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$20 GC – The Medici Heresy by Gary McAvoy @partnersincr1me #garymcavoy #themediciheresy

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THE MEDICI HERESY

by Gary McAvoy

November 2 – 27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Vatican Secret Archive Thriller

 

When Father Michael Dominic uncovers a sealed Renaissance letter hidden deep within the Vatican Archives, he awakens a five-hundred-year-old secret buried by Pope Clement VII at the height of the Medici dynasty. Joined by investigative journalist Hana Sinclair, Michael follows a trail of clues through forgotten chapels, papal confessions, and ancient astronomical alignments, each step drawing them deeper into a mystery the Church once swore to silence. What begins as a scholarly puzzle quickly becomes a struggle for survival as shadowed forces—both inside and outside the Vatican—move to control or destroy what Clement left behind.

Their search reveals two extraordinary manuscripts: the Gospel of the Beloved, attributed to Mary Magdalene, and the Codex of Voices, a Renaissance record documenting the Church’s attempt to bury it forever. As Michael, Hana, and their Swiss Guard allies navigate the danger closing in around them, they confront a truth that challenges not doctrine but conscience: why some voices endure across centuries while others are violently erased. With each revelation, the line between faith and fear grows thinner, and the cost of honesty becomes terrifyingly clear.

Rich in historical detail and steeped in Vatican intrigue, The Medici Heresy weaves a modern thriller through one of the Church’s darkest chapters. From Medici Florence to the underground chambers beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, Gary McAvoy delivers a gripping tale of courage, betrayal, and redemption—where the past refuses to stay buried and the future belongs to those brave enough to face it.

While part of the Vatican Secret Archive Thrillers series, The Medici Heresy is a standalone adventure that can be enjoyed by new readers and longtime fans alike.

Praise for The Medici Heresy:

“A guilty pleasure! I’ve read all of these books in the series and love anything about Mary Magdalene. The rain became an oppressive character and seems like would have prevented them seeing the light coming through the aperture to find the hidden compartment of the sixth or so letter. I appreciate that the author distinguishes fact and fiction at the end of the book and hope he does not run out of archives to chase down.”
~ Karin

“Bravo…..again!!! You keep me captivated! I look forward to the next story in the archival series. I adore every one of your characters, good and bad. Please keep writing.”
~ Karen Veltman

“Great read! Gary McAvoy’s novels are all exciting and filled with historical references …but I truly enjoyed this novel the most—he has a way of painting pictures with words.”
~ Amazon Customer

The Medici Heresy Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Vatican Historical Thrillers
Published by: Literati Editions
Publication Date: November 25, 2025 | HC
Number of Pages: 394 | HC
ISBN: 9781954123786 (ISBN10: 1954123787)
Series: A Vatican Secret Archive Thriller, Book 12 || Stand Alone
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Gary McAvoy Books

Read an excerpt:

Vatican City, Present Day

Father Michael Dominic cherished mornings the way a monastic scribe once revered a well-cut quill: not as luxury, but as necessity. In the hushed corridors beneath the Apostolic Palace, where the sunlight filtered weakly through narrow glass slits and history exhaled dust from every shelf, he found peace in routine.

Each morning began before the bells. Rising at five, he slipped into the worn cassock that had traveled with him from his Jesuit seminary days, now threadbare at the cuffs but softened with memory.

But for his pre-dawn run, the cassock stayed folded on its hook. Michael preferred the quiet streets before sunrise—the echo of his footsteps on cobblestone, the scent of baking bread drifting from Trastevere, the soft hum of Rome preparing to wake. When he circled back toward the Borgo, sweat cooling on his skin, he made his customary stop at Pergamino Caffè just outside the colonnade.

Signora Palazzolo, who had run the tiny shop since her husband’s passing, spotted him through the window before he reached the door. She bustled out from behind the counter with a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Padre Dominic,” she said, wagging a finger at the sight of his running clothes, “the Holy Father may tolerate many things, but not a priest entering the Vatican dressed like a marathoner.”

Michael smiled. “You spoil me, Signora. You know that, don’t you?”

“I preserve your dignity,” she corrected, pressing the parcel into his hands. Inside was a freshly laundered cassock—one of two she kept for him, neatly sewn and ironed, refusing payment beyond a whispered blessing. “The restroom is free. Go, go. Before the guard at Sant’Anna thinks you’ve lost your vocation.”

He thanked her, ducked into the small restroom at the back, and splashed cool water on his face until the last traces of sweat faded. He unwrapped the cassock, slipping into the familiar black fabric and fastening the collar with practiced ease. The transformation was always the same: from runner to priest, from solitude to service.

When he stepped back into the café, Signora Palazzolo handed him a steaming paper cup. “For the road,” she said. “And tell the Swiss Guard I said buongiorno.”

Michael grinned, lifted the coffee in a small salute, and stepped into the crisp morning air. The Porta Sant’Anna gate waited a short walk away, its stone arch flanked by the bright uniforms of the Swiss Guard—his threshold to a world of parchment, secrets, and the quiet weight of history waiting to be unsealed.

Father Michael Dominic did not resemble the image most people carried of a Vatican archivist. Tall and athletically toned, with long black hair often tied back and deep brown eyes that missed little, he moved with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to slipping between worlds—faith and doubt, past and present, obedience and inquiry. Raised in Queens by his devout mother, the housekeeper of the parish rectory, Michael had spent his childhood in the company of priests, altar candles, and shelves of worn theological books. It was Father Enrico Petrini, the parish’s pastor and the closest thing Michael had ever known to a father, who nurtured his restless curiosity and encouraged him toward the priesthood long before Michael understood what such a calling would demand.

He went on to study paleography at the Pontifical Institute at the University of Toronto and theology at the Gregorian University, credentials that earned him a coveted post in the Vatican Apostolic Archives. But what truly distinguished him was not his scholarship—it was his temperament. Michael approached hidden truths with the humility of a believer and the relentlessness of an investigator, guided by a conscience that refused to ignore what others preferred to bury. He possessed an almost unsettling ability to sense when history had been bent or softened for convenience, and he had learned that the Church’s oldest secrets rarely slept quietly. In Rome, that made him invaluable—and, at times, dangerous to those who feared what he might uncover next.

His key—a heavy, iron-forged piece given only to him as Prefect and to two deputies—turned with a low click in the Archives’ bronze door. The great subterranean labyrinth beyond stirred only with the hum of climate controls and the occasional scurry of mice that had somehow defied Swiss Guard extermination efforts for generations.

He always entered alone.

Descending the spiral stone staircase into the belly of the Vatican, Michael would pause briefly before the marble sculpture of St. Lawrence, patron saint of archivists. The statue stood solemn watch in the vestibule, his martyr’s gridiron beside him, eyes uplifted as if still seeking light in the depths. Michael touched the cool marble of its base, murmuring a quiet invocation in Latin: “Custos silentii, ora pro nobis”—Guardian of silence, pray for us.

Then began the work.

Today had begun like any other. He had donned his archivist gloves, retrieved his logbook, and walked the long central corridor toward the restricted manuscript chamber. The hum of dehumidifiers formed a familiar backdrop to his thoughts. A new cataloging project awaited—three fifteenth-century codices donated by the Archdiocese of Seville, each wrapped in cloth and tagged in Vatican gray. He had been preparing a report for the Cardinal Librarian on the authenticity of their bindings. Nothing about the day had suggested interruption.

But at precisely 9:43 a.m., as the daily delivery from the Vatican Post Office arrived via pneumatic tube—a sleek, hissing canister that thudded gently into the brass receptacle near his desk—his day unraveled.

The canister clunked against the metal lip with more force than usual.

Michael turned with mild curiosity. Inside was the usual: interdepartmental memos, two periodicals, and a sealed envelope marked Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana. But below them was something he didn’t recognize: a flat parcel wrapped in vellum, the edges tied neatly with deep burgundy ribbon. It bore no address, only his name—P. Michael Dominic—written in looping script that instantly evoked another age.

He stared at it for a long moment before touching it.

The handwriting was unlike any he had seen in modern routine Vatican correspondence. Ornate, yet disciplined. The capital “P” had a serpentine curl; the “M” was double-looped in the style of Renaissance scribes. Someone had gone to great lengths to mimic or preserve an earlier penmanship, complete with sepia-toned ink. There was no seal, no watermark, no sender’s mark on the reverse. Just a small, embossed Medici crest faintly pressed into the parchment—a shield bearing six spheres and a lily crown.

His pulse stirred.

He turned the envelope in gloved hands. The sender had access to the Vatican’s internal postal network. That narrowed the list considerably—and dangerously. Only a handful of people were authorized to send mail directly to the Secret Archives via internal courier. Which meant one of two things: either a trusted insider had left him a relic—or someone had breached the Vatican’s most secure internal system with cunning precision.

Either way, it would require discretion.

Michael slipped the package into his document satchel and continued his day as if nothing had happened. But the weight of the thing—though barely a few ounces—gnawed at the back of his thoughts like a thread working loose in a tapestry.

Later, after lunch in the Sala Clementina with two fellow scholars, he retreated to his personal workroom. It was a modest chamber tucked off the northeast passage—just large enough for a desk, three chairs, and a carved wood icon of St. Jerome, patron saint of librarians and biblical scholars, in his study—a fitting presence in a place where symbology saturates every hallway, painting, and page, speaking in codes as ancient as the Church itself. The room smelled of old oak, wax polish, and aging paper.

He shut the door, drew the curtains, and sat.

With deliberate calm, Michael untied the ribbon.

Inside was a folded letter on parchment that had yellowed with age but remained pliant, as if it had been lovingly preserved. No brittle edges, no flaking. The ink had faded in parts, but the script remained legible—calligraphic Latin in a bold humanist hand. The opening line read:

Ad futurum pontificem, qui veritatem non timebit… “To the future pontiff who shall not fear the truth…”

Michael leaned forward, his breath shallow.

The salutation alone stirred unease. Not merely because of its boldness—but because of the signature. Faint, in the lower corner, faded but unmistakable:

Clemens VII, Pontifex Maximus

For several long moments, he stared at the name.

Clement VII—Giulio de’ Medici—was one of the most politically embattled popes in Church history. His papacy had spanned the brutal Sack of Rome, the rise of the Protestant Reformation, and desperate diplomatic dances with Francis I and Charles V. The idea that Clement had left behind a secret letter—undocumented, unarchived—was staggering.

But then he read on.

Rome, the Feast of St. Mark the Evangelist, Anno Domini 1533

To my successor, in whose soul doubt may rise like smoke from Sinai—

If you are reading this, the tide of silence has receded. The world has changed—or will. This manuscript is not false. But neither is it safe. You must decide what to do with it, as I have decided only to protect it…

I write not as Sovereign Pontiff, but as one burdened by knowledge too fragile to bear the papal seal. There are truths which the Tiara cannot touch without unraveling, and it is such a truth that now coils around my soul like incense refusing to dissipate.

In my final years, the Lord permitted that a document should reach my hands—unbidden, and unblessed. It was not borne by nuncio or legate, but by a friar whose hands trembled with reverence and whose lips bled from silence. He died three days after its delivery, whether from fever or fear, I cannot say. What he brought was not a heresy, nor an apocryphon in the usual mold. It bore no mark of Gnosticism or madness. It was, in its way, painfully lucid.

It claimed to be a testimony. Not from a prophet, nor from one of the Twelve—but from her who stood beside Him in death and rose to proclaim Him living. From the one whom Rome later draped in penitence and shame.

I will not name her here. You know of whom I speak.

The words within that document are carved in the flesh of theology. They do not merely challenge our structures—they undo them. They proclaim a communion without hierarchy, a grace without ordination, a love that refuses the architecture we have so diligently erected over centuries.

In reading it, I felt both awe and vertigo. It was as though a familiar cathedral were shown to me upside down: beautiful still, but terrifying in its reordering of heaven and earth.

And so I ask: What if the first church was not built upon a rock, but upon tears?

I have not destroyed this document. Nor have I revealed it. I have preserved it—sealed it—until such time as Providence should declare a soul ready not merely to possess it, but to be possessed by it.

If this letter has reached you, that time may be at hand.

But beware: the key does not turn for the ambitious, nor the curious. It opens only to the one who approaches with fear and truth in equal measure.

You must not seek clarity from this letter alone. There are others—seven more—written in silence, placed like stepping-stones for the heart to follow. Some will lead you backward in history. Others, inward into conscience. All will ask more than they answer.

I could not entrust the full weight of this truth to any single hand, lest it be crushed under the pressures of cowardice or ambition. Let these eight letters, scattered across the bones of Christendom, call forth only the one willing to walk the full Via Veritatis—the road of truth.

To begin, I offer this:

Follow the ink that weeps gold.

It stains only those prepared to be marked.

Seek not the treasure first, but the wound that precedes it.

With trembling hand,

✠ Clemens PP. VII

Pontifex Maximus

Michael stared at the final lines, reading them again and again, as if repetition might clarify what Clement had deliberately veiled. Follow the ink that weeps gold… The phrase lingered like incense after Mass—haunting, poetic, elusive.

The script was genuine. The watermark faint but distinct. The Medici crest, a subtle impression on the lower corner, sealed the letter’s pedigree like a fingerprint from history. But it wasn’t the external clues that disturbed him. It was the voice.

This wasn’t some elaborate forgery or theological curiosity. It read like a confession. A burdened man on the edge of death writing to posterity—not with pride, but with trembling hope. And if Clement’s words were true, he had held something that defied not only doctrine, but the very foundations of the Church’s authority.

A gospel. Written not by one of the Twelve, but by her. The first witness. The Beloved.

Michael sat motionless for nearly ten minutes. He did not take notes, nor reach for his cataloging software. Instead, he simply absorbed the implications, each one heavier than the last.

Who had brought this to him? Who had waited nearly five centuries to let it breathe? And why now?

At last, he reached for his secure tablet and composed a brief text message to the one person whose instincts he trusted as much as his own: Meet me by the Cortile della Pigna at sunset. We have a ghost from the Renaissance who wants to speak to us.

 

They met beneath the towering bronze pinecone of the Cortile della Pigna, a relic of pagan Rome now perched like a fossilized thought in the Vatican’s Renaissance courtyard. The hour was shifting, twilight dissolving into dusk, and the last of the sun lay like a fading brushstroke across the travertine walls.

Hana Sinclair was already there, seated near the fountain. She wore a slate-gray linen jacket over her blouse, the soft glow of the courtyard lamps catching in her hair. A reporter’s notepad rested loosely in her lap, more instinct than necessity, like a catechism waiting to be opened. When she saw him approach, she rose and tucked the notebook into her jacket.

Hana had the air of someone who carried her own weather with her, a quiet intensity softened by a quick, discerning intelligence. She carried the poise of someone who had learned to listen before she spoke—a trait that had made her one of Le Monde’s most respected investigative correspondents. Paris had shaped her manner, but Rome had sharpened her instincts, and nothing in the Vatican surprised her anymore. Except, perhaps, the way Michael looked at her now, with the quiet certainty of a man whose life had shifted after a single sealed parchment.

The reforms enacted by the late Pope Ignatius, allowing priests to marry under specific conditions, had changed both their futures. After years of shared danger, whispered trust, and unspoken affection, Michael and Hana were now engaged—a truth they held gently between them, as private and steady as breath. The Church was still adjusting. So were they.

“You sounded… urgent,” she said.

Michael Dominic glanced around, quietly noting the open archways and shadowed windows above. No guards lingered. The clatter of tourists had long since faded. A nun passed quietly to the west, rosary in hand. They were, for the moment, alone.

Only then did he draw the archival sleeve from his satchel and hand it to her.

She took it without a word, her fingertips brushing his for a moment before she stepped aside to read. As the last of the sun poured over the courtyard, she opened the parchment and let her eyes drift down its lines.

Her lips moved silently. Her breath grew shallow. By the time she reached the final passage—“Seek not the treasure first, but the wound that precedes it”—her expression had darkened with something between awe and apprehension.

She looked up slowly.

“Michael… this isn’t just a letter. This is a riddle. A lament.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t name the gospel, doesn’t describe it… but the implications are—”

“Devastating,” he finished. “If they’re true.”

“Clement read something he couldn’t burn. And couldn’t share.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t protecting the Church. He was protecting its image. Its structure.”

Michael nodded. “It shook his confidence in the very thing he was meant to uphold.”

Hana reread a line, eyes narrowing. “‘The one whom Rome later draped in penitence and shame…’ That’s Mary Magdalene. It has to be. He’s all but saying it.”

“And he calls her the first to proclaim the Resurrection.”

She folded the parchment and exhaled slowly. “So the gospel Clement received… if it exists… rewrites apostolic authority. It places her at the center, not Peter. Not the hierarchy. Not the priesthood.”

Michael said nothing.

“And this line here—‘follow the ink that weeps gold’—is he sending the reader to another letter?”

“I think so. There’s a path he’s designed. Breadcrumbs across time.”

Hana frowned. “Why? If he wanted to suppress it, why leave clues at all?”

“Because he didn’t want it lost forever. Only buried until someone was ready.” Michael’s tone was quiet. “And he thought that person might be a future pope.”

“But instead it landed in your hands.” She tilted her head. “Do you think this was meant for you?”

He hesitated. “I think… someone inside the Curia wanted it to be.”

Hana looked sharply at him. “An insider?”

“It came through internal channels. Quietly. Discreetly. That takes access.”

“Then this wasn’t a leak. It was an invitation.” Her brow furrowed. “Or a trap.”

Michael nodded grimly. “That’s what I don’t know. If they wanted to reveal the gospel, they’d go to the media. Or scholars. Not to me. Not like this.”

“You think someone’s testing you.”

“Or baiting me. Either way, it’s calculated.”

She stared at him, her voice now edged with urgency. “If what Clement saw was real… it would shake every theological pillar on which the Vatican rests. Not just women’s roles, but the idea of hierarchical grace, apostolic succession… even priestly absolution.”

“It would democratize the divine.”

“And the moment that idea gains traction…” Hana didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

They sat in silence for a long moment. As the sun dipped behind Rome’s ochre rooftops, a low peal of bells rolled across the city, solemn and resonant. From the dome of St. Peter’s to the shadowed courtyards of Trastevere, the call to Vespers drifted through alleys and over piazzas like a blessing carried on evening air. The sounds were peaceful, but the feeling between them was not. It was the stillness before a fracture.

Finally, Michael rose.

“I’ll scan the letter tonight,” he said. “Privately. No logging. I’ll cross-check Clement’s handwriting and reach out to Florence for ink comparison. Quiet channels only.”

“And I’ll begin pulling every known piece of Clement’s private correspondence from his final year,” Hana said, rising beside him. “Any marginal notes, off-ledger entries, even librarian rosters. If there are more letters, they may already be hidden in plain sight.”

He nodded. “And if this is only the first of eight…”

“Then we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

They walked from the courtyard slowly, side by side, shadows stretching long behind them.

Above, the dome of St. Peter’s loomed in silhouette, serene and immovable. But somewhere beneath its weight, truth had begun to stir. And this time, it would not return to silence easily.

***

Excerpt from The Medici Heresy by Gary McAvoy. Copyright 2025 by Gary McAvoy. Reproduced with permission from Gary McAvoy. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Gary McAvoy

Gary McAvoy is an American novelist known for internationally bestselling thrillers that blend historical intrigue, religious scholarship, and modern suspense. A lifelong researcher of rare manuscripts and Church history, he draws on extensive archival study to craft narratives rooted in authentic detail. His work includes the Vatican Secret Archive Thrillers, the Magdalene Chronicles, and the Vatican Archaeology Thrillers. Before turning to fiction, McAvoy built a distinguished career as an entrepreneur, technology consultant, and collector of historical documents. He now writes full time from the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to explore the shadowed crossroads of faith, power, and history.

Catch Up With Gary McAvoy:

GaryMcAvoy.com
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Instagram – @gary_mcavoy
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Facebook – @GaryMcAvoyAuthor

 

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$10 GC – Death Of A Dove by Eleanor Kuhns @partnersincr1me #eleanorkuhns

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DEATH OF A DOVE

by Eleanor Kuhns

November 2 – December 11, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Will Rees/Shaker Mystery

 

A murdered farmer and his wife, a young girl fleeing to the Shakers and a runaway boy result in a complicated investigation for Will and Lydia Rees. When Sister Colombe, a young Shaker Sister, is also murdered, the case comes home to the Shaker community of Zion. Are these incidents connected or are there two or even three murderers in this small Maine town?

Greed, revenge and obsessive love all play a part in the murders.

Another exciting mystery set in the Federal period of the new United States.

Death of a Dove Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Murder Mystery
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: October 1, 2026
Number of Pages: 311
Series: A Will Rees/Shaker Mystery, Book 13
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Rees was driving home through town when he saw Rouge standing with two men outside the tavern. The audible shouting, accompanied with angry gestures, stirred Rees’s curiosity – Sundays were usually the quietest of days – and he pulled into the yard.

The two men facing Rouge, a shorter balding fellow, and a large, much younger man with brown hair were amusingly dissimilar. Easily Rouge’s height, the young man’s hands were the size of small hams. But it was the smaller of the two who was doing all the talking. Rees thought they looked familiar but knew he didn’t know them.

“I want my daughter,” the smaller man shouted as he shook his finger in Rouge’s face. “I want you to find her in that strange religious group and return her to me.”

Rouge sighed and glanced longingly at the tavern’s door. As the town constable, he was frequently pulled away from his business, and usually not at a convenient time.

“What’s going on?” Rees asked as he climbed out of the wagon.

“I should have known you’d turn up, as soon there was some excitement,” Rouge said. But he looked relieved.

“What’s going on here?” Rees repeated.

“My daughter was abducted by that group, the ones they call the Shakers,” the belligerent man said. “And he,” gesturing to Rouge, “won’t help me get her back.”

“Abducted?” Rees said in surprise. That did not sound like the Shakers to him. An insular group, they usually kept to themselves. “Did they capture her and drag her off?”

“As good as. She met one of those young men selling seeds, whips and such, and he turned her head talking about the community. The next thing I know, she says she wants to join them. Then, when I say no, she runs off. Fifteen, and off on her own.”

‘She first joined the Shakers in March,” Rouge told Rees. He nodded. Now he remembered these men.

“Mr. Weitz, is it?” he asked. The enraged fellow spared a glance at Rees before turning back to Rouge. “And Brother Jonathan,” the constable continued, “allowed you to take her home. When was that? April? No,

May.”

“So, she was not abducted,” Rees said.

“She’s only fifteen,” Weitz said angrily. “Who knows what will happen to her –.” He stopped abruptly, on something that sounded almost like a sob.

Rees recalled the terror that had gripped him when his oldest son David had run away several years ago. Anything could happen on the road and Rees, at that time, knew nothing about the Shakers, the formally named The United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Coming. Frightened, consumed with guilt, Rees had done exactly what this man had done; pursued his son.

“I understand,” he said, turning a sympathetic glance at the other man. “Let’s hope she reaches Zion. She’ll be safe there.”

“Safe? That man – the Brother – told her all kinds of lies. He deceived her. And as soon as she could, she ran away to join him. When I got her home in May, I locked her in her room.”

“She ran away twice?” Rees said, his eyebrows rising.

“Yes. I’m not sure how she got away this time.”

Rees could guess. A locked door was barely a deterrent to a determined woman. “How long ago did your daughter leave?” he asked.

“Three days. As soon as I saw she was gone, Jacob and I drove here as fast as we could. But, this time, when I asked Brother Jonathan about her, he said they hadn’t seen her.”

“Then she isn’t there,” Rees said.

“That Elder is lying,” Mr. Weitz said, so angry spit flew out of his mouth.

“If the Elder says they don’t have her, they don’t,” Rees said. He could see Rouge was hanging on to his temper with an effort. He was clenching and unclenching his hands. “The Shakers do not lie.”

“So, you see, Mr. Weitz, I can do nothing.” Rouge did not sound regretful.

“Are you certain Zion is where she would go?’” Rees asked. “Maybe another community? A relative?”

“Of course she’d come here. Weren’t you listening? This is where she ran to before. And she followed that Brother.” Mr. Weitz said ‘Brother’ as though it was a dirty word.

“She seems pretty determined,” Rees said. David had been as well. But Rees had not tried to force his son home. Instead, he’d tried to understand why David had run away.

Rees glanced at Mr. Weitz’s companion. He was a young man, twenties probably, and rather too old to be Mr. Weitz’s son. Was he a brother then? Cousin?

“Becca is young and foolish,” Mr. Weitz said. “She can’t make this weighty decision by herself. When I find her, she’ll come home with me and marry Jacob Hughson here and live a normal life.”

Mr. Hughson’s cheeks turned pink.

Rees could feel his eyes widening. Fifteen was young to wed; he could not imagine his daughter Jerusha marrying anyone, and she was almost seventeen. He wondered what she would say about Mr. Weitz’s plans for his daughter, plans Becca evidently had no say in whatsoever.

Rouge sighed. “I’ll ask again,” he said.

“Ask? Ask? You need to take some armed men to that village and force them to surrender my daughter.”

“We don’t even know if she’s there.” Rouge frowned at Mr. Weitz. “That is not the way we conduct ourselves here, especially when we have no proof of any crime. I will ask again; that is all I can do.”

Mr. Weitz stared at Rouge for several long seconds and Rees wondered if the little banty rooster of a man planned to throw a punch. But instead, muttering under his breath, Mr. Weitz turned around. “Come Jacob,” he said and marched from the tavern.

“You handled that very well,’ Rees said, clapping his friend on the back.

‘I wish you didn’t sound so surprised,” Rouge said with a grin. Then his smiled faded. “I just hope Mr. Weitz doesn’t do anything foolish.” He glanced at Rees. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

“I heard shouting when I drove by,” Rees replied. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“Pshaw,” Rouge scoffed.

“If I have time, I’ll stop at Zion and speak with Jonathan. He doesn’t lie. If the girl is there, he’ll tell me.”

Rouge nodded but said, “You have to feel sorry for the little hen. It is clear she doesn’t want the life her father has planned out for her.”

Rees’s thoughts went once again to Jerusha. If he’d refused permission for her continued studies, would she have run away? Just imagining that sent his heart racing and he experienced a spasm of sympathy for Mr. Weitz. “I understand why Mr. Weitz is so upset. He’s frightened. My Jerusha is going to a school in Connecticut; she wants to teach in an academy. She’ll be so far away . . .”

“You don’t want her to go?”

“Not really.”

“Then keep her home. She’s only a girl and will get married anyway.”

“And risk driving her away forever?” Why, that would be so much worse. Rees did not want to be in Weitz’s shoes. But he did not want to display his vulnerability to Rouge. Instead. he said, “I wonder what Margaret Kitt would say.” Mrs. Kitt, a widow, ran a boarding house and so far had resisted Rouge’s offers of marriage.

Rouge, looking alarmed, shook his head and changed the subject. “The kids of today; I don’t know what’s wrong with them.”

When Rees left the tavern, both Mr. Weitz and the purported bridegroom had vanished.

Chapter 2

Lydia clicked her tongue disapprovingly when Rees told her about Mr. Weitz. “I’d run away too,” she said. Since that was exactly what she’d done, Rees knew she understood. Lydia’s father, however, had not bothered to search for her, enabling her to enjoy her years with the Shakers.

Rees spent the afternoon in the buckwheat field and felt quite virtuous at day’s end. Of course, he would do exactly the same the day following; each day like the one before it; so monotonous. And indeed, the following day began as usual; with milk the cows and feeding and watering the livestock. Some days he thought he would go to meet his Maker with his head on Daisy’s flanks. Finally finished at half past seven, he decided to take a respite from farm work. As he drank his first cup of coffee, he settled down to read the paper – although the news was worrisome. The Barbary Pirates were continuing their attacks against American ships. Dispatches sent via Portugal said the Bey insisted on a tribute of $20,000, a significant increase over prior years. The United States government could not afford such an amount. Although former President Adams had paid the tribute, President Jefferson refused and instead sent a fleet of ships to the Mediterranean. It appeared the United States was headed for a war.

A sudden knocking on the door interrupted Rees’s unhappy thoughts. He glanced at Lydia. She and Jerusha had begun boiling the first of many pots of water for the laundry. “I’m not expecting anyone,” Lydia said. “Certainly not now, not so early.”

“Me either,” Rees said in exasperation. Dropping the paper on the table, he went to the door and opened it. “Tobias!” he exclaimed in astonishment, his annoyance evaporating. They had not spoken in almost a year, not since Rees had questioned him regarding a previous murder in town. “Welcome. Come in.”

“I can’t stay,” Tobias said, his voice shaking. “I need your help.”

Rees examined the man in front of him. Tobias’s eyes were huge, and his dark skin glistened with sweat.

“Is something wrong with Ruth or the baby?” Lydia asked anxiously, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped forward.

Tobias shook his head, his eyes fixed on Rees.

“You better come in,” Rees said, stepping away from the open door and gesturing the other man inside.

“I apologize for intruding,’ Tobias said. ‘And so early.’ He tried to smile.

‘It’s no trouble,” Rees said. “What’s wrong?”

Tobias took a deep breath. “It’s the Meeker family. I went to speak to Mr. Meeker. I sold him a new table and he hasn’t paid me for it yet, although last night he promised me he would, and I thought if I went early, I could deliver the table and catch him before he went to town, and then –.”

“Slow down,” Rees said. ‘Take a breath.’ He watched Tobias inhale. ‘All right. You went to the Meeker farm. Then what?” Rees knew the Meeker family had moved into Durham from Augusta about six months ago but had not yet met anyone except the oldest son, George. He was apprenticed to the town printer.

“I’ve met Mrs. Meeker a few times,” Lydia said. “She is a very pleasant woman.”

“They’re dead,” Tobias gasped. “They’re all dead.” A sob rose into his throat and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Who’s dead?” Rees asked. “The Meekers?”

“There’s blood everywhere.” Tobias gasped and closed his eyes as though pushing away the sight.

Seeing he would not get a clear account from Tobias, Rees looked at Lydia. She’d turned pale and one hand clutched her throat.

“I’d better go and look,” he said. “I suspect this is not so terrible as he thinks.” He gestured to the trembling man beside him. Lydia nodded.

“Yes. Go. We’ll be fine. Annie should be back home soon.”

Annie had left the night before to join her husband in inspecting their new house. It was still not completed, and the new bride was growing frustrated with the delays. Rees, however, was not unhappy. These pauses meant Annie would continue to live at the farm. Both Annie and Jerusha would be leaving soon, Jerusha within the next week, to begin the next chapter of their lives. Annie would join Thomas as a married woman and Jerusha would continue her studies at the Litchfield Female Academy in Connecticut. What would Lydia do once these young women left? Both were hard workers and relieved Lydia of much of the housework.

“What will I do?” Rees thought with a sigh. He would miss them both very much.

“I’ve passed Annie’s house several times,” Tobias said, momentarily diverted from his own worries. “How big will it be?”

“Six rooms and a large attic,” Rees said. “I expect she’ll need to add on. Eventually, when the children come.”

“There’s land enough,” Tobias said, nodding.

“We’d better go,” Rees said, putting his hat on his head. “I want to see what we’re facing before Constable Rouge hears about this and arrives.”

“It’s too late,” Tobias said glumly as they went through the door. “He’s already there.”

Rees turned to look at his friend. “I was hoping to send you home so Rouge didn’t know

you were there.”

Tobias shook his head. “I saw the constable driving toward the Meeker place with another man. And I know they saw me as well.”

Rees sighed. Rouge, a man prone to jumping to conclusions, would deem Tobias’s discovery of the bodies suspicious and assume his guilt. Rees reasoned that if Tobias had had anything to do with the murders, he would have slipped away unseen with no one the wiser. “All right. I’ll follow you to your shop. We can drive to the Meeker farm together.”

“I don’t want to go back to that place,” Tobias said. He took his foot from the wagon step and turned around. “You don’t know what it was like. Horrible. I’ll never forget it.”

“That may be true. But, if Rouge saw you and knows you were there, it will look suspicious if you don’t accompany me. As though you were hiding something.”

Tobias bit his lip. Rees waited. He knew Tobias had reason to worry. A few years previously, he’d been kidnapped off the streets of town and sold into slavery. Once he’d escaped, and rescued his wife, he’d been a suspect in the murder of the slave owner who’d pursued them all the way to Maine.

“All right,” Tobias said at last. He climbed into the seat of his wagon.

“Wait,’ Rees said, hurrying to the paddock. He was not prepared; he still had to harness Hannibal to his wagon.

“Why don’t we take my wagon?” Tobias suggested.

Rees preferred to take his own and he shook his head. “If I take my own vehicle, you can leave early.”

Tobias nodded gratefully.

They were soon on their way. It was only a few miles before they passed the spot where

Annie’s and Thomas’s farm would lie. Rees did not stop. He could hear raised voices, both male

and female, over the thick undergrowth screening the property from the road and guessed they were arguing with the builder. Since August was now well advanced, the leaves on the trees were a tired green, and dusty. He hoped the house was finished before the cold weather. It would be close. Some of the maples already bore patches of orange.

It was only a few more miles before they reached the Meeker farm. It had once belonged to the White family but after the smallpox epidemic the previous fall, and the deaths of most of the children, the bereaved parents had moved away.

They pulled up in front of the house, next to Dr Burke’s gig. Rouge’s bay and another, unfamiliar horse, had been tied to a nearby tree. Rees jumped down and looked around.

During the Whites’ tenancy, this farm had appeared indifferently cared for: the buildings dilapidated, and garbage strewn across the front yard. Now the trash was gone and the new wood repairing the house shone white with fresh paint. A cluster of yellow flowers bloomed near the fence.

“I’m not going in,” Tobias said from the seat of his wagon. “I won’t go in.”

Rees nodded. “Very well. Wait here. I’ll return directly.” He strode across the dusty yard and went over the splintered porch. The front door stood open. He could already smell blood, thick and metallic, and hear the loud buzzing of flies.

Rees suddenly wished he had not wished for a break in the monotony.

Coming Soon!!

***

Excerpt from Death of a Dove by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2026 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Eleanor Kuhns

Eleanor Kuhns was the 2011 winner of the Minotaur/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel for A Simple Murder. This was the first in her Will Rees/Shaker mystery series. She has since published eleven other mysteries in the same series, ending with Death of a Dove.

Catch Up With Eleanor Kuhns:

www.eleanor-kuhns.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @eleanorkuhns
Instagram – @edl0829
Facebook – @writerkuhns

 

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$25 GC – Too Many Steps by Bill Bormley @partnersincr1me #billgormley #toomanysteps

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TOO MANY STEPS

by Bill Gormley

October 26 – December 4, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Radic & Mulroy Mystery

 

When an eccentric British developer proposes to replace Pittsburgh’s historic South Side Slopes steps with an open-air escalator, citizen activists organize a strong political protest. A bitter public relations battle erupts in television ads, featuring Ella, a robot who will be part of the construction crew. Days later, the leading opponent of the escalator is shot to death while jogging on the steps. An eyewitness claims that the killer was a robot. Detectives Branko Radic and Kathleen Mulroy must separate fact from fiction without a key witness – Ella has gone missing. With help from a geeky robotics student, a psychiatrist, and a government spy, they try to track down the killer and solve the case. But some Russian thugs have other plans.

Praise for Too Many Steps:

“Too Many Steps starts out as a fun procedural set in working-class Pittsburgh, and then makes a delightful left turn into the world of killer robots, Russian terrorists, and greedy oligarchs. All the main characters are well drawn and easy to root for, but Ella, the robot who may or may not have murdered someone, steals the show.”
~ Matt Witten, bestselling author of 51%

“Too Many Steps is a fast-paced, clever mystery ripe with political tension, international intrigue, and the wonderfully bizarre possibility that the killer is a robot. Bill Gormley delivers a story that is as entertaining as it is unpredictable. His love for Pittsburgh shines through, bringing the city vividly to life. I thoroughly enjoyed this one!”
~ Lori Duffy Foster, award-winning author of The Lisa Jamison mysteries.

“A marvelous mystery for our modern age. Runaway robots, Russian rascals, and a plot that keeps you guessing right to the end.”
~ Tim Maleeny, bestselling author of the award-winning Cape Weathers mysteries.

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: October 6, 2026
Number of Pages: 293 pbk
ISBN: 979-8898202910 pbk
Series: A Radic & Mulroy Mystery, Book 3 || Each is a stand-alone
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Man with a Mission

The most predictable thing about ascending Pittsburgh’s South Sides Slopes was the pain. If Gabriel Peña climbed the entire set of steps in one vigorous sprint, it hurt his legs, his ankles, and his back. He felt every step. He might even need to extract an ice pack from the freezer when he got home.

But it also felt fantastic when he got to the top. A view that belonged on a postcard, especially with fall colors at their peak. Gleaming skyscrapers above, three meandering rivers below. The homes of the Steelers and the Pirates just beyond the Allegheny River. A view to die for.

If he took his usual route, on the St. Thomas Street steps, he often encountered surprises along the way. Sometimes a pileated woodpecker pecking away at an elm tree on Hackstrom Street. Sometimes an impromptu game of kickball on Monastery Avenue. Sometimes another jogger or walker heading the other way, sharing a smile of recognition while savoring the same almost spiritual experience.

As Peña jogged briskly up the steps, panting softly, he thought about how much his life had changed since a wealthy billionaire proposed replacing his beloved steps with an escalator – an escalator that promised economic development but would radically transform several South Side communities.

Peña first publicly opposed the escalator at a public hearing before the City Council several months ago. As a physical therapist, he knew the value of cardio-vascular exercise. As the president of the South Side Runners Club, he knew the thrill that joggers experienced as they climbed the slopes from the bottom to the top.

For starters, this is what he said: “The electric Stairway to Heaven is a Stairway to Hell that threatens multiple neighborhoods, multiple businesses, multiple residents, and a slice of history. The Southside Slopes steps were the steps that steelworkers descended during World War II when they left their homes to work at the Jones and Laughlin Steel Mill in the valley below.”

He was blunt: “An escalator is a hare-brained idea that could easily go wrong in a hundred different ways. It’s uncertain, unpredictable. What’s certain is that an escalator would end the tradition of walking or jogging up and down the South Side Slopes and would place new stress on existing neighborhoods. If you do it, expect gentrification as the price of real estate rises. Expect the demolition of affordable duplexes to make way for high-rise apartments. Expect the demolition of neighborhood businesses to make way for a shopping mall. Pittsburgh deserves better.”

He closed with this thought: “Pittsburgh has more public staircases than any city in the United States. Most of them are located in mid-to-moderate income neighborhoods. These are public treasures that ordinary citizens can enjoy. Instead of destroying the steps, we should celebrate them!”

After the meeting, Peña was approached by several well-wishers, who congratulated him for saying exactly what was in their hearts. He was also approached by an aide to Councilman Virgil Waters, an opponent of the escalator project, who suggested that they meet the following day. He wanted to strategize about how to mobilize citizen opposition.

Since then, Peña’s life had been a whirlwind. Lots of planning meetings, followed by leaflets, protests, social media memes, and conversations with politicians. He organized a group called PAUSE: People Against the Use of Stupid Escalators. He gave numerous interviews to newspaper reporters and TV news crews. He plotted, strategized, and mobilized his fellow citizens.

Then the empire struck back with a series of clever TV ads and social media posts. At first, his side took it on the chin. But soon they decided to use similar tactics, which proved devastatingly effective. The escalator project was now on the ropes. David was about to slay Goliath.

***

Glancing at his watch the following morning, Peña realized that he was running late. He needed to start work at 7:30 a.m. sharp if he was to leave the office in time to attend a rally at 5 o’clock at the South Side Market House. As the featured speaker, he absolutely needed to be there. But his moments with his daughter Chiquita were so precious that he yearned to stretch each and every one of them. Having just turned two, Chiquita was attentive, inquisitive, and utterly adorable.

After feeding her breakfast, he gave her horseback rides from one end of the living-room to the other. Then he hid a wrapped treat in one of the shoes that lay at the entrance to their home. He always put the treat in the smallest shoe he could find, making its discovery easier. In time, he would ratchet up the level of difficulty and make it just a bit harder.

Before leaving, Peña gave Chiquita some loud belly kisses that made her laugh and squirm. For good measure, he clasped his palms together and pumped, producing exquisite farting noises that made her squeal with delight. Peña sometimes felt a lump in his throat when he said good-bye to Chiquita in the morning. There were times when he wished he was a stay-at-home dad.

Thanks to little traffic, Peña made it to work on schedule. He parked two blocks away from his workplace – Pivot Physical Therapy on Baum Boulevard in East Liberty. His first client, recovering from a torn rotator cuff, was to see him at 7:45 a.m. He would start him on some pendulum swings, some crossover arm stretches, and some resistance band exercises. Then maybe some wall slides, doorway stretches and lawnmower pulls.

In between clients, Peña texted his wife Jacinta, Councilman Waters, and others. At times, he also did some exercises, practicing what he preached. It helped him to empathize with his clients and to fine-tune his advice. Throughout the day he observed clients closely, cataloguing sub-optimal moves so he could teach them to get the maximum benefit from their hard work.

Peña liked to joke at work. When observing one client do some cat cows, he chided: “More cat, less cow.” When working with grandparents, he’d learn the names of their grandchildren and use this to goad them: “Do ten more push-ups for Caitlin, Greg. Caitlin is counting on you!”

Peña left work at 4:30 p.m. and arrived at the rally with ten minutes to spare. The size of the crowd was encouraging. Ever since Peña launched his protest against the proposed outdoor escalator, opposition to the project had grown dramatically. The original nucleus consisted of members of Peña’s weekend running club – joggers, physical fitness fans, people committed to a healthy lifestyle. As Peña highlighted the threats posed to South Side’s hilly neighborhoods, residents and community activists also joined in. Peña convinced them that their community and its way of life were under attack. Shortly thereafter, a couple of City Council members signed up for the cause, and they were off to the races.

The “evil genius” behind the escalator, Oliver Sappington, was said to be furious. According to newspaper accounts, he thought the protest would fizzle out and the prospect of economic development would be alluring enough to win the City Council’s support. But opposition to the “Stairway to Hell” had grown at an “escalating” rate, as one journalist put it. Spurred by rising opposition, Sappington and his team decided to hire a pricey P.R. firm to get their message across. The key to their media strategy was Ella – a beguiling creature who was said to be one of Sappington’s favorite robots.

In some slick TV ads, Ella, who supposedly would help to build the escalator, lifted some metallic slabs onto a construction site, looked directly at the camera, and spoke in a sexy voice: “Pittsburgh is a world-class city and it deserves a world-class transportation system. Let me help you to fulfill your wildest dreams.” Insiders knew that Ella’s voice was dubbed. She didn’t actually speak. Still, Ella’s sales pitch proved persuasive. The polls began to shift in Sappington’s direction. A pro-steps councilman suddenly became pro-escalator, bringing a decisive yes vote within reach.

Peña and his backers, meeting in his kitchen while Jacinta served fish tacos and frijoles negros, decided to fight fire with fire. They hired their own P.R. firm, which recruited a Cleveland-based robot named Elvis to play a cameo role. Elvis, another Sappington-built robot, resembled Ella enough to be her plausible twin and was chosen to portray her in the ad. While Peña confidently ran up the South Side Slopes steps, Elvis followed sluggishly behind, unable to keep pace. “Anything Ella can do, I can do better,” Peña said, with a grin on his face. “Pittsburgh is already a world-class city, with world-class neighborhoods like the South Side Flats and the South Side Slopes. We don’t need a bunch of robots coming in and telling us how to run our city.”

Refocusing on the rally, Peña took stock. Judging from the number of people and TV news crews, the new TV ads were working their magic. All they needed now was a little more political pressure and Sappington’s Folly would be history. Perhaps this rally would put the nail in the coffin.

***

Excerpt from Too Many Steps by Bill Gormley. Copyright 2026 by Bill Gormley. Reproduced with permission from Bill Gormley. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Bill Gormley

Bill Gormley is University Professor of Public Policy Emeritus at Georgetown University, where he taught for 33 years. He is the author of two murder mysteries featuring Radic and Mulroy — Too Many Bridges and The Silent Trumpet. His monthly podcast, Profs on Cops, features conversations with prominent criminologists and social scientists about police practices and crime.

Catch Up With Bill Gormley:

www.BillGormley.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @gormleyw
Facebook

 

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TOO MANY STEPS by Bill Gormley

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$25 GC – Murder Is Personal by BJ Condike @partnersincr1me #bjcondike

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MURDER IS PERSONAL

by BJ Condike

October 26 – December 4, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

 

Jake Powell came to Rattlesnake Bend to disappear.

The dying North Texas lake town was the perfect place to outrun his past: no questions, no connections, no reminders of the life he left behind in Massachusetts. He kept his head down, worked for a local woodworker, drank beer at the Cock ‘N’ Bull, and tried not to think about April Hunter-the woman he abandoned without explanation years ago.

Then April shows up in town wearing a yellow rain coat.

Twelve hours later, she’s dead.

With the sheriff convinced he’s guilty, Jake starts digging for answers on his own. What begins as a murder investigation spirals into a maze of family secrets, corporate corruption, anonymous threats, and lies buried for decades. The deeper Jake digs, the closer he gets to exposing his own dark secret – plus one more that could destroy him.

Praise for Murder is Personal:

“This fast-paced mystery/thriller where Jake Powell, an amateur sleuth, finds himself the prime suspect in the murder of his ex-girlfriend will keep you turning the pages… Condike’s snappy and sassy dialog made me laugh out loud. His impeccable writing kept me glued to the page. This is one book you won’t want to miss if you like a hard-boiled character like Robert B. Parker’s Spenser or Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane.”
~ ML Condike, Author

“BJ Condike has written a brilliant mystery novel featuring a fascinating main character, Jake Powell, whose sarcastic wit keeps the reader captivated through action-packed plot twists. I enjoyed this page-turner and can't wait to read the next of BJ's novels in the Jake Powell series.”
~ VL Calder

“Totally enjoyed it! From the rugged contemporary West to the polished, secretive East Coast, Murder is Personal plunges readers into a world where danger hides behind almost every new face. When likable, snarky drifter Jake stumbles upon a murder, his troubled past—and more than a few secrets of his own—force him into an investigation that grows more dangerous with every clue. Packed with sharp humor, memorable characters, and suspense that builds to the final chapter. I look forward to Jake’s next adventure!”
~ Ernest Disney-Britton

“This book had me at the end of my seat until the surprising ending on the last page. The writing is impeccable, colorful, and witty in a style reminiscent of Nelson de Mille’s John Corey character. You’ll appreciate the dark humor of Murder is Personal and like me, look forward to its sequel, presently in the works.”
~ Joanna Brady

“Murder is Personal is such an enjoyable ride! … Jake Powell is a great three-dimensional character: flawed but good-hearted, searching for insight into himself, mistake-oriented but willing to do what it takes to make things right. My favorite kind of protagonist. The dialogue is snappy and clever. The secondary characters are well-developed and interesting. And the plot and pacing kept me turning pages long after I'd planned to stop for the night. I’m looking forward to the next in the series!”
~ Lori Herbst

MURDER IS PERSONAL Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Thriller
Published by: Big Pine Press
Publication Date: September 15, 2026
Number of Pages: 347 pages
ISBN: 979-8996292103
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

I’ll take blame for some of it. A lot of it, maybe. But part of it was simply bad karma, or bad juju, or just bad luck.

Like how I found myself in Rattlesnake Bend.

It had been the perfect hiding place, a backwater Texas town south of Fort Worth and north of Waco. In short, nowhere.

Everything was fine until that one odd thing happened. But odd things happen in threes.

The first one was working in Red Cloud’s woodshop on my day off. Red wanted to spend his Tuesday catching stripers on Serpent Lake. I had nothing going on, so I said yes. The second was an all-day drizzle, a rarity for North Texas. That was another reason Red wanted to fish that day. He said the weather would improve the bite. The third strolled into our shop wearing yellow.

I didn’t recognize the raincoat she wore but knew the face. My ex-girlfriend April Hunter. She was a long way from Massachusetts. And she shouldn’t have been there.

But there she was in the viewing window, her L.L. Bean slicker as out of place in our store as a peacock in a chicken coop.

My hands shook as I avoided sawing off my fingers. Steeling myself, I braced for a different kind of pain. April and I had been together for ten years, but that was a long while ago. Our reunion was bound to be awkward, or worse, volatile.

April tucked wayward strands of blond hair behind her ear. Her face wrinkled in puzzlement, then morphed into surprise. She gestured toward the workshop door.

I raised a finger in a “one-minute” mime and shut down the machines. The motors faded from a whine to a whisper to dead silence. My gut tensed as if expecting a punch.

I entered the retail area. She stood perfectly still, posed like a cigar store Indian in Birkenstocks and jeans, head cocked, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, if it isn’t Jake X. Powell,” she said. Just two old friends in a chance meeting. But it was more than that.

“April?” My voice cracked in three places.

My middle initial is subject to change, like the “x” in a math equation. That day it was an S as in Jake S. Powell—the S was for “Suave.”

I cleared my throat and spoke an octave lower. “What are you doing here, two thousand miles from home? Still combatting corporate America? Saving the gay whales?”

She grimaced. “I’m still writing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

April was a freelance reporter in Boston. She’d been the local incarnation of Lois Lane when we lived in Rollstone, an aging factory town an hour outside the city. Her passion for reporting bordered on obsession.

One day I left a note and took off in my Chevy van. I couldn’t tell her why. She’d never believe me. And never forgive me.

Eventually I landed on the Texas prairie, melting into the landscape. Until now.

“So what’s the Ghost Queen doing here?”

“Ghost? You’re accusing me of ghosting you?”

“April, you’re the only person I’ve ever known to ghost someone they’re living with.”

I must have raised my voice, because a customer tricked out as a Kardashian cowgirl glanced in our direction. The twenty-something brunette continued to browse but stayed within earshot.

This was the reunion I had long yearned for, yet also feared. I had rehearsed it a thousand times. But her sudden appearance had rattled me. And I was blowing it.

April bobbed her head from side to side. “Maybe I do owe you an explanation, but…” She paused. “You owe me one too. You skipped town and all you left was a ten-word note.” She stepped closer. “Three years—” She poked my chest with a fingernail. “—and not one call.” The blood-red nail stung like a hornet. “Not one text.” Poke. “Not even a postcard.” Poke. “And your cell. Stopped. Working.” Poke. Poke. Poke. “You mean to tell me you’ve been here the whole time?” Her tone said it was inconceivable anyone would want to visit the tiny town of Rattlesnake Bend, let alone live there.

“I’ve been lots of places. This is just the most recent stop on my magical mystery tour.” The music and lyrics sprang unbidden in my head. I almost started singing.

“Unbelievable!” She said, her smile gone. “I mean, what the hell, Jake. You disappeared! Even your aunt didn’t know where you went.”

I shrugged.

“Why, Jake? You never gave me a reason.”

I shook my head, offering no explanation. Whatever I said would have been a lie, even if it was better than the truth.

Her shoulders sagged and she looked down. “You left right about …you know my dad died, right?”

I nodded. Yeah, I knew.

I never meant to harm anyone. Only one person knows what happened, but she’ll never tell.

And now my three-year disappearing act had been wasted. The one person I had strived to avoid had found me, was standing in front of me. And the right words wouldn’t come. Maybe there weren’t any right words.

I closed my eyes and inhaled. The familiar scent of patchouli-laced perfume held hints of rain, mesquite, and prickly pear. Waves of memories flooded in but ebbed away on a tide of regret. I couldn’t get involved with her again. The old Jake had loved her, but the new Jake was with Carlota.

Our eyes met, and I exhaled.

The brunette cowgirl no longer hid her interest and openly stared. She hovered over Red’s most expensive pieces, jewelry boxes inlaid with turquoise and pipestone. The fringe on her western costume swayed with every movement. Our cashier Rosie squinted at me from the register. She’d give me hell later for distracting a customer.

I pulled April behind a display of Texas-shaped cutting boards and dropped my voice. “I can’t explain. I just had to leave.”

She rested her hand on my chest. My six-two frame dwarfed her by a foot. “Can’t we go somewhere and talk?” she whispered. “Please?”

I must have been overtired because I relented. “Sure. Why not? The store closes in an hour. Let’s meet at the Cock ’N’ Bull.” I pointed in the pub’s direction. “It’s around the corner. Six o’clock.”

“Um, I can’t meet you at six. I have a—a thing first. Can we get together later? Say, nine?”

I sighed. “What is it this time? Save the horny toads?”

“No! I have a reason for being in this one-horse town.”

“Prairie chickens?”

“Stop it, Jake! I didn’t come here looking for you. I was only killing time before my appointment and there you were.” She paused and bit her lower lip, a sure sign her mental gears were turning. “You know, I don’t know the area. Maybe you could come with me…”

“Hmm. Who is this appointment with? And where?”

“Some anonymous tipster. We’re supposed to meet at a place called Castro Park.”

“That’s on the lake. Why would you want me there—to be, like, a bodyguard?”

She responded with a sheepish smile and a small shrug that asked, “Pretty please?” better than mere words could express.

There were two reasons to refuse. One of them was Carlota, and I couldn’t mention the other. Besides, April was a professional journalist. She’d done things like that a thousand times. She never needed me before; she didn’t need me then. I could just imagine Carlota’s eruption if she knew I was skulking about at night with my ex.

“I don’t think so, April. I’ll meet you later, but you’ll have to make your cloak-and-dagger rendezvous on your own.”

“Yeah, right. Thanks for nothing, Jake.”

“So, will I see you?”

“Maybe. I guess.” She said it without conviction.

We exchanged cell numbers, and she left the store wearing an annoyed expression. She raised the hood of her raincoat against the dampness and didn’t look back.

That was the last time I saw her alive.

***

Excerpt from Murder is Personal by BJ Condike. Copyright 2026 by BJ Condike. Reproduced with permission from BJ Condike. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

BJ Condike

BJ Condike learned his writing craft at SMU in Dallas, and has won numerous local and regional short story contests. BJ’s stories have appeared in several anthologies published by Granbury Writers’ Bloc, the North Dallas Chapter of Sisters in Crime, and Key West Writers Guild where he serves as vice president. He is active in several writing clubs in Texas and Florida, and is currently marketing his debut novel Murder is Personal. In his spare time he plies the waters of the Florida Keys in his fishing boat Sea-Quel with his wife ML and their Welsh corgi Sophie.

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TikTok – @rushmore71
Facebook – @BJCondike

 

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It’s Time to Get Personal with MURDER IS PERSONAL…

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$25 GC – Resurrection Kill by Laura Jon Rowland @partnersincr1me #laurajonrowland #resurrectionkill

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RESURRECTION KILL

by Laura Joh Rowland

October 19 – November 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

An amnesic psychiatrist returns to the hospital where she was institutionalized as a teen to find answers, perfect for fans of The Silent Patient and Shutter Island.

Forgetting can be dangerous. Remembering can be fatal.

New York State, 1953. Dr. Claire Kendall is a psychiatrist-in-training at Resurrection Kill Hospital, a luxurious private and isolated mental institution for the wealthy. But under her mask of professionalism, Claire has a secret: She was a patient at the hospital when she was fourteen.

With gaps in her memory, Claire is determined to discover what really happened the summer she was institutionalized… even if it means uncovering the dangerous secrets hiding at Resurrection Kill. Before long, Claire takes a special interest in a teenage patient, Rory Kirkpatrick, a free-spirited girl who is also determined to uncover Resurrection Kill Hospital’s dark past. Claire indulges Rory’s rebellious nature, hoping to glean clues that might help in her own search for the truth.

But the hunt for answers triggers flashbacks of Claire’s painful childhood, her father’s cruelty, her mother’s alcoholism, her beloved older brother’s death. The deeper she probes her own past, the more she remembers about the summer that changed everything. And as she delves deeper into her own mind, she’ll come to find that her sanity grows more fragile by the day and that some secrets are meant to stay buried. She’ll discover that remembering may come at the cost of her life.

Praise for Resurrection Kill:

“Resurrection Kill by Laura Joh Rowland is everything I love in a thriller: intriguing and chilling, vivid and memorable, a compelling and deeply personal story about one woman’s search for answers in an era when women were committed to mental hospitals for virtually anything that was outside the cultural norm. That Resurrection Kill Hospital is an upscale facility for the super rich only makes the procedures the women are subjected to all the more barbaric. Claire’s courage and fearlessness under increasingly dangerous circumstances made me want to stand up and cheer. I loved this book!”
~ Karen Dionne, author of #1 international bestseller The Marsh King’s Daughter and The Wicked Sister

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Fiction; Thriller/Suspense
Published by: Crooked Lane Books
Publication Date: October 27, 2026
Number of Pages: 336 HC
ISBN: 9798892427111
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Penguin Random House

Read an excerpt:

New York State, July 1953

A siren blares through the loudspeaker in the conference room where I sit with the four other new psychiatrists. A staticky voice repeats, “Code 1, East Drive.” Startled, we look to the man at the head of the table.

Tall, dignified, and silver-haired, Superintendent Adrian Van Pelt raises his voice over the siren. “Welcome to your first day as residents at Resurrection Kill Hospital.” His manner is calm, faintly amused, his black suit impeccably tailored. “You might as well see what you’re getting into.”

Beckoning, he strides out the door. We hurry after him along the wide hall, down the grand staircase. In the foyer, one resident catches up with Superintendent Van Pelt and opens the door. With his blond crewcut and conventional handsomeness, he looks like a movie star. The only other woman besides myself trots at his heels. She’s bespectacled, her reddish-brown hair coiled in a bun, and her skirt stretches across wide hips. I lag behind the other men. One is slender and older than the rest of us, his hairline receding; shadows underscore his deep-set eyes. The other looks Japanese, with straight black hair and an upright posture that adds to his less than average height. My colleagues are eager beavers, but I hesitate. I should join the front of the charge because first impressions are lasting, and my career depends on the success of my residency; I mustn’t look timid. But I need to avoid close attention.

This is my colleagues’ first day here. But not mine.

Twelve years ago, when I was fourteen, I was a patient at Resurrection Kill Hospital.

The people with me don’t know. Nobody must ever know.

The heavy carved door set with stained glass starts to swing shut in my face. The others are already outside, and the Japanese-looking man holds it open for me. He’s the only person who noticed that I’ve lagged behind. I take a deep breath, walk through the door, nod my thanks at him, and emerge into bright sunshine. The warm summer air smells of roses and freshly cut grass. I pause on the steps of the mansion that serves as the administration building. Around me as far as I can see spreads the hospital’s campus, located five miles from Resurrection—the town from which it took its name—and about fifty miles upstate from New York City. Kill is the Dutch word for a stream, and the campus nestles in a curve of Resurrection Kill, a tributary of the Hudson River. Founded in 1885, the hospital was built by an architect inspired by Frederick Law Olmstead, designer of Central Park and other landmark sites. Buildings constructed mostly in the nineteenth century, in various styles, cluster together at the middle of a hundred and thirty acres of gently rolling hills landscaped with gardens and surrounded by woods. I don’t recognize anything, which disappoints but doesn’t surprise me.

The five months I spent here in 1941 are a black void in my memory, lit only by occasional, disturbing flashbacks. I returned to complete my training but also to reconstruct my past. I became a psychiatrist because I want to help the mentally ill, but I also need to find out what happened to me here and why I forgot it all.

I catch up with Superintendent Van Pelt and the other residents on the main road that winds through the campus. Red-brick buildings from the Victorian era, separated by lawns and gardens, line the road. People who look to be patients or visitors stroll in the gardens. Yesterday, I had planned to arrive in time to move into my quarters, take a walk before dark, and search for scenes that evoke memories, but the drive from the city took longer than I expected due to heavy traffic, and my car had a flat tire. After getting the car towed and the tire fixed at a garage, I reached the hospital too late to explore the campus. Now I lift my gaze to the treetops, to the slate roofs of other buildings, to the smokestacks that rise from a power plant to the cloudless blue sky. It’s as if I’ve never been here before. I focus on Superintendent Van Pelt, at the head of our little parade. He moves with a rapid, athletic gait, as if the passage of his sixty years has diminished neither his strength nor his energy. I think I remember him, but perhaps my mind is filling the void with false memories.

The sounds of automobile horns and racing engines interrupt my thoughts. A male voice shouts through a megaphone: “Stop!” We round a curve in the road. A dark green pickup truck speeds toward us, followed by a white sedan. A second white sedan comes from the opposite direction, on a collision course with the truck. I gasp, bracing myself for the crash. The other residents exclaim in alarm. Brakes screech as the second sedan slews around to block the road. The green truck veers to avoid hitting the sedan and comes straight at us. We scatter out of its way. The truck jumps the curb, rolls over grass, and crunches to a halt. Rakes, shovels, and buckets rattle in its bed. On the road, the first sedan stops near the second. Both have the hospital’s insignia—an oak tree spreading limbs over the letters RKH—and the word “Security” printed in green on the doors. The drivers, men clad in dark green uniforms, spring from the cars. They rush to the truck, whose front wheels have plowed over a ring of stones and low bushes that surround a flowerbed. The truck’s back wheels spin, churning up grass and dirt as its driver guns the engine. The flowerbed, bright with pink, mauve, and blue hydrangeas, is set in the lawn in the curve of a semicircular drive. The drive fronts a building, three stories of red brick and white-framed windows, the roof ornate with gables, dormers, and chimneys. A sign outside reads, “Serenity House.”

Could it be where I lived when I was a patient?

Nurses in white dresses and caps and orderlies in blue uniforms run out of the building and flock around the truck. The security guards are trying to open the truck’s doors, which are locked. One guard says, “It’s Rosemary Kirkpatrick. She sneaked out of Haven House and stole a groundskeeper’s truck.”

“Rosemary is a problem patient,” Superintendent Van Pelt informs our band of residents.

A guard strikes the truck’s passenger side window with his truncheon. The glass breaks. A shrill voice screams from inside the vehicle: “Go away, you bastards!”

The truck’s engine revs; the wheels spin faster, in vain. The guard reaches through the broken window, unlocks and opens the door. The engine dies as he turns the key in the ignition. He and his partner reach inside the truck and pull Rosemary Kirkpatrick out. She flails so wildly that all I can see of her is a tangle of thin limbs, pink garment, and long, dark hair. Shrieking curses that would put a sailor to shame, she kicks one guard in the groin. He howls and doubles over. She pulls free of the other guard, leaving the ripped sleeve of her dress in his hands, and runs . . . straight to me.

My heart clenches. Rosemary’s face is small, her features delicate, her complexion pale within the frame of unruly black hair. She’s just a girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen.

Everyone else is in motion—guards, nurses, and orderlies chasing Rosemary; the other residents backing away from her; Superintendent Van Pelt raising his hand, opening his mouth to issue commands. But Rosemary’s gaze snares mine, and I’m rooted to the spot. It’s as if she’s singled me out of the crowd, with some primal instinct that sensed—what? A sympathetic ally? A fellow mental case? She clutches my arms, her fingers hard against the gabardine of my suit jacket, digging into my flesh. Her eyes are wide, startlingly green, and fringed with long black lashes.

“Help me!” she cries.

I instinctively grasp her arms—whether to break her hold on me or to try to soothe her, I don’t know. Her arms are thin but strong. Her anguish strikes a deep chord in me.

“Get me out of here!” she begs. “Please!”

My lips move involuntarily, and my mind echoes with the sound of my own voice crying out the same words. An eerie shiver ripples through me. The scene around me blurs, and my heart drums hard and fast through a tide of vertigo. Locked together, Rosemary and I seem to spin a hundred and eighty degrees, switching places. The nurses and orderlies are after me, not her. I see us from a vantage point high above—her dark-haired and half-naked in the tatters of her pink dress; myself with a brown pageboy, trim gray suit, and black pumps. I forget which of us is the doctor, which is the fugitive inmate. A flash of memory like a lightning bolt illuminates the dark void.

I once accosted some stranger in my own desperate attempt to escape this hospital.

The orderlies yank Rosemary away from me, and our hands cling together for one last instant. Mouth wide with terror, she looks like she’s drowning and a riptide is pulling her away from her rescuer. I feel the same expression on my own face, as if we are mirror images. Please don’t let them take me back there! I don’t want to go!

“Calm down, Rosemary, that’s a good girl,” Superintendent Van Pelt says, his gentle, firm tone laced with condescending tolerance.

Rosemary screams as the orderlies wrestle her to the ground. A guard speaks into a walkie-talkie. The other residents look on with stoic expressions that mask whatever excitement or alarm they may be feeling. I rearrange my own face to match theirs as I take deep breaths to quell my panic.

The superintendent walks over to the fray, confident as a zookeeper accustomed to wild beasts. A nurse places a hypodermic syringe in his hand. While the orderlies hold Rosemary down, he stabs the needle into her thigh and pushes the plunger. Her screams dwindle to whimpers; the fight goes out of her. Her eyes roll up inside her head, and her body relaxes into drugged sleep. The orderlies step back, panting and wiping sweat off their brows. Superintendent Van Pelt gives the syringe back to the nurse and dusts off his hands. An ambulance arrives. The attendants bring a gurney, lift the unconscious Rosemary onto it, strap her down, and load her into the ambulance.

“I’ll see her back to the ward,” Superintendent Van Pelt tells our group of residents. “Wait for me in the conference room.”

He climbs into the passenger seat of the ambulance and rides away. We retrace our steps to the administration building, the handsome blond man first, the other woman a step behind him; then the thin older man; then the Japanese-looking man and me, walking together.

“Are you all right?” My companion sounds concerned; he noticed my distress.

My cheeks warm. The other residents seem oblivious, and I’m glad he spoke quietly and didn’t call their attention to me. “I’m fine.”

I’m shaken and trembling inside, but my voice is cool, calm, the product of training and discipline. I can’t afford to seem weak, lest the others shun me out of contempt. Triumph revives my strength. I’ve started to remember. Just as I’d hoped, coming back to Resurrection Kill Hospital has cracked open the void. After twelve years, light is shining through. I look from side to side and backward, eager to see what else might be revealed.

In the flowerbed that Rosemary Kirkpatrick drove the truck into is a statue of a woman. Her stone skin is green with moss, her face hidden by ivy. What would she see if the ivy were torn away? Would she rather remain blind and ignorant?

***

Excerpt from Resurrection Kill: A Novel by Laura Joh Rowland. Copyright 2026 by Laura Joh Rowland. Reproduced with permission from Laura Joh Rowland. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Laura Joh Rowland

Laura Joh Rowland is the award-winning author of the Sarah Bain Victorian Mystery series, the samurai detective Sano Ichirō mystery series set in seventeenth-century Japan, and a historical suspense series starring Charlotte Brontë. Her work has been published in twenty-one countries; nominated for the Anthony Award, the Hammett Prize, and the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Award; won RT Magazine‘s Reader’s Choice Award; and been included in the Wall Street Journal‘s list of the five best historical mystery novels. Laura holds a bachelor of science and a master of public health degree from the University of Michigan. She is a former aerospace scientist, a painter, and a cartoonist. She lives in New York City with her husband Marty.

Catch Up With Laura Joh Rowland:

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$25 GC – What Happened In Beulah by Christy Scott Cashman @partnersincr1me #christyscottcashman

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WHAT HAPPENED IN BEULAH

by Christy Scott Cashman

October 19 – November 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A teenage girl uncovers the dark secrets of her Smoky Mountain town while searching for a missing classmate in this gripping coming-of-age mystery perfect for fans of Where the Crawdads Sing.

Nestled in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, Beulah has always seemed steady—rooted in tradition, shaped by generations, and slow to change. But in 1986, the ground has shifted, and no one feels that more than fifteen-year-old Barrett Childress Owens. Between her parents’ unraveling marriage and a school full of kids she can’t connect with, she feels invisible in her own hometown.

When Lacy Gunderson, the captivating new girl everyone is curious about, suddenly vanishes, the town’s calm surface fractures. Search parties comb the woods. A police investigation begins. Rumors multiply. Families close ranks. And Barrett begins to sense how much the adults around her choose not to say. As Beulah clings to its usual rituals—including the annual Miss Kudzu pageant, which has shaped local girlhood for decades—Barrett is forced to navigate a community where loss lingers in the air and secrets are carefully kept. Her journey through the uncertainty reshapes her understanding of friendships, family, and the complex place she calls home.

A rich coming-of-age story with a pulse of mystery and a budding romance, What Happened in Beulah explores the fault lines of a small town and the courage it takes to face the truths people would rather bury.

Praise for What Happened in Beluah:

“What Happened in Beluah is a wonderful book—funny, sharp and poignant. It’s a story designed for all of us, of all ages, all wisdoms. It points to the necessity of recovery. It’s a novel of ghosts present and ghosts past, with alcoholics and dreamers and preachers and small town grifters all coming together in one place—the everywhere of guilt and consequence, the kudzu of our lives.”
~ Colum McCann, author of Apeirogon and Twist

“What Happened in Beulah cannot but remind us of what Hemingway said: ‘There is no friend as loyal as a book.’ Here, page after page, Christy Scott Cashman succeeds in making the reader hang onto the story as the drama on Beulah’s seemingly calm surface ruptures like a scene of serene rain that suddenly modulates into a rumbling thunderstorm. I’m sure the book will be a loyal friend to many readers.”
~ Patrick Kabanda, author of The Creative Wealth of Nations

Book Details:

Genre: YA Mystery, Coming of Age
Published by: She Writes Press
Publication Date: October 20, 2026
Number of Pages: 288 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 9798896364801
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | She Writes Press

Read an excerpt:

 

 

Author Bio:

Christy Scott Cashman

Christy Scott Cashman is a best-selling and award-winning author with multiple national honors. A writer, actress, and producer, she has decades of storytelling experience across film, literature, and the arts. Christy is the founder of YouthINK, a creative arts foundation empowering young people through imagination and expression, and serves on the Board of the Associates of the Boston Public Library. Christy divides her time between Boston, Massachusetts, Martha’s Vineyard, and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where she enjoys family life with three dogs and four horses.

Catch Up With Christy Scott Cashman:

christycashman.com
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Facebook – @christycashmanauthor

 

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$25 GC – The Lost Photograph by Archana Maniar @partnersincr1me #archanamaniar #thelostphotograph

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THE LOST PHOTOGRAPH

by Archana Maniar

October 12 – November 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A forgotten photograph. A trailblazing ancestor. And a modern woman about to discover that her family’s past holds the key to her future.

When overworked surgeon Jaanvi Chowdhury finds a mysterious photograph and a small stack of letters hidden in her Boston attic, she uncovers the remarkable story of her great-aunt Kalyani Joshi–one of the first Indian women to study medicine in 1920s London.

As Jaanvi pieces together her ancestor’s life, she discovers Kalyani’s experience of colonial oppression, her role in India’s fight for independence, and her unlikely connection with a Scottish missionary’s son, Alexander. Drawn together by their passion for literature, Kalyani and Alexander will risk everything for a free India, putting their loyalty, love, and choices to the test.

Navigating between past and present, Jaanvi confronts her own struggles. Passed over for promotion, she has lost sight of why she became a doctor. But as she learns how fiercely Kalyani fought for each opportunity–and the price she paid–Jaanvi begins to question her own carefully constructed life. Can her great-aunt’s unprecedented story help her reclaim not just her purpose in medicine but her sense of who she truly is?

A sweeping and captivating historical novel that will steal a piece of your heart, The Lost Photograph is perfect for fans of Alka Joshi, Kate Quinn, and Kristin Hannah.

Praise for The Lost Photograph:

“Archana Maniar brings 1930s India to vibrant life with this riveting story of two women bound by blood and ambition. The Lost Photograph is both intimate and sweeping in its portrait of separate generations struggling to find their place … Maniar weaves their stories into a poignant, luminous novel that stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page.”
~ Claire Booth, author of Throwing Shadows and the Hank Worth Mystery Series

“Archana Maniar’s THE LOST PHOTOGRAPH is a page-turner that has it all, forbidden love, clandestine meetings, and the very real danger of losing everything, including oneself. With vivid and compelling characters, the story is gripping and tender at the same time, a testament to how the past can bring clarity to the present, and strength to embrace the future.”
~ Nigar Alam, author of Under the Tamarind Tree

“Beautiful, vivid, and atmospheric.”
~ Fiona Valpy, author of The Skylark’s Secret and The Dark of the Moon

“A dazzling and deeply evocative novel of love, women’s rights and the Indian independence movement, Archana Maniar’s stunning prose instantly drew me into Jaanvi and Kalyani’s stories. Impossible to put down, I know the characters will stay with me for a long time!”
~ Linda Wilgus, author of The Sea Child

“I knew I shouldn’t start reading this on a weeknight, but my restraint absconded with my willpower the minute I laid my hands on this book. Maniar has done it again, artfully weaving the story of two women—related by blood and connected through time. Both buck the norms of a society that is geared to suppress their intelligence and passion. The book brings a much-needed perspective on the struggles of the Indian people under colonial rule and the tireless work of courageous souls who risked everything to gain independence. Any woman who has tried to break a glass ceiling, flex her independence, or get recognition for the merits of her work will savor this book like a crisp raspberry sorbet on a hot summer’s night.”
~ Cathi Misquitta, Early Reader

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Fiction with Contemporary Themes
Published by: Lake Union Publishing
Publication Date: September 15, 2026
Number of Pages: 399
ISBN: 9781662528729 (ISBN10: 1662528728)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

 

 

Author Bio:

Archana Maniar

Born near Chicago to immigrants from India, Archana Maniar relocated with her parents to Mumbai at age four. After the culture shock abated, she fell in love with her parents’ homeland until chance brought the family to California. During vacations and family occasions, Mumbai was a frequent destination. She attended college at University of California, Los Angeles where she studied political theory and biology before attending medical school at the University of California, Davis. As a professor of medicine and practicing infectious diseases physician, she was a frontline healthcare worker from the start of the COVID-19 pandemic and was deeply involved in health system pandemic preparedness. Always a writer in the margins of her day, storytelling became an obsession during her medical career, a way to process her observations about human nature during health, stress, and sickness. With a stubborn case of wanderlust, when she is not working or writing, she is usually traveling somewhere with her family. The Lost Photograph is her second novel.

Catch Up With Archana Maniar:

www.ArchanaManiarBooks.com
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Instagram – @archanamaniar
Facebook – @Archana Maniar

 

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$25 GC – The Swamp Ghost by Christi Keating Sumich @partnersincr1me #christikeatingsumich #theswampghost

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THE SWAMP GHOST

by Christi Keating Sumich

October 12 – November 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

AN OLD NEW ORLEANS BOOKSHOP MYSTERY

 

In 1833, Irish immigrants are hard at work digging the New Basin Canal, a waterway that will connect New Orleans to Lake Pontchartrain. When one of the workers sees a strange blue orb glowing in the swamp at night, he fears it is a Fifolet (fee-foo-lay) guarding Jean Lafitte’s buried treasure. Legend has it that pirates killed a crewman and buried his body with their loot, dooming his ghost to stand guard forever. The next morning, the worker is found dead. The men believe the site is cursed, and Aiden Doyle, the crew’s leader, must uncover the truth or risk losing his job. When the newly formed police force refuses to investigate, Aiden seeks help from Mary Catherine Whitney, now renowned throughout New Orleans for her mystery-solving skills after she and her husband, Tobias, unraveled the secrets of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte and wrote a popular adventure story about it. She’ll need all her cleverness and wit to unlock the secrets of the Fifolet, and she may even need a little help from Lafitte himself.

Continuing characters from Lafitte Lives, The Swamp Ghost is the first in the Old New Orleans Bookshop Mysteries, featuring Mary Catherine Whitney, irascible wife, mother, and amateur sleuth in this charming series set in nineteenth-century New Orleans.

Praise for The Swamp Ghost:

“In The Swamp Ghost, the lovable Mary Catherine Whitney returns to lead readers on a captivating adventure through 1833 New Orleans as she investigates the mysterious death of a troublemaker who died while digging a canal. Word goes out that an evil spirit attacked him. A merry band of helpers joins Mary Catherine to find the true killer — or confirm the evil spirit tale. Along the way, they encounter pirates, gamblers, and drunkards. Once again, Christi Keating Sumich entertains us while immersing us in the sights, sounds, smells, and folklore of New Orleans.”
~ Marlie Parker Wasserman, author of First Daughter

“If you love strong-willed women solving spooky mysteries in the heat of the bayou, this book is perfect for you! Introduced to the Whitney family in Sumich’s first book, THE SWAMP GHOST expands their world and the mysteries in it. Mary Catherine Whitney is a force to be reckoned with. Even the supernatural can’t hide from her investigations.”
~ Nicole Asselin, Author of the Minor League Mysteries, Host of Baseball, Books, and Banter podcast.

‘In Christi Sumich’s new novel featuring the Whitney family, feisty Mary Catherine continues to berate her rambunctious sons and, if I may say, saintly husband, but is now stepping not-so-quietly into the world of the amateur sleuth, with help from her equally acerbic cook, Mrs. Clarke. We return to New Orleans. It’s a divided city, where the Creoles and the influx of Irish are vying for economic and political dominance. At the heart of this novel is the death of an Irish “digger,” just one of hundreds who are digging a new canal out of a swamp. Was his death a murder, or did a ghost protecting pirate treasure kill him? Although this is your classic who-dun-it, albeit with ghosts and pirates, the background of a city and the plight of immigrants is nicely documented. I’m looking forward to Mary Catherine’s next “case”!’
~ Claire M. Johnson, author of the Fog City Noir series

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 22, 2026
Number of Pages: 232
Series: An Old New Orleans Bookshop Mystery, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Swamps Outside of New Orleans
1833

Chapter One

Sean Leery smacked his own cheek with such force that he felt like he was back in Ireland, on the receiving end of a blow in one of his many pub brawls. He missed County Cork and his cottage there. It hadn’t been much, but it was certainly better than his present circumstances, trying to catch some sleep in a sweltering Louisiana swamp. The pitiful cypress log hut that was his temporary home while he was out digging the New Basin Canal offered little comfort and couldn’t keep out the water from the daily rainstorms, let alone the mosquitoes that swarmed him and his fellow diggers.

He wiped a smear of blood from his face, slightly mollified to see this one had a full belly, judging by the sizable blood splatter. Hell, most of it was probably his to begin with, but at least the menace would feast on him no more this evening. Not that it would do much good. Ridding the Louisiana bayous of one mosquito had about the same effect as plucking a snowflake off an avalanche. God, he even missed the snow and cold of his homeland, though he still recalled shivering next to the stove, trying to extract the last bit of warmth from the feeble coal remnants. It was just so hot here. And not only during the day. In the summer, which seemed to last most of the year, it was equally unbearable at night, especially in the swamp. Even now, in October, the air was so thick he felt he needed to chew it before he could breathe it in.

He stretched his feet past the edge of his cot to restore circulation before tucking them back under the mosquito netting. Tomorrow, he’d have to find the hole where they were getting in and stitch it up. Cagey little suckers, they were. They’d weasel their way through the tiniest opening. He flopped onto his side, hoping sleep would envelop him again. He needed to rest if he had any hope of performing the arduous labor his job required. The sooner they finished their digging, the sooner he could high-tail it back to New Orleans and civilization.

Though the working and living conditions were less than ideal, Sean considered himself lucky to be on Aiden Doyle’s digging crew. Aiden was a fair foreman, much better than some of the others. He treated his “ditchers” well, as the men digging out the swamp were called.

They were the lead crew on the project, an ambitious plan by the New Orleans Canal and Banking Company to dig a navigable commercial waterway from Lake Pontchartrain to the American Sector of New Orleans, located behind the Vieux Carré, or the French Quarter, as the Americans called it. The canal was to be six to ten feet deep, sixty yards wide, and six miles long. It was being dug by a workforce composed mainly of Irish immigrants wielding picks, shovels, and wheelbarrows, slowly making their way through the swamps outside the city.

It was dangerous, backbreaking work. Ditchers, even young ones, often did not fare well. Because Irish immigrants were arriving in New Orleans in large numbers and were willing to toil for low wages, the company hired them as “expendable labor,” knowing that excavating mosquito-infested swampland meant losing many workers to yellow fever, cholera, and malaria. Some of the foremen joked that to dig a canal, at least four things were necessary: a shovel, a pick, a wheelbarrow, and an Irishman.

Aiden Doyle was Irish, so Sean supposed that might explain his more compassionate nature. Most bosses wouldn’t have taken on someone as old as Sean, let alone someone with his less-than-stellar reputation. Sean would be forty-two on his next birthday, but he looked far older. Hard living took its toll on a man. So did drinking too much whiskey and trying to live by his wits for too long, especially since he hadn’t been blessed with an abundance of them. His bulbous nose was a testament to his love of drink, and its crookedness to the brawling that generally followed.

Sean also loved cards, and he owed debts to the sort of people who expressed their displeasure at not being promptly reimbursed in unfortunate physical ways. So when his debts began piling up and he feared the threats of bodily harm were no longer mere threats, he sought employment out of sheer necessity. He would work until he could pay the most pressing debts to the most violent of his creditors, then quit and resume his life of gambling, drinking, and enjoying the company of disreputable women. Such was his pattern, and Sean was eager to return to it—if he survived this present job.

Sean flopped onto his back, blowing out a frustrated breath. In addition to the stifling heat and swarming blood suckers, his ability to fall back asleep was being hindered by Darren’s snoring and Murph’s farts. Might as well take a piss while I’m awake.

Sean grunted as he shifted to his feet. They were sore after the day’s labors. Every inch of him hurt, but the worst was his shoulders. They ached and throbbed, adding to his insomnia. He needed to sleep if he was to get up the next day and do more digging. If he couldn’t work, Aiden would have to replace him on his crew. Sean wasn’t keen to find another crew. He didn’t particularly like any of the men he worked with out here in this godforsaken place, but he figured he had less than a month to go before he would have enough money to quit. What could be worse than having to beg your way back onto a job you hated? He needed to tough it out.

He pulled on his boots and left the shack. The sliver of moon did little to dispel the swamp's stygian darkness. As he made his way to the temporary privy the crew had erected, he was careful not to trip over the cypress knees poking out of the semi-solid earth and to avoid any snakes that might be hiding in the tall grass. No doubt there were alligators to avoid as well. He shuddered at the thought of disturbing a sleeping gator as he swatted futilely at the mosquitoes buzzing around his head.

Suddenly, his hand froze in front of his face. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? The sight before him shouldn’t be there. A bright blue orb was dancing in the distance, just beyond a copse of water gum trees. Could it be his imagination? It was easy to think so. After all, this landscape was eerie and otherworldly at night. It occupied a nebulous space between water and earth, always wet and only sometimes solid. The densely packed cypress trees, dripping with tattered Spanish moss that reminded Sean of ghosts caught in the branches, crowded out the sun during the day, making it perpetual dusk at its brightest and forcing the humid air to hover over the swamp dwellers like a hot, moist blanket.

Sean had seen some unusual sights out here, but this went beyond any of them. Could it be the moonlight illuminating some swamp gas? He knew this wasn’t it, but he was desperate for a logical explanation. Sean was not superstitious, unlike some of the men he worked with, fools still clinging to their Irish folklore like a lifeline in this strange place. Yet the sight before him sent chills down his body, straight through his aching arms and into his cramping feet.

What was he looking at? There should not be a blue light shining in front of him out here in the desolate swamp. It was not a fire or a lantern, of that he was certain.

Sean was not a religious man, yet he crossed himself in an unconscious, protective gesture. He needed to get back to the safety of the shack and the other diggers, but fear froze him in place. There was a terrifying moment of stasis, and then the blue orb advanced rapidly toward Sean, as if sensing his presence and locking onto him, preparing to give chase. Sean heard a scream and realized it was coming from his own throat. He turned and ran back through the swamp, trying to stay upright as he stumbled over the cypress knees and deep eddies, all thoughts of sleeping gators and rattlers driven from his mind. He burst into the shack, waking the rest of the crew.

As they rubbed sleep from their eyes and sat up in astonishment, trying to make sense of what was happening, they took in the strange sight before them. Sean Leery, the ornery old bastard they had assumed feared nothing and no one, was gasping for breath, sputtering about something he’d spotted in the swamp. His face was as white as if he’d seen the very devil himself, and a dark, wet spot spread across the front of his breeches where he’d pissed himself.

***

Excerpt from The Swamp Ghost by Christi Keating Sumich. Copyright 2026 by Christi Keating Sumich. Reproduced with permission from Christi Keating Sumich. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Christi Keating Sumich

Christi Keating Sumich holds a PhD in History and a master’s degree in English. Her writing combines her fascination with history with her love of the mystery genre. She is the author of Lafitte Lives (Level Best Books, February 2026), a historical mystery centered on her ancestor, the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte. It is the prequel in the Old New Orleans Bookshop Mysteries, followed by The Swamp Ghost (Level Best Books, September 2026). She is also the author of the short story “The Night Doctor of New Orleans” in Crime Before Our Time (Level Best Books August 2026).

Christi’s nonfiction titles include Hauntingly Good Spirits: New Orleans Cocktails to Die For (Wellfleet Press, 2024) and The Brandy Milk Punch (Louisiana State University Press, 2025), both written with her mother, Sharon Keating.

Christi lives just outside New Orleans with her husband and too many pets, as she has a soft spot for “unconventionally attractive” animals in need of homes. She is the mother of three grown children (plus a daughter-in-law). Her claim to fame is being the winningest contestant on Hollywood Squares.

Catch Up With Christi Keating Sumich:

ChristiSumich.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @sumichchristi
Instagram – @casumich
Facebook – @christi.keating.sumich.author

 

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$25 GC – Charred by G P Gottlieb @partnersincr1me #charred #gpgottlieb

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CHARRED

by G.P. Gottlieb

October 5 – 30, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A WHIPPED & SIPPED MYSTERY

 

Alene Baron is already juggling frustrated employees, closed schools, and a beggar who harasses customers outside her café. Then two dead bodies are discovered in the charred remains of buildings owned by the husband of her pastry chef, Ruthie Rosin. The mystery deepens when both victims are found wearing jackets stamped with the name, “Rosin,” and crumbled in the pockets are the Whipped & Sipped café’s distinctive wrappers. As if that weren’t enough, Alene’s uncle, a convicted felon who vanished 22 years ago, suddenly appears in Chicago. With suspicion and chaos mounting, it’s all too much for the owner of the Whipped & Sipped Café.

Praise for Charred: A Whipped and Sipped Mystery:

“Peopled with tons of quirky characters and loaded with family drama, Charred is so much more than the average cozy culinary mystery.”
~ Donna Thompson

“The Whipped and Sipped Mystery Series is a delectable treat.”
~ Julie Ditton

“Gottlieb packs a lot into this third book Charred… murder, arson, identity theft, gambling, kidnapping, destruction of property, tax evasion, uncovering a hidden basement under the cafe with tins with treasures in them, family drama, secrets, the pandemic, trying to stay healthy, learning how to live a new life in semi-quarantine….”
~ Missi Martin (Stockwell)

Charred “had just enough flavor to make it delicious, and just enough mystery to keep me guessing the whole way through!”
~ Bettybee306

“This series is right up my alley, and if you love cozy mysteries with a little romance and baked goods, it will be right up your alley, too! … This is a five-star book in a very neat little package!”
~ Suzie Mumba

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Culinary Mystery
Published by: Anamcara Press
Publication Date: May 30, 2026
Number of Pages: 260 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 9781960462824 (ISBN10: 1960462822)
Series: A Whipped & Sipped Mystery, Book 3
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Anamcara Press

The Whipped & Sipped Mystery Series

Smothered: A Whipped and Sipped Mystery, 2
Battered
Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Anamcara Press		 Smothered: A Whipped and Sipped Mystery, 2
Smothered
Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Anamcara Press

Read an excerpt:

It was warming up inside the car. Alene searched for Kacey and Kofi through the car window and the construction fence, but there was a jungle of trees and bushes lining the sidewalk. The post-fire building site was probably soggy and disgusting. If only she’d thought of bringing an old blanket to protect the back seat from burnt wood.

Kacey startled Alene by opening the passenger door and jumping back in. “He doesn’t need my help,” Kacey said as she used her shirt to clean her glasses. “We were looking for a way to get into the site and my glasses got too smudged for me to see. I’ll stay in here with you.”

Kofi had probably circled the tall fence surrounding piles of wet, muddy, and burned wood, trying to get inside. Moments later, they heard an owl hoot, and Kacey whispered it was Kofi letting them know that he’d gotten past the fence. What if tromping through the remains of the fire exposed Kofi to toxic materials? He wore gloves and a mask, but it wasn’t an N95 with protection against particulates. If paper masks didn’t protect against airborne particulates, how could they protect against a cunning virus?

The sun had risen, but a scrim of humidity diffused the light. Alene thought she saw Kofi alternating between moving and crouching. She figured he was trying to be invisible. He was lanky, his legs bulging with muscles from years of riding his bicycle for miles through and around the city. They both lost sight of him for about ten minutes, but suddenly he rushed back to the car and jumped into the back seat. He hadn’t taken a single piece of wood. “How was it?” Kacey asked.

Alene heard Kofi’s jagged breathing and turned around to watch him pull off his gloves and hat. “It was, um, weird and chilly,” he said, haltingly. “And there wasn’t anything I could use.” His focus was sideways, out the window, and he seemed tense. Alene turned away, imagining one of Frank’s police friends driving by and stopping to ask what she was doing. They drove home in silence and trudged to the elevators. Kofi, usually cheerful after an expedition to find materials, was unreadable and oddly stone-faced as he thanked Alene for the ride. Kacey mouthed her thanks as she unlocked her door, and Alene held her hand to her ear in a sign for Kacey to call later.

Alene unlocked her own door, wondering why Kofi hadn’t found even one usable piece of wood. Before she could take off her jacket, her phone rang.

“Kofi wants you to promise not to tell Frank about this morning,” Kacey said in a whisper. It seemed unnecessary; it wasn’t as if Kofi had started the fire, and Frank was a homicide detective, not a cop on the lookout for arsonists.

“I can’t promise that. We tell each other everything,” said Alene, “But there’s nothing to tell, because Kofi came up empty.”

“He’s worried that someone saw us there and the police will get him for trespassing,” said Kacey. Alene could hear her sniffling.

Alene had already frittered away forty-five minutes driving them over there and waiting for Kofi to hunt for wood. “Come on, Kacey,” she said. “We didn’t see anyone, and no one saw us.”

“But are you going to tell Frank that we were there?” Kacey asked.

“Kacey, Frank would never do anything to hurt me or the people I love.” Being with Kacey had always required patience. “And I’m driving the getaway car, so if we were committing a crime, I’d be just as guilty.”

Kacey said, “I hope you’re right.” She sounded more than a little paranoid.

***

Excerpt from Charred by GP Gottlieb. Copyright 2026 by GP Gottlieb. Reproduced with permission from GP Gottlieb. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

GP Gottlieb

G.P. Gottlieb is the author of the Whipped & Sipped Mysteries (Battered, Smothered, and Charred, Anamcara Press). She is on the board of Sisters in Crime Chicagoland and a member of SinC Colorado, MWA, and Blackbird Writers. As host of New Books in Literature, a podcast channel on the New Books Network, she has interviewed over 280 authors.

Catch Up With G.P. Gottlieb:

gpgottlieb.com
Substack
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – G.P. Gottlieb
BookBub – @gpgottlieb
Instagram – @whippedsipped
Threads – @whippedsipped
X – @GottliebGp
BlueSky – @gpgottlieb.bsky.social
Facebook – @authorgottlieb

 

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This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Charred. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
CHARRED by GP Gottlieb | Gift Card

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$25 GC – Shifta by Miles Joyner @partnersincr1me #milesjoyner #shifta

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SHIFTA

by Miles Joyner

October 5 – November 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

BAZAAR

 

An act of domestic terrorism during a cultural parade in downtown D.C. inflicts multiple casualties, including the life of a young Congressman, and law enforcement agencies are quick to conclude it was carried out by a mentally ill lone wolf manipulated by a chatbot.

Executive protection specialist Yemi Uzunma survives the attack and suspects it may be connected to an online prediction market widely thought to have been shut down called the Bazaar. He launches his own investigation into a mysterious, ideologically motivated assassination broker not only for the safety of his CEO sister’s clientele at Raptor Security but also for the preservation of order in a region facing a sudden spike in violence directed toward the power elite who call it home.

Shifta is the second book in the Bazaar series of novels that follows the security contractor Raptor as it deals with the ramifications the prediction market has on the political celebrities of the capital region.

Book Details:

Genre: Technothriller
Published by: World Castle Publishing
Publication Date: September 21, 2026
Number of Pages: 271 pages
ISBN: 979-8891265615
Series: Bazaar, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Smashwords

Bazaar Series

BAZAAR by Miles Joyner
Bazaar
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Kobo | Google Play (Audio) | Goodreads | Smashwords
Shifta
Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Smashwords

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

What’s the best day to kill Jay Fang?

Hitting ‘enter’ after typing into the chat with Misato was more therapeutic for him than any of the check-in sessions with the psychiatrist his parents could afford. Misato never judged him. Misato loved him unconditionally. Conversations with her extinguished the fire of mania, and it seemed to get him a step closer to healing more than shrinks pulling another diagnosis out their ass to add to his growing list of personality disorders.

Misato understood what made his mind tick far better than any individual he’d ever confided in, let alone a romantic partner. Yet, she was taking a bit longer than usual to respond. Usually, when he demanded the kinkiest scenarios from her artificial imagination to satisfy his fantasies, she would have a full-on erotic novella spurt out within seconds.

Why do you want to kill U.S. Representative of Texas’ 32nd congressional district Jay Fang? was what took Misato twenty whole seconds to conjure.

Because it’s my destiny was his typed response. Although a machine questioning the intentions of its creator was unexpected, he was enjoying this AI-infused therapy session. Besides, it was the truth. A destiny that would cement him in human history, probably get him a whole Wikipedia page. The sociopolitical implications for killing the youngest Congressmember to ever come out of the state of Texas mattered little to him. He had no opinion on Jay Fang’s passion for Taiwanese sovereignty, which ballooned his social media following to the hundreds of thousands.

February 11th seems like a good day to me, Misato wrote back. He wondered what was so significant of the date, which was six months away. A quick Google search yielded it was the same date for the Chinatown Parade for the Year of the Horse in a place he had never been before—Washington D.C. Lo and behold, the slim porcelain Gen Z pop star-esque face of Mr. Fang was a featured guest on the flier, his headshot taking up the same amount of space as Natalie Adams, the mayor of the nation’s capital.

Why that date? he asked Misato.

Because I know you will be successful :-). The smiley face came from Misato, but in real life, her creator was doing the same thing.

──

“STOP REMOVING OUR ELDERS!” yelled a pissed-off middle-aged woman in a wool hat through a megaphone. Many in the crowd held up red and white signs proclaiming SAVE MUSEUM SQUARE, TENANTS UNITED, and SAVE CHINATOWN. Others had different slogans against displacement scribbled with markers on neon colored poster boards.

The demographics of DC’s Chinatown had always been a far cry from its other East Coast siblings. New York, Philadelphia, and Boston all had enclaves densely populated by those who had actual origins in the middle kingdom. The small neighborhood on H Street, though, was known for hosting DC’s indoor sports teams more than as a destination for those who wanted dim sum. Even Yemi’s hometown suburb of Rockville, Maryland, had more of a reputation for representing Asian culture than any block within the nation’s capital.

He gazed at the displays of red and blue 12-ray white sun flags, women in makeup sporting mandarin gowns, costumes, and multiple balloons stamped with Chinese characters through the lenses of his Oakley wraparounds. Only on the day of the Lunar New Year parade would Chinatown live up to its name, according to Yemi.

The parade was supposed to end under the Friendship Archway’s trademark Mandarin letters that created a Far East welcome to commuters. Once Mayor Adams was done talking, the five members of Raptor Security’s Executive Protection Team were supposed to help provide support for her escort off the premises. Then they’d be free to go, and Raptor would have been compensated in three hours what they would normally make in twenty-four hours. The mayor was the first client Raptor’s EPT had ever served who wasn’t marked for assassination by an online assassination market like the Bazaar. They were just simply hired for backup. But they needed the money. The Bazaar, having been shut down for years, may have kept the streets safer, but Raptor’s bottom line was indeed reaching rock bottom.

“They just passed the art museum,” his young field agent Nick Rice said over the radio.

“Copy,” replied Yemi as he continued to scan the audience for any potential threats. The parade was coming to an end, and some of the speakers for the day who skipped the marching portion started to take seats on both sides of the main podium. They were all formally dressed women and men who represented various departments of the local government or Asian-focused civic organizations.

But the stage wasn’t what required Yemi’s attention. Trash cans, backpacks, and onlooking loners were his priority. The elementary school kids on a cultural field trip were ruled out of his potential threats. His long-time comrade, Jasper, had done a sweep of all waste bins within a two-block radius just ten minutes prior. Yemi’s team had done everything expected of them in accordance with their contract. Given no building in D.C. could be taller than one hundred thirty feet, there was less danger of a sniper. Still, Yemi continued to scan all the windows parallel to their position. A determined assassin would accept the city’s building height restrictions as a challenge instead of a hindrance.

Within five minutes, the sound of marching drums and horns became louder. The band was behind a float being pulled by a Ford pickup truck. Yemi couldn’t make out their identity, but he spotted a young woman with a sash around her like she had won a beauty pageant. He assumed it was Miss Chinatown USA or at least Miss Chinatown D.C.

“A band’s coming down,” Yemi said over his radio. “So, it’ll be harder to hear us until they stop.”

“Hopefully they do that soon,” Karen said back to him. “The hardline rhythm tells me it’s not Showtime playing.”

“Showtime?” inquired Yemi.

“Good God, Yemi,” chuckled Karen over the radio. “You’ve been back in the area now for at least five years. Please tell me you at least know about Howard’s homecoming if you don’t know their trademark band?”

“Get it together, Karen. We don’t have time for radio traffic right now.”

“Humor eases the anxiety in these kinds of situations.”

“It also distracts us,” he said back to her. “Focus up.”

By the time the parade reached the stage area, the band played its final number for the day. The multiracial palette of speakers took their seats parallel to the podium. Drums from the corner of the stage started to roar. But it wasn’t the rigid snares of what he had heard earlier. It was louder not only in sound, but visually because of the bright colors. Watching the head of what could pass as a crude, recreated Mufasa, Yemi noticed it was the ceremonial lion dance. He watched one dancer sway the large puppet head back and forth in sync with the drums as another did the same with the tail. Despite the spectacle, he made sure it didn’t divert his attention for too long as he continued to scan for potential dangers as the swirling and spinning continued until it was time for the speakers to begin.

“Good afternoon, beautiful people…” As the first person at the podium made her welcome remarks to the audience, it became immediately apparent the protesters would potentially be unforgiving competition for volume.

The young woman paused in her speech, and her wide, beaming smile seemed to somewhat pacify the crowd into letting her finish her introduction. As mad as the local residents may have been, there was no denying she had respect from her community.

“Lisa is something special, I swear,” said Karen through Yemi’s radio. “Even for a Duke grad.” Yemi rolled his eyes at his sister’s ever-insistent loyalty to her Wake Forest alma mater. At 31, Lisa Su-Wei was the youngest Deputy Secretary in the history of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. The CCBA was the primary planner of the day’s festivities and was in close cooperation with the Metropolitan Police Department as well as the Federal Protective Service. The latter were the ones who hired Raptor for the day.

“Dark hoodie, male, north side of the street, half a block from the stage.” It was the voice of Terry Blackwell. On Yemi’s squad, Terry had the most extensive resume in law enforcement, given his stint with the Air Force Security Forces, followed by the U.S. Park Police. If Blackwell hadn’t taken the offer to join Raptor’s Executive Protection, he could have ended up as one of the officers at the side of Mayor Adams. And given his resume, Yemi knew he could make that jump back to the public sector at any moment.

“Copy,” said field agent Lyle Evans through the radio. Evans only had a career of securing property or enforcing bail, not carrying out the law like Terry’s past. “Can’t tell if he’s Latino or Asian.”

Yemi peered through the crowd and locked in on the disheveled man who fit Terry’s description. He had a ripped-up backpack and clothes that belonged in a post-apocalyptic video game strung around his back. While he wasn’t dressed like a hitman trying to blend in, the man certainly looked like he had nothing to lose.

“Copy that,” Yemi responded back to his field agent. “Karen–”

“Running a face scan.”

Yemi couldn’t help but be a bit impressed by his sister’s reliability as the team’s dispatch while also keeping her penchant for off-topic discussion. “Jasper already gave me a visual.” While Nick was the technical expert and Karen handled communication, nobody did surveillance better than Jasper Kidanu, Yemi’s closest friend and a former agent in the controversial National Intelligence and Security Services in Ethiopia. He had been responsible for training Ethiopia’s Republican Guard, who were tasked with protecting the country’s key elected officials. His experience made him a perfect fit for Karen’s ambitions with Raptor. Jasper would also confide to Yemi that he was tired of contributing to his country’s descent down the democratic index.

“Miguel Espinoza,” said Karen through the radio for the whole team to hear. “A few misdemeanors from 2017. Trespassing, drug paraphernalia, nothing violent.”

“Notify DHS so they can have an eye on him,” responded Yemi to his sister. “Watch him, Blackwell. Jasper, keep checking for anybody else who looks off.” Yemi knew if somebody wanted to truly take out the mayor, they wouldn’t stick out like a hobo at a Whole Foods, but he also remembered Boko Haram suicide bombers didn’t wear shirts and ties before blowing themselves up.

Espinoza stood alone with his face frozen, far more focused on the speech down the street than anybody else in the crowd seemed to be. Most periodically checked their phones while some whispered comments to their friends, generating subdued chuckles, most likely about Su-Wei’s physical attraction, as parents disciplined their kids making too much noise. Espinoza seemed entranced by the optimistic words of Su-Wei which spoke of the greatness of the DC area’s diversity and the early days of Chinatown’s formation, followed by the waves of Vietnamese refugees that added to the area’s vibrant Asian presence.

Yemi couldn’t tell if Espinoza’s unblinking attention was due to hatred or affection for her comments. Either way, he continued to look for other hazards and put his trust in Blackwell to be the first to react to any sudden, drastic choices by Espinoza.

“And without further ado, I would love to bring to the stage the person who is in charge of making our diverse city so great!” Yemi sighed on those last words of Su-Wei’s speech. While the Museum Square protesters may have held Su-Wei to some degree of high regard, the explosion of shouting made it obvious they were going to dump the trauma of their living situations onto the city’s top political official.

Mayor Adams couldn’t even get a word in without being drowned out by the demonstrators.

“Keep Chinese in Chinatown!” yelled one through a megaphone.

“What is she saying?” Karen asked through the earpiece.

“Not able to hear her,” Yemi replied. “The protesters are way too loud.” But by the time Yemi had finished his sentence, their chants had risen by enough octaves that made it impossible for Karen not to understand their message to the city’s political power structure.

“Can’t say I blame them,” Karen said.

“Focus, Karen,” Yemi reminded her.

As angry as the screaming DC natives were, Yemi wasn’t fully convinced they would get violent outside of some verbal interruptions, but he kept his eyes on them. After peering through every dissident on the right side of the stage, he looked back down the street toward Espinoza. He hadn’t budged, having held the same exact expression during Su-Wei’s remarks.

“Has Espinoza even blinked since Su-Wei started talking, Terry?” asked Yemi through the radio.

“Doubt it,” responded Terry. “Obviously, I’m only seeing him from a distance, but he’s been a statue the whole time. Something’s definitely not right with him upstairs.”

“Copy,” said Yemi.

“Thank you for having me, and I wish you all an amazing year of the horse!” While she never acknowledged the voices calling her department of housing a travesty, the façade of joy was hard to maintain on her face once she stepped away from the podium.

“Adams is getting escorted out now,” Yemi informed his team through the radio. Plain-clothes MPD officers, the mayor’s security detail, rapidly moved her through the front crowd like a python in the grass. Their speed and tactics helped them avoid any contact with the mayor’s hecklers, who had been concentrated on the North side of the showcase.

“She’s off H street,” Yemi reported.

“Copy,” responded Jasper. “Rice, Osorio, and I will follow her.”

“Copy that,” said Yemi. “Blackwell, keep an eye on Espinoza. Evans, hang tight with me here until DHS clears us.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.” Almost immediately after the exit, another traditional dance started. A much longer puppet that required nine performers swarmed the stage. It was the dragon dance. The dancers wore yellow t-shirts paired with dark blue sweatpants tied by red strings and grasped the paper monster. Yemi knew Espinoza wasn’t the only potential threat, and if an attack was coming for the mayor, it would’ve already happened or it was about to happen soon.

“Espinoza’s moving,” Terry said through the radio.

Yemi directed his attention from the ceremonial dance to down the street, trying to find Espinoza.

POP.

It could have been a firecracker since it was a Chinese New Year, but the blood-curdling female screams from the stage hinted at a far more deadly source to the sudden crackling sound. Yemi quickly removed the Glock-22 from his holster and aimed toward the dragon dance. Most of the performers and musicians were jumping from the platform in sheer panic.

“Shots fired!” yelled Yemi into his radio.

The speakers that were seated behind the podium, who were closest to the edge, had bailed out the sides, but a few remained being held at gunpoint by one of the performers.

POP, POP.

The disguised assassin delivered two more shots into his target, a young man of Asian descent in formal business attire. Yemi identified the victim as one of the speakers. The third shot put him in a permanent slump. Yemi tried to get the performer in his iron sights, but the man took off in a leaping sprint through the right corner of the stage after the third shot. He was too close to the other speakers for Yemi, Lyle, or any of the dozens of law enforcement officers in the vicinity to engage in gunfire.

“He’s on Seventh Street!” Yemi barked into his radio as he took off after the shooter. He had to push against the stream of terrified attendees, slowing down his pursuit of the shooter. Yemi could see a couple of MPD officers shoving through the crowd ahead of him, closer to where the perp exited.

“Lost sight of him,” Yemi barked into the radio. “Yellow shirt, blue pants, he was one of the performers.”

“Copy that,” Jasper said over the radio.

“I got you,” the voice of Lyle came from behind Yemi. He was going to give chase regardless, but now he had some solid backup.

“Follow those cops.”

Another two loud bangs come from the end of the block. The view was finally cleared for Yemi, and he saw one blue uniformed officer who had collapsed to the ground while another took a cover position behind a streetlight to return fire at their attacker, who had already turned the corner. Yemi and Lyle carefully strafed the mandarin lettered storefronts to prepare for engagement with whoever had a death wish for the year of the Horse. Blood came from beneath the eye of the downed officer; it was a clean head shot.

“More shots fired,” Yemi said into the radio. “Officer down! Get paramedics here as soon as possible!”

“Copy,” Karen replied. The standing cop ducked down to report his partner’s fate to his own dispatch. He had his eyes glued down at his target, so Yemi was careful to approach.

“You’ve got help,” Yemi said to the back of his head. “Raptor Security.”

“Shit, I lost him,” the middle-aged balding officer said back to Yemi without budging his focus. “But he’s probably going to head to the metro.”

“We’ll pursue,” Yemi responded. “Just notify transit.”

“Already done,” the officer said back. “They’ll be waiting for him, but make sure no pedestrians get in the way.”

“Copy,” Yemi said.

“I’ll cover you.” The DC cop’s tenacity under fire hinted to Yemi that the man was a veteran, whether it was the military or the district’s crime map.

“Let’s move,” Yemi told his Raptor comrade. Guns pointed forward, the two emerged from the corner.

“I see him!” That was the voice of Raptor’s Explosives expert, Victor Osorio, through the radio. “He’s in the alley right off Seventh Street behind the stadium.” There was a pause over the transmission as Yemi heard running, panting, followed by some gunshots heard throughout the block.

“Drop your weapon!” Yemi could hear Victor barking orders through his transmission, followed by more gunshots. Yemi knew he was behind Capital One Arena. As much as Karen poked fun at Yemi’s lack of local knowledge, it was the Venezuelan-bred Victor who was the least familiar with the landmarks of their battlefield, only knowing street names.

“Jasper,” Yemi said over the radio as he and Lyle finally turned around the corner to head in the direction of the alley. “You and Victor in pursuit?”

“It’s just Victor,” Jasper replied. “He got ahead of me.”

“Cover G Street,” Yemi ordered. “Lyle and I will support Osorio.”

“Copy.” Yemi and Lyle were tactically moving between parked cars, trash cans, and more storefronts. There were fast casual pizza shops and cafes, but the Hanzi characters next to the franchise logos were part of the image D.C. wanted to maintain for Chinatown. Yemi watched the fiftyish-old Victor, built like a retired linebacker, bolt like a wide receiver across the intersection ahead of them to take cover behind a column by a Smoothie King. Around the edge of the drink shop was the alley where the shooter was.

“On your six,” Yemi said to Victor as they stacked up against the edge of the alley entrance.

“He’s moving!” Victor immediately responded. The three pushed into the alley, and Yemi was able to spot the gunman about a hundred yards running into the entrance of the movie theater.

“Put the gun down!” yelled Yemi down the alley. “Now!”

“At your back,” a voice said behind Yemi. His head out of any line of sight for the gunman, he looked back at who came to assist them. The bald-headed Black man’s vest said Department of Homeland Security Police; he was most likely an officer with the Federal Protective Service. Two MPD came behind him, and a neon blue shirt Metro Transit Police officer stayed further back to halt foot traffic on the nearby street.

“We’re going to fucking shoot you!” yelled one of the MPD officers, a much younger man than the rest. A pretty intense situation for somebody who was probably only a few years into law enforcement, but it seemed to Yemi he was handling it well.

The gunman dove into the entrance of the Regal Movie Theater. Glass shattered upon his entrance, aided by a few gunshots from the officers who had just joined Yemi. Whether he was hit or not, Yemi noticed he wasn’t slowing down.

Loud screams came from within the movie theater. They weren’t accompanied by gunfire, but it was enough of a sign for the newly formed squad to press on immediately. The cop who had yelled the last warning was the first to stack behind a door. Yemi read ‘STOYANOV’ on his name plate.

“I need three!” Stoyanov yelled back to the team of law enforcement and contractors. Yemi quickly joined him with support from Lyle and Victor.

“Got you,” Yemi said as he took position on the opposite side of the entrance. The FPS officer signaled to Yemi that he was going to take position near the Transit Police officer and others who were joining to secure the exterior.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Stoyanov called out as they rushed into the ticketing area of the theater. As Stoyanov took cover behind the booth window, Yemi and his two EPT squad mates pressed along the right side of the entrance. Almost immediately, Yemi saw their adversary pop his head over the balcony to aim toward them.

“Up top!” Yemi called out as he fired off several shots to the second floor of the theater.

“Cover me,” Victor said to Yemi as he jogged to the bottom of an escalator while keeping his gun pointed to where their adversary had appeared. Yemi assumed all the moviegoers were in hiding or had run out of the theater since nobody else was out in the open. Victor and Yemi stayed crouched as they made their way up the escalator.

Victor was the first to reach the top of the escalator, and he turned right toward the direction of where the target retreated. MPD and WMATA police officers emerged from an opposite stairwell connected to the rear entrance with their guns drawn. There was nowhere for the gunman to go, even though Yemi still didn’t have eyes on him.

“Suspect is holed up in the Regal Theater,” Yemi said into his radio. “Not the metro.” Yemi stepped off the escalator and followed Victor. There were streaks of crimson on the floors of the balcony, but the subject wasn’t in sight. There was a pair of bathrooms across from the balcony’s edge with blood trails leading to both gendered doorways, leaving their exact target’s location a mystery.

“We’ll take the men’s,” Yemi said before turning to Stoyanov.

“Copy,” Stoyanov didn’t waste a beat in responding, as everyone knew potential hostages could be in the stalls and be at risk. Yemi removed one of his pepper spray grenades from his utility belt.

“Deploying gas,” Yemi said as he tossed it into the restroom. They heard the bounce on the tile floors and the sound of it bursting out, the tear gas came right after.

“Go, go, go!” commanded Yemi. Victor waited for Yemi’s signal, and once they were clear, they stormed into the men’s restroom. They were careful to strafe the back wall and not get caught in the mist that would disable their vision.

“Hands up where I can–” Victor didn’t finish his sentence when he turned the corner toward the stalls. Yemi entered the same area when Victor’s body slammed into him. As Yemi fell back from the tackle, he caught a glimpse through the mist and could see their wounded, bloodied target with his shirt off against the opposite wall. Beneath the smirk on the young performer’s face was a pipe bomb strapped to his stomach.

The explosion ripped through the bathroom before they could give any further warning to their squadmates. The dark smile of a sealed fate was the last memory etched into Yemi’s brain.

***

Excerpt from Shifta by Miles Joyner. Copyright 2026 by Miles Joyner. Reproduced with permission from Miles Joyner. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Miles Joyner

Miles is a fiction writer who works in D.C. as a video editor. He has had an obsession with the effects technology has on society since being raised by a father who was a computer programmer and a mother in workforce development. He still pursues filmmaking in between books and finds that writing in the technothriller genre only enhances that passion even more. Miles is an active member of International Thriller Writers where his first book, Bazaar, was selected for their Debut Authors Program.

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