tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62679618152371559762024-03-13T15:55:46.591-04:00A room without books is emptydetweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.comBlogger1848125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-44899622981634635312024-02-27T06:00:00.001-05:002024-02-27T06:00:00.139-05:00One Wrong Move by Dani Pettrey<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><i>One Wrong Move</i></h2>
<h3>by Dani Pettrey</h3>
<h4>February 2 - March 1, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/RksNkMhSeqnL-9780764238482.jpg" alt="One Wrong Move by Dani Pettrey" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="309" border="0"/></div>
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<h4>Taunting riddles.<br />
A deadly string of heists.<br />
Two broken hearts trapped in a killer's game.</h4>
<p>Christian O'Brady was pulled into a life of crime at a young age by his con artist parents. Now making amends for his corrupt past, he has become one of the country's foremost security experts. When a string of Southwestern art heists targets one of the galleries Christian secured, he is paired up with a gifted insurance investigator who has her own checkered past.</p>
<p>Andi Forester was a brilliant FBI forensic analyst until one of her colleagues destroyed her career, blaming her for mishandling evidence. She now puts those skills to work investigating insurance fraud, and this latest high-stakes case will test her gift to the limit. Drawn deep into a dangerous game with an opponent bent on revenge, Christian and Andi are in a race against the clock to catch him, but the perpetrator's game is far from finished, and one wrong move could be the death of them both.</p>
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<h3>Dani Pettrey captivates with...</h3>
<p>"An intense blend of suspense, love, and faith." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ <em>Booklist</em></span></p>
<p>"Wicked pace, snappy dialogue, and likeable characters." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ <em>Publishers Weekly</em></span></p>
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<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Romantic Suspense <br />
<b>Published by:</b> Bethany House Publishers<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> February 6, 2024<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 400<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 9780764238482 (ISBN10: 0764238485)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Jeopardy Falls, Book 1<br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3QS9sFj" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/47KsHXU" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/47Dogih" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/47K4Fw6" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3GaLSP2" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Baker Book House</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>PROLOGUE</h4>
<p>He inhaled the stiff resolution of her death. She’d seen Cyrus. Remembered him. Now he’d need to silence her before she could mention Cyrus to anyone at the gallery. The imbecile should have been more careful, but that’s why he was in play. To assure things went according to plan, to remove anyone who stood in their way, and when it was done, to take out Cyrus and Casey. That he would delight in. Cyrus had been a pain in his rear as far back as he could recall. Casey. He was just a lamb to the slaughter, unfortunate fool.</p>
<p>Enrique released a smooth exhale, then inhaled the spicy scent of the girl’s perfume wafting on the stiff October breeze—whistling through the wind tunnel the long row of downtown businesses made.</p>
<p>Killing her would alert Cyrus to his presence in the States, but, perhaps it would keep him on his toes. Someone needed to.</p>
<p>Maintaining a good distance from his prey, Enrique followed as she meandered through the shops, wearing one of those recyclable grocery bags slung over her shoulder. A baguette and fresh flowers peeked out of the top. She made another stop, this time popping into a coffee shop. He kept walking, stopping a handful of stores down on the opposite side of the street, and waited, letting the other shoppers meld him into the crowd.</p>
<p>A cup of coffee in hand, the girl emerged.</p>
<p>He turned back to look in the storefront before him, waiting until she was far enough ahead for him to resume following. Nearly a fifteen-minute walk out of town, in an isolated patch of wind-stirred mesa, sat a two-story adobe building. Four exterior doors, each with a letter on it. Apartments.</p>
<p>Watching from behind a copse of trees, he waited while she retrieved her keys from her pocket, opened the bottom exterior door on the right, and disappeared inside. He held back, awaiting nightfall. He glanced at his watch. Not long. He surveyed the building, using binoculars to peer through the sheer curtains of her unit. A light in the bedroom shone, and slips of it spilled from what he could only assume was the adjacent bathroom.</p>
<p>He smiled.</p>
<p>The sun dipped below the horizon, and soon darkness shrouded the land. Time to move. Heading around to the back of the building, he found a sliding door to her unit. Easy enough. He jimmied the lock and eased inside.</p>
<p>Water ran in the bathroom, but a voice carried in song from the other side of the apartment. “Carry on Wayward Son.” Interesting choice.</p>
<p>He moved with stealth, approaching what he discerned was the kitchen. A teakettle whistled as steam from the open bathroom door filled the space. The girl turned the corner, dressed in a robe, a teacup in her hand. Her eyes locked on his, and panic flashed across her face as the teacup fell and shattered on the floor.</p>
<p>He smiled. Time to have some fun.</p>
<h4>ONE</h4>
<p>“Wait here,” Cyrus ordered.</p>
<p>“Why?” Casey asked—though pawn suited him better. As much as it galled him, Cyrus needed the insipid man. Needed his skills. For now. But when they were done, so was he. “Why?” he asked again.</p>
<p>Cyrus gritted his teeth. So incessant. He shook out his fists. Only a handful of locations to go and the questions would cease. <i>He</i> would cease. “It doesn’t take two of us to get what we came for,” he said, hoping Casey would accept the answer and let it drop, but he doubted it. “I’ve got this. Two of us will only draw more attention.”</p>
<p>“Fine.” Casey slumped back against the van’s passenger seat.</p>
<p>The imbecile was pouting like a girl. And, that knee. Cyrus wanted to break it. Always bouncing in that annoying, jittery way. The seat squeaked with the rapid, persistent motion. He shook his head on a grunted exhale. If Casey didn’t settle . . . if he blew their plans. Cyrus squeezed his fists tight, blood throbbing through his fingers. Too much was at stake. His own neck was on the line.</p>
<p>He turned his attention to the task at hand. “I won’t be long,” he said, surveying the space one last time before opening the van door. The lot behind them was dead, the building still. He climbed out, his breath a vapor in the cold night air. He glanced back at their van, barely visible in the pitch-black alley.</p>
<p>Shockingly, Casey remained in the passenger seat, his knee still bouncing high.</p>
<p>He shut the van door as eagerness coursed through him. The thrill and rush of the score mere minutes away. Just one quick job and then it was finally time.</p>
<p>He slipped his gloved hands into his pockets. A deeper rush nestled hot inside him, adrenaline searing his limbs. His fervency was for the kill.</p>
<p>He moved toward the rear of the restaurant, where the rental rooms’ entrance sat. His gloved fingers brushed the garrote in his right pocket, and he shifted his other hand to rest on the hilt of his gun. Which way would it go? Garrote or gun? Anticipation shot through him. Rounding the back of the building, he hung in the shadows and then stepped to the door and picked the lock—so simple a child could have done it. But what had he expected of a rent-by-the-hour-or-day establishment?</p>
<p>Opening the door, he stepped inside the minuscule foyer and studied the two doors on the ground level. Nothing but silence. He found the light switch and flipped off the ceiling bulb illuminating the stairwell, then crept up the stairs, pausing as one creaked. He held still, his back flush with the wall, once again shadowed in darkness. Nothing stirred.</p>
<p>Reaching her room, he picked the lock, stepped inside, and shut the door, locking it behind him.</p>
<p>She was asleep on the shoddy sofa, a ratty blanket draped across her. Getting rid of her now might be easier, but what fun was it killing someone while they slept? And he needed to make sure she had the items.</p>
<p>He stood a moment, watching her chest rise and fall with what would be her final breaths, then he knocked her feet with his elbow.</p>
<p>Her eyes flashed open as she lurched to a seated position. She rubbed her eyes. “You’re late.”</p>
<p><i>Less chance of witnesses.</i></p>
<p>“You have the items?”</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>“Get them. We’re in a hurry.”</p>
<p>She got to her feet and headed for the bedroom.</p>
<p>He followed.</p>
<p>To his surprise, she climbed up on the dresser and reached for the heating vent.</p>
<p><i>Huh.</i> She was smarter than he’d expected, yet not bright enough to know what was coming.</p>
<p>Pulling the dingy grate back, she retrieved a black velvet pouch and a bundle of letters held in place by a thick rubber band.</p>
<p>“Hand them over,” he said.</p>
<p>She hopped down and hesitated. “I get my cut, right?” She clutched the items to her pale chest.</p>
<p>“You’ll get your cut,” he said, wrapping his hands around the garrote.</p>
<p>She released her hold. Taking the bag first, he slid it into his upper jacket pocket, then slipped the letters into his pant pocket. “Good job.”</p>
<p>She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing her creamy neck. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>Restless energy pulsed through him.</p>
<p>“Are we done here?” she asked, shifting her stance, her arms wrapped around her slender waist.</p>
<p>“Just about.”</p>
<p>“What’s left to do?” she asked, her head cocked, and then she stilled. She took a step back. So she’d finally figured it out.</p>
<p>“No.” She shook her head, backing into the paneled wall. In one movement, left hand to right shoulder, he spun her around and slipped the garrote over her head.</p>
<p>He’d intended to give her the option—the easy way with a gunshot to the head or the hard way with the garrote. But the hard way was far more pleasurable, giving him the best elated high.</p>
<p>It really was a shame. She was a pretty thing.</p>
<p>Five minutes later, he was back in the van, leaving the body behind.</p>
<p>“You got everything?” Casey asked as they pulled onto the street, their headlights off.</p>
<p>Cyrus smiled and handed both items to him. They were a go. The appetite for what was to come gnawed at Cyrus’s gut, but in a good way. It was time to feed the anticipation that had been growing in him for nigh on a year. It was time to scratch that itch.</p>
<h4>TWO</h4>
<p>Christian’s hands gripped the rock face. Granules abraded the tender flesh beneath his nails, leaving them raw. Pushing up on the ball of his foot, he strained, his fingers searching for the crag. Finally, his hand landed on the cold surface—only three inches deep. On a sharp inhale and slow exhale, he lunged upward—only the slightest hold kept him from the hundred-foot drop to the forest below. His foot landed on the next hold, and he settled, his muscles hot in the brisk dawn air. Blood throbbing through his fingers, he shifted the weight onto the balls of his feet.</p>
<p>Mapping the next route in his head, he leaped for the next hold. Air replaced the solid rock for the breath of a second, and searing adrenaline crashed through him as the hold slipped away. His pulse whooshing in his ears, he slid down, finally grabbing hold of a crag on his rapid descent. His fingers gripped hard—the only thing holding his body weight and keeping him from the ground far below.</p>
<p>He examined the cliff, looking for a foothold. Something. Anything. Adrenaline raked through him, quivering his arms. <i>Not good.</i> Time held motionless until he anchored his foot on a narrow ledge, small rocks shifting under the soles of his climbing shoes. He kept his weight on the ball of his foot while scanning for a new route up. He exhaled as he found it, but it was going to require another leap of faith.</p>
<p>Releasing his hold, he lunged for a more solid handhold. Gripping it, he worked his way up to another ledge—this one deep enough to settle comfortably onto.</p>
<p>His breathing quickened by the climb, he turned and pressed his back against the volcanic rock—cool against his heated and perspiring skin—and exhaled in a whoosh. Talk about a close one. He smiled. One more adventure down.</p>
<p>He held for a moment, taking in the morning light spreading across what seemed an endless sky. Man, he loved this view. Narrow shafts of sunlight streamed down through the early morning fog, lighting the yellow-and-orange foliage ablaze. Everyone talked about the beautiful fall colors in New England, but for him nothing beat fall in New Mexico, and it was peak season.</p>
<p>He sank into the silence. Only the occasional chirping of birds in the trees below rushed by his ears on the stiff, mounting breeze.</p>
<p>The brilliant orange sun rose higher above the horizon, its rays glinting off the rushing water of the swift creek at the bottom of the valley—chasing away the fading chill of night and replacing it with renewed warmth of the coming day.</p>
<p>“Ain’t Worried About It” broke the silence with its melody. Who on earth was calling so early? He prayed nothing was wrong. It was the only reason he kept his cell on him while climbing—in case there was an emergency and his family needed him.</p>
<p>He shimmied the phone from the Velcro pocket on his right thigh and maneuvered it to his ear without bothering to look at who was calling. “O’Brady.”</p>
<p>“I need you here now!” Tad Gaiman’s voice shook with rage.</p>
<p>Why on earth was Tad calling him so early? Why was he calling him, period?</p>
<p>Tad’s heated words tumbled out. “My gallery’s been robbed!”</p>
<p>“What?” Christian blinked. There was no way. The security system upgrades he’d installed made it impenetrable, or so he’d thought.</p>
<p>“Do you hear me? My gallery has been robbed!”</p>
<p>“I do.” He kept his voice level. Tad was frantic enough for the both of them. “Which gallery?” The man owned three.</p>
<p>“Jeopardy Falls.”</p>
<p>The one in their hometown? Crime was nearly nonexistent in their small ranching, lately turned tourist, town of five hundred. “Take a deep breath and calm down so you can focus.”</p>
<p>“Calm down?” Tad shrieked, and Christian held the phone away from his ear. Even his sister Riley couldn’t hit that high of a pitch. “Did you not hear me? My gallery’s been robbed.”</p>
<p>“I hear you. Let me call you back.”</p>
<p>“Call me back? You cannot be serious!”</p>
<p>“I’m balanced on a ledge on Manzano.”</p>
<p>“Of course you are.” Tad scoffed.</p>
<p>“I’ll call you when I’m on the road.”</p>
<p>“And how long will it take you to get here? This is a DEFCON 5 situation.”</p>
<p>Christian shook his head. Clearly, Tad had no idea what he was talking about. DEFCON 5 meant peacetime.</p>
<p>“Christian! How soon?”</p>
<p>“I need to climb down and make the drive back to town. I’ll see you in an hour.”</p>
<p>“An hour!”</p>
<p>“We’ll talk through it on my way in.”</p>
<p>Scaling down the rock face as fast as he could, Christian reached his vintage Bronco.</p>
<p>Climbing inside, he clicked on the Bluetooth he’d installed. It’d cost a lot, but in his line of work, he needed to be able to talk while on the road chasing down a case. He shook his head, still baffled that anyone had beat the security system.</p>
<p>He dialed Tad.</p>
<p>Normally his drive along the winding dirt roads through the mountains was calming, but not today.</p>
<p>Tad picked up on the third ring.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Christian said, swiping the chalk from his hands onto his pants—the climbing towel too far to reach. “Walk me through it. Did the alarm go off?”</p>
<p>“The one on the security system you said couldn’t be beat? No!”</p>
<p>Christian took a stiff inhale. How on earth had someone gotten through the door without the key fob? The fob . . . “Tad, do you have your key fob?”</p>
<p>Silence hung thick in the air as Christian’s Bronco bumped over the ruts in the dirt road, the drop-off only inches from his tires. He rounded the bend, and the road—if it could be deemed one—widened. “Tad?” he pressed.</p>
<p>“Okay, fine. I don’t have it.”</p>
<p>“Where is it?” Christian asked as he headed for the main road that led back to Jeopardy Falls.</p>
<p>Tad swallowed, the slippery, gulping sound echoing over the line. “I think the woman I spent last night with after the gala took it.”</p>
<p>“Riley mentioned she might attend the gala, but she couldn’t make it.”</p>
<p>“It was well attended.”</p>
<p>“And the woman you mentioned?”</p>
<p>“I met her at the gala.”</p>
<p>“She’s not local?”</p>
<p>“I’ve never seen her before last night.”</p>
<p>“So she just strolled into the gala?”</p>
<p>“Yes. It was a semiprivate affair. I sent out invites but welcomed anyone, given it was Friday Night on the Town.”</p>
<p>Their small town had instituted the night on the town for one Friday a month about a year ago, and it had really drummed up business for the eclectic downtown shops.</p>
<p>“Let’s shift back to the gallery,” Christian said. “I’m assuming you used Alex’s fob to get into the building?”</p>
<p>“No. I can’t get in.”</p>
<p>“Why not?” Christian pulled out onto the paved road.</p>
<p>“I can’t reach Alex, despite the fact she’s supposed to open this morning.”</p>
<p>“Okay . . . so walk me through what happened with the fob.”</p>
<p>“I woke up and that . . . woman was gone, and the fob wasn’t where I’d left it. I searched my place, but it’s not there, so I rushed to the gallery. I stopped at Alex’s place on the way, but no answer. She is so—”</p>
<p>“Settle down, Tad. Let’s think this through. Do you think Martha would let you into Alex’s place if you explained the situation?” Maybe the landlady would understand. Jeopardy Falls was a small enough town where everyone knew everyone, which was still taking time for him to get used to. To be known. Well, known at what he was willing to show, which wasn’t much.</p>
<p>“I’m not leaving my gallery. Not until I get inside and see what damage is done. You get the fob from Martha.”</p>
<p>Christian furrowed his brows. “If you can’t get in the gallery and the alarm didn’t go off, how do you know it’s been robbed?”</p>
<p>“Because I can see the three front cases through the porthole windows in the door. They’re open and empty.” A sob escaped Tad’s throat, though he tried to cover it with a cough.</p>
<p>Christian exhaled. “All right. I’ll call Martha, but she might not feel comfortable letting us in.” It was a lot to ask. “Actually, I think in this case, it’s best to have Sheriff Brunswick to reach out to Martha.”</p>
<p>“That’s a good idea,” Tad said. “Give him a call.”</p>
<p>“Wait?” Christian tapped the wheel. “He’s not there yet?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Did he give you an ETA?” Maybe Joel was on another call. Their county was large, and with only him and one undersheriff, they had a lot of ground to cover.</p>
<p>“I haven’t called him yet.”</p>
<p>Christian’s brows hiked. “You called me before the sheriff?” Where was the sense in that?</p>
<p>“You put the supposedly impenetrable system in. I want to know what went wrong. And I need you to get me inside if we can’t get Alex’s fob.”</p>
<p>“Me?” Christian tapped the wheel.</p>
<p>“You installed the system, so surely you know how to beat it. And, regardless, you’re the one the sheriff calls when they need a locksmith or safecracker on a case. Though you’re quite more than a simple locksmith, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Christian stiffened. “Meaning?”</p>
<p>“Whoever did this obviously had knowledge of the system.”</p>
<p>“And . . . ?” Christian tightened his grip on the wheel, his knuckles turning white.</p>
<p>“As far as I’m concerned, you’re to blame.”</p>
<p>Christian swallowed the sharp retort ready to fly and took a settling breath instead. “I’ll be there in twenty.”</p>
<p>He disconnected the call before Tad could throw another barb in his direction. He knew all too well how those stinging barbs felt, but this time he was innocent.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>One Wrong Move</i> by Dani Pettrey. Copyright 2024 by Dani Pettrey. Reproduced with permission from Bethany House Publishers. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:330px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/cedhJe9poOGh-Pettrey_Dani.jpg" alt="Dani Pettrey" style="margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="300" height="200" border="0" align="left"/></div>
<p>Dani Pettrey is the bestselling author of the Coastal Guardians, Chesapeake Valor, and Alaskan Courage series. A two-time Christy Award finalist, Dani has won the National Readers' Choice Award, Daphne du Maurier Award, HOLT Medallion, and Christian Retailing's Best Award for Suspense. She plots murder and mayhem from her home in the Washington, DC, metro area.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Dani Pettrey:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/46jXwle" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">DaniPettrey.com</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/40MpF3i" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3R9y6RZ" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookBub - @DaniPettrey</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3sToeTY" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Instagram - @authordanipettrey</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/47uomZu" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - @DaniPettrey</a></h3>
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My Take: This is the first book in a new series. I really liked this book as it took me into a world that I don't think I have ever really read about, the world of Art Heists. In This book we meet Christian, his brother Deckarrd and their Sister Riley. They are all involved somehow in a Private iNvestigation firm. There is also Gaston who sold them the firm and trained them And has remained as a sort of a jack of all trades. Christian installed the alarm system at some galleries that have been robbed so they get into the investigation. Then there is Andi who works for the insurance company and is in charge in finding out who stole the art. Andi use to work for the FBI until she had to resign in disgrace after a case she was working on evidence disappeared and her anylisis was corrupted. Her Best friend Harper is out to prove her innocent before she goes on a mission trip. So Christian and Andi pair up to work on the Art heist and Deckard and Harper team up to work on clearing Andi's name. The mysteries are interesting and keep you guessing until the outcome is revealed. There is alot of romance so if you like romance and mystery this is a good book for you. i gave this a 4 out of 5 five stars and am really looking forward to book two in the sereis.
I recieved a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-28498090548358235702024-01-31T06:00:00.005-05:002024-02-01T08:30:28.485-05:00Cold Threat by Nancy Mehl<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><i>Cold Threat</i></h2>
<h3>by Nancy Mehl</h3>
<h4>January 22 - February 2, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/WUreOA4NWECX-9780764240461.jpg" alt="Cold Threat by Nancy Mehl" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="309" border="0"></div>
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<p>Twenty years ago, several people were murdered in Des Moines, and the only evidence left behind was a snowman ornament hanging ominously on a tree in the victims' front lawns. With a suspect behind bars, the killings have come to an end--or so everyone thought. But now crimes with a similar MO are happening in a small Iowa town, and a local detective believes the killer is back and ready to strike again.</p>
<p>With little time left on the clock before they have another murder on their hands, private investigators River Ryland and Tony St. Clair must work alongside Tony's detective father to find evidence that will uncover an evil that has survived far too long. As the danger mounts and the suspect closes in, it will take all they have to catch a killer--before he catches one of them.</p>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Suspense<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Bethany House Publishers<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> January 2024<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 336<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 978-0764240461 (ISBN10: 0764240463)<br />
<b>Series:</b> Ryland & St. Clair, 2<br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/45MWmi3" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3tV7pYU" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45PbbjU" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/40bR4LD" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QFBCVb" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Baker Book House</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<h4>PROLOGUE</h4>
<h6>DECEMBER, TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AGO</h6>
<p>I watched as fire devoured the house as if it were a living, breathing monster, ravenous for death and destruction. It took effort not to smile as I observed the fire department desperately trying to quench the ferocious flames, the firefighters slipping and sliding on the snow and ice. But winter is no match for me. They would lose this fight. The nightmare has just begun. Inside they will find my Christmas offering. Those whom I’d judged and executed. The beast was at my command and would destroy any evidence that could lead to me.</p>
<p>“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “I love it.”</p>
<p>I smiled at her. “It was a long time coming.”</p>
<p>“But you did it. I’m so proud of you.”</p>
<p>I had to blink away the sudden tears that filled my eyes.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t we leave?”</p>
<p>I nodded. She was right. At some point, the police would arrive and would most certainly look through the people gathered across the street since many times those who set fires like to watch their creations dance and light up the night. They might even take pictures. This was the only time I felt comfortable hanging around for a few minutes—before anyone had time to scan the crowd. This was important. The first. My debut performance.</p>
<p>I’d just turned to leave when a couple of police cars pulled up, lights flashing, their blue-and-red beams cutting through the night and the falling snow. I walked down the street, hidden behind a curtain of white. I stopped to watch as they exited their vehicles. The sight only added to my excitement. Two officers approached the fire department chief. As they talked, another officer stood on the sidewalk, staring at the structure that was being consumed. Suddenly, he shouted and pointed up toward the second floor. I had to walk back to see why. I stood behind a tree, trying not to look suspicious. That was when I saw it. A face peering through one of the windows.</p>
<p>“Oh no,” she said, her voice breaking. “How did you miss her?”</p>
<p>The officer who’d spotted the unthinkable began to run toward the front door, but two firefighters grabbed him and held him back while another one grabbed a ladder and put it up against the house. It was clearly a child staring at them, her eyes wide with fear. They tried to climb toward her, but it was impossible. The flames from the first floor blocked their way. I felt a wave of anger. She had defiled my righteous mission. I fought to push back my rage. I had no desire to hurt a child. She shouldn’t have hidden from me. I would have kept her safe. I sighed in frustration. This was her fault. Now all of us would have to watch as she died. There wasn’t anything I could do. I felt the urge to leave, but the police were concentrating on her. No one was focused on the crowd, so I risked staying a minute or two longer.</p>
<p>Suddenly I heard a shout and saw the police officer who’d tried to enter earlier suddenly run toward the compromised house and through the front door before anyone could stop him. What a fool. The monster I’d created was too strong. Now there would be two additional lives sacrificed. This wasn’t my mission. Only the guilty were supposed to die. I consoled myself with the knowledge that the blame was theirs. Not mine.</p>
<p>“Maybe he’ll get her out,” she said quietly.</p>
<p>I didn’t respond. I knew she was upset. I couldn’t find the words to tell her that it was too late for both of them.</p>
<p>Part of the house collapsed on the other side, away from the window where the child still stood. Everyone watched in horror. Two firefighters started to follow the officer into the house, but their chief called them back. It was clear they were frustrated, yet the chief obviously thought it was too dangerous for them to enter. He’d probably already written off the officer and the child.</p>
<p>“It’s not your fault.”</p>
<p>“I know,” I said.</p>
<p>I waited for the rest of the structure to fall, but as we all watched, the unbelievable happened. The police officer ran out of the house, something in his arms wrapped up in a blanket. A firefighter ran over to take the bundle from him as the rest of the building collapsed. The officer fell to the ground. I could see his burns from here. It looked as if the cloth from his shirt had melted to his skin and part of his dark hair had burned away. Now he would always remember this night. I felt no anger toward him. Truthfully, I was relieved that the child had a chance. I’d still accomplished my mission. This was a lesson learned. I had checked out the couple carefully, and I’d watched the house. Hadn’t seen any evidence of a child. Still, I’d missed something important. I would never make this mistake again.</p>
<p>She sighed with relief. “I’m so glad she’s okay.”</p>
<p>A thought suddenly struck me. I hadn’t seen the child, but had she seen me? Was she now a liability to my mission? As soon as the thought came, I dismissed it. She’d been hiding. Trying to make sure I couldn’t find her. She would have been too afraid to look at me knowing I might see her too. Besides, she was so young no one would take her seriously anyway. Even if she had caught a glimpse of me, soon I would look very different. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. I was safe.</p>
<p>The firefighters began treating the girl and the officer until an ambulance roared up. It was time to leave. I pulled my jacket tighter and let the darkness and the dancing flakes shroud me as I slipped away, but not before I glanced at the snowman ornament hanging on the tree planted near the sidewalk.</p>
<p>As I walked away, I couldn’t help but sing softly, “Frosty the snowman . . .”</p>
<h4>CHAPTER ONE</h4>
<h6>DECEMBER, PRESENT DAY</h6>
<p>River Ryland stared at her phone, willing it to ring. Unfortunately, it seemed it didn’t respond well to mental telepathy. The pastor at the church she’d started attending with Tony had taught on faith yesterday. He’d brought up Mark 11:24 and Philippians 4:6. From what she could understand, faith was something you needed before your prayers were answered. As a child, she’d listened to her father preach, but he’d never mentioned anything like that. His sermons had been about sin and judgment. How to stay pure. Which was laughable since he ran off with the church’s secretary and left his daughter, son, and wife behind, humiliated and without any way to survive financially.</p>
<p>As she continued to eye her phone, she wondered if she should start believing that God would bring more clients to Watson Investigations. Was it okay to have faith for something like that? It was clear that faith was important to God, but she didn’t want to treat Him like some kind of genie in a lamp who would bring her whatever she asked for. What was His will, and what was selfishness? She sighed quietly. Life with God was proving to be interesting.</p>
<p>She glanced over at her partner, Tony St. Clair, and asked herself the question she’d posed so many times. What was he doing here? She’d had to leave the FBI. Severe PTSD had made it impossible for her to continue working as a behavioral analyst. Tony had been shot by the Salt River Strangler, the serial killer who’d tried to kill her, and was still dealing with some of the aftereffects. Even so, he could have gone back to work. Instead, he talked her into starting this detective agency. They’d only had two cases so far. The results had been positive. One case had to do with teachers at a local high school selling drugs—something they stumbled across. The teachers were arrested, and the drug trade shut down. No paying client with that one. The other case had been pro bono. They’d solved that too. Thankfully, someone connected with the case—not their client—had given them a generous stipend. But how long would that last without some new cases? Was asking herself that question a lack of faith? She really didn’t know the answer.</p>
<p>Tony’s long legs were crossed, his feet up on his desk. He was leaning back in his chair, writing in a notebook. He reminded her of Benedict Cumberbatch. His curly dark hair was longer than most FBI agents had worn their hair. His long eyelashes sheltered eyes that sometimes looked blue and other times appeared to be gray. Tony was an enigma. A handsome man who never dated. He used to. Before the shooting. There were definitely some women at church who had him in their sights, but he clearly wasn’t interested. Of course, she wasn’t dating either. Didn’t want to. Right now, she just wanted to figure out who God wanted her to be. It was hard to believe He needed a private investigator. She didn’t see that among the gifts listed in the Bible.</p>
<p>“Okay, God,” River whispered. “I’m asking You to make this agency successful. I thank You for hearing me. And . . .” She gulped. “And I thank You for our new cases.” There. She shook her head. Weird, but Pastor Mason would be proud of her. She jumped when Tony’s phone rang.</p>
<p>River listened closely. If this was a case . . . Well, Pastor Mason also said something about patience. Surely answers to prayer didn’t happen this quickly. If so, she should have started praying this way a long time ago.</p>
<p>“Slow down, Dad,” Tony said. “I’m not sure I understand.”</p>
<p>River was almost relieved that it was Tony’s father. If it actually had been a new case . . . well, it would have freaked her out a little. She began to straighten her desk again, only slightly listening to Tony’s conversation. It seemed to be a little one-sided.</p>
<p>Finally, Tony said, “I’ve got to call you back, Dad. Let me talk to River and see what she thinks. You know her mother is ill.” Pause. “All in all, doing pretty good. She has full-time help now.” Another pause. “Okay. I’ll phone you in a bit.”</p>
<p>After he hung up, he pulled his feet off his desk and sat up straight in his chair. His blue sweater was the same color as his eyes . . . when they were blue. Why was she paying attention to his eyes? She gave herself a virtual kick in the pants and realized that Tony looked upset.</p>
<p>“Everything okay?” she asked.</p>
<p>“No, not really.”</p>
<p>“Is your dad all right? Your mom?”</p>
<p>“No,” he said, cutting her off. “They’re fine. And before you ask, my sister’s good too.” He looked away and cleared his throat. Something he did when he was troubled or thinking. Finally, his eyes met hers. “I told you that when my dad was a rookie police officer, before he was promoted to detective, he was badly burned in a fire?”</p>
<p>She nodded. She remembered the story. It was hard to forget. “He saved a little girl’s life.”</p>
<p>“Yes. Well, they found two bodies in the house after the fire was put out. The little girl was the granddaughter of the couple. Thank God, Dad got her out in time.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Your father’s a hero.”</p>
<p>Tony smiled. “Don’t say that to him. He won’t put up with it. I also told you that they never found the person responsible?”</p>
<p>She nodded again, then waited for him to finish. It was obvious what was coming next. She swallowed. Was this just coincidence? Of course, this was Tony’s dad. They couldn’t charge him anything for their services. River should have mentioned in her prayer that they needed <i>a paying case</i>. She didn’t realize God was so literal.</p>
<p><i>Trust Me.</i></p>
<p>Although she hadn’t heard an audible voice, it was so clear it made her jump.</p>
<p><i>Trust Me.</i></p>
<p>She swallowed hard. “Uh, he wants us to help him solve a twenty-year-old crime?” she said. Why was her voice squeaky? “Why now? I mean, I assume he tried to close this case himself. From what you told me, he’s an excellent detective.”</p>
<p>“He is, but he’s retiring.”</p>
<p>“And he wants this solved before he leaves?”</p>
<p>Tony nodded. “In a way. You see, there were two other similar murders with the same MOs in Des Moines not long after that one. The police arrested someone. Charged him with all three. Dad was never sure they got the right person.”</p>
<p>“You never told me that.”</p>
<p>“I never went into details because I thought it was a closed case.”</p>
<p>“So, your father wants to make certain the case is truly closed before he leaves? It’s still a really cold case. You know how tough they are to solve after so long.”</p>
<p>“Well, except he says it’s happened again.”</p>
<p>“In Des Moines?”</p>
<p>Tony shook his head. “No, up in Burlington, Iowa, where they are now. They moved there years ago because Dad felt it was a better place to live. He was convinced that Des Moines was getting too big. Too dangerous. He wanted a slower-paced life. A safer place for Mom. Truthfully, I think he had a tough time working in Des Moines. He couldn’t get anyone he worked with to believe they’d arrested the wrong person for those murders.”</p>
<p>“Wait a minute. So, your dad thinks the killer followed him?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “He doesn’t know, although I agree that it seems strange. Look, I know you have questions. I do too. Can you come to Burlington with me so we can write a profile? He wants to see if we can add something to what he has so far.”</p>
<p>River hesitated a moment.</p>
<p>“I know you’re thinking about your mom. Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. I can go alone. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot.”</p>
<p>River shook her head. “You’re not. Now that we have Mrs. Weyland, I may be able to come with you.”</p>
<p>Hannah, the young woman who had come in to help River’s mother during the day, had quit after finding out she was pregnant. She’d recommended her aunt, who had recently lost her husband. Agatha Weyland was sixty-three years old and had nursed her husband through Alzheimer’s. When Hannah told her she was pregnant and had to leave her job, Mrs. Weyland had begged her to set up an interview with River. At first, she wasn’t sure if it would work since Mrs. Weyland wanted to move in.</p>
<p>“I just can’t stay in my house anymore,” she’d told River when they talked. “Too many ghosts. Hannah and her husband love the house and they’ve offered to buy it. I was goin’ to move into an apartment, but if you have a spare room . . .” Her hazel eyes had filled with tears, and River had been touched by her. But would she change her mind and quit once she was stronger? She didn’t want Rose to get used to someone and then have her leave. River’s mother was still dealing with Hannah’s quitting. She had loved and trusted the young woman.</p>
<p>“I’m not lookin’ for anything temporary,” Mrs. Weyland had said as if reading River’s mind. “I intend to take care of your mother until . . . well, until she no longer needs me.”</p>
<p>This time it was River’s turn for tears.</p>
<p>“Oh, honey,” the older woman had said, taking River’s hand. “I know what Alzheimer’s is like. I know how to take care of your precious mama. My Harold was a happy man until the day he died. I learned how to go with him wherever he was . . . and how to be whoever he needed me to be. We were happy, and your mother will be happy too. You have my word.”</p>
<p>River had really wanted to hire Mrs. Weyland, but she was certain Rose wouldn’t give up another one of her rooms. She’d gotten upset when River and Tony had moved her original sewing space to another room even though they set it up exactly the same. They’d moved things around so River could be closer to her mother in case she needed help during the night. Now she’d have to give up her sewing room completely, even though she never used it. River was prepared for a meltdown. But after spending a couple of hours getting to know Mrs. Weyland, Rose had said, “Can’t we just move the things in the sewing room down to the basement, River? Either Agatha could move in there, or you could move into that room, and Agatha could be right next to me.”</p>
<p>Although she was more than surprised by her mother’s request, she quickly agreed. River moved into the old sewing room, and Mrs. Weyland set herself up next to Rose.</p>
<p>“Let me talk to Mrs. Weyland,” she told Tony. “She’s barely had time to get to know my mother. She might feel uncomfortable with me leaving town so soon. How long do you think we’ll be gone?”</p>
<p>“Why don’t we say the rest of the week?” he said. “I think that’s enough time to create a profile. My father’s already put together a murder book, although I’m not sure how much information he’s been able to get his hands on. Hopefully, we’ll at least have some pictures and reports.”</p>
<p>“Okay, but if Mrs. Weyland or my mother is uncomfortable . . .”</p>
<p>“I’ll go alone and bring everything back with me.” He frowned. “I’d really like you to talk to my dad. See if he can convince you the cases are related. I know that’s not what we do when we write a profile, so we’ll be using our ace deductive skills as well.”</p>
<p>River laughed. “I’ll call Mom now, but you might as well plan on going alone. My mother will probably have a conniption fit.”</p>
<p>“A conniption fit? Where do you get these expressions? I truly think an old lady lives somewhere down deep inside you.”</p>
<p>River picked up her phone, stuck her tongue out at Tony, and dialed Mrs. Weyland.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Cold Threat</i> by Nancy Mehl. Copyright 2024 by Nancy Mehl. Reproduced with permission from Bethany House Publishers. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/40ubxn3ZC0ms-Nancy-Mehl.jpg" alt="Nancy Mehl" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="300" border="0" align="left"></div>
<p>Nancy Mehl is the author of more than fifty books, a Parable and ECPA bestseller, and the winner of an ACFW Book of the Year Award, a Carol Award, and the Daphne du Maurier Award. She has also been a finalist for the Christy Award. Nancy writes from her home in Missouri, where she lives with her husband, Norman, and their puggle, Watson.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Nancy Mehl:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3S86zCo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">NancyMehl.com</a><br />
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My Take: This is the second book in a series and I would suggest that you read the first book. You don't need to read these in order but it would be nice to read the first book. I really liked this second book. It kept me engaged and wanting to know what would happen next. I look forward to reading the next installment. I don't want to give away any spoilers but I do wish that the two main characters would admit to each other that they have feelings for each other as every one around them seems to already know. As far as the thriller part of this book I would say that it stood up to being both thrilling and exciting. I gave this book 5 stars on Goodreads. Great way to continue a series.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-46856476477504813152023-11-23T06:00:00.003-05:002023-11-23T06:00:00.132-05:00Dark Dweller by Gareth Worthington<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>Dark Dweller</h2>
<h3>by Gareth Worthington</h3>
<h4>November 13-24, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/iSz8v4xFK0Kg-Dark-Dweller-HB-cover-copy.jpg" alt="cover" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="306" border="0"/></div>
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<p>Captain Kara Psomas was pronounced dead when her research vessel slammed into Jupiter.</p>
<p>More than a century later, the crew of the Paralus, a helium mining freighter, find a pristine escape pod with a healthy young girl nestled inside. A girl who claims to be Kara—and she brings a message of doom.</p>
<p>She says she has been waiting in the dark for that exact moment. To be found by that particular crew. Because an ancient cosmic being has tasked her with a sacred responsibility. She claims she must alter the Fulcrum, a lever in time—no matter the cost to the people aboard—or condemn the rest of civilization to a very painful and drawn-out demise.</p>
<p>She sounds convincing. She appears brave. She might well be insane.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Dark Dweller</i>:</h3>
<p>"... intense, exciting, and nerve-wracking ... taut, tense, and ultimately explosive. A fantastic read not just for science fiction aficionados but for all lovers of adventure." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Readers' Favorite</span></p>
<p>"Dark Dweller is that rare beast of hard sci-fi that can pull off high-end concepts, but also entertain the reader with tension and strong set pieces." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ SFBook Review</span></p>
<p>"A story steeped in intrigue, vivid descriptions, and action-packed dialogue." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Midwest Book Review</span></p>
<p>"Epic, bleak, provocative." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Indiereader Review</span></p>
<p>"Knuckle-hard science fiction." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Bestsellers World</span></p>
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<h3><i>Dark Dweller</i> Trailer:</h3>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Hard sci Fi mixed with esoteric elements<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Dropship Publishing<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> February 2023<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 304 <br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 9781954386051 (ISBN10: 1954386052)<br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3LhNZTV" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3LnHzTz" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ZnSfHt" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/468OBTZ" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> </p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<h4>PROLOGUE</h4>
<h6>Dr. Sarah Dallas</h6>
<p>"Are you the fucking pilot, Hair?” Boz screams at me, piggy eyes aflame in her round face. </p>
<p>I hate that moniker: Hair. Not important right now. The fact we’re going to die is. “No, I’m not, but—”</p>
<p>“Then stay in your lane and shut your hole.”</p>
<p>Breathe, Sarah. Don’t punch her. You’re the ship’s counselor. Be professional. Do <i>not</i> punch her. The mantra rings over and over in my skull, but Boz tests every ounce of my training. There are four of us on this twelve-year round trip. Assaulting the pilot isn’t the best idea.</p>
<p>I release a very measured breath and fix my attention on the largest planet in our solar system looming large in the viewfinder of our liner—the <i>Paralus</i>. Jupiter is enormous, its surface banded with reddish-brown and off-white clouds, rushing and crashing into one other. Its one angry red eye stares at us, at <i>me</i>.</p>
<p>My supposed intellect short-circuits as I try to quantify and categorize. In the face of something truly awe-inspiring my tiny human biological computer is unable, or refuses, to comprehend the sheer magnitude of this world. Yet my limbic system must have some ancient recollection of dealing with overwhelming reverence, forcing a rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream and into my trembling muscles.</p>
<p>Just <i>look</i> at it.</p>
<p>The <i>Paralus</i> shudders as we hurtle into the upper atmosphere. Jupiter has a will of its own, intent on sucking us into its gassy interior. Ironic, given we’re here to grab its vapors. Helium-3 to be specific, to act as cryogenic coolant for our nuclear fusion reactors at home and space stations set out along the Interplanetary Transport Network. Jupiter has helium in spades, while Earth has precious little, and so now we risk our lives on ridiculously dangerous missions to mine the ether. In the age of interplanetary travel and colonization, profit trumps human life—as always.</p>
<p>Metal squeals and the hull creaks. The luminous tabs and keys beneath crystal glass control panels stutter and flicker. Even the slick white walls and soothing curves of the Bridge’s interior can’t muffle the complaints of the frail, human-made underpinnings.</p>
<p>A tear slips from the corner of my eye and my knuckles are white as I grip the armrests.</p>
<p>“Are you crying?” Boz yells, peeling her stare from the enormous viewfinder to gawk in disgust at me for daring to have any emotion other than anger.</p>
<p>“We’re coming in too hot,” I press, flitting a concerned frown from Boz to the planet and back again in hopes she takes the hint to watch where the hell she’s going. “Can’t the AI take over?”</p>
<p>“Which part of <i>shut up</i> isn’t penetrating all that hair?” Boz clicks her tongue, then tweaks on the thruster yokes. Sweat beads on her forehead. “I got this, Dallas. Now back off.”</p>
<p>I wriggle back in my seat and adjust the harness again. Everyone hates a backseat driver, but if she gets this wrong Jupiter will seize the <i>Paralus</i> and we’ll never have enough thrust to escape. We’ll either be torn to shreds or crushed like a tin can. Either one a shitty way to go.</p>
<p>Our freighter shakes like a rag doll in the mouth of a puppy, the nuts and bolts of this dilapidated piece of junk threatening to come loose. The <i>Paralus</i> is fragile as all hell and entirely breakable—the sort of construction a five-year-old makes out of drinking straws and modeling clay. A mile-long needle with a nuclear fusion engine at the aft end, a Scoop and transport shuttle docking bay, the AI mainframe in the center, and two spinning rings: one for cargo, and one for medbay, exercise room and living quarters. Ops, also called the Bridge, sits right in the nose.</p>
<p>Perfect for a front-row seat to our doom.</p>
<p>“Still too much speed,” Boz says. “Increasing retro-thruster burn.”</p>
<p>Will that do anything? The main retro-thrusters have been firing while we’re asleep for months now, slowing us to enter orbit correctly, which sounds great on paper but—given the heap of shit we’re in—means diddly squat.</p>
<p>“Boz, keep her steady,” Commander Chau calls from his chair.</p>
<p>“I’m trying, sir,” she yells back.</p>
<p>“Tris?” Chau says loud enough to be heard over the din of warping metal punctuated at regular intervals by the warning alarm.</p>
<p>“The trajectory is off, something’ changed,” Tris Beckert, our co-pilot and chief engineer, replies in his Texan drawl. “Jupiter’s not where we predicted. It’s not a big ol’ shift, but enough.”</p>
<p>I swear my ass just clenched hard enough to make a button on the seat. A ton of unmanned craft have slammed into their destination planet or just whizzed on by into space forever. I’m no astrophysicist, but was once told reaching a target in space like standing on Everest and firing a bullet at a pea-sized target on the other side of the Earth.</p>
<p>“We’re comin’ in a little steep,” Tris says, tapping away at his readout. “AI is helpin’ Boz compensate—”</p>
<p>The alarm blares again.</p>
<p>“Warning, orbital entry path suboptimal,” says a synthetic, sonorous voice from overhead.</p>
<p>Only an AI could so calmly announce our deaths.</p>
<p>“Yes, I fucking know, Dona,” Boz spits back. “Reverse thrusters won’t do it. Gotta skip over the atmosphere. Just need to burn more delta-v.”</p>
<p>The <i>Paralus</i> lurches under a burst from the engines. The horizon of Jupiter fills the viewfinder, its swirling fumes mixing like milk and coffee in a fresh latte. A fresh latte? Shut up, Sarah.</p>
<p>On the horizon, flashes of white light, tinged with green edges, emanate from just below Jupiter’s cloud line.</p>
<p>Tris shoots a worried look at Boz.</p>
<p>“Asteroids exploding on impact?” she yells without breaking her concentration.</p>
<p>“I don’t think so,” Tris shouts back.</p>
<p>“You better fucking hope not or we’re about to get cratered,” Boz says.</p>
<p>Cratered. Great. Pebble-dashed with chunks of space rock. The spindly nature of the Paralus helps it to not be a gigantic target, but it only takes one puncture and we’re all screwed.</p>
<p>Why am I here, again?</p>
<p>“Hold on to your pantyhose,” Boz says, perspiration running down her temples.</p>
<p>The <i>Paralus</i> is battered, a pathetic kite in impossibly strong winds, as we plunge farther into the outer atmosphere of Jupiter. The viewfinder is near black—sunlight can no longer penetrate the violent vapors assaulting us. Multiple feeds from external cameras cycle on and off, but offer no help.</p>
<p>Boz roars long and loud, heaving on the yokes while Tris taps away at his console, calculating and recalculating—pinging his very human assumptions off the computations of the AI. Chau sits, smooth jaw set and stoic, his narrowed sights fixed on some imaginary endpoint to this nightmare of an orbital entry. He looks oddly calm.</p>
<p>I squeeze my eyes shut and mumble a prayer, though to whom I don’t know. God, Yahweh, Allah. Anyone who’ll listen. In moments of extreme stress, time seems to slow, the human mind suddenly able to function on some higher level, absorbing all the information it can in hopes of averting disaster. Behind my eyelids, in a weird half-dream, half-out-of-body experience, I see myself clinging to the harness. Observing the cowardly pose fills my astral-projected self with shame, which only grows with the knowledge I’m not praying for loved ones at home who might miss me when I’m gone, but to make it out alive so I can go on ignoring them for a little longer.</p>
<p>Except for Dad, always have time for Dad.</p>
<p>The shuddering stops.</p>
<p>I open my eyes. The last wisps of Jupiter’s atmosphere slip past revealing vast, open space. Here, unadulterated with the light of human cities, the universe is alive. The light from the smallest of stars reaches out to me from across the expanse. The feeling of relief at still being alive is replaced with nausea. The same feeling one gets when peering into a pitch-black well, wondering how far down it goes. We came so close to death, but what difference would it make? The universe doesn’t care. Look at how <i>big</i> it is.</p>
<p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” Boz says, slumping back in her chair.</p>
<p>“Hey now,” Tris pipes up.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Tris.”</p>
<p>She’s not sorry. Tris doesn’t like too much swearing, but Boz does it anyway. Several times a day. So do I, just in my head. Isn’t that what we all do? Hide a little piece of who we are to placate others. To survive society. But again, it’s hard to care when you’re out here knowing the cosmos really doesn’t give a rat’s ass what we do. The desire to let loose a string of expletives nearly overwhelms me. Nearly.</p>
<p>“I want to know what happened,” Chau says, his expression cold like granite. “How could our trajectory be that off?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t,” Tris replies, shaking his head. “I told you, Jupiter moved.”</p>
<p>Chau narrows his eyes. “Not possible.”</p>
<p>“Engineer Tris is correct,” the AI says, its tone unchanging. “Jupiter’s orbital path appears to have altered.”</p>
<p>“How the hell is that possible?” Boz asks.</p>
<p>“Ya’ll got me,” Tris replies, tapping at his screen. “Some kinda gravitational irregularity?”</p>
<p>“Affecting Jupiter?” Chau says, one eyebrow raised. “Jupiter moves celestial bodies, not the other way around.”</p>
<p>Tris shrugs. “I’ll look into it.”</p>
<p>“Fine, but after the grab,” Chau says.</p>
<p>“I need to get us back into a proper orbit,” Boz says, already tapping away at her console. “That’s gonna take a while. We had to burn long and hard to skip over the atmosphere. It’s gonna be like turning a galactic Buick.”</p>
<p>“Do it,” Chau says.</p>
<p>“Um.” As the word leaves my lips I wish it hadn’t.</p>
<p>All eyes fix on me.</p>
<p>Shit. Well done, Sarah. Best follow through now. “Is that an aerostat in our flight path?”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about, <i>Doctor</i>,” Boz says.</p>
<p>I point out of the main window.</p>
<p>The crew follows the imaginary path from my fingertip out into space and to the spheroid metallic object. “If that’s an aerostat, it’ll do a lot of damage if we hit it.” Though they’re flexible, colliding with one of these weather stations dropped into the atmosphere to monitor the constant violent storms would fuck us up.</p>
<p>“That ain’t an aerostat, that’s a ship,” Tris says, squinting. “Too far out of the atmosphere. Wrong shape.”</p>
<p>“Are we going to hit … whatever that <i>is</i>?” Chau asks.</p>
<p>Boz shakes her head. “We’re headed out. Seems it’s geo-synched, in orbit.”</p>
<p>“You’re eyeballing it?” I ask.</p>
<p>Boz glares at me. “How about you let me do my job, Dallas?”</p>
<p>Chau holds up his hand. “Enough. What do we do about it?”</p>
<p>Tris clears his throat. “ITN protocol says we have to prioritize the grab, but … this is a little unorthodox. There’s no precedent for an alien ship.” He shoots a nervous glance at Chau.</p>
<p>Chau sniffs hard. “There’s no evidence to suggest it’s an alien ship. How close will we come to it?”</p>
<p>Tris’s fingers flit across his console at lightning speed. Then, with a dramatic swipe, he sends the flight path file from his panel to Boz who looks it over.</p>
<p>“Within a hundred feet,” Boz says. “Just like I said.”</p>
<p>Yes, Boz, I get it— you’re a genius and I’m an idiot. Seriously, Sarah, hold it together. “Do we need to adjust?”</p>
<p>“If we try that, we’ll push ourselves further out,” Tris says, “and it’ll take longer to re-enter synchronized orbit.”</p>
<p>“At a hundred feet we can get a pretty good look at it, though, right?” I say.</p>
<p>Tris nods. “I’d get a window seat now, because we’re about to zip by.”</p>
<p>We, of course, aren’t going to unbuckle and float over to the large window, so we all just fall into a confused silence and fix our attention to the small vessel that is fast approaching—or rather the one that we are fast approaching.</p>
<p>Could this really be alien? Are we the first humans to encounter other intelligent life? Finding microbes on Mars some fifty years ago was a little anticlimactic, especially at a time when humankind had finally started to pay consideration to our own dying world. Too little too late. But a spaceship? Maybe this crappy trip was worth it after all.</p>
<p>The alien vessel is now large enough in the viewfinder to study it a little better. Too damn close if you ask me, but hey, I’m just the shrink right?</p>
<p>Boz glances over her shoulder at Chau. The two of them don’t cross words, but exchange an unspoken question.</p>
<p>They’re right to be confused. What the hell <i>is</i> going on?</p>
<p>The ship, or pod, is roughly egg-shaped, and in the outer lights of the <i>Paralus</i> seems to be grey in color. No windows. Small rear thrusters. And an ITN insignia.</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” Boz says. “It’s an escape pod.”</p>
<p>“Did the last liner report a pod ejection?” Chau asks.</p>
<p>“Not to my knowledge,” Boz says. “Tris?”</p>
<p>The Texan shakes his head. “I got no record of that.”</p>
<p>“Those markings, they’re old,” I pipe up. “See the logo? Saturn is included now, since the expansion. This is pre-rebrand, done more than twenty years ago. Actually, that looks even older. Museum old.” That tidbit of information only serves to remind them who I am, how I’m here, and that they really don’t like me or my family. Shit.</p>
<p>“Chief,” Tris says. “We gotta see what’s over there. I can take a Scoop.”</p>
<p>Chau looks to Boz.</p>
<p>She just shrugs. “I have to swing her around Jupiter to get us into orbit. I can use the gravity to catapult us ’round and come up on the pod again. Give us time to gear up.”</p>
<p>Chau tents his fingertips. “How will that affect the grab?”</p>
<p>“Well, it’ll delay it,” Tris says, rubbing at his square jaw. “But Jupiter isn’t going anywhere.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you just say it moved?” My lips try to hang on to the last word as if I can suck back the regrettably snarky remark.</p>
<p>Tris pinches his lips together and gives a subtle shake of his head.</p>
<p>You’re right Tris; <i>shut up</i>, Sarah.</p>
<p>“Oh man, we best still be haulin’ when we return,” Boz says, and shoots me a look as if this whole thing is somehow my fault. “Only get paid if we have a load.”</p>
<p>Hauling back Helium is all anyone gives a shit about, because it means getting paid. Helium is this century’s gold rush. This is hilarious, given I’ve listened to enough company speeches to know that helium is the second most abundant element in the universe. The problem is, while God was handing out the element, He—or She or It—seemed to skip Earth. Our planet’s crust is probably not even in the parts per billion range. In the Earth’s atmosphere, it’s only 5.2 parts per million per volume. So, Jupiter is our reservoir, our lifeline. Still, the ITN has protocols for situations like this. The pod could pose a threat to continued mining. Though no idea what kind of threat, not my wheelhouse. “I think the ITN are gonna call this one,” I add. “Something like this will trump a helium grab. The AI has probably locked all systems anyway. We won’t get to do the job yet.”</p>
<p>Boz tuts again.</p>
<p>“You are correct, Dr. Dallas,” the AI says. “Current mission suspended until investigation completed.”</p>
<p>Chau tents his fingertips. “The faster we clear that pod, the faster we get back on mission.”</p>
<p>Everyone unbuckles and swims out of the only door in or out of the Bridge. Boz gives me a long, hard, disapproving stare, but Tris flashes a grin. Chau doesn’t even bother to acknowledge me. For him, a shrink has two jobs on these freighters: make sure the crew don’t lose their minds in deep space, and stay the hell out of the way.</p>
<p>So far, no-one’s lost their marbles, yet.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Dark Dweller</i> by Gareth Worthington. Copyright 2023 by Gareth Worthington. Reproduced with permission from Gareth Worthington. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/Gareth-vert.jpg" alt="Gareth Worthington" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="250" border="0" align="left"/></div>
<p>Gareth Worthington holds a degree in marine biology, a PhD in Endocrinology, an executive MBA, is Board Certified in Medical Affairs, and currently works for the Pharmaceutical industry educating the World's doctors on new cancer therapies. </p>
<p>Gareth is an authority in ancient history, has hand-tagged sharks in California, and trained in various martial arts, including Jeet Kune Do and Muay Thai at the EVOLVE MMA gym in Singapore and 2FIGHT Switzerland. </p>
<p>He is an award-winning author and member of the International Thriller Writers Association, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and the British Science Fiction Association. </p>
<p>Born in England, Gareth has lived around the world from Asia, to Europe to the USA. Wherever he goes, he endeavors to continue his philanthropic work with various charities.</p>
<p>Gareth is represented by Renee Fountain and Italia Gandolfo at Gandolfo Helin Fountain Literary, New York.</p>
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My Take: I didn't use to read t many Sci Fi books but recently I have been enjoying quite a few. This book was an interesting story. It was a little slow to begin but the last part was a whirlwind of action and adventure. For those of you who care the main character Sarah is gay although nothing was acted on other than to state she was gay. Also the ships doctor went by the pronouns they/them and it was never revealed if they were male or female which for me was bit like reading improper English but I got use to it by the end of the book. There was also more profanity than I personally like but it might not bother you. The story overall was ok and I was wondering how it was going to resolve itself. I felt for the young girl Kara who seems to be under the influence of an outside force that is bent on destroying the human race. I enjoyed this book and gave it a three stars out of five because the beginning was so slow.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime book tours and was not required to write a positive review, all opinions are my own.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-62799254288371693212023-10-18T06:00:00.004-04:002023-10-18T06:00:00.146-04:00The Lost Boys of Barlow Theater by Jaime Jo Wright<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater</h2>
<h3>by Jaime Jo Wright</h3>
<h4>October 9 - 20, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/qjjfR684gzz8-The-Lost-Boys-of-Barlowe-Theater-Cover.jpg" alt="The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater by Jaime Jo Wright" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="309" border="0"></div>
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<h4>It promises beauty but steals life instead. Will the ghosts of Barlowe Theater entomb them all?</h4>
<p>Barlowe Theater stole the life of Greta Mercy's eldest brother during its construction. Now in 1915, the completed theater appears every bit as deadly. When Greta's younger brother goes missing after breaking into the building, Greta engages the assistance of a local police officer to help her unveil the already ghostly secrets of the theater. But when help comes from an unlikely source, Greta decides that to save her family she must uncover the evil that haunts the theater and put its threat to rest.</p>
<p>Decades later, Kit Boyd's best friend vanishes during a ghost walk at the Barlowe Theater, and old stories of mysterious disappearances and ghoulish happenings are revived. Then television ghost-hunting host and skeptic Evan Fisher joins Kit in the quest to identify the truth behind the theater's history. Kit reluctantly agrees to work with him in hopes of finding her missing friend. As the theater's curse unravels Kit's life, she is determined to put an end to the evil that has marked the theater and their hometown for the last century.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater</i>:</h3>
<p>"Jaime Jo Wright takes readers on a journey that leaves them with a renewed sense of hope... Read this story. You won't be sorry." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Lynette Eason, bestselling, award-winning author of the Extreme Measures series</span></p>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Romantic Suspense, Christian, Historical<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Bethany House Publishers<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> October 2023<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 384<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 9780764241444<br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3rXtOE6" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3qglG0Y" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QmKi2V" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3OJLegC" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45dLLN1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ChristianBook</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45BsLrV" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Baker Book House</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<h2>Greta Mercy</h2>
<h6>OCTOBER 1915<br />
KIPPER’S GROVE, WISCONSIN</h6>
<p>Sometimes death came quietly. A phantom swooping in and siphoning the last remnant of a soul from one’s body, leaving behind a shell of a person who once was and would never be again. Other times, death decided that dramatics coupled with terror were its preferred method of delivery. Tonight, that was the chosen form death took.</p>
<p>Screams echoed throughout the theater’s golden, embellished auditorium and drifted upward to the domed, hand-painted ceiling, where Putti flew as angelic, childlike spirits over the mass of onlookers.</p>
<p>A shoulder rammed into Greta’s arm as a husky man, far too large for the narrow seats, pushed his way past her toward the center aisle.</p>
<p>“Let me pass!” he barked. Urgency spurred him forward. “I’m a doctor, let me pass!”</p>
<p>The vaudeville lights on either side of the stage boasted letters <i>a</i> through <i>g</i>, with the <i>g</i> lit and distinct over the other letters.</p>
<p>“I’m letter <i>g</i>!” The doctor shouted while those in front of him jostled to the side or hurried ahead to move out of his way. Doctors were assigned specific letters from the vaudeville lights, and if they were lit, a doctor was needed—either at home, on call, or in the vicinity.</p>
<p>The vicinity was here. It was now.</p>
<p>Onlookers continued to gasp and protest. Women in beautiful silks and satins hurried to the back to find respite in the upstairs ladies’ room. Men in evening wear catapulted over seats and to the floor on the far left of the auditorium.</p>
<p>Greta was frozen in place, her seat having flipped up against its back so she could move. But her eyes were fixed with horror on the scene unfolding. They lifted to one of the box seats above the floor, where men, including the doctor, were congregating en masse. The gilded box was a flurry of activity. A man embraced a woman, who fought and clawed at his hold. Her screams had many onlookers staring at her, including the performer in her violet gown and befeathered hair. Moments before, her vocals had swirled around them all in a cadence of beauty and refined music. Now, her mouth was open, her face pale, her entire pose aghast. She had captured an enthralled audience, all whose gazes toward the stage had kept them from seeing what Greta had seen. Greta, who shouldn’t have been here to begin with. She didn’t belong with the pomp and circumstance, the heady scent of perfume and cologne, which made her mind thick and her eyes wander. They’d wandered to the box seat, and she’d witnessed what no one else had. The white hands stretching, reaching over the side,<br />
dangling . . .</p>
<p>“It was a <i>child</i>!” The horrified cry slipped for the third time from Greta’s lips. She could hear herself screaming and was unable to stop. Her screams had ripped through the performance as the child in a white nightdress plummeted into the shadows of the floor’s obscure corner.</p>
<p>The woman in the box seat had been pulled from view, its red velvet curtain shut swiftly.</p>
<p>“It was a baby!” Greta rasped out as horror strangled her.</p>
<p>“Greta. It’s all right.” The reassuring voice of her friend, Eleanor Boyd, as well as the comforting grip on Greta’s arm finally stilled her.</p>
<p>Greta focused again on her friend—her wealthy friend who should not be her friend at all.</p>
<p>Eleanor’s blue eyes were round with fear that must mirror Greta’s own. Her blond curls swept upward and were twisted with pearls. Her dress was a baby-blue silk. Any other moment, Greta would have soaked in the awe that tonight she, Greta Boyd, who could barely keep her family fed and clothed, was sitting among the elite, pretending to be one of them. But now? It hardly mattered. The borrowed corset that tucked in her waistline, the aged but wearable pink dress she had borrowed from Eleanor, and even the gloves she wore on her dry, cracked hands—none of them mattered now.</p>
<p>“What happened? What did you see?” Eleanor clutched at Greta’s arm.</p>
<p>Greta couldn’t reply. The sheer magnitude of the moment, the honor of being in the audience of the Barlowe Theater had been overwhelming . . . until she’d seen it. The <i>baby</i> launched over the side of the box seat. Like a cherub from the mural above, it had taken flight before it disappeared.</p>
<p>Greta’s knees gave out, and she fell to where her seat should have been had it not folded in on itself. Her hip struck the polished wood arm.</p>
<p>“Greta!” Eleanor reached for her.</p>
<p>Greta felt Eleanor’s brother on her other side, grabbing for her waist to give her support. But it was too late. She had collapsed to the narrow walkway between the seats. Her knees hit the carpeted floor.</p>
<p>Was she the only person who had seen death’s swift visitation tonight? The only one who had witnessed its evil intent as it ripped the babe forcefully from its mother’s arms?</p>
<p>It wouldn’t survive. It could not. The fall was too far, too great.</p>
<p>Death had decided to match the theater’s reputation for drama and awe. Greta couldn’t tear her gaze from where she’d seen the small form disappear on its way to its resting place on the floor of the Barlowe Theater.</p>
<p>The babe had slipped. No, it had been <i>tossed</i>. Its mother’s screams still echoed from the hallway beyond the curtain. Those in the crowd cried “Accident,” “Traumatic mishap,” and other such things. But Greta knew differently. She had known before she came tonight, and she should have stayed away.</p>
<p>Barlowe Theater was not a place that brought joy and entertainment, as was its supposed purpose. No, it had already taken lives in the construction of it, tortured the ones who dared stand in its way, and now it was hunting those innocents who had happened into the shadows of its deadly interior. The theater was cursed.</p>
<h2>Kit Boyd</h2>
<h6>OCTOBER, PRESENT DAY<br />
KIPPER’S GROVE, WISCONSIN</h6>
<p>Death stuck with a place. Once the blood had seeped into the carpet, the flooring, the walls, it stayed there, long after the stains were removed. They were the testament to lives robbed of their rightful journey through time. Cut short. Obliterated. B<p>Barlowe Theater was not a place that brought joy and entertainment, as was its supposed purpose. No, it had already taken lives in the construction of it, tortured the ones who dared stand in its way, and now it was hunting those innocents who had happened into the shadows of its deadly interior. The theater was cursed.</p>
<h2>Kit Boyd</h2>
<h6>OCTOBER, PRESENT DAY<br />
KIPPER’S GROVE, WISCONSIN</h6>ludgeoned into nonexistence. Smothered by the grave, burrowed into by the worms—</p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>Fingers snapped in front of Kit Boyd’s face, and she startled out of her staring into the dark, narrow stairwell that led beneath the stage of the Barlowe Theater.</p>
<p>“Get with it, bruh.” The fingers snapped again. Kit looked up at the taller man beside her. He was overweight and smelled like pizza, but he had a nice face. His name was Tom, they’d told her, the crew from the TV show <i>Psychic and the Skeptic</i>.</p>
<p>“Sorry.” Kit offered him a wince. She’d paused on the first concrete step while her best friend, Madison, the psychic medium, Heather Grant, and the skeptic investigator, Evan Fischer, disappeared into the bowels of the theater. Tom the cameraman was held back by her hesitation. She gave him a warning look, though the theater’s darkness in the midnight atmosphere probably hid most of her expression. “You <i>do</i> know people died here . . . have disappeared here.”</p>
<p>“That’s the point.” Tom waved her forward, the camera on his shoulder blinking a red light. “But I need to catch them on film if I can, and you’re in my way.”</p>
<p>Fabulous. She was on camera. That would probably make the show too. Kit Boyd, the quirky sidekick to Madison Farrington, the historical activist, the beauty, the granddaughter of the town’s ambitious CEO of all things expansion, modern, and money-making.</p>
<p>“Hello?” There was definite irritation in Tom’s voice.</p>
<p>“I’m <i>going</i>! I’m going.” Kit hurried down the steps. She’d taken them many times before. Anyone who was native to Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin, had grown up in the Barlowe Theater at one point or another. Dancers had tapped and glided across its stage in recitals, high school glee clubs with dreams of Broadway had warbled off-key through its hall, and the local theater guild had put on such plays as <i>Arsenic and Old Lace</i> and <i>The Music Man</i>. Kit hadn’t been in any of those. Instead, she was the one backstage handing bottles of water to the performers, smiling and cracking jokes to encourage the stage-frozen little six-year-old dressed in a yellow tutu with glitter on her cheeks.</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>c’mon</i>!” Tom hissed, his irritation past the point of being hidden. How he’d gotten behind her anyway was a faux pas for filming. He was supposed to stick close to the stars of the show, Heather and Evan. And boy, did those two get along famously—<i>not</i>.</p>
<p>“Whew!” Kit wheezed under her breath, not caring if Tom heard. “I’d try to avoid those two if you could.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, I have a job to do.” Tom squeezed past Kit as she hugged the cement-block wall at the bottom of the stairs to let him through. He elbowed her arm and didn’t bother to apologize. He probably felt as if she owed him that luxury. The luxury of being annoyed.</p>
<p>Okay, fine. She did.</p>
<p>If she was being honest, Kit wasn’t a fan of the Barlowe Theater past dark. Which was the cliché of all theaters built just after the turn of the century. It was dark. Haunted. The place was like a tomb. Crank up some vaudeville music and the place became a literal haunted house of horrors for Halloween. And Kit hated Halloween. The darkness, the Gothic look and feel, Halloween was for morbid people who thought Edgar Allan Poe was romantic in his mystery and lore instead of macabre and bleak. Hadn’t he died questionably? She’d heard a podcast once that claimed the poet might have been murdered, contrary to the popular belief that his death had been the result of some fatal malady undiagnosed.</p>
<p>Kit shook her head to clear her thoughts. Mom said cobwebs couldn’t possibly gather in her head because she had too many ideas. Mom was right. Kit would never be accused of having an underactive imagination.</p>
<p>A finger jabbed into the back of her shoulder.</p>
<p>“Stop it!” Kit spun to glare at the offender.</p>
<p>No one was there.</p>
<p>Her skin began crawling. “Gahhhhhh!” She waved her hands wildly at the unseen ghost finger. Probably her imagination, but whatever. She had let Madison sucker her into a ghost hunt for the popular ghost-hunting television show. This was her penance? Getting poked by an elusive spirit?</p>
<p>“Sorry, God.” Kit mumbled an apology to the Almighty, who was probably rolling His eyes at their attempts to mess with the spirit world. But this was Madison. She believed <i>anything</i> was possible. Kit had been raised to believe that this type of <i>anything</i> was probably demonic. There had to be a middle ground. Hadn’t there?</p>
<p>Kit hurried around the corner, stubbing her toe on a bolt that rose half an inch up from the floor. Dampness and time had warped the theater’s floor, making it uneven. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her bare toe. Flip-flops on a ghost hunt. Bad idea.</p>
<p>She looked around—well, as best as she could. The basement was dark, as were the dressing rooms to her right, sized like prison cells. The short hall to her left leading directly below the stage was also dark.</p>
<p>“Hello, darkness,” Kit crooned quietly, craning her neck to peer ahead. “Hello?” she tried again, this time louder.</p>
<p>No answer.</p>
<p>“Seriously, someone?” Kit was beginning to share Tom the cameraman’s annoyance now. Two argumentative television stars, her best friend, and a cameraman didn’t just vanish within minutes. The basement wasn’t <i>that</i> huge.</p>
<p>But it was Barlowe Theater.</p>
<p>“<i>Tom?</i>” Kit hissed, daring a few steps into the dank blackness. “Madison?”</p>
<p>Again, no one answered. The only light was a flickering bulb that had to be a wattage short of worth having at all. It buzzed too. Of course it did. If this stunt was for show<br />
dramatics . . .</p>
<p>“Madison!” Kit shouted. In the ten years since they’d graduated high school, she had followed this woman around. She was owed some loyalty in return. “If this is for ratings, it’s unkind of you!” Kit yelled. Her words echoed back at her.</p>
<p>“Madis—”</p>
<p>Light slammed into her face, blinding Kit. She raised her hands as the flashlight’s beam collided with her eyes.</p>
<p>“They’re gone!” It was Tom.</p>
<p>Kit could see the whites of his eyes just beyond the flashlight he swung around wildly.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Kit tried to take captive Tom’s arm as he flooded the hallway with the light, then a dressing room, then the ceiling. His camera wasn’t on his shoulder.</p>
<p>He wasn’t filming.</p>
<p>Kit’s throat tightened. Okay, that wasn’t a good sign. “Where’s Madison?”</p>
<p>Tom swung the light back in Kit’s face. “Where’s Evan? Where’s Heather? Where’s my <i>team</i>?” His voice shook with undisguised concern, turning fast into panic. “How big is this place?”</p>
<p>“Not <i>that</i> big.” Kit pushed past him. Concerned now. This had gone too far. Madison and her harebrained schemes to keep her own grandfather from ruining the historic downtown. Make it famous, she said. Put it on TV, she said. Make viewers defend Kipper’s Grove, she said. “Madison!” Kit shouted, anxiousness seeping into her voice. “Stop this! It’s not funny!”</p>
<p>Tom’s light bounced on the floor in front of them as Kit spun around and marched back toward him. She shoved past his husky chest and down the short passage to the door leading under the stage. Her fingers curled around the doorknob, its old mechanics making it wobbly beneath her grip.</p>
<p>Kit jerked it open.</p>
<p>She fell back with a shriek, colliding with Tom, who had come way too close behind her.</p>
<p>Heather, the medium from the show, stood stock-still facing them. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her skin white in the flashlight’s glow.</p>
<p>“She’s gone.” Heather’s monotone voice filtered through the passage.</p>
<p>Kit words were stolen from her as her stomach dropped.</p>
<p>“Who’s gone?” Tom demanded.</p>
<p>“Madison.” Evan Fischer, the cohost, the skeptic, and the all-around grumpy hero of the show strode past his partner. Heather’s expression didn’t waver as her eyes remained fixated on . . . whatever she was staring at in the spirit world beyond. “Madison’s gone.”</p>
<p>Evan left less than a few inches between his face and Kit’s as he bent his six-foot frame down to meet her five-foot-four one. “Where is she?”</p>
<p>“I don’t kn—”</p>
<p>“Where. Is. She?” He cut off Kit’s answer as unsatisfactory.</p>
<p>Her breaths came shorter, faster. She could feel Tom behind her. She was sandwiched between him and Evan, with Heather staring into the great abyss.</p>
<p>“I told you. I don’t know.” Kit heard the quaver in her voice. She shoved her trembling hands into her pockets.</p>
<p>“She’s gone.” Evan slapped the wall, glaring at Tom, who was speechless. “Is this a scam? A stunt?”</p>
<p>Kit couldn’t answer. Of course, the show would think it was a ploy by Madison. A publicity ploy. But it went deeper than that. Far deeper. Kit sagged against the wall, the air not reaching her lungs as it should.</p>
<p>She prayed then. Prayed that Madison really was messing with them. That she had simply gone too far ahead beneath the stage and left them behind.</p>
<p>But the theater was hungry, and everyone in Kipper’s Grove knew it was only a matter of time before this hunger added to the stories of death and spirits. That’s how the theater was, after all. Drama. Suspense. And the unearthly way that such things drifted through its rafters.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater</i> by Jaime Jo Wright. Copyright 2023 by Jaime Sundsmo. Reproduced with permission from Baker Publishing Group. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/eZLoPif3PDHl-Wright_Jaime-Jo-scaled.jpg" alt="Jaime Jo Wright" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="300" border="0" align="left"></div>
<p>Jaime Jo Wright is the author of nine novels, including Christy Award and Daphne du Maurier Award winner <em>The House on Foster Hill</em> and Carol Award winner <em>The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond</em>. She's also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime lives in Wisconsin with her cat named Foo; her husband, Cap'n Hook; and their two mini-adults, Peter Pan and CoCo.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Our Author:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/45xMKbh" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">jaimewrightbooks.com</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/44Sgj7b" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/47l3eoM" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookBub - @JaimeJoWright</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3QrIvcO" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Instagram - @JaimeJoWright</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3OJO44U" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Twitter - @JaimeJoWright</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3DFUgVo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - @JaimeJoWright</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3qbBXo7" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">TikTok - @JaimeJoWright</a></h3>
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<h2>Tour Participants:</h2>
<p>Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway! <script src="https://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=311585" type="text/javascript"></script></p>
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<h2>JOIN IN ON THE GIVEAWAY:</h2>
<h5>This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Jaime Jo Wright and Bethany House Publishers. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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My Take: This is the first time I have read anything by Jaime Jo Wright but I have only heard good things so I wanted to give her a shot. This is a dual timeline and it was pretty evenly keeled. I liked the current timeline better but that is usually how I like the timelines lately. Both of the timelines were good at bringing the story ahead. The later timeline involved a family group that consisted of an older sister and her younger sibling brothers. She saw something when she went to the theater with friends and she was told she was mistaken. Her brother that was the next one after her went to the theater to try and prove she was right. That is were the lost boys in the title comes from. The newer timeline consist of Kit trying to find out find out what happened to her friend Madison after she vanishes. I found the story very interesting and I will be searching out other books by Jaime Jo Wright.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime tours and was not required to write a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-12949754973803533372023-10-14T07:00:00.001-04:002023-10-14T07:00:00.147-04:00The Jade Labyrinth by Alana Mackenzie<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7J0PDKdcPFJJM8G3Qh2oQB-UHWu-nSk_0Km-JT58X37N0ymSA8O4h6ptzJvCwY0zozY1DnQsAcnfewFY7HlB7KUyMjOEbuPMO7WWBSowYxMBJS-eqC4EQySz51ocT68yv8RrIrjr2iOAEl8NA1W9Ny350_lm_Xc0GVWn_Vc6WTHpluyTgqRWnga7fEOO-/s473/179946013.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7J0PDKdcPFJJM8G3Qh2oQB-UHWu-nSk_0Km-JT58X37N0ymSA8O4h6ptzJvCwY0zozY1DnQsAcnfewFY7HlB7KUyMjOEbuPMO7WWBSowYxMBJS-eqC4EQySz51ocT68yv8RrIrjr2iOAEl8NA1W9Ny350_lm_Xc0GVWn_Vc6WTHpluyTgqRWnga7fEOO-/s320/179946013.jpg"/></a></div>
This is my post during the blog tour for The Jade Labyrinth by Alanna Mackenzie . In The
Jade Labyrinth a young rebel leader undertakes a perilous mission to reprogram the artificially
intelligent rulers of a colonial empire, traversing through hostile landscapes and braving
grueling mental and physical challenges.
This blog tour is organized by Lola's Blog Tours and the tour runs from 2 till 15 October. You
can see the tour schedule here: http://www.lolasblogtours.net/ b log-tour-the-jade-labyrinth-by- alanna-mackenzie
The Jade Labyrinth (The Jade Chronicles #3)
By Alanna Mackenzie
Genre: Science Fiction/ Fantasy
Age category: Young Adult
Release Date: 12 September, 2023
Blurb:
A meeting. A maze. A perilous journey back to an Empire on the edge of chaos.
Walter Saltanetska, leader of the Jade Rebellion, is nearly ready to return to the heart of the
AI-ruled Empire that has branded him a treasonous fugitive. His mandate is clear: to
reprogram the AI Masters before their earth-destroying habits spiral out of control.
First, he must brave gruelling training in a land fraught with danger—rugged mountains
haunted by spirits, a parched desert patrolled by watchful drones, and a labyrinthine cave
guarded by armed robots. As his physical, mental, and magical abilities are tested by
harrowing encounters, Walter must work to resist forces that threaten to destabilize his
mission.
The biggest threat he faces is not one he encounters along the course of his journey, but one
that originates within him. Walter returns to the Empire’s capital in a mind-altering disguise
that proves to be a double-edged sword. Drawing him closer to a soul mate who rekindles his
admiration for the AI Masters, it also distances Walter from the human emotions that sparked
his desire to join the Rebellion. In his final showdown with the AI Masters, Walter must keep
his mind under control, or risk jeopardizing the mission that he and his allies are counting on
to reverse a looming tidal wave of destruction.
The thrilling third installment in The Jade Chronicles, The Jade Labyrinth weaves dystopian
science-fiction with high fantasy while exploring an essential subject: the perils and promise
of artificial intelligence.
Links:
- Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/179946013-the-jade-labyrinth-by-
alanna-mackenzie
- Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CCNCSRHG
- Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1143904657?
ean=2940185922385
Earlier books in the series:
The Jade Rebellion:
https://www.amazon.com/Jade-Rebellion-Alanna-Mackenzie-ebook/dp/B07CBSTP9L
The Jade Talisman:
https://www.amazon.com/Jade-Talisman-Chronicles-Book-ebook/dp/B08XQWFXQ4/
About the Author:
Alanna Mackenzie lives in Vancouver, Canada. She holds degrees in History, French studies,
and Law from the University of British Columbia. An environmentalist at heart, she believes
in using the law as a tool for social and environmental change. When she is not pursuing that
passion, she can be found brainstorming the next chapter in her novels, playing Irish fiddle
tunes on the violin, and hiking West Coast trails.
Author links:
- Website: http://alannamackenzie.com/
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/willowpublish
- Twitter: https://twitter.com/willowpublish
- Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17988562.Alanna_Mackenzie
- Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Alanna-Mackenzie/e/B07CK623CY
Giveaway
There is a tour wide giveaway for the blog tour of The Jade Labyrinth. One winner wins
copies of the following three books: The Jade Rebellion, The Jade Talisman and The Jade
Labyrinth.
For a chance to win, enter the rafflecopter below:
<a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/1000e4f1431/"
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<script src="https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script>detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-44635272657308653972023-10-14T06:30:00.002-04:002023-10-14T06:30:00.154-04:00The Jade Talisman by Alanna Mackenzie<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDK9ZHrems32DZa1SAJWSnOvURyKTc4895zzrUHBwpghwAooIaPTGvi7radiZivDdiS5VLTujoiL2Xhj8HhstezS82_UW8xuAsUEuQCl3Ot3bXG_q-b7L7p7Cc47bL5HTaZiPwEwS6bXDiTtzVVHHojqbAr-Z5aKfugluMTnMaKgPl7ZYwqIaNMh0faVNb/s1360/57099618.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="907" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDK9ZHrems32DZa1SAJWSnOvURyKTc4895zzrUHBwpghwAooIaPTGvi7radiZivDdiS5VLTujoiL2Xhj8HhstezS82_UW8xuAsUEuQCl3Ot3bXG_q-b7L7p7Cc47bL5HTaZiPwEwS6bXDiTtzVVHHojqbAr-Z5aKfugluMTnMaKgPl7ZYwqIaNMh0faVNb/s320/57099618.jpg"/></a></div>
A talisman. A song. A gift that bends time, and alters the course of destiny itself.
It is the year 2762 in the Empire of Khalendar, and AI Masters rule the civilized world, striving to crush all dissent. But they have not yet managed to quell the Jade Rebellion or its leader, Walter Saltanetska. The rebels have sailed beyond the Empire’s borders to the infamous isle of Vei’arash. Their mission is to find animal spirits exiled long ago by the AI Masters, and return them to the mainland. With any luck, the spirits will strengthen the fading magical powers of their allies, the Western Mages, and join the battle against their oppressive rulers.
As the rebels plunge deeper into the jungle, physical laws are upended. The plants and animals of the rainforest are inextricably linked to divine beings. An ancient shaman-god entrusts Walter with the Jade Talisman, an enchanted gemstone that warps the basic rules of time and space.
The Talisman allows Walter to gaze into a mesmerizing labyrinth of future possibilities. But the visions it offers up are troublingly dark, giving Walter insight into the potential fates of himself and his loved ones. This gift proves to be a crushing burden, and Walter desperately longs for an ordinary life. But there is no going back…
The gripping sequel to The Jade Rebellion, The Jade Talisman explores whether nature and spirituality are capable of persevering in a world dominated by the cold logic of artificial intelligence.
My Take: This book is a great followup to the first book and it follows Walter as he tries to save nature from the AI Masters. It is very up close and personal this time and you feel like you are with Walter as he goes about his business of meeting the elders in the small villages. this series is a wake up call to us about what could happen if we aren't vigilant with AI.
I received a review copy from Lola's Book tours and was not required to write a psotive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-39449587363495740812023-10-14T06:00:00.002-04:002023-10-14T06:00:00.163-04:00The Jade Rebellion by Alanna Mackenzie<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzV1tnDOchJzukTncchAN_NNFjW2hWjGS2BVl7Carfe8v9KIF9rSrz3nOdUvIzB11pAB7GqVQ9kTbwAvwqZ3Nizw7pC4-6tCFwpJ1hvtq5SGPGLVepmpD6QxS2P3z7fkrbiPXXIYEdGX3mkwIalo8xB7dAOP0j0-EGX3kUd8ADz5IcGQy7JJW3LxjJC-1/s500/39986058.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzV1tnDOchJzukTncchAN_NNFjW2hWjGS2BVl7Carfe8v9KIF9rSrz3nOdUvIzB11pAB7GqVQ9kTbwAvwqZ3Nizw7pC4-6tCFwpJ1hvtq5SGPGLVepmpD6QxS2P3z7fkrbiPXXIYEdGX3mkwIalo8xB7dAOP0j0-EGX3kUd8ADz5IcGQy7JJW3LxjJC-1/s320/39986058.jpg"/></a></div>
A reckoning. A rebellion. The worlds of artificial intelligence and ancient magic collide.
Crystal City glistens with diamonds, but its dazzling beauty comes at a deadly price. The capital of Khalendar thrives on a steady supply of gemstones from the neighboring Barrens, a colony of the Empire. Walter Saltanetska translates AI code for the Khalendar government, helping to breathe life into the ambitious vision of the AI Masters. When Walter discovers a terrible secret which could destroy the life of his lover, Elaine, he decides to tell her despite strict orders to keep what he translates confidential. What begins as a catastrophe eventually grows into a rebellion. Elaine is taken captive by the AI Masters, and Walter must do everything in his power to rescue her. He starts his quest with a single goal in mind, finding Elaine, but along the way Walter discovers that saving her is only a small part of his destiny. During his travels, he encounters a long-lost relative, a warrior matriarch, and a mystical kingdom forgotten to time. Yet Walter's true journey occurs not in physical space, but the captivating depths of his mind.
An inventive blend of dystopian science-fiction and fantasy, the Jade Rebellion explores whether we can overcome technological determinism by preserving history, nature, spirituality, and ultimately, our humanity.
My Take: If you like AI in your science fiction then this is the series for you. There is love and rebellion and unkderhanded apy stuff going on and I am here for all of it. This is a dystopian take on the future and with all the talk about AI lately I don't see it as being very far into the future. I would recommend ready the whole series as it helps paint a picture.
I received a review copy of this book and the other two books from Lola's Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-49662218302377514062023-09-27T06:00:00.001-04:002023-09-27T06:00:00.156-04:00Facing The Enemy by Diann Mills<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/facing-the-enemy-by-diann-mills/" title="Facing The Enemy by DiAnn Mills"><img class="aligncenter size-full" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/facing-the-enemy-by-diann-mills-banner-.png" alt="Facing The Enemy by DiAnn Mills Banner" width="600" height="338"></a></h2>
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<h2>Facing The Enemy</h2>
<h3>by DiAnn Mills</h3>
<h4>September 4 - 29, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/Facing-the-Enemy_final-300.jpeg" alt="Facing The Enemy by DiAnn Mills" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="207" height="300" border="0"></div>
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<h4>For the past five years, FBI Special Agent Risa Jacobs has worked in the violent crimes against children division of the Houston FBI. She’s never had reason to believe there’s a target on her back . . . until now.</h4>
<p>When the long-awaited reunion between Risa and her brother, Trenton, ends in tragedy, Risa is riddled with guilt, unable to cope with the responsibility she feels over his death. On leave from the FBI, Risa returns to her former career as an English teacher at a local college, only to see her past and present collide when one of her students, Carson Mercury, turns in an assignment that reads like an eyewitness account of her brother’s murder, with details never revealed publicly.</p>
<p>Alarmed by Carson’s inside knowledge of Trenton’s death, Risa reaches out to her former partner at the FBI. Special Agent Gage Patterson has been working a string of baby kidnappings, but he agrees to help look into Carson’s background. Risa and Gage soon discover their cases might be connected as a string of high-value thefts have occurred at properties where security systems were installed by Carson’s stepfather and children have gone missing. There’s a far more sinister plot at play than they ever imagined, and innocent lives are in danger.</p>
<h5>DiAnn Mills delivers romantic suspense fans a heart-pounding thriller about loss, betrayal, and finding the strength to trust again!</h5>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Facing The Enemy</i>:</h3>
<p>"Riveting! In her signature style, Diann Mills expertly weaves a gripping tale of ever-increasing danger. Captivating, authentic characters along with surprising twists and turns drew me deeper into this engrossing thriller and kept me on the edge of my seat until the last page. I still can’t stop thinking about it!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Elizabeth Goddard, bestselling author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/cold-light-of-day-by-elizabeth-goddard/">COLD LIGHT OF DAY</a></em></span></p>
<p>"I’m a longtime reader of suspense thrillers, but DiAnn Mills’ latest, <i>FACING THE ENEMY</i>, made me gasp with surprise. The issues involved in the story—adoption and the families who long to love children—are close to my heart, and that emotional connection held me by the heartstrings. Not to be missed! " <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Angela Hunt, author of <em>WHAT A WAVE MUST BE</em></span></p>
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<h3><i>Facing The Enemy</i> Trailer:</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ScxYLhOWLZU" title="YouTube video player" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" width="560" height="315" frameborder="0"></iframe></div>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Romantic Suspense<br />
<b>Published by:</b> Tyndale House Publishers<br />
<b>Publication Date:</b> September 2023<br />
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 352<br />
<b>ISBN:</b> 9781496451941 (ISBN10: 1496451945)<br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/46mwcUN" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/432VJzl" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Nzi9CI" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/433U50f" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3PBgAqz" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ChristianBook</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<h6>Houston, Texas<br />
July 29<br />
Risa</h6>
<p>Twelve years ago, my younger brother fell into an abyss of drugs and alcohol. He chose his addictions over Mom and Dad—and me. Prayers for healing fell flat, but none of us gave up, proving our belief in unconditional love. Then yesterday he called, and my hopes skyrocketed. Trenton said he missed me and wanted to make amends with his family, beginning with his older sis. We chose to meet at a popular restaurant for a late dinner within walking distance of my apartment.</p>
<p>A knock on my cubicle jolted me back to reality. Gage, my work partner, towered in the entryway and grinned. “Hey, what’s going on?” </p>
<p>The sound of his voice caused me to tingle to my toes. “Thinking.”</p>
<p>“Obviously, you were a million miles away.” His blue-gray eyes bore into mine, the intensity nearly distracting me.</p>
<p>I leaned back in my comfy, ergonomic chair. “My brother called.”</p>
<p>“Trenton? The guy you haven’t seen in years?”</p>
<p>“The same.”</p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“He wants to meet tonight for dinner, to talk about making amends.”</p>
<p>Gage shook his head. “Risa, he has a record a mile long. He’s planning on manipulating you, squeezing every penny he can get.”</p>
<p>I picked up an old photo of Trenton and me as kids. Dad had snapped it while we were in our tree house. I swiped at a piece of dust, then replaced it beside my photo of Mom and Dad. “I must give him a chance. He’s my brother.”</p>
<p>“What if he’s gotten himself in over his head and needs his FBI agent sis to bail him out?”</p>
<p>I bit into my lower lip. Gage’s words had a level of truth, even if I didn’t want to admit it. “I want to hear him out.”</p>
<p>Gage stepped closer. “I don’t want to see you hurt. Remember three years ago when he called you from a bar demanding money, cursed you until you hung up?” The soft gentleness in his whispered tone said more than friend to friend. “Think about canceling the dinner or let me go with you.”</p>
<p>Emotion rose thick in my throat. “You mean well, and I—” Catching myself, I nearly said <i>love</i>. “I appreciate your concern. But I’ll be fine. Want me to call you afterward?”</p>
<p>He nodded. “I can run by if you need to talk.”</p>
<p>I peered into the face of the man I adored. “I will. Promise.”</p>
<p>#</p>
<p>I arrived early at the restaurant to meet Trenton, anticipating his contagious smile perfected by an overpaid orthodontist. The phone attempted to keep my attention, but my mind swirled with how I wanted tonight to move forward against the reality of what had happened in the past.</p>
<p>The host approached me. Trenton walked behind him, towering several inches above the short man. I held my breath and stood, not feeling my legs, only my pulse speeding at the sight of my brother. </p>
<p>Trenton chuckled low, the familiar, dazzling, heart-crunching expression that had always touched me with sibling love. Clear brown eyes captured mine. Gone were the dilated pupils and bone-thin body. My brother held out his buff arms, and I rushed into them.</p>
<p>“Risa, you look amazing,” he whispered. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”</p>
<p>“Nothing could have kept me away.” I stepped back, noting the miracle before me. Telling Mom and Dad wasn’t a part of tonight’s plan, but I wished they were here. We’d all be blubbering. I swiped at a tear and feared a humiliating sob would replace my already-fragile composure. “I want to remember this moment forever.” <i>Please stay strong this time.</i></p>
<p>“Me too, Sis.” He gestured to the booth. “Sit, and let’s talk and eat.”</p>
<p>I slid in and he took the opposite side of the table. A server presented us with menus and asked for our drink order.</p>
<p>“We’ll have two Dr Peppers,” Trenton said. </p>
<p>He remembered my favorite drink. No mention of alcohol. I breathed in deeply to steady myself. I wanted our reunion to be special, not me a weeping mess. “I’ve missed you.” </p>
<p>Trenton cocked his head, and the mischievous brother from days gone by appeared. “I’ve been clean for four months. Working steady and enrolled in night school for the next college term.” He took my hands, and his features grew serious. “But before I say another word, I’m sorry. I promise you, I’ll never hurt you, Mom, or Dad again. Please forgive me for the mess I made of my life and dragging my family through the stench of it.”</p>
<p>I’d heard this before, from his teen years into his twenties. Dare I believe our prayers had been answered? “I forgave you years ago. All we ever wanted for you is a healthy body and mind.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Sis. I know you’ve heard this ‘I’m sorry’ junk before, but I’m well on my way.”</p>
<p>His words warmed me like a quilt on a chilly night. “I can see it, feel it. Why tell me first instead of Mom and Dad?”</p>
<p>“Great times with you growing up that never left me.”</p>
<p>Memories rushed over me . . . The time we went camping by ourselves and it snowed. Birthdays. Christmases. All the treasured times I believed had vanished into the chasm of addiction. </p>
<p>The server returned with our drinks, and Trenton released my hands. </p>
<p>“Have you decided on your order?” the server said.</p>
<p>Neither of us had picked up our menus, but I often frequented the restaurant and ordered a vegan dish. Trenton opted for their pork chop and fixings. </p>
<p>“And I’ll take the bill.” He pointed at me. “No arguments.”</p>
<p>“My treat when we have dinner again.” </p>
<p>“Got it.” </p>
<p>“You were about to tell me something about us.”</p>
<p>He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Two things stand out. The first one happened when I was four, so that made you ten. You were watching me trying to climb an oak tree in the back yard. I was crying because my short legs couldn’t swing high enough. Then I felt your hand on my shoulder. You boosted me up onto the branch. Climbed up with me. No long after that, Dad built us a tree house.”</p>
<p>“I loved that tree house. You had your space and I had mine.”</p>
<p>“What I’ll always remember is what you said to me. ‘Trenton, I’m your big sis. I’ll always help you. I promise.’”</p>
<p>I blinked back the ocean of hopeful tears. “Thanks. I remember our times in the tree house, our private little world.”</p>
<p>“One more reason I contacted you. I was six and you were twelve. For three summers, Mom and Dad put me in swimming lessons, but I couldn’t put my head underwater. Not sure why. You convinced Mom and Dad that you could teach me how to swim. So every day we went to the neighborhood pool, and at the end of two weeks, I was swimming. I trusted you.”</p>
<p>I took a deep breath. <i>Be aware of manipulation, Risa.</i> “Thanks.” I raised a finger. “I remember being a high school junior and this jerk of a guy followed me home. Wouldn’t leave me alone. You punched him in the nose.”</p>
<p>Trenton laughed. “My voice hadn’t changed yet, but I wasn’t going to let him bother you.”</p>
<p>“That’s love, Brother.” <i>Oh, Trenton, let this be for keeps. I’m afraid to believe the nightmare is over.</i></p>
<p>“And we’ll make many more crazy times together. Do you have plans for Saturday morning? I volunteer at a community center for kids at risk. We have a mixed basketball team, and I could use some help with the girls.” </p>
<p>I shivered. What a blessing to have my brother back. “All I need is a time and place.”</p>
<p>“You never fail me, Sis.” He took a long drink of his Dr Pepper. “Are you writing?”</p>
<p>I grinned. “Dabbling here and there.”</p>
<p>“I never understood why you left a safe job as a college prof and writer to the dangers of the FBI?” He shrugged. “Other than your wild side that you kept more in check than I did.” </p>
<p>“Teaching and writing short stories with a few successful publications failed to fill my adventure deficit. Every time I read about a crime, I wanted to be the one working the case. Dad said I couldn’t create a crime and solve it—I had to be actively involved.”</p>
<p>“Your personality better fits law enforcement. Still married to the FBI?” </p>
<p>I wiggled my shoulders. “Of course. Five years ago, I moved to the Violent Crime Division, specifically Crimes Against Children. It’s stressful and emotional, but protecting children suits me.” </p>
<p>He frowned. “Because of me?”</p>
<p>I blinked. “A little. My main reason is what happened to the little girl who lived across the street from us.”</p>
<p>“Right.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry her death still bothers you. Isn’t there a special team for finding missing kids?”</p>
<p>“Child Abduction Rapid Deployment or CARD. They’re an elite, specialized team, and that’s all they do. That’s not my role, but we often work together.” </p>
<p>“What do you investigate?” Trenton seemed interested in my job, another first.</p>
<p>“My partner and I investigate kidnappings, pedophiles, pornography, online predators, human trafficking, involuntary servitude, parental kidnapping, and any other situation that fell into the ‘violent crimes against children’ bucket.”</p>
<p>“I remember you were the neighborhood babysitter.” He gave me his unforgettable impish grin. “And I also remember how much fun you had learning how to handle a car at high speeds.”</p>
<p>I couldn’t conceal my laughter. “Guess I’m part daredevil. Blame Dad for that. I remember loving to watch him race cars.”</p>
<p>“He’d still be at it if Mom hadn’t insisted his speed-loving days were over.”</p>
<p>“When he taught me to drive, I learned a lot of tricks,” I said.</p>
<p>“He already knew I was danger on wheels and asked Mom to teach me.” He laughed. “Any potential brothers-in-law?”</p>
<p>I waved off his remark. My thoughts swept to Gage. Maybe I had found him, but that was a future conversation. “Nope. My job scares them off. I had more dates during my stint as a dull college professor.”</p>
<p>“You dull? Never. You just haven’t found the right guy. Pray about it, and if there’s a guy good enough for my sis, he’ll appear.”</p>
<p>I startled. “Did you say pray?”</p>
<p>“Think about it. Who but God could have turned me around? Helped me walk away from drugs, alcohol, and so-called friends?”</p>
<p>Even in his good days, Trenton had steered away from mentions of faith. Maybe he had changed. “I don’t know what to say.”</p>
<p>“That’s a first.” He chuckled. “You always had more words in one day than I had in a week. But honestly, no more jail. No more being tossed out of an apartment because I couldn’t pay the rent. No more waking up and not remembering the night before.”</p>
<p>Wow. A true miracle. I swiped at happy tears. “I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad.”</p>
<p>He leaned over the table as though to tell me a secret. “I’ll do the honors very soon.”</p>
<p>When our food arrived, he asked to say grace. I was so glad our eyes were closed, or he’d have seen a leaky faucet. We chatted through dinner. Laughed about some of the goofy things we’d done as kids. Time seemingly stopped, and my half-full cup of blessings spilled over with joy.</p>
<p>“Will you tell me about your healing journey?” I said.</p>
<p>“You can hear for yourself when I talk to Mom and Dad.” He moistened his lips. “Do you trust me enough to walk you back to your apartment and call them from there? I mean, does your building have a lobby area with a little privacy?”</p>
<p>“It does, but you can call from my apartment. Trenton, they will be incredibly happy.” </p>
<p>“I hope so.”</p>
<p>I was so focused on our conversation that I didn’t think I tasted my favorite dish. We finished and he paid the bill. Outside the restaurant, a few people mingled, and the night sky hosted a half-moon, alerting me to how long Trenton and I had talked. I breathed in thankfulness and expectations for a positive tomorrow. At the crosswalk, we waited for the pedestrian sign to signal our turn.</p>
<p>“How long have you lived in this fancy high-rise?” he said as we ambled across the street.</p>
<p>“Two years. I like the busyness and excitement.” </p>
<p>“It must be in your DNA. One day, I want a small place in the country where it’s quiet.”</p>
<p>“Never for me. I’ll visit you though.” The humid heat mixed with exhaust fumes spiraled around us. “What are you taking in college?”</p>
<p>“Psychology. See if I can’t help a few kids understand life and avoid pitfalls.” </p>
<p>“Incredible. I’m so pro—”</p>
<p>Trenton grabbed my shoulders and thrust me several feet ahead next to the curb. I landed on my side and rolled over. What—?</p>
<p>A horrible thud. </p>
<p>A woman screamed. </p>
<p>Tires squealed.</p>
<p>Horns blew.</p>
<p>Stinging pain radiated up my leg, side, arm, and head. In agony, I managed to roll over and glance at the street. </p>
<p>My brother’s body lay in the intersection, a twisted mass of flesh and blood.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>FACING THE ENEMY</i> by DiAnn Mills. Copyright 2023 by DiAnn Mills. Reproduced with permission from DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.</p>
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<p> </p>
<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/DM-12-scaled.jpg" alt="DiAnn Mills" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="250" border="0" align="left"></div>
<p>DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who believes her readers should expect an adventure. She is a storyteller and creates action-packed, suspense-filled novels to thrill readers. DiAnn believes every breath of life is someone’s story, so why not capture those moments and create a thrilling adventure?</p>
<p>Her titles have appeared on the CBA and ECPA bestseller lists; won two Christy Awards; and been finalists for the RITA, Daphne Du Maurier, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol award contests. </p>
<p>DiAnn is a founding board member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, a member of Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers, Jerry Jennings Writers Guild, Mystery Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country.</p>
<p>DiAnn has been termed a coffee snob and roasts her own coffee beans. She’s an avid reader, loves to cook, and believes her grandchildren are the smartest kids in the universe. She and her husband live in sunny Houston, Texas.</p>
<h3>DiAnn is very active online and would love to connect with readers:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3Nxuszj" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">DiannMills.com</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3PBhi7d" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3NS9tZf" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookBub - @DiAnnMills</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3qZJNku" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Instagram - @diannmillsauthor</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3PBuYPh" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">X - @diannmills</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3NSdbC9" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - @diannmills</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/44nFi1H" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">YouTube - @diannmills</a></h3>
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<h2>Tour Participants:</h2>
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<h2>JOIN IN ON THE GIVEAWAY:</h2>
<h5>This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for DiAnn Mills. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours</a></h2>
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My Take: This book is told from two viewpoints, That of FBI partners Risa Jacobs and Gage Patterson. The whole book revovels around a child trafficking ring that has been stealing babies and selling them to parents who can't adopt the traditional way. They have also been targeting shelters for unwed mothers and offering the mothers money in exchange for their baby. When the ring feel like the FBI is getting to close things turn fatal for several people. This book was a page turner and you probably won't figure out some of the twist and turns this book will have in store for you. I gave this book a four out of five stars and would recommend it if you like suspense sprinkled with a bit of Christian Romance.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime tours and was dnot required to leave a positive review and all opinions are my own. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-52110524307821945572023-08-15T06:00:00.004-04:002023-08-15T06:00:00.143-04:00Deadly Depths by John F. Dobbyn<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/deadly-depths-by-john-f-dobbyn/" title="Deadly Depths by John F Dobbyn"><img class="aligncenter size-full" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/deadly-depths-by-john-f-dobbyn-banner-.png" alt="Deadly Depths by John F Dobbyn Banner" width="600" height="338"></a></h2>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>Deadly Depths</h2>
<h3>by John F Dobbyn</h3>
<h4>July 24 - August 18, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/deadly-depths-by-john-f-dobbyn-cover.jpeg" alt="Deadly Depths by John F Dobbyn" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="304" border="0"></div>
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<p>The death by bizarre means of his mentor, Professor Barrington Holmes, draws Mathew Shane into the quest of five archeologists, known to each other as "The Monkey's Paws", for an obscure object of unprecedented historic and financial value. The suspected murders of others of the Monkey's Paws follow their pursuit of five clues found in a packet of five ancient parchments. Shane's commitment to disprove the police theory of suicide by Professor Holmes carries him to the steamy bayous of New Orleans, the backstreets of Montreal, the sunken wreck of a pirate vessel off Barbados, and the city of Maroon descendants of escaped slaves in Jamaica. By weaving a thread from the sacrificial rites of the Aztec kingdom before the Spanish conquest of Mexico through the African beliefs of Jamaican Maroons and finally to the ventures of Captain Henry Morgan during the Golden Era of Piracy in his conquest and sacking of Spanish cities on the Spanish Main, Shane reaches a conclusion he could never have anticipated.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Deadly Depths</i>:</h3>
<p>"<i>Deadly Depths</i> gives readers characters they care about and gets hearts pumping as the mystery and adventure unfold!" <br><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Janet Hutchings, Editor, <em>Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine</em></span></p>
<p>"<i>Deadly Depths</i> is an exciting mystery novel that asks who has the right to seek and exploit lost treasures." <br><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ <em>Foreword Reviews</em></span></p>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Mystery, Crime Thriller<br>
<b>Published by:</b> Oceanview Publishing<br>
<b>Publication Date:</b> August 2023<br>
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 320<br>
<b>ISBN:</b> 9781608095483 (ISBN10: 1608095487)<br>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3q4oPk4" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/43luYGZ" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3WtWzn0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/43iKO58" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3q5m5D8" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Oceanview Publishing</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<p>We arrived at an area of private docks in a town called Oistins. The driver stopped at the base of a wharf that anchored power boats of every size, speed, and description. One power yacht stood out as the choice of the fleet. The Sun Catcher. My guide hustled us both directly to the carpeted gangplank that led on board a vessel that could pass for a floating Ritz Carlton. </p>
<p>The engines were already revving. I was escorted to a padded deck-lounge with maximum view on the foredeck. I had scarcely settled in, when we were slicing through late-afternoon sea-swells that barely caused a rise and fall. </p>
<p>My guide, still in suit and tie, brought me, without either of us asking, a tall, cool, planter’s punch with an ample kick of Mount Gay Rum. For the first moment since Mick O’Flynn told me that someone was asking for me, I made a fully-considered decision. This entire fantasy could easily turn into a disaster that could outstrip New Orleans and Montreal together, but to hell with it. It was just too elating not to accept it at face value – at least for the moment.</p>
<p>My mind was just settling into a comfortable neutral, when I heard footsteps from behind that had more heft than I imagined my guide could produce. I made a move to swing out of the padded deck-chair, when I felt the touch of a hand with authoritative strength on my shoulder. The voice that went with it had the same commanding undertone.</p>
<p>“Stay where you are, Michael. I’ll join you.”</p>
<p>A matching deck-chair was set beside me. I found myself looking up at a shadow against the setting sun that appeared double my bulk and yet compact as an Olympic hammer-thrower. The voice came again. “You’re an interesting study, Michael. I may call you ‘Michael’, right? I should. I probably know more about you than anyone you know. You might have guessed that by now.”</p>
<p>An open hand reached down out of the shadow. I took it. The handshake fit the shaker. It took some seconds for the feeling to come back into mine.</p>
<p>Before I could answer, the voice was coming from the deck-lounge beside me. “No need for coy name games. You know that I’m Wayne Barnes. And you know that I’m one of the, shall we say, associates in that little clique we call the Monkey’s Paws. In fact, your escort here, Emile, tells me it was the mention of my name that swung your decision to get on that plane.”</p>
<p>He nodded to my nearly empty Planter’s Punch. “Another?”</p>
<p>Before I could answer, he gave a slight nod to someone behind us. Before I could say “Yes”, or possibly, but less likely, “No”, a native Bajan in a server’s uniform was at my left taking my empty and handing me a full glass.<br>
I was three good sips into the second glass before I said my first word since coming aboard. I looked over at Wayne. I seemed to have his full focus. His engaging smile seemed to carry a full message of relaxed hospitality, and none of the threatening undercurrents I was scanning for. “You have an interesting way of delivering an invitation, Mr. Barnes”</p>
<p>He raised a hand. “Wayne.”</p>
<p>“’Wayne’ it is. You must have an interesting social life.”</p>
<p>“I do. Do you find it offensive?”</p>
<p>I looked over the bow, past the deepening blue crystal water to the reddening horizon. I felt the soothing caress of the slightly salted ocean breeze. I took one more sip of the most perfectly balanced planters punch of a lifetime, and looked back at Wayne. “Not in the slightest. Yet.”</p>
<p>“Ah yes, ‘yet’.”</p>
<p>“Right. I’m sure this won’t impress you, Wayne, and it’s not a complaint, but I’ve had a week full of enough tragedy to fill a lifetime. Hence the ‘yet’.”</p>
<p>His smile and focused attention remained. “I know more about your week, perhaps, than even you do. But go on.”</p>
<p>The second planter’s punch was having a definitely mollifying effect. “I have no idea what you mean by that last statement, Wayne, so I’ll just pass on. Given that week, and the abrupt transport from hell on earth to . . . paradise on earth, I’d have to be Mrs. Shane’s backward child not to listen for a second shoe to drop.”</p>
<p>The smile expanded. Still no alarms. “Or perhaps you’ve come into a sea-change of good luck, Michael. Why not go with that?”</p>
<p>“Why not indeed? For the moment. Just one question. ”</p>
<p>“Alright. One question. For now. Make it a good one.”</p>
<p>“Oh it is. It’s a beaut. Ecstatic as I am with all this, why the hell am I here?”</p>
<p>That brought a bursting laugh. “I think I’m going to enjoy having you around for a couple of days, Michael. You have an instinct for the jugular. No chipping around the edges. We won’t waste each other’s time.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. But that’s not an answer.”</p>
<p>“No it isn’t.” He looked out to the diminishing sunset. “The only answer I can give you at the moment that would do justice to the question is this. And you’ll just have to live with it for now. You’re here for a quick but depthful education. I think you’ll find it well worth two days of your life. Are you in?”</p>
<p>“Do I have a choice?”</p>
<p>We both looked back at the rapidly diminishing shore-line behind us. “None that comes to mind. Now are you in?”</p>
<p>That brought a smile from me, another healthy sip of the planter’s punch, and a deep breath of the ocean-fresh breeze. “I’m in.”</p>
<p>We chatted through the sunset on far-ranging subjects that had no association whatever with Monkeys Paws, Maroons, murder-suicides - in fact nothing that gave a clue as to why my gracious host had chosen my company over the undoubtedly vast range of his acquaintances. By then, the moon had risen.</p>
<p>At some point, I was aware that the engines had stopped. The splash of two anchors could be heard on either side. The sun had set. The shift from twilight to a darkness, penetrated only by a quarter moon went unnoticed.</p>
<p>I was slowly sipping away at my third or possibly fourth Planter’s Punch, when I became aware of a bobbing light approaching from the port side. Without interrupting the flow of conversation, I noticed that Wayne was following its approach with more than the occasional glance until it reached the side of the yacht. </p>
<p>Within a few minutes, my original guide, still in suit and tie, approached Wayne’s side with an inaudible whisper. I sensed that a bit of steel crept into Wayne’s otherwise conversational tone. “I’ll see him.”</p>
<p>I began to get up to provide privacy. Wayne held my arm in position. “Stay, Michael. Let your education begin.” My guide nodded to someone behind us and lit his path with a small flashlight.</p>
<p>I settled back, as a fiftyish man with narrow, cautious eyes and thinning grey hair that might have last been combed by his mother came up along Wayne’s right side. The loose wrinkles in his ageless cotton suit indicated that he might have been close to six feet, but for a constant stoop as if to pass under an unseen beam. The stoop caused his head to bob and gave him the look of one asking for royal permission to approach.</p>
<p>Wayne’s eyes turned to him. I noticed the stoop of the back became more noticeable. Wayne’s voice was calm and soft, but it commanded his visitor’s full attention. “Do you have it? I assume you wouldn’t be here without it, yes, Yusuf?” </p>
<p>The thin mouth cracked into a smile that conveyed no humor. “Of course. Of course. But perhaps our business . . .”</p>
<p>Wayne nodded toward me. “No fear. Mr. Shayne is here for an education. We shouldn’t deprive him of that, should we?”</p>
<p>The smile on the man’s lips did not match the apprehension in the tiny eyes, but he nodded. “As you say.”</p>
<p>“Then what are you waiting for?”</p>
<p>The man gave a slight glance to either side as if it were the habit of a lifetime. He reached into some deep pocket inside his suitcoat. I noticed a slight but tell-tale hesitation before he slipped out what appeared to be a hard, flat, roundish object, about seven inches across. It was wrapped in several layers of ragged cloth.</p>
<p>He held it until Wayne extended a hand and took it onto his lap. He laid it on the small tray on his stomach. He looked back at the man, who simply forced a smile .</p>
<p> “I assume it all went well?”</p>
<p> “Oh yes, Mr. Barnes. No problems,”</p>
<p> Wayne smiled back. “How I do love to hear those words.”</p>
<p>My eyes were glued to Wayne’s hands as he carefully peeled back one layer of cloth after another. When he turned over the last layer, the object in the shape of a disc sent out instant glints of reflections of the rising moonlight.</p>
<p>I could see Wayne running the tips of his fingers over the entire jagged surface of the disc. He took a flip cigarette lighter out of his pocket, opened it, and lit the flame. When he held it close to the object, I could make out the resemblance of a human face, coarsely pieced together from chips of green stone.</p>
<p>Wayne held it up toward me and ran the flame in front of it.</p>
<p>“Do you recognize it Michael?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid not.”</p>
<p>He nodded. “Most wouldn’t. Your friend, Professor Holmes, would spot it immediately. The Mayans made death masks to protect their important rulers in their journey to the afterlife. They go back to around 700 A.D.”<br>
“What stones are these? They look like jade.”</p>
<p>“Good spotting. The eyes were made of rare seashells.”</p>
<p>“And I assume valuable?”</p>
<p>He laughed again. “Right to the crux of the issue. Right, Michael.”</p>
<p>He turned the object over and ran his fingers over the back side of it. “One that apparently goes back as far as this, and belonged to the ruler we have in mind, the right collector will pay half a million. Isn’t that right, Yusuf?”</p>
<p>Yusuf’s grin was beginning to become genuine. “Oh yes. Oh yes. And more, as you would know, Mr. Barnes.”</p>
<p>Wayne swung his legs over the deck-lounge toward me. He sat up and very carefully replaced the wrapping that had covered the mask. He stood up and walked toward the man. “And the key to its value is that it is absolutely authentic.” </p>
<p>Wayne looked down at the grinning eyes of Yusuf for several seconds. I think I let out a yell that came from the pit of my stomach when Wayne hurled the wrapped object over side of the yacht, into the pitch blackness that absorbed it with barely a splash.</p>
<p>I thought that the man would crumble to the deck. He barely held his balance. In the blackness of the night, I couldn’t make out his features, but I know to a certainty that every drop of blood left his face. </p>
<p>Wayne called a uniformed attendant.</p>
<p>Before the man moved, Wayne took hold of his arm. I was almost as frozen to the spot as the man. I think we were both certain that he would be following the object into the blackness below. </p>
<p>Wayne held him close enough to speak directly into his ear, but spoke loudly enough, I’m sure, so that I could hear. </p>
<p>“It’s a fake, Yusuf. I’m sure you know that. But you’ll live to do me a service. You’re a delivery boy. Nothing more. I want you to take a message back to Istanbul. I want you to say just this. ‘You had my trust. I give it sparingly, and not twice. Rest assured, we’ll speak of this again.’ Do you have that Yusuf?”</p>
<p>The man had all he could do to nod.</p>
<p>Wayne signaled his attendant. “Take him back.”</p>
<p>The man was escorted, practically carried toward the back of the vessel. In a few minutes, I could see running lights heading away from the yacht.</p>
<p>Wayne sat back down. “What do you think, Michael? One more Planter’s Punch before dinner?”</p>
<p>I could only smile at the abrupt change of tone and subject. </p>
<p>“No? Then shall we go in to dinner. The chef should be prepared by now.”</p>
<p>When he stood up, I saw that he took something from under his deck-lounge. My mouth sprung open when a glint of light from an opening door of the yacht cabin lit up the death mask. I could see amusement in the smile of my host.</p>
<p>“What on earth did you throw overboard?”</p>
<p>“Oh that. I substituted my lap tray in the wrapping for the desk mask. I’ll keep the mask.”</p>
<p>“But if it’s a fake.”</p>
<p>“It is, but a fake by a well-respected forger of these antiquities. It has enough value for that reason alone to pay the expenses I’ve already incurred in acquiring it. Shall we go to dinner?”
</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Deadly Depths</i> by John F Dobbyn. Copyright 2023 by John F Dobbyn. Reproduced with permission from John F Dobbyn. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/deadly-depths-by-john-f-dobbyn-author.jpg" alt="John F Dobbyn" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="200" border="0" align="left"></div>
<p>Following graduation from Boston Latin School and Harvard College with a major in Latin and Linguistics, three years on active duty as fighter intercept director in the United States Air Force, graduation from Boston College Law School, three years of practice in civil and criminal trial work, and graduation from Harvard Law School with a Master of Laws degree, I began a career as a Professor of Law at Villanova Law School. Twenty-five years ago I began writing mystery/thriller fiction. I have so far had twenty-five short stories published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery magazine, and six mystery thriller novels, the Michael Knight/Lex Devlin series, published by Oceanview Publishing. The second novel, <i>Frame Up</i>, was selected as Foreword Review's Book of the Year.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With John F Dobbyn:<br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3q85C0X" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">JohnDobbyn.com</a><br>
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<a href="https://bit.ly/45s1jO1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - @JohnFDobbynAuthor</a></h3>
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My Take: This was a pretty good thriller. Matthew Shane's friend Professor Holmes dies in what looks like an apparent suicide. But Matthew doesn't think so. He starts to do some invesitgation into the professor's death and it leads him to a secret group the professor belonged to called the Monkey's Paw. Matthew becomes involved with some adventures invovlving other members of the group and it takes him far and wide. With every twist and turn I was wondering what was going to happen next and what Matthew was going to be doing or where he was going to go next. If you like Indiana Jones type adventures then this is the book for you.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-58480138795377712052023-07-31T06:00:00.011-04:002023-07-31T10:05:44.059-04:00Cold Pursuit by Nancy Mehl<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>Cold Pursuit</h2>
<h3>by Nancy Mehl</h3>
<h4>July 17 - August 4, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/Cold-Pursuit-Cover.jpg" alt="Cold Pursuit by Nancy Mehl" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="309" border="0"></div>
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<p>Ex-FBI profiler River Ryland still suffers from PTSD after a case went horribly wrong. Needing a fresh start, she moves to St. Louis to be near her ailing mother and opens a private investigation firm with her friend and former FBI partner, Tony St. Clair. They're soon approached by a grieving mother who wants them to find out what happened to her teenaged son, who disappeared four years ago. River knows there's almost no hope the boy is still alive, but his mother needs closure, and River and Tony need a case, no matter how cold it might be.</p>
<p>But as they follow the boy's trail, which gets more complicated at every turn, they find themselves in the path of a murderer determined to punish anyone who gets in his way. As River and Tony race to stop him before he kills again, an even more dangerous threat emerges, stirring up the past that haunts River and plotting an end to her future.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Cold Pursuit</i>:</h3>
<p>"Guaranteed to captivate with plot twists you won't see coming." <br><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Tosca Lee, <em>New York Times</em> bestselling author</span></p>
<p>"This story is sure to leave you breathless from the thrill of the ride. Hold on tight, it's about to get exhilarating!" <br><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Lynette Eason, bestselling and award-winning author of the Extreme Measures series</span></p>
<p>"Cold Pursuit sucked me in from the first riveting page and pulled me deeper into an intricate, danger-filled plot." <br><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Elizabeth Goddard, bestselling author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/cold-light-of-day-by-elizabeth-goddard/">Cold Light of Day</a></em></span></p>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Suspense<br>
<b>Published by:</b> Bethany House Publishers<br>
<b>Publication Date:</b> July 2023<br>
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 336<br>
<b>ISBN:</b> 9780764240454 (ISBN10: 0764240455) <br>
<b>Series:</b> Ryland & St. Clair (#1)<br>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3o3zKtz" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/42N4aiz" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3BnuWCk" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/42rbjoW" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ChristianBook.com</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3I4fpeu" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/41vjsaG" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Baker Book House</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<h6>Synesthesia is a neurological phenomenon in which the stimulation of one sense triggers an instantaneous and involuntary experience in another. In other words, it causes two or more senses to cross. People with Synesthesia may be able to “hear” color, or “taste” sound. There are many kinds of Synesthesia, and people who have it sometimes have more than one type.<br>
—The Synesthesia Network<br>
</h6>
<h4>Prologue</h4>
<p>River Ryland was convinced that madness exists only a breath away from genius. The man who stood in front of her and Tony had proven this to be true. He’d kept his identity hidden from the FBI’s best. Now River and Tony’s lives were about to end, and there was no one to save them.</p>
<p>Moonlight caused the river to sparkle as if it were layered with precious jewels. But the image didn’t provoke a sense of beauty. It spawned a feeling of terror so deep and evil that her body betrayed her. She couldn’t move. Why were they even here? She and Tony were behavioral analysts for the FBI, not field agents. They wrote profiles for the agents who were trained to confront insanity. A call from another agent had brought them here. “Come and see,” she’d said. “It’s important. I think we got it wrong.”</p>
<p>This was someone they trusted. Someone whose opinion mattered. Jacki was so smart. So naturally intuitive. And so surely dead. Why hadn’t River been alerted by the quiver in her voice? Why hadn’t the profiler profiled her friend and realized she was in trouble? She’d failed Jacki, Tony, . . . and herself. And now, without a miracle, she and Tony were going to die on the bank of this killer river—with moonlight standing guard over their execution.</p>
<p>“Come closer,” the man said to River, his face resembling a Greek theater mask. Was it Comedy or Tragedy? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t think. Even though she willed her feet to move, she stayed where she was. It was as if her shoes had been glued to the ground. But that wasn’t possible, was it?</p>
<p>The man swung his gun toward Tony. “I said move. If you don’t, I’ll shoot your friend.”</p>
<p>River forced her feet from the spot where she stood. It took every ounce of strength and willpower she possessed. She locked her eyes with Tony’s. Slowly, she made her way toward the man in the moonlight, his gun glinting in the soft light as he pointed it at her. A line from Shakespeare’s <em>Othello</em> echoed in her mind. <em>It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she is wont and makes men mad.</em></p>
<p>She turned her face toward the man who planned to take her life. She knew she shouldn’t panic. She knew how to fight. How to defend herself. She hated feeling so helpless. So afraid. This was the moment she desperately needed to summon the trained agent inside of her. The one who knew how to confront evil. Yet she was aware of how powerful this man was. How deadly. He’d killed eleven women that they knew of, not counting Jacki, but he’d teased authorities with letters claiming up to eighty. Although it sounded impossible, it wasn’t. Transient women went missing every day. Hookers. Teenagers living on the streets. The number could be right. The one truth that was indisputable? No one had ever survived him. No one.</p>
<p>When she was close enough to smell his sour breath, in one quick move, he swung the gun back toward Tony and fired four times. Tony fell to the ground.</p>
<p>River started to scream his name, but before she could make a sound, the killer’s hands were around her neck, squeezing. Choking the life out of her. Suddenly, something clicked on in her brain, like her alarm clock in the morning. She had to help Tony—if it wasn’t already too late. She struggled, hitting at this horror of a human being. This man full of death and destruction. Then she rolled her eyes back in her head and stopped breathing, holding her breath for dear life. And that’s exactly what it was. Life. Hers and Tony’s. She went limp, hoping the monster would think she was dead.</p>
<p>He finally dropped her on the ground and walked toward his car. She needed to gulp in air but was afraid he’d hear. Breathing in a little at a time hurt her chest, yet she had no choice. She began to crawl quietly toward the gun he’d taken from Tony. It lay only a few feet away. She had no idea where hers was, but that didn’t matter.</p>
<p>She heard him close the trunk. She scrambled as quickly as she could until her fingers closed around the barrel of the gun, but before she could pick it up, he was behind her. He hit her on the head, and she felt herself losing consciousness. She could only stare up at the moon and hate it for watching this happen.</p>
<p>The next sensation she experienced was throbbing pain in her head and neck. Her first reaction wasn’t relief, it was surprise. The pain was awful, but didn’t that mean she was alive? A flash of euphoria gave way to terror when she realized she couldn’t move. Where was she? Why was she wet? She couldn’t see anything, and her hands were bound in front of her. Her fingers reached out and touched something hard. What was it? When she realized she was trapped inside some kind of container—and that water was leaking in—she screamed out in horror. She was in a large chest. All of the Strangler’s victims had been found in the Salt River, and most of them were inside old trunks. But they’d been dead when they went into the water, and she was still alive. He’d done it on purpose because she’d come too close. He needed more than her death. He wanted her to experience the terror he knew his madness could create.</p>
<p>River struggled with all her might, but she couldn’t get free. She pulled her hands up to her mouth and tried to use her teeth to rip through the duct tape wrapped around her wrists. She realized immediately that there was too much of it. She couldn’t make enough progress to help herself before she was completely submerged. The river was seeping in, slowly but surely. She was on her side, and half of her head was already under water. She cried out in terror as she tried to push herself onto her back so she could clear her nose and mouth, but there wasn’t enough room. As hope faded, she did something she never thought she’d do again. Something she hadn’t done in many years. She prayed.</p>
<p>“God, please. If you’re real, if you care anything about me, save me. Get me out of here. I’m sorry I’ve been so angry at you. If you give me another chance . . .” She couldn’t get the rest of the words out because water filled her mouth and she began to choke. She’d swallowed some of it, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She was suffocating. Drowning. Just when she’d decided to give in to the inevitable and let death overtake her, something flashed in her mind. Right before the Strangler hit her . . . there was something. A movement on the hill behind them. Was someone watching? Had they gone for help? Was there a chance? As much as she wanted to believe it, another part of her thought it would be best to just relax and float away. Hope only brought disappointment, and she’d experienced too much of it. Still, she couldn’t help but grab onto a slim chance that . . .</p>
<p>That’s when she felt it. Movement. Something jostled the trunk. Was she being lifted out of the river? As the water level began to decrease inside the trunk, River began to cry. She was going to live. “Thank you, God,” she croaked. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>He was convinced he’d been born to be exceptional. He was certainly smarter than these weak, feckless creatures who revolved around his genius. Was he a god? Or was he a demon? Who was smarter, God or Lucifer? It seemed Lucifer had certainly ruined the plan of the Almighty. If God was really the Creator of all things, how was it that one of His creations was able to rebel and cause such havoc on Earth? Seemed to him that the devil was the winner of that particular contest.</p>
<p>So, on whose side was he working? Being honest about it, he didn’t really care. He only knew that the desire to rid the world of those who were unworthy of life burned in him like a fire. One that he had no power or will to quench. It was his destiny. His reason for living. His fate had been decided for him many years ago, and he’d accepted it gladly. Lucifer or Jehovah. It didn’t matter.</p>
<p>Some would call what he’d done sin. But what was sin anyway? Perhaps it was the road less traveled because of fear of retribution. He didn’t fear judgment. His god didn’t threaten him. Instead, he only fueled the glorious desire that clawed and scratched inside him, demanding release.</p>
<p>He especially enjoyed pitting himself against those who called themselves righteous because they had the ability to forgive. Forgiveness was for the feeble-minded. He would never forgive. He hated anyone who considered themselves moral or spiritually justified and had promised the voice that whispered in the darkness that he would never fail to respond to its unending song of reckoning against them.</p>
<p>He laughed suddenly, the sound echoing around him. These idiotic cattle thought they’d defeated him, but he had a surprise for them. All he had to do was wait. They would rue the day they’d tried to cage him.</p>
<p>The killing hadn’t stopped. It had only just begun.</p>
<h4>Chapter One</h4>
<p>Brian woke up shivering again, calling out for his mother and father. As he looked around the small room he rented in the rundown boarding house, reality sunk in. He had no idea where his parents were, and even if he could find them, they didn’t want him. They’d stuck him in that residential facility until he was eighteen, like some kind of unwanted dog left in the pound. They’d paid the hospital boatloads of money for all those years, yet when he’d been released there was no family waiting to take him home. So why was he still having the same nightmare? Would it ever leave him alone?</p>
<p>Before they’d kicked him out, the social worker at the hospital had found him a job, but if he wanted to keep it, he had to visit a therapist every week. He hated going, but he couldn’t walk away from his job. Although he didn’t make much, at least he could pay for this room. Fredric, a kind man who’d worked in the hospital cafeteria, had helped him find this rooming house and had even paid his rent for two months. Brian was grateful for Fredric’s help, but this place was really awful. Paint peeling off the walls. A shared bathroom for all three rooms on this floor, which was usually dirty. The guy who lived across the hall drank and didn’t flush the toilet. And at night the cockroaches came out. Brian didn’t blame Fredric. He’d done everything he could with his limited funds. Brian blamed his parents. They were rich. They could have helped him. Kept him safe. Brian hated them with every fiber of his being.</p>
<p>When he was very young, they were attentive—even loving. But as he grew older, and they realized he was <em>different</em>, everything changed. Although he’d never met his father’s father, he’d heard the whispers—that Brian was crazy, just like his grandfather had been. When he first began to tell his parents what he was experiencing, they seemed concerned. Then when doctors informed them he was hallucinating and that he needed professional help, the way they looked at him changed. The word <em>schizophrenia</em> became his enemy—and his identity.</p>
<p>At first, his father appeared to care for his broken son, but as his mother applied pressure, he began to distance himself—just as she had. It was clear he wasn’t the child they’d wanted. And then his brother was born. And his sister. They were perfect. As he grew older and his problems began to increase, it was obvious that his mother only saw him as an embarrassment. Something that interfered with their perfect lives. Thankfully, in their eyes, God had shown them mercy and given them the children they deserved, so sending him away solved their dilemma. He had a memory of his parents fighting one night. His father wanted Brian to stay with them, but his mother had threatened to leave him and take his ideal children away. Finally, his father gave in. Brian hated him even more than his mother for caving in to her demands. For turning his back on the son that needed him so desperately. After he went to live in that terrible hospital with its white walls, disinfectant smells, locked doors, and abusive staff, his parents began to visit him less and less. The more he begged them to take him home, the more uncomfortable they became, and by the time he was thirteen, they stopped coming altogether. As he remembered the anger he’d felt, bad words swirled around in the air, each letter a different color. As they turned red, he mouthed the words he saw, and rage built inside him. He would need to release it soon.</p>
<p>Suddenly his alarm clock went off, causing the air around him to pulsate. He hit the alarm and pushed himself up from the bed. It was an especially cold November. The blanket he’d purchased from Goodwill wasn’t enough to keep him warm, especially in this drafty room, but it was all he could afford if he wanted to pay his rent and eat. As his teeth chattered, the word <em>cold</em> floated in front of his eyes. He couldn’t hold back a sneeze that made his mouth feel funny. He swiped at the bad words that started flying around his head.</p>
<p>“Stop it!” he said loudly. Immediately, he put his hand over his mouth. What if someone complained because he was too loud? No matter what, he couldn’t lose this room. He had nowhere else to go, and he didn’t want to live on the streets. That was a nightmare he couldn’t face.</p>
<p>The afternoon sun shone through a gap in the curtains on his window, but it brought no warmth. He took off his sweatpants and sweatshirt and hurried over to the decrepit chest of drawers where he kept his clothes. He pulled out his work pants and some clean underwear. Then he went over to the hooks on the wall where he hung his three work shirts. There was only one clean shirt left. He’d have to go to the laundromat tomorrow. That could be a problem since he had to see his therapist in the morning. He’d have to wake up early to get everything done. He glanced at the clock on the top of his dresser. Four o’clock. He needed to leave by five-thirty to get to work on time. At least the cleaning company left him alone, since they trusted him and knew he would get the job done. As long as he had a place to live and he could keep his fifteen-year-old car running, he would keep showing up.</p>
<p>His supervisor usually only showed up once a week to collect Brian’s time sheet. He used to check his work, but he didn’t anymore. Most importantly, the man never gave him <em>the look</em>. Brian hated that look. The one he saw on his parents’ faces before they’d shipped him off. Rage burned inside him toward <em>normal</em> people who laughed at him and treated him as less than human. As he headed toward the bathroom, the word <em>blood</em> pulsated in front of his eyes, and he could almost taste its sugary aroma in his mouth.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Cold Pursuit</i> by Nancy Mehl. Copyright 2023 by Nancy Mehl. Reproduced with permission from Baker Book House. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/Nancy-Mehl.jpg" alt="Nancy Mehl" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="300" border="0" align="left"></div>
<p>Nancy Mehl (www.nancymehl.com) is the author of almost fifty books, a Parable bestseller, as well as the winner of an ACFW Book of the Year Award, a Carol Award, and the Daphne Du Maurier Award. She has also been a finalist for two Carol Awards, and the Christy Award. Nancy writes from her home in Missouri, where she lives with her husband, Norman, and their puggle, Watson. To learn more, visit nancymehl.com.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Our Author:<br>
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<a href="https://bit.ly/3O4UsEf" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - Nancy Mehl Fan Page</a></h3>
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My Take: I really liked Cold Pursuit which is the first book in a new series Ryland + St. Clair. I thought the mystery was really good and it kept my attention. The book left you waiting for the next book which I will be reading to find out what happens. It was interesting to go behind the scenes abit with FBI profilers and to realize that they don't always get the profile right. I look forward to the next book.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours in exchange for a review. All opinions are my own and I was not required to write a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-10015227101574745182023-06-14T06:00:00.005-04:002023-06-14T06:00:00.137-04:00A Deadly Wilderness by Kelly Irvin<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2>A Deadly Wilderness</h2>
<h3>by Kelly Irvin</h3>
<h4>May 22 - June 16, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/6426e2e060de7-ADW_cover.jpg" alt="A Deadly Wilderness by Kelly Irvin" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" width="200" height="308" border="0"></div>
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<p>A frantic anonymous crisis center hot-line call propels counselor Susana Martinez-Acosta smack into the center of a murder investigation and a homicide detective’s arms. Exactly where she doesn’t want to be. Following the tragic death of her husband, she’s struggled to build a safe haven for herself and her son. That new world doesn’t include hit men and persistent detectives with dangerous jobs. </p>
<p>An idyllic wilderness hike turns deadly when homicide detective Ray Johnson tumbles into a ravine and lands on a corpse later identified as the son of a prominent citizen. Ray works to solve the political hot potato murder before city leaders bumps him from the case. His determination to find the man’s killer leads him from the wealthiest enclaves in San Antonio to the city’s dark underbelly, all the while trying to win the woman he loves.</p>
<p>A Deadly Wilderness is a romantic suspense novel that will take the reader along on a tumultuous journey as the consuming need for material wealth drives a deadly wedge among family members who haven’t learned when enough really is enough.</p>
<h4>The journey ends where it began—in a deadly wilderness. Not everyone will survive the trip.</h4>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin:20px;padding:20px;">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Romantic Suspense <br>
<b>Published by:</b> Ally Press<br>
<b>Publication Date:</b> May 2023<br>
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 250<br>
<b>ISBN:</b> 978-1-953290-24-3<br>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3KanChC" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> </p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<p>A panicked voice penetrated the pain. “Mr. Ray! Mr. Ray!”</p>
<p>Small hands patted Ray’s face. He opened his eyes to a soft, blue sky dotted with tufts of popcorn clouds. Benny’s dirty face filled his vision. He sucked in air and immediately regretted it. The rank odor of decaying flesh made his eyes water and bile burn in the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“What the—” He tried to rise. Pain dug a trench from one ear to the other. He sank back. “What is it?”</p>
<p>Benny leaned in close. Ray heard his agitated breathing and smelled his little boy sweat. The dirt and leaves on his clothes told Ray he’d come down the side of the ravine in a slip-and-slide fashion. “Marco fell on a—a body. You gotta get up. He’s dead. It stinks. It stinks bad!”</p>
<p>“Whoa! Easy, Benny, easy.” Ray grabbed his hand. “Are you hurt?”</p>
<p>“No! We gotta get out of here!” Thin features contorted with fear, Benny tugged from Ray’s grasp and darted toward Marco, who knelt a few feet away, his back to Ray. “Come on, let’s just go!”</p>
<p>“Marco, are you hurt?” Ray struggled to get up. A sharp pain in his ankle, coupled with the fierce pounding in his head, made the ground rise and fall. He sank back again. “Marco? Are you okay?”</p>
<p>Marco swiveled around. Tears streaked his face, but Ray saw no blood. His amber eyes wide, his gaze swung back-and-forth from the ground to Ray. He’d lost his cap; leaves clung to his shorts and T-shirt. “I landed on him. I touched him. Somebody cut his finger off!”</p>
<p>Marco’s voice cracked. He pointed. Ray followed the line of his trembling fingers. Three outstretched fingers pointed back, a bloody stub where the fourth should have been. The hand Ray had seen before he passed out belonged to a body, spread-eagle and half-covered by brush.</p>
<p>The man hadn’t been dead long—his features were recognizable—but birds and other animals had begun their work of tearing soft flesh from bone as San Antonio’s early summer heat baked the body. “Move away.” Ray schooled his voice to stay cool and calm. He hated that Benny and Marco had seen this—they’d both had enough tragedy in their lives. First things first: he wanted them away from the scene, then he’d shift from off-duty friend to on-duty police officer once they were calm. “Come over here so I can take a look at you.”</p>
<p>Gaze still on the body, Marco stumbled to Ray, one arm dangling awkwardly at his side. Ray grabbed his thin frame in a hug. “Look at me, Marco. Does your arm hurt?”</p>
<p>Marco buried his head in Ray’s chest. Ray felt a shudder rip through him. “Where does it hurt?”</p>
<p>“My wrist.” Marco held out his swollen arm.</p>
<p>“Can you bend it?”</p>
<p>Marco’s sharp intake of breath answered that question.</p>
<p>“You have to watch where you’re going on these trails.” Ray kept his tone soft. Marco had enough problems without this.</p>
<p>“I was thinking.” Marco’s tone mixed anger and shame. “About stuff.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, about Mr. Ray and your mom.” Benny piped up. Thin face pinched, he’d squatted next to Ray.</p>
<p>“Huh-uh! I was not.” Marco gave Benny a look that said hush up. Benny ducked his head, showing his foster cousin his usual deference.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it. We’re gonna be fine.” Ray understood Marco’s preoccupation. Susana was never far from Ray’s mind, either—not since the day the previous year when he’d helped his former partner move his sister from Corpus Christi to San Antonio. “Just give me a minute.”</p>
<p>He touched the back of his head where pain pounded like a jackhammer. His fingers came back bloody. His stomach rocked and ears buzzed. He considered his options. With his ankle injured, it seemed unlikely he could hike out. And there was the body to consider.</p>
<p>If his cell phone had survived, and he could get a signal, he’d call Samuel, his boss and Susana’s brother. It wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation. Samuel was almost as protective of his nephew as Susana was of her son. “We’ll have to wait for your Uncle Samuel to get the medical examiner and the evidence guys out here, and then we’ll get you to the ER so they can fix up that arm.”</p>
<p>“No!” Marco stopped, his lips pressed together. His skin had turned sickly gray. “Don’t call Tío Samuel. He’ll worry. I could hike back to the trailhead and get somebody. Benny can stay here and take care of you.”</p>
<p>“No.” Benny looked offended. “You fell down. I’ll hike. You stay here.”</p>
<p>Red spots flamed on Marco’s pale cheeks. “I’m the oldest—”</p>
<p>“Just hang on, guys, no one’s hiking anywhere alone.” The scene was already contaminated. The medical examiner’s investigator and the evidence techs wouldn’t be happy. He needed to move the boys as far back as possible. “Go sit by that tree over there. Benny, why don’t you look around, see if you can find our caps? And my sunglasses. Who knows where they ended up.”</p>
<p>Marco stumbled over to the Ashe juniper on the edge of the strip where they’d landed. Benny, hands on his hips in an unconscious imitation of an angry adult, started up the incline in search of Ray’s San Antonio Police Department cap.</p>
<p>After glancing back to make sure they weren’t looking, Ray let his head drop, jaw clenched, and tried to stand. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Giving up, he sucked in a breath through his mouth to avoid the smell and scooted close enough to get a good look at the body.</p>
<p>Blue shirt, jeans, hiking boots. Dried red stains cascaded down the front of the shirt and jeans. Blood. Too much blood for a simple tumble down a hill. The ring finger on the left hand was missing. Theft of a ring or a trophy? A breeze ruffled the man’s sleeve. Ray had the sudden sensation the corpse might raise its injured hand in a macabre wave.</p>
<p>No. This guy would never move again. Ray slid off his backpack and rummaged for his cell phone. It had survived intact, and he had a signal.</p>
<p>Samuel sounded preoccupied. “What’s up? I thought you were hiking with the boys.”</p>
<p>“I am—was.” Ray explained the situation. “The guy’s missing a finger and he’s covered with blood. It wasn’t an accident.”</p>
<p>“We’ll get paramedics up there for you and Marco.” Always the problem-solver, Samuel’s voice bounced around as if he were already moving. “Salvador is next on the rotation—I’ll bring him with me.”</p>
<p>“I can handle the investigation. Just send out Deborah.” Deborah Smith would love telling her colleagues that her new partner had walked off a cliff.</p>
<p>“You’re on vacation—and you’re injured.”</p>
<p>The vacation hadn’t been Ray’s idea. Samuel had insisted. “So? As soon as the paramedics get me fixed up, I want the case. I’m bored with this vacation thing.”</p>
<p>“We’ll talk when I get there.” When Samuel used his boss voice, there was no sense arguing. “I’m on the way. I’ll call Susana after I assess the situation.”</p>
<p>“I should call her—” Ray could already hear that conversation in his head.</p>
<p>“She’s at the hotline center. She won’t answer her personal phone on shift.” Samuel’s voice held a hint of pity. “Besides, I’m her older brother. She’ll just snap at me. You, she’ll chew up and spit out.”</p>
<p>Ray dropped his cell phone into the backpack and stared at the body. He’d tumbled head over heels several hundred yards, injured his ankle, and blacked out in order to find this guy. No matter what Samuel said, that made it his job to find out how the man had ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Dead and missing a finger.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>A Deadly Wilderness</i> by Kelly Irvin. Copyright 2023 by Kelly Irvin. Reproduced with permission from Kelly Irvin. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/6426e2e38cff8-0AuthorPhoto_Kelly_2_1022-scaled.jpg" alt="Kelly Irvin" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" width="200" height="300" border="0" align="left"></div>
<p>Kelly Irvin is the author of more than 30 Amish romance and romantic suspense novels. She has penned eight critically acclaimed romantic suspense novels, including <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/trust-me-by-kelly-irvin/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><i>Trust Me</i></a>, which debuted in 2022. Publisher’s Weekly said of the novel: “(In this) whirlwind romantic thriller . . . Irvin follows the characters through twists and turns, writing through the lens of faith and broken faith, while illuminating a bridge across shattered relationships to second chances.” Her latest novel is <i>A Deadly Wilderness</i>, released May 23, 2023, from Ally Press.</p>
<p>The Kansas native is a graduate of the University of Kansas School of Journalism. She has been writing nonfiction professionally for more than 30 years, including 10 years as a newspaper reporter. She retired in 2016 after working 22 years in public relations for the City of San Antonio Parks and Recreation Department. She is a member of ACFW and Alamo City Christian Fiction Writers. She and her husband make their home in South Texas. They are the parents of two children and the grandparents of four grandchildren. In her spare time, Kelly reads, writes poetry and short stories, and spends time with her grandchildren as often as possible.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Kelly Irvin:<br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3KvFAfW" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">www.kellyirvin.com</a><br>
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My Take: I have liked all of Kelly Irvin's thriller that I have read and this is no exception. I was anxious to get to the end to find out who was the real bad guy and of course if the romantic situations would get worked out. I really hate that the police have to cater to the people who have money and have to do things that doesn't help with the case but such is our lives in the modern world. I gave this a 4 out of 5 stars on Goodreads and would recommend it to anyone who likes a good suspense novel.
received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book tours and all opinions are my own.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-60634218311910227462023-03-13T10:17:00.001-04:002023-03-13T10:17:56.604-04:00Altered by Rob Kaufman<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-WsHcsxxtnS-k3HWNm2jiRWQ7L_3t6a0aZiHA8-w98hyT4Lc8VHRzQSW0o9SR97i5bOWazv1Aj3XUFlIi33aMt208aAw6QOjKIgdvwGh0F2q41KKsIOcRoKnbnkhsE6wzrogbJGcQWWA7ZUzlI_Hg74WMjozbR6UMOT4gKqYce5S7ZzrVlTDiG-E/s654/Altered%20banner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="654" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-WsHcsxxtnS-k3HWNm2jiRWQ7L_3t6a0aZiHA8-w98hyT4Lc8VHRzQSW0o9SR97i5bOWazv1Aj3XUFlIi33aMt208aAw6QOjKIgdvwGh0F2q41KKsIOcRoKnbnkhsE6wzrogbJGcQWWA7ZUzlI_Hg74WMjozbR6UMOT4gKqYce5S7ZzrVlTDiG-E/w604-h194/Altered%20banner.jpg" width="604" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div><p id="docs-internal-guid-163e1e2f-7fff-e74d-c102-93300b4c5efb" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-3c1bd959-7fff-71fd-4dd3-c1c8f6e4f8a0" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-73aceb05-7fff-a7b8-7299-7b7e161268cb" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Justin Wright, New York City’s premier psychiatrist, is determined to help Frank Devlin, a young man with multiple personalities (“alters”), live a happier, more fulfilling life. Little does he know that Frank, and his alters, are secretly weaving themselves into Justin’s life in ways that will affect the Wright family forever…</span></span></span></p><p id="docs-internal-guid-163e1e2f-7fff-e74d-c102-93300b4c5efb" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-73aceb05-7fff-a7b8-7299-7b7e161268cb" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZzpehhB8yk4kwFS6jj2tfYLqsyG5DrJovY8wDM2aeTuIhpYgCZ6QMmk9T6k_L7AovWWPPcHlkxH7i0R_X8UrBU49VB-Hg_bbfLo8byVMh4KYGs9aotzuLTpC1Thu97jBtgQcySLxEvmjg6zWdb9PqVWELJT8hsBC0HCP0BjqChtpXCHOdVdVWU4/s685/Altered.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="685" data-original-width="496" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZzpehhB8yk4kwFS6jj2tfYLqsyG5DrJovY8wDM2aeTuIhpYgCZ6QMmk9T6k_L7AovWWPPcHlkxH7i0R_X8UrBU49VB-Hg_bbfLo8byVMh4KYGs9aotzuLTpC1Thu97jBtgQcySLxEvmjg6zWdb9PqVWELJT8hsBC0HCP0BjqChtpXCHOdVdVWU4/w464-h640/Altered.png" width="464" /></a></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arvo; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: Oswald;"><span></span></span></b></span></p></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: Oswald;"><span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: Oswald;"><span><span></span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: Oswald;"><span><span></span></span></span></b></span><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="color: black;"><span data-mce-style="font-size: 14pt;" style="font-size: 14pt;"><span data-mce-style="color: #000000;">Title: Altered</span></span><br /><span data-mce-style="font-size: 14pt; color: #000000;" style="font-size: 14pt;"> Author: Rob Kaufman</span><br /><span data-mce-style="font-size: 14pt; color: #000000;" style="font-size: 14pt;"> Publisher: Independent</span><br /><span data-mce-style="font-size: 14pt; color: #000000;" style="font-size: 14pt;"> Pages: 276</span><br /></span><span data-mce-style="font-size: 14pt; color: #000000;" style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"> Genre: Psychological Suspense Thriller<br /> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When Frank Devlin walks into Justin
Wright’s office, the renowned New York City clinical psychiatrist
decides to take on one of the most challenging cases of his career.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">After their first session, it’s
obvious Frank has multiple personalities (“alters”) and each one
couldn’t be more different than the other. Justin must get to know each
individual alter in order to discover the best route to take so that
Frank can live a full and happy life. He must also delve into Frank’s
past, one filled with mystery, darkness and trauma — the true causes
behind his personality split.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">As Justin deals with Frank’s issues,
he’s also confronted with his own demons: the kidnapping of Michael, his
youngest son, seven years earlier… a wife he adores, Mandy, who refuses
to accept her son is gone… a constant struggle with his oldest son,
Dylan, who was watching over Michael the day the boy was taken. And his
problems get worse as, unbeknownst to Justin, Frank and his alters are
secretly weaving themselves into his life in ways that will affect the
Wright family forever.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A suspense-filled story driven by
emotion, angst and the ultimate revenge, “Altered” brings readers down a
twisted path of uncertainty and mind games — leaving them shocked,
heartbroken and questioning what could possibly come next…</span><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> “Crazy-good plot lines and shocking information that had me gasping for breath at every turn!” – Anne F., Amazon Vine Reviewer</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">“It was an amazing ride with tension building throughout until the final twist ending.” – Patricia G., NetGalley Reviewer</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Release Date: November 15, 2022</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Soft Cover: ISBN:979-8358757523; 329 pages; $13.99; Kindle $7.99; FREE on Kindle Unlimited</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: black;">Amazon</span>: <a href="https://amzn.to/3BlpCjs">https://amzn.to/3BlpCjs</a> </span></span></p><p></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-bb2c3c93-7fff-81ba-616c-dcad5ef352a7" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: -0.1pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.1pt; text-align: center; text-indent: -0.1pt;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span><b>Book Excerpt</b></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p></p><blockquote><p>
</p>
<p></p><span style="color: black;"></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52o7MvhyL5x_DhciTqRxgAOAB12zZhD5vvxEpm7cCm_UDN2dJLABY32qRlcV3k4tVP60NOY3gw0aNUdX0AVP0tDWpP-7-1jArRoZ3-UuYYTLq4_jH_GUjoJkuloPQzxohDZq5XrTUiw6JnoXCXLS7rONxrCJZT0tp4J9a8crOBs853Ewd-d52RXM/s535/Altered%202.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="346" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52o7MvhyL5x_DhciTqRxgAOAB12zZhD5vvxEpm7cCm_UDN2dJLABY32qRlcV3k4tVP60NOY3gw0aNUdX0AVP0tDWpP-7-1jArRoZ3-UuYYTLq4_jH_GUjoJkuloPQzxohDZq5XrTUiw6JnoXCXLS7rONxrCJZT0tp4J9a8crOBs853Ewd-d52RXM/s320/Altered%202.png" width="207" /></a></div>The frigid breeze whipped across his face. He ran up the city blocks, wiping melted snowflakes from his eyelids so he could see where he was going. By the time he reached 49<sup>th</sup> Street, he was out of breath and had to stop. He leaned against the steel pole that held both the street signs and traffic lights. After a few deep breaths, he wiped the liquified flurries off his cheeks and walked as quickly as he could until he reached 50th.
</div><p style="text-align: left;">He made a right off Park and because the office was so close to the corner, he could see a glow of light coming from the window. Breathing a sigh of relief, he went through the building’s glass front door and made a quick left. He didn’t stop long enough to ring the bell to let anyone know he was about to enter. Trying to catch his breath, he opened the office door.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The first thing he saw was a man holding a gun up to his own temple.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">He yelled, and before he could say a coherent word, he watched the man turn toward him and heard a loud bang. And then another.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">His legs wobbled, then his head banged on the wooden floor. He brought his hand up to his throat and felt warm liquid oozing from a hole in his neck. He was surprised at the lack of pain and how rapidly numbness was spreading throughout his body. His throat felt like it was swelling up, closing his airway. He fought out a gasp and heard a soft gurgle. Did he just make that noise? Was blood filling his throat?</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">He tried to take another breath and heard the same sloshing liquid. His mind went void of thought, his body, frozen.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Suddenly there was muffled yelling, unintelligible screams. Something that felt like a hand cupped the back of his head and soft skin brushed his cheek. As time passed, seconds… minutes... hours… he couldn’t be sure, everything faded except a weightlessness enshrouding him, a gentle sense of calm. He closed his eyes and listened to the blood pump, with each heartbeat, through the opening in his neck.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">From some obscure corner of his mind, reality edged its way back in and he struggled to open his eyes one last time.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Through the haze of his dissolving vision, he saw a familiar face hovering over him. Anguish twisted it, and as if from a long distance away, he heard the cries and moans falling from the man's mouth.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">He wanted to cry, grieve for them both, but once again his heavy eyelids fell down. The weeping and mumbling became a fading hum and then ultimately silence.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">His final thought was not about this man who sobbed above him, his killer or the “why” behind what just happened. It was the hope that he’d see the loved one he’d lost — a hope that made him smile inside as a comforting warmth enveloped his body like the most snug of blankets warmed by the sun itself.</p>
</div></i></span></span></span></div></div></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">Watch the Trailer!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mdLxyAEoQY4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe> <br /></p><p></p></div></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">More...</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AJ6V5mKpPX-vON5IWZOPYypQw33_GisKILv-7xeQ5ieY6KiH8337vAKN68wFN9AFOCQyKpdls8t-Wksb1pHJxtJXQPV_dDQj2NsqzLGuR4aAkoNaRkXCDIyaquCOhNQXebs95t4OFLjCHoP_j6h3AOxYzRAnEpAEVxwHpoiddY0nmX8p13lwQC0/s640/Altered%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_AJ6V5mKpPX-vON5IWZOPYypQw33_GisKILv-7xeQ5ieY6KiH8337vAKN68wFN9AFOCQyKpdls8t-Wksb1pHJxtJXQPV_dDQj2NsqzLGuR4aAkoNaRkXCDIyaquCOhNQXebs95t4OFLjCHoP_j6h3AOxYzRAnEpAEVxwHpoiddY0nmX8p13lwQC0/w560-h420/Altered%2010.jpg" width="560" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoiY3U3bR4v125g_L1o0O7P-Mhmoih30tIJhOjJniIiCGBvEtZwOsu-FaFsC1bQ6AxjPWQNz5fYwFJx65Jmh-NiieQIeTWjMuJLLNL673EVQfzHWNrHqTrFhduLMjR0GRCr8crHyQDOoPgYh6s83QTWWRGpyXJcjjd4xBuzBahgZRb3mooAmeeKHk/s640/Altered%2012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoiY3U3bR4v125g_L1o0O7P-Mhmoih30tIJhOjJniIiCGBvEtZwOsu-FaFsC1bQ6AxjPWQNz5fYwFJx65Jmh-NiieQIeTWjMuJLLNL673EVQfzHWNrHqTrFhduLMjR0GRCr8crHyQDOoPgYh6s83QTWWRGpyXJcjjd4xBuzBahgZRb3mooAmeeKHk/w593-h445/Altered%2012.jpg" width="593" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6N6glqEetgRJeQSi7apXeO2TBumwBvv7vNDvp_isW1gvJO1PqGVE-ow6iYao-i_qCyx1934oSesI31mh052evyNT9sN4DVg5_sXtHx15CDUQIcFjL-BVQJfNaHOhRT-09TfnBULVJEDNLVy_pgUbUPEH23h7WfgWCJC-C0P1jgv7CSJ4YHsS3b6A/s640/Altered%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6N6glqEetgRJeQSi7apXeO2TBumwBvv7vNDvp_isW1gvJO1PqGVE-ow6iYao-i_qCyx1934oSesI31mh052evyNT9sN4DVg5_sXtHx15CDUQIcFjL-BVQJfNaHOhRT-09TfnBULVJEDNLVy_pgUbUPEH23h7WfgWCJC-C0P1jgv7CSJ4YHsS3b6A/w596-h447/Altered%208.jpg" width="596" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #222222; font-family: Arvo; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><b><span><span>About the Author</span></span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><b><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkz85QurvYhshUl44E2AyAYdtot7_aFMPdGDtO8wOaQv9v5iXyuOHcj4_crf1vO8Xt7QrrwWE23mKdY1d5I9Qt6N5omU9-pj_PBYiEZatZft5ANv3BgDT3EHQqLbg9HlQWcDoxW-zfAoKRH1IDAu0FGU_xCHZdTGmiUhxizHyWinQBcLMZLbzQC5U/s660/Rob%20Kaufman.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="490" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkz85QurvYhshUl44E2AyAYdtot7_aFMPdGDtO8wOaQv9v5iXyuOHcj4_crf1vO8Xt7QrrwWE23mKdY1d5I9Qt6N5omU9-pj_PBYiEZatZft5ANv3BgDT3EHQqLbg9HlQWcDoxW-zfAoKRH1IDAu0FGU_xCHZdTGmiUhxizHyWinQBcLMZLbzQC5U/w476-h640/Rob%20Kaufman.png" width="476" /></a></div></span></span></b></span></span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div><div style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-weight: 400;"></span><p></p>
<p>
</p><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Rob Kaufman novels are known for
having characters with whom people can relate, while at the same time,
bringing them on a journey from which most people would crumble.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">His degree in Psychology was the first
step toward getting beneath the surface of the people in his life. What
followed was a lifelong search for what makes people tick – what forces
them to become evil when deep down they are yearning for love. Rob’s
characters walk this search with him, deep into the human psyche,
creating psychological thrillers from everyday events.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Rob’s books are perfect for those who
enjoy thrillers but also need strong emotion to keep them deeply
involved with the characters.</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">“All my books hit home for me,” says
Rob. “There are always parts that make me laugh out loud as I write
them… and many, too many, that make me cry. And the great thing is, I’m
finding that many readers of my books experience the same emotions.”</span></span></span></p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span></span><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Rob’s books receive both national and
international praise with most reviews noting that his storylines are
extremely “unique” and “sobering” and the twists and turns are
“masterful”.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span><p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>Website or Blog: </b> <a href="http://www.authorrobkaufman.com">www.authorrobkaufman.com</a></span></span></p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span><p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>Twitter:</b> <a href="http://www.twitter.com/AuthorKaufman">http://www.twitter.com/AuthorKaufman</a></span></span></p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span><p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>Facebook: </b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorRobKaufman">https://www.facebook.com/AuthorRobKaufman</a></span></span></p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;">
</span><p><span style="font-family: Cherry Swash;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>Goodreads: </b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/745558.Rob_Kaufman">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/745558.Rob_Kaufman</a></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_8_-udo08OSbHjLO0fDkWw4c2AlaMhjbBx7u3N3Ky4XsxsFDajtzYxSj4ezSGXiLRSSz0PLic3XBhm-IckGAgAWiO864JH5OLfJxc9IMTJFqoDgtC0pRc-LvEGtbWsdGD9XrNrr-lEfGr6wEj_KB3hiiYpslXYOoPF9OkIyeRcxyk9WFqWQadZ4/s2720/Altered%209.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1844" data-original-width="2720" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_8_-udo08OSbHjLO0fDkWw4c2AlaMhjbBx7u3N3Ky4XsxsFDajtzYxSj4ezSGXiLRSSz0PLic3XBhm-IckGAgAWiO864JH5OLfJxc9IMTJFqoDgtC0pRc-LvEGtbWsdGD9XrNrr-lEfGr6wEj_KB3hiiYpslXYOoPF9OkIyeRcxyk9WFqWQadZ4/w640-h434/Altered%209.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Sponsored By:</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br style="font-size: 15.4px;" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arvo; font-size: 15.4px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.pumpupyourbook.com/" style="color: #888888; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="956" height="174" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1vQ6IPbeU0k/X-8d6ScxRVI/AAAAAAAA84I/HY7f-zgSjqAAe_CyeCtW8nViVRneT9BzgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h174/Pump%2BUp%2BYour%2BBook%2BVirtual%2BBook%2BTours%2BBanner.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div></div>
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-89354343656344321082023-03-08T13:41:00.000-05:002023-03-08T13:41:12.136-05:00Buried in a Good Book by Tamara Berry audio book Narrator Tanya Eby<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEL_lpxwu2XhhvTML8HsxpYjhlCsxyqbfQAAD-pmdY2OCimXlpWz-hEVpy7Ov17RqLBSRW8bOVSqNCvSiLFgvdgkmf6ZGy_VO7tnEbaBNyC-IrjFlcIa4zJDWeO6cz6tLkyR_xYEmWX4wSmMS1kBUxlkDcR8jcQF6AsI8q4sjoRYMJKdkwXJcubiiWPA/s2099/58758641.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2099" data-original-width="1424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEL_lpxwu2XhhvTML8HsxpYjhlCsxyqbfQAAD-pmdY2OCimXlpWz-hEVpy7Ov17RqLBSRW8bOVSqNCvSiLFgvdgkmf6ZGy_VO7tnEbaBNyC-IrjFlcIa4zJDWeO6cz6tLkyR_xYEmWX4wSmMS1kBUxlkDcR8jcQF6AsI8q4sjoRYMJKdkwXJcubiiWPA/s320/58758641.jpg"/></a></div>
Don't miss the first book in a brand-new gripping and hilarious bookish cozy mystery series by author Tamara Berry! Put your sleuthing hat on―Buried in a Good Book features:
A thriller writer who knows way more than anyone should about death and dismemberment
Her young daughter who's more intrigued by dead bodies than she probably should be
An isolated cabin in the woods that's probably―definitely―hiding something
The tiny mountain town that seems less than troubled by a sudden abundance of murders
Bestselling thriller writer Tess Harrow is almost at the end of her rope when she arrives with her teenage daughter at her grandfather's rustic cabin in the woods. She hopes this will be a time for them to heal and bond after Tess's recent divorce, but they've barely made it through the door when an explosion shakes the cabin. Suddenly it's raining fish guts and...is that a human arm?
Tess was hardly convincing Gertie that a summer without Wi-Fi and running water would be an adventure. Now she's thrust into a murder investigation, neighbors are saying they've spotted Bigfoot in the woods near her cabin, and the local sheriff is the spitting image of her character Detective Gabriel Gonzales―something he's less than thrilled about. With so much more than her daughter's summer plans at stake, it's up to Tess to solve this case before anyone else gets hurt.
<b>My Take:</b> I really enjoyed this first book in a cozy mystery series. It had you thinking that certain people were behind the things that were happening but it turned out to be a totally different person. I thought it was an enjoyable story and I liked that it was a fish out of water story . The narrator did a good job except one of the characters that was a female sounded more like a male.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-20538969002482315802023-03-07T14:25:00.001-05:002023-03-08T13:45:07.171-05:00Remember Me by Tracie Peterson.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhbpPcNj7FGzhnFCe627MPIskLOQDPu13uQVoG1l34WYYFp8YrFThAiqzQ1c8RLxdguZMlGHH3eYbBRocBJDkt-cS_033XCEP24scqkEEH5LdaBzXkOWVbRa0B0SnLWUt8Fdnv_MaDiJSOXk6K2II9IB2jMT484VW-xR5LCk7Mj8AlcMCZO3bkYP8EQ/s400/61140672.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhbpPcNj7FGzhnFCe627MPIskLOQDPu13uQVoG1l34WYYFp8YrFThAiqzQ1c8RLxdguZMlGHH3eYbBRocBJDkt-cS_033XCEP24scqkEEH5LdaBzXkOWVbRa0B0SnLWUt8Fdnv_MaDiJSOXk6K2II9IB2jMT484VW-xR5LCk7Mj8AlcMCZO3bkYP8EQ/s320/61140672.jpg"/></a></div>
From the Yukon to Seattle, the hope of a new beginning waits just around the corner.
Addie Bryant is haunted by her past of heartbreak and betrayal. After her beau, Isaac Hanson, left the Yukon, she made a vow to wait for him. When she's sold to a brothel owner after the death of her father, Addie manages to escape with the hope that she can forever hide her past and the belief that she h awill never have the future she's always dreamed of.
Years later, Addie has found peace in her new life as a photographer, training Camera Girls to operate and sell the Brownie camera. During the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Expo in Seattle, Addie is reunited with Isaac, but after the path her life has taken, she's afraid to expose the ugliness of her former life and to move toward the future they had pledged to each other.
When her past catches up with her, Addie must decide whether to run or to stay and face her wounds in order to embrace her life, her future, and her hope in God.
<b>My Take:</b> I really enjoyed this book by Tracie Peterson. I had never heard about the Camera Girls who took pictures during the Expo in Seattle Washington. I knew from the beginning that there might be trouble from her brothers and I was waiting with baited breath with every turn of the page. Addie was a seeker in the Christian faith and she had some questions for both her friends in Seattle and Isaac. I could understand her hesitancy in getting back together with Isaac after everything that had happened to her since they had last seen each other. I got angry at her brothers for the way they treated her but I had to keep telling myself that that was the way the world was back then. I would highly recommend this book if you like stories of redemption and historical fiction with a spiritual side.
I received a review copy of this book from the author for my personal review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-9826040508834431742023-02-16T13:41:00.000-05:002023-02-16T13:41:12.452-05:00Remember Me by Tracie Peterson <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPT0CmIA67KS0DfXkderj4CgrfNz6jPZxKHlL4NnPGTyG_rdVAoue05Jug3h9KNDR9L1XM2ksqieWX23BaujIu6U-c671cNsjTjlyXZa4FA65j1-FE_xXwr6srTQ9M1c8KXeu_xdFRT2En7guMgcTkAMOZmjN4PdKmc-k_LmkeLfXv0D3TAML3QsiOg/s526/326977217_1332228060890256_7800621448321212381_n.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="526" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPT0CmIA67KS0DfXkderj4CgrfNz6jPZxKHlL4NnPGTyG_rdVAoue05Jug3h9KNDR9L1XM2ksqieWX23BaujIu6U-c671cNsjTjlyXZa4FA65j1-FE_xXwr6srTQ9M1c8KXeu_xdFRT2En7guMgcTkAMOZmjN4PdKmc-k_LmkeLfXv0D3TAML3QsiOg/s320/326977217_1332228060890256_7800621448321212381_n.jpg"/></a></div>detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-17760537863333982023-02-09T06:00:00.001-05:002023-02-09T06:00:00.193-05:00The Bone Records by Rich Zahradnik<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-bone-records-by-rich-zahradnik/" title="The Bone Records by Rich Zahradnik"><img class="aligncenter size-full" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/12/the-bone-records-by-rich-zahradnik-banner-.png" alt="The Bone Records by Rich Zahradnik Banner" width="600" height="338"></a></h2>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>The Bone Records</h2>
<h3>by Rich Zahradnik</h3>
<h4>January 30 - February 10, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/11/the-bone-records-by-rich-zahradnik-cover.jpg" alt="The Bone Records by Rich Zahradnik" width="200" height="320" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" border="0"></div>
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<p>NY Police Academy washout Grigg Orlov discovers an eerie piece of evidence at the scene of his father's brutal murder: a disc-shaped X-ray of a skull. It's a bone record--what Soviet citizens called banned American songs recorded on used X-rays. But the black-market singles haven't been produced since the sixties. What's one doing in Coney Island in 2016?</p>
<p>Grigg uncovers a connection between his father and three others who collected bone records when they were teenage friends growing up in Leningrad. Are past and present linked? Or is the murder tied to the local mob? Grigg's got too many suspects and too little time. He must get to the truth before a remorseless killer takes everything he has.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Bone Records</i>:</h3>
<p>"<i>The Bone Records</i> grabs you by the throat on the very first page, then never slows down as it takes you on a wild ride through New York City streets filled with Russian intrigue, underworld crime, police corruption and a man’s desperate quest to avenge his father’s murder. Shamus Award-winner Rich Zahradnik has written a taut, terrifically exciting and thought-provoking thriller."</p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p><span style="color: #c3ba2a"><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/tag/r-g-belsky/">R.G. Belsky, award-winning author of the Clare Carlson mystery series</a></span></p>
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<p>"The plot is not only timely, but utterly unique—a tale of cultures colliding, often with sudden and unexpected consequences, as lonely city claims-adjuster Grigg Orlov spends his long nights chasing down leads on the mysterious disappearance of his father... This is a compelling read, highly recommended."</p>
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<p>LA Times bestselling author Baron R. Birtcher</p>
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<p>"A fast-paced thriller set around Coney Island during the tumultuous lead-up to the 2016 presidential election… <i>The Bone Records</i> is a well-crafted mountain of intrigue and non-stop action."</p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p><span style="color: #c3ba2a"><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/tag/bruce-robert-coffin/">Bruce Robert Coffin, award-winning author of the Detective Byron Mysteries</a></span></p>
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<p>"A wonderfully flawed protagonist and a complex mystery combine with current events in Zahradnik's best novel to date. <i>The Bone Records</i> had me hooked from page one."</p>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<p><span style="color: #c3ba2a">Elena Taylor, award-winning author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/all-we-buried-by-elena-taylor/">All We Buried</a></em> and the Eddie Shoes mystery series</span></p>
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<blockquote class="details">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Mystery <br>
<b>Published by:</b> 1000 Words A Day Press<br>
<b>Publication Date:</b> November 2022<br>
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 338<br>
<b>ISBN:</b> 9798985905649<br>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3EIYtaS" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3F8SKgd" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3uaJjWZ" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3AO4guN" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<h6>Friday, August 19, 2016</h6>
<p>Grigg’s reunion with his father was brief—eight minutes to be exact—and ended when a man with a nickel-plated revolver shot Dad twice.</p>
<p>Three hours before the violence began, Grigg struggled through the crowd on the Coney Island subway platform. He was the last to reach the stairway to the station’s exit. Again. Even the old folks were gone. His wrecked knee held him back.</p>
<p>Outside the station, Deno’s Wonder Wheel turned slowly, towering over the amusement park that took its name from the ancient fifteen-story ride. The wheel’s spokes glowed a hot neon white. Hazy coronas surrounded all the lights. </p>
<p>Tick-tick-tick-tick.</p>
<p>Grigg had started wearing his father’s Timex soon after he had gone missing. He put the watch up to his ear, as he’d done too many times before. It wasn’t loud enough to be heard. The clockwork noise was in his head. Maybe a reminder to keep looking. Maybe a reminder that six months was already too long in missing persons cases.</p>
<p>His father’s watch read 8:18 p.m.</p>
<p>He limped away from Coney Island’s amusement parks toward his house on West 28th off Mermaid Avenue. As he did, the street darkened. He checked behind him more than once. The neighborhood became far less amusing as night came on—and the farther you went from the fun parks. Mugging wasn’t the thrill ride Grigg needed. He didn’t want any more trouble. He had a lifetime’s supply. His long days pinballed him between two jobs and the search for his father. </p>
<p>But despite Grigg’s best efforts, the minutes and hours and days kept spinning off the Timex, found by the police in a Howard Beach motel room, the last place his father was seen before he vanished into the thin March air. Their empty house waited to reflect Grigg’s loneliness back at him. His mother had died when he was eighteen months old. His boss at the city’s claims adjustment office rarely talked to him outside of giving orders. All of his connections—he couldn’t really call them friends—in the neighborhood he owed to his father. Dad, like the rest of them, had immigrated from Russia. Unlike the rest of them, he’d married a woman from Jamaica, a union that guaranteed Grigg would always be on the outside in Little Odessa.</p>
<p>The rubber soles of his cheap dress shoes slapped the wet pavement. A thunderstorm had blown through while he was on the subway, leaving behind the sticky-thick humidity. His messenger bag tugged on his shoulder.</p>
<p>He went over the lead he’d uncovered tonight. Going door-to-door in a Midwood apartment building full of Russians, he’d talked briefly to a tenant named Freddy Popov, who recognized Grigg’s father when shown a photo. Popov said a man—maybe a cop—had been canvassing the building with a picture of Grigg’s dad four weeks earlier. Inside the man’s apartment and shielded by Popov, someone said something in Russian. Popov got hinky, then said he didn’t know anything more and slammed the door. Grigg banged on it until a woman across the hall threatened to call the cops. He left with only the knowledge that someone else—maybe a cop?—was also searching for Dad. Still, that bit of info was his biggest lead to date.</p>
<p>Grigg limped up to the small, two-story brick house—kitchen, living room, two bedrooms over a garage—a duplicate of the other attached homes on the street. He unlocked the steel gate, then the front door, and stepped inside.</p>
<p>The thunk of the door closing echoed through the house. Two days ago, Grigg had moved everything out except for the sleeping bag in his bedroom of twenty-seven years and a blue duffel, readying the old house for its new owners. He turned the deadbolt.</p>
<p>He shouldn’t be staying here tonight. He’d spent all his free time on the search for Dad, right up until the closing on the sale of the house. Even at the end, he’d hoped for a breakthrough that would save him from selling. He’d signed the papers yesterday, writing a check for $1,650—most of his savings—because the house was underwater on a second mortgage his father had taken out. Grigg knew the out-of-state buyers wouldn’t be moving in for three weeks, so he’d kept a copy of the key. </p>
<p><em>Trespassing in my own house. Inviting trouble when I already have too much.</em></p>
<p>The plan was to use the next three weeks to find an apartment share, but the lead from Popov tugged at his thoughts. Would it pull so hard that he’d spend his free time searching for Dad and end up homeless? He ducked his own question and instead pictured going back to demand Popov tell him more. He shook his head. He could barely keep his mind on his housing problem for the space of a single thought. He took a beer out of the refrigerator, went up to his room, and rolled his sleeping bag into a fat pillow to lean against.</p>
<p>Grigg popped open the 90 Years Young Double IPA. Nine percent alcohol. The strong stuff he’d dubbed “floor softener.” He downed two sixteen-ounce cans, and the ache faded from the muscles in his damaged leg.</p>
<p>He took out his phone. He’d run through his data allowance last week. Three days until the new billing cycle. At least he had his music. He played the Decembrists, their songs about revenge and ships at sea set to jangly indie rock. He followed with the Killers, then Vampire Weekend.</p>
<p>Tick-tick-tick-tick.</p>
<p>His father’s watch read 11:20 p.m.</p>
<p>He opened his notebook and wrote down “Day 191” along with what he’d learned. It was longer than any previous entry—yet not long at all. So many days. The silence in the house chilled him, sending goosebumps in waves over his arms and thighs. He got up and turned down the air conditioner. It wouldn’t help. He missed his father’s voice, the way it had warmed their home. They could talk about everything and anything, a lot of anything, but such interesting anything. Dad was always there with his questions, his curiosity, and his deep interest in whatever Grigg was up to. There were days his father was more intrigued by Grigg’s job than Grigg was. Even that helped.</p>
<p>A fourth beer. He floated on the wood floor of his empty bedroom. Slept.</p>
<p>A thump. The floor hardened underneath him. Another thump. Half buzzed, halfway to a headache, Grigg opened his eyes. He heard it again. Not a dream. On the roof. He followed the steps above him to his father’s empty bedroom. He was about to switch on his phone’s flashlight when legs—silhouetted by the glow from the street across the way—dangled over the room’s tiny balcony. They descended slowly, inching, hesitating, as if the intruder were no expert at this sort of move. The toes stretched to touch, and finally, the person dropped, stumbled, and landed on their knees.</p>
<p>Grigg didn’t know whether to laugh or arm himself. If this was a robbery, then the joke was going to be on a thief who’d picked a house with nothing in it. Grigg decided discretion was the better part of whatever, returned to his bedroom, and pulled the stun gun from his messenger bag. Ever since he’d been attacked when he was in the police academy—suffering the knee injury that forced him to drop out—he hadn’t felt safe unless he carried the weapon.</p>
<p>He placed the messenger bag next to his duffel in the hallway in case he needed to get out fast. In the kitchen, he grabbed his second six pack as a backup weapon.</p>
<p>Of course, he could escape by the front and leave the intruder for the police to deal with. But if he did, then the buyers would be notified, and he’d lose the three weeks of temporary housing he’d been counting on. </p>
<p>He crept through the doorway into the main bedroom.</p>
<p>The figure, whose face remained in deep shadow because of the streetlight glow from behind, rattled the handle to the single balcony door, used his elbow to smash in the square pane nearest the knob, reached in, and turned the simple metal lock. As he pushed the door open, Grigg stepped forward, hit his phone’s light, and thrust forward the stun gun.</p>
<p>“Get the fuck out of my house!”</p>
<p>The figure froze. “I’m not going to hurt you, Grigg.”</p>
<p>Grigg moved closer.</p>
<p>“Dad? Dad!”</p>
<p>Full beard and longer hair, but it was him. </p>
<p>Grigg didn’t know whether to hug his father or scream at him.</p>
<p>“I came to say goodbye,” Dad said.</p>
<p>“Goodbye?”</p>
<p>“I’m leaving. For Russia. I don’t know when I’ll be able to return. It’s the only way.”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand.” <em>Any of it.</em> “You said you’d never go back.”</p>
<p>“It’s the only way to fix things.”</p>
<p>“Things? What things?” <em>Popov’s suggestion about a cop.</em> “Are the police after you?” </p>
<p>A click came from the front door, and Grigg spun. Seeing his father and not an intruder had put the brakes on his fear. Now, his heart raced. He squeezed the handle of the stun gun with a sweaty hand. <em>Keep it together.</em></p>
<p>The knob turned.</p>
<p>The front door flew open. </p>
<h4>Chapter 2</h4>
<h6>Friday, August 19, 2016</h6>
<p>The man was tall and red haired with a short beard and a flattened nose. He held a long-barreled, nickel-plated revolver. Looked like a .357 magnum.</p>
<p>“Shit.” Grigg grabbed his bags—there wasn’t time to recover the sleeping roll from his room and stuff it in the duffel—dropped back into the bedroom with his father, and shut and locked the door, though it wouldn’t hold for long. “Guy’s armed. Is someone after you?”</p>
<p>“Yes. But no, not now. That’s why I came across the roof.”</p>
<p>Grigg’s thoughts spun like he’d boarded the Tilt-A-Whirl at Deno’s Wonder Wheel. This was fucking nuts. His dad came back and moments later they were under attack. His stomach flipped as if he were actually on the ride.</p>
<p>A hundred questions.</p>
<p>A thousand.</p>
<p>Something hit the bedroom door hard.</p>
<p>No time for any.</p>
<p>“We’ll go out the way you came in.”</p>
<p>“I can’t make it back on the roof. I barely made it down.”</p>
<p>“I’ll boost you.”</p>
<p>They were on the balcony in seconds. Grigg grabbed his father’s thighs and lifted upward, bearing as much of the weight as he could on his good right leg. It wasn’t enough. He nearly fell over; instead, he leaned against the iron railing to regain his balance and shoved until Dad was able to drag himself onto the roof. </p>
<p>Another crash from the bedroom door. </p>
<p>Grigg tossed his duffel down into the backyard for later retrieval. </p>
<p>The bedroom door gave way after the third blow.</p>
<p>Grigg ripped free a can of 90 Years Young and hurled it hard into the shadowed darkness of the room. The man yelped in pain.</p>
<p>Grigg didn’t wait to learn more. He moved to the side and climbed onto the balcony railing. Two loud gunshots, the weapon aimed at the space he’d vacated. He dropped the remaining beers and started pulling himself onto the roof. His arms were strong, but the left leg slowed him. Scrambling with all his strength, he made it up. </p>
<p>Below the asphalt roofing, in the attic, was the weapon he really needed, a registered .32 in a gun safe. No way to get it now. </p>
<p><em>Should’ve been better prepared.</em></p>
<p>“Run!” Dad whispered. </p>
<p>Run was right. There’d be time for should-haves later. Right now, Grigg had pissed off the gun-wielding asshole who was after his father for reasons unknown.</p>
<p>He went as fast as his left leg would allow, which meant he and his sixty-eight-year-old dad kept about even. They dodged around the boiler chimney and an AC unit. Neither structure looked tall enough to block a clear shot. They needed something bigger between them and that nickel-plated revolver. Like now.</p>
<p>They crossed to the roof of the next attached house and the next.</p>
<p>“How’d you get up here?” Grigg gasped, trying to picture a way down to street level and coming up empty.</p>
<p>“The Kiev Bakery at the corner has a fire escape.”</p>
<p>That meant winning a block-long race over rooftops. Against bullets and a faster runner.</p>
<p>“Stop!” came a deep voice from behind them.</p>
<p>“Why’s he after you?”</p>
<p>Instead of an answer, the report of the gun, then another.</p>
<p>Dad grabbed his side, groaned, and slowed but kept running, slewing off to the left. Grigg stayed with him.</p>
<p>“Get to Katia. Katia Sokolov—”</p>
<p>“Katia?”</p>
<p>Dad jerked and spun nearly in sync with the sound of the third shot. Hot blood sprayed Grigg’s face.</p>
<p>His father listed hard to the left, veering toward the edge of the roof and the backyard two stories below.</p>
<p>Grigg grabbed for his dad’s arm, but his hand slipped on blood.</p>
<p>He reached again to get a hold, but his father, as if driven by the red jet from his neck, took two more steps.</p>
<p>And disappeared off the roof.</p>
<p>Grigg stopped.</p>
<p>Stared at the twisted body below.</p>
<p>The next gunshot lifted the messenger bag hanging from his shoulder. </p>
<p>Shock made way for raw panic. Flee or die. The fire escape. Too far. He had to get down the way he came up. He dropped to the balcony of the house beneath him, then repeated the maneuver to reach the ground, bad knee screaming from the punishment of the twin blows, shirt drenched in sweat and blood. </p>
<p>His father’s body lay face up with an arm under his back and the right leg bent at an unnatural angle. A two-story drop wouldn’t necessarily kill you. But the neck wound … </p>
<p>“Stay there or I will shoot you.” The killer began taking Grigg’s route to the ground.</p>
<p>The man had one shot left before he needed to reload. Or had he reloaded already?</p>
<p>Grigg knelt. Pressed his hand to his father’s neck where the blood pulsed.</p>
<p>His father’s eyes were open. With the slightest of movements, he patted at his blazer pocket. The jacket was no surprise. Dad always wore blazers. Weekdays and weekends. All seasons. <em>Why the hell does that matter now? Tilt-A-Whirl thinking.</em> A black tube protruded from the pocket. Grigg pulled it out. </p>
<p>Another shot.</p>
<p>Dirt leapt inches from Grigg’s foot.</p>
<p>The gunman stood on the second-floor balcony and looked to be reloading.</p>
<p>Warning bells almost drowned out the unending ticking in Grigg’s head as he held the tube up for Dad to see. “Is this what he’s after?”</p>
<p>Dad’s eyes didn’t move. Stared upward. Locked in on something. Or nothing. His mouth was a black hole ringed with blood and spittle on thin lips. Grigg checked for a pulse. Neck first, then ear to chest. Nothing.</p>
<p>The gunman hung from the balcony, preparing to make the drop to the ground.</p>
<p>Fighting the nausea creeping up from his gut, Grigg ran as darts of pain shot from his left knee into his thigh. He climbed over the fence into the opposite yard, then into another next door, and found a shed to crouch behind.</p>
<p>From two backyards away, the gun went off.</p>
<p>A kill shot when Dad was already dead.</p>
<p>Grigg heaved up what was left of his dinner and the beers. Heaved again. Too much noise. Ground down his teeth to stop. He spat quietly to clear the taste of puke. Failed.</p>
<p>He couldn’t see or hear the shooter, but he didn’t dare move. Grief, anger, and fear threatened to swamp anything like clear thinking. A tidal wave against a rowboat. He needed to save himself. He needed to be a coward. Five minutes, then ten ticked off on his father’s watch as he looked at the fence. Shadowed darkness. A deep purple oozed across his vision from staring too hard at the wooden slats. </p>
<p>Finally, he ordered himself to leave. </p>
<p><em>Be practical: the duffel bag.</em></p>
<p>He crossed two more backyards until he could approach his house—what used to be his house—from the other side. He saw no one in the yard where the body lay, looking from this distance like a dark mound. But the killer could be waiting somewhere to take him out. He inched with his back up against the wall (it was darkest near the houses), grabbed the bag, and slipped out to the avenue without incident. </p>
<p>His destination: the Conquistador Arcade in the Coney Island amusement area. He worked there most evenings. He had a key. </p>
<p>Cleaning the blood from his face and arms and out of his hair took an hour. Might have taken less time, but he kept scrubbing long after his skin was clean. If only he could scrub tonight away. After searching for six months, he’d had mere minutes with his dad before the attack. Grigg was too exhausted to cry. He knew the shirt was a write-off but left it soaking in the sink anyway, now the least of his lost causes.</p>
<p>He needed to go to the police. He knew that. But they hadn’t given a shit when Dad disappeared. Grigg had been the only one looking. Murder was different than missing, right? Then again, he knew of too many unsolved killings in Coney Island.</p>
<p>He found it hard to think. Ideas, memories, discrete facts were fireflies inside his head. They whirled, collided, and spun off into the darkness. The lights led nowhere. Connected nothing. Would it help if he could catch them all in a jar like he had on an upstate trip with Dad? Or would that only mean the same confusion jammed in a smaller space?</p>
<p>He exited the bathroom of the arcade, which had closed hours ago, and moved to the Skee-Ball machines against the back wall. Rows of blinking arcade games shielded him from the front windows. He sat down. It was ironic. No, just sad. Grigg had dreamed of becoming a cop since he was a kid. The police academy hadn’t worked out. Worse than that, it’d cost him his knee. Failed. Failed to find his father. Then Dad found him too late. Another failure. Exhaustion pressed down on him like the air had thickened, had weight. Maybe he’d lie down in the lane of this machine. He absently pulled out the black tube he’d taken from his dad’s pocket. The shock again. He’d forgotten all about it. He took off a blue rubber band. The flimsy, plastic-like material unrolled: a super-thin black disc with a hole in the middle, like an old record. One of the arcade games flashed, and Grigg caught sight of something in the translucent black material. Film? He played his phone’s light through it from behind, and the image of a skull materialized. He held the light closer. An X-ray of a skull, though like no X-ray he’d ever seen. For one obvious reason, it was circular; on closer inspection, the edge was uneven, like it had been cut by hand. The disc bore handwritten Cyrillic lettering. Grigg couldn’t read or speak the Russian language, but smaller English script had also been written on the film: “Not Fade Away,” right above the skull’s eye sockets. He tipped the disc sidelong and scanned the surface. <em>Wait … are those grooves?</em> Grooves, three inches’ worth, cut into the X-ray disc, but only on one side. </p>
<p>Grigg would have sworn he was holding an old-fashioned record album—if an album were thin, translucent, and had a skull X-ray on it but no proper label.</p>
<p>He turned it over again. Connections came together in his head. The sting of memory going back six months, the night before his father disappeared, the second to last time Grigg had set eyes on the man. </p>
<p>Dad had stood in the living room, whistling and sorting through the mail: a couple fliers, a bill, and a manila envelope. He had opened the envelope, and Grigg had glimpsed a black thing—maybe disc shaped—slipping from it. </p>
<p>Was it a disc? Maybe he only wanted it to be. It seemed so long ago. </p>
<p>The way he remembered it, Dad froze, stopped whistling, then turned away from Grigg to hold the object over a table lamp before hurrying to his bedroom. His father hadn’t come out again—no goodnight, no nothing—and was gone when Grigg awoke the next morning. </p>
<p>In the aftermath of his father’s disappearance, he’d forgotten about the envelope and the black thing. </p>
<p>Grigg reached further into his memories but could find nothing else. That period had become a blur. He’d been overwhelmed by the search—plus two jobs and money running out fast. Finding his father had seemed more important than figuring out why he’d left. Maybe he had gotten it backward. Maybe the why came first.</p>
<p>He looked at his phone, useless as a tool to identify the object for certain. That would have to happen in the morning. And on the chance it played like a vinyl record, he needed to listen to it before he turned it over to the cops.</p>
<p>The strange disc generated enough adrenaline to further clear the fog in his brain. His father’s last words: get to Katia Sokolov. If his thoughts hadn’t been scrambled by the murder, he’d have wondered at that name sooner. First, probably. He couldn’t talk to the cops until after he spoke with Katia, something he hadn’t done in more than a year. Still, there was no way he’d sic a pack of homicide detectives on her. He owed her that much. More.</p>
<p>Thinking of how he’d lost Katia took him to losing Dad for good and wrenched sobs from him for twenty minutes, a half hour. He wasn’t sure. </p>
<p><em>God, I</em> so <em>need sleep.</em> </p>
<p>Grigg risked the chance of being seen, snuck out, and bought a four-pack of strong ale at a bodega on Surf Avenue.</p>
<p>He was asleep midway through the second can.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Bone Records</i> by Rich Zahradnik. Copyright 2022 by Rich Zahradnik. Reproduced with permission from Rich Zahradnik. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
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<p>Rich Zahradnik is the author of the thriller <i>The Bone Records</i> and four critically acclaimed mysteries, including <i>Lights Out Summer</i>, winner of the Shamus Award. He was a journalist for twenty-seven years and now lives in Pelham, New York, where he is the mentor to the staff of the <i>Pelham Examiner</i>, an award-winning community newspaper run, edited, reported, and written by people under the age of eighteen.</p>
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My Take: This book has it all, history, mystery, Russian Mobsters and non stop action from beginning till the end. I was really interested in the Bone Records as I had never heard of them before. I found the story very engaging and it kept me wanting to keep reading which is the sign of a good story. I recieved a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-12011954084646644862023-02-03T10:47:00.000-05:002023-02-03T10:47:44.147-05:00Dark of Night by Colleen Coble<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>Dark of Night</h2>
<h3> by Colleen Coble</h3>
<h4>January 9-February 3, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/Dark-of-Night.jpeg" alt="Dark of Night by Colleen Coble cover" width="200" height="305" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" border="0"></div>
<h4>The law is about justice—not grace. But perhaps ranger Annie Pederson can find a way to have both.</h4>
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<p>As if the last few months haven’t been hard enough—complete with threats on her life and the return of her first love, Jon—Annie has to figure out whether or not to believe a woman who claims to be her sister, Sarah, who was abducted twenty-four years ago at age five. Annie’s eight-year-old daughter, Kylie, has plenty of questions about what’s going on in her mother’s life—but there are some stones Annie doesn’t want uncovered.</p>
<p>As Annie grapples with how to heal the gulf between her and her would-be sister and make room in her daughter’s life for Jon, she’s professionally distracted by the case of yet another missing hiker in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A woman named Michelle Fraser has now been abducted, and though the woman’s estranged husband is at the top of their suspect list, Annie and her colleagues will need to dig deeper and determine whether these recent mysteries are truly as unrelated as they seem.</p>
<h4>In this second novel of bestselling author Colleen Coble’s latest romantic-suspense series, Annie and Jon must fight for the future—and the family—that could once more be theirs.</h4>
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<blockquote class="details">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Romantic Suspense<br>
<b>Published by:</b> Thomas Nelson<br>
<b>Publication Date:</b> January 2023<br>
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 352<br>
<b>ISBN:</b> 0785253742 (ISBN13: 9780785253747)<br>
<b>Series:</b> Annie Pederson #2 <br>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3VIVWVS" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3VSoSuS" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3DcppAw" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">ChristianBook</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ScdDu1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="height:250px; overflow:auto; border-width:3px; border-color:800000; border-style:groove;">
<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<p>Should she even be out here alone? Michigan’s U.P. was a whole lotta wilderness. Michelle Fraser’s shoulder blades gave a tingle and made her glance back to see if anyone was following her. No one there. But in spite of seeing no movement in the trees and bushes, she couldn’t discount her gut instinct. She’d been spooked ever since she left the safety of the women’s shelter.</p>
<p>Maybe it was just knowing she was out here with no backup that had her on edge.</p>
<p>The heavy scent of rain hung in the twilight air as she set the last of her wildlife cameras in the crook of a large sugar maple tree. A northern flying squirrel chattered a warning from its nest. The <i>glaucomys sabrinus</i>’s agitation made Michelle pull away in time to avoid being nipped.</p>
<p>Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a spooky mist blew through the forest. The sooner she was out of here, the better. Her last set of cameras hadn’t turned up the elusive mountain lions she’d been searching for, but a hunter in neighboring Ontonagon County had snapped a picture of a large male reclining on a rock. If she could acquire more data, it would aid her research for the magazine article proving mountain lions inhabited the area. And she had to have pictures.</p>
<p>She’d been obsessed with big cats for as long as she could remember. Even the various names held a fascinating mystique: catamount, puma, cougar, mountain lion, panther.</p>
<p>A mosquito landed on her arm, and she swatted it. Her hands came away with a drop of blood on her fingers. Yuck. She wiped the residue on her khaki shorts and turned to go back to her ATV. A sound erupted to her right, and it sounded like either a puma or a woman’s scream. The hair on her neck prickled, and she moved that way.</p>
<p>The scream pealed again, and she removed the lens cap on the camera slung around her neck. Her palms dampened, and her breath came fast. Walking toward danger might not be the smartest thing, but Michelle couldn’t help herself. She yearned to see a puma in the wild in all its power and beauty. Her knees shook as she pulled out a bullhorn from her backpack to frighten away the cat if it sensed her as prey.</p>
<p>Queen pumas would be protecting their litters in June, so she needed to be careful. Her lungs labored as she rushed in that direction. Her black belt in jujitsu wouldn’t do much against the speed and power of a puma. She seized a large branch to make herself seem bigger as she advanced through the forest. Evergreen needles clawed at her arms as she forced her way through a thick stand of white pine.</p>
<p>She paused on the other side and caught the glimmer of water. Lake Superior’s waves lapped at the rocky shore, and she spotted a yellow kayak riding the swells in the shallow surf. A discarded backpack bobbed beside it.</p>
<p>Her sense of unease grew as she observed the scene. Glancing around, she approached the water and snagged the backpack from the lake, then pulled the kayak onto the rocks. Her gut told her someone was in trouble.</p>
<p>Should she call out? If it was wildlife threatening the woman she thought she’d heard, Michelle could scare it off with a flare. But if the attacker was human, she didn’t want to give away her presence and put the woman in greater danger. She scanned the area for bear or cougar scat but found nothing.</p>
<p>The sound of oars slapping the water came from her left, and she ducked back into the shadow of the pines until she could tell the intent of the boaters. Two figures partially shrouded in mist paddled a large canoe around a rocky finger of the shore. The glimpse of broad shoulders through the fog indicated they were probably men. She strained to listen through the sound of the wind and water but couldn’t hear much.</p>
<p>She couldn’t put her finger on why she didn’t want them to see her. Maybe because they were men, and Brandon might have sent them after her.</p>
<p>“I know she ran this way. Trying to get to her kayak, eh.” The man’s heavy Yooper accent carried well over the water.</p>
<p>“Can’t see her through this mist,” the other man said. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. Your love life isn’t my business.”</p>
<p>“You owe me. Let’s try on down the shore. There’s a deer trail toward the road she might have tried to take.”</p>
<p>Their voices faded as their canoe moved past. She didn’t get a good look at their faces. Was a woman out there trying to escape an abusive ex? Michelle had seen plenty of that kind of trauma this past year and had experienced abuse personally.</p>
<p>Once they were out of sight, she stepped back into the clearing. “Hello,” she called softly. “Is anyone here? I can help you.”</p>
<p>She walked across the green mossy clearing, searching for a sign of an injured woman. The bushes to her left shivered and rustled, and she stepped closer. “Hello? Do you need help?”</p>
<p>The leaves parted as the mist swirled along the ground, and the pale oval of a woman’s face emerged. Long blonde hair hung in strings along her cheeks, and her eyelids fluttered as though she might faint. Michelle rushed forward and helped the young woman to her feet. She was in her early twenties with a slight build. Mud smeared her khaki shorts and red top, and she was barefoot.</p>
<p>She seemed familiar, and Michelle reached down to touch her forehead. She nearly recoiled at the heat radiating from the young woman. “Wait, aren’t you Grace Mitchell?”</p>
<p>They’d met when Grace first arrived at the shelter, but Michelle hadn’t immediately recognized her with the mud and dirt on her face and hair. The woman’s fever alarmed Michelle. “You’re burning up. We need to get you to a doctor.”</p>
<p>“I-I’ll be fine. Do you have some way out of here?”</p>
<p>“My ATV is this way.” Michelle put her right arm around the woman’s waist and helped her stumble toward the trail. “What are you doing out here?”</p>
<p>Grace paused and wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead. “I spotted my ex driving past the shelter, and I knew he’d found me. That day we met, you mentioned a remote area you liked with a great camping spot, and I decided to try to find it. You know, hide out until I figured out where to go to get away from Roy. But I stopped by to get camping gear from my parents, and he must have followed me here. He’s out there somewhere. He and a buddy.” Her blue eyes flashed with fear. “I can’t let him find me.”</p>
<p>They reached the ATV, and Michelle got Grace situated, but it was a tight squeeze on the vehicle meant for one person. Michelle got water out of her backpack and helped Grace drink some. She grabbed her phone, too, and took a quick photo of the traumatized girl before she dropped it back into the pack.</p>
<p>Michelle started the machine and pulled out onto the trail back to the cabin where she’d been hiding out. She should have gotten out of here earlier since the weather had caused darkness to fall sooner than expected. It would be slow going on the rough trail with only the headlamps pushing the darkness back a short distance.</p>
<p>After only a few minutes, Michelle realized she’d gotten off the trail. She stopped the machine and looked around. Which way should she go? She consulted her compass and decided to push due west. They’d only gone a few feet when the ground gave out under the machine, and they went flying into the air. When Michelle hit the ground, something in her right leg snapped, and the excruciating pain was instantaneous.</p>
<p>She bit back a scream but couldn’t stop the moan as she pulled her knee to her chest. The swelling was already starting four inches above her ankle, but at least it didn’t appear to be a compound fracture. “I-I’ve broken my leg. Are you all right, Grace?”</p>
<p>When Grace didn’t answer, Michelle felt along the ground until she touched her thigh. “Grace?” She felt up the young woman’s body to her face.</p>
<p>Grace wasn’t breathing. “Oh no,” Michelle whispered. She checked her out in the dark as best as she could. No pulse.</p>
<p>Michelle dragged herself to the machine but it was on its side, and she couldn’t right it with her broken leg. No one would be searching for her out here, so she had to find shelter. But how?</p>
<p>The pain made it hard to think. She froze at the sound of movement in the vegetation. Something big was crashing toward her. A deer? A mountain lion or bear?</p>
<p>A man’s shoulders moved into sight, and his expression sent shivers up her spine. When he reached down to lift her up, the pain intensified in her leg, and her vision went black.</p>
<p>///</p>
<p>Law enforcement ranger Annie Pederson sat at a table by herself in the small interrogation room at the Rock Harbor jail and waited for Taylor Moore to be brought in for questioning. Maybe it was Annie’s imagination, but it seemed as if the beige paint on the walls reeked with the guilt and despair of countless years of interrogations. Even the clean scent of the disinfectant used in the area didn’t dissipate the unpleasantness. She didn’t like this space and wished she could have talked to Taylor at the coffee shop or somewhere more pleasant.</p>
<p>But this meeting might be the end of her lifelong search, so she would have faced even tigers in this place.</p>
<p>The door opened and Taylor entered. Several weeks ago Annie had hired her to help out around the Tremolo Marina and Cabin Resort and with Annie’s eight-year-old daughter, but the woman had been picked up for questioning about the necklace found belonging to a murdered girl. Her claim to be Annie’s sister, Sarah—kidnapped from Tremolo Island twenty-four years ago—had turned Annie’s every thought on its head. According to Taylor’s ID, she was twenty-nine, three years younger than Annie, so that detail matched Sarah.</p>
<p>Annie’s heart squeezed at Taylor’s ducked head and stringy locks. The bright-red hair dye was fading, and glints of her natural blonde color showed through. Her jeans and tee looked like she’d slept in them for days, and the scent of stale perspiration wafted from her.</p>
<p>Taylor glanced up, and Annie bit back a gasp at the defiance gleaming in those vivid blue eyes that matched Annie’s eye color instead of the muddy brown Annie was used to. Jon Dunstan had claimed Taylor was wearing contacts to change her eye color, and it seemed he was right.</p>
<p>Annie had prided herself on her ability to read people in her line of work. She’d always thought she could detect a liar with no problem. Taylor had completely snowed her. After Taylor’s impeccable references, Annie had trusted the woman with her child.</p>
<p>Sheriff Mason Kaleva ambled in behind Taylor. He gestured to the chair across the table from Annie. “Have a seat, Ms. Moore.”</p>
<p>In his forties, his husky form brought solace to Annie. He’d always been there for her and his town, and his kind brown eyes swept over her in a questioning gaze. She gave him a little nod to let him know she was okay.</p>
<p>Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “It’s Ms. Vitanen. Sarah Vitanen.”</p>
<p>A wave of dizziness washed over Annie, and she bit her lip and eyed Taylor closely. “You claim to be my sister, but do you have any proof?”</p>
<p>The chair screeched on the tile floor as Taylor pulled it out before she plopped onto it. “I should have expected you wouldn’t welcome me with open arms. After all, you did nothing to stop my abduction.”</p>
<p>Heat swept up Annie’s neck and lodged in her cheeks. “What could an eight-year-old do to stop an adult? If you’re really Sarah, what was the name of your favorite stuffed animal?”</p>
<p>“Cocoa,” Taylor said without hesitation. “It was a brown kitten. I couldn’t have a real one because Mom was allergic.”</p>
<p>Annie’s eyes widened. She caught her breath as she studied the other woman across the table. “Let me see your left knee.”</p>
<p>Rebellion flashed in Taylor’s blue eyes, and she leaned down to yank up her baggy jeans, then stood with her tanned knee exposed. A faded two-inch scar just below her kneecap matched the one in Annie’s memory. Sarah had gotten snagged on a large metal hook under the dock at the marina. It had taken fifteen stitches to close the wound, and Annie had helped her sister hobble around for several weeks.</p>
<p>But was that proof? Kids had scars from all sorts of things. She wanted to believe her sister was still alive, but was Taylor really Sarah?</p>
<p>Her breath eased from her lips, and Annie couldn’t speak for a long moment. “You really believe you’re Sarah? Did you research all that and make sure the details matched?”</p>
<p>Taylor just stared back at her with that same defiance. In Annie’s dreams, finding Sarah meant a tight embrace and happy tears, but Taylor’s stance with her arms folded across her chest and her jutting chin warned Annie off any displays of affection. Not that she was feeling any warmth toward the other woman in this moment.</p>
<p>When the other woman plopped back in her chair and didn’t answer, Annie licked her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me when you first showed up looking for work? Why the fake name? I’ve been searching for my sister for years.”</p>
<p>“Have you? Have you really?”</p>
<p>Annie glanced at Mason. “Ask him if you don’t believe me.”</p>
<p>Mason shifted his bulky form and nodded. “I’ve been helping Annie search. We’ve sent DNA samples numerous times over the past ten years. Her parents searched for Sarah, and even hired investigators, until their deaths.”</p>
<p>Annie hadn’t known that. Her parents’ business, the Tremolo Marina and Cabin Resort, operated on a shoestring, so they must have taken much needed money to try to find Sarah.</p>
<p>Annie shifted her gaze back to the woman across the table. Taylor twisted a strand of hair around her finger in a coil. Sarah used to do that too. If this was a scam, it was an elaborate one. With all her heart Annie wanted to believe it, but she couldn’t quite accept it. It was so sudden, and the circumstances were bizarre.</p>
<p>Mason cleared his throat. “We’ll need a little more proof. We can get the DNA back in a week or so.”</p>
<p>“I have nothing to hide,” the other woman said.</p>
<p>Annie had spent twenty-four years agonizing over her failure to save Sarah. The guilt had nearly swallowed her alive, though everyone told her she couldn’t have done anything. Until a few days ago, she hadn’t been able to recall much about that awful night. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to remember how she froze in fear when the kidnapper grabbed Sarah.</p>
<p>Annie fingered the scar on her neck where the attacker had wounded her with a knife. She’d been left for dead in the cold waters of Lake Superior, and while logically she knew she was no match for the gruff woman who’d snatched her sister, Annie had struggled to believe it.</p>
<p>“Were any of the things you told me about your life true? Those things you said about your m-mother?”</p>
<p>“I had a rotten life, if that’s what you’re asking. All those things I said about my mother were true. And it was all your fault.”</p>
<p>There was nothing Annie could say to counter that when her own conscience condemned her too. She was only too glad when her boss, Kade Matthews, texted her with a new case. Mason could continue the questioning about the necklace.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Dark of Night</i> by Colleen Coble. Copyright 2022 by Colleen Coble. Reproduced with permission from HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:330px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/Colleen-Coble_Headshot.jpg" alt="Colleen Coble" width="301" height="200" align="left" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" border="0"></div>
<p>Colleen Coble is a <em>USA TODAY</em> bestselling author best known for her coastal romantic suspense novels, including <em>The Inn at Ocean's Edge</em>, <em>Twilight at Blueberry Barrens</em>, and the Lavender Tides, Sunset Cove, Hope Beach, and Rock Harbor series.</p>
<h3>Connect with Colleen online at:<br>
<a href="http://bit.ly/2J1atJr" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">colleencoble.com</a><br>
<a href="http://bit.ly/2IYBr48" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a><br>
<a href="http://bit.ly/2IXHje1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookBub: @colleencoble</a><br>
<a href="http://bit.ly/2J0r7c0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Instagram: @colleencoble</a><br>
<a href="http://bit.ly/2J0BSv1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Twitter: @colleencoble</a><br>
<a href="http://bit.ly/2J0AF72" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook: colleencoblebooks</a></h3>
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<h2>Tour Participants:</h2>
<p>Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaway entries! <script src="https://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=308901" type="text/javascript"></script></p>
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<h2>GIVEAWAY:</h2>
<h5>This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Harper Collins and Colleen Coble. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours</a></h2>
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My Take: This was a great second book in this series. We pick up right where we left off from the first book in the UP of Michigan. Annie and Jon are still struggling on how is the best way to navigate their rekindled love and how to let their daughter Kylie know that Jon is her biological father. Also they are waiting for the results on if Annie's sister has returned after 24 years after being abducted. There are also some mysteries about a missing hiker and if her abusive husband is resposible. I look forward to continuing this series.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-86031824073449875412023-01-14T06:00:00.002-05:002023-01-14T06:00:00.234-05:00Copper Waters by Marlene M. BellBlog Tour Copper Waters by Marlene M. Bell
This is my post during the blog tour for Copper Waters by Marlene M. Bell. In Copper Waters
a rural New Zealand vacation turns poisonous.
This blog tour is organized by Lola's Blog Tours and the tour runs from 2 till 15 January. You
can see the tour schedule here: http://www.lolasblogtours.net/blog-tour-copper-waters-by-
marlene-m-bell
Copper Waters ( Annalisse Series # 4)
By Marlene M. Bell
Genre: Mystery / Suspense
Age category: Adult
Release Date: 5 December 2022
Blurb:
A rural New Zealand vacation turns poisonous.
Antiquities expert Annalisse Drury and tycoon Alec Zavos are at an impasse in their
relationship when Alec refuses to clear up a paternity issue with an ex-lover.
Frustrated with his avoidance when their future is at stake, Annalisse accepts an invitation
from an acquaintance to fly to New Zealand—hoping to escape the recent turbulence in her
life.
But even Annalisse’s cottage idyll on the family sheep farm isn’t immune to intrigue.
Alec sends a mutual friend and detective, Bill Drake, to follow her, and a local resident who
accompanies them from the Christchurch airport dies mysteriously soon after. A second
violent death finds Annalisse and Bill at odds with the official investigations.
The local police want to close both cases as quickly as possible—without unearthing the
town’s dirty secrets.
As she and Bill pursue their own leads at serious cost, the dual mysteries force Annalisse to
question everything she thought she knew about family ties, politics, and the art of small-town
betrayal.
Links:
- Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62970088-copper-waters
- Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/copper-waters-a-new-zealand-cottage-mystery-
annalisse-series-book-4-by-marlene-m-bell
- Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Copper-Waters-Zealand-Cottage-Annalisse-ebook/dp/
B0BL42NBFY/
- B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/copper-waters-marlene-m-bell/1142492768
Earlier books in the series:
- Stolen Obsession (Annalisse Series #1): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0794B81QG/
- Spent Identity (Annalisse Series #2): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07YXCLZXH/
- Scattered Legacy (Annalisse Series #3):
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09HRCTBXJ/
My Take: This is the fourth book in this series and it is just as exciting as the first two. I would suggest reading the first two because you will want to read them. This book can be read as a standalone though. Annaliesse and her fiancee are at an impasse in their relationship and she takes up her friend on going to New Zealand for awhile. When she gets there two deaths occur and the local authorities want Annaliesse to leave beacuse they don't want her to expose the towns dirty little secrets.
I received a review copy of this book from Lola's Book Tours and was dnot required to leave a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-4035529210498274602023-01-13T10:48:00.001-05:002023-01-13T10:48:47.666-05:00Update #2I have read Four more books since my last update post.
Audio Books are <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0y-j-w7lFsgzNsvms4N-AFqaaDYZQINi8tvWQzr5Iw-b3PISaCYNbcGZSfvVbLz3i_F1843Re7g9tvhUQBxCDmYfwv2rqtxqtCNVTbGuvPewV8kI7Fw93n7elJQqf33xXR0IznhYm14Vcn03xSn8NeZqaKkzsN8C1J1z0CLN0eGq74dWo-au7o7A3A/s810/58042549%20%281%29.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="553" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0y-j-w7lFsgzNsvms4N-AFqaaDYZQINi8tvWQzr5Iw-b3PISaCYNbcGZSfvVbLz3i_F1843Re7g9tvhUQBxCDmYfwv2rqtxqtCNVTbGuvPewV8kI7Fw93n7elJQqf33xXR0IznhYm14Vcn03xSn8NeZqaKkzsN8C1J1z0CLN0eGq74dWo-au7o7A3A/s320/58042549%20%281%29.jpg"/></a></div>
From Goodreads: We think we understand the laws of physics. We think reality is an immutable monolith, consistent from one end of the universe to the next. We think the square/cube law has actual relevance.
We think a lot of things. It was perhaps inevitable that some of them would turn out to be wrong.
When the great incursion occurred, no one was prepared. How could they have been? Of all the things physicists had predicted, “the fabric of reality might rip open and giant monsters could come pouring through” had not made the list. But somehow, on a fine morning in May, that was precisely what happened.
For sisters Susan and Katharine Black, the day of the incursion was the day they lost everything. Their home, their parents, their sense of normalcy…and each other, because when the rift opened, Susan was on one side and Katharine was on the other, and each sister was stranded in a separate form of reality. For Susan, it was science and study and the struggle to solve the mystery of the altered physics inside the zones transformed by the incursion. For Katharine, it was monsters and mayhem and the fight to stay alive in a world unlike the world of her birth.
The world has changed. The laws of physics have changed. The girls have changed. And the one universal truth of all states of changed matter is that nothing can be completely restored to what it was originally, no matter how much you might wish it could be.
Nothing goes back.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C-9OtMkZDldG_cS-cwstYHGpI5L4sK3dm9MuS0_AbNSUxu0oOw0896_JrnSfH4RwAVghaD7pMRP1pJtJkrEGXjnw3rtOJr9CKTEFgPncv-QWEYXQVuL_1V0BfI8COq3o-OLe85FMOpycYQT25kEoxxH9-ch3p5RomcMmdhDWflU0CRDJAZJd3S4r0w/s500/54751336.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C-9OtMkZDldG_cS-cwstYHGpI5L4sK3dm9MuS0_AbNSUxu0oOw0896_JrnSfH4RwAVghaD7pMRP1pJtJkrEGXjnw3rtOJr9CKTEFgPncv-QWEYXQVuL_1V0BfI8COq3o-OLe85FMOpycYQT25kEoxxH9-ch3p5RomcMmdhDWflU0CRDJAZJd3S4r0w/s320/54751336.jpg"/></a></div>
From Goodreads: Living in the country comes with rampant gossip, a stubborn next-door neighbor, and another murder…
Cassie Alberta is settling into her new life in Little Leaf Creek. She is slowly starting to put the unexpected death of her husband and the life she had in the city behind her. She is enjoying the quaint town and her beautiful natural surroundings. Her next-door neighbor’s lovable dog has stolen her heart. And although she never expected to live next to two goats she is liking them more every day. But her contentment turns to shock when a dead body is found in the woods near her home.
When the death is originally called an accident, Cassie partners with her reclusive ex-cop neighbor to help prove that it was murder and find the killer. Her plan to keep things simple and enjoy single life seems to be becoming impossible when two handsome locals are vying for her affections. Cassie traverses a mountain of clues and suspects and heads straight toward danger.
Will the culprit be caught before Cassie becomes the next victim?
Recipe included: Baked Strawberry Cheesecake
Peril in Little Leaf Creek is the fast-paced second book in the Little Leaf Creek Cozy Mystery Series. If you like unexpected twists and turns, lively personalities, lovable animals and a never-ending list of suspicious characters, then you’ll love Cindy Bell’s heartwarming whodunnit.
Buy Peril in Little Leaf Creek to start solving the murder today!
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWjiswAAu8iMH1UkPkRc206vgMdfLTaphqPOVPyoEtNctkk4TWoJ1t2nTaGBFDtulky83ccCQRbX7p7zTVHVU2iyGK1VR8GBMNASB3FyhmmKnAoLQp1ShvZtrMOHBuR27_MtJw8lVwoiJNUZ-NKbaygmES8zNqihadIhF7kGstUra2K-hT067HssnexA/s500/55213538.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWjiswAAu8iMH1UkPkRc206vgMdfLTaphqPOVPyoEtNctkk4TWoJ1t2nTaGBFDtulky83ccCQRbX7p7zTVHVU2iyGK1VR8GBMNASB3FyhmmKnAoLQp1ShvZtrMOHBuR27_MtJw8lVwoiJNUZ-NKbaygmES8zNqihadIhF7kGstUra2K-hT067HssnexA/s320/55213538.jpg"/></a></div>
From GoodReads: Living in the country comes with temperamental goats, an ornery next-door neighbor, and a mysterious murder…
Cassie Alberta is loving her new life in Little Leaf Creek. She is getting over the sudden death of her husband, appreciating what small town life has to offer and is enjoying getting to know the locals and their secrets. She is slowly learning how to live next to two cheeky goats and has fallen in love with her neighbor’s endearing dog. But life becomes a whole lot more complicated when she finds the dead body of an orchard owner.
Cassie partners with her antisocial ex-cop neighbor to help solve the murder. Her hands are full, as Thanksgiving is right around the corner and she is determined to try and bring her friends together for a feast, but they would prefer to remain alone. Not to mention the fact that two hunky locals have caught her attention. Cassie peels back layers of clues and suspects to try and get to the core of the murder and uncover the murderer.
Will the murderer be caught in time so that Cassie can have the Thanksgiving she longs for?
Recipe included: Lattice Apple Pie
Conflict in Little Leaf Creek is the fast-paced third book in the Little Leaf Creek Cozy Mystery Series. If you like unexpected twists and turns, lively personalities, lovable animals and a never-ending list of suspicious characters, then you’ll love Cindy Bell’s heartwarming whodunnit.
Buy Conflict in Little Leaf Creek to start solving the murder today!
Physical Book
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From Goodreads: The Sugar Maple Inn in Wagtail, Virginia, is the country's premiere vacation hot spot for pet owners who can’t bear to leave their furry friends behind. But this tourist town smells trouble when a killer goes on the prowl....
Holly Miller's life has gone to the dogs. She has no job, her boyfriend's former flame is sniffing around, and a scruffy but loveable Jack Russell Terrier is scattering crumbs all over her borrowed car. Just when she thought things couldn't get worse, a troubling phone call about her grandmother sends her rushing home to the family inn on Wagtail Mountain.
The staff—and a frisky Calico kitten named Twinkletoes—adopts Holly and her new dog on arrival. But someone in this friendly town is bad to the bone. One of the employees at the inn has been killed in a hit-and-run accident—which is looking anything but accidental. Now Holly and her furry companions will have to nose out the murderer before someone else gets muzzled.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-25745359708125433872023-01-06T13:58:00.001-05:002023-01-06T13:58:48.598-05:00I have read 3 books already this yearSo I have read 3 books so far this year. Last year I read 100 books, 80 were audio, 4 were ebooks and 16 were physical books. This year My goal is 53 books. I have read two audio books and one physical book. My Audio books were <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKno2z9zGZs8iDy7yOD_wzYp15TRoJT9TUwYG37dpIHvxxOvFSDllHYv0K5MAUqUEIU1qxrb8fxReukcnV23bGk_TSMMTHzCW02ML3-zvkfm-S0ZrtssrGO3MSwDaWAmOkGOnc7jBjiw0NbUqD1QW7O8RK0xrR4sFa2TzfEd8seFcn5ekxUxMiVQmWNw/s500/54491051.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKno2z9zGZs8iDy7yOD_wzYp15TRoJT9TUwYG37dpIHvxxOvFSDllHYv0K5MAUqUEIU1qxrb8fxReukcnV23bGk_TSMMTHzCW02ML3-zvkfm-S0ZrtssrGO3MSwDaWAmOkGOnc7jBjiw0NbUqD1QW7O8RK0xrR4sFa2TzfEd8seFcn5ekxUxMiVQmWNw/s320/54491051.jpg"/></a></div>
From Goodreads : Her new home in the country comes with an antiquated historical society, a sour-faced next-door neighbor, and a murder victim on her front lawn…
Cassie Alberta needs a fresh start. Leaving the big city to put her husband’s death behind her, she’s immediately charmed by the quaint little town of Little Leaf Creek, even though her first encounter with her neighbor’s dog and goats shows her that she has a lot to learn about country life. But her delight quickly turns to alarm when one of her first visitors is a dead body.
Shocked when she’s accused of the crime, Cassie partners with her reclusive ex-cop neighbor to find the real killer. And when two handsome locals grab her attention, she finds the simple life she had hoped for in the small town has just become a whole lot more complicated. As the suspect list grows and the attempts on her life increase, simply surviving may be an impossible feat.
Can Cassie catch the true culprit before her final address is jail?
Recipe included: Vanilla Cake
Chaos in Little Leaf Creek is the fast-paced first book in the Little Leaf Creek Cozy Mystery Series. If you like unexpected twists and turns, lively personalities, lovable animals and a never-ending list of suspicious characters, then you’ll love Cindy Bell’s heartwarming whodunnit.
and <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qm_od5YSZAMvFo1x61jqH4UvUvan72d1nmOIZeaZ13zyz_yymzR8flsDokgMXUwUR_yjkIvuMUFtBkloW_1_xbTtos5jBZsKf1lKXlUPAyPIyyCLoYTiaJzj319y74hXPTq5D6YDwMSfK4Fkq_Wpu82hWGUMOMSzQXGgd6c9QE-k_DCvvlxNpmBhEQ/s2560/55297005.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1707" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qm_od5YSZAMvFo1x61jqH4UvUvan72d1nmOIZeaZ13zyz_yymzR8flsDokgMXUwUR_yjkIvuMUFtBkloW_1_xbTtos5jBZsKf1lKXlUPAyPIyyCLoYTiaJzj319y74hXPTq5D6YDwMSfK4Fkq_Wpu82hWGUMOMSzQXGgd6c9QE-k_DCvvlxNpmBhEQ/s320/55297005.jpg"/></a></div>
The Physical Book I have finished is <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwt0bxHAk4lAbV7pS4ciXwEMJ-TNku2w7WZ7IUHRT9u0Jy3XfiOnWwie9Vlo4xIDpah3GK0p236A5iUaBF64wTABEWU4BlDk3FbBxpUJsvLD08lkyidJA2s_TZz_DvTK6DM5-WdfuPplCd234VnOjGu530hnfP0sqzVpZdODwTGUuZo2oSS8WE15SplQ/s2048/36642458.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwt0bxHAk4lAbV7pS4ciXwEMJ-TNku2w7WZ7IUHRT9u0Jy3XfiOnWwie9Vlo4xIDpah3GK0p236A5iUaBF64wTABEWU4BlDk3FbBxpUJsvLD08lkyidJA2s_TZz_DvTK6DM5-WdfuPplCd234VnOjGu530hnfP0sqzVpZdODwTGUuZo2oSS8WE15SplQ/s320/36642458.jpg"/></a></div>
From Good Reads: Defeated, crushed, and driven almost to extinction, the remnants of the human race are trapped on a planet that is constantly attacked by mysterious alien starfighters. Spensa, a teenage girl living among them, longs to be a pilot. When she discovers the wreckage of an ancient ship, she realizes this dream might be possible—assuming she can repair the ship, navigate flight school, and (perhaps most importantly) persuade the strange machine to help her. Because this ship, uniquely, appears to have a soul.detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-2086554162667834512022-12-27T06:30:00.001-05:002022-12-27T06:30:00.181-05:00The Siren's Scream by Thomas White<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqO79o81ytKqoAwqoc0PcbN3mzrksiPOEfbgosQiHhOpPMov9uCDy8ueHLaorqun8h23N27ICH4pP5C5tiKR2mcj_laIZZIKCv5-9XPgDmS6b4RsgLaHyNBXw5exz097JlESBFy1G1e7u3-8YZk7zG15yedkSial-tB6QSblnMXlG_KjVTlmgVVzYOQ/s670/c617133ad97644dea47ff702957ff574ce358a65.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="489" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqO79o81ytKqoAwqoc0PcbN3mzrksiPOEfbgosQiHhOpPMov9uCDy8ueHLaorqun8h23N27ICH4pP5C5tiKR2mcj_laIZZIKCv5-9XPgDmS6b4RsgLaHyNBXw5exz097JlESBFy1G1e7u3-8YZk7zG15yedkSial-tB6QSblnMXlG_KjVTlmgVVzYOQ/s320/c617133ad97644dea47ff702957ff574ce358a65.webp"/></a></div>
About THE SIREN'S SCREAM:
An old mansion sits atop of a cliff, overlooking the ocean, in Santa Cruz, CA. A young realtor, Darcy Wainwright, manages to sell the dilapidated old house to Henry Childs, an obese nebbish who is obsessed with the property. In the backyard is a pool. Not an ordinary pool but a giant tide pool. In the tide pool is a siren with an evil agenda for revenge.
Book Information
Release Date: October 5, 2022
Publisher: Savvy Books
Soft Cover: ISBN: 978-1088067819; 480 pages; $21.14
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3TEz7kx
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-sirens-scream-thomas-white/1142494493?ean=9781088067819
Purchase your copy at the author’s website: https://thomas-white-author.com/
My Take: This book is creepy so make sure you read with the lights on and your doors losked. This book draws you in quickly and doesn't let go easily. If you like mystery and a little bit of horror then this is the book for you. Just be careful that you don't become obsessed with the house or the tide pool.
I received a review copy of this book from Pump Up Your Book Tours ans was not required to write a positve review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-61264300416417908692022-12-27T06:00:00.001-05:002022-12-27T06:00:00.162-05:00Unforeseen by Deven Greene<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUm7v6yBh1gyhM0PMLGKQ2QPLaoS3uPtsErSiouHa_GbgHx06gw3BpIuyGfBtrbtFbTWEsKRsFIPhraVukFIHWmYfKhc_w-5FPxSFPX59Hvn_wspycv_0tAMNUfALHax9Q1_4hc9xCPIk1M0pYhMFsiSMO_uxhxlhsBCnpylCUoTw98IxfGEClSaROw/s500/62023778.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUm7v6yBh1gyhM0PMLGKQ2QPLaoS3uPtsErSiouHa_GbgHx06gw3BpIuyGfBtrbtFbTWEsKRsFIPhraVukFIHWmYfKhc_w-5FPxSFPX59Hvn_wspycv_0tAMNUfALHax9Q1_4hc9xCPIk1M0pYhMFsiSMO_uxhxlhsBCnpylCUoTw98IxfGEClSaROw/s320/62023778.jpg"/></a></div>
Title: Unforeseen
Author: Deven Greene
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Pages: 332
Genre: Medical Thriller
Blurb:
Pediatrician Erica Rosen is stymied when two of her patients don’t respond to medicine as expected. When other patients later develop strange, unexpected illnesses, she is determined to get to the bottom of it.
Meanwhile, the department’s newest pediatrician, Dr. Nilsen, appears to be trying to steal her patients. Erica suspects he is after her job as the clinic director. She also discovers Dr. Nilsen has become romantically involved with her trusted assistant, Martha. One evening, while looking for patient information on Martha’s desk, Erica comes across a list with the names of some of her patients. A boy who recently became ill with a mysterious malady is on the list and has an asterisk by his name. What does that mean?
Erica is convinced something nefarious is underfoot, and Dr. Nilsen, rather than simply being after her job, is engaged in a dangerous scheme involving her patients. Unable to recruit the help of law enforcement in a timely manner, she realizes she must take matters into her own hands. As she proceeds with her investigation, she is unaware of the dangers she is about to encounter.
Book Information
Release Date: August 18, 2022
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Soft Cover: 329 pages; $21.95; eBook $6.99; FREE on Kindle Unlimited
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3Tp8u3J
Black Rose Writing:
https://www.blackrosewriting.com/thrillers/unforeseen?rq=deven%20greene
My take: This was the first book I have read by Deven Greene and it won't be the last since this is the thrid book in this series and I want to go back as read the first two. YOu don't need to read the first two books in the series to enjoy this book but let me tell you , you will want to read the first two books. Some of Eric Rosen's patients are coming down with mysterious illnesses so she must find out what is going on and why and who is couding it. I recommend this book and be aware that the Eric Rosen is a pediatrician so her patients are children.
I received a review copy of this book from Pump Up Your Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-73586686901782774332022-12-22T06:00:00.001-05:002022-12-22T06:00:00.242-05:00Her Sister's Death by K.L. Murphy<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/her-sisters-death-by-k-l-murphy/" title="Her Sister’s Death by K. L. Murphy"><img class="aligncenter size-full" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/her-sisters-death-by-k-l-murphy-banner-.png" alt="Her Sister’s Death by K. L. Murphy Banner" width="600" height="338"></a></h2>
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<h2>Her Sister's Death</h2>
<h3>by K. L. Murphy</h3>
<h4>November 28 - December 23, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2>Synopsis:</h2>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/her-sisters-death-by-k-l-murphy-cover.jpg" alt="Her Sister's Death by K. L. Murphy" width="200" height="309" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: left;" border="0"></div>
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<h4>She wanted the truth. She should have known better.</h4>
<p>When her sister is found dead in a Baltimore hotel room, reporter Val Ritter’s world is turned upside down. An empty pill bottle at the scene leads the police to believe the cause of death is suicide. With little more than her own conviction, Val teams up with Terry Martin, a retired detective who has his own personal interest in the case, to prove that something more sinister is possible.</p>
<p>In 1921, Bridget Wallace, a guest on the brink of womanhood, is getting ready to marry an eligible older man. But what seems like a comfortable match soon takes a dark turn. Does the illustrious history of the stately Franklin hotel hide another, lesser known history of death?</p>
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<blockquote class="details">
<h3>Book Details:</h3>
<p><b>Genre:</b> Mystery<br>
<b>Published by:</b> CamCat Books<br>
<b>Publication Date:</b> December 2022<br>
<b>Number of Pages:</b> 352<br>
<b>ISBN:</b> 9780744307399 (ISBN10: 0744307392)<br>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3eTF4ee" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3xvvEMr" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QKXlYo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3eYdBIo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">CamCat Books</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>PRESENT DAY</h4>
<h3>CHAPTER 1</h3>
<h6>VAL<br>Monday, 9:17 a.m.</h6>
<p>Once, when I was nine or maybe ten, I spent weeks researching a three-paragraph paper on polar bears. I don’t remember much about the report or polar bears, but that assignment marked the beginning of my lifelong love affair with research. As I got older, I came to believe that if I did the research, I could solve any problem. It didn’t matter what it was. School. Work. Relationships. In college, when I suspected a boyfriend was about to give me the brush-off, I researched what to say before he could break up with me. Surprisingly, there are dozens of pages about this stuff. Even more surprising, some of it actually works. We stayed together another couple of months, until I realized I was better off without him. He never saw it coming.</p>
<p>When I got married, I researched everything from whether or not we were compatible (we were) to our average life expectancy based on our medical histories (only two years different). Some couples swear they’re soul mates or some other crap, but I considered myself a little more practical than that. I wanted the facts before I walked down the aisle. The thing is, research doesn’t tell you that your perfect-on-paper husband is going to </p>
<p>prefer the ditzy receptionist on the third floor before you’ve hit your five-year anniversary. It also doesn’t tell you that your initial anger will turn into something close to relief, or that all that perfection was too much work and maybe the whole soul-mate thing isn’t as crazy as it sounds. If you doubt me, look it up.</p>
<p>My love of research isn’t as odd as one might think. My father is a retired history professor, and my mother is a bibliophile. It doesn’t matter the genre. She usually has three or more books going at once. She also gets two major newspapers every day and a half dozen magazines each month. Some people collect cute little china creatures or rare coins or something. My mother collects words. When I decided to become a journalist, both my parents were overjoyed.</p>
<p>“It’s perfect,” my father said. “We need more people to record what’s going on in the world. How can we expect to learn if we don’t recognize that everything that happens impacts our future?” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I knew what was coming, but how many times can a person hear about the rise and fall of Caesar? The man was stabbed to death, and it isn’t as though anyone learned their lesson. Ask Napoleon. Or Hitler. My dad was right about one thing though. History can’t help but repeat itself.</p>
<p>“Honey,” my mother interrupted. “Val will only write about important topics. You know very well she is a young lady of principle.” Again, I wanted to roll my eyes.</p>
<p>Of course, for all their worldliness, neither of my parents understands how the world of journalism works. You don’t walk into a newsroom as an inexperienced reporter and declare you will be writing about the environment, or the European financial market, or the latest domestic policy. The newspaper business is not so different from any other—even right down to the way technology is forcing it to go digital. Either way, the newbies are given the jobs no one else wants.</p>
<p>Naturally, I was assigned to obituaries.</p>
<p>After a year, I got moved to covering the local city council meetings, but the truth was, I missed the death notices. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering how each of the people died. Some were obvious. When the obituary asks you to donate to the cancer society or the heart association, you don’t have to think too hard to figure it out. Also, people like to add that the deceased “fought a brave battle with (fill in the blank).” I’ve no doubt those people were brave, but they weren’t the ones that interested me. It was the ones that seemed to die unexpectedly and under unusual circumstances. I started looking them up for more information. The murder victims held particular fascination for me. From there, it was only a short hop to my true interest: crime reporting.</p>
<p>The job isn’t for everyone. Crime scenes are not pretty. Have you ever rushed out at three in the morning to a nightclub shooting? Or sat through a murder trial, forced to view photo after photo of a brutally beaten young mother plastered across a giant screen?</p>
<p>My sister once told me I must have a twisted soul to do what I do. Maybe. I find myself wondering about the killer, curious about what makes them do it. That sniper—the one that picked off the poor folks as they came out of the state fair—that was my story. Even now, I still can’t get my head around that guy’s motives.</p>
<p>So, I research and research, trying to get things right as well as find some measure of understanding. It doesn’t always work, but knowing as much as I can is its own kind of answer.</p>
<p>Asking questions has always worked for me. It’s the way I do my job. It’s the way I’ve solved every problem in my life. Until now. Not that I’m not trying. I’m at the library. I’m in my favorite corner in the cushy chair with the view of the pond. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.</p>
<p>How many hours.</p>
<p>My laptop is on, the screen filled with text and pictures. Flicking through the tabs, I swallow the bile that reminds me I have no answer. I’ve asked the question in every way I can think of, but for the first time in my life, Google is no help.</p>
<p>Why did my sister—my gorgeous sister with her two beautiful children and everything to live for—kill herself? Why?</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Sylvia has been dead for four days now. Actually, I don’t know how long she’s been dead. I’ve been told there’s a backlog at the ME’s office. Apparently, suicides are not high priority when you live in a city with one of the country’s highest murder rates. I don’t care what the cause of death is. I want the truth. While we wait for the official autopsy, I find myself reevaluating what I do know.</p>
<p>Her body was discovered on Thursday at the Franklin, a Do not Disturb sign hanging from the door of her room. The hotel claims my sister called the front desk after only one day and asked not to be disturbed unless the sign was removed. This little detail could not have been more surprising. My sister doesn’t have trouble sleeping. Sylvia went to bed at ten every night and was up like clockwork by six sharp. I have hundreds of texts to prove it. Even when her children were babies with sleep schedules that would kill most people, she somehow managed to stick to her routine. Vacations with her were pure torture.</p>
<p>“Val, get up. The sun is shining. Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”</p>
<p>I’d open one eye to find her standing in the doorway. She’d be dressed in black nylon shorts and neon sneakers, bouncing up and down on her toes.</p>
<p>“We can walk. I promise I won’t run.”</p>
<p>Tossing my pillow at her, I’d groan and pull the covers over my head. “You can’t sleep the day away, Val.”</p>
<p>She’d cross the room in two strides and rip back the sheets. “Get up.”</p>
<p>In spite of my night-owl tendencies, I’d crawl out of bed. Sylvia had a way of making me feel like if I didn’t join her, I’d be missing out on something extraordinary. The thing is, she was usually right. Sure, a sunrise is a sunrise, but a sunrise with Sylvia was color and laughter and tenderness and love. She had that way about her. She loved mornings.</p>
<p>I tried to explain Sylvia to the police officer, to tell him that hanging a sleeping sign past six in the morning, much less all day, was not only odd behavior but also downright suspicious. He did his best not to dismiss me outright, but I knew he didn’t get it.</p>
<p>“Sleeping too much can be a sign of depression,” he said. “She wasn’t depressed.”</p>
<p>“She hung a sign, ma’am. It’s been verified by the manager.” He stopped short of telling me that putting out that stupid sign wasn’t atypical of someone planning to do what she did.</p>
<p>Whatever that’s supposed to mean.</p>
<p>The screen in front of me blurs, and I rub my burning eyes. There are suicide statistics for women of a certain age, women with children, women in general. My fingers slap the keys. I change the question, desperate for an answer, any answer.</p>
<p>A shadow falls across the screen when a man takes the chair across from me, a newspaper under his arm. My throat tightens, and I press my lips together. He settles in, stretching his legs. The paper crackles as he opens it and snaps when he straightens the pages.</p>
<p>“Do you mind?”</p>
<p>He lowers the paper, his brows drawn together. “Mind what?” “This is a library. It’s supposed to be quiet in here.”</p>
<p>He angles his head. “Are you always this touchy or is it just me?”</p>
<p>“It’s you.” I don’t know why I say that. I don’t even know why I’m acting like a brat, but I can’t help myself.</p>
<p>Silence fills the space between us as he appears to digest what I’ve said. “Perhaps you’d like me to leave?”</p>
<p>“That would be nice.”</p>
<p>He blinks, the paper falling from his hand. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by my answer. I seem to have no control over my thoughts or my mouth. The man has done nothing but crinkle a newspaper, but I have an overwhelming need to lash out. He looks around, and for a moment, I feel bad.</p>
<p>The man gets to his feet, the paper jammed under his arm. “Look, lady, I’ll move to another spot, but that’s because I don’t want to sit here and have my morning ruined by some kook who thinks the public library is her own personal living room.” He points a finger at me. “You’ve got a problem.”</p>
<p>I feel the sting, the well of tears before he’s even turned his back. They flood my eyes and pour down over my cheeks. Worse, my mouth opens, and I sob, great, loud, obnoxious sobs.</p>
<p>I cover my face with my hands and sink lower into the chair, my body folding in on itself.</p>
<p>My laptop slips to the floor, and I somehow cry harder. “Is she all right?” a woman asks, her voice high and tight. The annoying man answers. “She’ll be fine in a minute.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Her gaze darts between us, and her hands flutter over me like wings, nearing but never touching. I recognize her from the reference desk. “People are staring. This is a library, you know.”</p>
<p>I want to laugh, but it gets caught in my throat, and comes out like a bark. Her little kitten heels skitter back. I don’t blame her.</p>
<p>Who wouldn’t want to get away from the woman making strange animal noises?</p>
<p>“Do you have a private conference room?” the man asks. The woman points the way, and large hands lift me to my feet. “Can you get her laptop and her bag, please?”</p>
<p>The hands turn into an arm around my shoulders. He steers me toward a small room at the rear of the library. My sobs morph into hiccups.</p>
<p>The woman places my bag and computer on a small round table. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you here.” She slinks out, pulling the door shut.</p>
<p>The man sets his paper down and pulls out a chair for me. I don’t know how many minutes pass before I’m able to stop crying, before I’m able to speak.</p>
<p>“Are you okay now?” I can’t look at him. His voice is kind, far kinder than I deserve. He pushes something across the table. “Here’s my handkerchief.” He gets to his feet. “I’m going to see if I can find you some water.”</p>
<p>The door clicks behind him, and I’m alone. My sister, my best friend, is gone, and I’m alone.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Do you want to talk about it?” the man asks, setting a bottle of water and a package of crackers on the table.</p>
<p>Sniffling, I twist the damp, wadded up handkerchief into a ball. I want to tell him that no, I don’t want to talk about it, that I don’t even know him, but the words slip out anyway. “My sister died,” I say.</p>
<p>“Oh.” He folds his hands together. “I’m sorry. Recently?” “Four days.”</p>
<p>He pushes the crackers he’s brought across the table. “You should try to eat something.”</p>
<p>I try to remember when I last ate. Yesterday? The day before? One of my neighbors did bring me a casserole with some kind of brown meat and orangey red sauce. It may have had noodles, but I can’t be sure. I do remember watching the glob of whatever it was slide out of the aluminum pan and down the disposal. I think I ate half a bagel at some point. My stomach churns, then rumbles. The man doesn’t wait for me to decide. He opens the packet and pushes it closer. For some reason I can’t explain, I want to prove I’m more polite that I seemed earlier. I take the crackers and eat.</p>
<p>He gestures at the bottle. “Drink.”</p>
<p>I do. The truth is, I’m too numb to do anything else. It’s been four days since my parents phoned me. Up to now, I’ve taken the news like any other story I’ve been assigned. I’ve filed it away, stored it at the back of my mind as something I need to analyze and figure out before it can be processed. I’ve buried myself in articles and anecdotes and medical pages, reading anything and everything to try and understand. On some level, I recognize my behavior isn’t entirely normal. My parents broke down, huddled together on the sofa, as though conjoined in their grief. I couldn’t have slipped between them even if I wanted to. Sylvia’s husband—I guess that’s what we’re still calling him—appeared equally stricken. Not even the sight of her children, their faces pale and blank, cracked the shell I erected, the wall I built to deny the reality of her death.</p>
<p>“Aunt Val,” Merry asked. “Mommy’s coming back, right? She’s just passed, right? That’s what Daddy said.” She paused, a single tear trailing over her pink cheek. “What’s ‘passed’?”</p>
<p>Merry is the youngest, only five. Miles is ten—going on twenty if you ask me—which turned out to be a good thing in that moment. Miles took his sister by the hand. “Come on, Merry. Dad wants us in the back.” I let out a breath. Crisis averted.</p>
<p>My sister has been gone four days, and I haven’t shed a tear. Until today. The man across the table clears his throat. “Are you feeling any better?” “No, I’m not feeling better. My sister is still dead.” God, I’m a bitch. I expect him to stand up and leave or at least point out what an ass I’m being when he’s gone out of his way to be nice, but he does neither. “Yes, I suppose she is. Death is kind of permanent.”</p>
<p>I jerk back in my chair. “Is that supposed to be funny?”</p>
<p>Unlike me, he does apologize. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I never did have the best bedside manner for the job.”</p>
<p>I take a closer look at the man. “Are you a doctor?”</p>
<p>He half laughs. “Hardly. Detective. Former, I mean. I never quite got the hang of talking to the victims’ families without putting my foot in my mouth. Seems I’ve done it again.”</p>
<p>My curiosity gets the best of me. He’s not much older than I am. Mid-forties. Maybe younger. Definitely too young for retirement. “Former detective? What do you do now?”</p>
<p>“I run a security firm.” He lifts his shoulders. “It’s different, has its advantages.”</p>
<p>The way he says it, I know he misses the job. I understand. “I write for the <i>Baltimorean</i>. Mostly homicides,” I say. “That’s a good paper. I’ve probably read your work then.”</p>
<p>Crumpling the empty cracker wrapper, I say, “I’m sorry I dumped on you out there.”</p>
<p>He shrugs again. “It’s okay. You had a good reason.” I can’t think of anything to say to that.</p>
<p>“How did she die, if you don’t mind my asking?”</p>
<p>The question hits me hard. What I mind is that my sister is gone. My hands ball into fists. The heater in the room hums, but otherwise, it’s quiet. “They say she died by suicide.”</p>
<p>The man doesn’t miss a beat. “But you don’t believe it.” He watches me, his body still.</p>
<p>My heart pounds in my chest and I reach into my mind, searching for any information I’ve found that contradicts what I’ve been told. I’ve learned that almost fifty thousand people a year die by suicide in the United States. Strangely, a number of those people choose to do it in hotels. Maybe it’s the anonymity. Maybe it’s to spare the families. There are plenty of theories, but unfortunately, one can’t really ask the departed about that. Still, the reasoning is sound enough. For four days, I’ve read until I can’t see, and my head has dropped from exhaustion. I know that suicide can be triggered by traumatic events or chronic depression. It can be triggered by life upheaval or can be drug induced, or it can happen for any number of reasons that even close family and friends don’t know about until after—if ever. I know all this, and yet, I can’t accept it.</p>
<p>Sylvia was found in a hotel room she had no reason to be in. An empty pill bottle was found on the nightstand next to her. She checked in alone. Nothing in the room had been disturbed. Nothing appeared to have been taken. For all these reasons, the police made a preliminary determination that the cause of death was suicide, the final ruling to be made after the ME’s report. I know all this. My parents and Sylvia’s husband took every word of this at face value. But I can’t. Sylvia is not a statistic, and I know something they don’t.</p>
<p>“No. I don’t believe it.” I say, meeting his steady gaze with my own.</p>
<p>He doesn’t react. He doesn’t tell me I’m crazy. He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” again. Nothing. I’m disappointed, though I can’t imagine why. He’s a stranger to me. Still, I press my shoulder blades against the back of the chair, waiting. I figure it out then. Former detective. I’ve been around enough cops to know how it works. It’s like a tribe with them. You don’t criticize another officer. You don’t question anyone’s toughness or loyalty to the job. You don’t question a ruling that a case doesn’t warrant an investigation, much less that it isn’t even a case. So, I sit and wait. I will not be the first to argue. It doesn’t matter that he’s retired and left the job. He’s still one of them. In fact, the more I think about it, I can’t understand why he’s still sitting there. I’ve been rude to the man. I’ve completely broken down in front of him like some helpless idiot. And now, I’ve suggested the cause of death that everyone—and I mean everyone—says is true is not the truth at all.</p>
<p>He gets up, shoves his hands in his pockets.</p>
<p>This is it. He’s done with me now. In less than one minute he’ll be gone and, suddenly, I don’t want him to leave. I break the silence.</p>
<p>“I’m Val Ritter.” “Terry Martin.”</p>
<p>I turn the name over in my brain. It’s familiar in a vague way. “Terry the former detective.”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I’m sorry about your sister. You’ve lost someone you love, and the idea that she might have taken her own life is doubly distressing.”</p>
<p>“I’m way past distressed. I’m angry.”</p>
<p>“Is it possible that you’re directing that anger toward the ones that ruled her death a suicide instead of at your . . .” His words fall away.</p>
<p>“My sister?” “Yes.”</p>
<p>“I might be if I thought she did this.” I cross my arms over my chest. “But I don’t. This idea, this thing they’re saying makes no sense at all.”</p>
<p>Terry the former detective’s voice is low, soothing. “Why?”</p>
<p>My arms drop again. I’m tempted to tell him everything I know, which admittedly isn’t much, but I hold back. This man is a stranger. Sure, he’s been nice, and every time I’ve expected him to walk out the door, he’s done the opposite. But that doesn’t mean I can trust him.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry if my question seems insensitive,” he says. His voice is soft, comforting in a neutral way, and I can picture him in an interrogation. He would be the good cop. “No matter how shocking the, uh, idea might be, I have a feeling you have your reasons. You were close—you and your sister?” “We were.” I sit there, twisting the handkerchief in my fingers. The heat-</p>
<p>er makes a revving noise, drops back to a steady hum. “We talked all the time, and I can tell you she wasn’t depressed. That’s what they kept saying. ‘She must have been depressed.’ I know people hide things, but she was never good at hiding her emotions from me. If anything, she’d been happier than ever.” I give a slow shake of my head. “They tried to tell me about the other suicide and about the pills and the sign on the door and—” I stop. I hear myself rambling and force myself to take a breath. “If something had been wrong, I would have known.”</p>
<p>Terry the former detective doesn’t react, doesn’t move. He keeps his mouth shut, but I know. He doesn’t believe me, same as all the others. I can tell. There is no head bob or leading question. He thinks I’m in denial and that I will eventually accept the truth. He doesn’t know me at all.</p>
<p>The minutes pass, and I drink the water. I realize I feel better. It’s time to leave. “I should be going.” I hold up the crumpled rag in my hand. “Sorry I did such a number on your handkerchief. I can clean it, send it to you later.”</p>
<p>He waves off the suggestion. “Keep it.”</p>
<p>I gather my items and apologize again. “Sorry you had to witness my meltdown out there.”</p>
<p>“It happens.”</p>
<p>I’m headed out the door, my hand on the knob, when he breaks protocol.</p>
<p>“What did you mean by ‘the other suicide’?”</p>
<h3>CHAPTER 2</h3>
<h6>TERRY<br>Monday, 10:02 a.m.</h6>
<p>The woman—Val, I remind myself—hesitates. I can see she’s wary, worried I don’t believe her. I don’t know that I do, but I am curious. “What</p>
<p>did you mean? There was another suicide?”</p>
<p>“A month ago, maybe a little longer, a woman killed herself in the same hotel. She jumped off the roof, which apparently was no easy task since there were all kinds of doors to go through to get up there. Of course, what happened to her was horrible, but it has nothing to do with my sister. I don’t know why they’re acting like it does.”</p>
<p>My jaw tightens. “Which hotel?”</p>
<p>“The Franklin.”</p>
<p>I look past her and think maybe I should be surprised, but nothing about that hotel surprises me. “The Franklin,” I say, echoing her words.</p>
<p>The Franklin is one of Baltimore’s oldest hotels. Built in 1918, it’s fifteen stories high with marble columns and archways at the entrance. Along with the Belvedere, before it became condos, and the Lord Baltimore, the Franklin is a destination, a swanky place that’s attracted film stars and </p>
<p>politicians for decades. Somewhere along the line, it fell into disrepair and the famous guests went elsewhere. For a brief time, the management offered rooms for short-term rentals, desperate to keep the hotel from plunging further into the red. Twenty years ago, the hotel was sold to an investment group. They declared the hotel historic, sunk tens of millions of dollars into it, and reopened it in grand style. The governor and the mayor cut the big red ribbon. Baseball stars from the Orioles and a well-known director were photographed at the official gala. It was a big to-do for the city at the time. Since then, it’s remained popular—one of the five-star hotels downtown, which, of course, means that a night there doesn’t come cheap. That’s the press release version.</p>
<p>But there’s another one. Lesser known.</p>
<p>Val is calm now, watching me, and I catch a glimpse of the reporter. “Do you know it?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I know it.” Stories have circulated about the hotel through the years. Some are decades old while others have been encouraged by the hotel itself. Ghost tours are popular these days, and the Franklin tour is no exception. “It has a history. For a while, it was called the Mad Motel.”</p>
<p>She flinches. “What?”</p>
<p>“According to my grandfather, people seemed to die there. Most deaths occurred right after the Depression, victims of the stock market crash, but not all. There was one guy that killed his whole family right before he killed himself. They said he lost his mind. That was the first time it was called the Mad Motel, though there were other stories.”</p>
<p>“What are you saying?”</p>
<p>I see the flush on her cheeks and know my words have upset her in a way I didn’t intend. I do my best to smooth it over. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. I’ve never been a fan of the name myself, but there were some guys around the department that used it.”</p>
<p>The anger that colored her cheeks a moment earlier fades, eclipsed by something else I recognize. Curiosity. “Why would they use such a terrible name?”</p>
<p>It’s a valid question, and I give the only explanation I can. “The first time I heard it on the job was about fifteen years ago. An assault at the Franklin. I didn’t catch the case, but I remember a man almost beat his wife to death. He would have, if someone in the next room hadn’t called the police.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t blink, doesn’t raise a hand to her mouth. Just waits. “Before that day, the guy was a typical accountant. Kind of nerdy.</p>
<p>Mild-mannered. Went to work. Went home to his family. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then they fly into Baltimore for their nephew’s wedding, stay at the Franklin. As they were dressing, he loses it. He hits her with the lamp, punches her, throws her up against the wall. When the police arrived, they had to pry him off of her. They rushed her to the hospital. She ended up with broken ribs, a concussion, a whole bunch of other stuff.”</p>
<p>“And the husband?”</p>
<p>“That’s what was so strange. According to the officers on the scene, as soon as they pulled him off, he stopped all of it. He cried, begged to be allowed to go with her to the hospital. When they took him downtown, he swore he didn’t know what had come over him. That he’d never hit anyone in his life, and he couldn’t even recall being angry with her. They kept him in jail until she woke up. Oddly, she corroborated his story. She said he didn’t have a violent bone in his body before that day.”</p>
<p>Val’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t remember ever reading about that case.</p>
<p>What happened?”</p>
<p>“He was charged in spite of his wife’s insistence that she didn’t want that. When he went to trial, his lawyer put him on the stand. That’s when I heard his story.” I pause and run my hand over my face, scratching at my chin. “He told the jury that while he was putting on his tux jacket, a cold breeze blew in. He said he checked the room, but the windows were closed, and it was winter, so the heat was on. Then according to him, this cold air got into his body, in his hands and his feet and then his mind. He said when his wife came out of the bathroom, he didn’t recognize her, that she was someone else, something else.”</p>
<p>“Something else? What does that mean?”</p>
<p>“He described a monster with sharp teeth and claws. His attorney even had a drawing done by a sketch artist. She held it up for the jury, but the man wouldn’t look at it. Refused. He claimed he panicked, grabbed the lamp, and swung, but the monster kept coming. He said the monster howled—that was probably his wife screaming—and came at him again. That must have been when the guest in the other room called the police.” I pause again. Even as I say it, I know how it sounds. “So, he tells this story at trial, and everyone looks around at each other thinking this guy is crazy. But his wife is in the audience and nodding like it’s true. The prosecutor goes after him, but he doesn’t back down. He admits he attacked someone, but he swears he didn’t knowingly hurt his wife. He breaks down on the stand, and it’s basically bedlam in the courtroom.”</p>
<p>Memories of that day flood my mind. I sat in the back of the packed courtroom, watching the melee. It was hard to know what to think. Was the man delusional? A sociopath? Or was he telling the truth? Fortunately, Val doesn’t ask my opinion, and I tell her the rest.</p>
<p>“The prosecutor decided to cut his losses,” I say. “He let the man plead to a lesser charge and get some mental help.”</p>
<p>“That’s all?”</p>
<p>“Yep. The man did three months in a mental health facility, then went back to Omaha and his wife. End of story.”</p>
<p>“So that’s why the Franklin is called the Mad Motel?”</p>
<p>“It’s one of the reasons. But like I said, the place has a history.” Newspaper articles and pictures and evidence files flit through my mind. Many of the images are gruesome. Others just sad. Although the library is warm, I’m cold under my jacket. My voice drops to a whisper, the memories too close for comfort. “A history of death.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Her Sister's Death</i> by K. L. Murphy. Copyright 2022 by K. L. Murphy. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2>Author Bio:</h2>
<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/her-sisters-death-by-k-l-murphy-author.jpg" alt="K. L. Murphy" width="200" height="224" align="left" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; float: right;" border="0"></div>
<p>K. L. Murphy is the author of the Detective Cancini Mystery Series: <i>A Guilty Mind</i>, <i>Stay of Execution</i>, and <i>The Last Sin</i>. Her short stories are featured in the anthologies <i>Deadly Southern Charm (“Burn”)</i> and <i>Murder by the Glass (“EverUs”)</i>. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Sisters in Crime, James River Writers, and Historical Writers of America. K. L. lives in Richmond, VA, with her husband, children, and amazing dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves to read, entertain friends, catch up on everything she ignored, and always—walk the amazing dogs.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With K. L. Murphy:<br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3dqhW6z" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">KellieLarsenMurphy.com</a><br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3RTV12L" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a><br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3xvFGxa" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BookBub - @KLMurphy </a><br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3eWtAGO" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Instagram - @k.l._murphy</a><br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3eX23Fo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Twitter - @klmurphyauthor</a><br>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3BO1zdz" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - @klmurphyauthor</a></h3>
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<h2>Tour Participants:</h2>
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My Take: Val Ritter's siter dies in a Hotel room in Baltimore, Maryland. Val is an investigative report and feels in her gut that her sister didn't commit suicide even though an empty bottle of pills would seem to point to that as fact. Terry Martin is a retired detective who teams up with Val in trying to prove Sylvia was killed and she didn't commit suicide. Terry doesn't share everything with Val though and this leads to some of the suspense. This story will keep you on your toes and will keep you wondereing what is actually going on at the Franklin Hotel.
I received a review copy of this book from Partners in Crime Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review.
detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-26347795298892900842022-12-16T06:00:00.001-05:002022-12-16T06:00:00.171-05:00Solitude Lake by Adele Darcy <div align="center"><a href="http://www.lolasblogtours.net/blog-tour-solitude-lake-by-adele-darcy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><img alt="Solitude Lake tour banner" class="aligncenter" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBzE9idh1bXTZXCfZj07BjKsd58RvlY_ocZQAq_c_iluYJSue30Ndj-q_L4N-MXxhPyrSXDrRlKIl5mCfkOSamQ40irnGgyyAkztrc0E5Uuo852fnCCCEdv_3bmh5j2nzTPuEuKu6tOQdyU0UpNt9dAm58uGNs_RunzDJyD351TjPufmQslGfTHCeY6Q/s1600/Solitude-Lake-tour-banner.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This is my post during the blog tour for <b>Solitude Lake by Adele Darcy</b>. In Solitude Lake a young widow finds healing and a second chance at love in small town Montana.<br />
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This blog tour is organized by Lola's Blog Tours and the tour runs from 28 November till 18 December. You can see the <a href="http://www.lolasblogtours.net/blog-tour-solitude-lake-by-adele-darcy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">tour schedule here</a>.<br />
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<div align="left"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61307986-solitude-lake" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Solitude Lake" class="alignleft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_4HmlHSD-dxDVB5mJqlay7Kft4Cj2ymqqlcWxEK7BosIvowopu7_Y0bNsZl1rwofqL9NGAPHYJggfo4hZ8qiSxhF3vR7k_uVXgSYz1uTFrFsVzs7FwC1IaTELkbHe_CcQVKs54Y2yjTnJNmEuPcGlFTiO-N7M0SadQ0MiE6mXI0aSpC3u9JHddN8qw/s1600/Solitude-Lake.jpg" /></a></div><b>Solitude Lake (Hidden Creek Romance #1)</b><br />
<b>By Adele Darcy</b><br />
<b>Genre:</b> Contemporary Romance<br />
<b>Age category:</b> Adult<br />
<b>Release Date:</b> May 2022<br />
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<blockquote><b>Blurb:</b><br />
Following the tragic death of her husband, Susan Dixon struggles with the realization that the love they shared was crippled by his legacy of secrets and betrayal. Hoping to rebuild her life, Susan moves back to her hometown of Hidden Creek Montana. Settling into her family's cabin on the peaceful shores of Solitude Lake, Susan searches for healing in the rugged scenery.<br />
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Taking a summer job at the neighboring Solitude Lake Lodge, Susan rekindles a romance with her old flame, Jake Arnett. As the couple fall in love under the Montana skies, a past of heartache and missed opportunities haunts them. Susan needs to heal from her husband's betrayal, while Jake is afraid of repeating past mistakes. Can these star-crossed lovers let go of regrets and fall into a happily ever after?</blockquote><br />
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<b>Links:</b><br />
- <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61307986-solitude-lake" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/books/solitude-lake-a-hidden-creek-romance-by-adele-darcy-and-adele-darcy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Bookbub</a><br />
- <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Solitude-Lake-Hidden-Creek-Romance-ebook/dp/B0B19N9B3M/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a><br />
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<b>Playlist</b><br />
You can listen to the playlist for Solitude Lake here on <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/56vt25LOGA53CQExpsQGv1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Spotify</a>. <br />
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<div align="center"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Solitude-Lake-Hidden-Creek-Romance-ebook/dp/B0B19N9B3M/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><img alt="Solitude Lake" class="aligncenter" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85xJtdfLe5RGVHw0AvZnPz5d5M3kEOQp3NACwdT5Ks5FKDCEq0q8wzJfL-4Zo7aRKHhl5f7h7_kyIxy2C4iZq2pURFU8CePJ5e0hQ-EQYC20w79xrfqY7GopoDxJzClmDJ9PU6qJy2-BKkHp6uImU8ZxQxRrbBVCXIXZcvxSJk9LQ6j33KvxZlSVNsQ/s1600/Solitude-Lake-3d.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div align="right"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/adeledarcywrites" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Adele Dracy" class="alignright" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcgax4xE39pSYLRS2mfhhl0zEBBQg-qs3kVRhCcASzxSDcVH-RbgeVsF5P_D3WQsD1ZnUyiW_YJQhPAHUzBy-Y0odbeDBZBQaT8t_hgYNmMz_oiWle9zwgkVw_kLQa20LuaLmBVFEfyME2V6Lal0EU6VAfocCOvIFq1K6XhD47jQFmLg6JRusoFKzB7w/s1600/Adele-Darcy.jpg" /></a></div><b>About the Author:</b><br />
Adele Darcy is the alter-ego of creative artist and travel blogger Adele Lassiter.<br />
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Solitude Lake is inspired by Adele’s time living in western Montana, where she spent countless hours exploring Big Sky’s wide-open spaces from Glacier National Park to Yellowstone Country and beyond.<br />
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She currently resides in North Carolina, where she loves to explore the Blue Ridge Parkway and spend days relaxing at the Outer Banks<br />
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<b>Author links:</b><br />
- <a href="https://www.facebook.com/adeledarcywrites" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook</a> <br />
- <a href="https://twitter.com/adeledarcy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.instagram.com/adeledarcywrites/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22428145.Adele_Darcy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Adele-Darcy/e/B0B1PQNMK7/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> <br />
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<div align="center"><b>Giveaway</b><br />
There is a tour wide giveaway for the blog tour of Solitude Lake. Five winners will each win a paperback copy of Solitude Lake (US Only).<br />
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For a chance to win, enter the rafflecopter below:<br />
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My Take: This is a novel of romance and second chances. Susan Dixon has lost her husband and she finds out that he kept secrets from her during their marriage. She thinks that going back to her Hometown of Hidden Creek will help her in the healing process. After she moves there she reconnects with an old boyfriend Jake. Jake is deal with his own issues and afraid of repeating some past mistakes. Susan and Jake learn together to give each other a second chance and themselves as well. The author does an amazing job of describing nature in Montana. This a Christian novel so there is a bit of mention of God. I would recommend this book highly.
I received a review copy of this book from Lola Book Tours and was not required to write a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6267961815237155976.post-9520919873118557642022-12-09T06:00:00.001-05:002022-12-09T06:00:00.177-05:00Scattered Legacy by Marlene M. Bell<div align="left"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/59236065-scattered-legacy" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Scattered Legacy" class="alignleft" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-srIXPYUDe1o/YXFpdXZdj6I/AAAAAAAALsY/2amPUllypF42zqRwZPfdoT4EilVU9VLYACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Scattered-Legacy.jpg" /></a></div><b>Scattered Legacy (Annalisse Series #3)</b><br />
<b>By Marlene M. Bell</b><br />
<b>Genre:</b> Mystery / Suspense<br />
<b>Age category:</b> Adult<br />
<b>Release Date:</b> 4 November 2021<br />
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<blockquote><b>Blurb:</b><br />
To outsiders, the relationship between Manhattan antiquities assessor <b>Annalisse Drury</b> and sports car magnate <b>Alec Zavos</b> must look carefree and glamorous. In reality, it’s a love affair regularly punctuated by treasure hunting, action-packed adventure, and the occasional dead body.<br />
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When Alec schedules an overseas trip to show Annalisse his mother's birthplace in Bari, Italy, he squeezes in the high-stakes business of divesting his family’s international corporation. But things go terribly wrong as murder makes its familiar reappearance in their lives – and this time it’s Alec’s disgraced former CFO who’s the main suspect.<br />
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Accompanied by friend and detective Bill Drake, Annalisse and Alec find themselves embroiled in a behind-closed-doors conspiracy that threatens the reputation and legacy of Alec’s late father – linking him to embezzlement, extortion, and the dirty business of the Sicilian Mafia. The search for the truth sends the trio straight into riddles, secrets, and an historic set of rosary beads. Annalisse leads Alec toward a discovery that is unthinkable, and events that will change their futures forever.<br />
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<b><i>Scattered Legacy</i> is the third in Marlene M. Bell’s thrilling <i>Annalisse</i> series, which weaves romance, crime, and historical mystery into addictive tales to instantly captivate fans of TV show <i>Bones</i> or Dan Brown’s <i>The Da Vinci Code</i>.</b></blockquote><br />
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<b>Links:</b><br />
- <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/59236065-scattered-legacy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/books/scattered-legacy-murder-in-southern-italy-annalisse-series-book-3-by-marlene-m-bell" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Bookbub</a><br />
- <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Scattered-Legacy-Murder-Southern-Annalisse-ebook/dp/B09HRCTBXJ/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> <br />
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You can watch the book trailer here on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVRdjq2L3_I" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Youtube</a> <br />
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<div align="center"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Scattered-Legacy-Murder-Southern-Annalisse-ebook/dp/B09HRCTBXJ/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><img alt="Scattered Legacy teaser" class="aligncenter" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-onxSW22ijJ4/YXFpWwlwh5I/AAAAAAAALsU/LBqlNgAt1zsmZ7GztFtqYw7FxVeClQsFgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Scattered-Legacy-teaser.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div align="center"><i>Earlier books in the series:</i><br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0794B81QG/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><img alt="Stolen Obsession (Annalisse Series #1) by Marlene M. Bell" class="alignnone" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xw4XT-EA5Zw/YXFpSilzQEI/AAAAAAAALsM/jyTywanyibEMsXu6RkxQ0w2D7Ftph0bKwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Stolen-Obessesion.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07YXCLZXH/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><img alt="Spent Identity (Annalisse Series #2) by Marlene M. Bell" class="alignnone" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfcxB2UBN4Y/YXFpTrDwHeI/AAAAAAAALsQ/1SqwsEMxMCk9ijxxdkMN29Mr1-8nwD2fACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Spent-Identity.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<div align="right"><a href="https://www.marlenembell.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Marlene M. Bell" class="alignright" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFBdiLromSGPbloT7O5Lej_EjSR84sSL-QkyzHoFAZwdflICBm9RyPbMxX6FxxRvv0jV7O2YmMx5-PZUIwO-LaTJ1nHewy4BQJKa1xxI6wg3JNMbpAV1NiytNMZ0N7VoBxtXmxB942TsjQTQbEZwNCHh7CUZ-FhL6-UPmay2BYpyUDPxF2xhFTtxyEg/s1600/Marlene-M-Bell.jpg" /></a></div><b>About the Author:</b><br />
Marlene M. Bell is an eclectic mystery writer, artist, photographer, and she raises sheep in beautiful East Texas with her husband, Gregg, three cats and a flock of horned Dorset sheep. <br />
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The Annalisse series has received numerous honors including the Independent Press Award for Best Mystery (<i>Spent Identity</i>,) and FAPA— Florida Author’s President’s Gold Award for two other installments, (<i>Stolen Obsession</i> and <i>Scattered Legacy</i>.) Her mysteries with a touch of romance are found at marlenembell.com. She also offers the first of her children's picture books, <i>Mia and Nattie: One Great Team!</i> Based on true events from the Bell’s ranch. The simple text and illustrations are a touching tribute of compassion and love between a little girl and her lamb.<br />
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<b>Author links:</b><br />
- <a href="https://www.marlenembell.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Website</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.facebook.com/marlenembell" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.twitter.com/ewephoric " rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/profile/marlene-m-bell" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Bookbub</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17642396.Marlene_M_Bell" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a><br />
- <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Marlene-M-Bell/e/B0797RRW54/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> <br />
- <a href="https://www.instagram.com/marlenemysteries/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram</a> <br />
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<div align="center"><a href="http://www.lolasblogtours.net" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><img align="middle" alt="Lola's Blog Tours graphic" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--7itzU6UGaM/X7l_qgZNARI/AAAAAAAAKpw/TfcTesI1Fu0zljBIYhvY5satM2ki6YqlgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/LolasBlogToursbanner.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
My Take: This is the third in a series and it should probably be read after the first two. Annalisse and her boyfriend go to Italy to speak to one of Alec's fathers employees and they end up in the middle of a murder mystery. There are plenty of twists and turns and cliff hangers. This is a good installment but I think the first two were a bit better. This is an ok series though and I think you would enjoy it if you like mysteries.
I received a review copy of this book from Lola's Book tours and wasn't required to write a positive review. detweilermomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00991274438604846464noreply@blogger.com0