Elena Hartwell's Blog, page 6

By Hook Or By Book: A Charmed Inn Mystery

By Hook or By Book, The Charmed Inn Mystery Series by Misty Simon

 

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Guest Post + an Excerpt + Book & Author Info + A Giveaway!
 
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By Hook Or By Book

The Charmed Inn Mysteries

Roxy Gleason, an innkeeper by trade and a bibliomancer by birth, has lived in the same small town on the Susquehanna River in Central Pennsylvania for her entire life. Tradition is strong here. Roxy understands the rules and is willing to play by them most of the time. She runs the Charmed Inn, which has been in her family for decades.

The inn is all set to host a writers’ professional business weekend that’s been planned down to the very last hand-folded napkin, and Roxy is ready for the influx of creatives. She knows she’ll have a lot of different and sometimes unusual personalities to deal with, but this is a yearly function, so she’s not expecting anything to go awry.

Her expectations are completely tanked when she finds a dead body on her daily walk by the river’s shore. Owen Schultz had checked in for the conference a few hours ago, and she’d last seen him having tea with her aunt in the dining room.

How did he get down here on the ferry, and who killed him?

Fans of Lucy Score, Melissa F. Miller, Dianne Harman, Lynn Cahoon, Deany Ray, Kathi Daley, and Merryn Allingham will enjoy Misty Simon.

Book Details:

Genre: Rom Cozy (Paranormal Cozy mystery with Romantic elements)
Published by: Rowan Prose Publishing
Publication Date: June 3, 2025
Number of Pages: 300
ASIN: B0D98KM21B
Series: The Charmed Inn Mysteries, Book 1

To purchase your copy, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookBub | Goodreads

Books 2 & 3 of The Charmed Inn Mysteries are due out later this year: Learn More: Amazon & Goodreads

Read an excerpt of By Hook or by Book:

Chapter 1

They called him Cheezy Rider—and with good cause.

I stood at the wide front window of the Charmed Inn with a cup of coffee in hand. I watched my great uncle toddling around the corner onto Chestnut Street, pedaling steadily on his old Beach Comber. The picture he made was something to behold. His bright orange vest perfectly matched the small caution flag waving from a tall pole attached to the back of the bike. His silver bullet helmet matched his thinning silver hair peeking out from underneath. But nothing matched his teal and red-flowered Hawaiian shirt.

His legs, covered in khakis, pumped away as he came up the block waving to anyone who happened to be on the short street in our small town on the shore of the Susquehanna River. The bicycle had a big wire basket on the front that he filled with a box of donuts from Delilah’s Donuts every day, a place that had been in the same family for seventy-five years, like so many other businesses here. Those donuts were heading right for my work and then right to my hips. But I had never said no to pastry, and I wasn’t going to start today. In fact, I needed the pick-me-up. Things were busy at the inn, with everyone checking in for the writers’ extended working weekend, and sugar was always welcome. The staff wouldn’t say no, either.

“I’m going to take a break,” I said to my Aunt Hellen as I passed her in the hallway leading to the dining room. She was technically my great aunt, and she could keep things moving for a few minutes while I stepped out into the beautiful April afternoon sunshine. What I really wanted to say was that I was trying not to break, but that wouldn’t be good for business. It had been one heck of a morning already, and I needed a moment to collect myself in the downtime before the festivities really began. Donuts were a great distraction, even if my erstwhile uncle did bring them every day.

“All righty, Ms. Mighty!” Aunt Hellen yelled back. This highly respected tasseomancer and seance-leader had a set of lungs that should never be allowed near a microphone. “I just finished having tea with Owen, so I’m free if you want to go on your walk, too. His phone rang in the middle of our tea, and it must have been important because he hightailed it out the door after making an excuse.” She situated herself behind the desk and placed her hands on the computer screen like it might fly away if she didn’t keep it locked down. “Hey, one thing before you go.”

I held steady, waiting for the inevitable question. My life seemed to be filled with questions.

“What kind of afternoon do you think we’re going to have? Should I restock the printer?”

Showing my teeth in what should have been a smile, I flipped open the book I held in my other hand, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all. Why, oh why, did I have to have this particular book with me? And why was my aunt always trying to force me to use my “gift”? I had no real power to do anything, just predict the future or get guidance from the text. Sometimes it was right, sometimes not. Either way, it was not high-powered magic in the least.

While poking my finger at the text, I said, “No need to stock the printer, but be prepared to deal with many irritations.” There’s nothing like trying to give a vague answer to a mundane question when the page you opened to was a spicy-hot scene between the hero and heroine in a recently released romance novel.

“I could have told you that. You have to try harder if you want to own your power, Roxanne Gleason. This is not a game.” Peering at me over her bifocals, she twitched the classic “Mom finger” in my general direction and then tsked.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but only because I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. It would probably get me a lecture, and I didn’t have time for that today. Plus, those donuts were calling my name.

“Yes, Aunt Hellen. Sorry, Aunt Hellen.”

“Cheeky,” she said under her breath, but I still heard it and smiled.

“Is Owen’s nephew here yet?”

“No, Owen said he had to back out at the last minute, so we have a free room if we need it.”

I sighed because as much as I liked Andrew, that was one less eccentric I’d have to deal with. Owen was a character all on his own, but he knew when to rein it in, Andrew not so much. Plus, his room would still get paid for even if he wasn’t going to use it.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know. Keep an eye out for Paddy McGruver,” I said. “He hasn’t checked in yet, and sometimes he likes to come in the back door to avoid what he assumes are the paparazzi.”

“Oh my, Paddy’s coming in today? Will he be here all four days?” Aunt Hellen smoothed down the front of her shirt over what she jokingly called her shelf since it pretty much caught any crumbs she dropped while eating. She then pulled her peach cardigan closed over her stomach.

“Yes, and yes. Try to keep your hands to yourself this time. You read tea leaves, not rumps. No one is falling for that I’m-a-rumpologist-bit, no matter how hard you try to sell it.”

With that, I walked out the door and left her to primp and prime herself for one of the more problematic creatives who was going to be here for four whole days. Well, not quite four, since it was more like seventy-two total hours from check-in to check-out. But who was counting?

With ten of the writers showcasing their intelligence and posturing over who had the best book and which classes were not to be missed, it would be enough time for me to need a vacation afterward.

The hotel hosted this event every year, but this was my first as the owner of this fine establishment. I had been told to give myself the seven days following the event to only host boring people, so I could rest, relax, and restore my faith in down-to-earth people. I had taken the advice since it had come from the previous owner, my grandfather. We would have guests checking in on Sunday after everyone left, but there wouldn’t be a pen and paper or laptop in sight as far as the guest list went. I had made sure of it.

Uncle Vince was racking his bike at the side of the building and removing his helmet when I stepped out onto the wide veranda that encircled the inn. I looked forward to his visits and had for all the years he’d been in my life. I wasn’t sure exactly how far away on my dad’s family tree he was, just that he was there and always had been.

He was like a beacon in the middle of the day, everyone stopping as they strolled along the sidewalks to say hi and ask about his health. It kept him busy until I could reach him, which worked in my favor. As long as he didn’t give away any of my donuts.

“I see you got two boxes this time,” I said as I approached the old man in his loud get-up.

“Roxy, my love, my dove, how are we on this fine afternoon?” His smile was far cheekier than anything I had ever sported, and I immediately wondered what he was up to. It was almost never good. Or rather, it usually was good for someone but almost never good for me.

“What are you hiding?”

He slapped his hand to his chest and feigned hurt. “I would never -”

“You do. Always,” I shot back, but a smile was trying to come out on my lips that I did not want to give in to. If I indulged him, he always had to see exactly how far he could take it.

“I’m offended.”

“Only because I’m catching you before you can even begin. Hand over the donuts, and I might be able to see my way to just watching for any missteps instead of thwarting you before you even get started.”

At first, he looked defeated, but I knew for a fact that was a lie. He’d just figure out a different way to get around me. It was a game he liked to play, and since he was an uncle and someone who had watched over me since I was a toddler, I knew, and so did he, that I had a weak spot for him and his antics. As long as they didn’t hurt anyone.

Sure enough, that smile popped back out on his face. As I knew it would.

“I saw you in my scrying bowl this morning.”

Ack, that was the last thing I wanted him to say. I would have preferred almost anything else, even the practical jokes he sometimes liked to indulge in. He wasn’t very good at them, but I laughed, even if it was just a big fake spider on my porch. His visions were some of my biggest fears, though. Or it might be better to say his visions had brought about many of my stumbles in life.

***

Excerpt from By Hook or By Book by Misty Simon. Copyright 2025 by Misty Simon. Reproduced with permission from Misty Simon. All rights reserved.

Guest Post from author Misty Simon

Hello there, Blog Readers! I’m so thrilled to be here with you today to share my new series.

I’m Misty Simon and I write Rom Cozies, sometimes with a paranormal slant. They’re a wonderful mix of cozy mystery and rom com along with a little bit of magic. I love this concept and am so thankful for the opportunity to share this new series with you!

Small towns and the people that inhabit them fascinate me. I’ve lived in bigger cities, but my heart has always been in small town locales. What’s not to love about being in a place where a lot of people know your name and you can never get away with anything without someone telling your grandparents? If I eat too many whoopee pies or don’t wave to my great aunt while she’s walking and I’m trying to drive, my mom gets a call. If I am out to dinner, I might run into ten people I know and stop at each table to catch up really quickly and end up eating an hour later than I had planned.

But I also have the circle of women who know me enough to ask me how I’m doing and really listen to an answer that isn’t “fine.” Or an aunt who will drop by with snickerdoodles because she knows how much I love them and she just made a fresh batch with me in mind.

So when I’m writing my cozies, I try to pull all those things in to the story world. This time, though, we’re on the shore of the Susquehanna where the last ferry still crosses the river. It’s also where my intrepid sleuth Roxy has recently been given ownership of The Charmed Inn, which has been in her family for generations. She’s doing a good job, too, until she finds a dead body on the deck of the beached ferry and then we have issues. Add in some complications, like the head investigator has a grudge against her, and Roxy is going to have to figure out whodunnit she or her best friend get tossed in jail.

I love making the whole family a part of each mystery. And the possibilities are endless in a town where you’re surrounded by family and friends of the family and relationships that go back for generations, good and bad. But when her business and those she cares about are at stake, you can have even more fun to work with. And I did.

I love playing with the concept of what it means to be a part of a community like that. The wonderful parts where you never feel totally alone. At any given moment you could put out a hand and someone will take it and give you a huge helping of love and support, or a slap upside the head to get you back on the right track.

And bringing that into the books, with all the mess of relationships and secrets and loyalties and families is one of the true joys of writing about a small town. I never run out of ideas on how to make my main character, Roxy’s, life difficult. I love pitting her against the cops and having her staff, who’ve been there forever, take her to task, while also having her elders butting in, and living in a place where everyone knows everyone. It has been an absolute blast to have her talk with her cat Moose about what to do next and to have pretty much the whole cast expecting her to find clues instead of telling her to keep her nose out of it. Then we have the magic aspect. Roxy is a bibliomancer, a person who can be asked a question and has to use a book to find the answer. She thinks it’s a truly ridiculous talent, especially since everyone else in her family has much cooler talents. But when she starts seeking clues to who ended the life of the dead guy on the ferry, her talent turns up in unsuspected ways and helps her far more than she had ever dreamed possible.

I hope you’ll join me as we dive into the world of The Charmed Inn, where murder doesn’t happen often, but when it does Roxy might just have to save the day. I’m pretty sure she’s up to it.

Giveaway: This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Misty Simon. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited. The giveaway is for a print edition of BY HOOK OR BY BOOK by Misty Simon AND a surprise gift from Misty. (1 winner, US Only)

 

By Hook or By Book Author Misty Simon

 

Misty Simon always wanted to be a storyteller…preferably behind a Muppet. Animal was number one, followed closely by Sherlock Hemlock… Since that dream didn’t come true, she began writing stories to share her world with readers, one laugh at a time.

 

Touching people’s hearts and funny bones are two of her favorite things, and she hopes everyone at least snickers in the right places when reading her books. She lives with her husband in Central Pennsylvania where she is hard at work on her next novel or three.

She loves to hear from readers so drop her a line at misty@mistysimon.com.

To learn more about Misty, click any of the following links: MistySimon.com, Amazon Author Profile, Goodreads, BookBub – @MistySimon, Instagram – @mistysimonwrites, Threads – @mistysimonwrites & Facebook – @misty.simon.18

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post By Hook Or By Book: A Charmed Inn Mystery appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Muzzle the Black Dog: A Crime Novel

Muzzle the Black Dog by Mike Cobb [image error]

 
Guest Post + Book & Author Info + a Giveaway!
 
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Muzzle the Black Dog

After a mysterious stranger appears at his isolated cabin door, Jack’s life is forever changed. The stranger’s cryptic message sets off a chain of events that lead Jack on a harrowing journey to uncover the true meaning of his own existence.

As a series of unexplained fires threaten to consume everything he holds dear, Jack is forced to confront his deepest fears and question everything he thought he knew about himself.

Set in the aftermath of the Centennial Olympic Park bombing, Jack’s search for the truth takes him to the edge of sanity and puts him on a collision course with a dark and powerful force that has been lurking in the shadows.

Join Jack on a gripping and thought-provoking quest for answers in this thrilling and suspenseful tale of self-discovery and redemption.

Praise for MUZZLE THE BLACK DOG:

“Muzzle the Black Dog takes you on a rollercoaster of emotions and family secrets. The slow reveal is creepy many times but you still want to read page after page. I loved the combination of thriller, drama, history and mystery.” ~ Erik S. Meyers, author of The Sally Witherspoon Mystery Series

“A mystery whose plot will transfix you and whose finish will stun you, Muzzle the Black Dog is simply superb. A stranger enters narrator Jack Pate’s life and proceeds to upend it through his bizarrely intimate knowledge of Jack’s past. In determining the identity of the visitor, Jack solves a deeper mystery within himself, but doing so provokes demons in his soul, demons he’d been holding at since childhood. Author Mike Cobb provides that rare combination of masterly prose, passion, and insight, in an atmosphere dark and chilling as a Georgia winter.” ~ Charles Philipp Martin, author of the Inspector Lok novels Rented Grave and Neon Panic

“The pages just fly by in this quick-moving, compelling and stunningly unique psychological thriller about a man searching for answers to a deadly crime who uncovers long-buried secrets about himself and his own troubled past. Muzzle the Black Dog takes the reader on a wonderfully wild roller coaster of a ride filled with plenty of twists, thrills and tension. Mike Cobb has written a terrific book – read it!” ~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson mystery series

“Mike Cobb’s Muzzle The Black Dog, is a fast-paced, unputdownable thriller that will leave you guessing until the very end.” ~ Westley Smith, author of Some Kind of Truth and In The Pale Light

“Intriguing doesn’t begin to describe the appeal of this book’s premise: a mysterious stranger on the doorstep of recluse Jack Pate, offering friendship and help. Despite Jack’s surprise (he has no need of aid) and suspicion of the disheveled man—who looks more like a vagrant than any friend he would choose—Jack is fascinated. Who is this man, and how did he find Jack’s secluded cabin? And why does he seem to know things about Jack’s uneasy past? Just as suddenly as the stranger appears, he vanishes, leading Jack on an odyssey, beginning as a physical search but quickly morphing into self-preservation as reports of heinous local crimes trickle in. Arson and murders begin to stain the remote countryside, and the suspects are few and far-between. Sneaky clues, well-drawn characters, and swift plotting propel the story forward as the author deftly explores the many ways the past affects the present—and how it might endanger the future. I highly recommend this one.” ~ Jennifer Sadera, author of I Know She Was There

“A slow burn of a story revealing the power of deeply held secrets. Secrets so earthshaking that Jack Pate questions everything he believed when a mysterious stranger knows everything about him. Moody and atmospheric.” ~ James L’Etoile, award-winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

Book Details:

Genre: Crime, Historical Fiction, Literary Fiction
Published by: Waterside Productions
Publication Date: April 15, 2025
Number of Pages: 184

To purchase a copy of Muzzle the Black Dog click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Guest Post from Mike Cobb
Pushing the envelope: Why I wrote Muzzle the Black Dog

After publishing three long works of historical fiction, I wanted to challenge myself with something different—something leaner, more immediate, and psychologically intense. That’s how this novella, a psychological whodunit, came to life. Instead of immersing readers in the layered past, I set out to explore the intricate workings of the mind—how memory, perception, and the experiences of a dysfunctional childhood shape the way we understand crime—and our potential complicity. And how unexpected encounters can lead to self-discovery, redemption, and the hope of reunification with those most dear to us. 

The shift wasn’t just about format but also about focus. My prior historical novels required deep research, anchoring characters in a time and place that felt authentic. While Muzzle the Black Dog incorporates that, it strips away the excess, forcing both the first-person protagonist and the reader into a confined, pressure-cooker narrative where every detail matters. The tension isn’t drawn from a sweeping historical backdrop but from the unreliable nature of truth itself.

At its core, the story still aligns with what drives my writing: uncovering hidden motivations, peeling back layers of deception, and understanding how past events—whether personal or collective—haunt the present. This time, though, I wanted to immerse the reader in a puzzle where nothing is quite what it seems. The result is a taut psychological mystery that unfolds in a way I haven’t explored before—one that keeps the protagonist and the reader questioning everything until the end.

While the novella is set amidst the backdrop of the 1996 Atlanta Centennial Olympic Park bombing, a tragic episode in the city’s history that is indelibly seared in my memory, the real story is that of Jack Pate, a man who is estranged from his family and living in the woods in North Carolina. A chance—or not so chance—visit by a seeming stranger one night sets Jack on a journey that will forever change his life. I loved writing this book because it allowed me to get deep inside Jack’s head and mine his innermost thoughts and fears without focusing too much on historical events. 

That said, historical details do play an important role in the book. These include not only the Olympic bombing almost three decades ago, but also events in and near Atlanta that occurred when Jack was a child. I enjoyed researching these details and incorporating them into the story.

People have asked about the title. While my own black dog Bella was by my side during the writing of much of this book (she has now passed on, and I miss her dearly) the book’s title is not about her. The Black Dog in this book is a metaphor for something deep and haunting in Jack’s being, something that he must confront and understand if he has any hope of getting on with his life.

What’s next for Jack and Muzzle the Black Dog? Acting on the advice of several people whose opinions I hold in high regard, I am working on a screenplay based on the book. I’ve acquired a keen appreciation for the challenge of effectively conveying what’s going on in Jack’s mind primarily through dialogue and action. Stay tuned for more about that.

Muzzle the Black Dog Author Mike Cobb

 Mike’s body of literary work includes both fiction and nonfiction, short-form and long-form, as well as articles and blogs.

He is the author of three published novels, Dead Beckoning, The Devil You Knew, its sequel You Will Know Me by My Deeds, and Muzzle the Black Dog, a novella. He is also working on Kathleen, a fictionalized account of a cold case murder from 1970.

While he is comfortable playing across a broad range of topics, much of his focus is on true crime, crime fiction, and historical fiction. Rigorous research is foundational to his writing. He gets that honestly, having spent much of his professional career as a scientist.

A native of Atlanta, Mike splits his time between Midtown Atlanta and Blue Ridge, Georgia.

To learn more about Mike, click any of the following links: 
MikeCobbWriter.com Amazon Author Profile Goodreads BookBub – @cobbmg1 Instagram – @cobbmg X – @mgcobb Facebook – @MGCobbWriter YouTube – @mikecobbwriter Waterside Productions

 

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Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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Kaua’i Storm: A Ranger Makalani Pahukula Mystery

Kaua’i Storm, a Ranger Makalani Pahukula Mystery by Tori Eldridge

Author Interview + Book & Author Info + Author Pet Corner!Don’t miss any Author Interviews! Click the link here.Kaua’i Storm

Returning to Kaua‘i, park ranger Makalani finds her family divided and their way of life at risk in this rich and emotional adventure by the bestselling author of the Lily Wong series.

After ten years as a national park ranger in Oregon, Makalani Pahukula is back on Kaua‘i for her grandmother’s birthday. Having been gone for so long, Makalani finds the disconnect with her people and her struggles have never been more profound. Neither has her need to reacquaint herself with everything she left behind. When she reaches the homestead, she finds a bickering family and the disconcerting news that her cousins―a failed college football player and a rebellious teenage girl―have gone missing.

Makalani hopes they just ran off, too careless to realize the worry they’ve caused. But when hunters find a dead body in the Keālia Forest Reserve, Makalani fears something ominous is at play, and the search for her cousins grows more desperate. Although her help may not be welcomed by family and locals, Makalani is determined to solve a mystery that poses a greater risk than anyone imagines.

The investigation will open her heart, reawaken her love for the land she calls home, and strengthen her bond with her family. Because no matter how long she’s been away, for Makalani, Hawai‘i is in her blood.

Purchase your copy of Tori Eldridge’s newest release at: Amazon and Bookshop.Kaua‘i Storm Author Interview with Tori Eldridge

 

Kaua‘i Storm is the first Ranger Makalani Pahukula Mystery. What was it like to shift to a new project after the success of your Lily Wong Series?

Although I loved writing adventures for my ninja heroine, it felt fresh and exciting to start from scratch.

It also felt especially rewarding to reconnect with my homeland, talk story with local relatives and friends, and research what Native Hawaiians living in Hawai‘i are dealing with today. When a character and story began to appear, one of the first things I did was create a detailed ethnic genealogy for Makalani’s family beginning with her great grandparents down to cousins two generations younger than her. I included the Pahukula family tree at the beginning of Kaua‘i Storm. 

 

Kaua‘i Storm introduces a park ranger as a heroine. What drew you to that particular career for the new book?

Well, I wanted Makalani to have serious wilderness skills and to be a caretaker for the land.

I also wanted her to have federal jurisdiction, training with firearms, and search and rescue experience. Making her a law enforcement national park ranger gave and peace officer, gave her all of these skills provided the outdoor physical labor which she enjoys.

 

We both live in the Pacific Northwest, and your new Hawaiian protagonist is a ranger at Oregon’s Crater Lake National Park. That’s a big study in contrasts, between Oregon/Washington and Hawai’i. What do you love about the differences in those places? How do those environments add to Makalani’s disconnect from her people?

They definitely are different!

Crater Lake has some extreme snow conditions and rough forested wilderness. Kaua‘i, on the other hand, is one of the wettest tropical places on the planet.

But what they both have in common is vast untouched, untamed land. Over 90 percent of Kaua‘i is forested or mountainous wilderness, which makes a perfect setting for the mystery adventure I wanted to write. Plus, Makalani and I both feel at peace surrounded by trees.

That said, the culture and people in Oregon, while lovely, are not the culture and people of her home. She misses hearing her grandmother speak and chant in Hawaiian. She misses pulling kalo—taro—from the homestead’s riverside feel. And she feels out of step with day-to-day island life.

 

Kaua’i Storm centers around the Keālia Forest Reserve. Tell us about that place and what makes it the perfect place to stage a mystery:

The Keālia Forest Reserve is the closest wilderness area to Anahola, the location of Tūtū’s homestead where Makalani, her sister, her cousins, and her father and aunties grew up.

This forest also borders the sleepy tourist town of Kapa‘a where her missing teenage cousin and family lives. Although the mystery moves into other wilderness areas all around Kaua‘i, it was natural to focus on the Keālia Forest Reserve where she had grown up hiking and hunting wild pig.

 

What can we find you doing when you aren’t penning twisty mysteries?

These days, I am helping to care for my two young grandchildren and their parents. It reminds me of the days when my own sons were young—fixing meals, giving baths, changing diapers, and playing at the parks. I weave my writing time in between those rewarding family responsibilities and life.

 

What are you working on now?

I just turned in the manuscript for my second Ranger Makalani Pahukula mystery, which should come out next year. This one, will be set on Hawai‘i Island and the paniolo—Hawaiian cowboy—way of life. Once I’m home from my mini-book tour and the virtual book launch events begin to die down, I’ll be ready and eager to dive into my editorial work.

 

Words of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers:

Publishing is a marathon. Find joy in the process and the mini successes and accomplishments along the way. 

Great advice!

 

Author Pet Corner!Ua!

This Ua, my son’s family cat, who waits at my door when I wake before dawn and sits beside my computer waiting expectantly for me to write.

She was born in Shanghai, like my granddaughter, but has thoroughly acclimated to Oregon.

Since I’ve been living in my son’s home for the last year, she feels absolutely entitled to running my life.

 

 

 

 

Kaua‘i Storm Author Tori Eldridge

Tori Eldridge is the bestselling author KAUA‘I STORM (Ranger Makalani Pahukula Mystery) and the Lily Wong mystery thriller series—nominated for Anthony, Lefty and Macavity Awards, and winner of the 2021 Crimson Scribe Award for Best Book of the Year.

Born and raised in Honolulu—of Hawaiian, Chinese, and Norwegian descent—Tori graduated from Punahou School with classmate President Barack Obama.

Before writing, Tori performed as an actress, singer, and dancer on Broadway, television, film, and holds a 5th degree black belt in To-Shin Do ninja martial arts.

After living in New York and Los Angeles for more than 35 years, Tori lives and writes from Portland, Oregon, where her grandchildren live.

 

To learn more about Tori, click any of the following links: Website | Facebook | Instagram | TikTok | Threads | X | BookBubElena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

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The Ascent: The Latest Release by Allison Buccola

The Ascent: A Novel by Allison Buccola

Author Spotlight + Book & Author Info + Author Pet CornerDon’t miss any new books! Click the link here.The Ascent: A Novel

What would you do if the past showed up on your doorstep?

A woman who grew up in a cult must decide if she can trust the stranger claiming to have answers to the dark mysteries of her childhood in this irresistible thriller.

“I tore through this book and was genuinely shocked by its ending!”—Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines

ONE OF THE CHICAGO REVIEW OF BOOKS’ MOST ANTICIPATED MYSTERIES OF THE YEAR

For decades, the whereabouts of The Fifteen has been an unsolved mystery. All the members of this reclusive commune outside Philadelphia vanished twenty years ago, except for one: a twelve-year-old girl found wandering alone on the side of the road.

In the years since that morning, Lee Burton has tried to put the pain of her past behind her, building a new identity for herself with a doting husband and seven-month-old daughter, Lucy. But motherhood is proving a bigger challenge than she anticipated. She doesn’t want to let Lucy out of her sight even for a moment. She can’t return to work. She’s not sleeping, and she has started spiraling into paranoia.

Then a stranger shows up on her doorstep, offering answers to all of Lee’s questions about her past—if Lee could only trust that this woman is who she says she is. Can Lee keep her safe, stable life? Or will new revelations about “the cult that went missing” shatter everything? In The Ascent, Allison Buccola has crafted a nerve-rattling thriller about motherhood, identity, and the truths we think we know about our families.

To purchase your copy of The Ascent click any of the following Links Amazon, B&N, and Bookshop.Praise for The Ascent

“Unsettling . . . People have long been fascinated with cults, and this twisty thriller will absolutely appeal.”—Library Journal

“The mystery at the heart of this novel is irresistible: How could fifteen people, all part of a doomsday cult, simply vanish one morning without a trace? The Ascent follows the only member left behind as she struggles to protect herself and her child from the trauma of her past and the dangers of her present. I tore through this book and was genuinely shocked by its ending!”—Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines

“I read this enthralling psychological thriller in one fell swoop. Every time I thought I would put it down, it sucked me back in and I lost an entire night of sleep. The Ascent is an intense examination of motherhood, trauma, marriage, and our fascination with cults. . . . I loved it.”—Jo Piazza, internationally bestselling author of Everyone Is Lying to You

“I’ve always been a hard-core fan of Allison Buccola, and The Ascent takes me over the top with one of the most cleverly executed and original thriller plots I’ve read in a long time. Buccola’s delicate writing is masterfully sneaky—her soulful young protagonist is holding your hand in the dark, then snatches it away as you race to the twisty conclusion.”—Julia Heaberlin, internationally bestselling author of Night Will Find You

“A knife-sharp look into the psyche of a cult survivor who hasn’t come to terms with the events of her past, this is a triumph of a book. Poignant and twisty, layered and tense, I was obsessed with knowing how all the loose threads inevitably tied together in the end.”—Stacy Willingham, New York Times bestselling author of Only If You’re Lucky

“An irresistible thriller . . . The Ascent is a gripping and fascinating look at life after a cult, packed with reasons to fly through the pages.”—Megan Collins, author of Cross My Heart

Author Pet Corner!Nessie is our three-month-old Vizsla, and she loves hanging out in the woods, pouncing on the puppy next-door, and trying to eat everything.Nessie!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ascent Author Allison Buccola

Allison Buccola is the author of The Ascent and Catch Her When She Falls.

She has a JD from the University of Chicago and lives in the Chicago suburbs with her husband and their two young children.

To learn more about Allison, click any of the following links: Instagram, X.

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post The Ascent: The Latest Release by Allison Buccola appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

Swipe: a Psychological Thriller

Swipe by R.G. Belsky and Bonnie Traymore [image error]

 
Guest Post + an Excerpt + Book & Author Info!
 
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Swipe

 Sonya’s fed up with bad internet dates.
But she never meant to kill anyone.

After a stressful day at work and a creepy first meetup, Sonya Romano goes on a mission: teach a lesson to the smarmy guys she’s meeting on her dating app. But when one of them falls to his death as a result of her confrontation–a married man posing as a single guy–she realizes she’s gone too far.

Meanwhile, Jake Parker, former Pulitzer nominee, has hit rock bottom. His boss gives him an assignment: go undercover and produce a click bait story about dating apps. Things start to look up when another married man on the app is murdered, and Jake suspects that there may be a serial killer targeting cheaters.

With Jake hot on her trail, Sonya races to cover her tracks, until they finally meet. Fighting a powerful mutual attraction but suspicious of each other, neither of them know that a deranged psychopath is closer than they think, and much more of a danger than either of them realizes.

Can they figure out what’s going on, before one of them is next?

Praise for SWIPE:

“You may think you see it coming–but in Swipe, the final twist is more shocking and explosive than you can imagine.”
~ Emily Shiner, Bestselling Author of Meet the Parents

“Swipe is a chilling, taut and twisty psychological thriller that will have you frantically turning pages until its stunning end. Riveting from the very first page, Swipe is a roller coaster ride with complex, intriguing characters who will draw you in and not let you go. Clear your schedule because once you start reading, you won’t be able to stop.”
~ Lisa Regan, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Josie Quinn Series

“RG Belsky and Bonnie Traymore have teamed up to create a journalistic cat-and-mouse game that’s suspenseful, addictive, thoroughly modern and loads of fun. Swipe right on this one — you’ll be glad you did!”
~ Alison Gaylin, USA Today Bestselling author of WE ARE WATCHING

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Thriller
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 300

To purchase your copy of Swipe click on any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt of Swipe:

ONE
Sonya

Is he dead?

He must be.

I watched his body fall backward off the jagged Palisades cliffs, bouncing off the rocks like a crash car dummy before plunging into the Hudson River five hundred feet below. Nobody could survive a fall like that.

I’m not a violent person.

I didn’t want him to die.

But who would believe me?

And now what?

Competing thoughts flash through my mind in rapid succession.

Call for help.

Get out of here as fast as I can.

I opt for the latter.

Thankfully, he’s a morning person. It’s early autumn in New York, and there’s a chill in the air. I passed a few other hikers on my way up here. But looking around, I don’t see anyone here now. No one saw us together.

My body starts to tremble as I turn around, nice and easy, and head back down the short, steep path toward the spot where I locked up my bike. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring my car with its GPS and identifiable license plate number. I’ve learned a few things over the last month or so about being stealthy.

Funny. I actually kind of liked this guy. I thought it might go somewhere, and that my string of disaster dates would finally be broken. Then I could retire this little mission of mine and get on with my life. Silly me. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. No one finds love on the internet these days.

We’d been chatting on MetMee for the last few weeks. He called himself Greg. I found out later he was using an alias—but then so was I. At one point, I thought he was a catfisher because he kept saying he wanted to get together, but I couldn’t pin him down. He was average-looking, though, and if one were making a fake profile, wouldn’t they put up the hottest photo they could find? But he was attentive and funny, as much as I could tell over chats, and we were actually getting to know each other. Perhaps he simply liked to take it slow.

Then we made plans to meet up, about a week ago, but he canceled at the last minute. Something about a sick dog. We hadn’t exchanged our real names yet. This seemed to validate my suspicions that something was hinky. By coincidence, earlier this week, I recognized his photo on a real estate website.

Matt Furman.

He worked in White Plains, I discovered, about thirty miles north of Manhattan, but lived over on the other side of the Hudson, in New Jersey.

He’d told me that he was a real estate agent, so at least that much was true. I suppose it wasn’t a complete coincidence that I found him online, because I’d been looking at real estate company websites, trying to figure out if he was stringing me along. And with a first and last name, his life unfolded before me.

I discovered that he liked to hike.

His social media was peppered with scenic vistas, and he revealed that the one he was on this morning was his weekend favorite.

Oh, and I also found out something else.

Something very important.

He’s married.

With two small kids.

I couldn’t let it go.

I needed to teach him a lesson.

My plan was to confront him somewhere where he would least expect it, but secluded enough so I wouldn’t be making a scene. I wanted to record him admitting what he’d done so that I could tell his wife.

It wasn’t that hard to find him. The guy’s a serial poster, providing the world with a play-by-play of his every move, as if we are all waiting on the edge of our seats to see what he’ll do next.

Can’t wait for my Palisades hike tomorrow.

Stopping for a latte.

Heading up the trail now.

I caught up with him as he was stepping out on the rocks to take a selfie, beyond the warning sign, over the railing they put there to stop people from getting themselves killed.

That’s how idiots die.

“Hey, Matt,” I called out, a little out of breath. I had planned to catch him in the parking lot but my timing was off, as it had been all morning. So, I high-tailed it up the trail to try to catch him, but he was fast.

His brow furrowed. “Oh, hi…”

I could see the wheels turning in his head as he struggled to place me. I wore black bike shorts and a tan cycling jersey. Nothing too flashy so I wouldn’t stand out. My hair was in a ponytail and sunglasses covered my eyes and forehead. I was standing a few feet away from him, so it wasn’t too surprising that he didn’t recognize me.

“Gina,” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the phone in the palm of my hand, recording our conversation.

His mouth froze half-opened, until it finally clicked. “From…the app?”

I stared him down, one hand on my hip. “Yes, Matt. Gina. From MetMee.”

“How did you…? Um. Hi!”

I walked toward him.

He took a step back, although he was already dangerously close to the edge.

I smirked. “I decided to take your recommendation. About how nice and peaceful this trail is at this time of day.”

“I don’t remember saying anything about…”

He squinted, his mouth still agape, as if seeing me more sharply would clear the fog in his brain.

Then he shook his head. “Wait. You what?”

“You really should be more careful about what you put on your social media. You never know who might see it.”

Maybe it was my snarky tone, but his attitude shifted. He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, Gina.”

“What I’m trying to pull? Seems like you’re the one who’s trying to pull something, Matt. You’ve got a wife and two little kids. Is this how you get your kicks? Chat up single women on dating sites and get their hopes up? Or did you actually plan to cheat on your wife at some point?” I struggled to contain my growing outrage, gritting my teeth so hard, I feared I might chip a tooth.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? My wife and I are having problems. I should’ve told you the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just got carried away.”

“Well, you’re going to have bigger problems when I play this for your wife.” I held up my phone, which was recording our conversation. “Hi, Olivia. Sorry about this. But I thought you deserved to know.”

A hint of fear flashed in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might bargain with me or beg me not to do it. Then his face contorted like an angry, cornered reptile.

“Are you some kind of psycho?” he barked. “Everyone lies on those sites. Look at you! You must be ten pounds heavier than you were in those photos you sent me. What’re they, from college? Olivia will never be able to handle this. My wife’s unstable. Fragile. If you play that recording for her, I’m warning you, it might be the last thing you ever do.”

“You’re threatening me?”

Fury exploded in me.

I lunged toward him, waving my phone in his face. “You hear that, Olivia? He says you’re crazy. He doesn’t want to take responsibility, just like my—”

Matt reached over the railing and tried to grab the phone out of my hand, but I pulled away. He stumbled but regained his footing, or so I thought. But then a look of confusion washed over his face and he started to wobble. And then he fell backward—and went barreling down the Palisades cliffs, plunging into the river, five hundred feet below.

The ground seemed to shift under my feet as the enormity of what had just happened hit me. My knees went weak. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Maybe it was a touch of vertigo. Expecting a wave of panic, I braced myself, but it didn’t come. Instead, I felt detached, like I was watching a movie. Like this couldn’t possibly be happening for real.

I didn’t push him, I swear.

But who would believe me?

It’s still my fault that he fell, and even if I could convince the cops that I didn’t shove him off that cliff, I would probably end up in prison. Involuntary manslaughter, isn’t that what it’s called?

Especially if they find out what else I’ve been up to on that dating app.

This was an impulsive move.

What was I thinking?

He could have grabbed me and hurled me off that cliff. I try to remain calm as I make my way down the trail, passing a few other hikers heading up. I replay the events in my mind, thinking of how I can spin this if someone sees me, but hoping to reach the end of this trail without being spotted. This little mission of mine has gone way too far. On the plus side, Matt Furman will never cheat on his wife again.

That’s probably not a normal thought to have at a time like this, and I wonder for a moment if I’m some kind of sociopath. But if I’m worried about being a sociopath, I’m probably not one. I’m in shock, I decide. Anyone would be in my position. I’m in self-preservation mode, and I’m sure the guilt will hit me at some point.

But not right now.

Now, I need to focus on getting out of here, unseen.

I reach the end of the trail, hop on my bike, and pedal like my life depends on it—hoping that he hasn’t, by some miracle, survived the fall.

***

Excerpt from SWIPE by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2025 by R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from R.G. Belsky & Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.

 

Watch the Trailer Here

Guest Post from Authors R. G. Belsky and Bonnie Traymore

WE WANTED OUR CHARACTERS TO BE LIKABLE….JUST NOT TOO LIKABLE

By R.G. Belsky and Bonnie Traymore

 

It seems like a pretty obvious premise for a crime fiction author, doesn’t it? Make your character likable. Hey, readers want to spend time with likable characters. So an author should try to create the most likable, perfect person he or she can with no flaws whatsoever.

Or maybe not.

You see, those flaws, those imperfections, those moments of – dare we say it, unlikability – are what really makes the most popular figures in crime fiction come alive for the reader. And finding the right balance between those qualities – good and bad – is crucial for any author.

We dealt with that in creating our two main characters for Swipe, a psychological thriller about murder on the online dating apps.

Let’s start with Sonya Romano, a woman character looking for love online who happens to kill a man she met – or at least play a role in his death – during the opening pages of the book. 

Kind of hard to imagine her as “likable” after something like that, huh?

Except she is.

As the book goes on, the reader learns more about Sonya’ life, her past, what she’s looking for and begins to root for her.

It’s the same with the book’s other main character Jake Parker, a reporter writing about the online dating experience who uncovers a series of murders and eventually meets up with Sonya.

Jake is not perfect either. He’s messed up his personal life losing the woman he wanted to marry; he’s messed up his career; and he messes up by making some wrong decisions about people throughout SWIPE.

Jake is definitely a flawed – and, at times, unlikable- character, just like Sonya.

Which is hopefully why you’ll like him too.

The truth is that the worst kind of character is the one without any flaws, who seems too good to be true, the perfect person.

You probably wouldn’t want to spend time with someone like that in real life, and most readers don’t want to do it in a book either.

Award-winning mystery author Reed Farrel Coleman talked about this dilemma once at a writing conference where he discussed the Jesse Stone character, who he wrote for several books after the death of Stone’s creator, Robert B. Parker. 

Why was Jesse Stone a problem to write? Because he was so likable and flawless and perfect at first glance. Jesse was tough, he was smart, he was honest, he was good-looking. Hey, when you read the books you immediately thought of Tom Selleck who played the role in the Jesse Stone TV movies. And so it was important to add some things that didn’t make him quite so perfect. Dealing with a drinking problem. A failed marriage. Disappointment and regret on losing out on a promising baseball career because of an injury. These were the things that helped Jesse Stone become so likable to fans.

Most of the popular figures in crime fiction haven’t always been completely likable. They do stuff that annoys us. Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch. Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone. Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum. Lawerence Block’s Matt Scudder. Even Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

And so no, neither Sonya Romano or Jake Parker are always the most likable people

Which is the way we wanted them to be.

But we sure hope you’ll like them anyway….

R. G. Belsky — Co-Author of Swipe

R.G. Belsky is an award-winning author of crime fiction and a journalist in New York City. His newest mystery, BROADCAST BLUES, was published by Oceanview. It is the sixth in a series featuring Clare Carlson, the news director for a New York City TV station.

The first book, Yesterday’s News, was named Best Mystery of 2018 at Deadly Ink. The second, Below the Fold, won the Foreward INDIES award for Best Mystery of 2019. Belsky has published 24 novels—all set in the New York city media world where he has had a long career as a top editor at the New York Post, New York Daily News, Star magazine and NBC News.

He also writes thrillers under the name Dana Perry. And he is a contributing writer for The Big Thrill magazine and BookTrib.

To learn more about RG, click any of the following links: www.rgbelsky.com, Goodreads, Amazon Author, BookBub – @dickb79983, Instagram – @dickbelsky, Threads – @dickbelsky, Twitter/X – @DickBel & Facebook – @RGBelsky

 

Bonnie Traymore — Co-Author of Swipe

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon International Bestselling author of nine domestic/psychological thrillers.

Her “popcorn thrillers” feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time.

She’s an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

To learn more about Bonnie, click any of the following links: www.BonnieTraymore.com, Goodreads, Amazon Author, BookBub – @btraymore, Instagram – @bonnietraymore, Threads – @bonnietraymore, Twitter/X – @btraymore & Facebook – @bonnietraymore

Visit all the stops on the Tour!

05/12 I Love Books and Stuff Blog SWIPE Showcase






05/13 leannebookstagram SWIPE Review






05/14 Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books! SWIPE Guest post






05/15 Celticladys Reviews SWIPE Showcase






05/15 Cozy Home Delight Book Reviews SWIPE Review






05/16 Books, Ramblings, and Tea SWIPE Showcase






05/17 Guatemala Paula Loves to Read SWIPE Review






05/18 The Mystery of Writing SWIPE Guest post






05/20 Book Reviews From an Avid Reader SWIPE Review






05/24 From the TBR Pile SWIPE Review






05/25 Jodys Bookish Haven SWIPE Review






05/28 411 On Books, Authors, And Publishing News SWIPE Showcase






05/30 Why Not? Because I Said So Book Reviews SWIPE Review






06/01 Novel Nerd Blog SWIPE Review






06/02 The AR Critique SWIPE Review






06/04 Wall-to-wall Books SWIPE Review






06/05 Catreader18 SWIPE Review






06/05 Hott Books SWIPE Interview






06/06 Melissa As Blog SWIPE Review






06/11 Book Talk with Fran Lewis SWIPE Radio Interview





06/11 Just Reviews SWIPE Review




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

 

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

Houses of Crime Mystery Series Spotlight

[image error]Houses of Crime Mystery Series by Jenny Dandy

 

Giveaway + an Excerpt + Book & Author Info!
 
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Houses of Crime Mystery Series
by Jenny Dandy

 

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD

 

When FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski goes undercover at Isabelle Anderson’s brownstone on E. 83rd, he thinks he’s the one calling the shots. Isabelle knows she is.

As Isabelle’s butler, Ronnie Charles is privy to all her schemes—knowledge that will take her in a direction she never anticipated.

To purchase your copy of The Brownstone on E. 83rd, click any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

 

 

 

Amazon | Goodreads

THE PENTHOUSE ON PARK AVENUE

FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and former street thief Ronnie Charles team up once again in New York City, this time to take down John Anthony, suspected money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel who is known for their own brand of evil. Embedded as his live-in butler at the penthouse, Ronnie must reconcile her hatred of drugs with her need to work for Frank. Mateo Rosas de Flores, head of the cartel, comes to town and tests Ronnie’s loyalty. When she passes, her reward is a deeper involvement in his organization. But Mateo’s interest in her might not be enough to protect her as the danger mounts.

Frank’s search for his drug addicted daughter continues in the seamier side of the city, taking him places he never thought he would go. He becomes unexpectedly entangled with the very criminals he’s pursuing, threatening not only his career but his family as well. What they require of him is a betrayal of everything he believes in. Frank must find a way to protect his daughter and finish the case. And walk away with his morals intact.

Praise for the Houses of Crime Mystery Series:

“The Brownstone on E. 83rd grabbed my attention from the first page. Jenny Dandy’s debut has all the hallmarks of a veteran writer: blistering pacing, rapid-fire dialogue, and characters that not only keep you guessing, but caring about what happens to them. Dandy is an author to watch.”
~ Carter Wilson, USA Today bestselling author of The Father She Went to Find

“Jenny Dandy’s The Brownstone on E. 83rd hits the ground running and doesn’t let up. Sharply drawn characters, evocative language, knockout pacing, and a strong sense of place make this one of the year’s best crime novel debuts. It’s ambitious, polished, and beautifully crafted. I can’t recommend it enough.”
~ William Boyle, author of Shoot the Moonlight Out and Gravesend

“The Brownstone on E. 83rd is an amazing debut with sharp, hard-edged dialogue, lyrical and strong prose, and a fantastic setting in New York City. The story of FBI Special Agent Frank Jankowski and small-time thief Ronnie Charles will keep you guessing as well as rooting for these vivid and compelling characters. I hope to read more from Jenny Dandy!”
~ David Heska Wanbli Weiden, award-winning author of Winter Counts

“The Penthouse on Park Avenue grips you from the start, never letting go through the twists and turns as Ronnie and Frank pursue a money launderer for the Mataderos Cartel. Jenny Dandy’s characters stay with you long after you finish the book.”
~ Abbott Kahler, New York Times best-selling author of Eden Undone, Where You End, and The Ghosts of Eden Park

“Jenny Dandy’s new novel delivers everything you crave in a mystery—hardboiled-yet-scrappy protagonists, high stakes, suspense, dry humor, and true villainy. Written with compassion and an appetite for justice, The Penthouse on Park Avenue lures us even more deeply into Dandy’s Houses of Crime series. I can’t wait for the next one!”
~ Erika Krouse, author of Save Me, Stranger

“The Penthouse on Park Avenue sneaks up on you, comes alive, and won’t let you go. Whether Dandy takes us to high end restaurants or low end diners, penthouses or homeless encampments, we’re along for the ride. You’ll care deeply about what might happen to Ronnie and Frank, eager for the next in the series.”
~ Diane Capri, New York Times Bestselling author of the Hunt for Jack Reacher series

To purchase The Penthouse on Park Avenue, click any of the following links:Amazon | Goodreads

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Series: Houses of Crime Mystery Series (on Amazon)

The Houses of Crime Mystery Series at available on Amazon

Read an excerpt from THE BROWNSTONE ON E. 83RD:

Prologue

Ronnie Charles slotted the dirty champagne flutes into the plastic racks as fast as she could, two at a time, her arms flashing between trays and crates. Her skin tightened, an overall prickling that never failed her. It meant danger, meant she had to be out of there quick. The bracelet lay heavy in the secret pocket of her trousers, bumping her thigh as she moved. Someone shifted behind her, too close, and she worked faster. She didn’t have time to fight off one of those ass-grabbers who always seemed to work these big charity dos, creeping on anyone. Even when Ronnie dressed as a man like tonight, they would reach out and squeeze a handful. Ronnie swung her bangs out of her eyes, peeked over her shoulder.

“You’ll give me back my bracelet, or I’ll rip your balls off.” The silky voice caressed her ear, the woman crowding her into the boxes before she could turn around.

The Feline. Ronnie didn’t usually name her marks, but those two words had sprung into her head as she watched the way the calculating woman slinked through the room, eyed the crowd, pounced on her targets. Ronnie took a deep breath, got a whiff of expensive perfume, and then did the only thing she could in a situation like this. She made her voice higher than normal and said, “Ma’am, I don’t have any balls.”

The tall blonde stepped back. Ronnie whipped around and saw the guys lugging chairs and tables into the truck, the caterer with her clipboard, and the cleaning crew hard at work. She so needed to keep this job.

The Feline tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, examined her through mascaraed lashes. “Well, well.”

She scanned Ronnie up and down, checked over the details of her slim hips in the black pants, her flat white shirt and bow tie, her short hair in a boy’s cut. She studied the one thing Ronnie couldn’t fake: her lack of an Adam’s apple.

“It’s not often I’m fooled.” The Feline’s voice was low, dark clouds in the distance. “We both know you have my bracelet. I let you take it because I wanted to see how good you are.”

Ronnie sucked in a breath and watched the certainty come over her, her brown eyes shining. The Feline wasn’t trying to hide her age with makeup the way a lot of women did. She proudly wore the fine lines around her eyes, the smile lines on her cheeks. She was as beautiful up close as she had been in the crowds. Ronnie had watched her, watched as the men and women gathered around her as if just being near her would save their lives.

“And you’re good,” The Feline continued, “but I’m better. I could’ve taken it back from you.” Her eyes flickered to Ronnie’s hand, which had moved all by itself to cover the secret pocket in her trousers. The Feline smiled, lines etching her skin. “I could have, but I was curious about someone almost as brazen as I am, working a crowd of this caliber.”

Tiny beads of sweat gathered at Ronnie’s hairline, and she crossed her arms to keep herself still. The first time she got caught by a mark and it was this willowy goddess. She didn’t know why she’d taken it in the first place. Not like she needed it. “Look, lady.” The caterer approached them. “You have to go. Here, I’m giving it back.” She reached into her pocket and fumbled around, for some reason, not finding the opening. “I’ll give it to you, and you can leave. I really need to keep this job.”

The Feline ran her eyes over her once more then grabbed her upper arm and started walking Ronnie away from the crates. She smiled and nodded at Ronnie’s boss. Under her breath, she said, “No, you don’t.”

Ronnie tried to pull away, but the woman tightened her grip and kept walking.

“I’ve decided you’re going to come work for me.” Her heels punctuated her words as they strode toward the exit. “You have skills I can use.”

Ronnie caught a glance from another waitperson as they passed. Pure envy. Amazing the feelings this woman could pull out of people.

“I have a garden apartment you can live in while you work off the bracelet.” Isabelle cut her eyes to Ronnie, a lioness eyeing her prey. “Your androgyny will throw my marks off balance. I can teach you so many, many things.” Her voice was hard, yet somehow soft at the same time. “I’m giving you an offer of a lifetime.”

Ronnie stopped walking, planted her feet, and the woman’s voluminous gown swirled around her legs as if to trap her.

The Feline stopped, too, but didn’t let go of her arm. “Or I can call the cops.”

No way. Ronnie could not go to jail again. She’d used up whatever goodwill the system had for her, and it would be prison for sure this time. She knew she could run, spin out of her grip, jump off the loading dock, and into the night. Down alleys and through back doors, up fire escapes and over rooftops, disappear into the grit and the cold and the peculiar community of the homeless of New York City. She sucked in her breath. Did she say “garden apartment?” The woman’s earrings glittered at her. No more sleeping on the streets. No more dumpster diving. Okay, one night, that’s it. She’d scope the place out, learn the alarm system and The Feline’s habits. Tuck the information away for when she was desperate, and tonight, she could sleep in a soft bed. An offer of a lifetime.

“I have to get my backpack.” Before Ronnie turned toward the setup tables where she’d stashed it, she caught the grin spreading over the woman’s face, her eyes dancing.

 

Chapter One

Frank Jankowski burst through the emergency room doors, his sixteen-year-old daughter in his arms. He rushed to the front desk, pushed past people in line, yelled at the staff, tried to get someone to pay attention. Cathy moaned, her sweaty head lolling as if she had no neck. A rushing in his ears drowned out all other sounds, and his eyes darted from one person in scrubs to the next. When he opened his mouth to yell again, Cathy vomited on the floor. As if a director had yelled Action, everyone moved at once. A woman with a wheelchair waved aside the guy with the clipboard and yelled, He can do that later! They asked Frank for symptoms, for his daughter’s name, then told the nurse at the desk to page the doctor. The curtain screeched as they yanked it back and deftly placed Cathy on the bed.

She looked like a rag doll. More nurses, stethoscopes, pulse-ox on her finger, someone in scrubs pulled him aside to quietly go over the symptoms with him, poking the iPad she cradled with each thing he said. The nurse turned him away as they inserted an IV in his daughter’s arm and led him back to the waiting room to fill out the paperwork.

He got as far as “Catherine A. Jankowski” when his gut roiled, and he clutched the clipboard tighter, knuckles whitening, scalp tingling as he waited for it to pass. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, counting breaths as images of his daughter surrounded by medical staff, machines, an IV hookup swam behind his eyes. Not again.

Damn. Susan. He called her, told her they were in the emergency room. “Everything’s under control. Don’t worry. I’ll explain when you get here.” He didn’t want her to think it was as bad as it had been a year and a half ago. “Really, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Her worry would make her anxious, and her anxiety would make her yell at him. He pressed the button to end the call.

Whatever this was, and it certainly warranted the ER, it couldn’t compare to the hit and run that took more than a year from Cathy’s life. The long hospital stay, the painful rehab. But she was past all that, seeing friends, catching up on her schoolwork. So this was just—dehydration from whatever cold or flu had laid her low.

He gazed down at the clipboard as if it had just leapt into his hand. He wrote the address of Susan’s apartment on the form. His old apartment. The apartment they had found when he was first transferred to the New York Field Office, the one he thought they would stay in forever, stretching for a two-bedroom because they planned on children. He had been glad she’d kept the walls white, hung cheerful photographs, so when he came home, put his keys in the dish on the table, trying to shed the thoughts of all the evil things people did to other people, the nastiness he worked hard to fight every day, he would pause and try to put himself in the photograph, try to hear the people in them laughing, feel the gentle breeze—

Someone sat down next to him and he shifted in the plastic chair, irritated that a stranger would invade his space like that.

“Frank.”

Susan, his wife—ex-wife—pulled the clipboard away from him and began filling in the form, glancing up at him as if trying to determine what kind of stupid he was. The rhythmic scratching of pen on paper calmed him. She checked off that Cathy had had her immunizations, was current on tetanus, that there was no history of diabetes in their family. The pen hovered over What brought you in today? She raised an eyebrow at Frank. “Are you going to tell me?”

“I thought it was the flu.” He stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the accusations firing from her eyes. “But then she started hallucinating…”

“The flu.” Susan’s pen scratched on the paper. “In August. You thought it was the flu.”

“SuSu—” Frank turned toward her but quickly looked away when he caught the flare of her nostrils and the flash of her blue eyes. He shouldn’t have used his old name for her, but it had just slipped out. He watched the activity at the front desk for a beat, then said, his voice quiet, “You would have thought so, too.”

“Not in August, Frank. I would never have thought that. Did she have a fever?”

“She didn’t seem to. I felt her forehead because she was sweating so much, but—”

“No thermometer at your apartment? How can that be? All these years of Cathy over there, and you don’t even have the rudiments of—the basics for—any way to take—”

Susan tripped over her words, sputtered in her anger, and Frank stayed still, waited for it to pass. A man a few rows ahead of them tapped on his phone, his three children around him squirming and kicking each other, whining at their father, who didn’t respond.

“…her symptoms?” His ex-wife had taken on a neutral tone, perhaps deciding that the paperwork was more important than fighting Frank.

He listed the symptoms in the order they had occurred, the aches, the sweating, the vomiting. Her pen flew over the paper, her frown deepened as the list went on, ending with the hallucinations.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski?”

Susan flinched, her lips thin, jaw tight.

“Could you come with me, please?” The nurse checked for them over her shoulder, an iPad in her hand, led them down the hall, opened a door. “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski, let’s go in here—”

“We’re divorced.” Susan forced the words through clenched teeth, sounding as if she wouldn’t mind going through the proceedings all over again.

They followed the nurse into a small room crammed with desks. The young woman in her cartoon scrubs and bright clogs didn’t ask them to sit. She shut the door and turned to face them. She held up her iPad as if it were a shield, aimed her question at the device, her tone mild as if merely confirming Cathy’s age, “How long has your daughter been addicted to opioids?”

***

Excerpt from The Brownstone on E. 83rd by Jenny Dandy. Copyright 2025 by Jenny Dandy. Reproduced with permission from Jenny Dandy. All rights reserved.

 

The Houses of Crime Mystery Series Author Jenny Dandy

 

Jenny Dandy is a graduate of Smith College and of Lighthouse Writers Workshop Book Project.

Though she has lived and worked from Beijing to Baltimore, from Northampton to Atlanta, New York City was the place that held onto a piece of her heart.

She now lives and writes in the Rocky Mountains where there is no way she would scam her dinner guests or launder money for cartels.

 
To learn more about Jenny, click any of the following links: www.JennyDandy.com, Amazon Author Profile, Level Best Books Author Profile, Goodreads, BookBub, Instagram – @jennydandyauthor, Threads – @jennydandyauthor, X – @JenniferDandy & Facebook – @jennydandyauthor

 

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Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post Houses of Crime Mystery Series Spotlight appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

The Swordsman of Venice by Rob Samborn

The Swordsman of Venice by Rob Samborn

Book & Author Spotlight

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The Swordsman of Venice

The Painted Souls series continues on May 6 in this sequel to the winner of the American Writing Awards’ best novella.

1623 A.D., The New Kingdom of Granada

It’s been 24 years since Angelo Mascari lost his beloved Isabella to Paradise. With a warrant on his head, he reluctantly took a dying nobleman’s elusive advice and fled to the New World.

Now, in the bustling port colony of Santa Marta, Angelo has built a new life with a loving wife and two children. Though his ghosts haunt him, he’s found a sense of purpose as the town defender.

But when the Doge of Venice acquires a conquistador’s chronicle of the Amazon, he instructs Angelo’s old nemesis, Vito Uccello, to lead an expedition into the jungle to find a treasure that promises immortality. Forced back into danger, Angelo’s fragile peace is quickly shattered as he faces his former foes in a battle for survival, redemption, and a discovery that could change everything.

Coming on May 6 from Lost Meridian Press.

Find The Swordsman of Venice on Amazon!

 

New to the Painted Souls series?

The series is about an American couple who travel to Venice, Italy on what is supposed to be a dream vacation. Before they get settled in, the couple become entangled with a secret society that dates back to the sixteenth century.

As the series continues, they realize the society is much bigger than originally thought, with their tentacles reaching Madrid and Paris. Master of the Abyss is a globetrotting thriller that spans Italy, Spain, France, Holland and China. Like the first two books, it’s set in the present day and different time periods in the past.

Fans of Dan Brown, Diana Gabaldon, and Daniel Silva will love this riveting series that blends mystery and action with history and art.

While each book can be read as a standalone, I recommend beginning with The Prisoner of Paradise.

Read more about it here.

author of The Swordsman of Venice Rob Samborn

Rob is an entrepreneur, sales executive, and avid traveler. He’s been to forty countries, lived in five of them (including Italy) and studied nine languages. As a restless spirit who can’t remember the last time he was bored, Rob is on a quest to explore the intricacies of our world and try his hand at a multitude of crafts; he’s also an accomplished artist and musician, as well as a budding furniture maker. 

By day, Rob is Director of Sales for Pulselight, a tech startup that develops data analytics solutions for state human services and Medicaid agencies.

A native New Yorker who lived in Los Angeles for twenty years, he now makes his home in Denver with his wife, daughter, son, and dog.

Rob is represented by Park Fine & Brower Literary Management and is a member of the Authors Guild, International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the National Writers Union (NWU).

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

    

Elena Hartwell | Elena Taylor

The post The Swordsman of Venice by Rob Samborn appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

The Whisper Legacy: A Thriller

The Whisper Legacy by TJ O’Connor [image error]

 
Guest Post + Book & Author Info + An Excerpt!
 
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The Whisper Legacy

Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in The Whisper Legacy . . .

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that alibi will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper.

On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.

 

Book Details:

Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 25, 2025
ISBN: 978-1685129149
Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1

Purchase your copy of The Whisper Legacy at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.

 

Guest Post by TJ O’Connor

Nothing Mysterious About My Stories and Characters

Many people revel in being “an open book.” Not me. Except when my novels come out and friends who know me say “hah, it’s you!” I’m not sure that’s a compliment or a curse. Alas, I fear it is true, nonetheless. My personality and even a few events from my life certainly find their way into The Whisper Legacy, my newest thriller and first in the Pappa Legacy series. Truth is, all my books have had a little too much of me in them—well, maybe not The Hemingway Deception given it has two strong female leads. 

But I try hard not to slip into my character’s worlds too much. 

You see, I write for me, not for my readers. Does that make me a bad person? Don’t get me wrong, I love my readers and fans and even critics. Okay, maybe not the critics. Truth is, if I wrote for you, I wouldn’t reach “The End.” First, everyone wants something different—how do I write for an audience that is so diverse? Writing for me is a way of reliving my “glory days” as they were and adventuring in ways I’ve never done. 

When I was a kid, life was not great. I fell in love with books as an escape. I think today, many people read as escapism. No better way to hide from the often depressing, sometimes painful, and all the time too-caustic world we live in than to chase bad guys, fight corruption, and stop a terrorist, crook, or corrupt politician (I guess the last three are all the same). In the end, you ride away into the sunset with a new love, a million dollars, and of course, a dog. 

Okay, maybe not a million bucks. But you can dream.

By day, and too many nights and weekends, I’m an anti-terrorism consultant supporting our homeland. (Cue the trumpets!) I review, research, analyze, and write constantly. Ug. Sounds cool, and often it is, but most days, it’s boring and brain-numbing. Yeah, yeah, it’s important, but so is dieting and that ain’t fun. (Cue the violins.)

I write to return to the good ole days and find the days I’ve never experienced. I’ve had great adventures in real life and I pine for more. Of course, my past adventures have to stay locked in some safe in DC for the most part. And most of my adventures pale in comparison to the real-deal operators in our country’s arsenal of real-life doers. But hey, I played a tiny little part here and there. Alas, those days are gone gray. 

And let’s face it, I’m getting a little gray in the temples to go back. My knees ache, my back is sore, and I forget little things. Hah! Enter Lowe Curran, my protagonist in The Whisper Legacy! 

Now, I write about Curran and his cases—ones I never really had myself. Mostly, that is.  

In The Whisper Legacy, Lowe Curran is a down on his luck “used to be somebody” living in Northern Virginia. Once, he was a swashbuckling government operative. Until he lost everything and nearly his life on the Voula Beach Road in Greece. Now, he lives in an old barn loft apartment as a PI and consultant (I lived that way once, too). He’s a reckless, sarcastic loner with a devious streak. He survives paycheck-to-paycheck and drives a beat-up old Jeep—(been there, done that.) Alone. Lonely. With nothing but his memories, aging back and aching joints, scars, and regrets (um, yeah). Then, shazam, along comes the murders of his lovely client’s husband and lover, an international crisis, and yes, a rescued Lab named Bogart. How cool is that? 

And, with the exception of being a murder suspect, the rest is, well, kinda from my past.

Curran learns the past he left on the Voula Beach Road is haunting him again. It nearly killed him once, and it could kill him again. Yep, was in Greece. Yep, worked on the Voula Beach Road. Yep…yep…yep.

Now, I can honestly say, I tried very hard to NOT be Lowe Curran. I even likened him to Sean Bean—not Mr. Bean. I am not a Sean Bean—I’m an UFO-Ugly, Fat, Old dude. But, here’s the thing—it’s hard not to have your characters be you. When writing, authors often ask themselves, “What would this character do?” When I ask myself that question, my evil-twin, Tj-2, appears and becomes part of the story. I try. I truly try. Alas, I am weak. 

You might ask, “Where does my deep-rooted crazy nature come from and why does it latch onto my characters so easily?” Well, simply put, I take the best and worst of my life and use it. I grew up hard and yearned for adventure and to escape. I was a military federal agent and ran homicides, drugs (investigating, not using), and finally counter-intelligence and anti-terrorism. I ran ops in the first Gulf War that were a blast! (Both kinds).  Later, I was an executive in an international consulting firm where I continued chasing adventures. Along the way, I nearly went bankrupt, lost my job and had to fight my way back. You know, life happened.

Along the way and still today, I’ve had the privilege of knowing and working with some of the most amazing people you could ever know. All kinds—cops, spies, SEALS, Green Berets, doctors, bad asses, and intellectuals. Why they allowed me in their worlds, I’ll never know. But, they do and I’m a better person and author for it. Yeah, yeah, I’m sarcastic, reckless, and devious—wait, did I already confess to those? Yeah…

So, for The Whisper Legacy and my other works, there’s no mystery where my characters come from. They come from deep down, back then and now—friends, foes, the known and the unknown. I’ll try to contain me, er, them.

Eh, maybe not.

 

Read an excerpt of The Whisper Legacy:

The Whisper Legacy

Chapter One
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran

Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.

For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.

I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.

Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.

My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.

See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.

Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.

He wasn’t.

Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.

“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”

I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”

No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.

The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.

Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.

“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”

If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.

“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”

As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.

A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”

Time to play the role.

“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”

“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”

I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.

“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”

I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.

“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”

Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”

Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.

“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”

“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.

The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.

What an asshole.

“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”

“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

“Call? I didn’t call you.”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”

“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”

Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”

“Not until I get my Rufus.”

His watch signaled him again.

“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.

I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.

I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.

I know cool TV stuff like that.

At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.

I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.

Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.

“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”

We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”

“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.

I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.

“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Nope.”

“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”

“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”

“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”

I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”

He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”

“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”

“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”

Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”

He shrugged. “It means—”

“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”

“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”

“They send me.”

 

Chapter Two
U.C.

The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.

The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.

U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.

The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.

“Yes?”

The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”

“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”

“He got through.”

“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”

U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”

“Maybe.”

He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”

“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”

He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.

“Did you hear me?”

U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”

Hesitation, then, “Orders?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.

He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.

Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.

U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”

The Controller—Define compromise.

U.C.—Total.

The Controller—Confidence?

U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.

***

Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author of The Whisper Legacy TJ O’Connor

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and now lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.

Tj’s work has been recognized with: The American Legacy Award for Political Thrillers; the American Fiction Awards for Political Thrillers & Mystery/Suspense; Gold Medal from the Independent Publishers Book Awards (IPPY) for mysteries; Gold Medal Winner—Military Writer’s Society of America; Gold Medal Winner—Readers Favorite Book Awards; Bronze Medal Winner from the Reader’s Favorite Book Awards; and a finalist for The Silver Falchion Award Finalist for Mysteries and Thrillers; Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Mystery Book of the Year; and the Deadly Ink’s David Award Finalist for Best Mystery/Thriller.

To learn more about TJ, click on any of the following links: tjoconnor.com, Goodreads, BookBub – @tj37, Amazon Author, Instagram – @tjoconnorauthor, Twitter/X – @Tjoconnorauthor, Facebook – @TjOConnor.Author & YouTube – @tjoconnorauthor3905

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

The post The Whisper Legacy: A Thriller appeared first on The Mystery of Writing.

The Guilty Sleep: A Debut Thriller

The Guilty Sleep by Jeremy D. Baker

Book and Author Info + An Excerpt!
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The Guilty Sleep

“A terrific debut–fast, tough and hard, shot through with hard-won authenticity and deep humanity. . . . Don’t miss out.”
—Lee Child

No one gets hurt is a fine plan. A worthy goal. But when it comes down to the moment, there’s always plenty of hurt to go around.

Afghanistan vet Dexter Grant is broke, reeling from PTSD, and on the verge of divorce when he’s approached by his old Army buddies to help rescue their former interpreter, the man who once saved Dex’s life. It means ripping off a vicious queenpin’s drug proceeds—but not to worry, they have it all worked out. And if anyone can pull it off, it’s Dex’s former team lead, Staff Sergeant Saenz.

Tempted by an easy score that could make his own problems disappear and imbued with new purpose, Dex agrees to play his part. But just as in combat, the best-laid plans don’t survive first contact with the enemy. When the heist goes off the rails, Dex’s wife and daughter become targets for bloody revenge. Dex must face down his spiraling inner darkness and call on all his strength and training to save his girls. In his quest, he’ll learn there was much more to this heist than he ever imagined.

Jeremy D. Baker bursts onto the crime fiction scene with this debut thriller that recalls C.J. Box’s unlikely hero Joe Pickett and the small-town, lived-in noir of S.A. Cosby. The Guilty Sleep is a riveting tale of robbery and betrayal in which a father’s love faces off with a soldier’s debt.

To purchase The Guilty Sleep click any of the following links: Amazon, B&N & BookShop

Read an excerpt of The Guilty Sleep:

Two Thirds of a Half-Bad Song

Dex

A couple of stools were open at the end of the bar. Prime real estate, but it was under the television. On screen, a blonde in a jewel-tone dress and a guy with massive, shellacked hair were having an animated conversation. The chyron read “Afghanistan Retreat Disaster.” 

“Hey Dex,” said Tempest. “Usual for you?” She was the weeknight bartender. Cool as anything, all tattoos and piercings and distant affect. Polite and efficient, but God help anyone who pressed their luck. No way her name was really Tempest—probably Lisa or Jennifer or something—but he respected her vibe enough not to ask. 

“Sounds good.” 

Behind Tempest, the wall was a long mirror fronted by glass shelves of bottles lined up in soldier-neat ranks. He scanned the reflection. A practice ingrained from his days in Army counterintelligence training at Fort Huachuca, he could no more turn it off than he could still his own pulse. If you’re not facing the door, you need to be able to keep tabs on your surroundings. He skimmed past his own face: pale, two days’ growth, crosshatched scar above his left eye half-concealed by too-long hair. There was a couple at a high top near the front window, but they’d picked the one that was partially obscured, and they were both angled so they could see the door. He had a ring on, she didn’t. A late afternoon sneak-away. Other end of the bar, a UPS driver sipped an end-of-shift beer. Between the driver and Dex, three elderly drunks nursed inveterate highballs and traded susurrant murmurs. In the back room, a mismatched quartet of guys was shooting pool at the single table. Place was quiet, but it would pick up once the sun went down.

“Start a tab?” Tempest half-asked, setting the glasses in front of him with a professional smile. She already knew the answer. He nodded in thanks and sipped his bourbon. Once she turned away, he swallowed half of it, holding the burn in the back of his throat until he couldn’t take it anymore, then followed it up with a sip of the lager. The usual: one bourbon, one beer. Like a blues song, and not one of the good ones. 

His eyes flicked to the television, and by the act of looking at it, the volume fell into place and he could hear what the jewel-tone dress lady and bouffanted dude were saying.

“Isn’t this a huge indictment of the administration’s foreign policy, Jarrett?” the woman asked, her voice sopping with scripted credulity.

“Absolutely, Ashleigh,” the high-haired chump responded. “A complete disgrace, if you ask me.”

“Well don’t just take our word for it, folks,” Ashleigh said, turning to face the camera and crossing her legs. “Stay tuned for retired U.S. Army Major Curt Slicker, who’s going to break it all down for us.” The screen split, showing a puffy, red-cheeked guy with a wispy buzz cut glowering at the camera.

“We’ll be…right back,” Jarrett intoned.

Dex nearly threw his tumbler at the television, but instead he downed the rest of the bourbon and thumped the empty glass on the bar. If he’d stopped there, at the one beer and the one bourbon, two thirds of a half-bad song, what came next would have shaken out into a typical week. Go to work, go to the bar, go home, try to sleep, nightmares, go on a long run, text his wife, try to see his kid, hate his own reflection, rinse and repeat. But, as Ol’ Dirty Le Batard had once said back in K-town, “If wishes and ifs were dried shrimp and grits, I’d have myself a fine-ass brunch.”

He caught Tempest’s dry-ice gaze and she drifted over for a refill. The hour melted into the next. Sip, swallow, repeat. Avoid the TV. The guys from the pool table crowded up next to him, squeezing around one stool that had remained miraculously empty. They hooted at Tempest, which was a strike against them, and they hollered at the next batch of airbrushed jack-wagons on the television, which would have balanced it out except the things they were saying were even more insipid than the bobbleheads of the small screen commentariat. 

Dex finished the third bourbon and turned his fuzzed attention to the quartet. Put on his CI hat and studied them in the mirror across the counter. An odd set. The loudest mouth of the bunch was wearing shiny suit pants, a fitted white dress shirt, and a narrow tie. His hair was hard and slick-looking. Another, a guy with a bull’s neck and a beard that flowed over his chest like a bib, was wearing work pants with oil stains at the knees. The third was in ripped jeans and a black t-shirt for a hardcore band, and looked like he subsisted on Mountain Dew and cigarettes. The last guy was right out of a commercial for a mattress store, khaki pants and white sneakers, polo shirt tucked in tight around a spreading paunch. 

Dex couldn’t make them fit at first, but they were a set for sure. Lots of laughing and clapping each other on the back, finishing each other’s sentences. Inside jokes and innuendos. He landed on former high school teammates. Football. They had an easy camaraderie, the kind that would hold on for a decade after graduation as life took them in different directions. Probably got together once a month to slam beers and reminisce. Linebacking crew, maybe. 

“Put us on a plane and we’ll clean ‘at mess up right quick,” said the biggest guy, the one with the stained knees and beard.

“ARs and a few grenades, some-a-them rocket launchers,” put in the metal fan, his voice rattling with a speed un-slurred by the Natty Bohs he’d been chugging.

“Buncha primitive monkeys,” muttered the one who looked like he managed a mattress store. His eyebrows made a knot of anger at the bridge of his nose.

“You want to keep it down a bit?” asked Tempest, delivering their boilermakers.

“It don’t piss you off, sweetheart?” asked the businessman in the tight shirt, nodding at the TV. It was replaying images of Taliban technicals swarming the streets of Kabul, interspersed with chaotic evacuation scenes at the airport. “We cut and run an’ let those raghead camel-humpers take over? Makes us look like a bunch of cowards.”

“What’ll piss me off is if you guys break another glass.”

“Said I was sorry, hon,” said Metalhead. “It slipped.”

“G’head and start us another round, ok?” said Big Beard. “Put it on his tab.” He jerked his head at Businessman, who mouthed something unpleasant at his friend, smiling all the while.

“Ah, just look at them,” Mattress Guy grumbled, still staring at the screen.

“I think,” said Businessman, “we went too easy. Only way to go is scorched earth.” His three pals chorused agreement. “Do ‘em up like Connery said in that movie. ‘They pull a knife, you pull a gun. They put one of your guys in the hospital, you put one of theirs in the morgue.’ Like that.”

“Yeah,” said Big Beard. “They set up an IED, we nuke their ass. Glass parking lot. Scorched earth, like you said. Shoulda wiped out every one a them sand nig—”

“Excuse me,” Dex said. 

A Frank Exchange of Views

Dex

“What’s up, bruh?” asked Businessman. The leader of the group. Probably the defensive captain. Still in good shape: tall and lean, but broad across the shoulders and thighs. Middle linebacker for sure.

“Just wanted to thank you guys for your service,” Dex replied.

“What?” said Metalhead, his face slack.

“You got all these expert takes, I figure you did some time in the sandbox,” Dex said. “So…you know…thank you for your bravery and sacrifice and all that. Shame the administration hasn’t retained you as consultants.”

“You tryin’ to be funny?” Big Beard asked. 

“Hey,” said Tempest, her voice low and urgent. 

Dex waved at her gently but kept his eyes on the group. His body followed his mouth, betraying the desire to slouch on his stool and drink until the night was hazy around the edges. He slid to his feet.

“What’s funny,” Dex asked, “about a humble private citizen wanting to buy a round for a group of such…distinguished war heroes?”

In addition to being the leader, Businessman was clearly the smartest—or soberest—of the group. “This guy,” he said, looking over his shoulder at his buddies, “thinks we ought to shut up about Afghanistan because we weren’t there.”

“What, and you were?” sneered Big Beard. 

“Who says I was?” said Dex, same time as Tempest said, “Why doesn’t everyone just chill?”

“Ah,” said Businessman. His eyes drifted to the faint X of scars above Dex’s left eye, then down to the inside of Dex’s left forearm, where the unit crest—raven in profile sinister on mantled shield, 296 MI BN stamped above, BLACKBIRDS scripted below—took up a wide swath of skin. Dex fought the urge to tug his sleeve down. “Ah,” said Businessman again, drawing it out to three syllables.

“No way,” said Metalhead. “This skinny-ass hipster?”

“So, you’re qualified to talk about it and the rest of us should shut up?” said Mattress Guy.

“No and yes,” said Dex. “In that order, in case you weren’t following—don’t strain your brainpans.” He couldn’t stop. There was a smell in the air, might have been ozone. “I can ask Tempest for a box of crayons and construction paper if you think it would help. Make you a little presentation for clarity.” 

“Wait, what?” This from Metalhead, clearly the driest marker in the pack.

Dex sniffed, scenting like a hound. “You smell that? This guy’s cerebellum just started smoking.”

“This prick thinks he’s better’n us, fellas,” Businessman said. “Just ‘cause he was over there.”

“No,” said Dex, whispering through his teeth, “I’m no better than you. I’m worse, if such a thing is remotely conceivable. And you doorknobs look about as collectively beneficial to society as an unsalted pretzel.”

Mattress Guy snarled a curse under his breath and cracked his neck.

“Gentlemen,” Dex said, rolling his shoulders and spreading his hands wide in faux apology, “if I’ve said anything to offend you, I can assure you it was completely intentional.”

“Y’ask me,” grunted Businessman, “losers like you are why things look like that right now.” He waved at the screen, which showed a frantic woman trying to pass a little girl over the barbed wire fence that ringed the airport. 

“Be back to settle up in five, Tempest,” Dex said, and shouldered his way through the foursome. He reached the door and looked back. “You guys coming? Don’t keep me waiting, I’ll get all lonely.”

Businessman slammed his glass down, sloshing his drink across the bar. “Let’s go boys, this guy needs his ass beat.”

“Thought you were never gonna take the hint,” Dex said. He stepped out into the night. 

The football team followed thirty seconds later, walking like they’d done this before. Surely they had. Dex scrolled back through a dozen fights, realizing belatedly just how stupid this was. He’d never, even on his wildest day, been dumb enough to take on four guys. 

“Oh man, we are gonna kick the shit out of you,” said Big Beard. 

The four chuckleheads formed themselves into a semi-circle, from left to right: Metalhead, Businessman, Big Beard, Mattress Guy. 

Before Afghanistan, during his first combat tour in northern Iraq teaching the Kurds to interrogate people without using a car battery and kiddie pool full of water, Dex’d been teamed with a Romanian corporal who’d trained as a cage fighter for fun. Thickset guy with hands like ham hocks and a dry sense of humor. He used to spar with Dex at the base gym. The Romanian would never touch gloves; he’d just explode into attack mode right from the jump. He told Dex he didn’t believe in wasting time with niceties. When you’re there to touch gloves and smile, touch gloves and smile. When you’re there to talk, talk. When you’re there to fight, bloody fight.

Dex figured two things: he’d done enough talking, and Big Beard was the most dangerous member of the group. Looked like he could take a sledgehammer to the gut and shrug it off. The rest of the crew probably figured Dex would want no part of him. Metalhead and Mattress Guy each took a shuffling step forward. Any second, they’d move in, either driving him back or pinning him for Businessman and Big Beard.

Dex danced forward, grabbed a fistful of Big Beard’s big beard with each hand, and yanked the guy’s face down as hard as he could. Same time, he pistoned his knee into Big Beard’s chin. The guy snapped straight back and kept going. His feet went slapstick high, and he slammed into the parking lot on his back, legs dropping like a pair of felled timbers.

Dex spread his fingers. A dusting of wiry hair drifted down, and he blew it in Mattress Guy’s face, laughing. He whipped toward Businessman, planning a right into the guy’s face and then a spinning elbow strike into the side of Metalhead’s…well…head. Then he could take his time with pudgy Mattress Guy, who was clearly the lowest threat of the bunch. It was a perfect mental choreograph and he was already flowing into it when Mattress Guy ruined everything by being, in fact, the highest threat of the bunch. Businessman was still gaping at Big Beard’s prone form, Metalhead was beginning to shout something (probably “Wait, what?”), and Dex was winding up for a beautiful cross into Businessman’s jaw when Mattress Guy flowed like water and planted a hard left into Dex’s side. He staggered and Mattress Guy grabbed Dex around the waist and dumped him to the ground.

Businessman and Metalhead crowded in. Mattress Guy rained blows at Dex’s head and Dex mostly took them on the forearms, but one caught him a glancing swipe on the ear and his head rang with the hot sting of it. Dex got a hand around Mattress Guy’s heel and twisted, rolling them over. Now on top, Dex sent a left-right combo into the guy’s double chins, but then the other two were dragging him off. 

Businessman threw a sharp left into Dex’s cheek, snapping his head back. “Hold still and take what you got coming,” he snarled. Metalhead seized Dex’s arms, pinning them behind his back.

Dex felt a trail of blood flow over his upper lip, tasted it with the tip of his tongue. And then Mattress Guy was on his feet, pushing Businessman aside. He worked Dex’s chest and midsection like a heavy bag. Metalhead whooped, which was at least better than “Wait, what?”

Three, four heavy punches to the body. Mattress Guy grinned at Dex and Dex found himself grinning back into the guy’s face. The pain wasn’t real yet—that would come later—but the promise of it was there, thick and rich as each blow landed. 

“What—are you—so—happy—about?” Mattress Guy grunted, winded from the effort.

“When—are you—gonna—really—hit me?” Dex gasped, but what he meant was Keep it coming. This is what I deserve. The smell of ozone had become the lightning strike, and the thunder was right behind. The black river waited.

“Switch out,” said Businessman, and Mattress Guy gave a grateful nod and grabbed Dex’s arm as Dex sagged against him. Businessman stepped in front of Dex and started rolling his sleeves up his forearms. “My boy worked the body, but I think I’ll rearrange your pretty face some more, what do you think about that?”

There was a flare of light from the main road, headlights across rain-slicked pavement. The shadows behind Businessman coalesced and suddenly the guy disappeared in a gray billowing cloud. There was a hollow thump and Dex blinked and Businessman was crumpled on the ground, unmoving. There was someone standing where the guy had been, haloed by the streetlights and traffic. Fair hair and a long gray raincoat.

“Wait, what?” mumbled Metalhead.

“You ever say anything else?” Dex groaned, and whipped his head back as hard as he could, smacking into Metalhead’s face with a satisfying thump.

Metalhead let him go with a screech, and Mattress Guy stepped to the side. Dex slumped to his knees. There was a snick and a gleam in the reflected light and suddenly Mattress Guy was holding a carpet knife, blade pointed toward the new guy. There was a rustle and the sound of metal on leather and the new guy had a pistol, angled out and away from his body so its outline would be clearly visible.

“Hey man,” Metalhead said, holding his streaming nose.

“Uh,” said Mattress Guy, dropping the knife and putting his hands up.

“Go away,” the silhouette said in a harsh whisper. “Come back for your friends in five minutes.”

The two scampered, cutting a wide berth around Raincoat Guy, who stepped forward and held out his hand. The gun was gone. Dex looked up and the man’s face came into focus.

“Sarnt Saenz,” he managed. “Long time no see.”

Saenz waved his hand in front of Dex’s face. In the shadows, his expression was unreadable. “Come on, Frogger. On your feet.”

“I hate that nickname, Sarnt.”

Tête-à-Tête/We Need to Talk About Jalal

Saenz

“I need your help.”

They were sitting at the wobbly kitchen table in Frogger’s crappy apartment, having just completed the timeless ritual of a seasoned NCO trying to get one of his troops to sober up and focus.

“For what?”

Saenz took a beat. Let the silence do the work, build the connective tissue to Frogger’s interest. Kept his tone firm, sincere. 

“To save Jalal Hamidzai’s life.”

“Say again?”

“Jalal,” Saenz repeated. “His family too. I need your help.”

Saenz watched Frogger start to put the pieces together. Jalal had been one of their interpreters in Kandahar. A great one. He would’ve been high on the Taliban payback list for that alone. And if word had gotten out about what he’d done during the incident at the compound, he’d be in their top ten.

“What happened?” 

“Yeah, I started at a bad place,” Saenz said. “I was going for dramatic effect to get your attention.”

“It worked. You have it. But how about reframing the scenario for me?”

“Listen to you. ‘Reframing the scenario.’ You really did pay attention.”

“You made us smarter. Better. So, help me understand the problem.”

“Fair enough,” Saenz said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. He laid out the tale carefully. Setting the stage for Frogger’s eventual capitulation, piece by microscopic piece. It was a masterwork, equal parts horror, Kafka-esque bureaucratic nightmare, and tragedy. And like all deception ops, it was a perfect blend of lies and truth. 

After what happened at the compound, it was all over for their team in Afghanistan. But Jalal decided to stay in Afghanistan. Keep fighting the fight. Moved his family out of K-town and up to the capital and, with Saenz as a reference, landed as a terp at the embassy in Kabul. Another two and a half years of service to the U.S. flag, knowing there was a new life for him and his family on the other end.

When the Americans decided to pull out, Jalal—always savvy as a vacuum cleaner salesman at a dust convention—read the chay leaves. He was a target, and his family would be greenlit as well. Accordingly, he was first in line for an SIV, the promised benefit for Afghans who’d helped the U.S. during the war. 

Only there was a problem with the Special Immigrant Visa. A hiccup. The State Department factotum reviewing Jalal’s bona fides noted a troubling relation. A second cousin by marriage to an individual of concern, Kamaluddin Haqqani, the youngest son of Sirajuddin Haqqani. And even though Jalal himself had disclosed the relationship on his background forms when he first applied to work with the Americans, it was suddenly enough derog to kibosh the issuance of the SIV. A connection to the infamous and sprawling Haqqani Network—half mafia, half terrorist, all bad juju—even one as tenuous as Jalal’s, was a no-go for State. It painted unpleasant pictures: a family of sleeper agents burrowing into American society, waiting for activation. Suicide bombings. School shootings. Poisoned reservoirs. Sniper attacks. A nightmare on home soil, one we invited in ourselves? Thank you for your service, but no thank you.

All nonsense, of course. Jalal had proven himself loyal a dozen times over, but especially at the compound. He should have been given a medal and a first-class flight to the States. When he’d exhausted the appeals process, working his way through the bureaucratic chain and getting a no all the way up to the chief of staff to the ambassador himself, who relayed yet another no (at least this time with regrets), Jalal reached out to Saenz.

And Saenz, in his capacity as the finest counterintelligence mind in a generation and rising junior partner at the military-adjacent contracting multinational Golden Oak, broke open his considerable toolbox. He reached out to every military, paramilitary, and contract partner in the company portfolio, going off-books when needed, making promises he’d never be able to keep. Might cost him his job when everything unraveled, he said with a gentle shrug calculated to the razor’s edge of fatalistic acceptance.  Next, he leveraged the network of sources, informants, and officials in Afghanistan he and Jalal had built in country. Pulled every thread, called in every favor, read everyone the same chay leaves. 

Upshot was, he arranged for Jalal and his family to travel north by jingle truck from Kabul to Mazar-i-Sharif, then across the border into Uzbekistan. Along the old silk road to Samarkand, then a series of decreasingly rickety airframes to Baku, Ankara, Addis Ababa, and Nairobi. There, Jalal and the family boarded a cross-continental flight to Dakar. Six hours after landing, they were on the Panamanian-flagged cargo ship Antares, bound for the Americas. Two days later, Kabul fell. Couldn’t have cut it any closer.  

“Ship docks at the Port of Baltimore on Saturday,” Saenz said, draining the last of his coffee. He stood and stretched, cracking his back. Poured a fresh cup. He raised the pot and his eyebrows. Frogger nodded. Saenz topped him up and set the pot back on the burner. It gave off a soft hiss.

“You’ve been busy.”

“You’re telling me,” Saenz chuckled. “Had all my hair last month.”

“I understand that. You’ve basically coordinated an international human smuggling operation.”

Saenz gave him an interrogator’s stare, and it was Frogger’s turn to put up his hands. “Not saying it was wrong. State should have processed the SIV and put him and his family on a private jet out of Hamid Karzai International.”

“We agree.”

“You did the right thing.”

“We agree,” Saenz repeated. 

“It also sounds like you have things under control. You were the best op planner I ever served under.”

Saenz fed him a grateful smile, then said, “But, you wanna ask me, if it’s going so well, why am I reaching out?”

Dex nodded and sipped his coffee. 

“Hit a snag. Bad one.”

“I’m listening.”

“Ok, Jalal’s on the boat—” 

“—the Antares—”

“Right. Due in on Saturday. With his family.”

“How many?”

“Four others. His oldest son, just turned nineteen. Younger son, seventeen, I think.” That much was true. And now another lie: “His wife and their little girl, too. She’s, like, five? A little older than your daughter.”

“Full house. Or shipping container, I’m assuming.”

Saenz tapped the tip of his nose. “In one.”

“The snag?”

“World runs on money, Dex.”

“As they say.”

“And I ran out. Played fast and loose with the Golden Oaks books, changed up some contract terms, and called in those favors in-country to move a few suitcases of dinars, rupees, and afghanis around. Hell, I wiped out my own personal savings, cashed in my 401k, everything.”

“Not enough?”

“It was. That’s the problem. My guy in Nairobi called.”

“Not a good sign.”

“The worst,” Saenz said, nodding. “He said we have to pay a skinner fee on arrival.”

“Skinner fee?”

“COD payout. To the port director in Baltimore.”

“Ah,” Frogger said. “I’ve heard of those guys. They run security at the cargo ports, right?”

“Exactly,” Saenz said, and doled out the rest of the breadcrumbs. “And the Baltimore bubba is bent—main reason I chose the place.”

“Home turf doesn’t hurt,” Frogger added, and Saenz nodded because he saw the wheels turning, and it would be better if Frogger worked the next part out himself. “And your Nairobi coordinator told you the port boss changed the terms on you?”

Saenz allowed a proud-papa smile. “Got it in one again.”

“Let me guess, he raised the price because it was Afghans. Like an import duty. I read a thing, said Mexican smuggling groups do the same when they move South Asians and Middle Easterners over the Texas border.”

“That’s it.”

“Shoot, your guy in Nairobi’s probably the one who gave the port boss the heads up.”

“Cynical—big surprise—but you’re righter than you know. This port director is the law enforcement and inspection chief, head bureaucrat, and senior oversight presence for Uncle Sam, all rolled into one. Responsible for everything that comes in and out, and he’s got a couple dozen badge-and-gun toters crawling all over the port on any given day. Basically, dictator-god-for-life. Gatekeeper for all cargo, licit and illicit, moving through the port. Drugs and money coming in; cars, guns, and money going out.”

“People.”

“Say again?”

“And people. Coming in,” Frogger said.

“Uh-huh. And the port director doubled his rate.”

“Call me cynical again, but I would have expected that, Sarnt.”

Saenz sighed heavily. Ran his hands through his hair again. Rubbed his face. Let himself look defeated. “I did,” he said, after a long pause. “But I hoped for the best, that I’d have time to pull more cash together just in case. I was wrong.”

“And if he waits until your precious cargo is halfway across the Atlantic, you can’t exactly pull out of the deal while they extract the rest of the blood from the stone.”

Saenz nodded, letting his face go hard.

“Only problem is,” Frogger continued, following the last of the breadcrumbs, “if I’m hearing you right, there’s no blood left in the collective stones.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re hoping I can help.”

“I know you, Fro—Grant. You were always one of the good troops. Stand-up guy, wanted to serve his country, do the right thing. That…thing at the compound hosed you up.” Saenz cast a look around the dim kitchen. “Got you twisted so much when we got back to the world you didn’t know your head from your fourth point of contact. Missing duty weekends. Or showing up smelling like a bottle. Taking a swing at the CO.” Frogger’s eyes flicked up for a second, caught his own, then sheared away. Saenz thought he’d gone right up to the line, so he pulled back, softened his voice with an injection of sympathy. “I get it. I disagreed with the OTH discharge—I would’ve tried to get you right—but Battalion made the call, not me. I say there’s no shame in it. The thing that happened…it messed with all of us.”

“Where you going with this, Stu?”

“You’re still the guy who wants to do the right thing. I can see it. And you know as well as I do Jalal saved us. Any of us who made it through that day, it was because of him. And if we don’t come up with two hundred forty thousand dollars, the port director’s going to call the captain of the cargo ship and have him slit Jalal’s throat and throw him overboard. His sons, too. Probably give the crew the wife and daughter as payment,” Saenz finished, disgust coloring his tone.

Frogger stared at him. Saenz saw him focus inward, like he was studying his own breathing. In and out. Slow. Trying to take in the enormity of it. He was almost there. Right on the precipice, ready to take the leap. Saenz focused on his own breathing, subtly matching Dex’s. Amazing how after all these years in the game, the approach to closing the deal still got his blood up. What a rush. 

Frogger straightened.

“I’d like to help. It’s righteous, and God knows I’m trying to do right these days. But look around you, man,” Frogger said, spreading his arms to take in the kitchen, dimly lit by the stuttering fluorescents; the wobbly table, the mismatched chairs, the battered fridge. Then he pointed at his own battered face. “I look like I’m in any position to help?” He laughed bitterly. “I have nothing. My wife kicked me out. Filed for divorce and primary custody. I’m not making a hundred grand a year at Booz Allen or Golden Oak like you—got a mountain of bills crushing my spine instead. Top of that, I drink too much. Shit, I sold my beater so I wouldn’t end up with a DUI. I have nothing,” he repeated. “I’m no help to anyone right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Saenz said.

“What?”

Saenz paused, hands wrapped around the coffee mug. He looked up, his eyes boring into Frogger’s own. Time to land him. 

“You still work at the bank?”

More about Jeremy D. Baker: Jeremy D. Baker grew up in Italy, Florida, and Maryland. He’s a former US Army counterintelligence agent and combat veteran. He served alongside US Special Forces in Afghanistan and is a PTSD survivor. Over the past 20 years, his work in national security has focused on intelligence, counterterrorism, transnational organized crime, human trafficking, climate risk and resilience, and cybersecurity. He lives with his family in Maryland. Read more at https://www.jeremydbaker.com/. 

 
*** Excerpt from The Guilty Sleep by Jeremy D. Baker. Copyright 2025 by Jeremy D. Baker. Reproduced with permission from Jeremy D. Baker. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author of The Guilty Sleep Jeremy D. Baker

Jeremy D. Baker grew up in Italy, Florida, and Maryland.

He’s a former US Army counterintelligence agent and combat veteran. Like Dexter Grant, he served alongside US Special Forces in Afghanistan.

Also like Dexter, he’s a PTSD survivor.

Over the last 20 years, his work in national security has focused on intelligence, counterterrorism, transnational organized crime, human trafficking, climate risk and resilience, and cybersecurity. He lives with his family in Maryland.

Learn more about Jeremy by clicking any of the following links: BlueSky, Twitter &  Instagram

 

Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor

 

 

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After Pearl: Historical Mystery

After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou

Author Guest Post + Book & Author InfoDon’t miss any new books! Click the link here.After Pearl

“After Pearl is a wonderfully rendered hard-boiled historical mystery reminiscent of Chandler’s Marlowe novels.”
— Bruce Robert Coffin, International Bestselling author of The Turner and Mosley Files

From award-winning author Stephen G. Eoannou, After Pearl will take you back in time…

1942. War rages in Europe. Pearl Harbor still smolders. And alcoholic private eye Nicholas Bishop wakes up on a hotel room floor with two slugs missing from his .38 revolver. The cops think he’ s murdered lounge singer Pearl DuGaye, mobsters think he saw something he shouldn’ t have, and Bishop remembers nothing…

Together with his indomitable assistant Gia Alessi, who he may or may not have fired, a WWI vet who often flashes back to 1918, and a one-eyed female dog named Jake, Bishop tries to piece together the events that took place during his disastrous five-day bender. Along the way, he stumbles across a dirty politician, a socialite and her unfaithful husband, and a cabal of American Nazis who are undoubtedly up to no good. Written in the spirit of classic noir, Eoannou adds his own unique voice and flair to the genre in this, the first action-packed outing of the Nicholas Bishop Mysteries.

“Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett would be proud of this next generation author who takes their styles and not only matches them but adds his own unique flair and voice to the genre. This is a novel dying to be made into a movie.” —Historical Fiction Company 5 Star Review

To purchase After Pearl, click any of the following links: Amazon, Barnes and Noble & Bookshop.orgAfter Pearl Guest PostMy Father’s Storiesby Stephen G. Eoannou

 

My father was a great storyteller. Especially if he’d had a few drinks and my mother wasn’t around. I loved hearing his memories from the 1930’s and ‘40s of growing up in Buffalo, New York’s Genesee and Oak Street area. This neighborhood was populated with recent Greek immigrants like my grandparents and father. The Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church on Oak Street was the center of the Greek community then, but it was my grandfather’s restaurant, The New Genesee, that was the center of most of my dad’s tales.

I’d sit mesmerized as he reminisced about the regulars who came into the restaurant: his friend Lefty the Dog Thief, the junkman who was stabbed by another Greek (“He didn’t have to kill that poor old junkman.”), or the alcoholic boxer who’d ask my father to hold his diamond pinky ring before he went on a bender. He was afraid of losing or pawning it and said my dad was the only one he trusted to hold onto his diamond. I heard stories of how a drunken Jimmy Slattery, the former light heavyweight champion from South Buffalo, would come in and bother the waitresses. My father would threaten to throw him out (“Angelo, you can’t throw him out. He’s the champ!”).

Many of these stories made it into my novel Yesteryear. It was tremendous fun incorporating them and fleshing out Dad’s friends into fictional characters. It was a way of keeping my father’s stories alive and his memory fresh. I think he would’ve gotten a kick out of reading them in print.

Yesteryear wasn’t the first time I intertwined Dad’s stories with my own. My debut novel Rook is based on the true story of Buffalo bank robber Al Nussbaum. Rook alternates points-of-view between Al and his life on the run, and Lolly, his wife left behind who was trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered life. It’s as much a story about the end of a marriage as it is about a fugitive bank robber. One of the challenges Lolly faced was unemployment. Set in the early 1960’s, no one would hire “the bank robber’s wife” in Rook except Angelo at The New Genesee.

In real life, my grandfather had passed away in 1957 and my dad and uncle took over the restaurant. They sold it soon after. I was born in 1963 and never met my grandfather or set foot in his restaurant that I romanticized first in my imagination and later in my fiction. Still, writing about it seemed natural and right.

When I began planning my forthcoming novel After Pearl, a noir mystery set in 1942 Buffalo, I knew I wanted Bishop, my alcoholic main character, to be the house detective at The Lafayette Hotel. I love that old brick building with its long oak bar and iconic rooftop neon sign and wanted to write about it. I also loved the story my father told of how a man pulled a gun on him at the hotel bar one night after he’d returned from WWII. My parents were on a date and a man was bothering my mother. Dad, fresh from dashing across Europe with Patton, was having none of that. Thus, the gun.

My dad wasn’t packing, and the bouncers intervened before shots were fired. The cops were called. Everybody was kicked to the curb and told not to return. The Lafayette, a place where tempers flared and guns were drawn, seemed like the perfect setting for a detective novel.

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The Lafayette is still in operation today and is close to where The New Genesee once stood. I liked the idea of Bishop being a regular at the restaurant. I could again write about a grandfather I never met and describe a restaurant I only knew from a few surviving photographs and my father’s enduring stories. I also liked the idea of how the restaurant and the neighborhood were becoming not only a running thread linking my novels, but an important part of the milieu in this fictionalized Buffalo I was creating.

I wanted the restaurant to be like Rick’s Café Americain in Casablanca, a place filled with shady characters, where stolen items were bought and sold, where illegal poker games took place. I don’t think that’s too far from the truth based on my dad’s stories.

Dad’s been gone ten years now. I inherited from him a love of reading and storytelling. I said in a recent interview that the best stories I’ve written were stolen from him. That’s not quite true. I didn’t steal them. He gave them to me. Neither of us knew when he was telling and retelling his Genesee Street memories that they’d take root in my imagination, that I’d forever picture them as flickering black-and-white movies and feel a need to put them down on paper.

Over time, they became my memories. But memories are funny. They’re like ghosts. They visit when I least expect them. They don’t always show up like a moaning, chain-dragging Jacob Marley, however. Sometimes they come quietly, when the early-morning house is still, like a creeping muse bringing gifts from ninety years ago–gifts that had already been given to me.

 

After Pearl Author Stephen G. Eoannou

Stephen G. Eoannou is the author of the award-winning short story collection Muscle Cars and the novels After Pearl, Yesteryear, and Rook.

He holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte and an MA from Miami University. He has been awarded an Honor Certificate from The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the Best Short Screenplay Award at the 36th Denver Film Festival. His latest novel, Yesteryear, was awarded the 2021 International Eyelands Award for Best Historical Novel, The Firebird Book Award for Biographical Fiction, and Shelf Unbound’s Notable Indy Books of 2023.

He lives and writes in his hometown of Buffalo, New York, the setting and inspiration for much of his work.

To learn more about Stephen, click any of the following links: Website, Facebook & TwitterElena Hartwell | Elena Taylor

 

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