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Ride a Dark Trail: a Modern Western Thriller

Ride a Dark Trail  by Winter Austin

 
Book & Author Info + A Giveaway + An Excerpt!
 
Don’t miss any book tour posts. Click the link here for more.

Ride a Dark Trail


A Bounty of Shadows Book
Will her life philosophy, “Do right, fear no man,” get her killed?

A string of bad luck has left former Army helicopter pilot Dot Ybarra with a serious case of wrecked nerves and a need for peace and solace at her family’s Idaho ranch. Instead, she encounters a desperate mother who stumbles onto their land, begging Dot to rescue her kidnapped daughter.

There’s a bounty on the kidnapper’s head, and fugitive recovery agent T.J. Roman is not about to let that paycheck slip through his fingers. Together, he and Dot rescue the child.

But their actions set off an explosion of secrets in Euskadi. The sheriff is slinking around with a new shady sidekick, Dot’s friends are stabbed, and armed mercenaries attack her ranch, forcing her to use her hunting and archery skills to defend her family. Cornered by the unknown enemy’s three-pronged attack, Dot and her charges retreat deep into the Payette National Forest. Isolated in the mountainous forest, separated from T.J. and any help, Dot must make a hard choice: fight or walk away?

Will her first recovery job be her last?

Praise for Ride a Dark Trail:

“With sharp characters you’ll want to stand up and root for, Winter Austin creates an eye-popping Idaho setting for us to enjoy with Ride a Dark Trail.”

“Echoes of Yellowstone meets Magnum P.I. come together in a chilling Idaho plot you’ll want to get to the bottom of.”

“After reading Ride a Dark Trail, you’re going to hope there’s a real-life Dorothy Ybarra out there in today’s world.”

Book Details:

Genre: Modern Western Thriller
Published by: Tule Mystery
Publication Date: August 18, 2025
Number of Pages: 310
ISBN: 9781967678082 (ISBN10: 1967678081)
Series: Bounty of Shadows, Book 1

To purchase Ride a Dark Trail, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Apple | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Publishing

Read an excerpt of Ride a Dark Trail:

Chapter 1

His ghost always joined her for the final drag on an Ave Maria Dark Knight cigar.

He started appearing two months into her newly formed habit. Always in his sweat-stained, gray Open Road Stetson and wool-lined coat with a few less wrinkles in his face. Here, in the goats’ lean-to, where she’d taken to hiding out to have her smoke so as to not offend her mother’s senses.

At his first appearance, she swore it was a hallucination. The second time, she flipped out. With each appearance since she became more belligerent, while he grew more persistent.

“Biloba, why do you keep doing this thing?”

She blew out the smoke. “Go away, Aitonatxo.”

Her grandfather shook his head. One of the goats meandered through his transparent legs, disrupting his stern reproach. Aitona turned his withering look to the red-brown doe munching on hay.

“Goats. She just had to get goats.”

A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as she drew on the cigar for the last time. One year after her grandfather passed, her mother had sold the last of the sheep, turned the ranch into an outfitter and hunting business, bought horses and mules for it, then goats just for the hell of it. The small herd had come in real handy in keeping the overgrowth of underbrush and weeds under control, saving the ranch a time or two from wildfires. The milking goats also made convenient pack animals when there was need for nourishment up in the mountains.

Aitona didn’t roll over in his grave. No, he came back to fucking haunt her and complain about the goats.

“Dorothy Ybarra, where are you?”

His specter vanished with her last puff of smoke. Before her mother could barge into the goats’ lean-to and give her hell for smoking in the building, Dorothy ground the butt into the bottom of her boot. One disapproving familia was enough, even if Aitonatxo was an apparition of her mind.

Angela Ybarra rounded the edge of the lean-to’s weathered support post, her pack of mutts in tow. The goats scattered, except for a leggy dark brown female who’d taken a liking to Dot and exuded copious amounts of stubborn. That doe would not be deterred by no dog.

Exactly twenty years older and just as whipcord lean as her daughter, Angela Ybarra was the polar opposite when it came to Dot’s tornado in a trailer park personality. But that didn’t stop Angela from pulling the matriarch card every chance she got.

Angela wrinkled her nose and gave Dot a pointed look but held her tongue. Dot hadn’t burned down any buildings. Yet.

Her mother reached out and scratched the doe’s withers. “I’ve got a new elk hunting party coming in later today. We’re taking them out to that nice valley for their hunt. I need to grab a few supplies for the trip. In the meantime, would you round up your gear and check it over?”

“You sure you want me up there with you?”

“I need you, Dot. This is a new group to me.”

In other words, Ama wasn’t comfortable being on her own with this bunch. Most of the hunters Angela outfitted were longtime customers she had built a strong rapport with and trusted. She took on new clients only if there was a long lull between her regulars and funds were tight.

Since Dot’s return to the ranch, she’d been her mother’s backup when one of the local sheep herders wasn’t available to ride out with Angela. Dot’s presence on hunts was a good deterrent for wannabe suitors or general dickheads. Not that Angela Ybarra couldn’t hold her own—she was Samo Ybarra’s daughter after all and had sent many a man intending ill-intent back to civilization with a limp and severe damage to his manhood. Dot, on the other hand, was less accommodating. The pervs usually woke up in the hospital, cuffed to the bedrail.

“Ama, you don’t need to earn the extra cash. I can spot you.”

“No.” Angela sliced the air with a disapproving finger. “Your army and pilot funds are yours. Don’t waste them on my business.”

“Come on!”

“I’ll hear no more of it.” Angela checked her watch. “I’m going. Be ready.” She slipped from view, her canine pack following.

Dot’s guard goat gave a very goat-like nicker as she munched on weeds bold enough to dare grow in their pen.

It might have been a year since the crash. She might have been released from physical therapy with a clean bill of health two months ago. And she might be in the best physical shape of her life since basic training and flight school. Still, Dot hadn’t spent more than two hours horseback in the last six months. Riding into the foothills of the Payette National Forest and getting to that valley her mother spoke of meant at least an eight-hour ride. Probably longer if this new hunting party wasn’t used to long hours in the saddle.

Dot groaned. Good thing she loved her mother.

She rose from the goats’ favorite climbing stump and vacated the lean-to. At the corner, she glanced back at the spot where Aitona had appeared.

He’d died while she was away at training. It ate at her for years that she hadn’t been here to see him crossed over to the other side and be with his beloved Dorothy—Dot’s namesake. Though somehow he hadn’t quite left the ranch.

He wanted to know. Or maybe she was using his specter to ask herself the question.

Why did she do this thing? She was hale and hearty, ready to get back in the air. God knew the forest service hadn’t stopped calling. Yet she couldn’t pull herself away from her current predicament.

Why?

“I’m doing it for Ama,” she said to the air.

***

Excerpt from Ride a Dark Trail by Winter Austin. Copyright 2025 by Winter Austin. Reproduced with permission from Winter Austin. All rights reserved.

 

Ride a Dark Trail Author Winter Austin

Winter Austin perpetually answers the question: “were you born in the winter?” with a flat “nope,” but believe her, there is a story behind her name.

A lifelong Mid-West gal with strong ties to the agriculture world, Winter grew up listening to the captivating stories told by relatives around a table or a campfire. As a published author, she learned her glass half-empty personality makes for a perfect suspense/thriller writer. Taking her ability to verbally spin a vivid and detailed story, Winter translated that into writing deadly romantic suspense, mysteries, and thrillers.

When she’s not slaving away at the computer, you can find Winter supporting her daughter in cattle shows, seeing her three sons off into the wide-wide world, loving on her fur babies, prodding her teacher husband, and nagging at her flock of hens to stay in the coop or the dogs will get them.

She is the author of multiple novels.

To learn more about Winter, click any of the following links:

AuthorWinterAustin.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @WinterAustin
Instagram – @iasuspensewriter
Facebook – @author.winteraustin

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Ride a Dark Trail by Winter Austin (eBooks)

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Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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The Butcher and the Liar: A Psychological Thriller

The Butcher and the Liar by S.L. Woeppel

Author Spotlight + Book & Author Info + An Excerpt!Don’t miss any new books! Click the link here.The Butcher and the Liar

Butcher tries to outrun father’s murderous past

BookLife Prize finalist pens haunting psychological thriller perfect for fans of Gillian Flynn

Truth cuts to the bone. At thirty-five, Daisy Bellon runs a butcher shop in a forgotten corner of Chicago, maintaining her father’s trade, but keeping his grisly legacy buried–until an anonymous letter slices the past wide open. 

At nine, Daisy stumbled upon her father dismembering a woman in their basement, and became his reluctant accomplice. From that night on, his victim’s ghost has haunted her. Only her childhood friend Caleb–and the lies she spun to create the illusion of normalcy–kept her tethered to hope as she spiralled deeper into her father’s darkness. 

But days after the letter upends her world, someone close to Daisy is brutally murdered in a chillingly familiar way. Forced to confront the truth about her family and herself, she must decide whether to finally expose the secrets she’s hidden–or become the monster she’s always feared. 

To purchase your copy of The Butcher and the Liar, click the following link:  Amazon.Excerpt from The Butcher and the Liar

The woman’s hand sat on the table, separate from the rest of her. Next to the hand were other parts—who knew what. The smell settled in my nose. A smell I knew well, the smell that sometimes lingered in the basement for weeks, the same smell that sometimes escaped from the brick building next to the market—the place where the cows went before they came to our butcher shop. Chemicals and death. It was terrible, and I covered my nose to keep from gagging.

My eyes followed the path of parts along the table, my lungs in need of air. The woman was broken in pieces, the woman from the kitchen, the woman who never should have been here. 

I swallowed and choked on my own dry throat. My father turned at the sound, and our eyes met. His weren’t those of a monster. They were familiar, the eyes of my father, confused and curious. He looked at me for so long, as though he only just remembered me, remembered who I was, and realized that I existed in this world as well as the one upstairs. He looked at me like he’d been gone for years, and his eyes were taking their fill of me now. Then I saw what felt like disappointment in his eyes.

When I finally looked away, I saw high heels at the bottom of the stairs. I saw more parts of the woman on a plastic sheet on the floor. I saw my father’s bloody apron and the jugs of foul chemicals next to the table. 

“Go to sleep,” my father said to me, his voice almost comforting in a moment where nothing else was. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

I nodded and ran back up the stairs. I crawled into my bed, where I hid. But no matter how deeply I snuggled under the blanket or how tightly I pulled the pillow over my head, it wasn’t enough to forget.

The Butcher and the Liar Author S.L. Woeppel

 

S.L. WOEPPEL is a BookLife Prize finalist for her 2024 debut Flipping the Birdie.

Born and raised in Nebraska, Woeppel gets antsy living in one place too long. Currently residing in Minnesota, she has five great loves—her family, writing, reading, travel, and municipal bonds.

She’s watched the entirety of the television series ER three times and she has an embarrassingly large collection of those tacky souvenir spoons (like, more than two hundred). She can’t help it; she keeps buying them wherever she goes.

To learn more about S.L., click either of the following links: Website and Instagram.Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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The Collectors: A Legal Thriller

The Collectors: A Chance Cormac Legal Thriller by Richard A. Danzig

Author Spotlight + Excerpt + Book & Author Info!
Don’t miss any new books! Click the link here.

The Collectors

Ridgefield, CT – Following the success of his first two novels, “Facts are Stubborn Things” and “Punch Line”, award-winning author Richard A. Danzig returns to the exhilarating world of lawyer Chance Cormac with “The Collectors” (September 15, 2025) a pulse-pounding journey from New York City’s world of finance and fine art to the hidden dangers of a tropical paradise.

When Chance is hired to investigate a valuable painting which is suspected of being a forgery, he discovers that the painting and his clients may not be what they seem.

Meanwhile in Costa Rica, former Navy SEALs Damian and JR

are arrested for the murder of a surfer that washed up on the beach near their surf shack. As they fight to survive inside a violent prison, Chance uncovers a black market of human exploitation, greed and blood money, all protected by a corrupt police force.

Bringing back fan favorite characters, The Collectors is a legal thriller that blends courtroom drama, suspense, and international intrigue and is perfect for fans of John Grisham and Michael Connelly.

 

Praise for the “Chance Cormac” legal thriller series

“Punch Line makes a meaningful impact in the literary realm by addressing contentious issues within a thriller framework, creating a story that is both entertaining and thought-provoking. Like a comedian delivering a punchline that resonates long after the laughter fades, the novel compels readers to confront uncomfortable societal truths while keeping them thoroughly entertained. This work evokes both a tense courtroom drama and a compelling examination of society that lingers in the reader’s thoughts long after the final gavel falls.”
– The Chrysalis Brew Project

“Danzig saves the best for last in a twisty climax the reader will not see coming. He leaves the reader wanting more, just what needs to be done for the first book of this series. ‘Facts Are Stubborn Things’ is wonderfully written, perfectly paced, and introduces a principled protagonist who readers will want to see again.”

– Independent Book Review

“For fans of legal maneuvering, Danzig has filled the book with riveting subject matter, including precedents for father’s rights cases, the rights of sperm donors, liability of property owners, the impact of disclaimers and much more. The most fascinating legal aspect of the book by far is whether TAG could be held liable for the assault on Slater. But lest you think the final third of the book will consist entirely of courtroom drama, think again. Danzig unleashes several more surprises that readers won’t see coming.”– BestThrillers.com

Get your copy of The Collectors at Amazon. 

Excerpt of The Collectors

CHAPTER ONE

 

The scream of the howler monkey sounds more like the growl of a wild beast fighting for its life than the grunt of a spider monkey or a chimp. They sit high in the trees of Costa Rica. Howler monkeys are jet black and are difficult to see through the dense foliage even when the tropical sun shines bright. No matter how often you hear the howlers screaming, the sound is always somehow unexpected and frightening. Their loud unearthly cries caused the ancient Mayans to worship the howler monkeys as gods.

Damian was up early. Tyler, the dog who adopted JR on the beach when he first came to Costa Rica, was waiting at the door. Tyler was part greyhound and part collie. He was fast and loved the surf. Sometimes JR would put Tyler on his paddleboard and they could be seen floating, silhouetted at sunset. Tyler was named after JR’s hometown in Texas. JR was still sleeping. Damian opened the door and said, “Let’s go, boy!”

Every morning since reuniting with his friend, Damian and Tyler would take a morning run on the white sands of Tamarindo as the tropical sun was rising on the horizon in a blaze of red and orange. Nobody was on the beach and they could both run free. Damian was looking forward to surfing with the Tamarindo dawn patrol after his run, then spending the day repairing boards at the Tico Tide Surf Shop, owned by Troy Travner. He shook his head. He never imagined living in a tropical paradise with JR and being part of a surfing community.

Damian enjoyed running in the early morning. He ran barefoot in just his board shorts and faded Tico Tide tee shirt. He enjoyed the feel of the cool sand on his feet and sea air on his face. He breathed in the smell of the fragrant ocean breeze and the orchids that grew wild. After a mile, he didn’t feel his legs anymore, only the rhythm of his breath. He saw the waves were up. JR and Troy would be happy. It was good for surfing and good for business at the shop. When he looked up, he and Tyler were already halfway to the remote cove where only the best surfers could “mack”.

When he jogged each morning his thoughts ran free. It was hard to believe that more than a year had already passed since he left New York and moved to Costa Rica to create a new life with his friend and former SEAL, JR. He thought about Troy and the many Costa Rican friends he had made. The beautiful Tico women, who were so genuine and friendly and had none of the New York City edge. The surfers who came into the shop, who were the furthest thing from a SEAL, but were disciplined and dedicated to their sport. It wasn’t home yet, but almost.

This morning, he was remembering his tours as JR’s platoon leader and the successful missions they had fought. Smiling, he thought of the years he’d worked for the attorney Chance Cormac, his good friend and mentor, as an investigator and then as a law clerk in Brooklyn. How Chance had convinced him to enroll in law school. The many trials where they worked together, side by side.

How it all ended with their last case, involving a corrupt and psychopathic policeman. The feeling of the bullet hitting him in the chest like a sledgehammer when he was shot by a rookie cop. He thought of Susan Chu, a fellow law student and clerk for Chance. Her beauty, intelligence, accomplishments. He had recovered from being shot but couldn’t heal the scars on his chest or in his mind when he thought of Susan’s violent death and his guilt for not protecting her.

Damian said, “Okay, enough of that! Tyler, let’s see what you got!”

Damian put his head down and sprinted fifty yards until he cleared his head and his heart. Tyler shot past him, barking with joy. Damian heard the screeches of the howler monkeys as they looked down from their perches high above the beach. For some reason, he felt they were warning him to stay away. He and JR had seen and heard many monkeys when they were deployed on special ops missions as SEALs in the Middle East and Asia. But those monkeys were small and, if they talked at all, made soft grunts or funny chirping sounds. When the howlers screamed they opened their jaws, bared their teeth and let out a demonic yell.

As Damian ran, he looked up to see if he could catch sight of one of the angry howlers he knew were looking down at him from their hiding places. He was looking up when he heard a distant, more terrifying howl. He suddenly realized it was not a demon monkey but a human voice, screaming somewhere down on the beach! Tyler stopped short, growled, and took off down the beach.

Damian sprinted behind Tyler to see where the screams were coming from. As he charged down the beach, his mind was suddenly back in the Middle East with JR on a SEAL mission, hearing the screams of a wounded enemy or a member of his own platoon. He had run a hundred yards when the screaming suddenly stopped.

In the distance he saw Tyler running in circles, barking at a young man with long black hair, wearing only a bright red Hawaiian bathing suit, lying motionless, face down in the sand. The surfer’s body lay prone next to a gleaming surfboard that was bobbing up and down in the wake nearby.

Damian yelled, “Tyler, sit! Stay! Good boy!” He approached the young surfer, knelt down, and quickly turned him over onto his back. He recognized the lifeless gaze in the young man’s eyes. The same look he had seen too many times in combat. Blood was gushing from two identical wounds, one on each side below the surfer’s stomach.

Excerpt used with permission from Richard A. Danzig. 

The Collectors Author Richard A. Danzig

RICHARD A. DANZIG: Richard is an attorney, artist, entrepreneur and author. He practiced law in New York for over forty years and has represented many prominent clients. He is the founder in New York of the American Paralegal Institute, We The People, a legal document preparation company, and The Law Stores.

Richard is a juried member of the Spanish Village Artist collective in San Diego, California and his artwork has been shown in galleries in the Northeast and California. Richard published his first novel “Facts Are Stubborn Things” in 2023 and his second novel “Punch Line” in 2024. His new book “The Collectors” will be published on October 1, 2025.

 
Find out more about Richard by checking out his website. 

 

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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Illusionist: a Contemporary Crime Thriller

Illusionist by Laurie Buchanan

 

Book & Author Info + A Guest Post + An Excerpt + A Giveaway!Don’t miss any blog tour posts! Click the link here.

 

Illusionist

 

A contemporary crime thriller perfect for Louise Penny and Robert Dugoni fans, Illusionist presents PI McPherson with an impossible dilemma: kill an author at a writing retreat in the Pacific Northwest, or let a college student die.

When an illusionist arrives at Pines & Quill, one of the retreat’s owners vanishes—right in front of witnesses who see nothing. Meanwhile, crime boss Georgio Gambino tightens his grip, blackmailing a writer into murder and framing Sean McPherson. His threat is clear: obey, or your daughter dies.

As McPherson investigates, he uncovers a brewing power struggle—Carmine Fiore, Gambino’s second-in-command, is staging a coup. While Gambino’s network traffics drugs, weapons, and humans, Fiore manipulates the Sureños gang, planting evidence to shift blame.

Desperate to turn the tide, McPherson seeks a dangerous alliance. But when deception is the game, only illusion can outmaneuver the truth. Enlisting the retreat’s eclectic writers—including a NASCAR driver, a triathlete, a house-flipping architect, and a magician with secrets of her own—McPherson sets the stage for the ultimate trick: survival.

Purchase Linkshttps://mybook.to/IllusionistMcPhersonAmazonBarnes and Noble Book Shop Excerpt from Illusionist by Laurie Buchanan

Sean “Mick” McPherson drives the Pines & Quill van to Bellingham International Airport. The last time I went to the airport was to drop off the September writers in residence who barely lived to tell about their stay.

His thoughts home in on Gambino, head of a trifecta-based crime family—Seattle, San Francisco, and New Orleans. Mick tightens his grip on the steering wheel. You learned the hard way that Gambino’s reach is long and elusive. That his minions infiltrate even the most inaccessible places to do his bidding, so stay on your A game.

Last month, over the Labor Day weekend, Emma, Mick’s pregnant wife, and Carly and Brianna, the daughters of one of his best friends, Joe Bingham, were abducted and held hostage in a secluded cabin on Mount Baker by Gambino’s thugs. Joe, a Bellingham homicide detective, took a bullet in his right shoulder, saving his daughters.

After the incident, local police chief Bruce Simms referred to him, Joe, and Rafferty, Mick’s other best friend, as “The three musketeers” at a press conference. He went on to say, “Though nontraditional—an ex-cop turned PI, a homicide detective, and an FBI special agent—they accomplish what no others do; they solve crimes and put bad guys behind bars. Consistently.”

Mick smiles at what Simms didn’t say to the press—they let me assist in criminal investigations because, unlike Rafferty and Joe, I have fewer restrictions, protocols, and no red tape as a PI.

Guest Post From The Illusionist Author Laurie BuchananMy 10 Favorite Authors & Why 

Whether it’s a physical book, ebook, or audiobook, each format has its own charm, I read and review over a hundred titles a year. My shelves lean heavily toward two genres: crime thrillers that keep me on edge, and romantic comedies that offer a welcome breath between the darkness.

In alphabetical order, here are seven of my favorite living authors, followed by three literary legends whose work continues to inspire me.

David Baldacci

Baldacci is unmatched when it comes to writing grit with heart. His Atlee Pine series features a fierce FBI agent navigating the wilds of the Southwest while confronting a haunting past. 

Robert Bryndza

Bryndza excels at blending emotional depth with relentless pacing. His Detective Erika Foster series delivers high-stakes investigations and a protagonist who battles grief while chasing justice. 

Robert Dugoni

Dugoni’s character work is layered, authentic, and quietly fierce. In the Tracey Crosswhite series, a Seattle homicide detective channels personal loss into powerful resolve. 

JD Kirk

Kirk’s dialogue crackles with humor and humanity. His DCI Jack Logan series is set in the Scottish Highlands, where Logan’s dry wit and dogged determination shine through every case. 

Jo Nesbø

Nesbø’s psychological complexity is absolutely riveting. The Harry Hole series explores Oslo’s darkest corners through a brilliant but tormented detective. 

Louise Penny

Penny writes with a poet’s soul and a philosopher’s insight. Her Chief Inspector Gamache series, set in the village of Three Pines, is rich with mystery, morality, and emotional nuance. 

Hank Phillippi Ryan

Ryan’s plots are razor-sharp and grounded in real-world intrigue. A real-life investigative reporter, she crafts thrillers that fuse journalistic precision with page-turning suspense. 

Dorothea Benton Frank

Frank’s storytelling is warm, witty, and deeply rooted in place. Her Lowcountry novels celebrate strong Southern women and family bonds, often set around Sullivan’s Island. 

Maeve Binchy

Binchy’s Irish tales feel like cozy conversations over tea—intimate, heartfelt, and full of life. She was a master of everyday magic and emotional truth.

Harper Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird is my all-time favorite. I reread it every New Year’s Day. Lee’s moral clarity and quiet courage shaped Sean McPherson—my protagonist’s—worldview. And my own.

The Illusionist Author Laurie Buchanan

A blend of Dr. Doolittle, Nanny McPhee, and a type-A Buddhist, Laurie Buchanan is an active listener, observer of details, payer of attention, reader and writer of books, kindness enthusiast, red licorice aficionado, and lover of the Oxford comma.

As a novelist, photographer, and voracious reader, she never travels without three essentials—a laptop, a camera, and a book.

Growing up, she dreamed of being a magician, an international spy, and a mad scientist. There’s still time!

Her writing studio is the hayloft of a historic carriage house in the Pacific Northwest, where creativity thrives. Her husband, Len, a private pilot, and Henry, their not-so-standard Standard Poodle, join her on daily walks. She always carries a camera because sometimes, the best word choice is a picture.

A journey that left an indelible imprint on her was a 20-day, 211-mile trek across the majestic landscapes of Scotland. She, her husband, and their son hiked from the North Sea to the Atlantic Ocean, with the pinnacle being the climb of Ben Nevis at the midpoint of their adventure, the highest point in the British Isles.

“My writing goal is simple: to leave you wanting more.” —Laurie Buchanan

 

Contact LinksWebsiteFacebookBlogGoodreadsInstagramBlueSkyThreadsSubstackPurchase Linkshttps://mybook.to/IllusionistMcPhersonAmazonBarnes and NobleBook Shop

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Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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The Girl in the Maze: Author Guest Post

The Girl in the Maze by R.K. Jackson

Author Guest Post + Book & Author InfoDon’t miss any book tour posts. Click the link here for more.

Author Guest Post by R.K. Jackson

Meet My Writing Team

I have a confession to make: I didn’t write any of my published books or short stories. Not a single one.

The real credit (or blame) belongs to my writing team. They’ve been with me from the beginning, whispering in my ear, making demands, offering ideas, and occasionally throwing tantrums. It’s high time I introduced them: Meet my muse, Lyra, and my inner critic, Jerry. (Visualization courtesy DALL-E.)

Lyra

Stephen King, in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, describes his muse as a grizzled male figure who lives in the basement, chomping cigars and grunting when he feels like delivering inspiration. He sounds like a reliable dude.

My gal, on the other hand, is a flighty hippie. Pisces with Aquarius rising. * Let’s call her Lyra.

She believes in astrology, tarot, crystals, and dreams. She prefers joyrides to maps, intuition to logic, and candles over fluorescent lights. She is shy, unstable, and honestly, a bit of a flake. Lyra will vanish for weeks, even months, then show up at the worst possible time, barefoot and laughing, as if nothing ever happened.

But I’ve found ways to lure her back. New places, new people, new experiences, anything novel and sensory can do the trick. Art museums, live music, a walk through a strange city at night,  are like catnip to Lyra.

But she cannot be scheduled. She cannot be managed. She can only be wooed. In fact, she loves being seduced. A trail of dark chocolates and a burning stick of Nag Champa will do the trick.

Don’t get me wrong: Lyra isn’t shallow. Her intuitive wisdom runs deep. She loves laughter, deep emotion, and human psychology. The more challenging the material, the more excited she becomes. When I get out of the way, she can uncover something original and true.

She also loves to leave things on my pillow to discover in the morning. Sometimes it’s just an old bottle cap; sometimes, if I’m lucky, a gold doubloon. Or maybe some scrap of shiny material she found in the woods. Probably useless, but I keep it, anyway. You never know.

Jerry

Jerry is a Capricorn with Virgo rising. ‘Nuff said?

He’s a spreadsheet guy. A checklist guy. He loves order, discipline, goals, and outcomes. He wears short-sleeve button-down shirts and probably has a calculator watch. He has no sense of humor. And frankly, he’s a bit of a bully.

But he’s essential.

Without Jerry, I’d never finish anything. He’s the one who sets the schedule, formats the documents, counts the words, and asks the hard questions. (“Does this scene advance the plot?” “Is that really what this character would say?” “Why is this chapter thirteen pages of people drinking tea?”)

He’s not a creator. He’s an editor, a critic, a line manager. But he keeps me grounded. He keeps me safe.

The Team in Action

As you’ve probably guessed, Lyra and Jerry do not play well together. In fact, they loathe each other.

They cannot work in the same room. When they collide, chaos ensues. So, I’ve learned to work with them asynchronously.

Lyra and I write the first draft, usually late at night when Jerry’s asleep or distracted. We’re flowing, flying, feeling our way through the darkness.

Then—bam!—Jerry barges in. The music stops. The lights go on. And he starts shouting: “What the hell is this? This is gibberish. This is the worst string of words ever assembled by a sentient being!” (He’s prone to hyperbole.)

For my debut novel, The Girl in the Maze, I struck a deal with the team. I promised Jerry he could take over after the first draft, but only if he let Lyra and me work uninterrupted until then. I even made a spreadsheet to track word count, which appealed to his Virgo heart.

Jerry grudgingly agreed.

Of course, he couldn’t help sneaking peeks now and then and throwing fits. But we got through it. A year later, we finished the draft. Jerry took over and declared the whole thing a disaster, but conceded that it might be salvageable. With a massive amount of revision.

And he was right.

You see, I need them both. Without Lyra, there’s no magic. Without Jerry, there’s no book.

What about you? Who’s on your inner creative team, and how do you keep them from strangling each other? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

*For the record, I’m only using astrology as a metaphor. My frontal cortex doesn’t believe in it. But my amygdala does.

The Girl in the MazeUSA TODAY BESTSELLER • Perfect for fans of Alice Feeney, Megan Miranda, and Tana French, R. K. Jackson’s lyrical, twisty psychological thriller follows an aspiring journalist as she uncovers dark truths in a seaswept Southern town—aided by a mysterious outcast and pursued by a ruthless killer.

 

Now available for the first time as an audiobook, this lyrical novel comes alive in a tour de force performance by narrator Hillary Huber.

When Martha Covington moves to Amberleen, Georgia, after her release from a psychiatric ward, she thinks her breakdown is behind her. A small town with a rich history, Amberleen feels like a fresh start. Taking a summer internship with the local historical society, Martha is tasked with gathering the stories of the Geechee residents of nearby Shell Heap Island, the descendants of slaves who have lived by their own traditions for the last three hundred years.

As Martha delves into her work, the voices she thought she left behind start whispering again, and she begins to doubt her recovery. When a grisly murder occurs, Martha finds herself at the center of a perfect storm—and she’s the perfect suspect. Without a soul to vouch for her innocence or her sanity, Martha disappears into the wilderness, battling the pull of madness and struggling to piece together a supernatural puzzle of age-old resentments, broken promises, and cold-blooded murder. She finds an unexpected ally in a handsome young man fighting his own battles. With his help, Martha journeys through a terrifying labyrinth—to find the truth and clear her name, if she can survive to tell the tale

Genre: Psychological Thriller
Published by: Audiobook: Paradise Press in Association with Fright Night Audio; Print & eBook: Penguin Random House
Audiobook Publication Date: August 5, 2025
Number of Print Pages: 300
Audiobook ISBN: 979-8-218-70529-9

To purchase your copy of The Girl in the Maze, click any of the following links:eBook Links: Kindle | Goodreads | BN | Apple | Penguin
Audiobook Links: Audible | BN | Apple | LibroFM | Chirp | AudiobooksNow | SpotifyThe Girl in the Maze Author R.K. Jackson

R.K. Jackson is a former CNN journalist who now works at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He is the author of two novels of psychological suspense: the USA Today bestseller The Girl in the Maze and its sequel, Kiss of the Sun, both originally published by Penguin Random House.

Catch Up With R. K. Jackson:

RandalJackson.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @RKJackson
Instagram – @randal.jackson1
Threads – @randal.jackson1
Facebook – @rkjacksonAuthor

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Throwing Shadows: A Review

Throwing Shadows by Claire Booth

 

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Throwing Shadows
 

A Sheriff Hank Worth Mystery

When a hiker stumbles from the woods raving about a dead man, Sheriff Hank Worth launches a search. Near the infamous landmark of Murder Rocks – a Civil War era hideout for ambushers who robbed and killed passing travelers – they unearth two bodies and a skeleton.

Local legend says there’s caches of stolen gold buried in the area. And – thanks to some recent nationwide publicity – the Ozark backwoods are now swarming with out-of-town treasure hunters, who have little concern for Hank’s murder investigation. With the clock ticking, Hank must identify the victims . . . and the killer. But could the new pursuit of long-lost plunder really have led to multiple deaths?

Praise for Throwing Shadows:

“Here more than in any other book in the series, it’s the mystery that draws us in but Hank’s personal story that packs the emotional wallop. Booth is a wonderful storyteller (see also her crime nonfiction book, The False Prophet, 2008), and in Throwing Shadows, she’s at the top of her game.”
~ Booklist

“A well-done police procedural whose historical background provides extra interest.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:
Genre: Crime Fiction, Police Procedural
Published by: Severn House Publishers
Publication Date: August 5, 2025
Number of Pages: 240
ISBN: 9781448313914 (ISBN10: 1448313910) eBook
Series: A Sheriff Hank Worth Mystery, Book 7

To purchase Throwing Shadows, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | booksamillion | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Severn House Publishers

My Thoughts

Claire Booth’s latest Hank Worth mystery may be my favorite in the series to date. All the books are great reads, but this storyline is one of her best. Throwing Shadows works fine as a standalone, but I highly recommend the entire series.

Set in Branson, Missouri, Hank Worth is a hardworking sheriff with a complicated home life. Navigating the icy waters in his marriage, Hank also finds himself investigating a new crime with very old roots. 

Murder Rocks is an infamous landmark out in the Ozark woods. Booth’s meticulous research into the very real events of the 19th Century threads outlaw Alf Bolin and his notorious band of bushwhackers into the current story, combining historical fact with contemporary fiction.

During the Civil War, Alf Bolin and his gang terrorized decent citizens on either side of the conflict, collecting all manner of valuables, including much sought after gold. Learning of the known thief and killer, Hank Worth discovers that a recent murder could be related to the rumor of hidden treasure from those long ago outlaw days.

In Throwing Shadows, a popular podcast sends treasure hunters streaming onto the privately-owned property around Murder Rocks in the hopes of finding the treasure and striking it rich. But with two bodies and a skeleton hidden nearby, Hank can’t tell if those treasure hunters are guilty of homicide or just mucking up his crime scene. Not to mention if the killer is still around, those treasure hunters could become the next victim.

With close attention to police procedure, and a twisty plot for a solid mystery and engaging personal stakes, Throwing Shadows earns every one of those five stars.

Fans of Linda Castillo’s Kate Burkholder and William Ken Krueger’s Cork O’Connor series will love this one!

Read an excerpt of Throwing Shadows:

CHAPTER ONE

The man ran, rabbit-fast and rabbit-scared, through the trees. His pack pulled on his shoulders as he scrambled over rotting logs and gouged the moldy sponge of fallen leaves with his boots. He couldn’t hear what was behind him over his own frantic sprinting, the racket of an inexperienced fool. His foot hit a hole and he went tumbling down an incline, landing hard in the Ozark dirt. He got to his knees and tried to catch his breath. If he could only make it to the road. Maybe he could find help. Safety. He started to move, but his knees wouldn’t stay steady enough for him to stand. He tried to crawl and got nothing but a few yards’ progress and a stab in the thigh from a dead branch. He bit his lip to keep from yelling out as blood started to seep through his pants. He slumped down on his elbows and swore.

It was time to face facts.

He sat back on his haunches and shrugged the pack off his back. The wind hit his sweat-soaked shirt and sent a chill along his spine. He twisted around, searching for a hiding spot. Nothing. He forced himself upright and stumbled forward. He made it over the next rise, dragging the pack behind him, and saw what he needed. He concealed it as completely as he could. Maybe it would work. Nothing else during this whole calamity had.

He backed away and took in the lay of the land. He still didn’t know where he was, but there were no longer sounds of pursuit. He chose to continue downhill. If he didn’t hit the road, chances were good he’d at least hit a creek. That might lead to a lake, which might lead to people.

He limped along as quickly as he could. The puncture wound started to burn and he could feel the blood running down his leg and into his sock. The darkness was almost complete, and all the obstacles he’d been able to see and avoid were disappearing in the gloom. He tripped again, going down hard and cutting his cheek. He lay there inhaling the scent of fungus spores and animal piss and his own fear. He curled his hand over dry leaves, taking their last bit of sunbaked warmth and turning them to dust.

A nearby tree worked as support for him to regain his feet. He wiped blood and tears on his sleeve and pushed off. Then a glimmer of moonlight showed a sliver of flat surface, flat like a God-sent, man-made road. It was off to his left and he veered in that direction, heading past a stretch of blank blackness on the right. His step started to lighten and his lungs loosened with each breath. He quickened his pace.

He never saw them coming.

 

 

Hank Worth spread the paperwork out over his desk. There was a comfortingly large amount of it. It would take him a long time to sort through everything, which meant he’d need to stay here longer. And not go home. He didn’t need to, not really. The kids were fine, on a back-to-school shopping trip with Maggie. They’d probably come home late with new lunchboxes and sneakers, and ice cream on their faces from the bribe their mother had to pay in order to get them into that last store for glue sticks and Ticonderoga pencils.

He’d be home in time to put them to bed. And then he could go work in the garage. And think about what to do about these catalytic converter thefts. He pulled the latest theft report out of the pile. A used-car dealership out on Highway 76 had had seven of the car parts stolen sometime in the past week. Hank looked around the dreary office he’d been stuck with since becoming the Branson County sheriff almost two years ago, then out the window at the beautiful fall day. Maybe the owner was at work today. He grabbed his keys and quickly left the building.

Twenty minutes later he was walking through the not-so-gently-used collection of cars at Combs Car Emporium. A man built like a snowman emerged from the office and watched him approach.

“Yeah, I’m the owner. Wendall Combs.” He was wearing a polo shirt and slacks and had skin and hair so white he would’ve been impossible to spot in a blizzard. He shook Hank’s hand and ushered him inside. “Brian told me you all asked about my security when he filed the report.” He shut the door firmly behind them. “The employees don’t know what I got. Keeps them honest.”

“So what do you have, sir?” Hank asked. He hadn’t been able to pick out any surveillance cameras as he walked across the lot.

“I got a camera in the light pole by the entrance.”

Hank waited. ‘Is that everything?’ he finally said.

“Well, yeah.’ Combs shifted self-consciously.

“How much of the lot does that camera cover?”

“All of it.’ Frosty was indignant.

“Excellent. May I see the video? You can orient me and then I can take a copy of the recording of the past week?”

The footage turned out to be even worse than Hank expected. A high-wattage security light washed out the view of most of the lot. The remainder was pockmarked with impenetrable shadows.

“It’s real high up, now, so it’s hard to see down in between the cars, like,” Frosty said defensively. “I’m watching for thieves moving big-ass cars. Not small-ass parts. How the hell should I be expected to know they’d come for that kind of stuff?”

Hank gave what he hoped was a soothing nod, and made a few recommendations about camera placement and studies that showed visible cameras actually did act as a deterrent and perhaps Mr. Combs could consider it? The owner grumbled a while before saying he would think on it.

“Do you have any idea when the converters were taken?”

“No, son, I don’t know when. We just noticed it. The last time someone drove one of the cars was last Tuesday. So had to have been after that. But just ’cause I can’t sell a 2003 sedan doesn’t mean I want to offer it up for parts, free of charge.”

He had a point. They went outside and Frosty showed him which cars had been targeted. All were parked on the edges of the lot, where access was the easiest and the video’s pockmarks were the blackest.

“So your employees don’t know about the camera?”

“Nope.”

“And they’ve never seen video from it?”

“Nope.”

“Keep it that way. But add some more cameras, like we talked about, Okay?”

He got grudging agreement and an icy handshake before Combs disappeared into his office. Hank thought for a minute and headed down to the next used-car lot, Briscoe’s 76 Cars, where he ruined that manager’s day in sixty seconds flat.

“What? Converters stolen at Wendall’s place?” The manager hadn’t heard and immediately sent his two hapless twenty-something salespeople crawling under every vehicle on their patch of asphalt. They found four missing. They also had no usable surveillance video. While they had three times the number of cameras as Combs did, it turned out they became ineffective when colonized by birds and covered in what birds tended to output at high rates.

The manager was furious and spent ten minutes stomping around before Hank could get another word in. Multiple swear words and a stale cup of coffee later, Hank had repeated his security improvement recommendations and gotten the list of Briscoe cars now missing catalytic converters. He left the manager dialing his boss with a look of dread, and walked back to his squad car, carefully skirting the cameras’ drop zones on the way.

 

Chief Deputy Sheila Turley limped into the Pickin’ Porch Grill, fingers curled lightly around the handle of her cane. She tried swinging it with a jaunty air, but her fifty-two-year-old body wasn’t quite ready for that. She planted it back on the floor and made her way to the table. Her gait was slow but no longer torturous. Compared with her appalling wheelchair-bound immobility for the past several months, this stroll was equivalent to tap dancing into the restaurant and finishing off with a cartwheel.

A tall, trim white man in a suit and tie rose to his feet as she approached. He waited until she settled herself before resuming his seat. Wisely, he did not offer her any assistance. Their many phone conversations seemed to have schooled him on enough of Sheila’s personality to know that would be unwelcome.

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” Malcolm Oberholz said.

“You, too.’ She propped her cane against the wall and eyed the prosecutor. “You really are older than you sound on the phone.”

He laughed. ‘I told you so.”

“I do wish you’d let me meet you halfway. There was no need for you to drive all the way down here from St. Louis.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all. It gives me an opportunity to see the area. Which is important.” He looked around. “If I’m going to try to convince twelve Branson County residents that Eddie Fizzel, Junior, is guilty, I need to not seem like an outsider.”

Then the man needed a cheaper suit. She’d save that advice for later, though. Instead, she asked how they could possibly get an unbiased jury in this county.

“That’s a very good question. I’m going to assert that we can’t, and ask the judge to change the trial venue entirely. Move it to my county, ask the good people of a nice big metro area to decide.”

“Will a judge go for that?”

He shrugged. “It depends on who we get. It will be a while before we know who it’ll be, since it has to be someone who also has no connection to this county.”

Sheila nodded. It would be just semi-complicated if it were only her, Branson County’s African American chief deputy sheriff, involved. But the man who assaulted her – in addition to being an unemployed, entitled little shit – was the son of a county commissioner. Edrick Fizzel, Senior, had been in office since God was young and the devil just fallen. He knew everyone. Half of the electorate loved him, and the other half he had dirt on. Combine that with people’s strong opinions of law enforcement – both pro and con – and this citified white boy had his work cut out for him.

“So that’s going to be one of my first moves,” Oberholz said. “But it’s a motion that’s going to need to be argued in your courthouse, even if it is in front of an out-of-town judge. So I’d like to get my feet under me, so to speak.”

“A good place to start is with a fried chicken sandwich with extra chipotle aioli,” she said. Oberholz ordered two at the counter and had the waitress come back with their drinks. Sheila took hers, shifting slightly to ease the ache in her torso. Thankfully, Oberholz didn’t notice.

“No matter where it’s tried, though, we’re going to have a problem with the ER doctor’s report of your injuries.”

Or maybe he had. She sighed.

“That ER doctor is a friend of yours. They’re going to allege that she’s biased in your favor.”

Sheila snorted with laughter. “The only thing Maggie McCleary is biased toward is an accurate diagnosis.”

Oberholz’s lips turned into a thin line. Sheila looked straight back at him and calmly put her napkin in her lap. “I’m not making light of how hard this is going to be. In Maggie’s case, there are multiple surgeons and specialists who back up her initial opinion about all of my abdominal injuries. And the broken ribs. And the concussion. And my lacerated hands and knees. I know you like those.”

The second time they’d talked, he’d asked specifically for the photos her husband Tyrone had taken the night of the attack that showed her raw and bloody palms and kneecaps. Now he shook a straw at her before plunking it into his iced tea. “Those two things tell a story. The story of a woman who had to crawl four hundred yards through the woods at night in order to save herself. Jurors will see your X-rays and it won’t matter. To laypeople, that’s just a bunch of shadows on a screen. But everybody can relate to scraped and bloody hands. And they only got that way because you knew you were going to die if you stayed there lying in the dirt. So you dragged yourself to the road in order for paramedics to find you. You saved your own life. Your palms might’ve been beat all to hell, but Edrick Fizzel, Junior, is the one with blood on his hands.”

Sheila sat back like she’d been smacked. Oberholz took a sip of tea. “The facts matter. I’m not one of those lawyers who pretends they don’t. But a trial usually comes down to who’s the better storyteller. And ma’am,” his voice suddenly slowed and rounded into a drawl, “ain’t no one can tell a story like me.”

***

Excerpt from Throwing Shadows by Claire Booth. Copyright 2025 by Claire Booth. Reproduced with permission from Claire Booth. All rights reserved.

 

Throwing Shadows Author — Claire Booth

Claire Booth is a former newspaper reporter whose writing career has taken her from Missouri to Washington, D.C., South Florida, the Seattle area, and the Bay Area. She’s reported on many high-profile cases, including the Laci Peterson murder and the San Francisco dog mauling case. The case of a deadly cult leader became the subject of her nonfiction book, The False Prophet: Conspiracy, Extortion and Murder in the Name of God. After spending so much time covering crimes so strange and convoluted they seemed more like fiction than reality, she had enough of the real world and decided to write novels instead. Her acclaimed Sheriff Hank Worth mystery series takes place in Branson, Missouri, where the small-town Ozarks meet big-city country music tourism.

Learn more about Claire by clicking any of the following links:
www.ClaireBooth.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram – @claire.booth10
X – @claire.booth10
Facebook – @claireboothauthor
Severn House

 

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Sins of the Father: A Review

Sins of the Father by James L’Etoile

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Sins of the Father


THE NATHAN PARKER DETECTIVE NOVEL SERIES

Detective Nathan Parker discovers an unidentified man tossed to his death from an airplane is connected to the emergence of a new criminal organization, Red Dawn, when a secretive Joint Terrorism Task Force appears in Phoenix. The leader of the Task Force coerces Parker to support their efforts or his ex-coyote friend, Billie Carson, could face federal charges for supporting a terrorist organization.

With Billie’s freedom in jeopardy, Parker agrees and one-by-one, people associated with the Task Force are picked off. When a target close to Parker is attacked, and the Task Force leader vanishes, Parker seeks help from an unusual ally to expose Red Dawn’s mastermind. Familiar foes, lies, secrets, and a father’s sin converge in a deadly standoff.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller; Police Procedural
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: July 15, 2025
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 978-1-68512-992-7
Series: The Detective Nathan Parker Novels, Book 4

To purchase your copy of Sins of the Father, click either link: Amazon | Goodreads
 Don’t miss the rest of the series!

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Amazon | BookBub | Goodreads
 

Amazon | BookBub | Goodreads




My Thoughts

“Death to a ten-year-old is a pause in a video game. It’s temporary. A momentary setback until you’re back into the game again. At their age, the boys of Boy Scout Troop 116 thought they were immortal. Or they did until they got their first glimpse of human remains.”

Get ready to sink your teeth into another great story by James L’Etoile as the fourth Nathan Parker novel starts off with the discovery of a body making a fine meal for a flock of turkey vultures.

Nathan Parker might finally have his personal life in order. He’s in a serious relationship and works to create a solid home for his beloved foster son. But as with all good police procedurals, the detective is soon embroiled in a complex case that threatens the welfare of the people he cares about most.

Red Dawn is a new player on the drug market, pushing out cartels and showing no fear of law enforcement, to make a place for themselves on the international scene. With the perfect balance of methodical police investigation and action scenes to get a reader’s heart racing, L’Etoile drags the readers through the desert in hot pursuit of the violent criminal element that has seeped into Nathan Parker’s territory.

L’Etoile’s background in the criminal justice system assures the reader of his attention to police procedures, but it’s his heart—which he shares with his characters—that brings his books to life. The characters are multi-layered and their relationships add to the story almost as much as the twisty plot points.

Characters introduced in earlier books do make appearances in Sins of the Father, but this one can be read as a standalone. Readers of the first three will be happy to know that Billie returns, adding her delightfully quirky persona to the mix. There’s also history between Nathan Parker and the vicious leader of a gang who he put behind bars, but L’Etoile skillfully provides enough exposition to keep previous readers engaged and new readers with enough information to follow the story.

Having said that, once you read #4, if you haven’t already, you’ll be itching to read the first three, so you might as well just get all four at once and binge read the entire series.

Each book is a stellar novel, but like a fine wine, L’Etoile’s writing gets even better with age. Can’t wait to see what he gives us next.

A gripping police procedural that combines dynamic characters with a finely woven plot, filled out with descriptions of place that will fully immerse readers in Nathan Parker’s world.

Read an excerpt of Sins of the Father:

Chapter One

Death to a ten-year-old is a pause in a video game. It’s temporary. A momentary setback until you’re back into the game again. At their age, the boys of Boy Scout Troop 116 thought they were immortal. Or they did until they got their first glimpse of human remains.

Ken Dryden stood on the brakes, sending the fifteen-passenger van into a skid on the hard-packed desert road. A flock of eight turkey vultures pecked and tore hunks of flesh from their prey. The enormous birds didn’t budge at the approach of the speeding white passenger van. Only one bothered to look up with a flap of meat hanging from its curved beak.

The birds ignored a loud burst from the van’s horn. Dryden unbuckled and turned to the eight boys in the back. “Stay here.”

Dryden and the assistant scoutmaster, Bill Cope stepped from the van and approached the circle of birds.

“Must’ve found themselves a coyote or something,” Cope said. “Why you insist we take this road? It’s in the middle of—”

“This can’t be…” Dryden trailed off and crept toward the flock of scavengers.

“Whatever they found, they sure don’t want to give it up,” Dryden said as he waved his arms trying to chase the birds off the road.”

“Don’t blame them. Pickings are probably a bit thin out here.”

From behind, a high-pitched voice called out. “Oh, cool. What did they kill?”

Dryden turned and three ten-year-old boys stood a few feet away gawking at the feeding frenzy on the hardscrabble dirt road.

“I told you guys to wait in the van.”

“What did they find?” The tallest boy asked.

“Probably a coyote or something run over on the road, Chase.”

“There’s no tracks in the dirt but ours,” Chase said.

The birds fought and squawked at one another, tearing bits of flesh out from the beaks of weaker birds in the flock. Wings flared and cupped over the remains, claiming them.

“Mr. Dryden? What’s that?” Chase asked.

“What?”

“That,” the boy said with a trembling finger, pointing toward the largest vulture with a torn hunk of flesh hanging from its red beak.

Dryden followed the boy’s line of sight and under the bird’s talons were the remains. He felt sick when he saw it. A brown work boot. Coyotes didn’t wear boots.

“Oh my God.”

“Is it a dead person? Chase said.

“Back to the van boys,” Cope said.

“But—”

“Now!” Dryden barked the order, and the three scouts scurried back to the van.

“Why did you take us on this back road to begin with? What do we do now?” Cope asked Dryden. The two adult supervisors of this scout troop stood at the desert crossroads.

Cope pulled out his cell phone. “No signal out here. We need to call 911.”

Dryden looked back to the van and all eight boys pressed up against the windows gawking at the human remains as the carrion birds devoured their treasure.

“We gotta get them outta here,” Dryden said.

He charged the birds, and most of them backed away. Dryden got a good look at what lay in the desert crossroads—a man, twisted, mangled, and broken. Huge swaths of flesh torn away by the feeding birds. Dryden’s shoulders drooped at the sight—a dead man left in the crossroads.

“I’ll try and keep them away. Drive the boys back out to Quartzite. Call 911. I’ll wait.”

“You wanna stay out here? In this heat?” Cope said.

“It’s early, the heat won’t top out for a couple of hours. I’ll take my pack and all the water we can spare. I’ll be fine. There’s a little shade over there under that Palo Verde.”

Tall, dry creosote brush and a few taller gangly green Palo Verde trees and Saguaro cactus lined the crossroads

“You sure? It’s not like you can help that guy?”

“Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve to get eaten by these feathered desert rats either. How would you feel if it was someone you knew?”

Dryden retrieved his day pack and two canteens from the van.

“Guys, Mr. Cope is going to take you out. He’ll stop in Quartzite for a pee break.”

“I’ll stay with you, Mr. Dryden,” Chase said.

“Everyone’s going with Mr. Cope.”

A sigh of disappointment filled the back of the van. Dryden knew Chase’s mother was going to meltdown over her precious offspring’s exposure to the dark fringes of life. He figured the Scottsdale socialite would spirit her son away to a resort in Sedona for a crystal bath and chakra realignment.

Dryden hefted his pack and slung the canteens over his shoulder while the van cut a three-point turn and returned in the direction they came.

Once the dust and engine noise died down, all that remained was the breeze cutting through the dried brush and the cackling of the vultures fighting over their prize.

Setting his pack down, Dryden broke off a creosote branch and swung it in front of him forcing the birds away from the remains. Reluctantly, the birds gave up and hopped to the other side of the crossroads.

Dryden closed in on the dead man and grimaced at the mess the vultures made. Unrecognizable. Legs twisted and folded under the body, with a boot sticking out at an impossible angle. No way Chase would earn his first aid merit badge here.

The arms were flayed out over his broken head.

“Oh God.”

Dryden noted the wrists bound with zip ties. This wasn’t a lost hiker. This was a murder victim.

He snatched his cell phone and tried calling Cope to warn him, but the screen reminded him there was no cell signal out here. He shot a series of photos of the dead man, figuring the police would want to see what they found before the vultures could finish it off.

Dryden backed off into the shade and moved out when the vultures grew brave enough to advance. Back and forth for an hour until Dryden spotted a dust trail.

It was too soon for Cope to have summoned help. Quartzite was more than an hour away and the authorities would need time to respond after Cope called them. And this dust plume was coming from the other direction and building fast.

A dead man. Murdered. Alone in the desert. Only a twinge of relief. It wasn’t someone he knew. He knew what that kind of loss felt like and felt guilty about feeling thankful. The dust plume was coming in fast and there was the faint whine of an ATV engine—high pitched and loud.

Dryden snatched his pack and blended into the brush along a game trail, hoping he didn’t encounter an unfriendly javelina. Fifty feet from the road, he hunched down as a green ATV tore into the crossroads and skidded to a stop a few feet away from the body.

Two men stepped from the six-wheel ATV, and one used a bulky satellite phone. After a quick call, the two men donned gloves and picked up the remains, tossing them into the rear cargo compartment of the ATV. They weren’t gentle about it—they were hurried. They needed several trips to gather the bits and pieces.

Once they finished loading the dead man, they sped off in the direction they came from.

Dryden waited until the dust plume died down before he stepped out from his hiding place. He approached the spot in the center of the crossroads where the body had been. There was little to prove a life ended there. The red dirt was marked by a dark circle—what Dryden believed was blood. A single human finger was left behind by the men on the ATV.

A second trail of dust appeared on the horizon in the direction Cope and the boys used on their way out.

Dryden sank back into the brush again until the Black and Yellow Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office SUV pulled to a stop near the intersection.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the finger. Had they left the finger by mistake, or was it a message?

 

Chapter Two

Sergeant Nathan Parker, the detective leading the Maricopa County Major Crimes unit, pulled his county-issued SUV to a stop at the dirt crossroads.

“You sure this is the spot?”

Cope, the assistant scoutmaster, had ridden along with him to make sure Parker found the exact location. One of the parents met Cope in Quartzite and drove the van of excited boys back to Scottsdale while Cope waited for someone from the sheriff’s office.

“I’m certain. I mean, I think I am. The dead man was right in the center of the intersection.” He pointed ahead. “There. See the dark spot in the dirt?”

Parker opened his door and stepped from the SUV.

“Didn’t you say your friend was supposed to be here watching over the remains? They didn’t both walk off, did they?”

Parker thought he’d been brought out on a desert snipe hunt of sorts if it weren’t for Cope’s dead serious demeanor. The man definitely believed he saw a body out here in the remote section of the desert south of the Hummingbird Wilderness Area.

Walking toward the spot Cope pointed out, Parker figured the man panicked when he came across the scavenged remains of a road kill animal. It wasn’t unusual for deer, coyotes, or javelina to wander down from the wilderness.

Cope got out of the SUV when Parker reached the spot. It was blood-soaked. But there wasn’t anything to point to a human origin. What was odd was a set of narrow tracks, tracks with deep aggressive off-road tread, circling near the blood spill. Two sets of footprints ran from the tire tracks to the dark dirt patch.

“Where’d it go?” Cope asked a few paces behind Parker.

A rustle and snap in the brush to their left caught their attention. It sounded too large for the small game which thrived in the creosote brush. Seconds later, a man emerged from behind a tangle of Palo Verde branches.

“Ken! You all right?” Cope called out to his friend.

Dryden was red-faced and breathing fast when he stepped onto the road surface.

“Deputy. Two men. Took him,” Dryden said in between ragged breaths.

“Ken? Where’s your pack? Your water?” Cope asked.

Dryden shot a finger to the brush where he’d emerged. “Dropped them.”

Parker noted the man wasn’t sweating in the hundred-degree heat and showed signs of heat stroke.

“Let’s load him in the SUV. Get him some water and let him cool off.”

Cope helped his weak friend back to the passenger side of the SUV while Parker looked at the dried, darkened dirt patch for a moment. Something bled out here, but there wasn’t anything to tell the story of what might have been.

Parker joined the two men at the SUV. Cope had gotten his friend into the passenger seat and found the case of bottled water Parker kept in the backseat. Heat related sickness was a deadly threat in the desert. Last year, six-hundred-forty-five people died in Maricopa County from heat stroke and exposure.

Cope handed Parker a cell phone. “It’s Ken’s. He captured these.”

The small phone screen displayed a disturbing image of a man, freshly disfigured and broken.

“You saw this?”

Cope shook his head. “Yeah and so did the kids. What happened to him? I mean. He’s—did the vultures do the damage?”

Parker slid his thumb to the next photo. The one showing the man’s hands bound.

“Definitely not.” Parker couldn’t explain the severity of the crushing and bone breaking trauma. It was the worst he’d seen in nearly fifteen years on the job. He’d discovered migrants left in shipping containers, Cartel assassinations, beheadings, and vehicular homicides. Nothing came close to the injuries in the photos.

“These remains were here when you left your partner behind?” Parker asked.

“They were right there, I swear. Ken wanted to stay behind and—how do you say it? Preserve the evidence. Those damn vultures were picking him apart. It didn’t seem right, you know?”

“Think he can tell us what happened to them?”

Cope looked back to the passenger seat. Dryden had his head back sipping on a bottle of water. The man was thin to begin with, an L.L. Bean shirt and day-old beard growth didn’t make him an outdoorsman.

“I don’t think he did anything with them, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Cope said.

“No. I don’t think he did. They disappeared somewhere and your friend was in the best place to see what happened.”

Parker stepped around Cope and opened the driver’s door. A waft of cool air-conditioned breeze hit him in the face. He gestured for Cope to hop in the back seat and out of the heat.

“How you feeling, Mr. Dryden?”

“Better. Thanks.” He held up the water bottle.”

“Mr. Cope here tells me when he left you behind, there was a full set of remains out there on the road. What happened to them?”

“Two men. They rode in on one of those six-wheel ATV’s from that direction.” He pointed to the road heading to the east. “They took him—the body—they grabbed up the pieces and tossed them in the back of the ATV. Then they ran back to wherever they came from.”

“They took him?”

“And they didn’t have an easy time of it. They needed a bunch of trips to get…”

“You get a look at the two guys?”

“Oh, I found this after they left.” Dryden pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and handed it to Parker.

As Parker unwrapped it, Dryden said, “I couldn’t risk the vultures flying off with it.”

Parker had a bad feeling about unwrapping the package. The last fold stuck to the torn skin and tissue clinging to a human finger. He wrapped it back up carefully. He pulled a small paper evidence bag from the center console and dropped the body part in the brown paper container.

“Who could do that to a human being? Animals. Why’d they leave that behind?” Dryden said.

“Couldn’t say. Maybe they were in a hurry,’ Parker said.

“They were moving pretty fast when they left.”

Dryden’s eyes held back something. Parker figured it was shock from the discovery, or heat stroke. The guy was going to need years of therapy to get past this moment.

“I’m going to need these photos. I’ve called in our people to go over the scene. They can give you guys a ride back to civilization.”

As Parker pulled his cell phone out, Cope said, “No signal out here.”

Parker glanced at his screen and confirmed as much. Reluctantly, he reached for the SUV’s radio. Transmitting a request for crime scene technical support would alert the media hounds who monitored the channel. At least he wouldn’t be asking for a coroner to respond, which would inevitably attract news crews like bees to honey.

He made the radio call and snapped a series of photographs of the scene with his cell phone. The warm breeze coming from the south marked the potential for monsoon weather. Any evidence out here would be washed away. The deep ruts worn in the soil crossing the roadway testified flash flooding was a possibility in the remote desert drainage.

Parker caught photos of the quickly drying bloodstained soil at the center of the crossroads. The size of the stain had shrunk by half since he’d arrived at the location. The desert had a way of reclaiming any sign of life. It was the way of nature. It was the way of life in the harsh environment where man was simply another source of sustenance.

The ATV tracks leading east were disappearing in the wind-blown topsoil. The fine dust returning to its natural state. A section of tracks, sheltered by a wall of thick creosote brush, maintained the deep V pattern left by the off-road tread. Hundreds of weekend hobby riders ran their motorcycles and ATVs out in the desert on the weekends, and Parker hoped the photo would show some anomaly on the tread pattern to single out a particular vehicle. He knew it was a long shot, but he needed to cover the bases.

Finished taking photos of the area, Parker noticed a plume of smoke to the east, a dark and boiling column of smoke. He couldn’t shake the connection of the missing body and the sudden appearance of the smoke rising in the east.

Parker trotted back to the SUV, made a quick radio call reporting the smoke and possible woodland fire near the wilderness border. He tossed a traffic cone out on the desert track near the blood-soaked dirt. Maybe the crime scene analysts could find something to hint at why the body was dumped there—and why it vanished.

“How you doing, Mr. Dryden?”

“Better, thanks.”

“I want to go check this out up ahead—don’t think it’s far, maybe a couple of miles. You up for it?”

“I guess.”

“I want to get you checked out by medical, they’re on their way and they’ll meet us up the road.”

“What about the guys who moved that body? Won’t they be up there, too?”

“If they were in as much of a hurry as you said they were, probably not.”

Parker pulled the SUV into drive and swung hard around the bloodstained soil—not so much for destroying any evidence left behind, but out of reverence. A life might have ended there on the patch of dust.

Parker shot up the heavy rutted road to the east, bouncing along the trail as the dark smoke plume beckoned in the distance.

Two miles from the crossroad, Parker turned a slight corner to the right and found a small shack in flames. It was likely an abandoned decades old silver mining camp. No sign of an ATV or the two men who Dryden watched. But Parker had a bad feeling about what lay inside the burning shack.

“Stay put,” Parker said, as he pulled the SUV to a stop at a distance from the burning shack.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the rear of the SUV and trotted toward the structure. Most of the flames were coming from the inside of the wooden structure. They had burned up and through what remained of the wooden roof.

He shot a burst of white powder from the extinguisher at the doorframe, and the tendrils diminished for a moment. Enough for him to spot human remains on the floor in the center of the blaze.

***

Excerpt from Sins of the Father by James L’Etoile. Copyright 2025 by James L’Etoile. Reproduced with permission from James L’Etoile. All rights reserved.

 

Sins of the Father Author James L’Etoilse:

James L’Etoile uses his twenty-nine years behind bars as an influence in his award-winning novels, short stories, and screenplays.

He is a former associate warden in a maximum-security prison, a hostage negotiator, and director of California’s state parole system.

His novels have been shortlisted or awarded the Lefty, Anthony, Silver Falchion, and the Public Safety Writers Award. River of Lies, Served Cold, and Sins of the Father are his most recent novels. Look for Illusion of Truth coming soon.

To find out more about Jim, click on any of the following links:

www.jamesletoile.com
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Amazon Author Profile
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SINS OF THE FATHER by James L’Etoile

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The Organ Broker: a Psychological Suspense Audio Book Release

The Organ Broker by Deven Greene

Book & Author Info + An Excerpt!
 
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The Organ Broker

A devoted wife and mother faces the unimaginable as her life crumbles.

Crystal Rigler seems to have a perfect marriage. Derek, her handsome and charismatic husband, and their adult daughter, Cordelia, are her whole world. In addition to her already busy life, Crystal supports the volunteer organization she and Derek started: STOP (Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners).

STOP aims to end a new government policy of harvesting organs from executed prisoners. They learn that these organs are not distributed by the national transplant list, established to allocate organs fairly. Instead, a shadowy figure known as Broker Al pulls the strings. He expedites the execution of young and healthy prisoners and sells their organs at a high price to the rich and well-connected.

After Crystal learns a disturbing secret, events are set in motion that will potentially dismantle STOP, change her life, and cost her everything. Unless she is willing to do the unthinkable…

 

Praise for The Organ Broker:

“The Organ Broker by Deven Greene was intricate and captivated my attention from the first page. The story was fast-paced with not a single dull moment.”
~ Readers’ Favorite

“If you enjoy moral dilemmas, complex characters, and a plot that feels uncomfortably plausible, this book will leave you thinking long after the ending.”
~ Literary Titan

“…electrifyingly intense… Introspective and entertaining, The Organ Broker navigates the delicate balance between principles and priorities.”
~ Indies Today

“The Organ Broker … teeters between thriller, novel, a story of medical and social challenge, and more. It stands out from others about organ harvesting simply because it evolves a complex plot that engages characters and readers in a moral and ethical dance spiced with intrigue and the unexpected.”
~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

 

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: April 2025
Number of Pages: 321
ISBN: 9781964620060 (ISBN10: 1964620066)

To purchase your copy of The Organ Broker: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Google Books | Apple Books | Kobo | Goodreads

See the trailer for The Organ Broker here. 

Read an excerpt of The Organ Broker:

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van’s side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney’s wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

Deven Greene — Author of The Organ Broker

Deven Greene lives in Northern California, where she enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry (PhD) and medicine (MD), and practiced pathology for over twenty years.

She has previously published the The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy (Unnatural, Unwitting, and Unforeseen), and Ties That Kill, as well as several short stories.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

www.DevenGreene.com
Subscribe to Deven’s Blog
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub @Deven_G1
Facebook @DevenGreeneFiction

THE ORGAN BROKER by Deven Greene

 
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The Tutor: Debut Psychological Thriller

The Tutor by Courtney Psak

Author Interview + Book & Author InfoDon’t miss any ITW Debut Author interviews! Click the link here.The Tutor

Letting her into your home was your first mistake…

Rose is a dedicated wife and mother to her husband Grant and her son James. Having recently moved to a grand mansion in Florida, Rose is keen for James to fit in with his new life and hires a tutor.

Isabel is young, smart and beautiful, and not only gets along with James, but she gets results.

But when Isabel starts to get too close for comfort, Rose can’t help but think that Isabel is looking for more than just tutoring.

Can Rose uncover who exactly she has let into her house, or will this lesson be deadly?

“Twisting, propulsive, and unsettling, The Tutor is a haunting reminder that sometimes the greatest dangers come from the ones we call family. Courtney Psak has crafted a dark, crafty tale of deception and redemption you won’t soon forget.”  
— Carter Wilson, USA Today and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of Tell Me What You Did

To purchase your copy of The Tutor, click the link here.The Tutor Author Courtney Psak InterviewThe Tutor centers around Rose, her son James, and the tutor she brings into her home, Isabel. What drew you to writing about a family in danger?

It’s not so much a family in danger, I was more focused on the relationship dynamics. When I was a communications major in college, I had to take an interpersonal communications class. It taught us the building and breakdown of relationships, whether it be friendship, romantic or even professional. Then when I became a project manager at a network, our boss had us take a course at NYU which was seven habits for highly effective managers. It taught us a great deal about how to work with different types of personalities in order to get the job done. In this case we were working with everyone from business heads to artists.

In The Tutor there are lot of relationship dynamics. You have Rose who is newly married to Grant and comes from no money. Then there’s Grant’s mother who they are forced to move in with because of her health, who makes it clear she hates Rose. Now Rose is very insecure in this environment which adds to the tension. But you realize that Grant’s mother Evelyn is not all that different from her, but she has her reasons for acting the way she is. Then you add Isabel, the tutor, who just lost her only living relative and with nothing to lose, decides to follow this family from New York to Palm Beach just to get to the truth, no matter what it does to everyone. 

I’m drawn to writing about these relationships because it allows you to get inside the character’s head, revealing just enough that the reader is going to want more and just when they think they’re going to find out, we switch to another character with another secret. It’s the type of reading I enjoy, and I try to write what I like to read.

 

The Tutor is set in Palm Beach, Florida. What makes that a great place to set a psychological thriller?

Everyone seems to love wealth porn. Shows like Succession did well because people wanted to see the drama behind the closed doors of the highly privileged. In most cases, people watch because they want to see them fail, but what I try to highlight is that it doesn’t matter where you come from, money will not spare you from most basic human emotions whether that’s grief, psychological trauma, and so on.

 

Tell us about your road to publishing The Tutor:

It wasn’t as straight forward as one might think. I had written another book that got me my agent and while she was shopping it around, I wrote The Tutor. My first book, while it did eventually find a home and will come out this June, it didn’t get any bites the first go around. As I thought more about it, I actually didn’t like The Tutor. I thought it was a good start, but nowhere near ready. It needed an entire re-write. So, my agent and I agreed that maybe we wouldn’t submit that one and I went ahead and wrote another book. That one is coming out this January. But while I had been waiting on notes from my agent, she came back to me and said that editors really liked the idea of The Tutor. Despite liking the idea of it, I worried it wasn’t strong enough. 

I compare it to when you study for a test. When it’s just for you, you’ll study but it may not be your best. But, if the teacher told you that they’d post your answers up in the classroom for all to see, well then you find yourself working a lot harder. So that is what I basically did. I told my agent to give me a month, as I didn’t want to wait too long to get back to the editors who were interested, and I rewrote the entire thing. Each time I thought it was getting predictable, I thought of how I could twist it a different way. 

The editor that picked it up, loved it so much she wanted everything I had written, which was how I got a three-book deal.

 

The Tutor ends with a major twist. Without giving anything away, did you know the twist when you first started writing the novel? Or did that come as a surprise to you too?

So normally I would, because I’m a major outliner. With my second book, the twist was actually the main idea, and I had to build the story around it. But in this case, because I went back and rewrote it, I actually didn’t know at first. I just remember getting all the way to the end and thinking well that’s anti-climactic, how do I make this better? Then it came to me, and I was very excited because it really pulled the whole story together nicely.

 

You started out your writing life in magazines and journalism. How did your previous experience help you write your first crime novel? 

I was a journalism major in college and got a masters in publishing, but to be honest it was more about how much I was reading. I was tearing through books, deconstructing the plots and analyzing characters. That’s what really taught me the most. I loved writing for magazines, and it likely helped me find my writing style, but what really helped more than anything was reading, taking writing classes and attending writers’ conferences.

 

What are you working on now?

I’m working on my sixth book. I wrote two more books this year, while editing two of my books for Hodder and Stoughton. The summer gets really crazy with my two kids home and I’ve been traveling a lot between Thrillerfest in New York and Harrogate in the UK. I’ve also been writing guest articles and doing interviews. After I get back from Bouchercon in September, I’m going to work on expanding on the idea I have and outlining.

 

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

Always write the best book you can. Write something you’d want to read. Despite the fact that I’ve read The Tutor well over ten times now, I still find myself getting sucked in every time and that’s what you want your readers to be doing. If you are bored with it, so will your readers.

The Tutor Author Courtney Psak

Courtney Psak is a mystery thriller writer whose novel The Tutor will release August 7th, 2025, with Hodder and Stoughton, with whom she’s signed a three-book deal. The follow-up thrillers are expected for release in 2026. 

Courtney graduated with a degree in Communications and Journalism from Monmouth University, followed with a master’s degree in Publishing from Pace University.

She started her career writing for magazines such as Cosmopolitan, Self and Modern Bride. In 2015 she wrote her first novel, Thirty Days to Thirty, and sold thousands of copies while working as a project manager for Viacom in New York.

Courtney currently lives in Palm Beach, Florida with her husband and two sons. She is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, the National Writers Association and the Mystery Writers of America.

To learn more about Courtney, click any of the following links: Instagram, Facebook, Bluesky, Twitter & WebsiteElena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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Silent Killer: New Crime Fiction

 Silent Killer by Tracy Burnett & Ross Weiland

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Book & Authors Info + A Giveaway!
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Silent Killer

Gordon Stone is an investigator assigned to the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force. He’s given an insignificant case—a charity scam out of Africa—and ordered to close it. For Gordon, it’s not that simple. Gordon has high-functioning autism. He’s socially awkward, but blessed with a superpower—extraordinary focus and attention to detail. That superpower allows Gordon to piece together a disparate puzzle: a Hunter-Killer drone; an illicit drug shipment; a Special Forces operation gone wrong; and illegal immigration linked to 9/11. When these pieces align, national security is at risk and hundreds of lives hang in the balance.

Praise for Silent Killer:

“A brilliant, awkward, relentless, and unconventional hero who will not take ‘no’ for an answer, saves the day. Get me Special Agent Gordon Stone for every difficult case and watch this man work.”
~ Chuck Rosenberg, Former U.S. Attorney, Eastern District of Virginia

“This is a fascinating story about real people, complex issues, and a world of many complicated challenges. It’s an interesting read that keeps you focused and anticipating the next page. I liked it and recommend it.”
~ Chuck Hagel, Former Secretary of Defense and U.S. Senator

“A truly innovative thriller with a refreshingly unique protagonist who will quickly have you rooting for him. A fast-paced tale told with imagination, fused with a realism that only insiders from the investigative world can bring. It will keep you guessing from page to page. Highly recommended.”
~ Kimberly Prost, Former Ombudsperson for the U.N. Security Council Al Qaeda Sanctions Committee

Book Details:
Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Down and Out Books
Publication Date: August 11, 2025
Number of Pages: 355
ISBN: 978-1-64396-413-3 PBK


To purchase Silent Killer, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Down & Out Books

Read an excerpt of Silent Killer:

CHAPTER 1

What would be a landmark day for any other federal agent was an exercise in misery for Special Agent Gordon Stone. He sat, restless and uncomfortable, in the crowded auditorium inside the Albert V. Bryan US Courthouse in Alexandria, Virginia. Wesley Jay, the US Attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia (EDVA), was on stage addressing the capacity crowd. Jay extolled the virtues of his office and its extraordinary success in managing the Eastern District’s “rocket docket.” The court’s namesake had coined the term in the seventies, District Court Judge Bryan himself. What it meant for Jay and his stable of Assistant US Attorneys (AUSAs) was that they were forced to be one of the most efficient offices in the country when it came to prosecuting cases. They gathered annually to recognize the most successful investigations and prosecutions of the preceding year. Lawyers, law enforcement, and family members filled the auditorium. For an office that had prosecuted some of the most notorious spy and terrorist cases in the country—not to mention the occasional political scandal—the yearly awards ceremony always attracted a full house.

“Copied by many, mirrored by none,” said Jay. “We bring justice to the American people more quickly and effectively than anywhere else in the country. I take great pride in that fact and hope you do as well.”

Gordon tried to listen, but his discomfort just being there compelled him to tune out Jay’s speech. It wasn’t that he did not want to be there. On the contrary, his greatest desire was to be able to sit in the audience, listen to Jay, and enjoy a career highlight. Gordon was being recognized for his work as lead agent on an application fraud case with the Food and Drug Administration Office of Criminal Investigations (FDA-OCI).

But Gordon did not fit in. He liked people, but he had trouble relating to them and was painfully aware of his social awkwardness. Way back in elementary school, he had been diagnosed with high-functioning autism, at the time referred to as Asperger Syndrome, or colloquially as Asperger’s.

Gordon appeared just like everyone else, but when it came to basic human interaction, it took a great deal of effort for him to engage with most people. It was always hard and frequently exhausting. Small talk, humor, and sarcasm often flew past him. Therapy had brought him a long way, but still, those who did not know him thought he was aloof. Some actually found his behavior offensive.

“Damn Asperger’s,” he said to himself.

The true irony, he knew, was however damning Asperger’s was to his social status, it was also his superpower, allowing him to focus on a particular topic—or investigation—to the point where he could see things no one else could see. He could anticipate what others viewed as unexpected. That focus bred unparalleled intuition, which was what made him a great investigator.

That was why he was here in this crowded hall, surrounded by people he did not know. He was a great investigator. But he was most definitely not a great socializer, and he was uncomfortable. As much as he wished he could enjoy the ceremony and embrace the praise of his peers, his Asperger’s would not allow it. In fact, a big group setting surrounded by strangers? That was pretty much the nightmare scenario.

Gordon’s brain was wired differently. At least that’s how Katherine, his longtime therapist, described it. He thought differently, acted differently, saw the world differently than most. She emphasized repeatedly to him he was not broken, just different, and Gordon knew it was okay to be different. Most of the time, that was enough. But even now, as a successful thirty-two-year-old federal agent, he could still feel broken. He hoped today would not be one of those days.

“The work we do—check that—the work you do for this country is, simply put, extraordinary,” Jay continued. “We put more cases before a judge than anyone else, and that means when it comes time to recognize our best work in a given year, the competition is tight. I salute those of you sitting in this room. Your work, your intellect, your dogged pursuit of justice places you at the top of what we do here. You are the best of the best. Thank you for all you do for our organization, our district, and our country.” Jay smiled to his audience. “Now then, let’s hand out some hardware.”

***

Excerpt from Silent Killer by Ross Weiland & Tracy Burnett. Copyright 2025 by Ross Weiland & Tracy Burnett. Reproduced with permission from Ross Weiland & Tracy Burnett. All rights reserved.

 

Silent Killer Authors

Tracy Burnett:

Tracy Burnett began his law enforcement career as a Deputy Sheriff at the Palm Beach County, Florida Sheriff’s Department. His next stop was with the Drug Enforcement Administration where he became a special agent and went through training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia as well as DEA US Army Ranger Training. That began a 25-year federal law enforcement career leading investigations on behalf of the US Departments of Justice, State, and Defense, among others, working both domestically and around the globe. Tracy now works as an Adjunct Professor for the School of Public Affairs in the Key Executive Leadership Program at American University in Washington, DC.

 

Ross Weiland:

Ross Weiland was a journalist in New York City before attending law school and joining the US Navy’s Judge Advocate General’s Corps in 1998. He served as a prosecutor, criminal appeals attorney, and civil litigator in the Navy before transitioning to federal civil service where he spent 21 years in the Office of Inspector General community as counsel, investigator, and senior executive at the National Archives, Department of Defense, and NASA. Ross now works as an administrative executive supporting oversight and law enforcement in the private sector in Washington, DC.

 

Follow Gordon Stone:

gordonstonerules.com
Instagram – @gordonstonerules
Facebook – @Silent Killer

 

Tour Participants:

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SILENT KILLER by Tracy Burnett & Ross Weiland

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The post Silent Killer: New Crime Fiction appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.