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$25 GC – Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove by Paul Charles @partnersincr1me #paulcharles

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Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove by Paul Charles Banner

HI LOVE, YOU JUST DROPPED YOUR GLOVE

by Paul Charles

June 1 – July 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove by Paul Charles

A McCusker Mystery

 

Thomas Barry, Lefty Kelly, and Brendy McCusker were all teenage boys who were roaming the streets of Portrush, County Antrim, in Northern Ireland in 1976 when Thomas Barry quite literally bumped into Isabella Scott, and he uttered the words of the title. In July 2019, the same Thomas Barry’s remains were discovered at the foot of the Pilgrim’s Steps in the Portrush Harbour. There were an extra 200,000 people visiting Portrush that week as The Royal Golf Club played host to Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy and the UK Open Tournament.

McCusker and DI Lily O’Carroll are conscripted from the PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) in Belfast to help the already stretched local police force work on the case. They discover McCusker’s childhood friends Barry and Isabella Scott had married and then…well then, everything became very complicated relationship-wise involving Isabella’s sister, Colette, lawyers, accountants, and showband singers. Thomas had become an ultra-successful property developer, sometimes in partnership with the Buckley Brothers, at least one of whom doesn’t mind the cowboy approach to work. Meanwhile, McCusker is pining over a recent relationship he had started back in Belfast with O’Carroll’s sister, Grace.

Set against the backdrop of the (actual) UK Golf Open taking place in a small seaside town, where absolutely everyone has an opinion, and their opinions they are keen to share.

Praise for Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove:

“Paul Charles’ Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove is a page turner par excellence. Written written with Charles’ customary verve. Another brilliantly compelling atmospheric effort from a master crime writer.”

“A welcome return for Brendy McCusker… Charles crafts with such a careful eye on the sparks that can fly—some of them charming, some witty, some downright menacing—between characters who don’t happen to see eye to eye, or sometimes even to be operating in the same galaxy. Once again, it’s hard to resist a hero who realizes, ‘He just had a habit of opening his mouth and not knowing what was going to come out.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

“Charles’s skillful depiction of the many sides of love and its strange bypaths lifts this clever novel well above the genre average.”
~ Publishers Weekly

“Paul Charles is an outstanding author of crime fiction novels. They are models of character development and powerful observations of people the detectives meet. I enjoy reading his books.”
~ Irish American News

“Charles’s skilful depiction of the many sides of love and its strange bypaths lifts this clever novel well above the genre average.”
~ Publishers Weekly

“Charles has a wealth of experience in the crime genre from his past Kennedy and Starrett novels and the McCusker series delivers the same blend of mystery and engaging protagonists. The characters have an authenticity that Charles has fine-tuned throughout his writing career. Charles ability to weave real-like details helps bring the story full to life. A Day in The Life of Louis Bloom is both a love letter to Belfast and a gripping thriller.”
~ Aoife Bradshaw, Hot Press

“Charles In Full Bloom With Novel… a thrilling page-turner.”
~ Sunday World

“Amusing light-hearted entertainment from Paul Charles.”
~ The Irish Independent

HI LOVE, YOU JUST DROPPED YOUR GLOVE Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural, Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 382
ISBN: 9798898201050
Series: A McCusker Mystery, Book 3 | Stand Alone
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I was born here and I’ll die here, against my will.
—Dylan

‘Hi love, you just dropped your glove.’

When she turned to face him, he was amazed. He remained totally in shock to the extent he became a blabbering idiot.

‘Just now as it fell from your coat pocket…’ he continued, ‘I caught it before it hit the wet ground… Honestly it didn’t get wet. I mean it’s a little wet, but only from the rain and not the pavement…agh…’ and mid-sentence he reluctantly turned and chased after his two mates.

She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever set his eyes on during his seventeen years on this earth. When she’d passed him a few life-changing seconds beforehand, she was walking, arms interlinked in the midst of two friends with her head bowed to the pavement. Consequently, he’d missed her green eyes, hidden by her long black hair, and he’d missed her quiet demeanour, but, most of all, he’d also missed the chance to make a connection.

He insisted his two mates, Brendan and Lefty, continue walking around the streets of Portrush with him until darkness fell ninety minutes later. He was working on the theory they’d bump into the three girls again. They’d discovered, to his cost, the only thing more difficult than finding someone in Portrush in the peak holiday season was finding someone on the deserted streets of Portrush during the off-peak season, when Ulster’s number one tourist centre reverted to its more comfortable status of winter ghost town, aka Ghostrush.

Thomas Barry—Tommy to his acquaintances, Tom to his good friends—minus his two mates was back on the streets the following morning, just before eight o’clock. He walked the short distance from his parents’ house in the sedate Antrim Gardens to the nearly (but not quite) refurbished railway station in Eglinton Street, passing the moth-balled Barry’s (historic) Amusement Arcade on the way. It was a journey just like he’d done most days of his life. Most other days of his life. though, he’d just taken Barry’s (no relation) and every other local landmark, for granted. That Sunday morning in October 1976 though he’d studied every nook and cranny around the streets of the Port as if his life depended on it.

He felt it did.

When his friends met up with him just before lunch time, he admitted to them he’d already had tea and toast in Portrush’s Holiday Hostel, with its ultra-colourful rooms; the once elegant Adelphi Hoteland The Atlantic Hotel, with its spectacular views, in the vain hope the three girls were out-of-towners. The other hotels and guest houses were all closed for the winter, he claimed. Still, he’d tried them all, “just in case, you understand.” He also, for one who’d always gone to great trouble to keep the majority of his feelings inarticulately to himself, articulately explained he felt for the sake of his well-being, if not his life, he needed to find this girl. He also admitted that, not only did he not know what he was going to say to her when, and if, he met her, but if such an accidental, on purpose, meet happened he’d be so tongue-tied again, he might even need to walk on past her. He just knew he really needed to find her. He told them he’d been awake all-night thinking about her. Lefty put him out of his misery by offering to take him to some of the out-of-town hotels. The two of them hopped on Lefty’s trusted red Vespa 125 scooter and headed off out past Kelly’s trailer park and bar and on to Castle Rock, Portstewart, Portballintrae and even Bushmills.

They returned just over an hour later with the Vespa’s petrol tank empty and their four arms all the one length.

Thomas Barry admitted to his two best friends he’d never felt so convinced about anything before in his life. A real-life girl had never ever had such an effect on him before. Isabella Adjani on the silver screen yes, but a real live human, certainly not. He most certainly accepted the fact he was never ever going to meet the long-haired, green-eyed girl again in his life.

He admitted how weird this feeling was to him.

Nonetheless he continued his search.

He thought of all the things he could have done, should have done. Perhaps all of them were things capable of scaring her off for life. But what did it matter now? He’d most certainly lost her for life.

The lads wanted to go to the Old Harbour Bar. Even with the new glitzy restaurant extension, accessed by a half a flight of wooden stairs, it was still the cosiest bar in the winter and their favourite watering hole. He declined, suggesting he might join them later. Once again, he took to the streets of Portrush. The same familiar streets he had taken for granted all his life, but which now took on major importance due to the fact they may be keeping him from finding the green-eyed girl. He tried chastising himself for feeling sorry for himself. It didn’t work. How could it possibly work when someone, something, a God even, if such a spirit existed, had allowed him to experience this special creature and then not equip him properly about how to approach her? He chastised himself further for not considering what he’d say to her if, or when, he met her. He’d already let himself down once by blabbering away when he had the perfect excuse to greet her. Equally he felt if he had something rehearsed it would have sounded too false, stifled, insincere and a chat up line. He kicked himself over his rap about her glove being wet not because he had let it fall on the wet pavement but because it had gotten damp in the rain.

He’d never been one for the chat up lines. They’d left those to Lefty. Funny enough this approach hadn’t worked out for their lead wingman either. Thomas Barry had often wondered if they’d become mates, “blood brothers” just so they could hang out together and look for girls. Anyway, they had launched their little gang, the BLTs. They even had their own unique motto: May the Sauce be With You. It was funny at the time. They’d picked it over a meal together in Morelli’s as they simultaneously chased the food-saving flavouring known as HP. They’d also debated using: Life is a Beach and Then the Tide Goes Out,. Considering their endgame objective, they had unanimously voted against this option on the grounds it was too negative. As he wandered around the deserted streets, now it had gotten down to the nitty-gritty, he wasn’t so sure about their motto either, or even about their gang in the first place. Lefty was always complaining three wasn’t a good number to hang out in. If they met two girls and got through the even more complicated task of chatting them up, then the girls would surely feel sorry for the additional boy they would have to exclude due to the mathematical impossibilities. He reckoned maybe they could possibly have made the problematic maths work down in the more liberal Belfast. In the meantime, they had agreed they would figure out such a scenario as and when it arose. Lefty had claimed the girls would probably make their preference known and they, the boys, would just have to deal with it. They’d been happy to leave the tactics to Lefty. Even though Lefty’s tactics had, so far, been 100% unsuccessful, they still left him in charge. The alternate didn’t bear thinking about.

Tommy wondered if it would be any easier if, and when, one of them found a girlfriend and peeled off their gang as it were. He wondered who’d be the first to find a girl. He thought if you were a betting man and you followed the odds, then Lefty should be the first to find a girl. But then what would they do? They’d surely be lost without the tactics man. Or would they?

‘At least the rain has stopped,’ he said aloud, as he rounded the corner of the forsaken Mark Street Lane and into the desolate Atlantic Avenue.

‘Hi Love,’ he thought he heard a ghostly breathy voice say, not much above a whisper, ‘you haven’t found another glove, have you?’

There she was, there right in front of him on what would now become the hallowed, Atlantic Avenue. His green-eyed girl’s green eyes were smiling straight at him.

He was so intent on finding her he pretty much nearly walked straight into her. He knew if she hadn’t spoken first, he would have walked past her. Lucky enough before he’d a chance to figure out what he was going to say she spoke again.

‘What am I like?’ she started, ‘I’m forever losing a glove, thankfully never both at the same time, mind you, always just the one at a time. The one you picked up for me I…’

‘I’ve been looking for you all day,’ he admitted, his voice sounding a lot calmer than he felt.

‘Mmmm,’ she replied, studying his face and sounding like she knew, and accepted, such an admission wasn’t as weird as he feared, ‘you’d look good with a moustache.’

Of all the things he’d imagined her to reply, and most of them also included her rushing off as quickly as her shapely legs would carry her, this was not even in the top 1000. It wasn’t as though he had actually come up with more than three possible replies.

Before he knew it, they were involved in a natural freewheeling conversation.

She seemed inclined to linger rather than to walk away.

At a very brief lull in the conversation, they both silently acknowledged they didn’t want the conversation to be stifled, so they spurted out their next questions simultaneously.

‘Do you live here?’ Tommy asked.

‘Who were you talking to as you walked around the corner?’ she asked over the top of his question.

‘No, I’m at the University of Ulster in Coleraine and one of my course mates invited me and another friend over to her parents’ house for the weekend. Her parents own a wee guest house over by the West Strand,’ she said in response to his question.

‘I was talking to myself,’ he admitted, ‘what’s your friend’s name?’

‘Gilly Hutchinson.’

‘Oh,’ he said, without even meaning to.

‘You know her?’

‘Well I know of her,’ he replied, ‘I know her sister.’

‘Which one?

‘Gilly would have been a few years ahead of me,’ Tommy replied.

‘Right,’ she replied, without allowing him to finish, ‘so you’d know the youngest, Emmi Mae.’

‘Yeah we were really good friends when we were…oh 13 ish and then she outgrew me.’

‘Ah yes, it happens at 13 or even 13-ish.’

‘Tell me about it,’ he offered more to himself, ‘so was that Gilly the blonde-haired girl with you yesterday?’

‘No, Gilly was swotting, you saw the eldest sister, Adele, who’s just great craic altogether.’

‘Okay, figures, I don’t know her at all,’ he replied.

He looked at his green-eyed girl out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see her as well as he’d seen her yesterday when they’d met face to face. She still looked stunning even though her long dark hair covered the side of her face. He couldn’t see those amazing green eyes though. On the upside what he’d missed yesterday was her personal scents. She smelt of a blend of soap, shampoo, mixed with little hints of a heather based perfume. The combination was totally intoxicating. ‘I’m Tommy,’ he offered, extending his hand, and knowing it was an excuse to steal another glimpse of her stunning emerald eyes, ‘Tom Barry.’

‘I know,’ she said, offering her own hand in return.

‘You know?’ he said, surprised while noticing two of her top teeth protruded a wee bit to the extent it looked like her top lip was going to have trouble covering them.

‘Yes, Adele told me,’ she said, as she smiled, ‘she also said you weren’t part of the other Portrush Barry family.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said, still holding her soft skinned hand and shaking it gently, determined to never let it go again if he could get away with it. ‘’Fraid it also means I’ll not be able to get you free rides on the dodgems.’

‘I’d be more of a Barry’s Big Dipper kind of girl, anyway.’

‘Ditto on the Big Dipper, although I can’t pull any strings there either,’ he offered regretfully, while thinking he didn’t see her as being a Big Dipper kind of girl. All that screaming seems so alien to one so reserved and private. ‘I could get you a pony ride on the beach though if you wanted?’

‘Accepted,’ she replied, seeming content to leave her hand where it was, she leaned towards him, her nostrils wriggling the more they bridged the gap to his ear, ‘but not being part of the amusements also means you won’t smell of petrol and grease and candyfloss.’

‘Or Daulse and Yellowman,’ he added, attempting to complete her list and praying it was a compliment, ‘oh look…’ he continued and pointed with his free hand to the cuff of her red duffle coat, ‘there’s your missing glove, stuck up the sleeve of your coat.’

Sadly, for Tommy, this gave her an excuse to break away from him.

‘I’m Isabella,’ she said, retrieving her glove, ‘Isabella Scott and the pleasure to meet you on this wintery weekend, is all mine. That’s twice you saved me, Tommy, which means I’ll never forget you.’

And that, was how Tommy Barry and Isabella Scott first met.

Neither Isabella, her two friends, Gilly Hutchinson and Jane Murray nor Tommy Barry’s two friends, Lefty Kelly and Brendan ‘Brendy’ McCusker, would ever forget Tommy Barry. This fact was even more definite now that forty-three years later (bar three months) on Wednesday July 17th, 2019, the very same Tommy Barry died a very unnatural death.

***

Excerpt from Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove by Paul Charles. Copyright 2026 by Paul Charles. Reproduced with permission from Paul Charles. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Paul Charles

Paul Charles began his career in music at fifteen years old, managing his first band, The Blues by Five, in his hometown of Magherafelt in Northern Ireland. He moved to London in 1967 intending to study civil engineering but was quickly drawn back into the music world. In the 1970s he worked in multiple roles for the Belfast prog rock band FRUUPP, who signed to Dawn Records and toured widely across the UK and Europe. Charles lyrics for Sheba’s Song were later sampled and used as Soon The New Day by Talib Kweli featuring Norah Jones on the album Ear Drum which debuted at #2 on the Billboard Top 200 chart in 2007. After FRUUPP disbanded Charles co funded the Asgard Agency and has represented major artists including Crosby Stills & Nash, Jackson Browne, Tom Waits, The Kinks, Van Morrison, Robert Plant, Ani DiFranco, Gordon Lightfoot, Nick Lowe, Elvis Costello, Loudon Wainwright III, John Lee Hooker, and Ry Cooder. He has programmed the Acoustic Stage at the Glastonbury Festival for the last 38 years. A life long writer he published his first Christy Kennedy mystery in 1997 Level Best Book have just published his 22nd mystery – Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove.

Catch Up With Paul Charles:

PaulCharlesBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram – @paulcharlesbooks

 

Tour Participants:

Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

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$100 GC – Lies To Forever by Marlene M Bell @ewephoric @partnersincr1me #liestoforever

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Lies To Forever by Marlene M. Bell Banner

LIES TO FOREVER

by Marlene M. Bell

June 1 – 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Amazon / Goodreads

MY REVIEW

Lies To Forever by Marlene M Bell is dark and dangerous for April Manning. Marlene writes some fabulous mysteries, but she has upped her game with this convoluted thriller, filled with obsession and betrayal.

April’s life is moving along and she’s feeling good about herself and her situation…until she’s finds her savings has been siphoned from her bank account. Her generous nature leads to her downfall when she is served an eviction notice and the landlord of her dream home is missing. Her boss at the architecture firm she works for comes up dead. Everything revolves around April, but she has no clue why she is in someone’s crosshairs.

She is being stalked and set up to take the fall. Mysterious packages appear on her doorstep, wind chimes appear out of nowhere, bringing her past to mind, a past she thought she had left behind.

She’s lucky that her exboyfriend, Hunter, willingly steps up to the plate to help her out. It made me very suspicious. Her friend and coworker, Kelly, offers her some money and a place to stay. There are plenty of suspects as the investigation develops. Do they want her dead?

My spidey senses were tingling and my suspicions grew as the story moved along at a steady clip. The book has short chapters that make for easy reading. As the suspense grew, my need to know the answers increased. I love that there are those ‘don’t go in the basement’ moments.

4 Stars

Synopsis:

First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.

April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being scammed out of her life savings by a trusted friend, April is left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her position as an interior designer at her old architectural firm, even if it means a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex.

But that’s not the only hitch. When the owner of the firm turns up dead, the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.

Now the killer sets a plan for April and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Chased from her dream home and cornered like prey, April is hemmed by the wintry forests of Tennessee with few options. As chilling memories of childhood abandonment haunt her, it seems everyone has a hidden agenda to take April down.

Only one thing is certain. A monster is stalking Smoky Creek, and April must unmask them before they land the fatal blow.

Readers of Sarah Alderson and Kiersten Modglin will love the twisted betrayals and dark obsession of Lies to Forever, the latest standalone thriller by award-winning novelist Marlene M. Bell.

Praise for Lies to Forever:

“A must-read for fans of smart, character-driven suspense fiction. Highly recommended”
~ The International Review of Books

“Author Marlene M. Bell has crafted a gripping, psychological thriller. …a suspense-laden drama where the twists and turns of the plot are genuinely surprising and rewarding.”
~ The Book Review Directory

Lies to Forever Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Crime
Published by: Ewephoric
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages:316
ISBN: 9798986340982
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.

When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.

The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover.

He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door.

Without so much as a warning.

My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles.

The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend?

“April.”

My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office.

Whang.

A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface.

A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient.

“I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.”

The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes.

“Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name.

My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees.

A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.”

Haven’t heard that in a while.

Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes.

I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way.

Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped.

A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early.

“Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm.

“Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area.

“Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.”

I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant.

He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought.

“Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair.

I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.”

From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable.

I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.”

“Miss.”

I turn toward the voice.

“I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.”

My first slam-and-crash date request.

It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared.

Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest.

“If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table.

“Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?”

I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.”

“April, he’s not coming in.”

“That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.”

“Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.”

With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk.

“I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?”

“Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.”

“Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.”

The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.”

Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress.

“Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.”

“You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs.

“It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds.

“Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.”

“Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks.

“Been there a few times.”

“You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso.

Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment.

Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say.

When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude.

The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take.

Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out.

While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain…

A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather.

I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps.

Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow?

A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace.

I don’t smell burning wood.

My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub.

Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa.

“Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?”

I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—”

A metallic odor hits me.

“Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived.

Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene.

I can’t be implicated in this.

***

Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Marlene M Bell

Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world.

When Marlene’s not busy plotting her next novel, she’s exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she’s always hunting for the next spark of inspiration – or the next adventure calling her name.

Catch Up With Marlene M Bell:

www.MarleneMBell.com
Amazon Author Profile
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X – @ewephoric
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Facebook – @marlenembell

 

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$25 GC – Wildwood Exit by Joel E Turner @partnersincr1me #wildwoodexit #joeleturner

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WILDWOOD EXIT

by Joel E. Turner

May 25 – June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A deadly family vendetta at a Jersey Shore restaurant finds John McGinty (aka Ginty) tailing his boss’s lying wife and junkie son into a dark world of embezzlement, drug dealing and murder.

Ginty has just stepped in as the manager of a Wildwood restaurant owned by his friend, Lou Scolletta, after Lou fires the old manager for dipping in the till.

Ginty starts out ordering rolls of salami and bottles of Galliano, but quickly becomes Lou’s consigliere, picking up questionable packages from sketchy associates; tailing Lou’s wife Concetta on her furtive trips to Cape May; scouring the Jersey Shore for Lou’s son, Davy, a junkie on the lam; and wondering why a possibly bent State Trooper keeps showing up everywhere he goes.

Things in Ginty’s world don’t improve when a drug shipment goes wrong, a blackmail note appears…and a body is found floating in Delaware Bay.

Ginty is now the unwilling-yet trusted-confidante of all the Scollettas, and realizes that everyone in this twisted family circle is in danger-including himself.

WILDWOOD EXIT is as sordid as it is comic, and should be on every beach towel from Asbury Park to Cape May.

Praise for WILDWOOD EXIT:

“A quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart”
~ Amy Rosenberg, Philadelphia Inquirer

“Funny, thrilling . . . a captivating crime story with a vivid Jersey Shore setting.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Amateur Sleuth, Noir/Hard Boiled, Crime fiction, Noir Fiction, Jersey Shore Noir, Literary Noir
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 6, 2025
Number of Pages: 329
ISBN: 9781685129729 (ISBN10: 1685129722)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books | Main Point Books | ​​Wildwood Historical Society (Signed)

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The car bumped hard, the undercarriage hitting the edge of the shoulder, as it careened off the Garden State Parkway, heading for a stand of trees. The bump woke me up, and I jammed on the brakes and fought the steering wheel, cutting it hard left, but it was too late. The car fishtailed as the front smashed into a tree, the rear swinging right as the brakes took hold and crashing into another tree. I was flung forward, my hands coming off the wheel and banging against the console.

My hands were cut and bleeding as I sat staring at the road, the car twisted at a forty-five-degree angle. Pain throbbed from my right temple, and I realized I must have hit the windshield or the roof. A heaviness pressed down inside my head above my eyes, and I felt an urge to close them and go to sleep.

I forced myself to stay awake and get out of the car. I knew I was still technically drunk, but the crash had pumped enough adrenaline into my veins that I was hyper-aware, despite the likely concussion. I tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck shut, the right fender crunched in and bent on the top where it met the hatch.

A car passed going north on the other side of the Parkway. I looked back up the south-bound lane and saw no traffic. I stepped onto the road and half-jogged across, stepping over the median and across the north-bound lane. I glanced back at the car, slanted cock-eyed in the grass just past the Exit 6 sign for North Wildwood, then hurried through the grassy stretch alongside the road and into the woods that bordered it.

My only thought now was to avoid getting a DUI. I could deal with the car later. What a disaster. I had just bought the damn thing yesterday afternoon from a guy in Buena with a badly running nose and a burning desire to take my cash and go meet someone to make him well. That’s what I got for taking a lead on a cheap car from a guy holding up the end of the bar at a beer-and-a-shot place down the street from my house. I could have asked Lou to hook me up, but the price was right, and I just wanted something to get me through the summer. So I hitched a ride to Buena from a buddy who was headed to Margate, where I met Drew, the guy with the dripping nose. Drew had that pressing business to attend to, so he was fine with giving me the uncompleted paperwork.

Drew said, “Just see Mitch at the title place here next week, he’ll handle it.”

I trudged through the patch of woods, distancing myself from the Parkway. I came to a two-lane road and ran across that into deeper woods on the other side. I was about ready to just sleep under a tree there, when through a gap in the branches I saw an open field.

I pushed forward to the perimeter of the woods and stopped, trying to make out where I was. If it was somebody’s back yard, I would have to be careful. But there were no lights, just a dark field spreading out before me. I looked to my left and saw a brighter patch on the ground and a hundred yards beyond that a low building, maybe a garage?

I walked through tall grass to shorter grass, and as I got closer to the bright patch, I realized what it was: a sand trap.

I was on a fairway of Wildwood Country Club, the home course of my friend Lou Scolletta, whose house I was supposed to have been at four hours ago. There was probably a caddie shack I could hide out in, but I opted for a makeshift bed in the grass of a hollow a few fairways over. I lay down and, in the brief period before I passed out, wondered if this was the best way to prepare for the first day on my new job.

* * *

There was no way I wanted a full-time job working for Lou. I knew just enough about Lou to know not knowing anything more was the prudent path. The fact that he had just fired the prior manager for dipping in the till did not make the opportunity more appealing.

But there was a crazy part of me that thought running a place—a restaurant, not McNabb’s Tavern, the decrepit neighborhood tappie in Southwest Philly where until last year I humped kegs, mopped up fluids, breathed a lot of smoke and told myself I was the “manager”—might be something I could do. Because I was nowhere right now. No degree, no trade—just fifteen years of bartending that had ended when the last McNabb standing decided—wisely—that this was no way to make a living. The new owners didn’t need a mug like me in the fern bar that McNabb’s was to become.

I knew The Seabreeze, the quintessential Jersey Shore restaurant. When Lou bought it six years ago, I helped out a few weekends bartending when some of the corner boys he had hired just disappeared on him. It wasn’t hard finding someone to cover for me at McNabb’s. Our weekends were slower in the summer anyway, with a lot of folks going to the shore.

Lou and I hung out more back then. He bought the place in 1977 when I was thirty and Lou maybe thirty-seven. It was sort of a vanity project for him; his main business was a Cadillac dealership in South Philly. The following summer, he showed up at my bar with his son Davy—guess the kid was sixteen. He wanted Davy to get a summer job. Could we take him on, washing dishes, whatever? I wondered why he didn’t hire him at the dealership, but I guess he wanted him to work for someone else.

So I hired him, and he was okay, typical teenager, hardly said a word. There really wasn’t that much to do—we had a kitchen and did some sandwiches, but it wasn’t much to keep a dishwasher busy.

I guess that was the first favor I did for Lou. And I did owe him big, seeing as how his dad got me out of the draft back in 1967. Plus, Lou got me my first restaurant job, which was really a pretty good gig at a nice South Philly restaurant. But with Lou, you never felt like he was looking for payback. He just came off as a great guy, not like he was some connected dude that you had to say yes to. I’m sure he sold a lot of cars seeming like a great guy.

I used to give Davy a ride home sometimes, which often led to Concetta—Lou’s wife—asking me in to eat. There was always food, loads of food. She’d give me a plate of pasta, red wine out of a jug—might be ten o’clock in the evening, but so what? Then Lou would show up, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash that I was there. Then he had me down to a little mom-and-pop restaurant near his dealership for dinner, and I met some of his friends. They were mostly older and had gone to Bishop Neumann or Southern, but a few knew guys from Kingsessing, my old neighborhood in Southwest Philly.

I thought about that pasta and how a mick like me was going to run a real restaurant, and, as I passed out in the wet grass at 3:30 AM, whether Davy was still having the same nose-dripping problems as Drew from Buena, a path I saw him starting down two and a half years ago.

* * *

The sound of a mower woke me up. The guy running it looked like he had seen worse. He pointed me to the caddy shack and gave me some coins for the payphone. Thank God Lou picked up, but then that’s Lou, he’s not surprised if some fuckup calls him at dawn. I washed up as best I could with cold water and no soap in the filthy sink in the shack’s bathroom, then waited outside the locker room, not wanting to meet up with anyone, until Lou arrived.

What a night. Blitzed out of my mind, drinking stingers like I was twenty in Somers Point, dancing with those crazy chicks, trying to teach me to moonwalk like Michael Jackson on that Motown show a couple of months ago. It was the Friday after a Monday Fourth of July, and it felt like the bar itself was stumbling under the strain of a week-long bender.

I had just stopped in for something to eat, then met these girls, three of them, late teens, which led to my dancing lesson. As it got late and the stingers took their toll, I figured maybe I’d just crash in the back seat for a couple of hours, then get breakfast somewhere, rather than roll in drunk at four in the morning and freak out Concetta.

Then two of the girls disappeared and the last one, Sharon, became glued to a chair at my table—that is, her butt was glued to the chair, but her face ended up stuck to the table itself, her long brown hair straggling out into the sticky remains of many ungodly drinks. At closing time, I struggled her to her feet and managed to get her to moan out where she was staying in Sea Isle City, a couple of towns south. After she vomited in the parking lot, I got her into the back seat and drove as carefully as I could, taking Route 9 to avoid the faster traffic.

I got the girl out of the car at her shabby rental duplex, leaving her sprawled on a chaise lounge in the screened porch. I banged on the door until one of her roommates appeared in a long t-shirt. We got her into bed and I talked the roommate through how to make sure Sharon didn’t choke on her own vomit.

I sat in my car, worrying about the girl. I was old enough to be her father, but being plastered in a Somers Point bar at closing time didn’t exactly qualify me to be in loco parentis. I was just a more experienced wastrel, a thirty-six-year-old failed bartender who would have been a disappointment to someone, if there was anyone left to fill that role.

When I left the girl’s rental, I figured it wasn’t much farther to Wildwood, and what the hell, why not take the Parkway? But of course, that’s what impaired judgment is all about. So fatigue and drunkenness once more exacted their toll on a stupid Irishman, and here I was creeping around at dawn like an escaped convict.

***

Excerpt from Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner. Copyright 2025 by Joel E. Turner. Reproduced with permission from Joel E. Turner. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Joel E. Turner

Joel E. Turner’s first novel, WILDWOOD EXIT, a noir tale set at the Jersey Shore, was published by Level Best Books in 2025. Amy Rosenberg of the Philadelphia Inquirer called it “a quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart”.

His second novel, BRENDA’S GREEN NOTE, forthcoming from Cynren Press in 2027, is a coming-of-age story about a young woman with synesthesia who harnesses her ability to see sounds as colors to become a key player in the vibrant music scene of the 1960s in Philadelphia.

His fiction has appeared in many US and UK journals. His website joeleturnerauthor.com, has samples/links to his work and posts about books, film and music. Articles he has written about Soul music have been featured on the UK-based Soul Source website, a major platform for news on the Northern Soul scene.

Mr. Turner splits his time between Philadelphia and White Cloud, Michigan.

Catch Up With Joel E. Turner:

JoelETurnerAuthor.com
Amazon Author Profile
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Instagram – @bzturner
Threads – @bzturner
BlueSky – @joeleturner.bsky.social
Facebook – @joeleturner2

 

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$10 GC – First Daughter by Marlie Parker Wasserman @partnersincr1me #marlieparkerwasserman #firstduaghter

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FIRST DAUGHTER

by Marlie Parker Wasserman

May 4-29, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

In the summer of 1895, President Grover Cleveland and his pregnant wife, Frances, retreat to their secluded Cape Cod home, eager to avoid Washington’s heat and hassles. The very day that Frances gives birth, their three-year-old daughter vanishes. A ransom note surfaces, demanding a mysterious and peculiar sum.

Is the kidnapper a political enemy or someone closer to home? Secret service agents chase multiple leads but reach dead ends. Desperate, Frances Cleveland searches for answers on her own. As the hunt continues, the kidnapper carefully plots each move and determines to settle a score.

The historical record documents threats against the Clevelands, but no actual kidnapping. Yet, what if the president and his wife, known for keeping secrets, concealed a terrifying chapter of their lives? In this gripping blend of fact and fiction, the line between public duty and private anguish blurs in a mother’s fight to save her child.

Praise for First Daughter:

“Arresting, brilliant, emotional! Marlie Wasserman’s First Daughter had me hooked from the very first page. Like her other works, fact and fiction are delightfully blurred by the fantastic level of historical detail, creating an exhilarating ride through the kidnapping of President Grover Cleveland’s first child and his obscure misdeeds.”
~ Jane L. Rubin, author of the award-winning Gilded City series

“In this masterfully woven historical thriller, the past comes alive with rich detail and taut suspense. In the summer of 1895, President Grover Cleveland and his wife retreat to their Cape Cod estate, seeking respite from political turmoil-until their three-year-old daughter vanishes. A ransom note surfaces, but is the culprit a political enemy or someone in their household? Seamlessly blending fact and fiction, this novel delivers a riveting tale of betrayal, resilience, and a mother’s relentless quest for truth.”
~ Maryka Biaggio, award-winning author of Gun Girl and the Tall Guy and The Model Spy

“A parent’s worst nightmare unfolds for President and Frances Cleveland – their daughter is kidnapped. And no one knows why she was taken. The real motive behind the kidnapping may lie closer to home than anyone dares to imagine. First Daughter is a thrilling tale that clutches your heart and won’t let go. This haunting historical mystery steeped in vivid period detail explores the cost of secrets and the burden of public life, wrapped in a mother’s relentless instinct to protect her family-no matter the consequences.”
~ JF Tanner, author of The King’s Collar

“Grabbed from the very first page, Wasserman’s tale of the abduction of President Grover Cleveland’s young daughter Ruth (Baby Ruth) delivers Gilded Age details, tense characters and no bigger problem than a child in danger. With the deftly structured combination of Frances Cleveland’s determination to bring justice to her family and a parallel hard luck tale, readers will forget this is non-fiction.”
~ Chris Keefer, author of Find Your Way to My Grave a Carrie Lisbon Mystery

“First Daughter is an intriguing and intricately-plotted historical mystery novel. I loved the depth of research and the evocative setting of President Grover Cleveland’s summerhouse Gray Gables at Buzzards Bay. I look forward to reading more from Marlie Parker Wasserman.”
~ Margo Laurie, author of The Anarchist’s Wife 

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Crime Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: April 14, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

At the western edge of Cape Cod, in the grandest bedroom in the sprawling residence known as Gray Gables, Frances Cleveland couldn’t stifle the rising sound of her own screams. Between pains, she rested. The late morning breeze drifted across the lawn from Buzzards Bay, fluttering the lace curtain and cooling the sweat on her forehead.

Even at this moment, Frances felt grateful that Grover chose to spend summers away from Washington’s heat, away from the prying public. Here, in this secluded haven, she needn’t fear strangers hovering near the windows of the Executive Mansion for a glimpse of their president—or, more likely, of his wife and daughters. She could concentrate her fears on her pains and pray for the safe birth of her third child, in the same way she had for her first and again for her second. Frances expected from experience that her suffering would soon recede, replaced by the joy of motherhood. She did not know that before the day was over, her bodily misery would end, yielding not to joy but to overwhelming terror.

The previous February, after sensing a flutter beneath her gown while greeting a crowd of visitors at a reception, Frances guessed the baby would be her third girl. Practiced at keeping confidences, she never mentioned her prediction to her preoccupied husband. When she gave birth to another girl, the blathering journalists would have their say. They would try out their jokes about the president’s little harem. Most days, Frances ignored the journalists. Most days, she trusted Grover to love each of his babies.

The image of a trio of girls was far from Frances’s mind now, as she suffered in bed. She cried out, too loudly. Dr. Bryant reminded her that she’d survived labor pains before. “Don’t you dare say that again,” she said, in a shrill tone that surprised her.

At last, Frances heard the newborn’s cry, faint but lovely. Dr. Bryant chuckled while he clamped and cut the cord. “Mrs. Cleveland, should I bring the president upstairs to see his new daughter? He’s pacing on the front porch. Once he sees this one—she’s beautiful—he won’t regret it’s not a son.”

“Yes,” Frances said, with the strongest voice she could muster. A girl, as she’d guessed. For an instant, with the last of her contractions, she’d ignored her prediction and hoped for a boy. Now, she didn’t linger on that momentary weakness of character. She let a surge of pride swell over her, above the exhaustion. She’d done it. Again.

Frances turned to the local midwife hired to assist. “Tell the steward, his name is Sinclair, to get Ruth and Esther. I want my daughters to see their new sister.”

Frances raised herself a few inches, enough to see the midwife slip into the hall. The woman returned and gave Frances a nod. The girls would come shortly. Frances sank back and watched the midwife wipe down the infant and swaddle her. She did look beautiful. “Here,” Frances said, crooking her arm to make room for Marion, the name Grover chose that would serve for a girl or a boy. The same name as a town across Buzzards Bay, where many of their friends lived. Frances appreciated Grover’s decision to buy an estate on the outskirts of a different but nearby town, Bourne. The family could escape Washington’s heat and busybodies.

And escape the threats.

Hours earlier, Frances gave thanks for the breeze blowing through the open window, reminding her that Gray Gables was perfectly located on a point overlooking the Bay’s east side. But now she blocked the sound of wind and waves. straining to make sense of other sounds, to hear what Grover would say about a third daughter. The doctor scurried downstairs. The midwife remained stationed over the bed, tending to Frances and crooning softly to the baby. Frances ignored the woman, mindful only of the voices wafting in through the window. First, low tones as the doctor talked to Grover. They were friends. Dr. Bryant saved Grover’s life two summers ago, removing the cancer eating away at his palate. Now, Frances imagined the doctor patting her thickset husband on his shoulder and shaking his hand. She hoped Grover would offer the doctor a contented smile. Seconds later, Grover clomped upstairs. The doctor followed behind, with lighter steps.

“So happy, Frankie.” Her husband used one of her nicknames. After their wedding, she asked Grover to call her by her more dignified name, Frances. He still used Frankie or Frank in private moments. She let him—the nicknames added tenderness to his gruff voice. “The doctor tells me you’re fine. You managed without chloroform this time, too. And the baby’s healthy. Marion, right? Three girls. They will enjoy each other’s company.”

He said the right thing. She didn’t need to feel anxious about another girl. He was a good man, kind to her, whatever others thought. He wouldn’t hold the baby, rarely did. But he wiped his chubby hand on a cloth, then touched Marion’s forehead. He stood there for a few minutes, cherishing their third child. For him, it was a fourth, but no matter. His eyes shifted to gaze at her. He wouldn’t see the tall, slender belle he married nine years ago, the one the reporters called lovely. He’d see a tired, sweat-drenched woman who looked every day of her thirty years.

“Ruth and Esther?” Frances asked again, eyeing the midwife. “Did you send Sinclair for them?”

“Yes, ma’am. The steward went a minute ago.” The midwife spoke quietly, carefully. She’d feel nervous in the presence of the president.

Still almost flat in bed, Frances clutched Marion, admiring the infant. Perfect features. Ten fingers and ten toes. Another blessing from God.

A familiar sound at the door. Sinclair knocked softly. His usual pattern—soft, loud, soft—keeping to the household code. Another sound, when the midwife opened the door. Next, Frances would hear four little feet rushing toward the newest baby.

No feet. Only hushed words.

“Sinclair found Annie,” the midwife said. “She’s your older daughter’s nursemaid, right? He tells me she needs another minute to bring Ruth and to tell your younger daughter’s nursemaid to bring Esther.” The midwife stood far from Frances’s bed, speaking almost in a whisper.

Grover didn’t look concerned. His rough mustache skimmed Frances’s cheek as he kissed her lightly on her damp forehead. She was too tired to return the kiss. She heard him drop into the nearby rocking chair.

“Joseph,” he said, addressing the doctor, “you’re certain Frankie is fine? No complications?”

“Just fine, Grover. Ready for the next one before long.”

Four years earlier, when Ruth was born, Dr. Joseph Bryant told Frances how to manage her family. “Breastfeed for six months.” He looked straight at her, with no awkwardness. “You’ll not get in the family way, and the baby will stay healthy. After six months, well, you and Grover can proceed to another.” And so they had. Esther after Ruth. Marion after Esther. A daughter every two years.

Frances closed her eyes, relying on her ears. Dr. Bryant thanked the midwife for her assistance. The woman tidied up, gathering soiled sheets and opening a chest, hunting for fresh linens. The room went silent, except for the soft, repetitious squeak of the rocking chair. Grover leaned up, then back, up then back. Frances sensed herself drifting off.

Another soft knock, barely a sound, followed by a pause, and two more soft knocks. Not Sinclair. One of the nursemaids. Annie? The midwife opened the door. “Ma’am.” Annie’s voice came out as a croak. “I can’t find Ruth.”

***

Excerpt from FIRST DAUGHTER by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Copyright 2026 by Marlie Parker Wasserman. Reproduced with permission from Marlie Parker Wasserman. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Marlie Parker Wasserman

Marlie Parker Wasserman loves writing historical crime fiction. She has published three novels–First Daughter will be her fourth. After a career in publishing in New Jersey, she moved to Chapel Hill, NC with her husband. When she is not writing, she travels, reads, and sketches. One of her goals is to visit every national park in the U.S., and she is close to her goal.

Catch Up With Marlie Parker Wasserman:

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A Novel Way to Celebrate FIRST DAUGHTER… Start Here

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$20 GC – Daughter Of Mine by Angie Stanton @partnersincr1me #angiestanton #daughterofmine

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DAUGHTER OF MINE

by Angie Stanton

April 27 – May 22, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

“One mother’s nightmare. One mother’s secret.”

In the maternity ward of Mercy Hospital, two women’s lives collide in an act that will haunt them both for years to come. For Melissa Grout, a fifteen-minute shower becomes an eternal nightmare when she emerges to find her newborn daughter’s bassinet empty. As police search futilely and her world crumbles under the weight of loss, she refuses to give up hope that somewhere, somehow, her baby is alive.

A few hundred miles away, Cheryl Winslow cradles the stolen infant, knowing each tender moment could be her last. Consumed by grief over her own baby’s death, she makes a desperate choice that will require a lifetime of lies to protect. As little Piper grows, so do the walls Cheryl builds to keep her safe—and her secret hidden.

For sixteen years, these mothers dance an unconscious duet of loss and love. While Melissa channels her grief into a relentless search, sacrificing everything to find her stolen child, Cheryl creates an elaborate façade of normalcy, knowing that one wrong move, one careless word, could bring her whole world crashing down.

Two mothers. One daughter. Sixteen years of lies.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction, Literary Fiction, Women’s Fiction
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: March 23, 2026
Number of Pages: 211
Series: A Stolen at Birth Novel | Each is a Stand-Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Cheryl

The nursing smock pulled across my middle. I’d lost much of my belly since giving birth two days ago, but I was nowhere near back to my normal size. Still, the top was clean, professional, and anonymous. I found it in a lost and found bin as I checked out of All Saint’s Hospital. The universe providing what I needed.

Or maybe I was so far gone that stealing clothes from charity felt like fate instead of desperation.

The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Mercy Hospital’s third floor, creating geometric patterns on the polished linoleum. The halls were quieter now, that lull between lunch trays and dinner rounds.

I had stood outside the building for the past ten minutes, my heart a trapped bird hammering against my ribs. I didn’t know what I was doing here. Didn’t know what I was looking for.

That was a lie. I knew exactly what I had come for.

The maternity ward.

A baby.

To replace the baby I lost.

The thought crystallized with such sudden clarity that I stopped walking, one hand braced against the wall. Was that what I was doing? Was that why I hadn’t been able to get into my car this morning and drive home? Why I checked out of the hospital where my life altered forever, but then just… drove here instead? To this hospital on the other side of Kansas City from where my daughter died?

No. No. I wasn’t thinking straight. Grief did strange things to people. I read that somewhere. The five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

I was somewhere between denial and completely out of my mind insane.

Adjusting my large handbag on my shoulder, I entered the hospital and took the elevator to the maternity floor.

A nurse passed me, pushing a cart full of supplies, and didn’t even glance my way. Why would she? I wore medical attire. Pausing at a room, I pulled a chart from the rack on the door. Even though my hands wouldn’t stop shaking and there was a ringing in my ears that wouldn’t go away, I looked as if I had every right to be walking these halls,

Room 347’s door stood open.

Through the doorway, I could see her.

Young. Maybe twenty-five. Dark blonde hair pulled back from a face that was tired but glowing with that particular radiance of new motherhood.

She sat up in bed, cradling a bundle wrapped in a pink blanket, gazing down with such tenderness that I had to grip the doorframe to keep from staggering.

That’s what I looked like mere days ago. For exactly two hours, that was my face, my joy, my daughter in my arms.

Before she stopped breathing.

Before the doctor said that there was nothing more they could do and then, worse, that I wouldn’t be able to have more children.

I didn’t plan to stop. Didn’t plan to look inside. My hand was already on the doorframe.

The woman in the bed shifted, adjusting her hold, and talked softly to her infant. The baby, I could see a tiny fist, a shock of dark hair, made a small noise in response.

Alive! That baby was alive.

Mine wasn’t.

The grief rose like a wave, threatening to pull me under, and I must have made a sound because the woman looked up, her eyes finding mine.

“Oh!” She startled, but then smiled, warm and unsuspecting. “Hi.”

I should have left. Mumbled an apology about the wrong room and walked away. Should have gotten in my car and driven home to Rochester and figured out how to tell my two-year-old son that his baby sister was never coming home.

Maybe I should have called my husband in Afghanistan, if I could have even reached him through military channels, and shattered his heart with the news that our daughter died and there would never be another. His job was top secret, which meant dangerous. I couldn’t do that to him and risk his safety.

I should have done anything except what I was doing, which was stepping into this stranger’s hospital room as if I had every right to be here.

“Hello.” My voice came out steady and cheerful. Normal. Like I was actually a healthcare worker making rounds instead of a woman whose mind broke somewhere between the morgue and here. “I’m a CNA. I’m checking to see if you needed anything.”

“Oh.” Her smile widened.

She looked young. Happy. Completely unaware that she was speaking to someone who was coming apart at the seams.

“That’s kind, thank you. I’m okay, I think. Just tired.”

I moved closer, my body on autopilot while my brain screamed, ‘What are you doing!’ I lifted her plastic water pitcher and gave it a shake. “Let me refill your water pitcher.”

“That would be great. The nurse was here a few minutes ago, but I forgot to ask.”

My hands knew what to do even if my mind didn’t. I took the pitcher to the small bathroom and filled it from the tap. These were normal actions. Helpful actions. Things a real CNA would do.

When I returned, the baby had started to fuss. The woman, I didn’t even know, was soothing her while simultaneously looking exhausted.

“Would you like me to order you a snack from the kitchen?” I offered as I organized things on her tray. “Is your family coming back soon?”

“My husband went home to get our other kids—they’re dying to meet their baby sister.” She laughed, but there’s an edge of weariness to it. “He texted twenty minutes ago, so probably 40 minutes. And honestly, a snack sounds amazing before they get here.

I should have left then. Should have made some excuse and gone before I did something I couldn’t take back. But instead, I straightened her sheets, adjusted her pillows, playing this role like I was born to it.

The baby quieted and appeared to be dozing.

“She’s been like this on and off since her last feeding,” the woman said, swaying gently. “I think she just wants to be held, but I really need a shower before the kids get here.”

“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot today,” I said.

My mind reeled. This could be my chance. She had other children, even a daughter.

“I’ll watch her,” I said. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. “While you shower. If you’d like.”

Would she say yes?

Could I actually take this baby?

The woman’s face transformed with relief. “Oh my god, you’re an angel. Are you sure? I feel bad asking.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” My voice remained steady, and I smiled, even though my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. “It’s one of my duties. And I love holding these tiny newborns.”

I had a baby two days ago. She died in my arms.

“Thank you. I can’t wait to stand in a hot shower.” She laughed and gently handed the baby to me; this precious weight settled into my arms with such devastating familiarity. “Her name is Greta,” she added.

The universe was either remarkably cruel or offering me a second chance. I couldn’t tell which.

“She’s beautiful,” I managed, and it was not a lie. She was pink-cheeked and perfect and very alive.

The woman, wincing slightly, moved toward the bathroom. “I’ll be quick. Ten minutes, tops.” She paused at the bathroom door and turned to me.

“Oh, I didn’t catch your name?”

“I’m sorry.” I looked down at my uniform where a name tag should have been. “Darn if I haven’t lost my name tag again. I’m Gina,” I lied.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Melissa.” She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving her newborn daughter with a complete stranger, who showed up unannounced wearing stolen medical attire.

The sound of the shower running came through the door.

I looked down at baby Greta.

She’ wasn’t fussing; her dark eyes seemed to gaze at me, her tiny mouth working in that unconscious sucking motion newborns make. She weighed almost nothing in my arms. A handful of life. A miracle.

This one is right here. This one is alive, whispered a dark voice in my desperate mind.

My handbag sat on the floor behind the door, where I left it. The large leather tote Brad gave me this past Mother’s Day before he deployed. “For all the baby stuff you’ll need to carry,” he’d said, grinning, his hand on my pregnant belly. “Only the best for my girls.”

I could still see his face when he said it. Still feel the weight of his excitement, his absolute certainty that he was coming home to meet his daughter.

How did I tell him he wasn’t? How did I go home and face the empty nursery, the unworn baby clothes, the dreams that died with our daughter?

You don’t have to.

The thought slid through my mind like poison, like salvation.

You don’t have to tell him anything. You could just go home.

With a baby.

With this baby.

He never needs to know what happened.

The shower ran. I could hear Melissa humming something soft and off-key.

My feet moved before I made a conscious decision.

Crossing to the door with this tiny bundle of joy, I picked up my handbag. The expensive leather was soft, loved. Brad’s gift. Brad’s trust.

It slipped from my hand and fell onto the tile floor.

I was about to betray both. I should put the baby in her bassinet and leave while I still could.

But Baby Greta made a small coo as if a sign. Before I could change my mind, I picked up the bag, shook it open and settled the swaddled baby into the bag. She fit perfectly, as if were made for her.

My hands trembled so badly that I could barely drape my scarf over the opening, hiding her from view. She didn’t cry. Don’t protest. Just settled into sleep as if she trusted me.

She shouldn’t.

The shower was still running.

I had maybe five minutes before Melissa finished. Maybe less.

My body moved on its own, propelled by something beyond thought, beyond reason. Shock, maybe. Or survival instinct. Or a complete psychotic break dressed up as maternal desperation.

I stepped to the door. My legs felt disconnected from my body, as if I were watching someone else. Someone who looked like me but couldn’t possibly be, because I was a good person. I was a good mother. I would never.

But I was. I was doing this right now.

The corridor stretched ahead, impossibly long. A nurse stood at the station, her back to me, reviewing a chart. An orderly pushed a wheelchair past, not even glancing my way. A man carried flowers toward a room down the hall, whistling.

Normal people doing normal things while I stole past carrying a newborn in my handbag.

Every step felt like a mile. My pulse pounded loudly in my ears. They know, my brain screamed. They can tell. They’re going to stop you.

The alarms are going to go off. Someone was going to grab my arm and say, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’

But no one did.

No one even looked at me.

I reached the stairwell door—couldn’t risk the elevator, too enclosed, too slow, too many chances for someone to see—and pushed through. The metal door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in my heightened state.

My breath came in gasps. The bag pulled heavy against my shoulder. Heavy with another woman’s child. Heavy with my crime. Heavy with something that felt like both damnation and deliverance.

Three floors down. My footsteps echoed on the concrete steps. The air was cool, and yet I was sweating. At any moment I expected to hear shouting above me, feet thundering down the stairs, baby Greta’s mother screaming.

But there was only silence except for my ragged breathing and shoes scuffing against the steps.

Ground floor. I paused at the door, hand on the handle, terror flooding through me. This is it. This is where I get caught.

I pushed through anyway because I couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t go back. Could only go forward into whatever hell I was creating.

The lobby bustled with activity. Afternoon visiting hours meant families everywhere. Children holding balloons, teenagers texting, elderly couples moving slowly toward the exit. An information desk. A gift shop. A coffee stand.

Security guard by the door.

My heart stopped. He was going to know.

He held the automatic door open for me with a smile. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and then I was outside in the humid August air with the sun beating down and traffic flowing past.

No alarms blaring.

No one chasing me.

I just… walked out.

My car was parked three blocks away on a side street. A deliberate choice to avoid parking garage cameras, attendants, and records of when I arrived and left.

I walked fast, but not too fast, trying to look normal even though normal people don’t carry stolen babies in leather totes.

Every sound made me flinch. Every person who glanced my way felt like an informer.

But I made it. Three blocks that felt like three miles, and then I was at my car, the blue Honda Accord with Minnesota plates, and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped the keys twice before I managed to unlock the door.

I slid into the driver’s seat, placed the bag carefully in the passenger seat, and just sat for a moment, gasping, my whole body trembling.

Oh god, what did I do?

I should go back. Put her in her bassinet and pretend this never happened and check myself into psychiatric care because clearly I’d lost my mind.

I couldn’t let myself think that way.

Because I couldn’t face going home with empty-arms, couldn’t tell my husband our daughter died, and couldn’t survive another loss.

“Piper,” I whispered, my vision blurred with tears, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. “Your name is Piper Ann now. You’re coming home with Momma.”

Piper stirred and made a small sound. Not crying. Just… existing. My heart filled with contentment and love.

I smiled at my new daughter and then started the car, checked my mirrors, and merged into traffic.

I didn’t look back.

***

Excerpt from Daughter of Mine by Angie Stanton. Copyright 2026 by Angie Stanton. Reproduced with permission from Angie Stanton. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Angie Stanton

Angie Stanton is the award winning, bestselling author of twelve novels including the critically acclaimed Don’t Call Me Greta: a stolen at birth novel, Waking in Time, an epic time-jumping romance, and If Ever, a Broadway love story.

Waking in Time won the Midwest Book Award and was a finalist in the National Readers’ Choice Awards.

If Ever is the recipient of the National Readers’ Choice Award, The Holt Medallion, and the Write Touch Reader’s Award.

A daydreamer at heart, Angie puts her talent to use writing contemporary fiction about life, love, and the adventures that follow. In her spare time, she loves to venture off to Broadway. She is a contributing writer for BroadwayWorld.com and is currently working on her next book.

Angie has a Journalism degree from the University of Wisconsin. Her books have been translated into German, French, Italian, Spanish, and Bulgarian.

Catch Up With Angie Stanton:

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Buried Secrets, Bold Hearts & a Big Win

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$15 GC – Artist Lover Forger Thief by Sheila Sharpe @partnersincr1me #sheilasharpe #artistloverforgerthief

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ARTIST, LOVER, FORGER, THIEF

by Sheila Sharpe

March 30 – April 24, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief is a riveting, wildly entertaining, complex, and adrenaline-fueled art crime novel that is as intriguing as it is satisfying. Nick McCoy wants out of the art forgery business but not until he exacts revenge on the man who murdered his family years ago. Kate O’Dade, McCoy’s former therapist, comes to him for help after mysteriously receiving a painting of Matisse’s Open Window from an unknown benefactor. This seemingly innocent meeting to determine its authenticity sets off a chain of events that will take McCoy, O’Dade, Cromwell and his new team of investigators from San Diego to England, and from art forgery to murder.

Rarely do you find such complex characters, intricate plot, compelling subject, and cunning psychological jousting woven throughout such a memorable story like Sharpe does in Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief.

Praise for Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief:

“Sharpe dives headlong into the murky waters of identity, obsession, and deception in her smart, psychologically charged thriller [Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief]. It explores the blurry line between art and artifice, healing and manipulation, love and control. [T]his is a genre-bending literary thriller that lingers long after the final page.”
~ Prairies Book Review

“Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief…is a gripping tale set amidst the opulent yet treacherous world of high-end art crime in San Diego…[It explores] the moral dilemmas of art forgery, theft, and deception, with each character caught between their desires and the consequences of their actions. This stellar examination of art, deception, and forgery kept me riveted.”
~ Reader’s Favorite 5-Star Review

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Literary Fiction, Crime Fiction
Published by: Redwood Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: March 26, 2025
Number of Pages: 332
ISBN: 9781966333142 (ISBN10: 1966333145)
Series: A Kate O’Dade Art Crime Novel, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

 

 

Author Bio:

Sheila Sharpe

Sheila Sharpe has been a therapist for more than forty years, specializing in treating trauma, couples, and artists. Being a detective of sorts to determine patients’ issues and their solutions like she does in The Ways We Love, along with her past history as an artist and fascination with art forgery, led to the creation of her new fiction book series, the Kate O’Dade Art Crime novels.

Catch Up With Sheila Sharpe:

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Facebook – @sheilasharpenovel

 

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Steal A Moment With ARTIST, LOVER, FORGER, THIEF

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Review – Patient’s Privilege by Rich Morvillo #richmorvillo #patientsprivilege

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MY REVIEW

Well..I’m kinda in shock right now. I thought Patient’s Privilege by Rich Morvillo would be an interesting and mysterious book, and it was. BUT, when I got to the ending, my mind was blown. I fell for all the red herrings that Rich threw my way. Yeah, it could be him. Oh yeah, it could be her. Or him. Or him….

It begins with Timothy Shea working at a psychiatric clinic in New York. He had been recommended employment by a respected psychiatrist, Abner Reese, the man who, more or less, ran the place. Abner was the only psychiatrist, the rest were psychologists. When Abner’s wife is murdered and he is attacked, the mystery begins. The deeper into the investigation we go, the more muddy the water.

The biggest hurdle is patient privilege.

Tim is accused of the murder. Timothy says he has information that could exonerate him, or at least make Abner the target of the investigation, but patient privilege prevents him from sharing the information with the authorities. He encourages the patients to come forward, but blackmail and threats stop them.

The plot thickens. There’s another murder. A pedophile ring is exposed.

Tim created a murder board. In my mind I am looking at all the suspects. Is there a conspiracy? I am collecting all the clues, whether still hidden from the police because of patient privilege, or whether Tim was able to find a work around. There is so much I want to say, but in this case, less is more.

Richard Morvillo offered me a copy. I checked it out, thought it would be a good fit, and I told him to count me in. Want a book with moral and ethical food for thought? How about a mystery that becomes more convoluted the more you read? Sound intriguing? Patient’s Privilege may be for you.

 

4 Stars

GOODREADS BLURB

When Timothy Shea, a clinical psychologist at an elite clinic in New York, is thrust into the middle of a criminal investigation where the circumstantial evidence against him is compelling, he sets out to prove that not only is he innocent, but also that he is being framed. A dark secret involving patients at the clinic, one that implicates well-known psychiatrist Abner Reeves, might be the path to his exoneration, but the patient’s privilege prevents him from disclosing this confidential information. As Timothy tries to work around the privilege, Reeves reveals information to the police that all but seals Timothy’s fate. What unfolds is a roller-coaster ride that pits two strong-willed professionals against one another in a battle to see whose version of the truth will prevail.

  • Genre: Crime, Fiction, Mystery, Psychological
  • 296 pages, Paperback
  • Expected publication March 3, 2026 by Subplot

ABOUT RICH MORVILLO (from Amazon)

Rich Morvillo resides in Washington, DC with his wife, two children and two dogs. He is the co-head of the White-Collar Defense and Investigations Group at a large international law firm and is nationally recognized in his field. A graduate of Colgate University and Fordham University School of Law, he is a frequent speaker at professional programs and has published various articles on ethics and the law. He also taught a course on professional ethics at Georgetown University School of Law,

Website

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$25 GC & Review – Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson @partnersincr1me #kathryndodson #sangrita

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SANGRITA

by Kathryn Dodson

November 17 – December 12, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

MY REVIEW

Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson has an eye catching cover.

Jessica Watts is used to being the hunter. In Sangrita, she will be the hunted. She is drawn into finding Thomas’ missing father, even though she vowed never to work with him again. She will be kidnapped and dragged across the Mexican border. If Jessica cannot find her way out, it could mean the end of her life.

Jessica Watts is a bit reckless, acting on impulse, putting herself in danger. Will it cost her her husband? He feels she’s courting death and is he supposed to wait around for that moment when she doesn’t return?

I love a strong female character. Sure she’s bound to make a mistake now and then, but she doesn’t run from danger, she runs towards it. This is my first adventure with Jessica and Sangrita is the fourth book in the Southwest Suspense Series. There were moments when I knew I was missing something because I didn’t begin at the beginning of the series, but I don’t feel it took anything away from the story. We have lots of danger and action. And, I am sure there will be just as much danger and action in the next book in the series. She might just be better prepared for what comes at her, and I like that…a lot.

 

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Synopsis:

Jessica Watts Southwest Suspense Series

 

A kidnapping scheme turns deadly when private investigator Jessica Watts becomes the hunted instead of the hunter.

Jessica Watts refuses to work with her nemesis Tomas Garcia—until his desperate wife arrives with their baby, begging Jessica to find Tomas’s missing father. Tres Garcia vanished after marrying his late wife’s cousin Letty in a secret ceremony, and now Letty claims he’s too sick for visitors. When Jessica discovers bloody medical supplies in Letty’s trash, someone knocks her unconscious and she awakens trapped in a nightmare.

Held prisoner for days with Tres’s life-support machine beeping nearby, Jessica realizes Letty is running a deadly operation with border coyotes—ruthless smugglers who eliminate witnesses. The kidnapping is part of an elaborate scheme to steal Tres’s fortune, and with the coyotes closing in with orders to kill everyone, Jessica must overcome her terror and escape before Letty’s greed destroys them all—but will the tough investigator she’s always been survive becoming the prey?

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction, Women’s Detective Fiction
Published by: Renegade Reads
Publication Date: November 21, 2025
Number of Pages: 220
ISBN: 979-8-9903577-7-8
Series: Jessica Watts Southwest Suspense Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand-Alone
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Jessica let the mental exhaustion take hold for a minute, then shook it off. Eighteen months to go. If she survived that, she’d be a lawyer and hopefully move from the reception desk to the courtroom.

She settled into her chair. “I’m back,” she called to her boss. Linda owned the one person firm housed in a quaint old home turned law office in downtown El Paso. Jessica ran her fingers across the antique, inlaid cherry desk. She’d started here less than a year ago, but she already loved this place.

“Hey, how was the test?” Linda strode into the room and plopped down in front of her. A perfect-fitting Armani suit and a blonde blowout softened the toughness shining through Linda’s blue eyes. The creases in her face told the world she’d faced a few battles.

“Tough, but I’m pretty sure I passed,” Jessica said.

Linda smiled, then cocked her head, a question appearing in her eyes. “I bet your father would be proud.”

Jessica bristled, the ache returning to her shoulders and prickles of tension running across her skin. Linda hadn’t brought up Jessica’s dad since the first time they met.

Jessica hated how her father’s conviction for destroying evidence in a drug case shaded her pending law career. He’d been El Paso’s district attorney at the time. That embarrassment held Jessica back for too many years. She’d gotten past it, mostly, especially since her father’s passing.

She shrugged her shoulders in response then willfully changed the subject. “Has it been quiet here?”

“Surprisingly so. But who knows what will walk in the door next?” Linda glanced out the large window as if she expected to see someone trotting up the steps. She turned back to Jessica. “Do you have any new projects on the horizon? You know, human remains under a pecan tree or a missing heiress?”

Jessica’s reputation for finding things, missing people, murderers, had ratcheted up since she started working with Linda. She shook her head. “No more wild cases for me. I need to keep my head down and finish school. I keep getting waylaid by these other projects. It’s too hard to focus on law school and my work here when I’m off solving someone else’s mystery.”

Linda studied Jessica. “Maybe, but I think you like striking out on your own, solving someone’s problem, and coming back a hero. Practicing law is so different than that. It’s tedious and requires an extraordinary amount of patience while the wheels of justice turn.”

Did Linda doubt her aspirations? Not every case would be exciting, but lately, she could use a little less excitement in her life.

“Perhaps,” Jessica said. “But you’re a lot less likely to be confronted by people pointing guns at you or burning down the house you’re trapped in.”

“True. At least most of the time.”

Jessica wondered about her answer. “Is that why you left the police force and became an attorney?” She had heard about Linda’s first career from Jaime Castro, a lieutenant on the El Paso police force and one of her oldest friends. Based on the admiration in his voice, Linda had excelled as a police officer.

“Not really.” Linda’s gaze softened, as if remembering something from long ago. “The problem with police work is that you don’t get to choose your cases. When they don’t seem fair, it becomes hard to put your heart into the job.”

Jessica waited for an explanation. What kind of case would make someone as tough as Linda walk away? For a minute, Jessica thought she would say more. But instead, her boss changed the subject. “Why don’t we go over the upcoming cases?”

When they finished, Linda headed back to her office. Jessica had just turned to her computer when she spied someone coming toward the door. Someone she did not want to see.

Tomás Garcia loped up the steps and opened the door before Jessica could escape. If only her test had taken longer.

“Hi, Jessica. It’s good to see you.” He sat in the chair Linda had just vacated as if he owned the place.

He didn’t. And when he’d tracked her down at a party a few weeks ago, she’d told him she didn’t want to see him again. Yet here he sat. The audacity of rich men never failed to surprise her.

“Why are you here?” She threw all the surliness she could muster into her voice.

“Is that any way to treat a potential client?”

“Tomás, I made it clear that I would never work with you again. You do remember you tried to kill me the last time.” And the time before that, she’d almost died at the hands of someone he’d forgotten to tell her dealt drugs.

“I wouldn’t have killed you. I am not a murderer. I was just angry. I thought you had taken something I considered mine.”

“That something was a human being, and she didn’t want to be with you. You’ve lost your chance with me.”

He steepled his fingers and stared across the desk. “We have a long history, and we’ve worked well together in the past.” Arrogance wafted off him like a bad smell.

Jessica scanned her desk for something to throw at him or stab him with. Life was way too short to tolerate assholes like this.

He held his hands up in surrender, as if he could read her mind. “You’re right. That last time was horrible. I shouldn’t have done so many of the things I did then. I’m sorry. I promise I’m a different man now. And I need your help.”

Fire lit in her veins. She had already taken too many chances with Tomás. Jessica took a deep breath and tried to keep from spitting at him. “You need to leave. There is no way in hell you’ve changed enough in the last few years for me to consider working for you.” She wouldn’t physically attack him, but she tried her best to stare daggers into his soul.

“Please. Let me explain. I’m married to a wonderful woman now. We have a son, and he’s the most important thing in my life. Becoming a father changes a person. I’m a much better man today. Also, I lost my mother a year ago, and I’m worried about losing my father. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Of course, curiosity gnawed at her, but it wasn’t enough. She loathed this man.

“You do realize that waltzing in here expecting me to listen to you after I’ve already told you no means you’re still the entitled jerk you’ve always been.”

“I’m not. I swear. Please, just hear me out. I think someone is trying to kill my father.”

“So. Go to the police.”

“I have, but I can’t get anywhere with them. My dad remarried just a few months after my mom died. His new wife has completely denied me access to him.”

“Didn’t you hate your dad? How many times have you told me you wanted to build an empire even bigger than his? Maybe he just doesn’t want to see you.”

“Things are different now. After…after what happened with Doraliz, I had to change. I wasn’t a man I could be proud of, and I certainly wasn’t a son my mother could respect. But she didn’t give up on me. Instead, she helped me see what a terrible person I’d become and gave me a way to recover.”

“Whatever. I don’t care, and I want you to leave.” Jessica refused to buy his rich boy sob story. He should have ended up in jail.

He leaned forward, hands on his knees, blue eyes staring her down, probably his attempt at acting earnest. “I know how selfish and hurtful and conceited I was. I know, and I hate that version of myself. I understand why you don’t want to work with me, but my father’s life is on the line. You have a knack for solving mysteries. I’ve seen you do it. I need your help to save my father.”

“It’s not going to happen. And if you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops.” Jessica picked up her phone and hit the timer, then turned it to face him. “You’ve got sixty seconds to get out of this office.”

Exasperation crossed Tomás’s features. He sighed and started to say something. Then he shut his mouth, rose, and walked out the door. She hoped she’d never see him again.

Linda emerged the minute he left. From the look on her face, she’d heard the conversation.

“I didn’t know you had such a long, involved relationship with Mr. Garcia.” Linda sat in the probably still warm chair.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” Jessica said nothing more, hoping Linda would drop it. She preferred to avoid the whole sordid tale.

Linda watched Jessica for a long moment but didn’t press her for more information. “You do know that you’re always welcome to work on outside cases. Soon enough you’ll have your own legal cases.”

“I look forward to that, but not with him.”

“Fine. You should head home early tonight. Go celebrate finishing midterms with that handsome husband of yours.”

“Thanks.” She did want to celebrate, although she’d stayed up so late cramming, she’d require a second wind to do anything other than crawl into bed. Or maybe a shot or two of tequila to help her forget torts. And Tomás’s visit.

***

Excerpt from Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson. Copyright 2025 by Kathryn Dodson. Reproduced with permission from Kathryn Dodson. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Kathryn Dodson

Kathryn writes about women who have to become their own heroes – whether they’re solving a crime or figuring out the next phase of their lives.

She grew up writing and riding horses in far West Texas. She graduated from SMU in English/Creative Writing and went on to get an MBA from Thunderbird and a PhD from Clemson. Now she spends her days writing about women who become their own heroes.

She has worked on both sides of the US/Mexico border and has held jobs with governments, chambers of commerce, and other businesses. Kathryn loves to travel and has visited 30 countries and 44 states. This inspires her novels about interesting women in fascinating places.

Originally from Texas, Kathryn had the good fortune to live in Spain, Mexico, Tanzania, and several U.S. states, and the good sense to end up in Carlsbad, California. She loves travel, fiery food, hanging out with the neighbors in the front yard on Friday evenings, and reading.

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$20 GC – Whatever It Takes by Alan Brenham @partnersincr1me

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WHATEVER IT TAKES

by Alan Brenham

August 11 – September 5, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Kit Hanover Series

 

In Las Vegas, informants learn the hard truth that snitches get stitches. Or in Myra Taylor’s case, shot and buried in the desert.

An unfortunate setback for the FBI as they try to build a case against Sonny Holman, Leon Benuzzi, and Boris Krakov. Myra wasn’t the first casualty either, so the FBI needs to step up its game to nail this slick money laundering ring. Fortunately, they have an ace up their federal sleeve in the form of a relentless homicide detective with a maverick mindset. Willing to do whatever it takes, Kit Hanover accepts an undercover assignment as an exotic dancer for Sonny Holman at his Pink Kitten Gentlemen’s Club. Although the stunning Native American detective isn’t crazy about pole dancing, she’ll put her introverted nature aside to win Sonny’s trust and find concrete evidence of his shady dealings. But working a demeaning dancing gig and being ogled by lecherous patrons aren’t Kit’s only obstacles. She’s been trying to reconnect with her estranged sister in Las Vegas, though now is hardly the best time for a family reunion. Can the FBI keep her sister safe without blowing Kit’s cover? A death at the club puts Kit on everyone’s radar, and the more she digs, the more dangerous the assignment gets, with money laundering just the beginning of the crimes that can be traced back to Sonny and his associates. With prostitution, trafficking, and murder among the offenses, Kit must navigate the escalating danger and stay alive long enough to dismantle a powerful criminal organization.

Praise for Whatever It Takes:

“Whatever It Takes by Alan Brenham launches readers into a high-stakes undercover thriller where danger lurks behind every glittering facade. Author Alan Brenham has a clear vision and control over this story world that comes through in the confident narration and construction, delivering a tightly plotted narrative that keeps the suspense building with every chapter. Once you’re gripped by this story, it doesn’t relinquish its hold, zooming through a pacy plot but always with the right amount of detail… highly recommended must-read for fans of fast-paced, high-risk crime thrillers featuring strong female leads.”
~ Readers’ Favorite – 5 star review

“Whatever It Takes is a gritty and fast-paced crime thriller that follows Fort Worth detective Kit Hanover as she’s recruited by the FBI to go undercover in a seedy Las Vegas nightclub to take down an organized crime ring involved in money laundering and murder…There’s a lot of emotional complexity packed in here—anger, fear, pride, loneliness—and Brenham doesn’t shy away from the sleazier, more uncomfortable parts of undercover work. The club scenes are drenched in smoke, sweat, and that sense of being watched, and you can almost feel Kit’s skin crawl as she tries to keep her cover intact. It’s not just about the mission—it’s about survival. And Kit never stops being human in the face of it all.”
~ Literary Titan – 5-Star Review

Whatever It Takes Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: May 12, 2025
Number of Pages: 348
ISBN: 9798283664705 (pbk)
Series: The Kit Hanover Series, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Saturday night, March 3rd

A sobbing and trembling Myra Taylor lies on the cold Nevada desert floor. Her hands are tied behind her back, and her ankles are cruelly bound. Though she cannot see the passing clouds high in the night sky, she can hear the unmistakable sounds of a shovel digging into the sand, with the earth tossed rudely to the side.

Two months ago, a chance encounter at Sprout’s Farmers Market had changed everything. The agent’s offer seemed like a lifeline amidst her struggles. Her infant son’s medical bills had piled up, and the financial burden was overwhelming. Her job as an exotic dancer didn’t pay enough. The substantial amount of money the agent promised felt like a divine intervention, a means to alleviate her worries and give her son a fighting chance. But now, the single mother wishes she’d never agreed to snitch her boss, Sonny Holman, off to the FBI.

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” The terror in her voice is unmistakable, even though the canvas hood dulls her frantic cries.

There is no response.

“Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all.”

Still no response.

The twenty-seven year old brunette twists her wrists in a vain attempt to free herself. If only she could work the cord off one wrist, she could free her legs and run for it.

Then she hears a thump. Footsteps crunch in the sand, getting closer.

Her thoughts go back to her son and to the man she was in love with.

A pair of strong hands jerks her off the ground like she’s a ragdoll. “Please don’t. I have a baby boy. He’s very sick. Please let me go. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything Sonny wants. I swear.”

“You shoulda done that ‘steada rattin us out to the fuckin feds,” the man growled.

Myra finds herself thrown to the ground face-first. The impact knocks the breath out of her. She inhales, gasping in the canvas hood. The last two sounds she hears are the slam and slide of a semi-automatic handgun and the mournful howl of a lone coyote.

***

Excerpt from Whatever It Takes by Alan Brenham. Copyright 2025 by Alan Brenham. Reproduced with permission from Alan Brenham. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Alan Brenham

Alan Brenham is the pseudonym for Alan Behr. He served as a criminal investigator with municipal, county and federal law enforcement agencies. He also worked with the US Army in Berlin, Germany. His employments took him halfway around the world, from Russia to the Middle East and across most of Europe. Later, he was admitted to the Texas state bar and spent his legal career as a prosecutor, criminal defense attorney, and staff counsel for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Today he and his wife reside in the central Texas area. He has authored twelve crime fiction novels under the pen name of Alan Brenham. He is currently working on his thirteenth novel, the third book in the Kit Hanover series, titled Come And Get It.

He is a member of the International Thriller Writers, the Mystery Writers of America, and the Writers League of Texas. Awards and endorsements included a Best in Crime Fiction Award from the Texas Association of Writers for his first novel, Price of Justice. Game Piece earned a Readers Favorite gold medal. Cornered and Rampage were endorsed by NY Times Best-Selling authors, CJ Lyons and Michael McGarrity. When Things Fall Apart was a Finalist for the Silver Falchion Award for Best Investigator category at Killer Nashville 2024, the 2024 Global Book Award, and the Book Excellence Award. Literary Titan Gold Awards for Once Upon A Crime, No More Lies, Price of Justice, Every Silent Thing, Never Say A Word.

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$25 GC – Throwing Shadows by Claire Booth @partnersincr1me @claire.booth10

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THROWING SHADOWS

by Claire Booth

August 4 – 29, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

When a hiker stumbles from the woods raving about a dead man, Sheriff Hank Worth launches a search. Near the infamous landmark of Murder Rocks – a Civil War era hideout for ambushers who robbed and killed passing travelers – they unearth two bodies and a skeleton.

Local legend says there’s caches of stolen gold buried in the area. And – thanks to some recent nationwide publicity – the Ozark backwoods are now swarming with out-of-town treasure hunters, who have little concern for Hank’s murder investigation. With the clock ticking, Hank must identify the victims . . . and the killer. But could the new pursuit of long-lost plunder really have led to multiple deaths?

Praise for Throwing Shadows:

“Here more than in any other book in the series, it’s the mystery that draws us in but Hank’s personal story that packs the emotional wallop. Booth is a wonderful storyteller (see also her crime nonfiction book, The False Prophet, 2008), and in Throwing Shadows, she’s at the top of her game.”
~ Booklist

“A well-done police procedural whose historical background provides extra interest.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction, Police Procedural
Published by: Severn House Publishers
Publication Date: August 5, 2025
Number of Pages: 240
ISBN: 9781448313914 (ISBN10: 1448313910) eBook
Series: A Sheriff Hank Worth Mystery, Book 7
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | booksamillion | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Severn House Publishers

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

The man ran, rabbit-fast and rabbit-scared, through the trees. His pack pulled on his shoulders as he scrambled over rotting logs and gouged the moldy sponge of fallen leaves with his boots. He couldn’t hear what was behind him over his own frantic sprinting, the racket of an inexperienced fool. His foot hit a hole and he went tumbling down an incline, landing hard in the Ozark dirt. He got to his knees and tried to catch his breath. If he could only make it to the road. Maybe he could find help. Safety. He started to move, but his knees wouldn’t stay steady enough for him to stand. He tried to crawl and got nothing but a few yards’ progress and a stab in the thigh from a dead branch. He bit his lip to keep from yelling out as blood started to seep through his pants. He slumped down on his elbows and swore.

It was time to face facts.

He sat back on his haunches and shrugged the pack off his back. The wind hit his sweat-soaked shirt and sent a chill along his spine. He twisted around, searching for a hiding spot. Nothing. He forced himself upright and stumbled forward. He made it over the next rise, dragging the pack behind him, and saw what he needed. He concealed it as completely as he could. Maybe it would work. Nothing else during this whole calamity had.

He backed away and took in the lay of the land. He still didn’t know where he was, but there were no longer sounds of pursuit. He chose to continue downhill. If he didn’t hit the road, chances were good he’d at least hit a creek. That might lead to a lake, which might lead to people.

He limped along as quickly as he could. The puncture wound started to burn and he could feel the blood running down his leg and into his sock. The darkness was almost complete, and all the obstacles he’d been able to see and avoid were disappearing in the gloom. He tripped again, going down hard and cutting his cheek. He lay there inhaling the scent of fungus spores and animal piss and his own fear. He curled his hand over dry leaves, taking their last bit of sunbaked warmth and turning them to dust.

A nearby tree worked as support for him to regain his feet. He wiped blood and tears on his sleeve and pushed off. Then a glimmer of moonlight showed a sliver of flat surface, flat like a God-sent, man-made road. It was off to his left and he veered in that direction, heading past a stretch of blank blackness on the right. His step started to lighten and his lungs loosened with each breath. He quickened his pace.

He never saw them coming.

Hank Worth spread the paperwork out over his desk. There was a comfortingly large amount of it. It would take him a long time to sort through everything, which meant he’d need to stay here longer. And not go home. He didn’t need to, not really. The kids were fine, on a back-to-school shopping trip with Maggie. They’d probably come home late with new lunchboxes and sneakers, and ice cream on their faces from the bribe their mother had to pay in order to get them into that last store for glue sticks and Ticonderoga pencils.

He’d be home in time to put them to bed. And then he could go work in the garage. And think about what to do about these catalytic converter thefts. He pulled the latest theft report out of the pile. A used-car dealership out on Highway 76 had had seven of the car parts stolen sometime in the past week. Hank looked around the dreary office he’d been stuck with since becoming the Branson County sheriff almost two years ago, then out the window at the beautiful fall day. Maybe the owner was at work today. He grabbed his keys and quickly left the building.

Twenty minutes later he was walking through the not-so-gently-used collection of cars at Combs Car Emporium. A man built like a snowman emerged from the office and watched him approach.

“Yeah, I’m the owner. Wendall Combs.” He was wearing a polo shirt and slacks and had skin and hair so white he would’ve been impossible to spot in a blizzard. He shook Hank’s hand and ushered him inside. “Brian told me you all asked about my security when he filed the report.” He shut the door firmly behind them. “The employees don’t know what I got. Keeps them honest.”

“So what do you have, sir?” Hank asked. He hadn’t been able to pick out any surveillance cameras as he walked across the lot.

“I got a camera in the light pole by the entrance.”

Hank waited. ‘Is that everything?’ he finally said.

“Well, yeah.’ Combs shifted self-consciously.

“How much of the lot does that camera cover?”

“All of it.’ Frosty was indignant.

“Excellent. May I see the video? You can orient me and then I can take a copy of the recording of the past week?”

The footage turned out to be even worse than Hank expected. A high-wattage security light washed out the view of most of the lot. The remainder was pockmarked with impenetrable shadows.

“It’s real high up, now, so it’s hard to see down in between the cars, like,” Frosty said defensively. “I’m watching for thieves moving big-ass cars. Not small-ass parts. How the hell should I be expected to know they’d come for that kind of stuff?”

Hank gave what he hoped was a soothing nod, and made a few recommendations about camera placement and studies that showed visible cameras actually did act as a deterrent and perhaps Mr. Combs could consider it? The owner grumbled a while before saying he would think on it.

“Do you have any idea when the converters were taken?”

“No, son, I don’t know when. We just noticed it. The last time someone drove one of the cars was last Tuesday. So had to have been after that. But just ’cause I can’t sell a 2003 sedan doesn’t mean I want to offer it up for parts, free of charge.”

He had a point. They went outside and Frosty showed him which cars had been targeted. All were parked on the edges of the lot, where access was the easiest and the video’s pockmarks were the blackest.

“So your employees don’t know about the camera?”

“Nope.”

“And they’ve never seen video from it?”

“Nope.”

“Keep it that way. But add some more cameras, like we talked about, Okay?”

He got grudging agreement and an icy handshake before Combs disappeared into his office. Hank thought for a minute and headed down to the next used-car lot, Briscoe’s 76 Cars, where he ruined that manager’s day in sixty seconds flat.

“What? Converters stolen at Wendall’s place?” The manager hadn’t heard and immediately sent his two hapless twenty-something salespeople crawling under every vehicle on their patch of asphalt. They found four missing. They also had no usable surveillance video. While they had three times the number of cameras as Combs did, it turned out they became ineffective when colonized by birds and covered in what birds tended to output at high rates.

The manager was furious and spent ten minutes stomping around before Hank could get another word in. Multiple swear words and a stale cup of coffee later, Hank had repeated his security improvement recommendations and gotten the list of Briscoe cars now missing catalytic converters. He left the manager dialing his boss with a look of dread, and walked back to his squad car, carefully skirting the cameras’ drop zones on the way.

Chief Deputy Sheila Turley limped into the Pickin’ Porch Grill, fingers curled lightly around the handle of her cane. She tried swinging it with a jaunty air, but her fifty-two-year-old body wasn’t quite ready for that. She planted it back on the floor and made her way to the table. Her gait was slow but no longer torturous. Compared with her appalling wheelchair-bound immobility for the past several months, this stroll was equivalent to tap dancing into the restaurant and finishing off with a cartwheel.

A tall, trim white man in a suit and tie rose to his feet as she approached. He waited until she settled herself before resuming his seat. Wisely, he did not offer her any assistance. Their many phone conversations seemed to have schooled him on enough of Sheila’s personality to know that would be unwelcome.

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” Malcolm Oberholz said.

“You, too.’ She propped her cane against the wall and eyed the prosecutor. “You really are older than you sound on the phone.”

He laughed. ‘I told you so.”

“I do wish you’d let me meet you halfway. There was no need for you to drive all the way down here from St. Louis.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all. It gives me an opportunity to see the area. Which is important.” He looked around. “If I’m going to try to convince twelve Branson County residents that Eddie Fizzel, Junior, is guilty, I need to not seem like an outsider.”

Then the man needed a cheaper suit. She’d save that advice for later, though. Instead, she asked how they could possibly get an unbiased jury in this county.

“That’s a very good question. I’m going to assert that we can’t, and ask the judge to change the trial venue entirely. Move it to my county, ask the good people of a nice big metro area to decide.”

“Will a judge go for that?”

He shrugged. “It depends on who we get. It will be a while before we know who it’ll be, since it has to be someone who also has no connection to this county.”

Sheila nodded. It would be just semi-complicated if it were only her, Branson County’s African American chief deputy sheriff, involved. But the man who assaulted her – in addition to being an unemployed, entitled little shit – was the son of a county commissioner. Edrick Fizzel, Senior, had been in office since God was young and the devil just fallen. He knew everyone. Half of the electorate loved him, and the other half he had dirt on. Combine that with people’s strong opinions of law enforcement – both pro and con – and this citified white boy had his work cut out for him.

“So that’s going to be one of my first moves,” Oberholz said. “But it’s a motion that’s going to need to be argued in your courthouse, even if it is in front of an out-of-town judge. So I’d like to get my feet under me, so to speak.”

“A good place to start is with a fried chicken sandwich with extra chipotle aioli,” she said. Oberholz ordered two at the counter and had the waitress come back with their drinks. Sheila took hers, shifting slightly to ease the ache in her torso. Thankfully, Oberholz didn’t notice.

“No matter where it’s tried, though, we’re going to have a problem with the ER doctor’s report of your injuries.”

Or maybe he had. She sighed.

“That ER doctor is a friend of yours. They’re going to allege that she’s biased in your favor.”

Sheila snorted with laughter. “The only thing Maggie McCleary is biased toward is an accurate diagnosis.”

Oberholz’s lips turned into a thin line. Sheila looked straight back at him and calmly put her napkin in her lap. “I’m not making light of how hard this is going to be. In Maggie’s case, there are multiple surgeons and specialists who back up her initial opinion about all of my abdominal injuries. And the broken ribs. And the concussion. And my lacerated hands and knees. I know you like those.”

The second time they’d talked, he’d asked specifically for the photos her husband Tyrone had taken the night of the attack that showed her raw and bloody palms and kneecaps. Now he shook a straw at her before plunking it into his iced tea. “Those two things tell a story. The story of a woman who had to crawl four hundred yards through the woods at night in order to save herself. Jurors will see your X-rays and it won’t matter. To laypeople, that’s just a bunch of shadows on a screen. But everybody can relate to scraped and bloody hands. And they only got that way because you knew you were going to die if you stayed there lying in the dirt. So you dragged yourself to the road in order for paramedics to find you. You saved your own life. Your palms might’ve been beat all to hell, but Edrick Fizzel, Junior, is the one with blood on his hands.”

Sheila sat back like she’d been smacked. Oberholz took a sip of tea. “The facts matter. I’m not one of those lawyers who pretends they don’t. But a trial usually comes down to who’s the better storyteller. And ma’am,” his voice suddenly slowed and rounded into a drawl, “ain’t no one can tell a story like me.”

***

Excerpt from Throwing Shadows by Claire Booth. Copyright 2025 by Claire Booth. Reproduced with permission from Claire Booth. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Claire Booth

Claire Booth is a former newspaper reporter whose writing career has taken her from Missouri to Washington, D.C., South Florida, the Seattle area, and the Bay Area. She’s reported on many high-profile cases, including the Laci Peterson murder and the San Francisco dog mauling case. The case of a deadly cult leader became the subject of her nonfiction book, The False Prophet: Conspiracy, Extortion and Murder in the Name of God. After spending so much time covering crimes so strange and convoluted they seemed more like fiction than reality, she had enough of the real world and decided to write novels instead. Her acclaimed Sheriff Hank Worth mystery series takes place in Branson, Missouri, where the small-town Ozarks meet big-city country music tourism.

Visit Claire Booth:

www.ClaireBooth.com
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Severn House

 

 

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This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Claire Booth. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
THROWING SHADOWS by Claire Booth (Gift Card)

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