Elena Hartwell's Blog, page 3

Salvagia: A Sci-Fi Mystery

Salvagia by Tim Chawaga

Spotlight + Book & Author InfoDon’t miss any new books! Click the link here.Salvagia

Tim Chawaga’s sci-fi mystery debut, in which a diver searching for nostalgic salvage discovers the body of the most infamous man in flooded Florida and must avoid suspicion from both feds and corporate mafias. Reminiscent of Kim Stanley Robinson’s New York 2140 and inspired by John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee series.

Triss Mackey is flying just under the radar, exploiting a government loophole that lets her live quietly aboard the Floating Ghost—her rented, sentient CabanaBoat. In exchange, she dives for recycling, recovered from the flooded area of formerly-coastal cities known as the yoreshore. If she happens to find some salvagia—nostalgic salvage, valued artifacts from the past—well, that’s just between her and the highest bidder.

But when the federal government begins withdrawing from Florida entirely, Triss must buy the Ghost outright or lose her loophole. Meanwhile, the corporate mafias are poised to seize power, especially Mourning in Miami, led by the legendary Edgar Ortiz, owner of the Astro America luxury hotel. Triss needs a score big enough to keep her free from both the feds and corporations, before the Ghost is sent to a watery, insurance-scamming grave.

In pursuit of such a score, she stumbles upon the chained up, drowned corpse of Ortiz, and winds up with more than she bargained for, including a partnership with Ortiz’s hotshot spaceracing son, Riley. If she can help Riley solve the mystery of his father’s death, it may lead them to a valuable piece of salvagia and with it, the hope of a sustainable, free way of Florida living.

“Salvagia delivers nostalgic mystery, adventure, and climate punk all in one package. This is a miss-your-subway-stop, keep-listening-in-your-driveway, hide-it-in-a-textbook, read-it-during-a-Zoom-call level of superb.” —Mur Lafferty, author of the Midsolar Murders seriesTo purchase your copy of Salvagia, click the following link: Simon and Schuster.Author of Salvagia Tim Chawaga

Tim Chawaga writes plays and speculative fiction.

His short fiction has been featured in “Interzone” and “Escape Pod” and his work has been performed in New York and Philadelphia at many venues that have either closed or been converted into gyms.

He has a BFA in Drama from the Tisch School of the Arts, is a 2019 graduate of Clarion West and the recipient of George R.R. Martin’s Worldbuilder Scholarship, and currently works in tech. He lives in a co-op in Brooklyn with his partner and dog

Follow Tim on his author journey at: Website and Instagram.Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Salvagia: A Sci-Fi Mystery appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

What Lies We Keep: New Suspense

What Lies We Keep by Janet Roberts

 

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


What Lies We Keep

Cyber security expert, Ted McCord, has been fired. He risked everything in a game far beyond his control.

Charlotte McCord never understood her husband’s addiction to the trappings of corporate life – the titles, the money, the promise of visible success he sees as opposite his Montana upbringing. Ted uncovered an embezzlement scheme, did something unthinkable to gain a promotion, and hid his actions from his wife. Then the guilty co-conspirators turned the tables on him. Charlotte leaves, taking their daughter. As Ted works to clear his name, Charlotte leans on her friends. But one friend’s secret shocks Charlotte, upending everything she believes about Ted. Unsure who to trust, she jettisons from hurt and anger to the tempting promise of solace in the arms of a handsome River Rescue officer.

Stretching from Pittsburgh’s urban skyline to the beautiful ranch country of Montana, What Lies We Keep is a moving story of corporate ambition that shakes the very foundations of a marriage and asks: What happens when we embrace the life we think we should have rather than the life we have?

Praise for What Lies We Keep:

“What Lies We Keep will captivate fans of writers like Jennifer Weiner, that best-selling expert at writing about family secrets and the ties that bind, but it’s Janet Roberts’ brilliant and fresh prose, and her big-hearted, messy, real characters that set this work apart. There is no easy ending here, and I’m so grateful for that.”
~ Lori Jakiela, author of They Write Your Name on a Grain of Rice

“A moving narrative that shines a spotlight on life’s choices. This one will leave you wondering if the grass is really green on the other side.”
~ Jen Craven, author of The Baby Left Behind

“In her compelling novel about the devastating impact of lies and the search for a fulfilling life, Janet Roberts balances a thrilling plot of corporate greed and corruption with credible, richly-drawn characters. Through sharp dialogue, cinematic descriptions, and even a covert FBI operation, this novel explores the relationship between a husband and wife in the aftermath of one well-intentioned but misguided decision. What Lies We Keep raises powerful questions: Are lies justified if they are made to protect the ones we love? Can success be defined by more than social status and salary? I devoured this creative, twisty story with its flawed but sympathetic characters.”
~ Jill Caugherty, author of The View From Half Dome and Waltz in Swing Time

“Janet Roberts’ What Lies We Keep examines what happens when we keep things from those we love and how that can lead to a tangled knot that can be difficult to unravel. Instead of protecting his loved ones, Ted’s lies lead to hurt and heartbreak—and possible criminal charges. Charlotte and Ted must work through both his mistakes and the fractures in their marriage. A wonderful book with in-depth and flawed characters as well as a how-will-they-get-out-of-that plot.”
~ Pamela Stockwell, author of A Boundless Place and The Tender Silver Stars

“A thought-provoking dissection of a once-stable marriage and the fault lines that erupt when one member crosses an ethical line, resulting in repercussions that threaten the very essence of the family unit. Moving between the gritty streets of Pittsburgh and the wide-open ranches of Montana, What Lies We Keep is a realistic, moving novel of complex relationships, the corrosive power of secrets, and the challenges a couple must face when the things they hold dear are the very things that may tear them apart.”
~ Maggie Smith, award-winning author of Truth and Other Lies

Book Details:

Genre: Contemporary Fiction, Domestic Suspense, Cybersecurity
Published by: Porch Swing Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: August 2, 2025
Number of Pages: 338

Purchase your copy of What Lies We Keep at: Amazon | Audible | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Google Books

 

Guest Post from What Lies We Keep Author Janet Roberts

Writing is as necessary as breathing to me. Crafting words and ideas into stories gives my life deeper meaning. Four impactful learnings helped me move past my earliest fears and insecurities:

 

Never quit. Power forward.
Don’t assume a writing degree is necessary to become a successful author. 
Don’t assume living in a big city, i.e. New York City, L.A., Boston, etc, is key to getting published.
Always remember – you define what success means for you!

 

I’m a Western Pennsylvania girl through and through. Born and raised in Erie, as a child I traveled with my parents monthly to visit extended family near Pittsburgh. My roots run deep here. Like Ted in What Lies We Keep, I didn’t acknowledge this fact for years. Unlike Ted, I didn’t return home because I’d  blown up my life. 

Growing up, my family was populated with everything but writers. I was the kid with my nose in a book and my hand on pen and paper from the age of eight. Books, plus a father who traveled internationally, heightened my curiosity about other cultures. I had chronic FOMO about the bigger world beyond my little horizon. Incessantly frustrated by a lack of local writing programs, I headed to Temple University in Philadelphia, obtained a journalism degree, and hoped to write for a living, pursue my creative work on the side. Repeatedly, I landed in smaller cities with a similar lack of options for writers, continuing to apply for jobs in New York City without luck. I once labeled this period in my life the “Wasted Years”. Today, I see those struggles as a vital source when crafting dimensional, very “real” characters. 

We learn more from failures than successes.

Did I quit? Yes, for a few years. Fear and lack of confidence in my ability to write books took over and I gave up. I changed careers often, seeking the right fit. I fought feelings of failure and confusion.

But if you, like me, began writing stories and characters before you understood what you were doing, you know the Muse is a relentless taskmaster, pestering and pushing until you pick up a pen or touch a keyboard and set it free. Quitting felt harder than failing. In 1989, I began writing a book in my spare time.  Requests to adjust my work schedule to pursue a writing degree – something often allowed today – were met with “no” back then. I kept writing. The results weren’t great, but I felt better writing that doing just about anything else. In 1999, while battling lymphoma, I promised myself I’d write and publish a novel. Once in remission, I began working on two ideas. I took those beginner drafts with me as I moved from Erie to Cleveland, Cleveland to Phoenix, and Phoenix to Illinois, chasing a new, more lucrative cybersecurity career, and, annually, attending a writing workshop in New York.  I honed my craft through workshops, books, and writers I met along the way. With two completed manuscripts, I began teaching myself the business of publishing in 2015, a time when self-publishing held a stigma in the publishing industry. But, as a cancer survivor, I didn’t feel I had the luxury of waiting years for an agent and publishing contract that might never come. I had a promise to myself to fulfill. My flourishing career in cyber came with positive validation and kudos that instilled confidence. 

I decided to publish on my own.  

Sales were minimal, but those early books received awards from a small Pittsburgh group. What Lies We Keep took four years to write. It was published through Ten 16 Press seven years after my first books. Although sales were, again, slow, the novel won four awards in 2024 and a fifth in 2025. Despite quitting, having no creative writing degree, working long hours and living outside traditional writing hubs, those awards said I had talent and the ability to define success on my own terms. Recently, my contract with Ten 16 Press expired. Rather than renew, I decided to republish What Lies We Keep independently under my own (new) label – Porch Swing Publishing, LLC. I hope to improve marketing and gain readers.

In What Lies We Keep, Ted craves validation through titles, pay raises, and excellent reviews doled out by his employer. Denying his Montana roots has caused him to lose sight of himself and what’s most valuable in his life. 

By losing everything, he eventually discovers the path to a meaningful life. 

Fortunately, my life mistakes were nowhere near the magnitude of Ted’s. The four lessons listed above landed me right where I need to be—sure that success means authoring books readers enjoy, embracing my roots, and celebrating that my life experiences will continue to enrich my writing.

Read an excerpt of What Lies We Keep:


Chapter 1

The digital screens on the kitchen appliances screamed 5:00 a.m. He knew he should crawl back into bed. It had been like this for six months now, ever since the promotion at work. Waking up with sweat across his brow and his back just before the reoccurring dream headed toward a disastrous end, as if his mind were a savvy film editor cutting out an ending he hadn’t the fortitude to handle. Each time, he carefully felt the area around his body, without waking Charlotte, to make sure it wasn’t so bad that the sheets were damp, and then walked as quietly as possible to the open area of their apartment housing the kitchen and small living room. No amount of effort to return to sleep worked these days. Nagging concerns that it was more premonition than dream rolled up in him with all the discomfort of a chronic stomachache. Logging into his work laptop settled his fears. Focusing on a stack of emails—a pile of problems to be solved and tasks to be completed—reassured him that he was necessary, valuable, not someone they would discard like an old rag no matter what he’d done. In his mind, there had been no way but the path he’d chosen. But words didn’t seem to alleviate the mild trembling in his hands.

Lies were like that. They felt justified as a route to sparing others hurt, a path to keeping things balanced, a necessary evil. Lies spawned subsequent lies until the entangled mess required putting one’s ethics on the shelf now and then to simply manage life. This was the well-worn mantra Ted told himself in the wee hours of the morning to justify how he’d moved up and into a manager role. They needed the money. Jesse needed the money. He’d put everything he held sacred on the line. He couldn’t allow the twin detractors of guilt and regret to weaken his resolve. He’d done what he needed to do for the people he loved most.

It was quiet at this hour, streetlights reflecting against windshields sprinkled with soft, multicolored leaves and a touch of dew that wasn’t quite frost. Late September always hinted at colder weather just around the corner. A few more hours and the neighborhood would awaken. People brushing off the comfort of blankets and sleep would appear below to warm up vehicles parked bumper to bumper in urban uniformity along both sides of East End Avenue. Others would hurry to the bus stop to catch the 61A. The world around him stepping into the day. Ted’s itch to join their ranks felt as natural as breathing. It was all he’d left his life in Montana to pursue.

Similar to the residences of most of their neighbors, the roomy but older apartment harkened back to another time. A solid brick building whose faded glory showed in the slight dip and sag of the front steps, old woodwork in need of refinishing, plumbing with ancient cast-iron pipes, and registers emitting solid boiler-powered heat. A faded, elderly lady in need of a facelift with all the architectural character Charlotte loved. Ted wished they could buy a home in the neighborhood, but he’d told Charlotte he lusted after the big, refurbished homes near Frick Park or the luxury condos on Mt. Washington. Another lie placed carefully to postpone a little bit longer her aching desire to own a home, just until he could restore the funds missing from his account at the company’s credit union, which he’d drained. Thankfully, the account was in his name only. A few more months and he’d have replaced at least three quarters of what he’d felt forced to remove. His promotion to manager was making that possible.

“Tell her the truth about the ranch,” Jesse had advised.

“She’ll want to move back to Montana,” Ted had said. “You know she has this fantasy about living there.”

“Would that be so bad?” Jesse replied.

Just thinking about the endless hours in the saddle herding cattle, sore muscles from the physical labor, then falling into bed exhausted, worn out, only to do it again the next day made the muscles tighten in Ted’s neck and shoulders. He felt a slight pain and, looking down, realized he’d clenched his hands at the thought of returning, to the point where tension ran all the way up his arm and into his shoulders. Jesse viewed ranch life as freedom from the chains of a rigid, corporate structure. Freedom to work for himself and to answer to himself only, to own his own destiny. Ted saw it as a beautiful trap, the land and mountains casting stunning views on a life where progress, as Ted defined it, was limited. He saw freedom in a place where his computer skills and cyber knowledge prepared an even path upward to clearly definable roles that would fund a nicer, easier life for his family. He and Jesse had had discussions about this, a few of which were heated, so they’d agreed to disagree and move on. Charlotte alternated between agreeing with him and then with Jesse, her chronic indecision making Ted feel he was required to make the tough decisions.

“It’s not what I want. And it’s not really what she would want once she got a good taste of it,” he told Jesse, hoping to shut down the topic.

“You never know. It could turn out to be really great for both of you, and I’d love for you to live closer. You could work in Bozeman, and I’d run the ranch.”

“Yeah, we miss you too, but no, Jesse, I’m not leaving the opportunities here for some smaller place with no career path.”

“It’s your call, brother.” Jesse sounded more resigned than disapproving, tired of what was a conversation they’d had before.

“Dad should have left the ranch to you. We both know that,” Ted said. “And even if he had, I’d still be helping you when times got tough.”

“He loved you more,” Jesse answered. “We both know that too.”

Jesse, his younger brother who loved their family ranch, who lived a straight and honest life, who loved but rarely understood Ted. He wished he could be fully honest with Jesse. All this hiding secrets from people he loved, covering up old lies, creating new ones. Only a few more years and he could sign that ranch over to Jesse, shake the albatross from his shoulders along with the memories of the last words between him and his father, and move on. Another six months and he could pretend he’d settle for a house in their neighborhood and hire a realtor.

“Hey, there . . . couldn’t sleep again?” He didn’t realize Charlotte was in the living room until she slid down next to him on the couch, resting her head on his shoulder as his fingers tapped the laptop keys. “How long have you been out here?”

“About an hour, I guess.”

“You work too much.”

She looked beautiful—hair tousled, eyes drowsy as they fought the need for a little more sleep. He knew she was weary of him working long hours.

“I tried to go back to sleep and I couldn’t, so I figured I’d get some work done,” Ted said as he carefully minimized the screen and slid his hand over the USB flash drive he’d inserted earlier.

“It’s not healthy, Ted,” she replied. “We need to get you a sleeping pill or some solution to this insomnia. I’m going to ask Dr. Collins tonight.”

“The therapist can write prescriptions?” Ted fought the urge to roll his eyes, as he did, privately, about most things related to Dr. Collins. It was his first experience with a marriage counselor and, he hoped, his last. He’d agreed to go because he loved Charlotte and she thought this was the key to some sort of marital happiness. He thought otherwise but kept his comments to himself.

“She’s a licensed psychiatrist. She can prescribe medication.”

“I’d love to sleep a good eight hours,” Ted said. Dr. Collins might prove to be good for something after all, even if it came in the form of a little white pill.

Seven years of marriage and several months of marriage counseling had taught him a few things, such as when to keep his mouth shut and when to agree.

“Did you work on your list . . . for tonight?” Charlotte tapped the cover of Ted’s iPad, closed and lying on the coffee table.

“Done. Insomnia was good for something, I guess.” The marriage counselor had asked them to create a list of what they loved about each other and what drove them to the problems they’d been facing. He’d thought about objecting to what seemed a silly request that solved very little, but Charlotte had leaned forward, excited, attaching herself to the counselor’s words. “I had zero problems listing what I love about you.”

Ted smiled at her as, in a flash of memory, he could see her auburn hair lifting on the breeze while they rode horses across the land and into the mountains near his family’s ranch. His sole thought had been to wonder if she would agree to marry him as he nervously fingered the ring box in his jacket pocket. He’d envisioned a life for them with a steady income they could count on, medical benefits, a modest home of their own, children. The opposite, in his mind, of the insecurities of ranch life. They’d been halfway to that dream when his parents died in an automobile accident, and he discovered his father actually could reach back from the grave to maintain a level of control over him. Their deaths had created the uphill battle he found himself trudging along now.

“Can I see it? Your list?” Charlotte asked, reaching for his iPad.

“No, we’ll do this together, later . . . with the counselor.” Ted grabbed the iPad and popped it into his backpack, removing the USB from his work laptop at the same time. He’d need to actually create a list, quickly, during his lunch hour. “How about your list? Done?” He was a little nervous about what she might say about him tonight.

“Hmmm . . . sort of.” Charlotte stood, heading for the kitchen. He could hear her opening cupboards, pulling items to make coffee.

“I’d say you don’t trust me, which makes list-making hard, but I know where that will take the conversation.” He purposefully kept his tone light, something practice had made perfect where this topic was concerned, but he still felt an anger that never quite grew a scab and healed.

“I let that whole San Francisco trip go. You know that.” Ted watched her move around the kitchen, her back to him, alert for body language that said otherwise. Maybe arms crossing her body, biceps tightening, chewing on her nails. And then, there it was as she yanked the cabinet door so hard it banged and pulled out one, not two, coffee mugs.

Ted knew she was lying. It ate at her insecurities that he’d gotten drunk on a business trip, woke up fully clothed, his coworker Missy asleep next to him, his mind a blank as to how she’d ended up in his room. The story had trickled out, with various twists, until it reached Charlotte. He’d been explaining ever since that nothing had happened. But who was he to call anyone out on lying these days?

“We were happier in Montana,” Charlotte said. “We were more . . . more . . . I don’t know, centered? Before you took this job, we were different.”

Here we go again. Ted clutched the arm of the couch and closed his eyes, willing himself to keep the inward groan rolling up his chest from escaping through his mouth.

“We were kids then, Charlotte. Everything was easier. We’ll both be thirty years old this year, and I want to move forward, not go back,” Ted answered, hoping his voice sounded steady, calm, the opposite of the turmoil flushing his cheeks. He turned sideways on the couch, watching Charlotte move gracefully around the kitchen. “A ranch is nothing but hard work and very little money. We have a nice life here.”

This was the kind of crap he thought they should hash out in counseling and that, if Dr. Collins was as good as she claimed, their sessions would be less one-sided in favor of Charlotte. But he wasn’t about to drop a bomb in their marriage therapy sessions and start a fight. He’d decided after the first round with the good doctor that her goal was to agree with Charlotte about what key topics they should be covering and he was just along for the ride. Not that the topic of Charlotte’s ideas about living in Montana didn’t come up with the counselor, but it never moved from what Ted viewed as a fantasy lens of “living a simple life” to reality. There he sat with two women who had grown up in the city’s suburbs, their biggest childhood chore involving keeping their bedrooms clean, as the only expert on actual ranch life in the room but deferring to Charlotte’s view to keep things amenable. To Ted, simpler meant poorer. Neither Charlotte nor Dr. Collins had ever had to live that kind of life. What he’d gleaned so far in their five months of therapy was that meeting in college, dating exclusively, marrying quickly following graduation, and having a child two years later had left them unprepared for the hard work of marriage in a way that didn’t appear to affect other couples they knew.

Charlotte ignored him, pulling down cereal for breakfast, bread and peanut butter to make and pack a sandwich for Kelsey’s lunch, and refusing to answer. He supposed she knew it could end up in an argument and she’d rather drop it now, hash it out later. But Ted thought they could save a lot of money on therapy if they could simply talk things through without a mediator and without anger and tears. The last time he suggested this, Charlotte said they would revert to the habits they needed to break rather than chart a new course. He assumed she thought therapy would accomplish some sort of new life for them. He was relatively cynical regarding the outcome she envisioned, but he’d keep showing up and giving it a try. Somewhere within himself he knew it was a half-hearted try, and this, alone, doomed the therapy journey to a less-than-successful outcome. If he could keep his current plan on track, he’d buy a house for his family in less than a year, and that, he believed, would be a much more effective game changer than Dr. Collins.

“You have a full day today?” Ted asked.

“What?” Charlotte paused, brows pulled inward in confusion. The brewing coffee was beginning to smell good.

“You’re making Kelsey a sandwich, so I thought she must be going to the kindergarten after-school program rather than home with you.”

“Oh, right, right . . .” Charlotte nodded, turning back to the kitchen counter. “I’m at the museum until noon, then lunch with Leah, and I’m on a deadline for an art gallery review for the newspaper . . . plus we have counseling later. I’ll pick Kelsey up a little later than usual, and then Shay said he’d babysit.”

Shay, Ted’s colleague at work and best friend since their move to Pittsburgh. Other than Jesse, he’d never had as close a friendship with another man. He valued Shay like a brother. Shay had run interference after the San Francisco debacle, but he’d warned Ted that one more mistake that big and Charlotte would leave.

Ted walked into the kitchen and poured cream into the bottom of a mug, then added the coffee, one of the few habits he’d picked up from his father.

“Can you grab a coffee and sit with me before we go our separate ways?” Ted asked.

Charlotte’s face softened, and she brought her mug—black, no sugar, he knew—with her, sitting down slowly, careful not to spill the hot liquid. He took her hand and squeezed, feeling the current between them he’d felt on their first date, a connection that all the ups and downs in their lives had not yet diminished, even when they chose to ignore it out of anger or disappointment in one another.

“Before my job, we were poor,” Ted said. “We agreed Pittsburgh had better opportunities. You wanted to be near family, but now you rarely make any effort to see them beyond asking if they will babysit Kelsey.”

“You know how difficult my mother can be, Ted,” Charlotte responded. “And be honest . . . you don’t really like my family all that much.”

“I like some of them . . . maybe not your mother,” Ted answered jokingly, hoping to lighten the mood with what was usually their mutual annoyance with Charlotte’s mother. “The ranch should belong to Jesse. He loves Montana. He loves his life. And we can always visit.”

“Should belong?” Charlotte was staring at him now, that questioning look she got when she was working on a new story for the newspaper crossing her face. “Art left the ranch to Jesse because you didn’t want it.”

“Right,” Ted said, quickly covering the slip. “I meant the ranch should always belong to Jesse.”

“Yeah, of course,” Charlotte said.

It saddened Ted to see the wistful expression on his wife’s face. If he kept pushing this conversation, he would open the door to something unpleasant.

“Let’s talk about Montana vs. Pittsburgh with Dr. Collins, okay?” Ted hoped he could find a way to convey that moving to Montana wasn’t necessary. Charlotte and Kelsey did not take a back seat to his work life, as she often claimed. Nothing could be further from the truth. Everything he’d done, everything he was doing, was for the wife and daughter he could not imagine life without and the younger brother he loved deeply. Jesse deserved that ranch, and Charlotte deserved to own rather than rent a home.

Charlotte nodded and gave him a tired half smile.

“Finish up that coffee. I’m going to take a shower,” Ted said, standing and heading toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom. He wanted to wash it all away, the sleepless nights, the lies he’d just told, yet again, woven into the fabric of the ancient lies his father had dumped on his shoulders.

“Don’t be late tonight, Ted,” Charlotte called out behind him.

She’d laid down the rules months ago. Go to marriage counseling, or she was taking Kelsey and moving out. He hadn’t missed a session, and he wouldn’t, no matter what the day would bring.

***

Excerpt from What Lies We Keep by Janet Roberts. Copyright 2025 by Janet Roberts. Reproduced with permission from Janet Roberts. All rights reserved.

 

 

What Lies We Keep Author Janet Roberts

Janet Roberts writes character driven, contemporary fiction set wholly or partially in Western PA, where her roots run deep. Her readers know to expect a female character who awakens to the discovery of her own inner strength while facing adversity. Her award-winning novel What Lies We Keep (2024) combines cybersecurity with domestic suspense. It is the 2024 Winner of the Literary Titan Silver Award, Firebird Book Award, Pencraft Summer Awards for Literary Excellence -Suspense, and TAZ Award – Mystery; 2025 International Impact Book Awards – Contemporary Fiction/Realistic Fiction; and a 2024 Finalist for the American Writing Awards’ Hawthorne Prize, 2024 American Fiction Awards – Best New Fiction, and 2024 American Book Fest Best Book Awards – Best New Fiction.

Her poetry has been published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and in San Fedele Press’ Art in the Time of COVID-19. A member of Women’s Fiction Writers Association (WFWA), Pennwriters, and Sisters in Crime, she’s a former global leader in cybersecurity education and awareness with over a decade of experience. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA, where Frick Park is her favorite place for a hike. She loves travel, wandering through bookstores in other countries, reading on her porch swing, and sharing a bottle of wine with friends.

Learn more about Janet Roberts by clicking any of the following links:

www.BooksByJanetRoberts.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @writer12
BookBub – @JanetRoberts
Instagram – @janetroberts77
Threads – @janetroberts77
LinkedIn
Facebook

 

Visit all the Stops on the Tour!

 

 

What Lies We Keep by Janet Roberts {Gift Card}

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post What Lies We Keep: New Suspense appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

The Least of These: Book and Author Spotlight

The Least of These by Mitchell S Karnes

[image error]

 

Giveaway + an Excerpt + Book & Author Info!Don’t miss any blog tour posts! Click the link here.The Least of TheseAn Abbey Rhodes Mystery

Nashville Homicide Detective Abbey Rhodes is caught between a high-profile murder and multiple disappearances in a homeless camp. When the Mayor discovers one of the victims is the stepson of Jonathan Lee Thomas, a wealthy investor in the city’s East Bank Project, he forces Abbey to abandon all other cases. She faithfully follows orders until her best friend, Susan Ripley, goes missing.

Each case triggers Abbey’s PTSD, bringing the past and its secrets crashing around her. She stretches herself to the limit as she learns every life has value. Her investigation jeopardizes the safety of her closest friends, and Abbey must face her guilt when one of them is shot.

Book Details:

Genre: Christian Crime, Christian Mystery
Published by: WordCrafts Press
Publication Date: July 30, 2025
Number of Pages: 286 (HC)
ISBN: 9781967649037 (ISBN10: 1967649030) (HC)
Series: Abbey Rhodes Mystery Series, Book 2

 

To purchase your copy of The Least of These, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | WordCrafts PressRead an excerpt of The Least of These:Chapter One

Thursday, March 20, 5:45 AM – Davidson Street, Nashville

Death doesn’t keep a schedule. Dispatch called at four-thirty this morning announcing another homicide in Nashville. Unfortunately, I was on my morning run and left my phone at the apartment. Once I saw the message, I showered, dressed, and added a touch of makeup. When I arrived at the crime scene in the warehouse district of Davidson Street, the officer directed me past the gate and to the right of a gravel split. It was a materials recycling lot approximately six hundred fifty feet wide and about five hundred feet deep from the streetside fence to the Cumberland River. It gave the owner access to the river, the railroad, and the street. They could move everything in and out by any of the three methods.

I stepped cautiously, avoiding puddles of water from last night’s rain. I looked up and couldn’t believe my eyes as I passed a second pile of scrap metal. It wasn’t the dead body. I was getting used to seeing that. After all, what is a homicide without a dead body? There, amongst the gravel, dirt, scrap metal, loading trucks, and heavy machinery, sat a brand-new Bentley Continental GT. It was a stunning topaz blue, the newest color, and had to be worth at least a quarter of a million new—a sharp contrast to the rest of the scene. I caught myself gawking at its beauty, even with the visible blood and bullet holes throughout the front seats and the crushed right and rear panels. Parts of the bumper were loose on the ground. Someone had made three-inch deep ruts in the gravel, trying to back the Bentley out of the recycling lot in a hurry. The driver crashed through the plastic orange barrier, lodging the Bentley onto the pile of steel and scrap metal. If this hadn’t been a crime scene, I might have cried over the loss of a priceless car.

Sam whistled. It was his way of saying, “Hurry up.” I flashed my credentials as I ducked under the police tape. “Detective Abbey Rhodes, Homicide.” The young officer waved me on, and I joined Sam. It was much colder than I remembered when I was running earlier. Of course, then I was wearing sweats and generating my own heat. My dress pants were thin and offered no defense against the cold, damp air.

Sam looked old—older than usual. “Well, Detective Tidwell, you certainly got an early start today,” I said with a smile. Beneath it, my teeth were chattering.

“Nice of you to finally join us.” He was in a sour mood.

That’s my line. Punctuality was not one of Sam’s strong suits—neither was his choice of clothing. If I didn’t know better, I would venture that he was in his late sixties, not his fifties. Plain suits and winged-tip shoes went out before he started wearing them. Thankfully, some things like his skinny ties were making a comeback—no thanks to Sam. He was staring at his watch, hidden beneath his crime scene gloves. Anyway, I always beat him to the crime scene and the office. Not today.

Sam handed me a cup with my name written on it. “Iced Caramel Macchiato.”

My favorite. “You remembered. That’s so sweet.” I took the cup from his hand. He’d been trying so hard to be nice to me lately. No more looking at me like he just saw the ghost of his daughter Molly. No more snide rookie remarks. No more tricks or traps. No old cop, new cop, just…

“Young people don’t even know what real coffee is, Abbey.” And there it was—the ‘young people’ comment. I couldn’t help the fact that I was twenty-five and looked fifteen. Sam took a sip of his drink to emphasize his point. “Coffee…black…hot.” I watched the steam roll out of his mouth as he said a long, drawn-out, “Ahhh.”

I was freezing. I needed to get Sam back on track and focus on the case so we could get on to the warmth of our Homicide offices. I said offices, but they were nothing more than a bunch of cubicles all jammed together. Sam and I shared one. “How did they find the crime scene? This is not something you see driving by.” I turned and tried to see any visible line from the car to the street. There was none.

“On a 911 call,” Sam said. “One of the drivers came in early to take his load to Chattanooga.”

I glanced down at the body lying at Sam’s feet. White male in his early twenties with curly brown hair and eyes frozen in fright or surprise, with a fatal wound in his neck and two in the chest. He wore faded blue jeans, a rugby shirt, and a leather jacket. The young man lay in a dark red patch of blood that had soaked into the gravel road. He held a small Ruger three-eighty in his right hand. I examined the car, approximately thirty feet north of the body. “That’s a high-money Bentley.” Both the driver and passenger side doors were open. I couldn’t see inside from my current vantage point. As I walked past it on my way to his body, I noted that the interior was riddled with bullet holes and blood splatter. The car was set at an angle, the highest point being the right end of the trunk.

I walked over to examine the Bentley more closely. The driver’s seat was soaked with blood. Without leaning in and grabbing it, I determined the pistol lying on the passenger floorboard to be a 44 Glock. I donned my Mylar gloves to preserve the integrity of our crime scene. “What do we have so far?” I asked, turning back to Sam, who was studying the body of the victim.

“Three GSWs, two to the chest and one to the neck. All kill shots.” He pointed to the car. “It looks like he stopped the carjacking, but at the cost of his life.”

“Not dressed like a Bentley owner, and he’s so young.”

“Coming from you, that’s something.” There it was again—the jab at my youthful looks, which was how I like to put it instead of what I heard some men say. To my dread, I looked like a well-developed fifteen-year-old. Sam winked. He could tell he was getting under my skin a bit. He pointed to the street just beyond the open passenger door. “Looks like the carjacker was hit multiple times. Blood trail leads out the passenger side, up the scrap heap of metal, and down the other side. Then, it heads northeast but stops at the edge of Davidson Street. There’s a pretty good trail of blood in the gravel and pavement.”

“An accomplice probably picked him up,” I said as I counted the holes in the seats, dash, and passenger door panel. I walked over to Sam and the body. “Any ID?”

Sam held up the vic’s wallet and phone. “The key fob is still in the console.” Sam tossed the wallet to me and looked at his notes. “Dean Swain, twenty-two. According to the zip, he lives in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. Serious money.”

I opened the wallet and looked at the ID to confirm what Sam told me. “That’s either the owner at your feet or a young man who took the wrong turn during a joy ride.” I turned my attention back to the Bentley. I carefully climbed on the pile. It wasn’t easy. The scraps had sharp edges. Once around the open passenger side door, I opened the glove box. “Car’s registered to Dean A Swain. Our dead man is the owner. Wonder what he was doing here of all places? It’s not the kind of place you would imagine seeing this kind of a car. Any sign of drugs?” That’s the only reason I could find for this car being in the salvage lot.

“Not so far. The officers secured the sight at four-o-eight and interviewed the truck driver. One of them took photos of the scene. Officer Chen just finished the sketch, complete with accurate measurements. I haven’t been here long myself. So far, no casings have been discovered.”

“My guess is he either used a revolver, or he stopped to pick up his empty casings.”

Sam looked up at me. “What about the car?”

“It’s totaled.”

“No kidding?” Sam asked sarcastically. I tested the solidity of the car’s placement upon the plastic barrier and heap of metal before I leaned into the floorboard. I did my best not to compromise the crime scene or jeopardize the evidence. “We got casings here.” I could see the brass. One lay on the console between the front seats, just two inches away from the key fob. The other two lay below the brake pedal. I reached under the driver and passenger seats. Nothing else. “Three forty-fours here.” After examining the Glock, I added. “That’s exactly how many are missing from the magazine.”

“All three hit. Not an amateur. I’ll wager he has to be an experienced shooter to score three kill shots while being shot at. I couldn’t do that.”

“Expert shooter; terrible driver.” I didn’t mean it to be funny, but Sam laughed.

He examined the bullet wounds in the boy’s throat and chest. “I’d say the holes match a forty-four.” Sam scratched his salt-and-pepper beard with his clean hand. Deep lines formed on his forehead. It was his “something doesn’t fit” look. “We need to begin by focusing on the shooter. We have solid evidence for him. The rest we’ll have to piece together.”

I grabbed my knife and dug out one of the slugs lodged in the passenger door. “Nine-millimeter.”

“You sure?” he asked with doubt in his voice.

“Positive.” I dropped it in an evidence bag and dug another slug from the far-right edge of the dash. Same. He was trying to back out while being shot at. The only way forward would have gone through Dean, who was holding a gun. There’s no way Dean made these shots from his angle.” I returned to Sam, glad to be out of the scrap pile. I sipped my drink and put my other hand in my coat pocket. “It’s cold out here, especially this close to the river.” In times like this, I wished I could drink my coffee like Sam did—hot and black. My iced Macchiato just made me cold on the inside too.

“It’s the first day of spring, Abbey. Be thankful.” He started whistling a bright song. He knew his peppy optimism aggravated me on days like this.

“It doesn’t feel like spring.” I jogged in place to create some body heat. Last night’s rain brought in another cold front. “I should have dressed better but was rushing out the door.” When I arrived at my army base in Grafenwoehr, Germany, everyone laughed at me, the little girl from Central America. The slightest cold front came in, and I would wear multiple layers under my heavy coat. I’d come from balmy Guatemala, after all. But I adjusted to the cooler climate of Germany a year into my service and didn’t mind it. Then it happened all over again when I moved to Nashville, Tennessee, and I grew accustomed, once again, to the warm seasons of the south. Now, I was at the mercy of changing seasons. I felt the slightest downward dip in the thermometer, and I cringed. I was getting soft. Jumping up and down to warm up encouraged sniggering from the patrol officers. I didn’t care. It warmed my body and made me feel better.

I glanced over the lot, which had small puddles of water. “What time did it rain

yesterday?”

“Between eight and nine. It was short, but it came in pretty heavy.” He stopped what he was doing and looked up. “What are you thinking, Abbey?”

“We’re lucky. I can tell you this happened after nine o’clock. Dean Swain’s clothes are dry. That tells us any footprints we find were made after the rain. Do we have a time of death?”

“Not yet. I’ll get a preliminary time when the ME gets here. What do you think about the scene?”

I examined the footprints in the granules of the gravel. The rim around each impression was almost as precise as the plasters we made of crime scenes. There was a clear picture of last night’s event. I could easily make out Dean’s path from the car toward the river. The prints stopped abruptly twenty feet past where his body lay now. “Look here, Sam. I can see where Dean stopped and turned back.”

“Meaning?” Sam asked. I’m sure he had his own theory by now. He probably wanted to hear mine. He was always encouraging me to grow in my observations.

“Well,” I began in a whisper, almost as if I was saying to myself. “On the surface, Dean was dumb enough to leave his keys in his very expensive car. So, he either trusted his passenger or thought he was alone. When he heard the car start, he stopped and ran back to see what had happened. He knew his key fob was still in the vehicle. When Dean came back this way, the driver panicked and shoved it in reverse while his door was still open. He hit the barrier with enough force to run it over and get stuck on top of the metal. He didn’t go forward because Dean had his gun. So, in a panic, he floored it and spun out on the wet surface. Before he knew it, he’d wrecked the car and was hopelessly stuck on the debris.”

“Where did the driver come from?” Sam asked, forcing me to fill in details off the top of my head. “Someone must have followed the Bentley here and taken advantage of its missing driver, who, for some reason, was walking toward the river. Then, when Dean ran toward the car, we had a shootout, and both parties were hit multiple times.” Sam nodded. “Make sense to you, Sam?” I asked, hoping he was getting the same vibe.

“Not really. But that’s what we’re supposed to think.” It was music to my ears. Sam had come a long way since the Ripley case when he wanted to jump at the first opportunity to close the deal and move on. Now, he was back to his old self, looking beneath the surface and searching for all the clues.

“Sam, don’t you think this is odd?” He glanced up and smiled. I was still getting used to calling him by his first name. We’d grown close in my year and a half in Homicide. “Two major things are wrong with this scene. First, if you were shot in the chest and the neck, could you hold on to your gun?” He shook his head. I bent over and picked up the gun in Dean Swain’s hand. “A three-eighty. Wrong caliber.” I showed Sam the slugs in the bag. Ejecting the magazine from the Ruger, I pressed down on the top bullet. It didn’t budge. I checked the chamber, and it was still empty. I smelled the barrel. All I could detect was cleaning oil. “All the bullet holes in the car tell me the shots came from behind the driver’s door. Dean is nearly thirty feet to the front. Whoever staged this scene was either in a hurry or didn’t know what he was doing.”

“That—or he thinks we’re stupid, which adds a different animal into the mix.” Sam studied Dean’s hand. “When CSI gets here, have them swab his hand. I bet they don’t find any powder residue on it.”

“Smell it. The gun is clean. It’s not been fired for some time.”

Sam took the gun from me and smelled it. He nodded and flipped it over. “Serial numbers are still in place. We’ll run a search for the owner. Probably stolen.”

I noticed a bulge in Dean Swain’s ankle, bent over, and pulled up his right pant leg. “Ankle holster. Small enough to fit a three-eighty.” Swain’s wounds matched the forty-four, but the slugs I pulled out of the car were nine-millimeter. Dean didn’t shoot the carjacker, at least not with this gun. “There had to be another shooter, Sam. It fits the evidence so far. But I’m confused. If he was defending Swain, the shots would be justified. So, why leave the scene? Why not report it?”

“That’s a good question. I’ve been wondering that myself. He probably panicked. Or maybe he has a record. Maybe the gun’s not registered. Or maybe he ran after the shooter. Whatever the reason, he left.”

“What about a security guard?” I asked.

“I already checked. They laughed and said, ‘Not to watch scrap metal.’”

I examined the prints around Dean’s body. I knelt behind his body and looked at the Bentley. Holding out my hands like I was shooting a gun, I tried to line up the shots. The open driver’s door blocked my line of sight. “Not possible to hit anything but the exterior of the driver’s door from here. I looked down and noticed another set of footprints led to Dean’s body and away to the back of the lot. They disappeared when they reached the blacktop drive. From Dean’s body, I took a step to my right, another and another, and finally a fourth. In that position, I could see clearly into the car. “The first shots came from this angle or even further to my right. I still can’t see the front of the passenger door or dash.”

“Assuming the shots occurred after the car hit the barrier,” Sam said.

I knelt. The ground was harder here and didn’t display good prints. I had to search in a wide arc to find the trail. “Sam, the prints start here,” I said from the rear of a semi-trailer sixty feet from the Bentley. I searched the trailer’s exterior and found a lone nine-millimeter casing stuck in the treads. “I got something.” Sam came to my side and bagged the evidence. I looked back at the body. Dean bled out where he lay. The gravel absorbed almost all of the blood, making a perfect marker for later.

“Do you see any blood over where you are?” Sam asked.

I glanced around. “No, but there were only three casings in the car, and Dean was hit exactly three times. The other shooter must have surprised the car thief. He obviously hit him. The seats are soaked, and the trail leads out the far side to the street.” I examined the ground around the trailer. “We have some good shoeprints here if we want to make plasters.”

“No other casings. How many shots were fired at the driver of the car?” Sam asked.

“At least five that I could find. That doesn’t include any stray bullets or direct hits still lodged in the carjacker’s body.”

“Someone cleaned up the scene and tried to make it look like Dean fired back. Why would they do that?”

“But Dean didn’t get a shot off,” I insisted.

“No. He didn’t. But the shooter wants us to think he did. For some reason, he wants to keep himself anonymous—free of the investigation.”

“If he really wanted us to think it was just Dean and the carjacker, why not take the time to fire off several rounds from Dean’s gun first? And why not take the time to line up the body with the shots taken?” This was an amateur job of staging a scene. This wasn’t a trained killer, or he’d know better. Any shooter worth his salt would know the differences between a three-eighty, a nine-millimeter, and a forty-four. “Who would have shot the driver and tried to hide the fact that he was here?”

“I don’t know, Abbey, but I have a more puzzling question. Where’s the carjacker now? We know he’s wounded and lost a lot of blood. Assuming someone picked him up at the street, based on the blood trail, where would they have gone?”

“To get emergency help,” I said. “He’d have to get help quickly, or he would bleed out, too.”

“That’s right. If he lost that much blood, he was in dire need of immediate medical attention.”

I paused and thought for a moment. The first and most obvious answer would be a hospital. They had the equipment and the staff to handle gunshot wounds successfully. Secondary sources of healing and possible surgery would be a veterinarian hospital or clinic, a dental surgeon’s facility, or an urgent clinic. “I know we need to follow the clues to the carjacker’s identity, Sam, but I also want to know who shot him. Who else was here last night?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, Abbey,” Sam said, pausing to sip his coffee. He held

the cup in both hands to absorb its heat. Then, he sipped from it again. “We have a crime to solve, Abbey. It’s what we do best.”

“Okay, Sam. Let’s do our due diligence here, find every available clue, study every aspect of the scene, and then we can run scenarios back at Homicide where it’s warm.” A gust of wind blew my hair over my face. I set my cup on the ground, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and secured it with a black hairband that I kept on my wrist. I turned back to Sam. “When will the ME’s office get here?”

“They’re running a little later than usual. They’ll get here when they get here. Don’t worry about it.”

“Any witnesses? Anyone see or hear anything unusual last night?”

“None and no cameras in sight.”

“Someone had to hear this many shots,” I said. The lot was too close to Broadway and its outside activities for no one to hear gunshots.

“What’s your gut telling you, kid?” he asked.

There it was again, the “kid” comment. I didn’t know if that made it worse for me or for him. If I were a kid, that would make him an old man. Focus, Abbey. “Well, at first glance, it looks like a random carjacking that went wrong. Not only did he damage the car and lodge it on the barrier, he was shot several times before he could escape. Of course, you know I don’t go with first glances. This car would be big money to anyone willing to steal it. Why is it back in the middle of this lot, and who was waiting to find it?”

He smiled. “Go on.”

“Also, the timing is too convenient. We have some rich kid out here in the middle of the night two weeks before the council votes on a development plan for the East Bank Project. My gut says he’s tied to the project in some way. We have to dig into Dean’s background and see why he chose this lot for a stroll last night. Any way you slice it, there’s more here than meets the eye.”

“Well, then, let’s get at it,” Sam said. “I’m cold.”

“It’s spring. Remember?” I noticed something fall from Sam’s beard as he laughed. I bent over and picked it up. “Hey, you didn’t say you brought chocolate donuts. Where are they?”

“Who told you?” Sam asked, looking quickly at the officer to his right. The officer put his hands up in the air as if to say, “Don’t look at me.” Sam had a guilty look, and he couldn’t hide it. “Honestly, I meant to give you one, but I ate them both. I couldn’t help myself.”

I leaned forward and brushed the remaining pieces of a chocolate donut from his beard. “Let’s just hope our carjacker and shooter are as careless and obvious as you.” I laughed and punched him lightly in the shoulder.

We meticulously analyzed the crime scene, photographing tire and shoe impressions and measuring the different strides of the steps. I photographed most of the site myself, even though I knew an officer had already done so. I also mapped out the area specific to the crime scene and bagged everything inside the car. There were two partially smoked cigars. Sam bagged those as well. We walked around the lot several times to ensure we didn’t miss anything else.

Sam said, “We need to get a list of workers on the lot from the end of the rain to the time of death and rule out their shoe prints.”

“Sam, they ought to make great casts of all the prints.” The rain hardened the concrete powder, which made its own mold. “I hope they can make casts of the various-sized shoeprints. It could tell us how many people had been in the lot since last night’s rain.”

“We’ll see.” He shouted to an officer at the site, “Make sure they get casts of each print marked. And don’t forget to list the location for each.”

The ME’s office arrived and signed the paperwork to take possession of the body. They gave an approximate time of death between twelve and two. A few minutes later, the CSI team began their site work. We returned to our cars and made plans to sort through the evidence back at Homicide. My body was almost numb from the cold. Just as I was getting in, a gust of wind knocked the empty cup from my hand and blew it to the far side of the lot. Sam said to let it go, but I hated to litter, even if it was in a scrap yard lot like this. The cup rolled here and there. I must have looked like an idiot chasing the cup around like a cat chases a light on the floor. Another gust of wind finally lodged it beside the fence separating the parking lot from the Cumberland River.

I ran to get it and noticed a flash of light from the opposite bank. The sunrise reflected off someone’s binoculars. A man in fatigues was watching me. Maybe he was watching the events of last night, too. “Sam, come here!” Just as I called out, the man dashed into the brush.

***

Excerpt from The Least of These by Mitchell S Karnes. Copyright 2025 by Mitchell S Karnes. Reproduced with permission from Mitchell S Karnes. All rights reserved.

 

The Least of These Author Mitchell S. Karnes:

Mitchell S. Karnes is Christian husband, father, and grandfather. He uses his experiences and insights as a minister, counselor, and educator to write and speak on challenging issues and concerns with an ever-growing audience. This is his seventh novel. Mitchell has also published three short stories, a one-act play, and numerous Bible study lessons.

Through two separate battles against Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, God has given Mitchell a new perspective on life that challenges him to create stories not only to entertain audiences but call them to action. Mitchell’s mission is to reach and reconcile those who have been disillusioned with God and his church and inspire the church to live out the love of Christ Jesus in a broken and hurting world.

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

www.MitchellSKarnesAuthor.com
Mitchell’s Newsletter
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram – @mitchellskarnesauthor
X – @mitchellskarnes
Facebook
WordCrafts Press

 

Visit all the Stops on The Least of These Tour!

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Mitchell S Karnes. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

THE LEAST OF THESE by Mitchell S Karnes (Gift Cards)

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime ToursElena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post The Least of These: Book and Author Spotlight appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Whispers: Psychological Thriller

Whispers by J. Herman Kleiger

[image error]

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

Whispers


A Tale of Madness, Betrayal, and Revenge
What if one phone call could change your entire life?

With the page-turning suspense of Ava Strong’s FBI thriller Not Like He Seemed and gritty realism of Douglas and Olshaker’s New York Times Bestseller MindHunter, Whispers promises readers a nail-biting journey into the search for a serial killer and a window into the troubled mind of the agent who pursues him.

“They’re killing all the shrinks!” cries Nicola Kitts, now a special agent with the FBI’s storied Behavioral Assessment Unit. But why are prominent psychiatrists being targeted, and what secrets did they share?

In this sequel to Tears Are Only Water, Special Agent Kitts leads the hunt for a serial killer who leaves obscure mathematical formulas and twisted poems of retribution by the bodies. The FBI thinks they’ve figured it out, pointing to Raevyn Nevenmoore, a former gymnastic champion with a history of mania and delusions. But Raevyn hints that her twin brother Finch is involved in the killings. The only problem is, Finch died years earlier. Is Raevyn clinically insane or a clever psychopath? Haunted by her own traumas and hidden scars, Kitts struggles to piece together the clues and separate Raevyn’s madness from an even more troubling reality. Can she silence her own demons long enough to find the killer … and save herself?

Are you ready to uncover the truth? Dive into the chilling world of Whispers and experience a psychological thriller that intertwines madness, betrayal, and relentless suspense.

Grab your copy of Whispers today and join Special Agent Kitts in a race against time to piece together a puzzle that bridges the gap between madness and reality.

Praise for Whispers:

“J. Herman Kleiger’s new novel is equally gripping, moving along at a fast pace, as Kleiger’s sophisticated understanding of human psychology is on full display.”
~ Richard M. Waugaman, M.D., Let’s Re-Vere the Works of Shakespeare

“An expert on the diagnosis and treatment of bipolar disorder as well as on the Rorschach test, J. Herman Kleiger is also a fiction writer, author of the acclaimed novels The 11th Inkblot and Tears Are Only Water. His riveting new novel, Whispers, is a psychological whodunit that will maintain the reader’s interest from beginning to end. Readers will learn much about bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, conversion therapy, malignant parenting, and the lifelong impact of shame while trying to figure out the serial killer or killers responsible for the deaths of four psychiatrists. Just when readers believe that the diabolical murders have been solved, they are forced to think again. As with his other novels, Whispers instructs as it entertains, reminding readers that ‘Hope is important for all of us who have walked in the shadows.”
~ Jeffrey Berman, Distinguished Teaching Professor, University at Albany, and author of Clinical Fictions: Psychoanalytic Novels and Short Stories

“With Whispers, J. Herman Kleiger makes it a trifecta of his fine, psychologically astute novels. Picking up on several very interesting characters from his second book “Tears Are Only Water,” as well as introducing a host of fascinating new ones, Kleiger takes us behind the scenes of the FBI Behavioral Science Unit delving into a series of confounding murders. The writing is taught and there are no easy answers in unravelling the mystery.”
~ F. Barton Evans author of Harry Stack Sullivan (Marker of Modern Psychiatry)

“Kleiger’s third novel, Whispers, re-introduces us to Nicola Kitts, who we know well from his outstanding previous book, Tears Are Only Water. In this excellent new novel Kitts joins an elite FBI profiling team trying to solve a series of brutal murders of well known psychiatrists. Not a sequel, Whispers is a stand alone, gripping psychological drama that builds intensity and urgency as it flows inexorably towards its dramatic conclusion. With Kleiger’s deep knowledge of psychological theory, and interpersonal relationships, the book comes alive as the team of experts collaborate and compete to refine a workable theory about who the murderer might be, what might motivate him or her, and what hidden meaning the cryptic notes left at each crime scene might hold. We come to admire Kitt’s personal struggles and her ability to challenge her own demons even as she struggles to help solve these mysterious serial killings..”
~ Stephen Lerner, Filmmaker, Strangers in Town

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Thriller, Mystery and Suspense, Serial Killer Crime Drama
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: May 5, 2025
Number of Pages: 270
ISBN: 978-1960299697 (pbk)

To purchase your copy of Whispers, click any of the following links: Amazon | Kindle Unlimited | Goodreads

Read an excerpt of Whispers:

PART ONE

Comes the Whisperer

In the quiet of the night,
Silence prickles the skin and murmuring voices speak,
Telling stories in hushed tones of private lives and
Secrets buried so deeply that no one can hear,
Comes the Whisperer.
Tell me your secrets,
Speak to me of sin and shame,
And trust me with your soul.

—Anonymous

 

 

Chapter 1

They’re Killing All the Shrinks

The sirens were deafening, drowning out the heart-wrenching screams of frightened women and children. Around her lay the dead bodies of men from her platoon. Suddenly she was holding the limp body of her little brother Blue. The blaring sirens became the sound of her own scream. She awoke in a panic to the shrieking of her work phone.

Quickly orienting herself, she answered, “This is Kitts.”

“Wakey, wakey Kitts. Rise and shine. Hope you’re up. Doesn’t matter because we’ve got another dead shrink. It’s time to bring you in on this.”

Special Agent Nicola Kitts immediately recognized the brassy voice of her boss, Executive Assistant Director Giancarlo Bozzio Baldazzar. Boz headed the FBI’s Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Service Branch. Among his countless other jobs, he liked mentoring new agents. As a former Marine Captain, Boz had taken a shine to ex-gunnery sergeant Kitts. At 5’3,” he chewed out anyone who looked down when talking to him. Although he downplayed their Marine Corps connection, Kitts felt the strength of their invisible Semper Fi bond.

She glanced at her clock: 4:30 a.m. With a rush of adrenalin, she sat up straight and said, “Yes, Sir. Copy that.”

“Kitts, enough with the military, cop-speak bullshit. I’ve told you, we don’t talk like that around here. But listen . . . we’ve got another one. This makes three––Tamerlane, Fortunato, and now this guy in his Georgetown office. Same MO and signature as the others. Also left another calling card––the same wacky quote and a bunch of those crazy equations, like before. Looks like we have a serial killer who loves math as much as he does butchering shrinks. Anyway, this will be your first rodeo, kid. BAU-4 is staffing this in two days, so you have time to get up to speed. They’re a bunch of eggheaded profilers with egos to match, except for Sidd. He’s good people. So, Kitts, you’ll be there primarily to listen and learn. Their job is to profile. Yours is to keep a low profile.”

“You said this is just like the other two? Same MO?”

“Yeah, Kitts, that’s what I said. This last one was in DC. No suspects yet, but the local PD is working on this as a single homicide. They apparently don’t know about the others. The vic’s name is Linus Prokop. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

“Yes, Sir. Isn’t he the guy on the cable news? I remember that name. Didn’t he do some kind of study on male adolescents?”

“That’s right. He’s a doozy. Been on the talk show circuit hawking his book about teenage boys and their hard-ons.”

Kitts smiled at his raw and uncensored expressions. Suddenly, she felt as if she were back in bootcamp with Boz as her drill sergeant.

“DC Metro is still working the crime scene. Probably won’t be too happy when we show up, but nothing new with that. So, get your rear in gear pronto and look at the files so you won’t seem like Doby the village idiot when you meet with BAU Number 4. Got it?”

“Copy––I mean yes, Boz Sir. I’ll be there by 7:00.”

“Make it 6:30. Oh, and Kitts, leave your damn bird at home this time. Now fuck off.”

She blushed as she remembered bringing Langston, her hyacinth macaw, to her office. He was not a hit since he wandered around, marked his territory, and chewed phone cords. Langston had been her sidekick for more than 15 years. If it hadn’t been for Langston, her old boss, Sheriff Oliver Burwinkle, would have killed her too after he shot an agent point blank in her living room.

Nicola microwaved a cup of day-old coffee while scarfing down a banana. She pulled Langston’s breakfast bowl out of the fridge, mixed in fresh fruit and vegetables, and topped it with large-shelled nuts.

The bird began to chatter and squawk to get her attention.

“Damn, cool it. Not in the mood this morning.” She noticed he was picking at the feathers on his chest again. “Stop picking at yourself. I ain’t got time for this shit now.” She reached for the spray the vet had given her and gave him a couple of squirts.

Kitts rummaged through a pile of clothes on her chair and grabbed a wrinkled jacket from the floor. Life had been this way since moving to DC two years ago.

“Alexa, play some . . . Tracie Chapman music. No, cancel that. Play––”

Alexa cut her off and said, “Here is some music by Tracie Chapman on Amazon Music.”

“Dammit, girl. Alexa, cancel that. Play music by Libba Cotton and turn up the volume by two.” She felt there was something enchanting about Cotton, an obscure left-handed folk and blues musician who taught herself to play upside down on a right-handed guitar. That Cotton didn’t begin recording until her 60s and won a Grammy at age 90 gave Kitts hope that people could successfully reinvent themselves in midlife.

She turned on the shower as Libba sang Ain’t Got No Honey Baby Now. The water was cold, but she didn’t have time for it to warm up. The chill jolted her senses. She threw on her clothes and hurried past Langston––still picking his chest feathers. “Langs! Stop that shit! I gotta cruise now. Won’t be back until dark ’cause this is a big one. You got plenty to eat, so be cool and STOP doing that to yourself.”

The thought of another dead therapist put her on full alert, especially with this last one being so close to home. On the way out the door, she stopped and reached out to Langston. “Damn boy, it looks like they’re killing all the shrinks…. Betcha, you’re glad I left shrink school, huh?”

***

It was still dark when she exited onto South Washington St. She opened the window, welcoming the chill of cool air on her face. She tried to focus on the killing of yet another psychiatrist, but the hangover from her nightmare was still taunting her. Her VA counselor told her that dreams about the war would never disappear entirely. He said she could learn to reprocess them to make them less frequent, vivid, and painful, but they would never disappear. Fucking nightmares.

In the darkness, surrounded by the hum of the tires, Kitts thought about the regular cast of characters who haunted her sleep. Her dreams were typically set in Afghanistan where her brother Blue, Burwinkle, or Pei would suddenly appear, always trying to speak to her in muffled voices. Desperate, she couldn’t move. Her counselors told her she’d be dealing with the long reach of PTSD for the rest of her life. She should expect early and subsequent losses to merge with nightmares of her final bloody firefight in the Musa Qala District.

At times, she dreamed only of Blue and his death when they were kids. No matter how much Nicola tried to come to terms with what happened, the guilt never wore off. Paradoxically, there was something oddly comforting about her nighttime visits from Blue, as if he were trying to tell her something.

She hated how the traitorous bastard Oliver Burwinkle forced himself into her dreams. Her former boss and mentor back in Colorado continued to stalk her in her sleep after his final deceit. Now, Professor Omar Pei had become the latest cast member to appear uninvited in her dreams, whispering lustfully to her about their forbidden affair at Smith College.

Kitts checked her speed as a highway patrolman passed her on the right. Cops. The cruiser reminded her of the Ford Interceptor she used to drive when she was the only deputy of color in the sheriff’s department in Colorado. She left law enforcement in 2014 after Burwinkle tried to kill her. Nicola’s stomach churned when she thought of the impostor. Burwinkle turned out to be a serious bad guy. Fortunately, thanks to Langston’s attacking him, Burwinkle dropped dead of a heart attack before pulling the trigger of the gun he had aimed at her head. Fucking Burwinkle.

Though she had long thought about leaving police work, the catastrophic events of 2014 and her subsequent treatment at the VA convinced her it was time to make a clean break and try something new, like becoming a social worker. Her decision to leave law enforcement always made her think of her quirky friend Carmine or “Books” as she called him. Nicola still felt embarrassed by his generous financial gift, which made it possible for her to go to Smith College of Social Work. She recalled their awkward conversation five years ago when she received a check from an anonymous donor that covered her tuition at Smith.

“I know it was you, Books. You’re always up to something sneaky like this. I will pay you back. Got that? Been saving up my money.”

But she hadn’t paid him back.

She had been a rising star at Smith, earning her MSW in just under two years. Nicola had begun working on a PhD when she suddenly became the headliner in the campus rumor mill. She mistakenly thought her involvement with one of her professors was a private affair.

Thoughts about Pei always reminded Kitts of her misplaced trust in Burwinkle whose words she couldn’t forget.

“Goddammit, Cole. You were like a daughter to me, girl.”

Then he tried to kill her.

The relationship with Professor Omar Pei began innocently enough. He was struck by her intelligence, fascinating resume, dogged curiosity, and innate insight, and mentioned in passing her striking good looks.

Looking her up and down, he’d intoned, “You’re special Nicola Kitts. I’ve had my eye on you. You have the intellectual gifts and instincts that most students can only dream of. I’ve taken a special interest in your academic development. Dine with me tonight so we can discuss your thesis.”

And she did.

Kitts’s internal signals told her she was straying into dangerous territory, but she ignored the warning lights. It felt good to be special.

Man, gotta figure out this shit with mentors, girl.

Their affair lasted less than three months but unleashed the hungry tabloid hounds within the small college community. Ultimately, the professor was dismissed, and his student branded with a scarlet letter. It didn’t matter that no one formally blamed Nicola for her mammoth lapse in judgment. She heard the whispers and saw the looks wherever she went. It became too much to bear. One morning, she decided she’d had enough. She packed everything that would fit into her car and left with Langston.

Nicola knew that even before the Pei affair, she’d been questioning whether social work was her true calling. Maybe her embarrassment at Smith was just an excuse to leave social work. Part of her wanted to be done with policing but it wasn’t done with her. Law enforcement was in her DNA. Her father and gramps had been Marines and then cops in the Wichita PD. Having no desire to return to the sheriff’s department in Colorado, Kitts applied and was accepted to the FBI Academy.

The traffic was light. Can’t keep Boz waiting. The final stretch of Richmond Highway reminded her of how she felt the first time she drove to Quantico. She had been filled with hopes about combining law enforcement with her curiosity about the workings of the mind. Even then, she aspired to someday become a profiler.

After completing the FBI Academy, Kitts worked as a junior agent before snagging an appointment to the BAU (Behavioral Assessment Unit). Only a year into her role as a special agent, Kitts felt she’d found a home where she could pursue criminals and discover the deep-seated pathologies that had turned them into killers and predators. She knew about the storied BAU-4 and its predecessor, the FBI’s Elite Serial Crime Unit, popularized in one of her favorite books, Mindhunter. That someone at Boz’s level would select her to shadow this celebrated team of profilers and analysts was a pulse-quickening honor. She thought of his words several months back.

“Kitts, I’ve been watching you. I think you got what it takes to work with the BAU. When the time is right, I’m going to bring you in. I got faith in you. Just don’t try to act too much like a cop.”

Kitts checked her watch as she flashed her ID to the Marine at the gate. Six twenty-seven––three minutes to spare. She sprinted to the building; Boz would be watching the clock. Kitts wanted to impress him but knew he would quickly pick up her efforts to curry favor. Boz had apparently seen something in her that she was not aware of. But hadn’t Burwinkle and Pei? She was grateful that Boz was giving her a chance but determined not to make the same mistakes as before. All she needed to do was trust his judgment and not lose sight of hers. Just be yourself, whoever that is, and steer clear of whatever’s going on with mentors. She speed-walked into his office and reminded herself not to speak like a cop and never look down at the top of his head.

***

Excerpt from Whispers by J. Herman Kleiger. Copyright 2025 by J. Herman Kleiger. Reproduced with permission from J. Herman Kleiger. All rights reserved.

 

Guest post from Whispers Author J. Herman Kleigher
Writing From the Head or Heart?
By J. Herman Kleiger

I’ve been asked whether writing is more cerebral or emotional for me. The first answer is it depends on what and for whom I’m writing. Professional writing demands a specialized skill set rooted in scientific, conceptual, and empirical data. One can write professional papers and books with a sense of passion and inspiration, but fundamentally, this type of writing is driven more by the head than emotion or inspiration.  

Creative writing, on the on the hand, involves both the cerebral and emotional. Talented writers, like all artists, devote years to learning the technical tools of their craft. In this respect, there is much to learn about how to write, structure a story, develop a plot, create characters, write dialogue, and then rewrite and edit. But, at the same time, most writers will tell you that there is something deeply gratifying about getting the words down on the page. How can one write fiction without access to emotional inspiration? 

When starting to write a novel, I’m inspired by an idea, a scene, a character, or even a possible title for the story to come. I’m currently working on a series that allows me to follow the lives of central characters. This is when I become most emotionally involved in developing my stories. When I’m in the flow, I hear my characters converse and feel  that I’m simply taking dictation. Sometimes, I’ll awaken in the middle of the night with a scene or piece of dialogue in mind. This is enlivening! 

I’ve learned to trust that not always knowing where the story will lead is okay. In surprising, almost magical ways, writing a story for me is like driving down a dark road with only my headlights to illuminate the way. Sometimes, the lights go out, and I’m left in the dark for a while. This is usually a time to get some distance from whatever I’m writing, knowing that the lights will shine again on some new road I hadn’t noticed earlier. I realize that this sounds vague and impressionistic. Among those writers who plot and plan out their books and those who plod along or follow their headlights, I’m clearly among the latter. 

Hemmingway said, “Write drunk and edit sober.”

When I’m writing a first draft guided by the headlights of emotional inspiration, which channel unconscious elements that surprise and delight, I’m writing “drunk.” This is the creative spark of the right brain. However, the bender of a first draft meets its reckoning when I’m left with the hangover of a first draft, which needs to be guided, corrected, and shaped by the left brain. Like a parent scolding their carefree teenager who acts on a whim without regard for the rules, the head comes into play as the editor who must provide regulations, structure, discipline, and guidance to the emotional and impulsive writer of the first draft.

This can be a painful process, as the intoxication of the first draft meets the sobering reality of the rewriting process. Here, the editor self applies a set of rules about what constitutes good writing and tries to corral the recklessness and lack of discipline of the creative self. If all goes well, the story is improved by a process of rewriting and editing, as the heart and head work together in a synergistic way to produce a more polished piece of writing.

Whispers Author J. Herman Kleiger

J. Herman Kleiger (Dr. James H. Kleiger) is a board certified clinical psychologist and trained psychoanalyst living in Maryland. Born and raised in Colorado, he received a BA from Harvard University and a doctorate in clinical psychology from the University of Denver. He served as a staff psychologist in the Navy and received postdoctoral training at the Menninger Clinic in Topeka, KS, where he became Training Director of the Postdoctoral Fellowship Program. He completed his psychoanalytic training at the Topeka Institute for Psychoanalysis and later relocated to Maryland. Dr. Kleiger opened a private practice and served as President of the Washington-Baltimore Society for Psychoanalysis in 2010. He lives with his wife and is blessed with wonderful children and grandchildren.

Writing about people and their struggles has been integral to his professional life. Dr. Kleiger has authored six professional books – Disordered Thinking and The Rorschach, 1999, followed by Assessing Psychosis, 2015, 2024 (coauthored with Ali Khadivi), Rorschach Assessment of Psychotic Phenomena, 2017, Psychological Assessment of Disordered Thinking & Perception, 2021, and Psychological Assessment of Bipolar Spectrum Disorders, 2023 (coedited with Irving Weiner).

Unable to resist the play of imagination, J. Herman Kleiger published his debut novel, The 11th Inkblot in 2020, followed by Tears Are Only Water in 2023, and Whispers in 2025.

People and their stories amaze and inspire. As a psychologist and psychoanalyst, his passion for listening to people tell their stories ripens with time.

Catch Up With J. Herman Kleiger:

JHermanKleiger.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Substack
Instagram – @jhermankleiger
Threads – @jhermankleiger
LinkedIn – @JamesKleiger
Facebook – @JHermanKleigerAuthor

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the WHISPERS Tour Schedule

 

Don’t Miss Out! Enter Now for Your Chance to Win!
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for J. Herman Kleiger. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Whispers by J. Herman Kleiger

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Whispers: Psychological Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Gone to Ground: An Urban Thriller

Gone To Ground by Morgan Hatch

 

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

 Gone To Ground

Javier Jimenez is on a glide path to college while his brother, Alex, has done a 180 and is heading for trouble. Neither, however, have any idea what’s coming their way when George Jones sets in motion his plan for their neighborhood. It’s a cataclysmic vision of urban renewal replete with manmade disasters, civil unrest, and a tsunami of ambitious Zoomers.

Meanwhile, Alex and Javier’s feud quickly escalates, even as Alex finds himself in way over his head with Denker Street, the local gang. The bodies start falling, and Javier soon realizes Jones has put a target on his back. It’s time to go to ground. Can he keep Alex from falling further into the streets? Can he outplay Jones at his own game? All this and his own hopes, once so bright, now fading like a smog-shrouded LA skyline.

Praise for Gone To Ground:

“With a heavy dose of wit and an intelligently conceived plot, Hatch masterfully lures the reader into his unpredictable and absorbing world.”
~ Booklife Prize

“Fast paced and poignant.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

“Bewitching from the first page…Delivers in all aspects of suspense.”
~ Jadidsa Perez, Independent Book Review

“George Jones is one of the most evil characters you’ll ever find in a book.”
~ RG Belsky, award-winning author of It’s News to Me

“Gone to Ground is an engrossing read for anyone who appreciates layered storytelling with heart and edge. It’s a gritty, honest look at life in Los Angeles that doesn’t flinch from the darker realities.”
~ Literary Titan

“A gripping, suspense novel set in the streets of LA”
~ Reader’s Choice Book Awards

“Gone to Ground pairs suspense with witty observations to bring readers a special flavor of intrigue and irony as a Mexican-American high school senior becomes mixed up in a conspiracy that reaches into his Los Angeles community to threaten everything he loves.”
~ Diane Donovan, The Midwest Book Review

Gone To Ground won the Best First Book award from IndieReader Discovery Awards!

Gone To Ground Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Urban Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: July 31, 2025
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 1685136346 (ISBN-13 : ‎ 978-1685136345)

To purchase your copy of Gone To Ground, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Black Rose Writing

Read an excerpt of Gone To Ground:

Carlos rode the boom lift thirty feet up, stepped onto the deck of the viaduct, and worked his way through the final course of rebar, checking the snap ties as he went. By noon, it would all be covered with two hundred yards of cement, an act of finality that had left him sleepless and bleary-eyed. He got to the unfinished edge and gazed out at the yuccas standing in the morning sun, their knobby arms raised as if surrendering. The only movement, the only noise came from the survey team a quarter mile ahead, hammering stakes and taking measurements through transits. His phone buzzed with a text from Raymond, the lead surveyor. It was an image of a tortoise craning its neck.

Carlos pulled out his walkie. “How many?”

A pause. “I count about twenty, twenty-five.”

Carlos hissed. Nothing meant more trouble for projects like this than habitat issues, and the desert tortoise was at the top of the protected species list in this part of California. He kicked a water bottle off the deck, his head now flooding with a list of change orders, cost overruns, impact reports. The Sierra Club would have an injunction by the end of the week, his crew would scatter, and the job would be bad-mouthed in the trades, falton as they would call it. It was the bane of every publicly funded project. Things were always stop-and-go, and for contractors, consistency was king.

“We’ll need some video. Get a geotag on it and email it over.” He paused and then told Raymond one more thing. “Tell your guys to go home. We gotta pull them off the job for now.”

The radio chirped again. “One more you need to see.”

Carlos opened the next text. It showed the flat underside of one of the tortoises, four legs helplessly splayed out. Along one edge of the shell, a small strip of aluminum had been riveted to it. The last picture was a closeup of the tag, showing a bar code and a set of Chinese characters.

# # #

Tasha passed through the metal detector and retrieved her phone on the other side. She tapped the screen, a clip showing a pod of tortoises ambling across the desert. The image needed no explanation.

Muthafucka.

In her six years as the Senator’s Chief of Staff, she’d had to learn ways to corral her temper—deep breaths, long drinks of water, long drinks of Grey Goose—but today all she wanted to do was throw her phone across the capitol rotunda. The rail project was her ticket to Washington, with or without the Senator. If things went pear-shaped here in Sacramento, she’d be back running school board elections in Los Angeles.

She arrived in the back of the Senate chambers in time to catch the last legs of the reauthorization debate. Support was split for the bullet train, which was now so far over budget that it would require a fourth round of bonds. An eleventh-hour deal with a large off-shore hedge fund had given the project new life. The Speaker could either bring the reauthorization up for a vote now or tomorrow. Three hours ago, it would have been a lay-up for Tasha. She’d already put in an offer for a two-bedroom condo in Georgetown.

The vote count on the screen and the adjournment clock ticking down lent the usually staid chambers a charged air. The Speaker stood at the dais, gavel in hand, talking with a staffer over his shoulder. From the steps below, a senate page reached up and slid the Speaker a note. He read it and looked over the top of his glasses without moving his head. Tasha followed his line of sight. A lone figure stood hands in pockets, silhouetted in a balcony doorway, his presence apparently the message. When Tasha looked back, the Speaker was already bringing his gavel down. The vote would be delayed until tomorrow at eight a.m., an eternity in Sacramento during the deal-making days of August. Careers often turned on these votes, and Tasha felt hers slipping away. The Sierra Club was probably already setting up the presser with their righteous refrains. She’d done her best to curry favor with the green slice of the electorate, keeping the Senator at or above 80% favorability. Coastal set asides, old-growth logging regulations. And this had come at considerable expense to the donor list, a hit she knew was worth the points he’d scored with the base.

All those years triangulating, positioning, counter messaging, all the miles on the road, in the air, prepping, dodging, deflecting, polling, vetting, all that code-switching, hi-watt smiling, all the hours briefing and debriefing, and for what? So that a thirty-second video could expose him as an environmental hypocrite? Tasha knew this was no accident, and she knew who was behind it.

# # #

George Jones drove his matte black Land Rover past the valet at Torento, one of the few spots in Sacramento that could still be relied upon for discretion. He self-parked and walked past the hostess, straight to a corner booth where the Senator sat alone, hunched over a bowl of pasta. He saw Jones approach and dipped his head slightly to indicate an empty seat. Jones ignored the Senator, instead pulling up a rattan chair from a neighboring table.

The restaurant was dimly lit, the high-backed booths upholstered in Oxblood leather, the room full of the hushed tones of last-minute horse trades. “Your train is coming in,” said the Senator without looking up. “But I suspect you already knew this.” The Senator attacked his pasta, his torso rocking with each spin of the fork. “Something about turtles.” He finally looked up and let out a breath. “I hear they’re on loan from the Zhang Zhao Preserve. They must have cost you a small fortune.” Then he shoved a forkful of pasta in his mouth.

“They’re tortoises, not turtles, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jones. A waiter arrived with a menu, and Jones waved him off.

The Senator pulled out his napkin and dried the sweat from his upper lip, then stabbed at something in the sauce. “Turtles, tortoises. No one cares. All I know is they’re slow, and there’s too many.” He took a swallow of wine. “You have my ass in the air, and the vote is tomorrow. Seems like your reputation is well earned, Mr. Jones.” He broke off a piece of bread and dragged it through the white sauce. “Singapore, Athens, Hyderabad. Your resume, Mr. Jones,” his mouth finally empty, “some biblical shit.”

Jones had actually flirted with the ministry at one point. “Pox and pestilence, rivers into blood. Moses didn’t fuck around, and neither do I.” A college girlfriend had once examined the headline of his palm, straight and uncrossed, and proclaimed it a sign of either intense religious conviction or a tendency toward psychopathy. “If there’s a transit node involved, I’ll salt the earth myself.” He made a show of checking his watch.

The Senator leaned back, let his hands rest flat on the table, as if ready to make it levitate. “We’re prepared to reroute the line to Panorama City. Just know you’re the ghetto option.” He folded the napkin and looked at Jones. “And as we both know, bullet trains don’t stop in the ghetto.”

“Of course it’s coming to the ghetto, Senator. There’s nowhere else to stick it.” He ran a hand down his pants to flatten a wrinkle. “Ghetto for now, Senator.” Jones nodded at the Senator’s bowl of pasta. “But I’ll bet you another bowl of that alfredo you seem to love so much that in a year, you’ll be making offers on our condos before they’re even out of plan-check.”

The Senator gave Jones an appraising look. “Have you seen Panorama City lately, Jones? Great town if you’re a pole dancer. They have a tent city the size of Rhode Island.”

“For a curious man,” he said, standing, “you ask the wrong questions.” Jones passed his gaze around the room. “Your work is done, Senator. Time for the ground game.”

When he got to his car, Jones pulled out a phone and spoke first in Mandarin before ending in English. “Call LA. I want updates every six hours.” Then he pulled out the second phone and punched in a text.

VDL go

# # #

The man in the boat hadn’t had a bite and didn’t much care. He came for the solitude, the stars, and the sounds of the reservoir at four a.m. Most people fished during the day from the dam wall where it was wide enough to park their coolers and fold-out chairs. Van der Lipp Dam itself was the third largest in the western United States and the oldest by a decade. A sluice had been built at the base of the dam’s southern end, a failsafe option for a uranium enrichment plant from the 1950s. The plant had long since been dismantled, though the sluice, which emptied into a dry lakebed in the San Fernando Valley, remained.

A vehicle approached, the light wash of high beams coming through the pine trees. The man in the boat had not seen anyone use the access road in his twenty-odd years of fishing the reservoir. It was a white panel van, and it very quickly turned, reversed itself, and backed up ten feet from the water’s edge. The rear door opened, and a team of five people climbed out, two of them in wetsuits, hoisting scuba tanks from the back of the van. They worked without talking, testing the respirators, buckling their weight belts. In less than a minute, they were walking backwards into the water, each clutching something the size of a shoebox. Soon, the only evidence of either of them was a trail of bubbles rising to the surface.

The man then took out a pair of binoculars he kept for birding and watched two other men walk out onto the dam’s catwalk. The first man carried a coil of rope slung over his shoulder; the second wore a backpack and had on a climber’s harness. When they were about one hundred feet out, the first man sat down and tied himself onto a railing stanchion and belayed the second man over the edge of the dam. The team worked noiselessly, their movements practiced and efficient. In twenty minutes, the divers surfaced and took off their flippers and tanks. Soon after, the man in the harness reappeared on top of the dam.

As they loaded up to leave, a fish took the man’s lure and pulled the rod off his lap, hitting the aluminum gunwale. A second bang followed when the reel hit the bottom of the boat. The noise echoed across the lake. All five men stopped what they were doing and looked in the man’s direction. The man, still hidden in darkness, also froze. Five seconds passed. Then ten. Finally, one of the five men from the white panel van reached for something in the front seat and disappeared into the woods. The other four climbed back in and drove back down the access road to somewhere called Panorama City.

Ten minutes later the man in the boat lay face down now, hidden amongst the tule in the shallow water of the lake, two in the chest and one in the head. His boat lay at the bottom of the lake, also with three holes shot through it. The shooter had collected the six empty shells and then walked the eight miles back down the access road to the city street. He’d boarded the 154 bus which would take him to meet up with the others. Someplace called Frogtown was about to become the newest body of water in Los Angeles.

***

Excerpt from Gone To Ground by Morgan Hatch. Copyright 2025 by Morgan Hatch. Reproduced with permission from Morgan Hatch. All rights reserved.

 

Guest Post From Gone To Ground Author Morgan Hatch

 

When asked why I wrote Gone To Ground, the response I give Monday will be different than Tuesday’s.  In this post, I’ll share a few of these reasons and how they came together.

I live in Los Angeles with my wife, and once a month we drive east on Route 137 to her mother’s house. About half way there, we pass over an enormous flood channel, a flat expanse of concrete that runs from the San Fernando Valley to the ocean. Its walls are roughly three stories tall, and as we pass over it, I often notice a set of drain pipes tall enough to stand up in. Some days there is a trickle, other days the water pours out at such a rate and volume you would have a hard time standing up in it.  It’s anyone’s guess why this is the case, but if you’ve ever watched Chinatown, it’s impossible not to imagine some malign intent, an off-stage hand turning the spigot, an overlord wanting to flood the channel. 

On one occasion soon after we drove over the gushing version of the  flood channel, the local radio news did a story about a homeless encampment in Orange County that had sprung up in a river bed. (While we’re driving, my wife makes lists of what she needs to buy at the supermarket, when she has to renew our homeowner’s policy, if she watered the plants enough, if her mother is going to like what she is bringing. Me? I’m swinging from branch to branch in my imagination.) On that particular day, I came up with the first set piece of Gone To Ground: the dam break that floods the homeless encampment. 

I’ve been a teacher for thirty years in Los Angeles, and one of the thorniest and persistent issues has to do with the racism among the students at these schools. In the last school in which I taught, over 90% of the kids were Latino and only 1% were Black. That equates to about 100 Black kids, and they did not self-select to create their own group. They were spread out amongst the population, a mini-diaspora, one here, one there, rarely two of them together, and if you came on campus, pulled one of them aside and asked if they had ever been disparaged because of their race, they would without exception say “Yes.”

I’ll leave it to more learned scholars on the issue to provide the explanations, but Latinos at the school could be very cruel to the Black kids, and the Black kids pretty much had to swallow it. (This is not to suggest there weren’t other racial issues either among students or staff.) We had professional development, we did restorative justice circles, we had empowerment days, but the issue was one of the most intractable I came across in my career. So I wrote a short story about it, entered it into a contest sponsored by the LA Public Library, and won my category. It was the first time I had won something since grade school, and it fanned the flame to start pulling together a novel.

I’m turning sixty in three days, and for the past five years I’ve asked myself “What have I done with my life?”  The short answer is teach. And yes, I’ve taught enough kids to fill a high school stadium. But in the deepest corners of my heart the answer to the question is “Not much.” I hadn’t accomplished anything, nothing I could point to and feel proud of. This is the stuff of ego and existential dread, also topics I pondered on our drives to my mother-in-law’s while my wife mentally replayed her conversation with ATT over the phone bill. Some writers just come out of the blocks creating stories, writing comic books, the Steven Spielbergs and Stephen Kings of the world. That wasn’t me. But I was always fascinated with words, read the dictionary, and eventually dabbled with writing in my 20s.

And that’s just it. I was a dabbler. And it wasn’t just in writing. I dabbled in relationships, learning a foreign language, being a good uncle, starting a business. When it came to teaching, I did enough to get board certified and eventually get promoted out of the classroom, but I never felt like I accomplished anything, never did something that reflected who I was. When you do the math at fifty-five and realize you’re on the downside of the hill, I suppose some people take their foot off the gas, appreciate friends and nature more, learn how to play saxophone. Not me. I needed something to do well, or at least well enough to feel like I did something.

Few if any books hold such power over adolescents in the LA public middle schools as The Outsiders. It’s a novel devoid of adults, features two scoops of violence and a smattering of romance, but is mostly a story of loyalty which is the coin of the realm in that age group. I started Gone To Ground as a modern, urban retelling of The Outsiders.

My first draft featured long stretches of Javier and his five friends sitting on a set of abandoned couches (referred to in the book as Study Hall), chopping it up, razzing each other, and always always always having each other’s backs. And I probably would have written a YA novel about these kids until I started writing George Jones, the antagonist, a hedge fund fixer, remorseless, with limitless resources. He took the story in a new direction.

More than anything I wanted to write an homage to the immigrant kids who grind, who apply themselves, who are reliable and modest and care about others. They are the best this country has to offer, and they are in every classroom in the schools in which I taught. Immigrants are being scapegoated right now, and I wrote Gone To Ground to offer a counter-narrative to the images that are flooding the airwaves. As upstanding as he is in the book, Javier has his doubts, can’t seem to express his feelings, and starts to question his mother’s motives. He is a hero, albeit imperfect, and perhaps these dents are the parts I feel proudest about having written. Having recently retired, I have more time to write, to do more than dabble, and hopefully come up with a story that will keep readers in thrall with the characters, to care what happens to them. And if you read it, more than anything, I hope you are entertained.

 

Gone To Ground Author Morgan Hatch

Having taught in the LA public schools for thirty years, Morgan now writes about the people and places he has come to know in the course of his career.

During the pandemic, he began writing Gone To Ground. At the same time, Los Angeles was going through a series of scandals involving public officials as well as an uptick in the perennial “crises” of homelessness, immigration, and gentrification.

Add to this the on-again-off-again California bullet train, and you have the main threads of this novel. Morgan lives in Los Angeles with his wife where he’s trying to learn his mother-in-law’s recipe for dal dhokli.

Catch Up With Morgan Hatch:

www.MorganHatch.net
Goodreads
BookBub – @morgan189
Instagram – @morganhatchauthor
YouTube – @MorganHatchauthor
X – @MorganHatch310
Facebook – @AuthorMorganHatch

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN —
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Morgan Hatch. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Gone To Ground by Morgan Hatch; Gift Card

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Gone to Ground: An Urban Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Solid Gold Murder: A Golden Motel Mystery

Solid Gold Murder: A Golden Motel Mystery by Ellen Byron

Book and Author Info + Character Guest Post!Don’t miss any blog tours! Click the link here.Solid Gold Murder

Dee Stern’s Golden Motel-of-the-Mountains promises a tranquil getaway for outdoor lovers in the scenic Californian village of Foundgold. But when Dee accidentally triggers a modern gold rush, she suddenly turns her peaceful retreat into a hotspot for mayhem and murder . . .

With the summer season looming, former Hollywood sitcom writer Dee Stern has one small goal—scrubbing her motel’s unflattering moniker as the “Murder Motel.” Dee and ex-husband-turned-business-partner Jeff Cornetta are excited to introduce a family-friendly panning activity complete with fool’s gold just in time for the peak tourist months. Except neither could have anticipated the discovery of a real gold nugget or the ensuing social media frenzy. In a flash, the viral sensation draws grizzled prospectors, wide-eyed adventurers, and trend-chasing thrill seekers to the abandoned mines scattered around the woods . . .

The instant popularity proves great for business, but it also attracts a group of out-of-touch Silicon Valley techies with dreams of striking it rich—again. Dee finds herself particularly annoyed by the insufferably smug Sylvan Burr, a retired CEO who sold his startup before age 30 and won’t let anyone forget it. But things take a sinister turn when Sylvan meets a grim fate at the bottom of a mineshaft, leaving Dee at the center of a deadly mystery that could end her days as a motelier. And while Sylvan had plenty of enemies, Dee suddenly faces adversaries rooting against her own success. Now, with her life and the future of the Golden Motel hanging by a thread, Dee must unearth a minefield of suspects and outwit a greedy killer before she finally digs herself too deep . . .

 

Book Information

Solid Gold Murder (Golden Motel Mysteries)
Cozy Mystery
2nd in Series
Setting – California
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Kensington Cozies
Publication date ‏ : ‎ July 29, 2025
Print length ‏ : ‎ 272 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1496745388
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1496745385
Digital ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0DLR3TVJP

Snag your copy of Solid Gold Mystery at Amazon – Kensington – Bookshop.org – B&N – Hudson Books – Target – Walmart CHARACTER GUEST POSTDee Stern — Solid Gold Murder

You know how you sometimes get in the car and have the sudden urge to just keep driving? Hi, I’m Dee Stern, and one day I did exactly that.

I’m a twice-divorced sitcom writer whose career was on the downslide. I was losing my mind working on a crummy kids’ sitcom called “DUH!”, so one Friday, after a particularly miserable day rewriting a terrible script with my fellow unhappy writers, I took off after work and wound up in Foundgold, California, this tiny, picturesque village outside the southernmost entry point to Majestic National Park. I was driving from there to Goldsgone, a touristy restored miner’s village that borders Foundgold, when I saw this amazing retro redwood motel sitting in the middle of a pine tree forest. It was love at first sight, especially when I saw the beat-up “For Sale” sign hanging by a thread from the lobby screen door. I convinced my best friend Jeff, a techie from the Bay Area, to buy the Golden Motel with me and run it together.

We did our homework. The motel has a pool – although it needed refreshing, like every other aspect of the motel – a BBQ area, a rope swing, and more. There’s even a creek running behind it, plus there’s a lake for boating activities a few miles away. I’ve got great ideas for the motel’s future, as does Jeff. But truthfully, there couldn’t be two people who know less about the motel business or living in the country than the two of us lifelong city dwellers. Every time I hear a sound coming from the woods at night, I’m terrified that some wild animal will suddenly appear. I also have what I know is a ridiculous fear that behind every tree lurks a toothless crazy person wielding an ax. I’m working on getting over all of this because being scared of the outdoors is not a plus when you’re running a rural  motel.

Our plans for restoring the motel also bump up against the reality of being miles away from someplace as basic as a hardware store. There’s a terrific store… the only store… in Foundgold called Williker’s All-in-One. It’s a combination general store, bakery, cafe, bar, laundromat, and gas station, but it can only supply so much.  Another obstacle is that Jeff has taken on the job of hotel maintenance and he insists that you can find instructions for anything you need on the internet… forgetting that sometimes they’ll be in a foreign language and the translation will make absolutely no sense.

We’re also up against the locals, who call us “citiots” behind our backs – and sometimes to our faces! It’s a mashup of the words city and idiots used to define the incompetent yet superior visitors and part-time residents who often treat the full-time residents as dim-witted rubes. (We’re not like those people, we swear!) But our biggest problem may be that the motel backs up against Majestic National Park, meaning one of their annoying park rangers pokes his nose in our business an annoying number of times—especially when we find ourselves connected to a murder, like the case in SOLID GOLD MURDER where the body of one of our guests was found at the bottom of an abandoned gold mine.

Between running the motel and trying to solve murders that could doom its success, I spend a lot of time trying not to panic. But then I’ll look into the night sky crowded with millions of stars and inhale the heady aroma of the incredibly fresh, pine-scented area and remember what drew me to Foundgold in the first place. 

It sure beats L.A. traffic!

Solid Gold Murder Author Ellen Byron

 

Ellen is a bestselling author, Anthony nominee, and recipient of multiple Agatha and Lefty awards for her Cajun Country Mysteries, Vintage Cookbook Mysteries,  Catering Hall Mysteries (as Maria DiRico), and Golden Motel Mysteries. She is also an award-winning playwright and non-award-winning writer of TV hits like Wings, Just Shoot Me, and Fairly OddParents, but considers her most impressive achievement working as a cater-waiter for Martha Stewart.

A native New Yorker, Ellen is a graduate of Tulane University and lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, daughter, and a rotating crew of rescue pups.

Learn more about Ellen by clicking any of the following links: Her Website, Facebook, and Instagram.Visit all the Stops on the Solid Gold Murder Tour!

July 30 –  The Plain-Spoken Pen  – REVIEW – RECIPE

July 31 –  Christy’s Cozy Corners  – REVIEW

August 1 –  Books, Ramblings, and Tea  – SPOTLIGHT

August 1 –  Jody’s Bookish Haven  – SPOTLIGHT 

August 2 –  The Mystery of Writing  – CHARACTER GUEST POST

August 3 –  Cozy Up With Kathy  – REVIEW

August 3 –  FUONLYKNEW  – SPOTLIGHT

August 4 –  Ruff Drafts  – SPOTLIGHT

August 4 –  Sarah Can’t Stop Reading Books  – REVIEW

August 5 –  Maureen’s Musings  – SPOTLIGHT

August 5 –  Sarandipity’s  – AUTHOR INTERVIEW

August 6 –  Salty Inspirations  – CHARACTER INTERVIEW

August 6 –  Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book  – REVIEW

August 7 –  Socrates Book Reviews  – SPOTLIGHT

August 7 –  MJB Reviewers  – SPOTLIGHT

August 8 –  View from the Birdhouse  – REVIEW

August 9 –  Boys’ Mom Reads!  – AUTHOR GUEST POST

August 9 –  Elizabeth McKenna – Author  – SPOTLIGHT

August 10 –  Sapphyria’s Book Reviews  – SPOTLIGHT

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Solid Gold Murder: A Golden Motel Mystery appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Echoes on the Wind: Romantic Suspense

Echoes on the Wind, The Maggie O’Shea Suspense Series by Helaine Mario [image error]

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

Echoes on the Wind

TWO STRONG WOMEN, GENERATIONS APART, CONNECTED BY MUSIC…

In 1943 war-torn France, a young woman on the Night Train to Paris has a chance meeting with two very different men who will change her life, setting in motion a Dual Timeline story that will resonate like ripples on water for generations to come.

Many years later, classical pianist Maggie O’Shea is drawn to Brittany by a long-lost letter from her French grandmother and the stirring music of Chopin, whispering like echoes across the years. But as Maggie discovers the secrets of her past, her life spirals out of control, threatening her upcoming wedding and those she loves.

Set against the backdrop of World War II France, Maggie learns her grandmother’s story, chord by chord, through Chopin’s emotional Preludes. And, in one shocking moment, Maggie’s love story will take a heart-breaking turn that will change her life and echo into her future.

Past and present converge in this haunting tale of loss and sacrifice, friendship and family, courage and survival – and the transcendent power of hope, music and love.

Praise for Echoes on the Wind:

“History, mystery and music. I love this series.”
~ Ellen Kirschman, Author of the award-winning Dot Meyerhoff mysteries

“I am loving it. Your lovely words are my path back to reading. Thank you.”
~ Book Reviewer, The Reading Frenzy

“Echoes on the Wind stands alone as a beautiful story… Beyond this is layered a second story of enduring love, of commitment. This story is set in another time and place. A story of family. The two stories are linked by family through time… healing, forgiveness and resolution are finally able to happen. Through all of this, the thread that held it together is the music, the art, and the poetry of the heart that poured forth.”
~ Karen Laird, Reviewer, Shade Tree Book Reviews

“Echoes on the Wind presents two love stories – one in the present day and one during World War II. It’s easy to root for Maggie and Michael as the main couple (and Clair and Charles in the past). This book is exemplary in its choice of topic or theme of the story. It is unique but still has strong appeal for most readers in its intended genre.”
~ Writers’ Digest Reviewer

Book Details:

Genre: Romantic Suspense
Published by: Suncoast Publishing
Publication Date: July 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 364
ISBN: 9781735184975 (ISBN10: 1735184977)
Series: A Maggie O’Shea Romantic Suspense, Book 4

To purchase your copy of Echoes on the Wind, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads
The Maggie O’Shea Romantic Suspense Series:




THE LOST CONCERTO
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
 

DARK RHAPSODY
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
 

SHADOW MUSIC
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads



Guest Post from Echoes on the Wind Author Helanie Mario

INSPIRATION FALLING FROM THE SKY    

There is always a Story Behind the Story.  Today, my personal Story Behind the Story is INSPIRATION, FALLING FROM THE SKY… 

WHERE DO IDEAS COME FROM?  Just think about the root word of INSPIRATION – ‘INSPIRE.’  To breathe in.  Every day we are breathing in the sights, sounds, touches and scents around us.  Inspiration is right there – we just need to recognize these gifts falling from the sky.  

INSPIRATION.   IT IS THE VERY FIRST QUESTION I AM ALWAYS ASKED:  Where does your inspiration come from – Who, or What, inspired you?

The WHO is easy – My son Sean asked for piano lessons when he was six.  He studied classical music for fifteen years, and we went from a ‘no piano home’ to a ‘grand piano home’ during that time.  Listening to him practice, I fell in love with classical music.  So when I was ready to write fiction, I wanted to write about what I love – Music.  Of course, my main character, Maggie O’Shea, had to be a classical pianist.  In each of my books I have chosen Classical Music that parallels Maggie’s emotional journey.  I feel that Music brings a soul and grace to my books.  As Maggie says, “Music tells our stories.”

I must also thank three women I never met who inspired me to write international suspense fiction – Helen MacInnes, Evelyn Anthony and Mary Stewart.  Not teachers, but writers – queens of espionage novels and romantic suspense from 1941 through the 80’s.  They taught me about page-turning suspense, layered characters, evocative settings, plot, courage and love – and they inspired me with their strong, heroic women characters.  

The women in my novels, Maggie O’Shea especially, are strong, intelligent, funny, accomplished and brave.  Women who somehow find the courage to do the right thing no matter what.  My character Maggie leads with her heart, and is inspired by Helen, Evelyn and Mary.

It is the ‘Who’ that inspires my Characters – sometimes by a single glimpse or moment…

A man doing a crossword puzzle on a train.

A woman in a museum, weeping as she gazes at a painting.

A friend with a 3-legged rescue golden retriever.

A boy all alone on a beach;  a game of chess in a park.

Just seize that moment, ask What if?  And a character will be born…

NOW, for the ‘WHAT’ that inspires me.

Music, of course.  Art.  Shakespeare, Ballet, Museums, Newspapers and Magazines, the Nightly News.  Conversations.  Cities.  Nature.  Acts of courage and kindness.  Everything we breathe in.  I’m guessing it’s the same for you.  

Memories and Travel can be a huge inspiration.  The right setting will add authenticity, and can set the tone, mood and atmosphere for a scene – sometimes even becoming a character.  An evocative setting will paint a picture with words.  For decades, I traveled internationally with my family, and I discovered that some places just speak to you.  Even before I wrote my first book, The Lost Concerto, I would visit a special place and think, this would make a spectacular scene for a book.  

I have learned that, for me, it is the ‘What’ that inspires Setting and Plot.

My only stand-alone suspense novel, FIREBIRD, was inspired by a beautiful antique brooch of a Firebird that my husband found for me in NYC’s Theatre District.

My only stand-alone suspense novel, FIREBIRD, was inspired by a beautiful antique brooch of a Firebird that my husband found for me in NYC’s Theatre District.

Memorable scenes from THE LOST CONCERTO, my first classical music suspense novel, were inspired while wandering off the beaten path in Paris and finding Chopin’s grave at Père Lachaise Cemetery – and the Bird Market near Notre Dame.  A mail order catalog gave me the idea for Maggie’s collection of Music tee-shirts.   And a memory of my first high school love gave Maggie her reason to go to Paris.

A visit to Vienna, the city of Music, led us to the stables of the beautiful Lipizzaner Stallions and resulted in one of my favorite scenes ever for DARK RHAPSODY.

SHADOW MUSIC’S most suspenseful scenes came from a Circle of Stones in Cornwall – and a visit to the Musée D’Orsay in Paris where I discovered Van Gogh’s moving Starry Night over the Rhône. 

In ECHOES ON THE WIND, Chopin’s Preludes and a haunting painting of a secluded cottage on the edge of the sea inspired Maggie’s search for the secrets of her grandmother’s WWII past, my first Dual Timeline.

I would be remiss if I did not share one more ‘What’ that never fails to inspire writers: Research.  A valuable lesson learned early on for me:  Research inspires Plot.  I wanted to write about a classical pianist and her music, but I could not find Middle C on a piano.  That meant Interviews.  Listening.  Reading.  Tours of Carnegie Hall and the Vienna Opera House (giving me a memorable scene in Dark Rhapsody featuring a Ghost Light).  At age 60, I even took piano lessons.  What we do for love…

And finally, well, sometimes there is just that inexplicable moment of Inspiration that Robin Williams called ‘A Little Spark of Madness.’ 

Read an excerpt of Echoes on the Wind:

Echoes On The Wind
OVERTURE

“Like so many things that matter, it began with an accident.”
David Ignatius, 12/28/98

NOVEMBER, 1943. THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS

Light and dark.

The bleak November landscape rushed past the train’s window. Black tree branches against the dark night sky, then a sudden flash of light. Then blackness again.

The blackout had claimed the streetlamps and cottage windows. Clair Rousseau stared out the rain-streaked glass, waiting for the next glimpse of light. A lone lantern. Car headlights tilted down, a sliver of gold beyond a cracked curtain. Sheet lightning over distant hills, a glimmer of light on water. But all she saw was the blurred, pale oval of her reflection staring back at her. Dark hair scraped back, framing huge eyes beneath winged brows, sharp cheekbones, the too-wide mouth.

No hint of the emotions flowing through her, except for the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes.

The dim, four-person compartment was cold, and she pulled her coat more tightly around her body. The seat beside her was still empty, thank God. Across from her, two German officers. One asleep, snoring loudly, his hands slack between thick gray-green uniformed knees. The other awake, a Gauloises cigarette clamped between thin lips, a jagged line of white scars marring his left cheek. The narrow fox-like face stared at her through thick round glasses and wreathes of curling blue smoke. His jacket was heavy with insignia, oak leaves, medals. Military Intelligence, she thought with a sudden chill. A high rank, SD or Abwehr. What was he thinking?

The watchful, unblinking eyes made her afraid. Like a snake’s eyes, waiting to strike. She looked away, forcing herself not to reach for her satchel, touch her identity papers for reassurance.

The carriage’s glassed door slid back and forth with an unnerving rattle as the train rocked around a bend. From the hallway came the sharp scent of burning coal, wafting back from the old steam engine several cars ahead. A cloud of steam billowed past the window like sudden fog.

She could feel the vibration beneath her, hear the rumble of the train’s wheels speeding along the tracks. The lonely call of a train whistle, echoing in the night. A quick flare of light, illuminating the rain like silver threads streaming down the window.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

Movement at the edge of her vision. A tall figure appeared in the hallway, beyond the door. Her chest tightened. Would she ever feel safe again?

A sharp crack of thunder, a sudden bright flash lighting her face.

“Mademoiselle Clair?”

Startled, her head came up. The stranger had stopped, was staring into the compartment. Across from her, the watchful German stiffened and slid pale eyes toward the voice.

Be careful.

There was something familiar about the gaunt face, the faint, questioning smile just visible above a thick woolen scarf. She stood quickly, stepping between the German and the carriage door to block the officer’s view.

“Oui,” she said softly, peering into the dim hallway. The man nodded and moved closer. Something about those gentle eyes, the arch of silver brows. Memory surged. Father Jean-Luc.

She flashed him a warning glance for silence and stepped into the train’s narrow corridor, closing the door firmly behind her. “Mon Père, is it really you?”

“Oui, ma petite, c’est moi.” The priest pulled the scarf down to offer a glimpse of his white Roman collar, then lost his smile as he gazed over her shoulder and saw the Germans. “But we cannot talk here. Come with me.”

He slipped a hand beneath her elbow and guided her to the end of the dark passageway, where an open exit door led across shifting metal plates to the train’s next car. She felt the sudden bite of night wind on her face, cold and wet with mist. Here the clatter of the train wheels was loud enough to hide their conversation.

They sheltered just inside the doorway, in the shadows, away from the rain. Outside, the countryside of France rushed by, then disappeared in a billow of black smoke. In the dim corridor, the planes of the priest’s face were lit by a tiny, flickering overhead bulb.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

The priest looked down at her, shook his head. “Little Clair Rousseau,” he murmured. “Now such a beautiful young woman. It’s been – what? – four years since we met? You were just thirteen, I think. Playing the piano in your parents’ apartment. Bach, yes? It was so beautiful, so stirring. I hope you are still playing?”

She shook her head. “You need hope to create music, Père.” She looked back toward her carriage compartment. The hallway was empty. “But I remember that day. The war was coming. You asked us to help you remove the stained-glass windows from Sainte-Chapelle. To save them from the bombing.”

“You were fearless, Clair. I remember watching you, swaying at the top of that impossibly high ladder. The morning light was coming through the stained glass, spilling over you like shimmering jewels. I’ll never forget it. I told myself, Clair means light, she is perfectly named.”

He leaned down. “And I can still see your sister, Elle – too young to help us, bien sûr – dancing around the altar.”

Her expression softened. “Elle loved to dance. It was the last happy day I can remember.” She lifted her eyes to his, took a breath. “Paris was another lifetime, Père.”

“You cannot lose hope,” he told her. “The glass pieces are in a safe place. Beauty and goodness cannot be destroyed. You will see the stained-glass windows back in Sainte-Chapelle when the war is over. I know it.”

She shook her head. “I wish I had your faith.”

“God has his plans. There is a reason we’ve met by chance on the night train to Paris.” Concern flashed in his eyes. “But you’ve been in Brittany? Dangerous times for a young woman to be traveling alone, Clair.”

She looked out at the black trees rushing past the doorway, and felt the blackness deep in her heart. “I am alone now, Père.”

“Mon Dieu. What happened?”

“My father knew that war was inevitable. Not long after we saved the glass my parents moved us from Paris to the coast near Saint-Malo to be safe. Such irony. They had no idea how dangerous Brittany would become. And then…”

She could not stop the sudden rush of tears that filled her eyes. “The Gestapo shot my father last year, in a retaliation roundup for an act of sabotage by the Resistance. He was with the Liberty Network, they had bombed a train track. He stepped forward, admitted it, hoping to save the others. But still they took thirty innocent people from our village, murdered them in the square.”

“Oh no, Clair.” The priest made a quick sign of the cross. “I am so sorry. And your mother, your sister?”

“I don’t know, Père. I was studying in Paris, I begged them to come stay with me. But Maman refused. When I returned last month to see them, the house was empty. They were just… gone. The neighbors said the Germans took them, in the night. The mayor was told they were being relocated to Poland.”

The priest paled. “Désolé. I will pray for their souls.”

Anger erupted, spilled out. “Prayers did not help my family! I have no time for prayer now. Or sorrow. Even avenging my father will have to wait. I need all my energy now to find my mother and my sister.”

He bent toward her. “I am afraid you are still too fearless for your own good. Tell me what you’re doing, little one.”

She turned once more to scan the dark hallway, then leaned closer. “I excelled in languages in my lycée studies these last years,” she whispered. “I am fluent in several languages, including German and English. I hope to find a new job, in the Hotel Majestic in Paris, where the German High Command is quartered. Then I will join the Resistance, find a way to get news of Maman and Elle. I must find them!”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, then put a hand on her shoulder.

“Perhaps I know of another way,” he murmured.

The sound of a door opening. Wavering shadows spilled into the train’s corridor. Then the red glow of a cigarette, a spiral of smoke. She froze as the German officer turned toward them.

“Find me at Èglise Saint-Gervais, in the Marais,” the priest whispered quickly. “I am with the Resistance there. You could work with me, we need someone like you to –”

A sudden terrifying screech of metal wheels. Clair felt herself thrown to the floor as the train braked, slammed to a shuddering stop. Stunned, Clair reached out, felt the still body of the priest beside her. “Mon Père…”

Shouts in German in the darkness, the clatter of heavy boots. When she raised her head she saw flashing blue lights against the night sky.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

PART 1

 

“An echo of the past…”
Victor Hugo

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

THE PRESENT
PERFORMING ARTS CENTER, MARTHA’S VINEYARD

 

Light and dark.

The stage was shadowed, lit only by a handful of overhead lights. One of the lights began to flicker, a bright flash illuminating Maggie O’Shea’s face for a brief moment, then casting her into darkness.

Maggie sat at the Bechstein grand piano, marveling at the power, the responsive touch, the unique tone of the beautiful instrument. Prokofiev deserves no less, she thought.

The score propped above the keyboard was marked by penciled notations, heavy lines, arrows and slashes. Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 2 was the ultimate challenge for a pianist, but Maggie had chosen it because it was so emotional, so personal. So incredibly beautiful.

It has the most to say, she thought.

And, oh, she had so much she wanted to say. Always, since she’d been a young child whose bare feet did not yet reach the pedals, she had spoken through her music. Told the piano her secrets long before she told anyone else.

Her earliest memory was of being curled beneath the grand piano, listening to her mother play, surrounded – cradled – by music. Then later, sitting on the piano bench by her mother’s side. The smoothness of the keys beneath tiny fingers, the sound that seemed to magically flow from her shoulders to her fingertips. Seeing the colors, making the piano sing. Making the rest of the world disappear.

But this piece – face it, every piece lately – was giving her trouble. Something, some emotion, was just out of reach. Her mentor, the legendary pianist Gigi Donati, would say she was taking the easy way out by mastering technique but not the emotion. She could hear Gigi’s smoky, exasperated voice in the shadows. No, no, no! You are not growing, Maggie, your music is lifeless. Imagine you are kissing your lover goodbye for the last time. What do you feel? Now, again!

Maggie sighed. She had been playing the first movement for an hour, with nary a lover in sight. Without Espressivo, as Gigi would demand. She would say, You don’t know the music yet. Take the time. Grow with the music. Illuminate its secrets. Make it yours.

The light high above the stage flickered again, slipping her out of the light into darkness.

Light and dark, thought Maggie. The story of my music. The story of my life.

She closed her eyes, took a deep, shaky breath, and began to play the next phrase of music.

Look into the heart of the music, whispered Gigi from behind her. Find its light. Find its soul.

A few more chords, and suddenly Maggie’s fingers stiffened, locked, slipped off the keys. Shaking her head, she gathered the sheet music and dropped it to the bench.

I just can’t, Gigi. I know what’s wrong, why I can’t play. I just don’t know how to fix it.

But deep down, she did know. What she needed was to feel. But once again, part of her was frozen.

You will not give up, she told herself. You have so much joy waiting for you. Raising her left hand to stretch tensed tendons, the engagement ring on her finger flashed emerald in the theater lights.

The flash of emerald green in a shadowed cabin. The memory washed over her and once again she was back in the moment. She saw Michael’s face, as craggy and strong as the mountains he loved, his granite eyes locked on hers.

What are you doing, Michael?

It’s called offering you a ring, Maggie. The color of your eyes, the color of the mountains. It’s been hidden in my sock drawer for months.

I know it’s a ring. I mean… What are you doing?

Jumping off a cliff, it seems. Don’t make me get down on one knee, darlin’. I’ll never get back up.

Silver eyes blazing like a torch. Marry me, Maggie.

I… You… Oh, Love.

I’ll take that as a yes, ma’am.

She smiled. Colonel Michael Jefferson Beckett. A man who had fallen in love with her when he didn’t want to, a man she hadn’t wanted to love back.

And yet.

It just was. Like music. And right this minute he was back in those beloved mountains of his, at his cabin in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. Working on a secret project, he’d told her, with Dov, the Russian teenager in his care.

She pictured the battered, rugged face she knew so well. The quirk of his mouth, the spiky silver brows, eyes like river stones locked on her. His stillness, as if he was carved from the mountains he loved. The way he listened…

Michael, standing behind her, wrapping her naked body in a woven blanket.

Michael, beneath her in the shadowed bedroom, whispering her name against her lips while her hair fell like dark rain around his face.

She breathed out in a long sigh. It had been an emotional several months but now, finally, she was letting go of the past. Moving on. Ready to marry again. To spend the rest of her life with the Colonel, Dov and their rescue Golden, Shiloh. She had never expected this gift, this second chance at love.

She shook her head, barely recognizing the woman she’d become. For so long she’d thought of herself as a city-girl. But the small cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains was becoming her center. Her home. She heard music differently in the quiet of the mountains. Listened better.

Suddenly wanting to hear Michael’s voice, she dialed his cell. Message.

“Hey you, it’s me,” she whispered. “Call me tonight, I’ll wait up. I have so much to tell you.”

If only…

If only she didn’t have to tell Michael the secret she’d been keeping from him these past few weeks. That once again, a vicious murderer was threatening all she held dear. Dane, with his scarred, wolf-like face and mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes. The one nightmare she could not put behind her.

Because now Dane was back in her life.

 

+ + +

 

Over 4,500 miles to the East, the man who called himself Dane could not sleep. Still hours before dawn, shadows lay sharp across the tiles of the villa’s bedroom, angling from the terrace doors. Dane sat in a cushioned chair, crutches propped beside him, staring out the glass at the black Aegean far below – waiting for the sun’s light to spill over the horizon and fill the dark water with gold.

A sudden shift of the moon, and he caught his breath at his reflection in the window. All the mirrors in the villa had been shattered years ago, by his own hand. As shattered as his life. Now, caught off guard, he stared at the disfigured face of the stranger wavering in the glass.

Without warning his mind flung him back several years. He had been standing in the Kennedy Center’s Grand Foyer, his French knife secure under his tuxedo jacket, when he had caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tall and god-like, he’d had muscles that rippled beneath the silk, a strong carved face, flowing hair the color of wheat, streaked by the Provençal sun. A diamond in his left ear, mirrored aviator glasses that hid tiger-colored eyes. His stride had been long, fast and as powerful as the Jaguar he drove.

And then he had crossed paths with Magdalena O’Shea.

First, the badly burned hand, thanks to an encounter with Magdalena’s Colonel at a Provençal abbey. He held up his right hand, now encased in a tight black glove. Then the botched plastic surgery in Italy after being forced into hiding. The scarred, distorted face, the loss of an eye. And then, months later… He looked down at his withered legs. The fall. The sickening feeling of spinning into the void. The excruciating pain that followed. The months of unbearable physical therapy.

All because of one woman. Magdalena O’Shea.

He glanced at his Rolex. Early evening in the states. Firas should have arrived in Martha’s Vineyard by now. He smiled. Until the time came, Firas would be his legs.

The image in the glass wavered, dissolved, and Dane turned away. “For death remembered should be like a mirror,” he whispered. “Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.”

***

Excerpt from Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario. Copyright 2020 by Helaine Mario. Reproduced with permission from Helaine Mario. All rights reserved.

 

Echoes on the Wind Author Helaine Mario

Best-selling author Helaine Mario grew up in NYC and is a graduate of Boston University. Now living in Arlington, VA, this mother of two, grandmother of five, and passionate advocate for women’s and children’s issues came to writing later in life. Her first novel, The Lost Concerto, won the Benjamin Franklin Award Silver Medal. Echoes on the Wind is her fifth novel and the fourth in her Maggie O’Shea Classical Music Suspense Series.

Royalties from her books go to children’s music and reading programs. Helaine recently lost her husband, Ron, after 57 years together. Her new book echoes with loss, grief, and, ultimately, the healing power of love.

Catch Up With Helaine Mario:

HelaineMario.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @helainemario
Instagram – @helainemario.author
Facebook – @helaine.mario

 

 

Visit all the Stops on the Tour!

06/25 Novels Alive ECHOESON THE WIND Review

06/27Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books! ECHOES ON THE WIND Guest post

06/27 Books R UsECHOES ON THE WIND Review

06/28 GuatemalaPaula Loves to Read THE LOST CONCERTO Review

06/30Connie’s History Classroom ECHOES ON THE WIND Review

07/01 fuonlyknew ECHOES ONTHE WIND Guest post

07/09ECHOES ON THE WIND Showcase

07/11 SilversReviews ECHOES ON THE WIND Showcase

07/12 BookReviews From an Avid Reader ECHOES ON THE WIND Review

07/14 CountryMamas With Kids ECHOES ON THE WIND Review

07/16 AvonnaLoves Genres ECHOES ON THE WIND Review

07/22 Hott Books ECHOES ONTHE WIND Interview

07/24 Books,Ramblings, and Tea ECHOES ON THE WIND Showcase

07/24 The ARCritique ECHOES ON THE WIND Review

07/31elaine_sapp65 ECHOES ON THE WIND Review

08/01 TheMystery of Writing ECHOES ON THE WIND Guest post

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Echoes on the Wind: Romantic Suspense appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

They Came At Night: A Thriller

They Came at Night by Westley Smith

 

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

 

They Came at Night

In the five years since the fateful and horrific night that changed her life, Sandra Leigh has kept herself sequestered at the Compound, a trauma recovery/survival skill camp that helped her process her past and feel safe in the world again. Now, the time has come for her to face life outside the Compound, and that starts with a family road trip to rebuild the relationship she once had with her young niece.

A weekend at a rented cabin in the woods sounds idyllic, but Sandra begins to notice that things are off. Strange sounds and shadows, combined with a less-than-welcoming atmosphere at the nearby small town, put Sandra quickly on edge. Is it all just her paranoia coming into play, or is there something truly dangerous happening?

When her niece discovers a cryptic message hidden in the cabin’s guest book–THEY CAME AT NIGHT–Sandra realizes that her family is caught in the crosshairs of a heinously sinister plot, and she will need to call on all the skills she learned at the Compound to save them… if she can.

Praise for They Came At Night:

“A gripping, action-packed psychological thriller about a troubled woman whose quiet family reunion in a strange small town suddenly turns into a deadly nightmare. You’ll be cheering on every page as Sandra Leigh goes from being a victim to a heroic killing machine who will do whatever it takes to protect the ones she loves. Author Westley Smith really turns up the tension and the twists and the thrills in this fast-paced read all the way to the shocking ending.”
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson mystery series

“They Came At Night raises a harrowing question: what happens when the only things worse than the demons inside you are the demons outside you? When a weekend getaway turns into a chilling bloodbath, Westley Smith’s heroine, Sandra Leigh, must battle her own familiar fears while facing unspeakable new ones. This is a thriller that lives up to the name: a tale that grips you and pulls you relentlessly from one page to the next as you race toward its nerve-shattering climax.”
~ Charles Philipp Martin, author of the Inspector Lok novels Rented Grave and Neon Panic

“Tense and violent, Smith shows us how far a woman will go to protect her own… Action-packed but filled with heart… Sandra Leigh is the best kind of kick-ass female lead. Smart, fearless, and not afraid to get dirty to protect those she loves.”
~ Elena Taylor, award-winning, best selling author

“Taut. Intriguing. Scary as hell… so be careful who you terrorize. Retribution is brutal.”
~ Tj O’Connor, award-winning author of The Whisper Legacy

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Thriller/Action Hybrid
Published by: Watertower Hill Publishing
Publication Date: May 27, 2025
Number of Pages: 336

To purchase your copy of They Came at Night, click any of the following links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Watertower Hill Publishing

They Came at Night Author Guest Post

MEETING DEADLINES

By

Westley Smith

Meeting deadlines can seem like a monumental task. 

For writers just starting in the industry, deadlines can be intimidating, and those feelings of dread begin to creep in, leaving them to wonder if they can meet the due date set by a publisher.  

I’m here to tell you that they don’t have to be that way. 

Deadlines are something every writer must deal with, whether it’s a short story contest, a blog article (like I’m writing now), or a novel; you can’t escape them. They are part of the job, like them or not. 

However, you don’t have to fear them. And, if you embrace them, they can be fun.

Let me explain. 

I set a daily deadline for myself. When I’m working on a new book or short story, I put a daily word count on myself. For novels, that daily word count is three thousand words. For short stories, it could be significantly less, depending on the publisher’s requests. My goal every day is to hit my word count, regardless.

My daily deadline.

I’ve done this for years, even before I was a published author and was working on projects that weren’t going anywhere but to collect dust and decay in my filing cabinet. I did this because I knew that one day I would have to meet a deadline. I treated even my unpublishable material as if it were about to be published. It was good practice and prepared me for what was to come.

I even go so far as to set a due date for my first draft of a novel. I give myself three months to complete the first draft. If I hit my daily target of three thousand words, I can easily reach that goal. I then set a goal of two months to complete the second draft. And finally, a month to complete the third, before it goes off to the editor. 

For short stories, I write the first draft in about a week. Then I do a rewrite in the second week. By the third week, it’s ready to go to the publisher, most of the time, long before the due date. 

Sometimes hitting my daily deadlines is harder than others. Life gets in the way. The words aren’t coming. You’re tired and want to go back to bed, watch TV, or dive into that book you were reading because it’s easier than sitting at a computer pulling stuff out of the ether. 

You can’t do that.  You have to push through. I detest procrastination. 

You don’t have to set a word count as high as mine. But if you consistently meet your personal deadline, it begins to feel like a game you’re playing against yourself, and can even become enjoyable. It’s like throwing darts and hitting the bullseye every time. 

Happy writing. 

 
Read an excerpt of They Came at Night:

CHAPTER ONE

Sandra Leigh hadn’t felt the phantom pain for several years—the perception of discomfort in a limb that was no longer there. But after receiving a phone call from her sister two weeks ago, the ghostly ache of her severed left ring finger had returned.

Hey, Sissy. William and I are renting a house with Emalyn for the weekend. We’d love for you to join us, Carrie had said in her normal chipper tone.

Was the pain telling her something? Perhaps a warning that she wasn’t ready for a weekend excursion with her family just yet. Should she have declined the invitation and stayed hidden in the mountains of West Virginia, at the Compound, where she was safe from… well, everything since the attack?

Now, sitting in the rear seat of her brother-in-law’s Toyota Sequoia, heading to the rental home Carrie had booked for their weekend gathering, these questions floated through her mind as she tried soothing the tingling sensation away from what remained of her finger.

Her brother-in-law, William, was driving, and Carrie, her elder sister of ten years, sat in the passenger seat. Beside Sandra, her fifteen-year-old niece, Emalyn, scrolled through her phone.

What were you thinking, Sandra? You’re not ready for this.

The suture scar across the tip of her nub wiggled like a worm on a hook as if confirming her thoughts.

“I’m so glad you decided to come, Sissy,” Carrie said, turning in the passenger seat, her Carolina-blue eyes twinkling with excitement, looking forward to their weekend.

This was the first time they had done anything together as a family since he attacked her while on the way to Carrie’s house.

 

West Chester University, where she was studying music education, focusing on piano, had ordered all students and staff to return home in March 2020, fearing the threat of spreading COVID-19.

Nearly an hour into her two-hour drive, the driver’s-side rear tire of her Toyota Corolla blew, leaving Sandra stranded in the middle of nowhere. Not knowing how to change a tire, she contacted AAA on her cell phone, feeling lucky to have gotten a signal at least. The operator told her they were sending someone out to make the repairs.

Five minutes later, the swirling yellow lights of an approaching tow truck cut the night. Relieved, knowing the tire would be fixed and she’d soon be on her way, Sandra had gotten out to greet the repairman.

But when the tow truck door opened with a rusty reeeek, and his snake-skin boots hit the frozen ground, Sandra felt a shift in the air that raised the gooseflesh from her toes to her scalp and caused a fear-hardening of her nipples.

Something wasn’t right.

“You the one who called about the flat tire?”

 

“Me too,” Sandra replied unenthusiastically, trying to suppress the horrible memory of that night unfolding in her mind.

Carrie smiled reassuringly as if she understood Sandra’s hesitation to participate in the family trip.

You don’t.

The sunlight breaking through the dense forest canopy caught Carrie’s gold wedding band and cast a circulating light that made Sandra squint. The tingling sensation intensified as if a thousand tiny needles were simultaneously jabbing the tip of a finger that was no longer there—a memento of their night together.

Mixed feelings of irritation, envy, and sadness tightened her chest. She’d never be able to wear a wedding ring—not like an ordinary wife with all ten fingers, not like Carrie could.

Averting her gaze to the Mudmaster GG1000-1A5 watch strapped to her left wrist, Sandra saw it was almost noon. They had been in the car for about two hours. The watch’s compass told her they were heading northwest to Little Hope, Pennsylvania.

The ride had been uneventful and quiet, which Sandra was thankful for. She didn’t want to discuss what had happened, and she especially didn’t want to discuss her life over the last five years living and working at the Compound.

But you’re going to have to. You know that.

She did. The subject would come up this weekend. How could it not? It was the elephant in the room.

“Mom.” Emalyn spoke for the first time in over an hour. Sitting forward, she pushed her round glasses up the bridge of her nose and fidgeted in her seat. “How much longer until we get there?”

“Five more minutes, hon,” Carrie replied in a teasing, breathy mom tone.

She winked at Sandra playfully.

Emalyn rolled her dark eyes and sat back in the seat with a sigh, blowing a tuft of her curly brown hair out of her face. She scrolled through her phone several times before tiring of whatever had held her undivided attention for most of the ride and shifting her bored gaze to the passing forest.

Emalyn appeared very attached to her phone. Sandra wondered why Carrie, an elementary school teacher, wasn’t putting a stop to it. She had to know phone addiction was a real thing, something Sandra had learned from experience once she gave up using one herself.

In Sandra’s five-year absence, Emalyn had turned from a chubby-cheek ten-year-old child who loved drawing and coloring, chicken nuggets with ketchup, and Percy Jackson into a budding young woman she didn’t recognize and no longer knew. Her niece had spoken little during the drive, and the space between them had filled with an uncomfortable heaviness, like sitting next to a stranger on a tour bus.

Hell, you are practically strangers at this point.

This bothered Sandra. She had been close with her niece, nearly inseparable, before leaving everything—family, friends, school, her life, what was left post-attack—behind to join the Compound.

According to Carrie, Emalyn’s recollection of the loving, caring, always-there Aunt Sonnie—a nickname given to her when Emalyn was learning to say Aunt Sandy—was vague. To expect Emalyn to welcome Sandra back into her life as if nothing had changed between them was unrealistic.

And everything had changed. Sandra knew that happy, fun-loving, liberal college girl who was so optimistic about her future, looking forward to maybe playing piano for a symphony (if she was lucky) or teaching in a classroom like Carrie (if she wasn’t), had died that cold March night along the side of the road.

Can’t play or teach piano with only nine fingers.

She took a deep breath that rattled in her throat and looked out the window, hoping to quell the thoughts from her mind along with the irritating phantom pains. A metal For Sale sign at the mouth of a stone driveway caught her attention. A magnetic SOLD! was stuck across the front.

The colonial house sat partially hidden in dense woods about fifty feet from the main highway. The home wasn’t quite dilapidated, but it needed serious rehab. She wondered how much the buyer had paid for it, knowing the work needed to make it livable.

Twenty-five yards further up the road, she saw another For Sale sign with another magnetic SOLD! across the front. This home was a double-wide trailer about to fold in on itself. Then, across the road, she saw yet another For Sale sign by a dirt driveway. This property was also marked SOLD!, though the house, a rancher, appeared in better shape than the previous two.

Why were so many properties sold on this stretch of the highway? Had the pandemic hit the area hard? It was possible. Many people had lost their homes while the world was shut down.

“You said this place was outside of a town called Little Hope, but you never said how you found it,” Sandra said, looking away from the rancher as they passed.

“Online,” Carrie replied, sweeping a long strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “A website called R&R.”

“R&R?”

“Rest and Relax,” Carrie said. “It’s like Airbnb, but the site focuses on families looking for houses big enough to vacation together.”

Hearing that Carrie had used a website to rent the house gave Sandra the heebie-jeebies. Corporations couldn’t be trusted to keep personal information from falling into the wrong hands.

“William chose the house. I can’t wait for you to see it, Sissy.”

Carrie’s blue eyes flicked to her husband with tender admiration. Even after fifteen years of marriage, her sister still swooned over William. Carrie’s wedding ring caught the sunlight again, pulling Sandra’s eyes back to it. The tip of her ghost finger twitched. She rubbed the nub, reminding her of its absence… of everything he had taken from her.

“I thought if there were any chance of getting you to come along this weekend, it would have to be somewhere remote, private,” William said, shifting his dark brown eyes onto Sandra in the rearview mirror. At forty-seven, he was strikingly handsome, with short gray hair and a stubble of matching beard growth that she wasn’t used to seeing him with.

“We’ll be alone up there, surrounded by woods with hiking trails.” He glanced at her in the mirror again and smiled.

Was he looking for her approval? A pat on the back for thinking of her and her growing distrust of civilization since the attack? Not knowing how to respond, Sandra just nodded.

A ding on William’s cell phone caused him to shift his gaze to the center console, where his mobile rested in the cup holder. The GPS map was open on the screen, leading the way to their rental home.

“Can you check that?” William asked.

“I am happy you decided to join us, Sissy,” Carrie said again, picking William’s phone up.

How Carrie kept saying Sissy rubbed Sandra the wrong way. There wasn’t necessarily a fakeness in her cadence—it was what Carrie had always called her, but now it felt forced, like her sister was tiptoeing around something.

Is she wondering if I’m… mentally stable?

By the fall of 2020, while the rest of the world was worrying if they were next on the virus’s hitlist, Sandra had grown increasingly paranoid, convinced he was coming for her.

He was still out there, free to roam the desolate highways looking for other stranded females. His essence had invaded her like a malignant organism—a constant presence in her mind, leaving her to wonder why she’d been chosen to be his victim as if she were picked from some fucked-up lottery drawn by the devil.

She had quit college in the spring and had gone completely dark by that summer, deleting her social media accounts, closing her emails, and dropping her phone carrier so he couldn’t track her down using the phone’s GPS.

She didn’t know if he had the skills to hack into her digital life, but she couldn’t take that chance, and she didn’t trust Facebook, Google, or Verizon to keep her personal information safe from a savvy and determined psychopath looking to hunt her down. She even considered changing her name for an extra measure of protection.

This consuming obsession, which had caused her to lock herself away in the guest room of her sister’s house with the shades drawn, had finally led Sandra to seek professional help to deal with the emotional fallout of the attack. She couldn’t deal with the mental torment and the fear of him for the rest of her life.

Using Carrie’s laptop (so she didn’t leave a digital footprint of her own), she started an online search for therapy centers. That’s when Sandra had stumbled across what she knew immediately was her salvation.

The Compound—an unconventional rehabilitation center in the hills of West Virginia operated by ex-Navy SEAL Joel Conrad.

When she told her family of her plans to join the Compound, they objected to what they considered her rash decision. Janis, her mother, was certain the Compound was some militia group looking to overthrow the government to keep then-President Trump in power, which Sandra found asinine but something her faux-liberal-minded, CNN-watching mother would say and believe.

Carrie and William begged her not to leave, offering to let her live with them and pay for therapy for as long as needed. But she couldn’t stay. If she did, she risked herself, and more importantly, her family’s lives, positive that when he found her, he’d kill all of them.

Carrie dropped the phone into the cup holder, snapping Sandra back to reality. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably and felt the Smith &Wesson Model 442 revolver tucked into the rear of her pants press against her spine.

She’d never be helpless to defend herself again.

“Everything okay?” William asked with a concerned glance.

“It was Devin.” Carrie shook her head, frustrated. “He said they got hung up but are on their way.”

William had a twenty-three-year-old son from a previous marriage. From her chat with Carrie about the trip, Sandra knew that Devin and his girlfriend were also joining them for the weekend.

She didn’t know the girlfriend’s name and didn’t care enough to ask. She wasn’t planning on spending time with them anyway. She had other priorities this weekend, like rekindling her relationship with her sister. And especially with Emalyn.

It was why Sandra had decided to come along, despite her fears, the anxiety running the gamut, and the persistent phantom pains. The attack hadn’t just affected her life but the lives of those around her, too.

Well, except for maybe her mother, who didn’t seem too bothered by the whole ordeal. Then again, she never made that much of a fuss over anything that happened in her second daughter’s life, including when it was almost taken.

“It’s already noon. That means they won’t get here until…” Carrie trailed off.

William shook his head but didn’t say anything—the silence of a disappointed father. Carrie took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Sandra looked out the window and saw another SOLD property, though there was no house in sight, and again found it weird that so much land had been sold off.

“Mom, I have to pee.”

“Five more—”

“Mom, I really have to go,” Emalyn whined.

“Well, you’re in luck, kiddo,” William said. “We just arrived in Little Hope.”

A one-way stone bridge was quickly approaching. Beyond it, Sandra saw a town tucked into the forest hills. A small sign on the bridge’s right side read:

WELCOME TO LITTLE HOPE.

As they crossed the bridge, Sandra glanced into the creek gully. Four scruffy-looking boys stood on the bank, watching the Sequoia enter the town with stares so unwelcoming that her nub began to thump as if it were a warning.

***

Excerpt from They Came At Night by Westley Smith. Copyright 2025 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

They Came at Night Author Westley Smith

Westley Smith had his first short story, “Off to War,” published when he was just sixteen. He is, more recently, the author of two horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve, as well as the crime thrillers Some Kind of Truth and In The Pale Light. His short fiction has been published in various magazines and websites. Wes lives with his wife and two dogs in the beautiful woodlands of southern Pennsylvania–the perfect place to hide a body.

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

WestleySmithBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @wssmith100
Instagram – @wsmithbooks
Facebook – @westleysmith100
Watertower Hill Publishing

Tour Participants:
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

Don’t Miss Out! Enter Now for Your Chance to Win!
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Westley Smith. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
THEY CAME AT NIGHT by Westley Smith {Gift Card}

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor



 

The post They Came At Night: A Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Florida Palms: A Debut Thriller

Florida Palms by Joe Pan

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

The Outsiders meet Sons of Anarchy in this gripping debut about a group of young men dragged into a drug-running operation.

It’s 2009, the height of the Great Recession. Best friends Eddy, Cueball, and Jesse are fresh out of high school and wild at heart, but the economy is in the dumps. With jobs scarce along Florida’s Space Coast, they join a furniture-moving company run by Cueball’s father, a gruff ex-con biker who’s supposedly retired from the fast life. But when a mysterious old boss arrives in town, the payload is switched out, and the young men are coerced into shipping a new designer drug up the East Coast.

What is advertised as a bastion of brotherhood and respect quickly spirals into back-alley deals, bloodshed, and an all-out turf war that will test the bounds of love and friendship. Enticed by larger paychecks, and fueled by burgeoning drug habits, the young friends find themselves trapped between rank opportunists, warring gangsters, meth zombies, crazed bikers, and a blowgun-wielding hitman, all vying for a shot at the big time.

Soaring, ambitious, and deeply humane, Florida Palms is a gritty coming-of-age story with enormous heart and an unflinching vision of the violence and inequities facing forgotten communities. In a relentless race against desperate circumstances, the young friends must fully embrace the crime life or abandon their loyalties and risk ending up face down in the muck of the unforgiving swamps.

One of CrimeReads’s Most Anticipated Books of 2025

“If Florida is purgatory with a sun, Florida Palms exposes what happens to the young men who grow up in the shadows—a tightly plotted page-turner filled with gangsters, brotherhood, and betrayal. Joe Pan is an extraordinarily skilled writer, but his genius is his empathy, understanding that good people sometimes do bad things. What if you turned eighteen in the wrong neighborhood and found yourself surrounded by drug dealers, bikers, and eccentric hitmen? These are characters no reader will forget.”—Alexander Boldizar, author of The Man Who Saw Seconds

“Florida Palms offers up a crew of freewheeling philosophers on bikes, whose cynicism and violence—and the bizarre, hilarious screeds by which they justify themselves—are counterbalanced by the naive, heartbreaking humanity of the young men swept along in their wake. Pan’s love for Florida and its rougher, neglected corners is evident and intoxicating.”—Stephanie Soileau, author of Last One Out Shut Off the Lights

“Thrilling, suspenseful, and intricately plotted, Florida Palms shines an unsparing light on the tenuous, violent lives of young men trying to survive in a world that does not want—or see—them. Joe Pan, writing with urgency, vision, and uncommon empathy, does not turn away from these fractured and fragile lives, and neither should we.”—Elizabeth Wetmore, New York Times Bestselling author of Valentine

Purchase your copy of Joe Pan’s debut novel at: Bookshop.org, Amazon, and B&N.Florida Palms — Interview with Joe Pan Florida Palms is both crime fiction and coming of age. How do those two genres work together for your debut?

Well, the novel focuses on a group of poor young Florida kids who get swept up in a drug-running operation headed by one of their fathers, an ex-con biker who served his time in San Quentin before going straight—at least for a time. So we get to see these kids come of age in a time of desperation, at the height of the Great Recession, the promise of jobs and housing stolen from them. With few options, they turn to criminality.

What’s interesting perhaps about the combination of genres is that we get to watch them deal with becoming adults as they struggle with big life-changing questions of morality while they’re still trying to figure out who they are, at a basic level.

Another great point of tension is between a young Cueball and his father Bird, one of the kingpins of a newly formed “club” that’s part biker gang part drug cartel. Cueball is wary of running drugs for his old man but doesn’t see a way out of it, so we get to watch familial scuffles threaten to take down everyone at once.

 

Tell us about Eddy, Cueball, and Jesse, equal protagonists in Florida Palms . What would you like readers to know about the trio?

There’s young kids like them in every small town in America, kids fresh out of high school and looking for work while also hoping to preserve some element of their youth. They want to throw wild parties and have sex and fuck around, but now they’ve got all this responsibility thrown in their laps, and they’re bound by economic circumstances to accept whatever job they’re handed—be it roofing or construction or moving furniture—or fashion out of pure instinct of self-preservation a living wage doing whatever they must.

This was a solid set up for gray moral areas and ethical dilemmas, which is something foisted upon them—no high school counselor ever champions the benefits of becoming a drug runner. It’s all circumstance and proximity and economics. I’d like folks to remember that criminals are often just people lacking in options, working with a bravery most of us will never be asked to dig down to utilize or interrogate.

 

Florida Palms is set in 2009. Why did you choose that year for your debut?

It’s the height of the Great Recession, which I remember well. My grandmother’s tiny house in West Melbourne, Florida, was suddenly worth $20,000, and whole neighborhood was for sale. Lots of foreclosures and job layoffs, people scrambling. A perfect set-up for a new designer drug to hit the market.

 

Tell us about your road to publishing Florida Palms :

It took over two decades to get my novel to this place. I’ve rewritten it a hundred times at least. That’s not hyperbole. Not that it was the only thing I worked on, I’ve published five poetry books and some nonfiction and have written other novels I’m reworking now, but it was my true love and I wanted it to be my first piece of longform fiction because it’s closest to my heart, and contains a lot of stories from my childhood.

 

You are the founding publisher and editor-in-chief of Brooklyn Arts Press. How did you come to launch that project and what kind of work do you publish?

I began BAP with my own book. Yep, I’m a self-published indie author, and proud of it. I sent my poetry book out to other authors, and they wrote back! It was incredible.

I was living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and everyone was doing their own DIY project. Dancers starting their own dance companies, filmmakers their own production companies, artists their own magazines and art galleries. I began approaching artists and writers about doing books and it just grew out of my desire to work with them, while I hacked away at my own prose and poetry.

We got a lot of press for a National Book Award win and after that I bought another publishing company, Augury Books, and did that for a while. When I moved out to LA I decided I was going all in on writing fiction, and hit the brakes on the publishing.

 

What’s something about you that we won’t find in a press package?

I have an insane collection of Garbage Pail Kids, which few people know was created from the glorious mind of artist and Pulitzer Prize winner Art Spiegelman. 

 

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

Those who don’t quit and make writing a business will find their place in literature.

It’s a daily habit, a ritual, and you must work at it like a job. You will probably not make money at it but you will build a spirit, and a voice, and a curiosity that will help you see into an active historical present that is mostly lies and mostly fog for others.

Florida Palms Debut Author Joe Pan

Joe Pan’s debut novel, Florida Palms, is forthcoming from Simon & Schuster in July 2025 and has been optioned for a TV series by HBO.

Author of five poetry collections, Pan’s work has appeared in such publications as the Boston Review, Hyperallergic, the New York Times, the Philadelphia Review of Books, and Poets & Writers, and has been profiled in the New York Post, Publishers Weekly, the Rumpus, and the Wall Street Journal.

Joe is the founding publisher and editor-in-chief of Brooklyn Arts Press, a small press honored with a National Book Award in Poetry, and is publisher of Augury Books, honored with a Lambda Literary Award in Lesbian Poetry. With his wife he co-founded Brooklyn Artists Helping (BAH), which serves unhoused populations with sleeping bags, backpacks, and goods. He lives in Hollywood, California.

Follow Joe’s author journey by clicking any of the following links: Website, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok.

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Florida Palms: A Debut Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Blood and Treasure: Debut Thriller

Blood and Treasure by debut author Ryan Pote

Author Interview + Book & Author Info!Don’t miss any ITW Debut Author interviews! Click the link here.Blood and Treasure

The destruction of the International Space Station and the discovery of an ancient scroll are inextricably intertwined in this debut crossover thriller from a former Navy helicopter pilot.

The International Space Station suddenly loses contact with Earth. When a NASA tech devises a way to restore the feed, the images that come through are unfathomable: a scene of terrible violence, the crew unresponsive, droplets of blood hovering in zero gravity. But which of the astronauts on board would have done such a thing? And why?

Off the coast of Mozambique, former special ops pilot and current treasure hunter Ethan Cain sees something he can’t believe: an object shot out of the heavens plunging deep into the Indian Ocean. When he goes to investigate, it becomes even less intelligible. A space capsule has crashed into the sea, and inside is a woman—alone, unconscious, and injured. Ethan knows he must save her. What he doesn’t know is who she is, how she got there . . . or why she’s the only survivor of a killing spree conducted 254 miles up in the sky.

Praise for Blood and Treasure“Ryan Pote’s Blood and Treasure is the must-read debut thriller of 2025. Evoking equal parts Clive Cussler and Tom Clancy, this novel is high-speed, high-stakes, and relentlessly entertaining.”
—Mark Greaney, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Midnight Black“A superbly crafted story of action and secrets that is as imaginative as it is compelling. Take a breath, hang on, and enjoy.”
—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Medici Return“An adrenaline-fueled thriller of the first order, Blood and Treasure blazes with action and intrigue in a harrowing chase for history’s greatest artifact.”
—Dirk Cussler, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Clive Cussler The Corsican Shadow“Blood and Treasure has it all – tactical accuracy, globe-trotting locales, a touch of history, and a hero who’s a mix of Indiana Jones and Jason Bourne – it’s a sure-fire page turner that’ll keep you awake long after bedtime.”
—Brad Taylor, New York Times bestselling author of the Pike Logan Series“Blood and Treasure slams the throttle to the fire wall in this gut-punching, white-knuckled techno-thriller ride in a big adventure that catapults from the cold void of space to the deserts of the ancient prophets. Piloted by several fresh and original characters, Ryan Pote’s debut novel pushes the story’s airframe to its max in a series of rivet-busting plot twists more harrowing than an Immelmann turn in a helicopter. Strap in, hold on, and grit your teeth as you careen toward the sudden impact of the climactic ending.”
—Mike Maden, New York Times bestselling author of Clive Cussler Ghost SoldierTo purchase your copy click either link: Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

 

Interview with Debut Author Ryan PoteBlood and Treasure starts off with a killing spree in space. How did you come up with that opening event for your debut novel?

I read a lot of Michael Crichton growing up, which heavily influenced this kind of opening. I had this big, bold idea for an opening I’d never seen before—which is always a little writer’s gem—especially these days where it’s harder and harder to come up with something truly new and fresh. When I found the right story, it fit like a missing puzzle piece. I wanted to swing for the fences on the first page and drop the reader into the middle of a mysterious, disastrous situation, and let them learn what was going on along with everyone else. I couldn’t have written this book as my first book; I wasn’t good enough yet. To pull it off, I needed to write the three books before this that failed. They helped me grow into the writer I had to be to write this story the way I envisioned it.

Blood and Treasure features treasure hunter Ethan Cain. What would you like readers to know about him?

He’s not like any character you’ve read before. He is a disabled protagonist. He is the result of my trauma therapist urging me to journal my experiences while working through PTSD. I never wanted to write or be a writer. I couldn’t write about the classified operations and share them in a group setting, so she recommended I fictionalize them, create someone else, but keep the experiences and emotions true. The exercise helped me fight back from the pit of PTSD and gave me a new passion in life—writing. Ethan Cain is the result of my therapy. He is a memorial and a compilation, a remix tape, of me and two other friends. My helicopter was on fire and I very nearly burned to death, along with my entire crew. But I was lucky. My friends weren’t. One died in a V-22 crash in Hawaii and burned to death. Another friend was burned from the neck down in a crash during flight school. He was in body casts for 4 years. His injuries largely inspired Ethan Cain’s.   

Blood and Treasure is a thriller. Your “day job” has seen you flying Navy helicopters for a joint interagency special operations task force and working as a scuba diving instructor. How has some of your real-world experiences helped you bring authenticity to your fiction?

It’s the basis of authenticity, period. By leaning into the scenes where I’m an expert (flying, diving, history), I learned to let my fingers fly, so to speak. I use those areas I know a lot about to build that trust with the reader, and it allows me to carefully pull off the magic trick with the things I don’t. Or, to manipulate the reader’s mind, expanding their suspension of disbelief—where needed.

In addition to your more action-filled pursuits, you also have a master’s in history from Ashland University. How does your interest in history fuel your fiction?

My formal training as a historian fuels the research and the plot building. I approach this very much like historical research. My plot is more of a hypothesis. “I’d like to do this.” Then I use targeted research to prove my hypothesis correct, or “make my plot work.” I’m very interested in history so it’s easy for me and fun. I’m always bookmarking things that would fit with a novel. Always. I love to learn about unsolved mysteries of our past. Those are the best to work with for the type of thrillers I write, and they age well, as proven by the late Grandmaster himself, Clive Cussler.

What can we find you doing when you aren’t penning thrillers, flying helicopters, or 100 feet below the surface of the sea?

Adventuring anywhere I can. Being a husband and father. I’m always spending time with my family and curating the next great family adventure.

What are you working on now?

I’m always writing a project. I turned in the second book of the series in February and it’s in production now, with a title (my title again, too, very proud of that). I did some screenwriting for William Morris Endeavor, I just finished an original audio drama, and I’m currently working on another secret project. Stay tuned.

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

Don’t let genre define you. “They” say don’t look at the market. In my case, they were wrong—I studied the holes in the market and adapted to it. “They” say you must know where your book fits on the shelf or you’re not ready for a major publishing house like Penguin Random House. Again, they were wrong. If you write cross-genre, write cross-genre. Don’t worry about defining your work just make it the best piece of writing you can and make it your own. If a publisher loves your book, they will figure out how to sell it—that’s what they do. They sell books. I asked my editor Tom Colgan a question when Berkley bought my series. I was sitting in his office in New York, surrounded by military thrillers and spy novels. I said, “My book doesn’t look like any of these books on your shelves…so why did you buy my book?” He said, “Because it wasn’t like all these books.”

Blood and Treasure Author Ryan Pote

Ryan is a twelve-year veteran Navy helicopter pilot and mission commander who was part of a joint interagency special operations task force (JIATF). He did three deployments during Operation MARTILLO countering narcotics smuggling throughout Central and South America.

He was a search and rescue pilot and an instructor. Ryan currently works for the Department of Defense as a federal investigator for prototype aircraft development contracts.

Before the Navy, he lived and worked in Hawaii as a PADI SCUBA Instructor and lab tech researching algal-biofuels for Shell Oil.

Ryan’s been the director of an oil company, a bartender, and even a live musician. He attended college at the University of Hawaii at Manoa and earned a master’s degree in US History and Teaching from Ashland University.

Ryan volunteers his time as a judge for the Clive Cussler Adventure Writer’s Competition. He lives with his wife and two children in Maine.

Follow Ryan’s author journey: Website, Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube.Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Blood and Treasure: Debut Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.