Karen Docter's Blog, page 5
July 21, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Psychic #Mystery: A VISION OF VIOLENCE, Audrey Lake Investigations Book 2 by Nichelle Seely
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
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A VISION OF VIOLENCE
Audrey Lake Investigations Book 2
BY NICHELLE SEELY
BLURB
The most controversial thing a cop can do is voluntarily work for the defense, but when the public defender calls on private investigator Audrey Lake, she can’t say no.
A police officer’s duty is to collect the evidence and apprehend the criminal. The rest is up to the lawyers. But Audrey isn’t a cop anymore; she’s a private eye with bills to pay, and she can’t afford to turn down a legitimate job. Especially when she’s still trying to come to grips with the intrusive voice in her head and an elusive ‘psychic’ ability. She figures it’ll be a welcome injection of cash for a few days of routine investigation.
She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
An itinerant deck hand is in custody for the murder of professional crab fisherman Jack Reynolds. The defense just wants a reasonable doubt, someone else to pin the crime on. But Audrey refuses to implicate another person, not without knowing for sure.
The investigation leads Audrey through the rain-slick streets of Astoria, Oregon, among the mossy piers and boardwalks of the Skipanon Harbor, and the stormy fishing grounds of the Pacific. It’s gotten complicated, but she’s still trying to answer a simple question: who killed Jack Reynolds?
She didn’t know she’d have to risk her own life to find out.
~~~
A VISION OF VIOLENCE
Audrey Lake Investigations Book 2
BY NICHELLE SEELY
Excerpt
My name is Audrey Lake. I’m a former cop, now a private investigator. And sometimes, I can see into the past. But only when it involves violence and death. Except when it’s my own past. That’s got some fuzzy spots. Especially around violence and death.
Yeah, I’m kind of messed up. So what the hell am I doing here, standing on the sidewalk long after sunset, hood pulled up against the rain? The cloud cover makes the night pitch black, except for the murky glow of a halogen street lamp. The puddles tremble under the drizzle, and fallen leaves have turned into a mushy carpet. The smell of damp is so heavy I can taste it. In other words, a typical fall evening on the Oregon coast.
In front of me is a rambling Queen Anne mansion, complete with a corner tower. My mother, the architect, would love it. Me, I see a repair and maintenance nightmare. Several of the windows glow with light, and indistinct silhouettes of people move about on the second floor. A faint snatch of laughter comes from inside. It seems pleasant; people enjoying themselves, sheltered from the weather. I’ve been invited, but haven’t decided whether or not to cross the threshold.
A movement catches the corner of my eye, and my cop instincts kick in. I reach for my weapon, but the Glock in the shoulder holster is absent—I don’t usually bring it to social occasions. I turn to see a dark figure a block away, walking hunched against the rain. I relax. Just another person on their own in the dark.
I must be really desperate. Or really lonely. Or both. Why else would I have left my own house, on a rainy October night, to join a group of strangers who think they have psychic powers? But in our last therapy session, Phoebe urged me to get out and meet more people. She said being social would be good for me, get me out of my head. She said it would help with my PTSI. And I do want to get better. Be normal.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
And here we go with the craziness. Say hello to Zoe, the alternate identity I used when I was working undercover. Only she didn’t depart when the mission was over, after everything went to hell. I didn’t go back to completely being me, Audrey Lake. Some splinter of Zoe remained behind, manifesting as a strident voice intruding on my thoughts.
I resent that remark.
In the law enforcement business, you soon discover that people are the most unfathomable of all the variables—you can do your best to save them, protect them, warn them about their danger, but in the end you can’t control what they do, or who they choose to be. Lovers will love, lawyers will argue, creators will create—
And murderers will murder.
Yeah, that got dark real fast.
I shake my head, and the rasp of my hood fills my ears. You can dress for the weather, you can turn on a light to push back the dark, but dealing with people is never so straightforward. And my mental health issues don’t help. Maybe I should just go back home.
You’re getting awfully good at running away.
I refuse to let Zoe be right, so I make myself walk up to the shelter of the covered porch. The wood smells damp, and a stale whiff of smoke wafts from a potted plant where someone has crushed a cigarette. The big house has been subdivided into apartments, and it takes me a few seconds to find the name of my host on the intercom and press the bell next to it. A staticky, masculine voice comes from the speaker as the entry buzzes open.
“Come on upstairs. First door on the left. It’s unlocked.”
I obey instructions and walk through the door. Because sometimes, in order to move forward, we have to do things we don’t want to do.
Because sometimes, the only way out is through.
About Author Nichelle Seely…
Nichelle Seely (she, her) is the author of the Audrey Lake Investigations series as well as multiple serial fiction titles in various genres. She is also an Author Accelerator-certified book coach. As a coach and developmental editor, she is passionate about helping writers of genre fiction and memoir find their voices and get their books into the world. She has a BA in English and attends conferences and workshops to enhance her craft and industry knowledge. Nichelle lives in Colorado with her web designer husband and thousands of books.
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Links to Nichelle’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/46NRjSn
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4kQF1Mu
A Memory of Murder (Audrey Lake 1) UBL:
https://books2read.com/u/bw95jY
A Vision of Violence (Audrey Lake 2) UBL:
https://books2read.com/u/4NJLlG
Coaching and editing services:
https://plotandpen.com
To find out more about her books:
https://nichelleseely.com
Happy Reading!
~~~
Thanks, Nichelle, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
July 18, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with WHISPERS OF THE WITCH, The Mystery School Book 3 #Metaphysical #Fiction by Kirsten Weiss #Recipe ~ Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie, Pennsylvania Dutch Style
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with KIRSTEN WEISS!!
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author KIRSTEN WEISS and her favorite recipe for Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie, Pennsylvania Dutch Style!
WHISPERS OF THE WITCH
The Mystery School Book 3
BY KIRSTEN WEISS
Blurb
How do we go on when our world has collapsed?
Mitzi’s lost her marriage, her home, and her career. Teaching photography on a Georgia barrier island might be the do-over this midlife influencer needs.
But her fresh start soon takes a dark turn. When she stumbles over the body of a supposed drowning victim, she realizes the idyllic island isn’t everything it seems.
Haunted by the dead woman and mysterious messages from a mystery school, Mitzi must solve the mystery of her own magic. Because a killer is on the island, and his work has just begun.
Whispers of the Witch is an interactive, metaphysical mystery from the Mystery School Series that will leave readers spellbound. If you were inspired by the quest in Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, discover a path where women find their magic through connection and love.
WHISPERS OF THE WITCH
The Mystery School Book 3
BY KIRSTEN WEISS
Excerpt
I’d stumbled upon a dreamy fairy lady, a naiad of Greek myth, her long red hair swaying like water grass. Her face beneath the water was peaceful, as if she meant to be there, as if her eyes would blink open, and she’d rise up, laughing at my shock.
For a moment, I hadn’t realized she was dead. And in the next, I had known, the knowledge turning me to ice. The knowing came without words, as they always did. She wasn’t just dead—she’d been murdered.
Now, night had fallen. The police lamps dulled nature’s colors and flattened the definition of the oaks and brush.
Even now, with red and blue lights strobing through the marsh, with boots of uniformed men thunking on the low dock, the dead woman still seemed unreal, a dream.
“When did you arrive on the island?” the detective asked—Sanchez, he’d said his name was. His suit was charcoal colored, the same shade as the dress on the woman in the water.
I swallowed and studied my water shoes. Their black rubber tips aligned neatly with the dock’s edge. “Three hours ago,” I said. “Roughly.”
“Did you see anyone around when you found her?”
“No. I mean, I saw two men on shore about a quarter mile back, I think. They were, ah, talking. But I don’t know who they were.” I tried not to look at the lumpy yellow tarp on the dock.
The night air was still and warm, like the water. Would that warmth confuse the time of death?
And suddenly she was there again, in front of my eyes, her red hair coiling loose like a living thing. Nausea swam in my gut.
“And when you found her,” Detective Sanchez said, “did you try to help her?”
My throat squeezed. Should I have tried? Could there have been a chance…?
No, she’d been dead. It had been obvious. “No,” I said. “I could see she was dead.”
He nodded. “You can go.”
That was it? I rubbed my forehead, my eyebrows drawing together. True, I had nothing real to contribute. I couldn’t tell the police what I knew. They wouldn’t believe me, and rightly so.
About Author Kirsten Weiss…
Kirsten Weiss writes page-turning paranormal and metaphysical mysteries, and now a Tarot guidebook that’s a work of experimental fiction. Her heroes and heroines aren’t perfect, but they’re smart, they struggle, and they succeed. Kirsten writes in a house high on a hill in the Colorado woods and occasionally ventures out for wine and chocolate. Or for a visit to the local pie shop.
Kirsten is best known for her Wits’ End, Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum, and Tea & Tarot cozy mystery books. So if you like thoughtful, action-packed mysteries with complicated heroines, just turn the page…
~~~
Links to Kirsten’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon: https://bit.ly/4kvFtjT
Apple Books: https://apple.co/3ZIv1xl
Google Play: https://bit.ly/4dRSphF
Kobo: https://bit.ly/4dRvjrn
Bookbub:
https://www.bookbub.com/books/whispers-of-the-witch-by-kirsten-weiss
Goodreads:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/235741237-whispers-of-the-witch
Website: https://KirstenWeiss.com
Twitter: twitter.com/SBPM_Museum
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/KirstenWeiss-Writer
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kirstenweissauthor/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kirsten.weiss
TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@kirstenweissauthor
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I hope you enjoy Kirsten’s recipe today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!Karen
P.S. We’re at 748 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. In the right-hand column menu, you can even look up past recipes by type. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
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Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie, Pennsylvania Dutch Style
Note from Kirsten: This recipe has nothing to do with the book Whispers of the Witch, which is set on an imaginary Georgia barrier island. It’s from Penn Dutch country, and an old family recipe from my grandmother, Alice Weiss. But it’s rhubarb season here in Colorado, and my thoughts have turned to pie…
Crust:
1 ½ C flour
1 T Sugar
¼ tsp salt
1/3 C ice water
1 tsp grated lemon peel
½ C unsalted butter
Filling:
1 ½ pints sliced strawberries
2 C diced rhubarb
1 C sugar
2 T Kirsch
1 T tapioca
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
For pie crust: Mix flour, sugar, salt, ice water and grated lemon. Cut in butter (or use fingers), until dough is mealy. Roll out 2/3 of the dough to line the pie pan. Refrigerate remaining dough, which will be used for lattice.
Mix strawberries, diced rhubarb, sugar, kirsch, and tapioca. Let stand for 15 minutes.
Roll out remaining dough and cut into strips for lattice. Fill pie with strawberry-rhubarb mix and top with lattice.
Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes until crust is golden.
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Kirsten will gift a physical copy of her UnTarot deck (the UnTarot app is included in the book to all readers) in a purple velvet pouch (U.S. only) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Kirsten, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
July 16, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Black #African-American #Romance: WHEN FORTY BLOOMS by Jacinta Howard
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
WHEN FORTY BLOOMS
Black & African American Romance
BY JACINTA HOWARD
BLURB
A rare birthday. A second chance. A woman finally choosing herself.
Simone Harris has always known how to hold it down. For her son. For her clients. For the sports agency she built from scratch. She keeps things running, keeps herself moving, and keeps her heart tucked safely out of reach.
But this birthday feels different. It falls on a leap year, a date that only circles back every so often. A rare kind of day that feels like it arrives exactly when it’s meant to. The kind that makes you pause and ask what you have been pushing through just to keep going. In that stillness, something begins to surface alongside it. Fatigue. Questions. The quiet ache she has learned to ignore.
She is not falling apart. Still, something is shifting. The pressure she has lived under feels heavier than it once did. And as she begins to listen to what her spirit has been trying to say, the past reappears, bringing with it a familiar comfort, unfinished conversations, and a quiet invitation to feel again.
~~~
WHEN FORTY BLOOMS
Black & African American Romance
BY JACINTA HOWARD
Excerpt
“What?” I ask, catching Jackson’s gaze as the bartender walks away, a small smile playing at my lips.
His gaze trails over my face, dipping from my lips, which are bare aside from blush-pink lip gloss, to my collarbone, down to my crossed legs.
“Forty looks good on you.”
My body warms at the way he’s looking at me, and I grin. “I’m technically not forty yet.”
He lets his gaze trail over me again. “Then that dress looks good on you.”
Our gazes connect and I inhale, then let the breath out slowly. “Thank you.”
Jackson has always liked me in orange. I don’t want to think about whether I subconsciously wore the color tonight knowing there was a chance I might see him.
“So how you feelin’?” he asks, his gaze perceptive as ever when I lean back in the high-back barstool and suck in the damp island air. The music has switched and now eighties yacht rock is overhead, the watery R&B sounds of Hall & Oates softly floating in the air.
“Not as heavy as before I landed,” I answer.
He nods, his gaze skimming over my face again, lingering on my lips for a beat. “Good.”
“I had a dream about you the other night,” I admit after another second.
He looks at me, brow arched, a trace of amusement dancing in his eyes. I dream a lot. Sometimes the dreams are surreal, a hodgepodge of abstract scenes involving people, sometimes people I’ve barely even met, in absurd situations, like getting their hair washed over my grandmother’s kitchen sink. But sometimes, they border on premonition, a thin outline of things to come, or light sketches that fill in the blanks on past things.
There were many mornings when I’d roll over in bed, eager to share my latest dream with Jackson. Sometimes I didn’t even have to say anything. He’d just open his eyes and peer at me sleepily. “What was it about this time?” he’d ask, his baritone early-morning groggy, half amused.
“What was I doing in the dream?” he asks now as he takes a swig of his beer.
“We were high up on Spaghetti Junction, and I was having a panic attack. You were trying to talk me down from it.”
“What’d I say?”
I shrug. “I don’t remember exactly. Something along the lines of ‘Drive, baby, just drive, you’re okay,’” I say, attempting to mimic his deep voice.
He laughs. “So did it work?”
“No. I woke up just when we were about to fall off the edge.”
“Damn,” he says, chuckling before he takes another swig. “Did we actually hit the ground?”
“Um, no. If you actually ever land when you’re falling in a dream, you wake up dead.”
Jackson laughs again. “That sounds like some sh*t you made up.”
“Nah, google it.”
He rolls his eyes, still smirking when he sets his beer on the bar counter. “So what do you think it means?”
I shrug. “I dunno. Something? Nothing? It was just weird. I actually dream about you pretty often,” I admit, my voice quieter.
Jackson doesn’t look up as he wipes condensation from his bottle slowly with his thumb.
“And what do you think that means?”
About Author Jacinta Howard…
Jacinta Howard is an Atlanta-based author and culture journalist with over a decade of experience writing about music, art, and pop culture.
Jacinta’s work has appeared in, and Rock The Bells, where she served as an editor. Her 2022 article on Atlanta’s Magic City wings was nominated for an American Society of Magazine Editors Award, and her exploration of the Atlanta University Center’s impact on hip-hop was honored in The City of Atlanta’s Hip Hop 50 Time Capsule.
As a lifelong music lover, Jacinta’s experiences in culture journalism naturally influence her novels, which explore the complexities of relationships, personal healing, and true intimacy. Named a USA TODAY-recognized author and two-time RONE (Reward of Novel Excellence) Award nominee, her books have been featured in USA Today, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Book Riot, and OkayAfrica.
When she’s not writing, she’s relaxing on a beach with her family, a good book, and a great playlist.
~~~
Links to Jacinta’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/4kxCO8J
Amazon CD: https://amzn.to/4lJw08W
Website: https://www.jacintahoward.net/#/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jacintahoward/
X: https://x.com/jacintahoward
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jacinta.howard
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/jacintahoward/
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Jacinta will gift a paperback copy (U.S. only) to two lucky readers who comment on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Jacinta, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
July 14, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #International #Supernatural #Thriller: THE MEDICI CURSE, A Novel of Suspense by Daco S. Auffenorde
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
THE MEDICI CURSE
A Novel of Suspense
BY DACO S. AUFFENORDE
BLURB
A family curse. A missing heirloom. A house full of secrets.
A descendant of a powerful Italian dynasty reckons with her family’s troubled legacy and her own fractured memories in this Gothic thriller from the author of
The Forgotten Girl.
When aspiring artist Anna de’ Medici Rossi inherits her family’s opulent villa in Tuscany, she returns to a place steeped in tragedy and mystery. Living there as a child, Anna suffered from debilitating night terrors, frequently waking to find that she had wandered far from bed. During one such episode when Anna was twelve, her mother took a fatal tumble down the stairs. Vittoria’s death was officially ruled an accident, but an heirloom ruby-and-diamond necklace was missing from her bruised neck. Whispered suspicions suggest that Anna pushed her mother and stole the precious jewels. Anna, remembering little from that night, is afraid they’re right. But if that’s true, then what became of the necklace, which has long been associated with legends of a family curse?
Now back in Tuscany after sixteen years, Anna is shunned by the local townspeople as a killer who escaped justice, while only a few distant relatives and an old childhood friend offer solace. As she explores the sprawling villa, Anna uncovers hidden rooms and memories shrouded in fog, reigniting the violent night terrors of her youth. Plagued by unsettling visions and eerie occurrences, she questions her sanity and embarks on a harrowing journey to unravel the truth of her past. As her search deepens, she confronts shocking revelations that expose her to dangers she never anticipated.
Blending Gothic and supernatural elements with a gripping exploration of identity and legacy, The Medici Curse is a beautifully crafted tale of family scandal, murder, art, and intrigue.
~~~
THE MEDICI CURSE
A Novel of Suspense
BY DACO S. AUFFENORDE
Excerpt
I exit the Florence airport and start toward the Tuscan countryside and my family home, which I’ll see for the first time since I killed my mother. I was twelve years old at the time, experiencing an episode of night terrors. Her death garnered a lot of media attention, because my mother, Vittoria de’ Medici, was a well-known Italian opera star. I punch the accelerator on the Fiat 500 rental car and the engine roars to life.
The authorities ruled the death an accident. The official police report says she tripped and fell down the stairs after a night of drinking too much champagne.
For me, that night’s a blur. Pieces have resurfaced over the years but not enough to reconstruct even a partial picture of that night. I hope that my coming home will bring back the missing memories—for better or worse.
People say I coveted the Medici Falchion—a ruby-and-diamond heirloom that’s been in the de’ Medici family for hundreds of years. That I took it that night. But if that’s so, where is the necklace?
Exiting the highway, I race along the narrow country roads and come upon field after field of vibrant red poppies. It’s mid-May, and the flowers have burst into full bloom, adorning the landscape. The lovely the buds dance in the breeze as if welcoming me home. I lower the windows to take in the fresh air and am greeted by its velvety warmth.
On the outskirts of Poggibonsi, a village located several miles from the small town of Colle di Val d’Elsa and not far from my destination, an old farmhouse comes into view. Two old men sit on a porch in rocking chairs. An elderly woman sweeps around their feet. The men act as if the woman isn’t there. If I were her, I’d give those two a good swift sweep on their asses.
Behind me, an engine roars—a red motorcycle. Looks like a man, but his face is hidden by a helmet and black visor. I watch him in my rearview mirror. He speeds up, then brakes, weaving back and forth. The oncoming traffic is heavy, leaving no room for him to get by. I accelerate to almost eighty kilometers—about fifty miles per hour—to put distance between us.
Vehicles continue to whiz past from the opposite lane. The biker brakes, and I relax.
A moment later, he’s practically kissing my car’s rear bumper, playing his taunting game again. I grip the steering wheel hard.
“Che diavolo ti prende?” I shout. It feels so good to speak in my native tongue again, even if only to ask this asshole what the hell is wrong with him.
Tapping the brakes doesn’t warn the guy off. Doesn’t faze him in the slightest. My heartrate accelerates. Speed is exhilarating, but I’m not a fan of fatal car wrecks.
Fifty feet ahead of me, a large truck enters a narrow, one-lane stone tunnel that has cut slopes on both sides. A small roadside light blinks, indicating that I should stop.
When I slow down, the biker flashes his headlight. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
The biker shifts from one side of the lane to the other. Traffic is too heavy for him to pass and avoid oncoming cars.
I grit my teeth.
A split second later, the biker accelerates, gets only a hair’s-breadth distance ahead of my front bumper, and darts out ahead of my car.
Turning the steering wheel hard to the right, I barely miss hitting the man. The Fiat leaves the pavement, spinning 360 degrees as it slides down a steep dirt embankment. As soon as I work the brakes, the car fishtails, but luckily, it doesn’t roll over.
The jerk doesn’t bother to stop.
“Stronzo,” I shout, shaking a fist.
My adrenaline surges, but I gather myself enough to check out my body—no injuries. I call emergency services and next the rental car company.
A middle-aged man runs up to my car, panting for breath. “Are you hurt?”
“All good. Just pissed as hell at that motorcyclist. Any chance you got that guy’s license?”
“Sorry. Happened too fast.” He looks the car over, points out a flat tire, and offers to help. I tell him that I’ve just phoned the police and the rental car company, and that a tow truck is on the way.
He stares at me for a long moment and then a strange expression comes over his face.
“Anything wrong?” I ask.
“You look familiar.” He hesitates. “There used to be a singer who lived around here, but she died some years ago. Vittoria de’ Medici? Are you . . . ?”
“Yes, I’m her daughter, Anna.”
The man seems flustered. “You say the police are on their way?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re lucky you were wearing your seatbelt. Others have been crushed when . . . You could’ve . . .” He gives a quick shake of his head. “I’ll leave you to it.” He waves and hurries to his car.
“Hey, can I get your name and number? As a witness?”
He just drives away.
Sixteen years have passed since I left Italy as a child. Does this perfect stranger recognize me?
Forty-five minutes later, the police show up. The rental car agency delivers another vehicle. Two hours later, I’m behind the wheel of an older model Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce—the only car left at the agency in Siena. An unexpected benefit of this mess.
Credit to Kimberly Campbell, Kimberly Campbell PhotographyAbout Author Daco S. Auffenorde…
Daco S. Auffenorde is an award-winning author of Cover Your Tracks, which was selected as a Suspense Magazine “Best of 2020” Thriller/Suspense and won Action Thriller of the Year with Best Thrillers Book Awards. Lee Child says, “Sensational―new, fresh, suspenseful . . . I loved this book.” Her psychological thriller The Forgotten Girl won the Book of the Year with Best Thriller Book Awards. Daco’s works also appear in several anthologies, including her short story “The Virgo Affair” in Killer Nashville Noir: Cold-Blooded. Her debut The Libra Affair, a Jordan Jakes novel, was a #1 Amazon Bestseller. She is a member of International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, Authors Guild, Women’s Fiction Writers Association, and Alabama State Bar.
~~~
Links to Daco’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/4lpSjRb
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4lJ11dH
Amazon CD: https://amzn.to/46DbLoT
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Daco will gift a paperback copy (U.S. Only) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Daco, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
July 11, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s #Salad: BROCCOLI SALAD from Karen’s Kitchen
Photo: katie-smith-uQs1802D0CQ-unsplashIt’s time for Karen’s Killer Fixin’s!
Over the years, I’ve filled two 4-inch, 3-ring binders with my own creations as well as recipes my family and friends were willing to share with me. I simply love to cook and want to share that love with my readers. Every Friday, I share a recipe that I think you and your family might enjoy. It might be a main course recipe from my own kitchen or a guest author’s favorite. It could be a cookie or a baked item. Candy. Salads. Whatever strikes the eye and fancy…which today is BROCCOLI SALAD from KAREN’S KITCHEN!!
Heavens to Betsy, it’s hot! And, if you’re like me, you’re trying to make meals that don’t take time or heat up the house! A friend introduced me to this salad when she brought it for a party. It’s so good, you’ll be going back for seconds. Or thirds. It’s the perfect BBQ side.
I hope you enjoy today’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy eating!
Karen
P.S. We’re at 747 recipes and counting with this posting. I hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. You can even look up past recipes by type in the right-hand column menu. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
~~~~~~~~~
BROCCOLI SALAD
[From Karen’s Kitchen]
1 bunch of broccoli
1 cup chopped onions
5-10 slices bacon, fried crisp and crumbled
1 cup golden raisins
1 cup peanuts or toasted sunflower seeds*
Dressing:
1 cup mayonnaise or Miracle Whip dressing**
2 T. cider vinegar
2 T. sugar
Toss together the salad mixture in a large bowl.
Mix together the dressing until the sugar is incorporated. Pour over the salad mixture and toss well.
Cover and let sit in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours to blend the flavors.
*I prefer to set aside the peanuts (or sunflower seeds) to preserve the crisp texture. Just before serving, toss them into the salad mixture. If you have anyone with allergies, you can place them in a separate bowl so everyone can enjoy your salad, with or without nuts and seeds.
**I use mayonnaise, but Miracle Whip can also be used. Be aware that there will be a taste difference depending on your choice.
Happy Eating!
July 9, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Paranormal: HATE TO LOVE HONEYBUNS, A Hexes and Oh’s Book by Marsha Black
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
HATE TO LOVE HONEYBUNS
A Hexes and Oh’s Book
BY MARSHA BACK
BLURB
New to Briar Glen, Eli has heard the rumors about the spelled deserts from Hexes and Oh’s Bakery. As a last resort he can’t help but rely on any truth in those rumors to help get rid of the supposed love his younger sisters best friend says she feels for him.
Stormi has loved Eli for years and has finally gained the courage to chase him, even as far as following him the Briar Glen, however he’s always one step ahead of her, leaving her unable to confess her feelings.
With the help of a spelled honey bun, Eli finally gets the relief he seeks, at least until he begins to realize the depths of his own feelings.
~~~
HATE TO LOVE HONEYBUNS
A Hexes and Oh’s Book
BY MARSHA BACK
Character Interview
Interviewer: So, Eli, what made you so against Stormi’s feelings for you?
Eli: Come on, she’s my kid sister’s best friend. I watched them grow up together. It’d be like being interested in my sister.
Stormi: *Blows a raspberry* So dramatic! We don’t share blood, so whether I grew up with your sister, as an adopted sister or in any other way, that’s no excuse.
Interviewer: *Let’s out a chuckle* Stormi, what was the hardest thing about chasing Eli?
Stormi: His thick headedness! I mean c’mon! It took me leaving, for this ol’ fogey to get his shit straight.
Eli: *Clears throat as cheeks burn*
Interviewer: Do you regret the outcome?
Eli and Stormi: *Twinkling eyes* Not a single bit. Everything was worth it in the end.
About Author Marsha Black…
Marsha Black is an avid reader who has written books ranging from YA to NA. She’s written multiple short stories in anthologies and is working on writing stories for children and middle grade age groups.
~~~
Links to Marsha’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon: https://amzn.to/4lHE0XX
Happy Reading!
~~~
Special Giveaway: Marsha will gift a signed paperback (U.S. Only) or ebook (Intl) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
~~~
Thanks, Marsha, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
July 8, 2025
Congratulations Week 06-23-25 & 06-30-25 Blog Giveaway Winners!
CONGRATULATIONS WEEK
06-23-25 & 06-30-25
BLOG GIVEAWAY WINNERS!!
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with Mia Heintzelman..
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Mia will gift a print copy (U.S. Only) of The Divorcétante to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Fixin’s blog.
Thanks, Mia, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: MICA ROSSI!!
~~~
Karen’s Killer Book Bench with Tess Thompson…
**SPECIAL GIVEAWAY: Tess will gift a free ebook (winner’s choice from our catalog at www.amazon.com/author/charlenetess) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog.
Thanks, Tess, for sharing your book with us!
WINNER: K.A. BYLSMA!!
~~~
DON’T FORGET TO CHECK OUT THESE BOOKS, TOO!!
Psychological Romantic Suspense
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2iFFWmg
~~~
Contemporary Romance
Amazon: http://goo.gl/bUHNMu
~~~
Contemporary Romantic Comedy
Available in Kindle Unlimited #FREE Amazon: https://amzn.to/3aNkmpJ
~~~
Contemporary Romantic Comedy **ONLY $.99**
Available in Kindle Unlimited #FREE
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Rd8Pcb
~~~
Karen/K.L. Docter’s books stand alone, even in the series. You can read them out of sequence. No cliffhangers. Always Happily Ever After endings!
HAPPY READING!
(All giveaway winners are chosen by random.org from reader comments except Rafflecopter events or giveaways, which are determined and announced offsite by the publisher/authors. Thank you!)
July 4, 2025
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s with THE CURSED COFFEE BEANS #Paranormal #Cozy #Culinary #Mystery by R.A. Muth #Recipe ~ Easy Cottage Pie
Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **AUTHOR SPECIAL** with R.A. MUTH!!
Welcome to my Friday bonus feature called Karen’s Killer Fixin’s **Author Special**!! Today, instead of one of my recipes, I will introduce you to a new author who will share a favorite recipe. Not only will you and I occasionally learn how to make something new and delicious, but we’ll also get a chance to check out some fantastic authors. Introducing author R.A. MUTH and her favorite recipe for EASY COTTAGE PIE!
THE CURSED COFFEE BEANS
Paranormal Cozy Culinary Mystery
With Magical Pets
BY R.A. MUTH
Blurb
Murder, magic, and muffins—bless your heart if you think this week’s gonna be normal.
Small towns have secrets. Mine brews them fresh daily. Welcome to Mockingbird Springs, home of my quirky little coffee shop, Magickal Beans. Running a small business was supposed to be a peaceful gig—serve lattes, sell baked goods, and avoid accidentally poisoning anyone. Simple enough.
Then a local land developer drops dead, and since he had his eye on my property, the blame lands squarely on me. Now I’ve drawn the attention of a detective who’s all side-eye and sharp cheekbones.
Oh, and let’s not forget my two chatty pets who think they’re helping solve a murder and my ex, who’s suddenly keen on rebuilding our friendship in hopes of a do-over. Because of course he is.
If I don’t clear my name, I could lose everything—my café, my reputation, and what’s left of my social life. Good thing I’ve got strong coffee, a stronger support system, and just enough weirdness to survive the most chaotic week of my life.
The Cursed Coffee Beans is a laugh-out-loud cozy mystery filled with magical mishaps, adorable animals, and enough caffeine to keep a small Southern town buzzed for days.
THE CURSED COFFEE BEANS
Paranormal Cozy Culinary Mystery
With Magical Pets
BY R.A. MUTH
Excerpt
Prologue
Hi, I’m Tziporah Graham. Yes, it’s a mouthful. That’s why I go by my nickname, Zip.
I live in Mockingbird Springs, South Carolina, with my Aunt Corliss, who raised me on baked goods and botanicals. There were exactly zero warnings that she’s secretly an agent for a government agency called the DSA—that’s the Department of Speculative Arts, in case you’re not on their classified mailing list.
One innocent delivery for Aunt Corliss turned into a magical mess involving mysterious strangers, enchanted caffeine, and two pets who now talk. (Yes. Talk. With voices. And opinions. So many opinions.)
Basil is my three-legged cat with the personality of a disgruntled professor, complete with a British accent. Loki is an enthusiastic little rescue pup who believes belly rubs can fix the world. They rarely agree on anything, and both have a lot to say.
Oh—and my ex? Jones? He’s back in my life. Not by my choice, but he knows all my secrets, and he’s always willing to taste-test my menu experiments at Magickal Beans, my coffee shop.
So, if you’re new here, welcome! But bless your heart if you still think our town resembles anything close to normal. Mockingbird Springs has chaos, conversational pets, and plenty of coffee.
Hope you brought snacks.
Chapter 1
“Can you go any slower?” complained Mitch Silver, the customer on the other side of the counter. The man was the town’s slimiest land developer. His voice had the effect of fingernails on a chalkboard. If he had his way, he’d raze my quaint coffee shop and put something sleek and modern in its place. “It’s only a vanilla latte. It’s not like you’re hand-roasting the coffee beans for it.”
I gripped the handle of the portafilter containing used espresso grounds with more force than was necessary and gave it a solid whack against the knock box. The grounds inside the filter, hardened into the shape of a mini-hockey puck, loosened, joining the heap of others. It was as close to a reply as Mitch would get right now.
Magickal Beans was my coffee shop, its startup funded by a trust left to me by my parents. The only other place in Mockingbird Springs where I could get anything besides a cup of straight black coffee was at the Gas and Go. Chuck, who owned the filling station, dumped a packet of powdered cocoa into a cup of decaf and called it a mocha latte. As if. Its bitter aftertaste left a lot to be desired and was why my superior-tasting beverages gained a loyal following in such a short time.
Mitch gave a dramatic sigh to remind me that he was waiting. As I hadn’t yet replied to his question, he said, “What I asked was rhetorical, by the way. You didn’t need to actually go slower.”
Without speaking or speeding my pace, I continued making his coffee. If Mitch were any other customer, I’d try to upsell a baked good, but he didn’t deserve that kind of yumminess. Not today.
Selling foods prepared by my Aunt Corliss helped, too. The perfect complement to the caffeinated beverage menu, her ever-changing menu of baked goods always had whatever herbal remedies my customers needed.
How did Aunt Corliss know who would need what before the day began? It was as much a mystery to me as it was to anyone else. As long as the sweet and savory menu items helped add to the bottom line, I would continue selling them. No questions asked.
“I don’t have all afternoon,” he continued. “At some point, I’d like to return to my office. You know, where I perform an actual job. Preferably with the latte that I ordered an eternity ago.”
I forced a smile and replied, “Mitch, you know the coffee here is worth the wait.” In an imaginary thought bubble over my head, I snarkily added, And if you didn’t want to wait, then you could take yourself over to the Grease and Go. Instead, I decided to catch more flies with honey and added, “Even if you are the busiest guy in town.”
Of course, it didn’t work.
“For a woman named Zip, you move at the speed of a sloth.” Mitch’s voice carried over the din of other customers’ conversations. “If you keep lollygagging, you won’t have to come to my office later. I’ll tell Cal to meet us here.”
I hoped his business partner, Cal Reynolds, was nicer than he was. Unwilling to grace Mitch with a response, I instead focused on multitasking, which was kind of my superpower. I steamed the milk for his drink as a shot of espresso dripped black as night into an ivory porcelain cup. I transferred the ingredients to a paper to-go cup and popped the lid on before I turned to face Mitch again.
I set Mitch’s coffee next to the cup I’d been experimenting on before he barged into the coffee shop. “That’ll be five dollars and fourteen cents,” I said. ” And don’t forget your punch card. Every coffee purchase goes towards a free drink.”
Mitch laid four crisp, one-dollar bills on the counter and paid the rest of the amount in loose change. He took his time counting out a dollar and fourteen cents from his sweaty handful of coins, right down to the last penny, along with his rewards card. If there was ever a time to compare someone to a sloth, this was it, but I wasn’t stooping to Mitch’s level of pettiness.
“And if you think I’m going to tip you, then you’re wrong. See you at my office later. Don’t be late.” Mitch waited for me to punch his card before turning on his heel and taking a cup—the wrong one.
He was out of the shop before I realized he had mistakenly grabbed the experimental salted caramel pecan latte. With a hope and a prayer that he wasn’t allergic to tree nuts, I set his actual drink aside in case he came back for it and hoped for the best. The last thing I needed was legal trouble.
A young mother stepped up next, a sleepy toddler strapped to her body with some kind of sling contraption that allowed the child to sit against her hip. The woman’s tired smile tugged at my heartstrings.
Aunt Corliss always said that the best way to improve my day was to brighten someone else’s, so that’s what I did and offered her Mitch’s coffee order. If he returned, he’d only have me remake it anyway, and there was no sense in a perfectly good coffee going to waste.
“A vanilla latte sounds divine but please, let me pay for it. My wallet is in here somewhere.” The woman reached for the diaper bag hanging from her shoulder, I but protested.
“Your money’s no good here. I’ve got you covered.”
“What? No,” she protested in a quiet voice over her sleeping child’s head.
“This one’s on the house, ma’am. I insist, and I hope you like snacks.” I wrapped up a brownie and urged her to accept the decadent chocolate pastry. “When your little one wakes up with their batteries fully recharged, you’ll be glad you had this extra bit of chocolate to go with the caffeine boost. It’s got marshmallow in it”
“You’re an angel. He’s in preschool three afternoons a week, and the other moms and I have been looking for a place to hang out during those two hours. Would you mind if we met here? It would be from one to three.” She glanced at the different seating areas as if pondering the best place for them to sit.
“Mind? Not at all. The more, the merrier. We close at three o’clock, but I can always stay open a little later if you need more time.”
“This is perfect. Thank you,” she stressed the final two words, and the tone of her voice filled me with warmth, like a freshly brewed shot of espresso.
Customers like her were why I put up with ones like Mitch.
I leaned forward and lowered my voice, “The couches by the door are the most comfortable, but that table by the stained glass window has a stronger Wi-Fi signal if you need it.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. Thank you so much.”
“And if you or the other moms have any special requests for baked goods or need to avoid any allergens, you can send a message through our website or the app.”
The woman tucked the pastry bag into the oversized tote slung over her free shoulder before taking a sip of her coffee. “This jolt of caffeine is exactly what I needed. Thanks again. I’ll be back later this week with the other moms.”
The next person in line behind the young mom killed the joyful buzz in my soul. The wriggling ball of white fur in the next customer’s arms ignored my pointed stare but gave a series of high-pitched barks followed by a howl.
I addressed the dog’s human. “Hello, Sherilyn. You know pets aren’t allowed in the building, right?”
“You’re one to talk about pets. Your cat practically lives here. Besides, Snowflake is my emotional support dog.”
“Doesn’t matter. My cafe, my rules.”
Sherilyn shrieked as if I hadn’t spoken at all, “Your little mongrel got my Snowflake pregnant over at the Pet Palace!”
“What? There’s no way that Loki could have fathered Snowflake’s puppies,” I defended my dog. He was home with Aunt Corliss today, thankfully. He would have been at doggy daycare, but the Pet Palace kicked him out again for excessive butt-sniffing.
Being overly friendly and enthusiastic were two of Loki’s traits I found most endearing. Unfortunately, others—including my cat, Basil, and possibly Sherilyn, judging from her expression—found those traits overly annoying.
“So, you agree there are puppies.” A smug grin forced its way across Sherilyn’s heavily Botoxed features. The rest of her face remained frozen in place.
“I’m just taking your word for it. You’re the one who’s throwing the accusations around. Now, are you going to order something or not?” When she didn’t answer, I added, “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a coffee shop, not some kind of puppy paternity court.”
“What a great idea. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” Sherilyn turned on her heel and stormed out. The door slammed behind her with enough force that the decorative glass rattled in its frame.
With no other customers in line, I tidied up the counter area. The few dine-in ones had gone back to their private conversations now that the Sherilyn Show had ended.
Flying in the face of my no pets in the building rule, Basil, the three-legged, mixed-breed cat, sauntered in from the employees’ only area of the cafe. “Well, well, well. Our drooling friend finally did it.”
At the sound of the feline’s slightly British accent, I gave a heavy sigh. “Did what, Basil?”
“Became a man,” came the reply, followed by a strangled chortle. Basil was, quite literally, rolling on the floor laughing. “Who knew the little guy had it in him to father a litter of puppies? I mean, if I were a betting cat, which I’m not, I’d have lost one of my remaining lives over it.”
Dropping to a kneeling position, I whispered, “Basil, that’s neither respectful nor appropriate. You will not make jokes at your brother’s expense.” I couldn’t resist hinting that my cat and dog were siblings united through pet adoption and was relieved when the dig achieved its intended results.
Basil rolled his eyes and jumped to the counter. With a smug grin, he curled up next to the cash register where he could wait for the next customer to coo over his handsomeness and lament about his missing leg. A shaft of sunlight broke through the window, the beam landing across him as if he had planned it.
The last thing I needed was for someone to see me having a one-sided conversation with my cat, so I turned my back to him and resumed tidying up behind the counter.
About Author R.A. Muth…
Becky Muth is a coffee addict who married her real-life firefighter hero. They live in South Carolina with their adult sons and many pets. She loves interacting with readers on social media and by email. When she isn’t writing, Becky enjoys hanging out at the beach with her family and binge-watching Netflix with her dog.
As Becky Muth, she gives her readers fun escapes into sweet romance and romantic suspense books. R. A. Muth entertains readers with quirky characters who solve not-too-scary murders in places she’d like to live in real life. Rebecca Muth writes heartwarming children’s books inspired by raising children of her own.
One Author ~ Multiple Pen Names
Becky Muth – Sweet Contemporary Romance & Romantic SuspenseR. A. Muth – Paranormal Cozy Mysteries With Magical PetsRebecca Muth – Children’s Books~~~
Links to R.A.’s website, blog, books, #ad, etc.:
Now available on Amazon and in Kindle Unlimited:
https://amzn.to/43euUdP
Author website – www.beckymuth.com
Books – www.beckymuth.com/books
Substack (newsletter) – authorbeckymuth.substack.com
Social media content for authors
www.authorsgetsocial.com
Buy me a coffee – buymeacoffee.com/authorbeckymuth
~~~
I hope you enjoy the recipe R.A. is sharing today on Karen’s Killer Fixin’s. Happy Eating!Karen
P.S. We’re at 747 recipes and counting with this posting. Hope you find some recipes you like. If this is your first visit, please check out past blogs for more Killer Fixin’s. In the right-hand column menu, you can even look up past recipes by type. i.e. Desserts, Breads, Beef, Chicken, Soups, Author Specials, etc.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: If an author’s favorite recipe isn’t their own creation and came from an online site, you will now find the entire recipe through the link to that site as a personal recommendation. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EASY COTTAGE PIE
NOTE FROM R.A.: This is the kind of supper you throw together after a long day when the laundry’s piled high, everything needs a good dusting, you’d rather be reading a book (any book except a cookbook), and somebody just asked what’s for dinner.
Ingredients
1 bag of frozen, pre-cooked meatballs1 jar of brown gravy1 bag of frozen mixed vegetables3 cups of mashed potatoes (leftovers work fine)1 cup of shredded cheddar cheeseDirections
Start by heating your oven to 350°F and setting out your favorite cast iron skillet—the one that’s seen more fried green tomatoes than a family supper.Toss in the meatballs and let them brown a bit over medium heat. They’re already cooked, but this gives them a little extra flavor and gets that freezer chill off. Once they’re good and toasty, drain off any extra grease.In a 9×13 baking dish, mix together your browned meatballs, the jar of gravy, and the bag of frozen mixed veggies. No need to thaw the veggies—just mix ‘em right in like it’s a potluck miracle.Dollop or spread your mashed potatoes on top. If they’re leftovers, give them a stir first so they spread nice and even. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect. We’re aiming for comfort food, not haute cuisine.Pop the dish in the oven and bake uncovered for about 25–30 minutes, or until everything is bubbling and the edges of the potatoes look like they’ve spent a few minutes too long in a backyard garden in the middle of July.Pull it out, sprinkle the cheddar cheese on top like you’re decorating a prize-winning casserole (because you are), and slide it back in for another 5–10 minutes, just until the cheese is melted and gorgeous.Let it cool for a few minutes before serving—this pie holds heat like a Southern secret.Serve with sweet tea, a biscuit, or just a spoon and an empty stomach. Perfect for weeknights, snow days, or feeding unexpected houseguests with minimal fuss.Happy Reading!
~~~Thanks, R.A., for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
July 2, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #SecondChance #SmallTown #Romance: SEPTEMBER SUNRISE, Secondhand Hearts Series by Tess Thompson
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
~~~
SEPTEMBER SUNRISE
Secondhand Hearts Series
BY TESS THOMPSON
BLURB
He left her behind to chase a dream. Now he’s back—older, wiser, and still hopelessly in love. Can a second chance rewrite their love story?
When Ethan Carter returns to his coastal hometown to restore its historic lighthouse, his top priority isn’t the job—it’s Mia, the high school sweetheart he left behind. He’s never stopped loving her, and this project feels like his last shot at building a future that includes her.
But Mia has moved on and built a new life with his former best friend, Troy. Convincing her to open her heart again won’t be easy. Torn between the safety of the familiar and the intense feelings she thought she’d buried, Mia must decide if first love deserves a second chance.
An unexpected twist upends Ethan’s plans when he becomes the guardian of his four-year-old niece, who needs him. While balancing fatherhood, a high-stakes restoration of the lighthouse, and a jealous rival bent on sabotaging his plans, Ethan must prove that some sparks never die… and some loves are worth fighting for.
~~~
SEPTEMBER SUNRISE
Secondhand Hearts Series
BY TESS THOMPSON
Excerpt
Mia turned her small, blue Nissan Versa onto the rutted dirt road overgrown with weeds and trash that led to the lighthouse. A sudden blast of wind from the rocky shoreline hit her as she opened the car door.
The lighthouse stood defiant against the relentless elements, exactly as it had for as long as she could remember. Its once-pristine white stone, now weathered and worn, had faded into a cracked, dingy gray—a testament to time and the unyielding forces of nature.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a black pickup truck with a sturdy toolbox bolted to the bed alongside a ladder rack loaded with equipment parked several yards away. She hadn’t noticed it when she first pulled onto the road. Evidently, she wasn’t alone.
She shielded her eyes with her hand as she squinted into the bright sun and surveyed the area, finally settling on the beach. A man stood there looking toward the ocean as a large black dog paced in front of him with its pink tongue lolling back and forth.
Maybe he was someone from the company bidding on the property, she thought. But then she realized there was something familiar about the way the man held his head as his dark hair blew in the breeze. Did she know him?
Mia’s heart began to beat rapidly in her chest, and for some inexplicable reason, the air around her thickened, and she was suddenly wary. “No,” she said to herself. “It can’t be.”
~~ ~
Mia stared toward the water as the seaweed’s earthy, fishy smell brought back memories of past seaside encounters. Her throat was tight, and her feet were anchored to the sand as she watched the lone man on the rocky beach. He continued to gaze out at the horizon and occasionally picked up a small rubber ball to toss into the waves for his dog to retrieve.
The tall man whirled around, facing her, and swept the dark black hair that had fallen across his eyes back from his face. She knew the instant he spotted her because he took a step backward and then stopped and stared. Then, he called to the dog and walked toward her.
He had a dark, close-cropped beard and mustache now, but she would know that face anywhere. She would never forget a single detail of his face. She hadn’t seen him in seven years, but it was Ethan. Her Ethan.
She had last seen him on the day she buried her father. Ethan had postponed leaving for school to attend the funeral. After the service, they met here on this beach and said goodbye after shouting angry words at one another.
She could still hear his words as he said, “If you loved me, you’d come with me,” and she answered back, “If you loved me, you’d stay here with me. You know I can’t leave.”
Now, here was the boy she’d loved with all her heart who had grown into a solid, rugged man walking toward her, and she wanted to turn and run away. What was he doing here after all this time? And why did she care?
His Labrador retriever met her first. The handsome dog stopped in front of her and politely sat at Ethan’s command. She reached down to stroke the dark, wet coat, which was the color of Ethan’s hair. “Aren’t you a pretty boy?” she said softly, too afraid to raise her head and look at the man approaching her.
“Mia?” His voice was deeper than the boy’s voice she remembered, but she knew it well, and it still held the same hint of South Carolina.
“Ethan. What a surprise.” Her voice wavered between disbelief and something softer, something dangerously close to longing. She glanced toward the lighthouse, a safe distraction, before finally letting her gaze settle on him. The years had changed him—sharpened the angles of his face, added new lines around his eyes—but the way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the world, hadn’t changed at all.
A war raged inside her. Every instinct screamed at her to turn and walk away, to protect herself from the memories clawing their way to the surface. But the pull of him—of everything they’d been and everything they’d lost—held her rooted to the spot.
“What are you doing here?” The words came out sharper than she intended, barely disguising the ache beneath them. “I thought you said you were never coming back.”
A brittle laugh escaped before she could stop it, the sound edged with something dangerously close to hysteria. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold his gaze, to pretend his presence didn’t shake her to the core.
She had spent years convincing herself she was over him. So why did it feel like one look from Ethan could unravel everything?
He took in a breath and blew it out through his lips. With a slight hesitation, he admitted, “Well, sometimes plans change. I’m here for work.”
“Work? You mean you’re moving back?” Her heart lurched again, and she wasn’t sure how his news made her feel.
“No, it’s temporary. My company, LC Construction, is bidding on this property. If we win the bid, I could be here off and on for the better part of a year. I still have projects to manage in other locations as well.”
“I guess you got that architecture degree you were after then?” Her ironic tone concealed the mixed emotions she felt.
“No, actually, I decided to study engineering and construction management. Architects spend too much time drawing up plans in an office. I realized I enjoyed spending most of my time outdoors.”
“What will you do with this property? It’s beautiful, but not worth its salt as a beach.”
“It’s not the beach we’re interested in. My plan is to renovate the lighthouse. Open it to the public so they can learn more about Haven Reach’s history. There’s a lot of history here.” He looked at her and gave her a lazy, irresistible smile. She wondered if he could be baiting her.
How could she ever forget what had taken place between the two of them right here on this spot? Indeed, there was a lot of history between them, and he was trying to remind her.
“How about you, Mia?”
“What?” His words jarred her back into the present.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m still at the café. Business is good. Haley’s home from college and working for the mayor. Mom’s good. Still doing the baking. Not much has changed around here.” Good grief, she was babbling. She didn’t know what to say to this man she had loved so much. She didn’t know what to do. Wave after wave of shock slapped at her. What was the protocol when you ran into an old lover?
“You haven’t changed, Mia. You’re still as beautiful as you always were.”
He reached up and moved one of the curls the wind had tossed across her face, and she shivered—maybe from the ocean breeze and maybe from precious old memories flooding her mind. She started to tell him he still looked good, too, and that she’d missed him, but when she heard a car engine followed by a door slam, the moment was gone.
They both turned at the noise from the road to see Troy Bannon, dressed in his police uniform, striding down the path toward them. When he reached them, Troy removed his aviator glasses, and Ethan said, “Hello, Troy.”
“Well, I’ll be. Ethan Carter. What the hell are you doing in Haven’s Reach after all this time?” The two men shook hands awkwardly, as if they were little more than distant acquaintances and not former best friends.
Then Troy clipped his aviator sunglasses to his pocket and placed his hands on Mia’s shoulders before leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “Your mama said I’d find you here,” he said and took her hand.
About Author Tess Thompson…
Charlene Tess and Judi Thompson combined their two last names into a pen name and began co-writing novels in 2002. Judi lives with her husband, Roger, in Houston, Texas. She is a retired supervisor for special education at a local school district. Charlene is a retired English and writing teacher. In addition to writing novels, she creates educational materials for TeachersPayTeachers.com. She lives in Colorado with her husband, Jerry.
Charlene Tess and Judi Thompson are sisters who co-write contemporary romance, romantic mysteries, and romantic thrillers. They were born and raised in El Paso, Texas. Their father was a pilot and aircraft mechanic, and their mother was an elementary school principal.
The award-winning authors have written twenty-four novels and five series together. Since they live in different states fourteen hundred miles apart, they depend on cell phone calls, email, and text messages to collaborate.
The sisters brainstorm, outline, and plot their novels through phone calls and Zoom calls. Once they begin writing, the drafts of each chapter are shared in Dropbox. Their novels are self-published on Amazon.com. You can visit their website to learn more.
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Links to Tess’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Click here to purchase September Sunrise or read FREE on Kindle Unlimited. www.amazon.com/dp/B0F3Y26T3F
Contact the authors at novelsbytessthompson@gmail.com with comments or questions.
Website: www.sisterswritingcrime.com
Happy Reading!
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Special Giveaway: Tess will gift a free ebook (winner’s choice from our catalog, www.amazon.com/author/charlenetess) to one lucky reader who comments on her Karen’s Killer Book Bench blog. Good luck!
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Thanks, Tess, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
June 30, 2025
Karen’s Killer Book Bench #Crime #Thriller: EVERY STEP SHE TAKES by Kelley Armstrong
KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!
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EVERY STEP SHE TAKES
Crime Thriller
BY KELLEY ARMSTRONG
BLURB
Genevieve lives a quiet life in Rome. Nice apartment, cute boyfriend, respectful neighbours. She can be exactly who she wants to be, and no one asks her any questions.
But they should. Because Genevieve is a woman with secrets. And one is soon to be uncovered.
After returning home from a grocery run, her front door swings open, unlocked. She knows she locked it when she left. She has no doubt. Inside, everything is just as she left it… except for a small box on her kitchen table, postmarked from the US. A box addressed to “Lucy Callahan.” A name she hasn’t used in ten years.
With her old life calling her back, threatening to destroy the peace she has curated, Genevieve is faced with two options – confront the past, or keep running. But maybe she’ll have to choose both.
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EVERY STEP SHE TAKES
Crime Thriller
BY KELLEY ARMSTRONG
Excerpt
For 6:45 a.m., Isabella’s hotel is remarkably busy. People who flew in Sunday night for Monday morning meetings are now hurrying off to grab breakfast. I slip inside, and I’m on the elevator before I wonder whether I’ll need a card to access the penthouse. I don’t.
When I reach Isabella’s door, it’s not quite shut, as if someone dropped off breakfast and forgot to pull it closed. That gives me pause, and my skin prickles remembering another door left ajar just a few days ago. But there’d been an explanation for that one, and there will be for this one, too.
I ring the bell. Wait. Ring again and add a knock for good measure. When she still doesn’t answer, I press my fingers to the door and push it open an inch.
“Isabella?” I call.
Music plays upstairs, and I raise my voice, but I’m still not sure she’d hear.
I send a text.
Me: The door’s open. I’m coming in.
She doesn’t respond, and I push the door and slide through.
“Isabella?” I call.
Still no answer. I walk into the living area. There’s no sign of breakfast.
I stop at the bottom of the spiral stairs leading to the second floor.
“Isabella? I’ll just wait down here, okay?”
No answer. I check my phone. No reply to my text, either.
I call Isabella’s number… and her phone rings right beside me. It’s been left on the sofa. Well, that’s not going to help.
I climb the stairs slowly, still calling her name. When I reach the top, I follow the music to the open bedroom door.
“Isabella?”
Nothing.
I peek through to see an unmade bed.
I pause as I remember all the times I’d walked past Isabella’s open bedroom door to see her making her bed the moment she rose. A habit from her grandmother, she once said. So that bed snags my attention, but at fifty, she probably no longer feels quite so compelled to heed her grandmother’s rules.
As I step back, I spot a slipper protruding from behind the bed, and I have to smile. It’s a ridiculous novelty slipper – a giant bear paw, complete with claws. My mind trips back fourteen years to Isabella walking into the kitchen wearing them.
You like my footwear? she said with a laugh. The kids got us themed slippers last year. Princess ones for me, and these for Colt. Beauty and Beast. He never wears his, so I stole them. Which one I’m wearing is a hint to my mood. She winked at me. These mean I’m preparing for a call with the studio execs, and I’m summoning my inner Beast.
That’s when I see the angle of the slipper. It hasn’t just been cast off. There’s a sliver of leg visible above it.
“Isabella!” I tear around the bed to find her supine on the floor, her head against the base of the bedroom Jacuzzi. Blood haloes her dark hair, and there’s a deep gash on her forehead.
I fall beside her and grab her shoulder.
It’s cold. Her body is cold.
No. It’s just chilly in here with the air conditioning pumping. She tripped and hit her head on the tiled step, and she’s unconscious.
She isn’t moving.
Because she’s unconscious.
Her lips aren’t moving. Her chest isn’t moving. She’s not breathing.
I can’t be sure of that. I’m not a doctor.
You know how to check. Two summers as a lifeguard, remember?
I press my fingers to the side of Isabella’s neck. Her cold, clammy neck. I tell myself it’s just cool to the touch.
Unnaturally cool, you know that.
I swallow hard. My fingers don’t detect a pulse, but with that voice of doom clanging through my head, I might not be checking properly. I try again. I watch for signs of breathing, of a heartbeat.
There are none.
Isabella is dead. She hit her head on the step and died here, alone.
That makes no sense. Look, Lucy. Think.
The gash is on her forehead, meaning she should be lying on her stomach. Instead, she’s resting peacefully on her back with her eyes closed.
Someone put her here.
Someone all but crossed her arms over her stomach, leaving her looking as peaceful as a corpse in a casket, with that halo of blood…
Why is there blood behind her head when the injury is on her forehead? There’s no trail of it down her scalp.
I see blood under her nostrils, and I realize her perfect nose isn’t quite straight. There’s smeared blood on her cheek and chin, as if partially washed away.
She’d been face down on the carpet. Face down and bleeding, and then someone turned her over and cleaned her up and left her ready for her close-up.
I stagger backward. As I do, I bump the bed. I look at it again. Only the coverlet is pushed down, crumpled, the sheet still neatly tucked in. I catch sight of a gold square on the floor and bend to see a wrapped chocolate, the type left during turndown service.
Isabella didn’t sleep in this bed. Someone just yanked back the covers
About Author Kelley Armstrong…
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Links to Kelley’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:
Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/4lvIdOn
Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/4khshyb
Barnes & Noble:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/every-step-she-takes-kelley-armstrong/1136814409?ean=9781915523426
Happy Reading!
~~~Thanks, Kelley, for sharing your book with us!
Don’t miss the chance to read this book!
