. For her to leave it all alone. To go back to California and bury her head in the sand.
But then a murderer would go free.
She had failed her sister once. Not again. She swallowed past the ball of anxiety in her throat. You can do this.
The SUV zoomed up alongside her, sending a new wave of fear crashing through her. What was he doing?
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the SUV swerved sharply. The front end slammed into her side of the car, propelling it into a wild slide toward the edge.
Hope panicked, hitting the brakes. The wheels locked. Her vehicle lost traction and went into a skid. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast.
Spinning out of control, her car missed a large tree and slid over the edge of the slope. A high-pitched cry escaped her lips. Dirt and rocks spit up. She tried to straighten the steering wheel and pumped the brakes. Her car fishtailed, clipped a tree and went airborne.
The sedan flipped. Rolled end over end down the gradient. Metal crunched and groaned around her.
Hope’s seat belt jerked hard across her body, cutting off her oxygen for a second.
The airbag deployed like a hot fist, knocking her head back against the seat. Dust and chemicals saturated the air.
Her lungs seized as a scream lodged in her throat.
The car slammed to a stop with the impact of crashing into a brick wall. Her skull smashed into something hard.
A riot of pain flared…everywhere. In her head, chest, bones—even her teeth hurt.
Her vision blurred. Not that it mattered. She couldn’t see past the airbag, which was the size of a large beach ball in her face.
Hope pushed on the light fabric, and the airbag deflated. Coughing, she wiped at the wetness coming from her nose with the back of her hand. Blood. Her nose was bleeding.
She switched on the interior light and pushed the deflated airbag out of her way.
The headlights were still on.
Water.
The car was in the lake. Beneath the water, or at least half of it. The weight of the engine pitched the front end forward, so that the car was almost pointing straight down. She looked back at the rear window. Rain and darkness.
Water was starting to seep inside the vehicle. The foot well was filling up as water rushed in. Faster and faster.
Hope pressed the button to release the seat belt. But nothing happened. It was stuck, jammed tight. She yanked on the belt, trying again, tugging and pushing. Praying.
Oh, God. She was trapped.
Icy water rose past her hips to her waist. Shockingly cold. Her toes were already growing numb, and she was shivering. She had to get out. Now!
Her purse floated up on the passenger’s side. If she reached it, got to the Swiss Army knife inside, she could cut herself free.
She extended her hand in the water. Her bag was inches from her fingertips. She stretched out as much as she could, straining her arm muscles. A pang wrenched through her chest, her eyes tearing at the intense pain, but she didn’t stop. She kept reaching for her purse. Almost had it. The bag was so close—she needed to stretch a hair farther, but the seat belt had her pinned.
The car shifted, still moving. Down and down it sank. The car tipped to the side, and water carried her purse away, out of reach.
About the AuthorJuno Rushdan draws from real-life inspiration as a former U.S. Air Force Intelligence Officer to craft sizzling romantic thrillers. However, you won’t find any classified leaks here. Her stories are pure fiction about kick-ass heroes and strong heroines fighting for their lives as well as their happily-ever-after.
Although Juno is a native New Yorker, wanderlust has taken her across the globe. Fortunately, she is blessed with a husband who shares her passion for travel, movies, and fantastic food. She’s visited more than twenty different countries and has lived in England and Germany. Her favorite destination for relaxation is the Amalfi Coast, Italy for its stunning seascape, cliffside lemon groves, terraced vineyards, amazing pasta, and to-die-for vino.
When she’s not writing, Juno loves spending time with her family. Exercise is not her favorite thing to do, but she squeezes some in since chocolate and red wine aren’t calorie-free.
She currently resides in Virginia with her supportive hubby, two dynamic children, and spoiled rescue dogs. Check her out on Instagram, Facebookor follow her on Twitter or BookBub. She loves to connect with readers!
SOCIAL LINKS:
Website: https://junorushdan.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/junorushdan/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JunoRushdan
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/junorushdan/
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October 26, 2021
Book Review — THE SECRET NEXT DOOR by Rebecca Taylor
How well do you really know your neighbors?
Alyson Tinsdale is giving her son the childhood she never had: a stable family, a loving home, and a great school in a safe neighborhood.
Bonnie Sloan is the neighborhood matriarch. With her oldest son headed to Yale, and her youngest starting kindergarten, Bonnie is now pursuing her own long-held political aspirations despite private family struggles.
When the open space behind some of the most expensive homes gets slated for development into an amusement facility, the neighborhood becomes deeply divided. The personal pressures and community conflicts ratchet with every passing day, but it’s when a thirteen-year-old is found dead beside the neighborhood lake that simmering tensions boil over into panic.
Gossip flows, lies are exposed, and accusations are made as cracks run through the community’s once solid foundations. The neighborhood’s faith in exterior appearances is eclipsed by the secrets every house keeps. And as Bonnie and Alyson fight to keep their children safe and their messy personal lives from becoming neighborhood knowledge, it becomes clear that their neighbors might not be who they appear to be.
Release Date: November 9, 2021
My ThoughtsThe Secret Next Door introduces us to Alyson Tinsdale, a woman desperate to fit in with the upper class in her new neighborhood. But we all know it’s not always true that the grass is greener on the other side.
I’m neutral on this book, which is more about my preferences than the book itself.
The story revolves around Alyson, whom I didn’t much like. She’s so spineless that she can’t discipline her own son or confront her husband about even the most basic issues. And her obsession with “the in crowd” drove me a little nuts.
Pacing is slow, making this more domestic drama than suspense or thriller.
I did enjoy the insight into the other families’ lives, which gradually showed the truth behind the façade.
I thought the ending both wrapped up too neatly and left loose threads.
*I received a free copy from Sourcebooks.*
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New Psychological Thriller — BENEATH THE MARIGOLDS by Emily C. Whitson
Playing on our universal fascination with reality TV, Emily C. Whitson’s Beneath the Marigolds is The Bachelor(ette) gone terribly wrong.
When her best friend, Reese Marigold, goes missing after attending Last Chance, an exclusive singles’ retreat on a remote island off the coast of Hawaii, no-nonsense lawyer Ann Stone infiltrates the retreat.
Ann quickly realizes there’s more to Last Chance than meets the eye. The extravagant clothes, never-ending interviews, and bizarre dates hint that the retreat is a front for a reality dating show. Could Reese be safe, keeping a low profile until the premier, or did something sinister occur after all?
Torn between the need to uncover the truth and her desperate desire to get off the island, Ann partakes in the unusual routines of the “journey to true love” and investigates the other attendees who all have something to hide. In a final attempt to find Reese on the compound, she realizes that she herself may never get off the island alive.
“Cleverly plotted…Whitson’s debut novel is an intriguing new entry in the women’s suspense genre, driven by dual first-person narrators and tension-filled parallel timelines.”— Carmen Amato, Silver Falchion Award Finalist and author of The Detective Emilia Cruz Mystery Series
“Exhilarating twists and turns…a fast-paced psychological thriller that mashes up the reality series The Bachelor with Gone Girl.” — Helen Power, author of The Ghosts of Thorwald Place
“A fun, propulsive read…this book cleverly combines the archetypes of “reality TV” and the “trapped-on-a-remote-island” mystery that will perpetually keep you guessing.” — Marcy McCreary, author of The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon
Book Details:Read an excerpt:PrologueGenre: Thriller/Psychological
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: September 21st 2021
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 0744304202 (ISBN13: 9780744304206)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | CamCat Books
I knew too much. On that island, on that godforsaken singles’ retreat. I knew too much.
I ruminated on that thought, chewing it carefully, repeatedly, while Magda, the makeup artist, transformed me into a life-size nightmarish porcelain doll. Ghastly white face, penciled-in eyebrows, blood-red lips. I’d look beautiful from a distance, she had told me, leaving the other part of the sentence unspoken: up close, it’s frightening. She tsked as she dabbed my damp forehead for the fourth time, her Russian accent thickening with frustration.
“Vhy you sveating so much?”
I worried my voice would come out haggard, so I shrugged, a little too forcefully. Magda shook her head, her pink bob sashaying in the grand all-white bathroom as she muttered something foreign under her breath. My gaze danced across the various makeup brushes on the
vanity until it landed on one in particular. I shifted my weight in the silk- cushioned chair, toyed with my watch.
“Magda, what do you want out of this retreat?” No response.
Did she not hear me, or did she choose not to respond? In the silence, I was able to hear Christina’s high-heeled feet outside the bathroom.
Click, clack. Click, click.
When I first met the host of the singles’ retreat, I was in awe of her presence, her unflappable poise. Shoulders back, she walked with a purpose, one foot in front of another, and though she was a couple inches shorter than I was, she seemed larger than life. Her icy eyes, colored only the faintest shade of blue, seemed to hold the secrets of the world—secrets she intended to keep. But I had stumbled upon them just a few short hours before, and I was now afraid her gait represented something more sinister: the march of an executioner.
Click, clack. Click, clack.
Her stride matched the even tick of my watch, and a drop of sweat trickled down my back. Was I being ridiculous? Surely Christina wouldn’t hurt me. She had been reasonable with me earlier, hadn’t she? “One meenute,” Magda shouted at the retreat’s host. She doused
my fire-red curls in hairspray one last time before asking me if I was ready to go.
“I just need to use the bathroom.” I wheezed through shallow breaths. “I’ll be right out.”
Magda exaggerated her sigh before shuffling out of the white-marble immurement, closing the doors behind her with a huff. My last remnants of safety and rational thinking left with her.
I shoved the vanity chair underneath the door handle. I grabbed the makeup brush with the flattest head and hurried to the bathroom. I gingerly closed the lid of the toilet and slipped off my heels before tip-
toeing on top so I could face the window. After removing the beading, I inserted the head of the makeup brush between the frame and glass. The brush’s handle cracked under the pressure, but it was enough to lever the glass out of its mounting. I placed the glass on the floor as gently as I’ve ever handled any object, trying not to make even the slightest sound, before hoisting myself up and through the window. I jumped into the black night, only partially illuminated by the full moon and the artificial lights of the mansion. I allowed my eyes to adjust.
And then I ran.
The loose branches of the island forest whipped at my cheeks, my limbs, my mouth. The soles of my feet split open from fallen twigs and other debris, but the adrenaline kept the pain at bay. I tripped over something unseen, and my hands broke my fall. Just a few cuts, and a little blood. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.
I jumped up, forcing myself to keep moving. The near darkness was blinding, so I held my bloody hands up, trying to block my face. The farther I ran, the more similar the trunks of the trees became. How long had I been running? I gauged about a mile. I slowed down to gather my bearings. Behind me, the lights of the mansion brightened the sky, but they were only the size of my palm from that distance.
I heard the hum of a moving car come and go. I must have been near the road. I was about to start moving again when I heard the snap of twigs. Footsteps. I stopped breathing. I swiveled to my left and right, but nothing. I exhaled. It was just my imagination. I continued away from the lights. Away from the retreat.
And then someone stepped toward me: Christina. Her face was partially obscured by darkness, but her pale eyes stood out like fireflies. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said. Her expression remained
a mystery in the darkness.
I turned around, but one of her handlers was blocking that path.
Christina took another step forward, and I jerked away, tripping over the gnarled roots of the forest in the process. My head broke the fall this time, and my ears rang from the pain.
Her handler reached for my left hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to help me stand. Instead, he twisted my ring finger into an unnatural position. As my bone cracked, my screams reverberated through the woods.
It was showtime.
***
Excerpt from Beneath the Marigolds by Emily C. Whitson. Copyright 2021 by Emily C. Whitson. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.
► Guest Post ◄Is Anyone Else Tired of Unlikable Characters in Thrillers?
By Emily C. Whitson
I’m pretty open to feedback. In fact, I made almost every change my brilliant editor requested. I was only adamant about a few aspects, one of which was keeping the heroes of Beneath the Marigolds…well, heroes. My protagonists, Reese and Ann, are flawed, of course — any well-written character is. But, all things considered, both characters are generally good people. They’re loyal, they’re generous, and they try their best to do what they believe is morally right.
Why did I do this? In order to explain, I need to back up to 2012 — the year the mystery and thriller genres were forever changed.
That’s right. I’m referring to the publication of Gone Girl, the pièce de résistance of Gillian Flynn. After this masterpiece hit the shelves, the publishing world tried to replicate the success with a flurry of novels brimming with female villains, unreliable narrators, and jaw-dropping twists — some, sadly, better than others. And while I adore a complex female antagonist and surprising plot turn, I was not a fan of the other trend post-Gone Girl: the unlikable character.
I’m not talking about a sympathetic villain, like Amy Dunne. She was evil, no doubt, but I at least understood her motivations. Her husband was a cheater, and a liar, and he deserved some gosh-darn repercussions! (Although, I’ll admit, framing her husband for murder was a little extreme.) I’m also not talking about morally dubious characters, like Tony Soprano. He killed people, but at least he was kind to the ducks.
I’m talking about the characters with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The characters who are so unlikable that they become unrealistic. The characters who make me want to eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and binge-watch New Girl because I’m so bummed out by the deep, dark hole in which I’ve spent the past seven hours.
I won’t name any names because, let’s face it, the world doesn’t need any more negativity. As an author, I’m fully aware of how painful critique can be. So, I’ll let you guess which books and characters I’m referencing. The point is: I’m ready for the return of likable characters in mysteries and thrillers.
I don’t think I’m alone in this sentiment. The Last Thing He Told Me, by Laura Dave, is one of the most popular thrillers of 2021, and the protagonist is a good person. In the end, she makes a selfless decision. It’s a tough decision, but sheis firm in her actions because she believes it’s the right thing to do. I’m not gonna lie: I teared up. Mostly, I was misty because the ending was beautiful, and I cry easily. But, also, I think I became a little watery-eyed at the return of the likable protagonist. Oh, how I had missed you!
All this to say: Dark subject matter doesn’t necessitate an evil protagonist. In fact, in light of the subject matter, a strong argument can be made for the need of a likable protagonist — a protagonist the reader can root for in the face of evil. In times as turbulent as these, I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.
About the Author
Emily Whitson received a B.A. in journalism from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She worked as a marketing copywriter for six years before pursuing a career in fiction and education. She is currently getting her M.Ed. at Vanderbilt University, where she writes between classes. She is particularly passionate about women’s education and female stories. This interest stems from her time at Harpeth Hall, an all-girls college preparatory school in Nashville, Tennessee. When she isn’t volunteering, writing, or in the classroom, Emily can usually be found with her dog, Hoss, in one of Nashville’s various parks. Beneath the Marigolds is her debut novel.
EmilyCWhitson.com
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Facebook – @emilycwhitson
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October 25, 2021
New Holiday Read! TWELVE DATES OF CHRISTMAS by Laurel Greer
Can two rivals create mistletoe magic?
When a local wilderness lodge almost cancels its Twelve Days of Christmas festival, Emma Halloran leaps at the chance to convince the owners of her vision for the business. But Luke Emerson has his own plans—to keep the lodge in the family and protect his grandfather’s legacy. As they work together, Luke and Emma are increasingly drawn to each other. Can these utter opposites unite over their shared passion this Christmas?
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Twelve Dates of Christmas by Laurel Greer Harlequin.com.
Excerpt of Twelve Dates of Christmas by Laural Greer (Oct 26)
Harlequin Special Edition
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And while he didn’t get why the Brownie leader was intent on making the tree into a rainbow bird, he wanted to do right by the kids. The small troop had asked him to help—a request that had earned a storm cloud of a frown from “Ms. Emma”—because he was the tallest person present who wasn’t already working on a tree. The girls also seemed to think being the local game warden gave him some sort of magical knowledge about bird-themed crafts. If feather number one hadn’t proved them wrong, feather two sure had.
No matter. He couldn’t disappoint the girls, even though he had electrical cords to run, spotlights to position and a staff to organize. And at the top of his to-do list: keep his grandfather from leaving his house to survey the action.
Luke gritted his teeth at the possibility of Hank Emerson trying to hook up the power connections for the trees while hacking up phlegm from his pneumonia-ridden lungs. No. Hank was going to keep his stubborn ass fixed to his well-worn couch for the next twelve days, and Luke would do everything else that needed doing.
He got into a rhythm, fully covering the high-up branches the little girls couldn’t reach with their shorter arms and rubber cement.
“Now the sparkles.” A Brownie peered at him hopefully as she held out a can of spray paint. No, spray glitter.
“Your troop leader didn’t mention sparkles,” he said.
The girl pressed the can into his hand. “We want it on the edges.”
“You got it.” He was asking for a dressing-down from Emma for following the girls’ instructions instead of hers, but she was nowhere to be seen and time was running out. With a careful hand, he sprayed the tips of as many feathers as he could. The Brownies oohed and aahed.
Choking on the fumes, he stepped back, forcing a straight face as he took in the eyesore. It was a good thing every charity or youth group who entered the twelve-day contest received at least a portion of the total funds raised. If the money was solely awarded to the first-place team, the Brownies wouldn’t have a chance at the new canoes they hoped to afford.
The Brownies were clearly of a different mind. They gazed at their creation, faces shining as bright as the pink-and-blue lights Emma had wound through the branches at exact one-inch intervals. Feathers filled in the rest of the spaces. An extra-large papier-mâché pear, wrapped in green, raindrop-size LED bulbs, topped the kaleidoscope monstrosity.
A pear in a partridge tree.
Only Emma…
“Looking great, girls,” he lied.
“That’s a big frown, Warden Emerson.”
The mild comment came from beside him.
He spun, facing Emma Halloran and her glossy red smirk. It didn’t matter the occasion—Emma was always done up like she was anticipating an Instagram photoshoot.
And no matter how many times she shot his flannel shirts and muddy work boots a disdainful look, he still struggled to keep his eyes off her. Her wool coat hid the curves of her tall figure, but he’d been able to conjure a mental image of her sexy shape since she sat behind him in twelfth grade English class. He’d turned around so often, trying to bring a blush to her pale cheeks, he’d had to go to the chiropractor for a kink in his neck.
Not much had changed in sixteen years. Not her sleek brown hair begging to be mussed, nor her legs, longer than the Gallatin River.
Nor her love of getting under his skin.
About the AuthorBorn and raised in a small Vancouver Island town, Laurel picked up her pen to write Julie Garwood fan-fiction during junior high English class. She hasn’t put it down since. Ever committed to the proper placement of the Canadian “eh,” she loves to write books with snapping sexual tension and second chances. She lives outside Vancouver with her law-talking husband and two daughters. At least half her diet is made up of tea.
Connect with the Author
Website: https://laurelgreer.com/
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/laurelgreerauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/_LaurelGreer
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/laurelgreerauthor/
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October 23, 2021
New Release Spotlight — THE GHOSTS OF THORWALD PLACE by Helen Power
Trust No One. Especially your neighbors.
Rachel Drake is on the run from the man who killed her husband. She never leaves her safe haven in an anonymous doorman building, until one night a phone call sends her running. On her way to the garage, she is murdered in the elevator. But her story doesn’t end there.
She finds herself in the afterlife, tethered to her death spot, her reach tied to the adjacent apartments. As she rides the elevator up and down, the lives of the residents intertwine. Every one of them has a dark secret. An aging trophy wife whose husband strays. A surgeon guarding a locked room. A TV medium who may be a fraud. An ordinary man with a mysterious hobby.
Compelled to spend eternity observing her neighbors, she realizes that any one of them could be her killer.
And then, her best friend shows up to investigate her murder.
“[An] enticing debut . . . Distinctive characters complement the original plot. Power is off to a promising start.” —Publishers Weekly
“A creative, compulsively readable mystery—haunted by strange entities and told from the unique perspective of a ghost. I couldn’t put it down.” —Jo Kaplan, author of It Will Just Be Us
Book Details:Read an excerpt:Chapter 3Genre: Thriller/Supernatural
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: October 5th 2021
Number of Pages: 368
ISBN: 0744301432 (ISBN13: 9780744301434)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | CamCat Books
It takes forever for someone to find my body. At six, the elevator is called to the fourth floor, and an early riser greets the sight of my body with a shrill scream. He stumbles backward, clutching his briefcase to his chest. I get the impression that he’s never discovered a grisly crime scene before. I, on the other hand, am enveloped in the cool indifference that seems to accompany death.
He staggers back to his apartment, shrieking hysterically all the way. Several of his neighbors rush out into the hall. Each person is in various stages of undress. A pregnant woman wearing a silk bathrobe and only one slipper. A man whose face is coated in shaving cream, save for a single bare strip down his left cheek. The look of horror on their faces would have been amusing if I were in the mood for dark humor. The elevator doors slide shut, and I am launched to another floor, where I startle another early commuter. The elevator doors close on the stunned woman’s face, lurching toward its next stop. I’m destined for repetition. Perhaps this is hell.
The police finally arrive, call the elevator to the ground floor, and put it out of service. I have now informally met a quarter of the building’s occupants, which is more than I met in the two years I lived here. A handful of police officers form a perimeter, trying to block the sight of my corpse from the prying eyes of my nosey neighbors. I hover by the elevator door as forensic investigators get to work examining my corpse. I try not to watch—disgusted by the sight of my limp body, which is coated in blood that has begun to cake—but the process is mesmerizing. The flash of cameras, the murmur of voices, and the hypnotic movement of pencils as they scribble in pristine, white notebooks. The forensic experts step gingerly around the scene, careful not to disturb anything, as they scrutinize my body from all angles. As they work, I can’t stop staring at my face. My eyes are still open and glazed over with a milky white sheen. My skin is nearly white, a shocking contrast to the deep crimson gash across my neck. My lips are parted in a soundless scream. A forensic investigator in a white bodysuit steps in front of me, cutting off my view. Relief floods through me, and I turn away before the sight of my own corpse enthralls me once again. I know I gained consciousness only minutes after my death, because blood was still dripping where the arterial spray arched across the walls, looking as if an artist had decided to add a splash of color to the monochromatic gray. I was reluctant to leave my body, but I had no idea what else to do. I had no moment of shock, no moment of revelation where I realized I was dead. I knew it from the instant I opened my eyes and saw the world from the other side. A world which looks different in death. Everything is a little grayer, a little faded. Voices and sounds have a slight echo. It’s as though I’m experiencing everything through a thin film—some indescribable substance that separates the world of the living from mine.
But why am I still here? My body has been found; the police are clearly investigating. It won’t take long for them to figure out it was he who killed me. I leave the elevator and glance around the lobby. I don’t see any obvious doorways or bright lights to follow. How will I know where to go? I bite back the pang of disappointment when I realize that none of my lost loved ones are here to welcome me. No husband. No parents. No Grumpelstiltskin, my childhood dog. Where are they, and how do I find my way to them?
I’m self-aware enough to know that I’ve always feared the unknown, and it’s obvious that this hasn’t changed in death. Instead of searching for my escape, I stay locked in place, eyes glued to the crime scene investigators. After what feels like an eternity, the medical examiner deposits my body into a black bag and wheels it out of the building. I begin to follow. Maybe if I slip back into my body, I’ll awaken, and everyone will laugh, like this was all just one big misunderstanding.
I’ll spend the rest of my days wearing a scarf, elegantly positioned to hide my gaping neck wound, like the girl in that urban legend.
I slam into an invisible wall about a dozen feet from the elevator. Slightly disoriented, I shake my head. I press forward.
Again, I’m stopped by an imperceptible force. I reach out, and my hand flattens midair. I run my hand along this invisible barrier, but it seems to run as high as I can reach and down to the marble floor.
I follow the barrier, tracing my hand along it. It cuts across the entire lobby, but not in a straight line. It’s slightly curved. Beyond the wall, I can see the medical examiner exit the building with my body, leaving my soul behind. I slam a hand against the invisible wall once again, but there’s no give.
My attention is drawn by the sound of a familiar grating voice. Elias Strickland, the concierge, is speaking with a police officer who looks like he’s desperate to leave. The invisible wall can wait. I approach the pair to eavesdrop.
“We have excellent security here,” Elias says. His perpetually nasal voice is exacerbated by the tears that stream down his face. “How could this have happened? My residents will want an explanation immediately.”
“We have someone reviewing the security footage of the exits. If the killer left the building, we’ll have them on film,” the police officer says.
“If they left the building? Are you saying they might still be here?” Elias tugs at his cheap tie.
The killer might still be in the building. I look around and notice for the first time that the residents aren’t allowed to simply leave. Police officers guard the front door, questioning each individual before they allow them to go to work or to the spa or to do whatever they think is more important than mourning my death.
“What can you tell me about the victim? Ms. Rachel Anne Drake?” the police officer asks.
“Well . . .” Elias runs a hand through his thinning, brown hair. “She is—was—an odd one. She rarely spoke to anyone. She kept to herself. I think I was her only friend in the building.”
I stare at him, just now realizing that the tears streaming down his face are for me. I feel a pang of guilt. I’ve never considered us “friends.” I interact with him once every few weeks—only when I have mail to pick up or complaints about the security guards.
Elias continues, “She even had her groceries delivered. I haven’t seen her leave the building in months.”
The police officer suddenly looks interested. He pulls a small, wire-bound notebook from his pocket and uncaps his pen.
“Do you think it’s possible that she may have been hiding from someone?”
“Possibly . . . She was always really interested in the security in the building. Like that was the main reason why she moved here, not the fabulous party room or the services I provide as concierge.” I wince in pity as he says the word with a dreadful French accent. He should have picked a line of work that he could pronounce.
“Did she have any visitors?”
“There was a man who used to come around, but I haven’t seen him in a few months,” Elias says. At the police officer’s prompting, he continues on to describe him. I realize he’s talking about Luke.
The police officer asks a few follow-up questions, and I’m surprised by just how much Elias knows. He knows the date and time of my weekly grocery deliveries, that once every couple of weeks I’ll treat myself to pizza delivered from the greasy place down the street, and that I get a haul of books delivered every time BMV Books has a sale.
“Well, if you think of anything else, please contact us immediately.” I peer over the police officer’s shoulder to look at the scribbles in his notebook, but he’s used a shorthand that I can’t decipher.
A nearly identical police officer emerges from the security office holding a flash drive. He glances at the concierge, then turns to his partner and begins speaking rapid French.
“The video doesn’t show anybody leaving the building between one and two this morning. But apparently, there was a power outage for about five minutes, and the killer could have left during that window.”
“No! That power outage happened before I died. The power came back, and then he killed me.” I blink and glance around. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to speak.
It makes no difference. Neither police officer reacts to the sound of my voice. I look at Elias, but he’s watching the officers intently. I turn my attention to the rest of the people milling about, but none of them seem to have heard me either. But I’m not yet discouraged.
I approach the pot-bellied man standing the closest to the crime scene tape. He cranes his neck to see into the elevator.
“THERE’S NOTHING TO SEE HERE!” I shout into his face. He doesn’t react. I try to shake him, but my hands fall through his fleshy body. I feel nothing—no chill, no warmth—as I slide my hands through him. I examine his face, but it’s clear that he doesn’t sense me in the slightest.
I strategically progress through the lobby, shouting at each bystander, attempting to reach them through any means.
I try everything I can remember having seen in movies about ghosts—from waving my hands through their heads to shouting obscenities in their ears. No one reacts. No one so much as shivers.
I’m angry, disappointed, and beginning to feel helpless. I brace myself, preparing to do my calming breathing technique, but there are no symptoms of a panic attack. My body is overcome by the numbness of being incorporeal. I could get used to this. I suppose I’ll have to.
I glance around, noticing that the police officers have long gone, and they’ve been replaced by a cleaning crew of four burly men who are crammed into the elevator. They’ve already bleached the walls in an attempt to remove all trace of my messy execution. The lobby is nearly empty now. Only Elias stands at his station, compulsively wringing his hands in between fielding calls from curious residents and the media.
I survey the expansive, high-ceilinged lobby. Unlike the rest of the building, it was designed with the sole purpose of impressing visitors. The floors are marble, polished to near perfection. The wallpaper is a pale blue with gold foil accents in the shape of falling leaves. A hefty, ornate clock is the only decoration on the stretch of the wall across from the front desk. There are two wing chairs and a sofa positioned underneath it. It serves as a sort of waiting area, though in my two years living in this building, I’ve never seen a single person sitting out here.
I can only access half of the lobby, so I need to find a way around this invisible barrier. I approach the elevator and look down the hall to the right. I tentatively step through the wall. I’m in the guest suite that’s reserved for visitors of building residents. The bed is neatly made, with the corners of the bedspread tucked tightly. There’s a lounge area sparsely decorated with cool tones. A gray, leather couch is angled toward an impressively-sized TV.
The room is windowless, but a single painting of a blue sky over a grassy field hangs on the wall opposite the door, creating the illusion of something beyond.
I stride across the plain gray rug and easily pass through this wall as well. I’m in the ground-level parking garage, which is located below the building. I continue to walk until I slam against the barrier. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s disorienting.
I place my hand on the barrier and follow it around until I reach the wall twenty feet from where I entered. The barrier is clearly circular. Is it meant to keep me contained? I shake my head at that thought, then I continue to follow the barrier through the wall, out of the garage, and into the library.
With gorgeous oak-paneled walls and towering bookshelves, the building’s library is quite a sight to behold. The leather couches look comfortable, with antique copper lamps strategically positioned between them. I’ve been down here several times over the last two years, but I never dawdle. I usually grab a handful of books and hurry back upstairs to the safety of my apartment, where I can actually relax and enjoy my reading.
I walk through the room divider into the “party” area. The dim overhead lights reveal a bar in the corner, which is framed by tall mirrors, making the room seem larger than it actually is. I scan the rest of the room. Circular tables are set up around a polished dance floor. I quickly hit another barrier only a few feet into the room.
I follow this barrier, clockwise, until I’ve made an entire lap of the enclosure. I was right. It is a circle. There are no breaks or gaps in the wall; nothing I can slip through to escape. What is this barrier? Who put it here? I have so many questions and no one to answer them.
Back in the lobby, the cleaning crew has finished their sterilization of the elevator. A starchy-looking woman stands in Elias’ face, complaining loudly about the inconvenience of having only one operating elevator. I’m glad that my death is nothing more than a disruption to her “busy” life. Shouldn’t she be disturbed that a brutal murder occurred hours ago in that very elevator? That the killer hasn’t even been caught? Hell, she should be worried that it’s haunted.
She spins on her heel and leaves a bedraggled Elias in her wake. She scowls at the cleaners, who are gathering their supplies and politely averting their eyes from her shrewd gaze. She presses the elevator button and boards the other one, which was already idling on this floor. She didn’t even have to wait five seconds. I’d love to see what a convenient elevator experience is like for her.
After she’s left, Elias tips the cleaners and reactivates the elevator. The doors slide shut, as if sealing my fate.
A man in snug jogging shorts strolls into the building, salutes Elias, and heads to the elevators. Elias nods and returns to his station. I decide to head over toward him to see what exactly he keeps behind the desk. It lies just beyond the invisible wall, so I might be able to see what he always stares at so intently on his computer.
Just as I reach the edge of the invisible barrier, a powerful sensation of vertigo overcomes me. My skin begins to crawl. I stare down at my arms in astonishment. My entire body is vaporizing, shredding into a million pieces, wisps of flesh fading into the world around me. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, willing the end to come quickly.
***
Excerpt from The Ghosts of Thorwald Place by Helen Power. Copyright 2021 by Helen Power. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.
About the Author
Helen Power is obsessed with ghosts. She spends her free time watching paranormal investigation TV shows, hanging out in cemeteries, and telling anyone who’ll listen about her paranormal experiences. She is a librarian living in Saskatoon, Canada, and has several short story publications, including ones in Suspense Magazine and Dark Helix Press’s Canada 150 anthology, “Futuristic Canada”. The Ghosts of Thorwald Place is her first novel.
HelenPower.ca
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BookBub – @helen_power
Instagram – @powerlibrarian
Twitter – @helenpowerbooks
Facebook – @helenpowerauthor
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Join In:This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Helen Power & CamCat Books. There will be Five (6) winners for this tour. Each of the winners will each receive 1 print ARC edition of The Ghosts of Thorwald Place by Helen Power (US, Canada, and UK shipping addresses Only). The giveaway begins on October 1 and ends on November 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.
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October 21, 2021
New Release Spotlight — CHRISTMAS MIRACLE IN JAMAICA by Ann McIntosh
This first story in The Christmas Project series sees neurologist Chloe Bailey and surgeon Sam Powell reunited in beautiful Jamaica, where they have to face the consequences of that one hot night!
’Tis the season For surprises!
One unforgettable night with surgeon Sam Powell signaled a newfound independence for freshly divorced neurologist Chloe Bailey. She never thought she’d see Sam again, until a new assignment takes her to stunning Jamaica for Christmas and Sam is there, too! But when Chloe discovers she’s pregnant, it’s life-changing for both of them! Sam will always be the father of her baby, but is he about to become a whole lot more?
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Buy Christmas Miracle in Jamaica by Ann McIntosh on Harlequin.com.
ExcerptExcerpt of Christmas Miracle in Jamaica by Ann McIntosh (Oct 26)
Harlequin Medical Romance
Add Christmas Miracle in Jamaica to your Goodreads!
Waking up five thousand miles away from her London home to her solicitor’s text saying the entire ordeal of getting free from Finn was over had made her equal parts sad and relieved. Finn had fought the divorce every step of the way, making what should have been a straightforward matter into a circus. Creating discord, spouting ridiculous demands and accusations, trying to force Chloe to go back to him rather than go through with severing the marriage.
She hadn’t cheated or lied. Finn had. Yet here she was, left holding the bag.
As she twisted the empty glass back and forth between her fingers, she heard her grandmother’s voice, clear as day, as though the older lady was beside her and whispered into her ear.
“Anyone who thinks life is always going to be easy is a jackass. When things get tough, lift up your head and look for the advantage. There’s always one, but usually you have to seek it out.”
That was Gran’s reaction anytime one of the family was dispirited or gloomy, but the familiar refrain rang hollow now.
“What possible advantage could there be to this mess?” she muttered.
But her brain was already whirring, putting aside the depressing, self-pitying thoughts and searching for the elusive silver lining.
Professionally, the breakup hadn’t changed anything. Her position at the Royal Kensington Hospital was both secure and rewarding, and the cutting-edge research she was involved in gave her a great deal of satisfaction. It was personally that she’d suffered, and perhaps that was where she could benefit?
All her life she’d been so careful, terrified of diminishing her good name, constantly aware that her parents expected her to set the best possible example for her younger siblings. Well, much of that had gone out the window over the last couple of years, leaving her…
Free .
To do things she’d wanted to but shied away from because they were risky or could potentially make others think less of her.
She’d always been so careful, so conservative and conventional. Wasn’t it time she let loose a little?
“Can I get you another tonic water?”
Startled, Chloe looked up at the bartender, and instinctively nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
She wasn’t ready to retire to her lonely hotel bed, knowing she’d only lie sleepless while she wrestled with all the ramifications of the life-changes she was going through.
But as the other woman began to turn away, Chloe was struck by a totally different type of impulse.
“Wait,” she said, causing the bartender to pause. “Do you serve mojitos?”
“Sure,” the woman replied with a smile. “Wouldn’t be a real bar if we didn’t.”
“I’ve always wanted to try one,” Chloe said, ignoring the whisper in her head telling her she rarely drank and she should be more careful, here in a strange city with no one to watch out for her.
“One mojito, coming up,” the bartender said, her smile widening.
“Brilliant,” Chloe replied, grinning in return.
When her drink came, she silently toasted her grandmother and her own quiet revolution, determined to make up for all the lost years of being so timid she’d forgotten how to actually live.
And when she found her gaze snagged by that of a very handsome man sitting across the bar, she refused to give in to the impulse to look away. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on his and raised her glass once more to her lips to sip the delicious liquid.
Then, as the gentleman in question rose and began to make his way toward her, she let herself smile, just a little, feeling excitement quicken her blood.
Here’s to new beginnings .
About Ann McIntoshI was born in the tropics, Jamaica to be precise, lived in the frozen North (Ontario, Canada) for a number of years, and now reside in sunny central Florida with my husband. I’m a proud Mama to three grown children, love tea, crafting, animals (except reptiles!), bacon, and the ocean. I firmly believe in the power of romance to heal, inspire and provide hope in our complex world.
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Website: https://www.authorannmcintosh.com/
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