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Book Spotlight: WATER MUSIC by Marcia Peck

Water Music: A Cape Cod Story by Marcia Peck
ISBN: 9798986567686 (Paperback)
ASIN: B0C15CNBMG (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 242
Publisher: Sea Crow Press
Release Date: May 5, 2023
Genre: Fiction | Historical Fiction | Family Saga

The bridge at Sagamore was closed when we got there that summer of 1956. We had to cross the canal at Buzzards Bay over the only other roadway that tethered Cape Cod to the mainland.

Thus twelve-year-old Lily Grainger, while safe from ‘communists and the Pope’, finds her family suddenly adrift. That was the summer the Andria Doria sank, pilot whales stranded, and Lily’s father built a house he couldn’t afford. Target practice on a nearby decommissioned Liberty Ship echoed not only the rancor in her parent’s marriage, a rancor stoked by Lily’s competitive uncle, but also Lily’s troubles with her sister, her cousins, and especially with her mother. In her increasingly desperate efforts to salvage her parent’s marriage, Lily discovers betrayals beyond her understanding as well as the small ways in which people try to rescue each other. She draws on her music lessons and her love of Cape Cod-from Sagamore and Monomoy to Nauset Spit and Wellfleet Dunes, seeking safe passage from the limited world of her salt marsh to the larger, open ocean.

Purchase Links #CommissionEarned: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Amazon Kindle

Praise for Water Music:

“What happens when a writer plays cello in a professional orchestra for her entire career? Her prose soars. In Water Music, Marcia Peck traces one intricate, intimate melody through the symphonic complexity of a disintegrating family’s summer on Cape Cod. Music and love are interchangeable. Here is a book worthy of reading aloud—and cherishing.”
—Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew, author of Swinging on the Garden Gate

“Peck has written a moving and melodic triumph of imagination and story, a fine harmony of intimacies and passions.”
—Nicole Helget, author of The Summer of Ordinary Ways, The Turtle Catcher, Stillwater

Meet the Author

Marcia Peck author photo: smiling seated white female wearing a black top, holding a cello — Marcia Peck photo by Joel Larson

Marcia Peck‘s writing has received a variety of awards, including New Millenium Writings (First Prize for “Memento Mori”) and Lake Superior Writers’ Conference (First Prize for “Pride and Humility”). Her articles have appeared in Musical America, Strad Magazine, Strings Magazine, Senza Sordino, and the op-ed pages of the Minneapolis StarTribune. Marcia’s fiction has appeared in Chautauqua Journal, New Millenium Writings, Gemini Magazine, and Glimmer Train, among others.

Growing up in New Jersey with parents who were both musicians, Marcia set out to be the best cellist she could be. She spent two years studying in Germany in the Master Class of the renowned Italian cellist, Antonio Janigro. Since then she has spent her musical career with the Minnesota Orchestra, where she met and married the handsome fourth horn player.

Marcia has always been a cat person. But she has learned to love dogs—even the naughty ones, maybe especially the naughty ones.

Connect with the author via Facebook | Goodreads | Website

This book spotlight brought to you via Author Marketing Experts

Book Showcase: THE GOLDEN MANUSCRIPTS by Evy Journey

The Golden Manuscripts, Between Two Worlds – Book 6, by Evy Journey
ISBN: 9780996247498 (Paperback)
ASIN: B0BWP9B9HC (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 344
Release Date: March 16, 2023
Pubsher: Soujourner Books
Genre: Fiction | Cultural Heritage

In her quest for the provenance of stolen art, she discovers a passion and a home.

Clarissa Martinez, a biracial young woman has lived in seven different countries by the time she turns twenty. She thinks it’s time to settle in a place she could call home. But where?

She joins a quest for the provenance of stolen illuminated manuscripts, a medieval art form that languished with the fifteenth-century invention of the printing press. For her, these ancient manuscripts elicit cherished memories of children’s picture books her mother read to her, nourishing a passion for art.

Though immersed in art, she’s naïve about life. She’s disheartened and disillusioned by the machinations the quest reveals of an esoteric, sometimes unscrupulous art world. What compels individuals to steal artworks, and conquerors to plunder them from the vanquished? Why do collectors buy artworks for hundreds of millions of dollars? Who decides the value of an art piece and how?

And she wonders—will this quest reward her with a sense of belonging, a sense of home?

Purchase Links #CommissionEarned: Amazon | Amazon Kindle | Barnes and Noble

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter One

November 2000

Rare Manuscripts

I sometimes wish I was your girl next door. The pretty one who listens to you and sympathizes. Doesn’t ask questions you can’t or don’t want to answer. Comes when you need to talk.

She’s sweet, gracious, respectful, and sincere. An open book. Everybody’s ideal American girl.

At other times, I wish I was the beautiful girl with creamy skin, come-hither eyes, and curvy lines every guy drools over. The one you can’t have, unless you’re a hunk of an athlete, or the most popular hunk around. Or you have a hunk of money.

But I’m afraid the image I project is that of a brain with meager social skills. The one you believe can outsmart you in so many ways that you keep out of her way—you know the type. Or at least you think you do. Just as you think you know the other two.

I want to believe I’m smart, though I know I can be dumb. I’m not an expert on anything. So, please wait to pass judgement until you get to know us better—all three of us.

Who am I then?

I’m not quite sure yet. I’m the one who’s still searching for where she belongs.

I’m not a typical American girl. Dad is Asian and Mom is white. I was born into two different cultures, neither of which dug their roots into me. But you’ll see my heritage imprinted all over me—on beige skin with an olive undertone; big grey eyes, double-lidded but not deep-set; a small nose with a pronounced narrow bridge; thick, dark straight hair like Dad’s that glints with bronze under the sun, courtesy of Mom’s genes.

I have a family: Mom, Dad, Brother. Sadly, we’re no longer one unit. Mom and Dad are about ten thousand miles apart. And my brother and I are somewhere in between.

I have no one I call friend. Except myself, of course. That part of me who perceives my actions for what they are. My inner voice. My constant companion and occasional nemesis. Moving often and developing friendships lasting three years at most, I’ve learned to turn inward.

And then there’s Arthur, my beautiful brother. Though we were raised apart, we’ve become close. Like me, he was born in the US. But he grew up in my father’s home city where his friends call him Tisoy, a diminutive for Mestizo that sometimes hints at admiration, sometimes at mockery. Locals use the label for anyone with an obvious mix of Asian and Caucasian features. We share a few features, but he’s inherited a little more from Mom. Arthur has brown wavy hair and green eyes that invite remarks from new acquaintances.

Little Arthur, not so little anymore. Taller than me now, in fact, by two inches. We’ve always gotten along quite well. Except the few times we were together when we were children and he’d keep trailing me, like a puppy, mimicking what I did until I got annoyed. I’d scowl at him, run away so fast he couldn’t catch up. Then I’d close my bedroom door on him. Sometimes I wondered if he annoyed me on purpose so that later he could hug me and say, “I love you” to soften me up. It always worked.

I love Arthur not only because we have some genes in common. He has genuinely lovable qualities—and I’m sure people can’t always say that of their siblings. He’s caring and loyal, and I trust him to be there through thick and thin. I also believe he’s better put together than I am, he whom my parents were too busy to raise.

I am certain of only one thing about myself: I occupy time and space like everyone. My tiny space no one else can claim on this planet, in this new century. But I still do not have a place where I would choose to spend and end my days. I’m a citizen of a country, though. The country where I was born. And yet I can’t call that country home. I don’t know it much. But worse than that, I do not have much of a history there.

Before today, I trudged around the globe for two decades. Cursed and blessed by having been born to a father who was a career diplomat sent on assignments to different countries, I’ve lived in different cities since I was born, usually for three to four years at a time.

Those years of inhabiting different cities in Europe and Asia whizzed by. You could say I hardly noticed them because it was the way of life I was born into. But each of those cities must have left some lasting mark on me that goes into the sum of who I am. And yet, I’m still struggling to form a clear idea of the person that is Me. This Me can’t be whole until I single out a place to call home.

Everyone has a home they’ve set roots in. We may not be aware of it, but a significant part of who we think we are—who others think we are—depends on where we’ve lived. The place we call home. A place I don’t have. Not yet. But I will.

I was three when I left this city. Having recently come back as an adult, I can’t tell whether, or for how long, I’m going to stay. You may wonder why, having lived in different places, I would choose to seek a home in this city—this country as alien to me as any other town or city I’ve passed through.

By the end of my last school year at the Sorbonne, I was convinced that if I were to find a home, my birthplace might be my best choice. I was born here. In a country where I can claim citizenship. Where the primary language is English. My choice avoids language problems and pesky legal residency issues. Practical and logical reasons, I think.

*****

Three years ago, my father announced our wandering days were over and we had to settle on a permanent home. After twenty-five years of service, he was exhausted and wanted to retire while he was still relatively young. Used to having his way, he decreed that home would be the Philippines where he was born, and where he has an extended family of near and far relatives. He would request to be posted there for his last assignment. I’d known for a while that Mom’s desire and beliefs would not carry any weight in Dad’s decision.

Living with my paternal grandparents much of the time, Arthur could call Dad’s birthplace home.

Unlike the rest of my family, I had no place I felt I belonged. I was rootless. No deep loyalty to any place I’ve lived in. I was born in California and though I spent the first three years of my life there, I grew up in at least six other cities. None of which became home to me.

Rambling around new places and plunging into new cultures—sometimes fascinating, sometimes strange in their novelty—was exciting for a while. It didn’t bother me that I was always leaving new friends behind. Mom had always been there. Dad, too. They were the constants in my life I was led to believe were all I needed. So, at eighteen, I had no firm ideas of home. But certain that my father’s stint in Paris would last for at least another year, I told myself, I still had time to decide.

For now, I occupy space in the art staff office of the university I attend. At the noon hour on a breezy, clear November day, in a city across the bay from San Francisco. Deep in the season when, east of us, rainstorms are pounding towns and cities, we’re still hoping for much-needed rain.

Autumn is not how I expected it to be, moving to this area as an adult. I miss the colors fall brings everywhere east of us. Here, Japanese maples, oaks, and gingkoes also shed leaves in shades of yellow, red, and brown. But they are mere accents to the more abundant eternal greens clinging to pine, citrus, and bamboo trees scattered all over the region. Some nights could be foggy or overcast until early morning, leaving damp sidewalks and dewy trees. By midday, the fog usually gives way to sunny and windy afternoons.

Right now, I’m alone, eating leftover pad thai from the takeout dinner I shared with my brother last night. Sitting at a desk at the back of an open area with two rows of desks where graduate assistants park their belongings. Four feet separate the two rows, each desk in a row set apart by enough room to push a chair back and sit.

The professors we work for occupy small offices bathed in eastern sun, their own little havens outfitted with bigger desks, built-in bookshelves, glass windows and glass-topped walls and doors that give them some privacy.

I’ve closed the door to the whole office. I relish this tranquil hour of solitude when I can chill out as I listen to easy music and eat lunch. Everyone else has left for the mid-day break and won’t be back for at least an hour.

I’ve been working in this office for three months, but I still don’t feel I’m in my element. I’m learning it isn’t enough to be part of a group with common interests, working in one place. Maybe, I need more time. I’m the newest graduate assistant, and though we’re all art practice majors, I want to specialize in what the art world today might consider an obscure or ancient art form—illuminated manuscripts. An art form which flourished in the medieval period, the printing press pushed it into near extinction.

In between slurping long rice noodles pinched between wooden chopsticks, I scan the news on artnews.com on my laptop—the usual way I pass this hour.

A headline catches my attention:

Long Lost Fifteenth-Century Illuminated Manuscript Found?

I put noodles and chopsticks down across the top of the plastic bowl of half-eaten pad thai and lean my body a little closer to the screen.

Art goes missing, too. Like people. Sometimes for a long time. Every piece of art also needs a home, not necessarily its place of origin. Take the famous Mona Lisa. Except for the two years a thief kept it in a suitcase, depriving the public a quick or long view of it, the painting has resided in the Louvre since the early sixteenth century. The king of France had bought it from Italian painter Leonardo da Vinci.

Most readers would be indifferent to this news of a newly recovered illuminated manuscript if it had been reported by general news sources. They may never have heard of medieval manuscripts, nor cared about them if they knew what they were. A few may wonder why or how manuscripts could be illuminated.

Artists might know a thing or two about them from art history classes, but most artists attend college to sharpen their skills and become better painters, sculptors, conceptual artists, performance artists.

But I’m neither one of those artists, nor a reader with a passing interest in art. To me, this is big news.

Among the four of us who work for Professor Adam Fischl, I’m something of an odd fish, not only because I’m rootless. As far as I can tell, no other graduate student in the art department gets excited about medieval illuminated manuscripts. The creation of illuminated manuscripts is a minor genre compared to canvas or panel painting, or sculpture, or conceptual art. You could even argue it’s a dead art. But it was a major and thriving genre during medieval times.

I learned about illuminated manuscripts in an art history class, for which I later wrote a paper on the blossoming of this art form under the reign of Charlemagne. In writing my paper, I realized my interest in illustrated manuscripts has been nurtured from the time my mother read to me. No, she didn’t read me illuminated manuscripts. She read picture books.What, after all, are illuminated manuscripts, but picture books? Granted, of a very special kind. How special? They’re handwritten, not printed. On parchment—scraped, stretched, and dried animal skin—capable of lasting centuries. An “illumination” is, in fact, a picture or illustration that conveys the meaning of a piece of text. Adorned with gold or silver leaf, these illustrations radiate light. The first letters of accompanying texts, and other decorations on a page, usually also glow with gold or silver. Sometimes, texts are inscribed in gold or silver ink.

I believe illustrated books have been essential to my awakening as a thinking, feeling being. Aren’t they, though, for every child whose parents read them stories?

Children’s picture books make it easier to understand the meanings of images through the stories that accompany them. The images can tell you more about a story than words alone can. And quite often, we have happy memories of having picture books read to us.

Tap into your memory bank, as I often have of some of my warmest memories of childhood—cradled on my mother’s lap, safe between her arms, while she’s holding a large book in front of me. Beautiful, colorful pictures adorn each page. A magical story unfolds below those pictures as she’s reading it to me. She’s drawing me into the story as she adapts her voice to every character. I always imagine myself as one of the characters. The little heroine, of course.

She reads me one book. But it only whets my appetite. So, she reads me another. And another, if she has time. Some books I like more than others—between their pages live the stories I ask her to read to me over and over.

When I turn five, she teaches me how those stories are built up: First, the letters, the basic elements needed to make up, as well as read, a story. Each letter is presented with a picture on a page—an apple with “A,” “B” and a ball, “C” and a cat … Such is how I began my adventure into reading.

The letters grow into words, their meanings illustrated by more images. The words are strung together to form single ideas. Ideas grow into scenarios. Scenarios grow into stories. And stories come alive with narrative images. All absorbed within the warmth of my mother’s love. Typical upbringing, wouldn’t you say? A lot like yours.

Except, my picture books are different in one way. The picture books Mom reads to me include many about the life and culture of every new city we land in. Picture books that—I realize later—she chose to help alleviate the problems of transitioning from one city and culture to another. Somehow, Mom always seems to find English versions of those books. One such book is The Little Prince.

When as an adult, I returned to Paris, I bought Le Petit Prince, the French original, illustrated and written by its author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. It has remained one of my most-loved books. I read it at least once a year, often at Christmas. It keeps me in touch with the child that’s in all of us. It reminds me of the unalloyed wisdom in childhood that growing up often buries in the pursuit of reality and knowledge.

My picture books pile up as we move from one place to another. Sometimes, Mom and I visit museums, often city museums exhibiting local artworks. I became aware at age nine that we’re both stockpiling experiences and memories of our short lives in a place we may be leaving forever.

After such an introduction, how can I not believe there’s magic in pictures? They contain more than what you see, maybe disguise or hide some deeper meaning than what’s obvious. You must look longer, probe deeper to see beyond the images your eyes pick up. Maybe that’s why, as a child, I loved games instructing you to find a miniscule or camouflaged image or object in a larger picture.

Artists put details in a painting you may see only as part of the background or landscape. But such details may be symbols or icons for the society, time, and culture the artist lived in. Jan van Eyck’s famous Arnolfini Portrait is frequently cited as full of symbolism, although art historians have not always agreed on the meanings of specific details. The dog at their feet, for instance, has been thought to symbolize loyalty and devotion. But another historian has proposed it portends the death of the woman in the portrait: Dogs have been found on female tombs in ancient Rome.

Apart from my parents’ caring, picture books—the artistry they demand and exhibit—may be the only constant in my past gypsy-like existence. Children’s picture books planted a seed in me that blossomed into a love of art.

*****

The artnews.com article is brief. An art dealer is selling a medieval manuscript: handwritten on vellum, the finest parchment made from calf skin; gold leaf and tempera; intact and in good condition. It’s a fifteenth-century adaptation of The Utrecht Psalter.

No images accompany the article. No manuscript cover. No sample page or two from within the manuscript. Odd that those are missing in a news item for an artwork uploaded to an online marketplace for art. No information is given, either, on who owns it, but that’s not unusual. And none on how the manuscript was lost—also odd since this fact is emphasized by its inclusion in the headline. And why the question mark?

The article does say the manuscript is a colorful adaptation of The Utrecht Psalter, often cited as possibly the best-known, and in some scholars’ opinions, the best manuscript illumination produced during Charlemagne’s reign in the ninth century. It captivated many medieval artists who copied its lively and expressive figures sketched in brown ink, running across every page.

Faithful reproductions of this psalter still exist, like The Harley Psalter, which anyone can access online in the British Library. Other artists infused their adaptation of The Utrecht Psalter with their own style, decorating texts, and using color or painted figures rather than sketches. But until this newly discovered manuscript, I wasn’t aware The Utrecht Psalter‘s influence on later manuscripts reached well into the fifteenth century, at least five hundred years from its creation.

The question mark baffles me. What can it mean? Uncertainty about the manuscript’s authenticity? Was it produced in the 15th century as claimed?

The art world has had its problems with artists who can create copies of masterpieces good enough to pass off and sell as originals. Forgers, we call them, though they’re usually highly skilled artists. And the copies they produce, we call fakes instead of the more neutral term ‘reproduction.’ Fakes are usually passed off as originals of well-known masterpieces or as previously unknown artworks by old masters like Rembrandt, DaVinci, Michelangelo, Vermeer, and by later ones like Cezanne, Van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso, Gauguin, and Manet—artists whose works are guaranteed to attract big money.

I have no idea how much this particular manuscript would fetch in the art market. Who collects them? Only libraries and museums and rich collectors of rare books? I know an artwork’s provenance can make a difference in its sale. Is it in question? Who owns it now? How was it lost? How was it recovered and by whom? Who did it belong to before the current owners? If somewhere in its journey to the present, evidence surfaces of this manuscript having been stolen, then the art dealer and its owner may find it impossible to sell.

This piece of news wouldn’t cause a blip in the public radar. But the discovery of original manuscripts as old as the fifteenth century gets art historians and certain art dealers excited. If for no other reason than that an old unique artwork can fetch a lot of money.

What a privilege and an experience it would be not only to see this once lost manuscript underneath its protective glass case. But also, to leaf through its pages. Feast my eyes on its illustrations. It’s a psalter so it contains psalms. But who created it and where (that is, which scriptorium)? Was its scribe also the illustrator? Does it have a traceable history from its creation and initial ownership to whoever claims to own it now? Could it be a quest that I can plunge into? That can consume me? Define me?

I sit back on my chair. Pick up my chopsticks. Slurp noodles back into my mouth. Too distracted to taste them. Wondering how I could see this fifteenth-century manuscript for myself. A facsimile, if there is one, might suffice. Given the fragility of these books, only properly credentialed experts could have access to them. And I’m not yet one of those.

How about doing an illuminated manuscript about medieval illuminated manuscripts for my master’s thesis? I could analyze this resurrected adaptation of The Utrecht Psalter. In choosing to do so, I would be both scribe and illustrator, treading in the footsteps of many medieval artists who copied extant manuscripts or created new ones.

The immediate gut appeal of the idea turns into a frisson of apprehension as I imagine what such a project would entail. It’s an exciting prospect, but would I be up to it? Painting small colorful pictures in egg tempera, a medium I haven’t used? Applying gold leaf on pictures and letters, a skill that seems easy enough to learn? Handwriting content on parchment, a material I’m unfamiliar with? Writing with some fancy medieval script I would have to practice? Sewing the pages together to bind the manuscript? Fashioning a wood, leather, metal, or ivory cover, to me the most intimidating task in the whole process?

I would have wanted to spend more time indulging my fantasies and confronting my trepidation, but my reverie is abruptly cut short by someone opening the door to the office from the outside.

Lena, the office secretary, strides in, glancing at me as she passes by on her way to her office. I acknowledge her with a nod. She waves to me in response. She’s on her way to her office at the southern end of the row of professors’ offices, one larger than those of faculty. But it has neither windows nor a door. Its space accommodates the office machines by her desk and the deep filing cabinets lining her walls.

Don, the assistant to the professors of color, composition, and painting classes, saunters in a minute later. Two other assistants trickle back from lunch.

It’s time to leave. I have a painting class the rest of the afternoon. I pick up my backpack off the floor, gather my empty lunch box and chopsticks, shove both into my backpack, and rush out of the office, backpack slung on my shoulder.

Three and a half hours later, I leave the painting class a little early and hurry back to the office to catch Professor Fischl, hoping this isn’t one of those infrequent days when he doesn’t return to his office after his afternoon classes, and wondering if it might be premature to talk to him about my thesis. I’m only in the first semester of graduate school.

But I’m too fired up to control my impulse.

How often does a medieval illuminated manuscript resurface after it has been missing—maybe for a long time? It should draw even more attention if the art world had not known of its existence. Am I not being thrown an unexpected opportunity? A rare challenge staring me in the face that I have no choice but to seize? A foray into a form of art meaningful to me, helping sustain me through the many transitions I’ve had to endure?

Excerpt from The Golden Manuscripts by Evy Journey.
Copyright © 2023 by Evy Journey.
Published with permission. All rights reserved.

Meet the Author

Evy Journey writes. Stories and blog posts. Novels that tend to cross genres. She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse.

Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D. University of Illinois). So her fiction spins tales about nuanced characters dealing with contemporary life issues and problems. She believes in love and its many faces.

Her one ungranted wish: To live in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has visited and stayed a few months at a time.

Connect with the author via Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Website

This excerpt brought to you via Author Marketing Experts

Book Showcase: JAM RUN by Russell Brooks

Jam Run, An Eddie Barrow Mystery, by Russell Brooks
ISBN: 9780986751387 (Paperback)
ISBN: 9780986751394 (eBook)
ASIN: B0BZ1C8T4F (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 571
Release Date: March 31, 2023
Genre: Fiction | Crime Thriller | LGBT Fiction

What if crying out for help made you a target?

Within hours of arriving in Montego Bay, Eddie Barrow and his friend Corey Stephenson witness a gruesome murder outside a bar. When the victim’s sister reaches out for help, they learn of machinations to conceal foreign corporate corruption and a series of horrific sex crimes. However, Barrow and Stephenson’s commitment to solving the case is put to the test once they find themselves in the crosshairs of a ruthless criminal network—one that extends beyond the shores of Jamaica.

The Eddie Barrow Series:
Book 1: Chill Run
Book 2: Jam Run

Purchase Links #CommissionEarned: Amazon | Amazon Kindle | B&N eBook | Kobo eBook

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter 1
Citrusville Bar, Pegga Road, Irwin, Jamaica.

Eddie Barrow thrust a Jamaican five-hundred-dollar bill across the counter to the bartender before the other patron could utter a syllable. There was no way in hell Eddie was going to let someone else cut in front of him tonight.

This time it was a wire-thin sista, dressed in a crop-top, Harley Quinn shorts, and a Mary J Blige weave. To him, she looked like she must be thinking, “He ain’t much of a man,” but Eddie couldn’t give a rat’s ass what she thought. He may not have been born in Barbados like his parents, but he knew the rules of the Caribbean—that cut-ins were a way of life down here.

At five foot eight and a little over one hundred and seventy pounds, Barrow wasn’t the most physically imposing brotha around, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t know how to stand his ground when he needed to.

“Two waters please,” Eddie yelled as he competed with the heavy bass in the background that shook his internal organs, while keeping his hand on his money.

The bartender leaned closer. “What you say?”

“I said water.” He held up two fingers. “Two.”

Eddie loosened his grip on the bill as the bartender pulled it away and slipped it in the cash register. He reached below the counter, then placed two bottles in front of Eddie before moving on to the sista who’d tried to budge him.

With a bottle in each hand, Eddie navigated through the crowd. It was no different than trying to exit a packed subway car—especially getting elbowed and poked. He kept looking down, worried someone was going to step on his toes and dirty up his pristine pair of Air Max runners.

This was exactly the reason Eddie outgrew the club scene a year after he came into it, roughly seven years before. It didn’t take him long before he realized that he wasn’t missing anything. As for Corey Stephenson, his “brotha from anotha motha” from way back, clubbing and going out was more his thing. Eddie was the quiet one who always wanted to stay home with his head buried in a book or, up until recently, writing one to keep up with deadlines. If he went out, it was because Corey had dragged him.

The funny thing was that Eddie had always been told that Barbadians—Bajans—were the loudest, more so than Trinidadians. Corey was born in Trinidad and moved to Montreal when he was around eleven or twelve, not too long before he saved Eddie’s ass from a bunch of skinheads who’d ambushed him in the park. At a solid six foot two with his Trini charm, he was always able to talk his way into a woman’s panties, unlike Eddie.

But he’d since settled down a bit. Getting his girlfriend pregnant and then marrying her had changed Corey for the better. He’d once had an alcohol problem too. Those were moments that Eddie wanted to forget. One of those memories involved the two of them and Corey’s then-girlfriend, Jordyn, being on the run from the police for a murder Eddie had been framed for.

Eddie didn’t even wait to get back to Corey before he took a drink of his water to cool off in this sweltering Jamaican heat. Even though this section of the bar was outdoors, a bunch of brothas and sistas crowded together like sardines still made the mercury rise, especially since they weren’t close enough to the ocean to catch the breeze.

They’d only arrived from Montreal earlier that afternoon. As expected, Corey had to drag Eddie out of the Airbnb to find the nearest party.

It was their first time in Jamaica. It was business for Eddie. Pleasure for Corey. In less than twelve hours Eddie would be signing copies of his latest thriller, which was why he didn’t want to be out too late or drink anything alcoholic. Eddie was a lightweight. The last thing he needed was to be hungover during the book signing.

“Come on, it’ll only be for a few hours. You’ll have plenty of time to sleep,” Corey had said earlier. Which only made Eddie sigh. He didn’t have much of a track record in saying no to his friend.

Of all the areas Corey chose to drag him to, why did it have to be a ghetto on top of a hill? The only light aside from the headlights of their rental car came from the car graveyard to their left. Beyond that was pure blackness, as they drove on the two-laned road through an area of thick forest on either side. Even worse, the road was so neglected that they were forced to drive at a speed slower than one found in a school zone. Had they been ambushed by a street gang they’d have better luck escaping on foot.

As for school zones, the Irwin Primary School was adjacent from where they were. Eddie couldn’t imagine a worse area to build a school. Hell, he couldn’t believe he was at a party that could potentially be interrupted by gunfire at any moment.

Maybe he should’ve asked for a drink doused with rum to calm his nerves. All of this because Corey wanted to party in what he called the real Jamaica, and not the area that catered to tourists.

A sista caught Eddie’s attention, clearly not hiding the fact that she was eyeing him. The woman’s jet-black hair with blond highlights reached the top of her midnight dress—one which conveniently stopped just below her thighs. When she turned to the side it was as though the world moved in slow motion. Yeah, she wanted him to notice her, especially her peach-shaped booty. Eddie’s eyes then dropped to her feet, and he nodded in appreciation. A wicked pair of stilettos. This sista had polished herself literally from head to toe. He no longer thought of getting a rum drink because his nerves were calmer than ever.

He gazed around now. There must be at least a dozen brothas there, all ready to jump her bones.

Eddie shook it off and found Corey—lost in his own world—doing the Gully Creepa. At least the crowd wasn’t as dense, and the air was less tainted by the smell of sweat and perfume. He held out Corey’s water bottle.

“Corey,” yelled Eddie, but his friend didn’t seem to notice. Eddie tapped the bottle on Corey’s shoulder, catching his attention.

“There you are.” Corey took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t ask.”

Corey drank a bit and then nodded past Eddie. “You notice that girl staring at you?”

What a question to ask. How could he not? Eddie had always been the more observant of the two. He finished off his water in a single swig, giving Corey what Eddie hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah, I saw her.”

“Why don’t you go talk to her?”

“Oh sure, so that I look desperate.”

“Bwoy, stop being a pussy and go talk to her.” Corey shook his head and took a swig.

Eddie watched as three brothas—two of them solidly built—approached the sista. They weren’t holding back, and one of the three reached under her skirt from behind. But she had already spotted them, anticipated his move, and slapped his hand away before striding off.

The brotha laughed as he casually ran his hand over the top of his durag. The other, who wore a bandana, bent over at the waist, laughing as he held onto his friend’s shoulder. The third, who looked like the odd one of the three, bowed his head and looked away while covering his mouth. He, unlike the other two, didn’t fit the tough-guy, macho type. In fact, he looked as though he was embarrassed by his friend’s behavior.

“You see that?” Eddie asked.

Corey nodded. “She’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

Eddie knew when Corey was right, and this was one of those times. People around him were up on each other, sistas whinin’ up on a brotha—bent over between six-fifteen and six-thirty—to music, whose lyrics at times even degraded them.

Eddie caught her smile as she ran two fingers across her brow to clear away the few strands of hair that fell over her eye. He approached her slowly, not letting go of her gaze. She gravitated toward him. The music stopped, and the DJ screamed something in Jamaican Patois that Eddie couldn’t understand, right before bombastic dancehall music blasted around him. Eddie was caught off guard as the woman spun around and backed up into him—ass first—and performed the most energetic and wildest Dutty Wine he’d ever seen. She then followed through to Bruk It Down.

Damn, she has skills.

It was way more than Eddie could handle, and he struggled to keep up with her. She then turned around and looked into his eyes—their noses barely touching. He stared back, held her gaze, but something was off. It made him pause his dancing, a tiny voice in his head telling him to back up. But he was caught off guard when the sista grabbed him by the shoulders with a firm grip. Before he realized what was happening, she hoisted herself in the air and locked her legs around him just above the waist in a vicelike grip. Out of reflex, he quickly took a deep breath as he felt the pressure from her legs on his ribcage.

The jump’s momentum knocked him off balance, and he stumbled backward before falling, nearly striking his head on the ground. The crowd went crazy, and all Eddie heard was howling laughter. For the next several seconds, the jarringly loud thumps of the bass from the speakers were reduced to background noise.

Eddie felt as though a nasty prank had been pulled on him as the back of his throat dried up.

But she wasn’t done with him yet. She continued gyrating onto him as though nothing had happened while he lay on his back. She then spun around to face the opposite way—with her ass literally up in his face as she shook it. All Eddie saw was booty and thong. He couldn’t help but watch—his neck hurt from holding his head up for so long. She then did a front roll into a handstand, held it, then gracefully let one leg fall after the next to form a bridge, and pulled herself up at the waist, with seemingly little effort, to stand on both feet.

Eddie couldn’t hold his head up any longer, and let it drop as he breathed deeply, attempting to process what the hell just happened. Even before he sat up, brothas inundated him as they rushed to give him high-fives. He was slow to return them, considering that he was still recovering from the ordeal.

He couldn’t tell if the crowd was cheering or laughing. It sounded more like laughing—and at him. Twenty-seven years young, and he still felt like the odd one in the crowd. It reminded him of the times in elementary and high school gym class where he was always the last one chosen to be on a team.

The sista winked at him before turning to go. He felt the blood rushing to his groin as her ass bounced from side to side as she sashayed away.

“Wait,” Eddie yelled as he scrambled to his feet. But she was already gone.

Where did she go?

Eddie heard Corey’s long, drawling holler as his friend grabbed his shoulder. “Yoooooooo! Did you get her number?”

Eddie turned to him and saw Corey wiping the tears away with his towel.

“Naw, she took off too fast.”

Corey shook his head. “Come again? You let her do all that, and you didn’t even get her number?”

“I said she was gone before I could get up. By the way, I’m okay, considering that I nearly cracked the back of my head open.”

“That ain’t no excuse. Bwoy, I oughta slap you upside the head.”

It was then that the DJ lowered the music and started yelling into the mic, announcing a dance-off, and that the participants should present themselves. Six army-vet-looking brothas, showing off their pecs by wearing tight black t-shirts with the word SECURITY emblazoned on the back, cleared a circle. As the area was being prepared, four young sistas—ranging from petite to thunder thighs—were already on the floor.

Corey beckoned Eddie to follow him quickly so that they could get a closer view. There was only one row of people in front, forcing Eddie to look between to see, while Corey, being the taller one, only inconvenienced the ones behind him.

It took just a few moments before Eddie spotted her again. She was on the opposite side of the circle, talking to another sista. It appeared that she was complimenting her on her dress. The woman then took out her smartphone, and they snapped a selfie. The smile was so irresistible. But something was still off, and a red flag was flapping in his mind. If only he knew why. The other sista, whom she took the selfie with, ran into the circle as the DJ blasted the music again.

Eddie tapped Corey’s arm. “I’ll be back.”

“You leave, and you’re going to lose your spot.”

Eddie then nodded in the direction of the woman. “It’ll be worth it.”

When Corey looked away, Eddie saw what appeared to be a scuffle. He nearly pushed aside the person in front of him to get a better view. It was the woman. She was trying to leave, but some brothas and sistas were blocking her path.

A few seconds later, though, it appeared that they were persuading her to join the dance-off. It came to the point where the woman was literally pushed into the circle, where the other sistas already had a head start.

The look on her face—she was worried. It was as though she didn’t want to do it or even be there anymore. But the crowd was not forgiving. One of the bouncers who helped clear the area came to her and said something into her ear. It was at that moment that she removed a stiletto.

Bedlam.

Eddie thought he would go deaf from the amount of screaming that erupted around him.

The second stiletto came off, and she handed those, along with her purse, to the bouncer. She relaxed, and her smile came back. It was contagious enough that it even made Eddie smile. After she started to move, he knew that the contest was already over after the first twenty seconds. It was evident by the amount of noise the crowd made that she was the winner. Two of the other competitors seemed to know they didn’t stand a chance of winning, and they gave up and bolted in a New York Minute. She clearly had more energy and endurance than the remaining competitors. However, it was the backflip ending in ground splits that sealed the deal for her.

Game over.

The music came to an abrupt stop, and the DJ called out the names of the remaining contestants one at a time to let the amount of noise the crowd made determine the winner. He came last to the woman Eddie had danced with. The DJ had to ask for her name.

She must be new. How else would the DJ know the others and not her? Eddie thought.

The woman was handed her belongings along with a cordless mic. She then turned to the DJ. “My name’s Shenice.”

Chaos.

Eddie was bounced from both sides and from behind as everyone around him completely lost it—jumping up and down, swinging towels, obviously not caring who they knocked into. It was soon after that the DJ announced her as the winner.

“You better get her number. That’s wifey material,” Corey shouted into Eddie’s ear. Eddie didn’t answer. As blown away as he was, he still couldn’t help but feel that there was something off about Shenice.

As she slid her feet back into her stilettos, a brotha walked to Shenice and handed her an ultra-wide gold-colored column trophy and an envelope. Eddie assumed the latter was either a cash prize or a gift card.

Thunder-thighs and the selfie-sista both gave Shenice congratulatory hugs while the other two women scowled and stormed off.

Eddie forced his way past the people in front of him, but others crowded back inside the circle, creating enough obstacles to slow him down. When he got to where Shenice was, she was gone again.

Shit, man!

He jumped in the air a few times, hoping to see her above the crowd. The sixth time he spotted the blond highlights at the back of her head.

“Shenice,” Eddie yelled, only for his voice to be lost among the dozens. He went to the spot where he last saw her and found himself next to a line to the ladies’ room.

A line this long, she couldn’t have gotten in so quickly. “Excuse me. Anyone see Shenice?”

“Who yuh call Shenice? Which Shenice is dat?” answered one woman in a heavy Jamaican accent.

“She just won.” All Eddie saw were shaking heads.

“Me no see yar pass tru.” Eddie assumed she said: I didn’t see her pass through here.

How does Shenice keep going ninja on me? He went back and found Corey waiting where he had left him.

“And?”

Eddie furrowed a brow and shook his head. He tugged at his own collar. “I’m going out to the parking lot for a bit. It’s too stuffy here.”

The sound of tiny gravel crunching under his feet was a relief from the jarring bass from the subwoofers. As he walked between two rows of cars, all he saw were Toyotas, Mitsubishis, and Hondas—not an American or European car in sight. The ringing in his ears wasn’t as bad as he had expected.

His phone buzzed in his front pants pocket. He grabbed it and saw the envelope icon indicating that he had received a text message. Eddie held his thumb on the monitor in the fingerprint display to unlock it. The message was from Corey, asking if he’d found Shenice.

Eddie replied with a “No.” A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again. He checked it out, expecting to see Corey’s answer. Instead, he noticed that his text didn’t go through. It bounced back, accompanied by a red exclamation mark. Damn. A slashed zero replaced the phone signal bars and the Wi-Fi icon at the top of the screen.

No signal.

Eddie stopped and walked backward a few steps while raising the phone above him to catch the signal. Still nothing.

That was odd.

Eddie slid the phone back into his pocket. He tapped the other one—the third time he’d done so this evening—and still felt the thin pouch. The pouch was too obscure to be visible to a would-be pickpocket but large enough to just hold his ID and a few dollar bills. No sense checking it too often, or he’d tip off someone that he had something of value on him. As for his wallet, he’d left it in the glove compartment of his car.

His thoughts drifted back to Shenice. What kind of sista whine-up on a man so and don’t even talk to him after? But she was gone. Either she caught a taxi, was picked up by a friend, or she drove herself. Who knew? Again, the thought came back to him that there was something unusual about her. It was killing him that he couldn’t figure out what it was.

Eddie was startled by shouting that came from several cars away, and he turned to see what appeared to be fighting among three people. Two brothas held onto a sista by the arms and threw her facedown onto the hood of a car. Eddie’s walk turned into a jog so that he could get a better view. He paused when he saw that it was Durag and Bandana. Eddie couldn’t see the sista’s face but caught a glimpse of the back of her head and saw the blond highlights, sending his heartbeat into overdrive.

Holy shit, they’re going to rape Shenice.

“Hey!” Eddie yelled, catching the attention of Shenice’s attackers just as he was about to rush them. “Leave her—”

The cuff to the back of his head sent a shock that penetrated Eddie’s brain. The world spun around him, seconds before he fell forward, striking another solid object before he hit the ground. He scrunched up his face as he forced his eyes shut, crying out from the agonizing pain. But he only heard his cries internally. Something—no, someone was forcing down hard on his mouth with what felt like a damp cloth with a noxious-smelling chemical. Whatever it was, he had already inhaled too much of it that he was left disoriented.

He felt the crook of an arm under his chin, pulling him backward. His body fell limp as his heels dragged across the ground. He didn’t even have the strength to turn his head to see his attacker before his eyes got very heavy.

***

The choking startled Eddie awake. He rolled on his side, only to inhale a mouthful of dust, making things worse. He got onto all fours as he tried to take deep breaths in between violent coughs. He turned around and into a seated position with his back to one of the cars beside him. The right side of his forehead throbbed. He put a hand to it. Things started to come back to him. He had bumped his head. And right before that, he was hit from behind. And that was right before…

Shenice.

Standing was a struggle, but he held onto the car next to him for support. Once up, he heard the banging cacophony coming from the bar. He let go of the car to see if he could walk on his own but ended up stumbling forward. Eddie braced himself on the car again to stop himself from falling.

He did his best to maintain his footing as he headed to where he had seen Shenice being attacked.

“Shenice?” Eddie yelled. Nothing but the slow-jamming reggae in the background. He grabbed his cell and called Corey, holding the phone to his ear as he searched the area.

Come on, pick-up. It suddenly hit him that the phone signal was down earlier. Eddie took a quick glance at the screen and still saw the slashed zero.

The loud sliding of tires on dirt and gravel startled him—freezing him where he stood as the shock took over, preventing him from jumping out of the way of the oncoming vehicle. The car still slid but luckily came to a stop, within inches of striking him.

Eddie’s nerves unlocked, allowing him to breathe again.

With the headlights shining below his waist, he was able to see the visible BMW insignia on the hood of the car, and who was inside. Bandana was in the passenger seat, but there was something wrong with his eyes. He was clearly in pain as he was rubbing them with his hands while howling. The driver was one of his friends, the odd one of the group. He then saw Durag in the back seat, staring between both of them and straight at Eddie.

“Delroy, Laawd Jesus! How yuh slam pon de breaks so? Why nuh kill me?” yelled Bandana.

“It’s dat bloodclaat who shout at us,” said Durag. “Move out at de road, yuh damn idiat. Bumboclaat!”

The driver wasn’t among the two who attacked Shenice. At least, Eddie didn’t remember him being there. But the fear was all over his face. When his hand slammed on the horn, it startled Eddie enough that he jumped to the side.

Eddie raised his hands in surrender. “Yo, my bad.”

The accelerator was floored, causing the tires to spin wildly, gravel ricocheting out behind the car. As they passed, Eddie saw Durag point at him while imitating a gun. He then lowered his thumb to touch his index as though he was pulling the trigger. This was done slowly, and Eddie knew that Durag was making a point.

Eddie shielded his eyes with his forearm as a dust cloud emerged from under the spinning tires. The tiny pebbles became projectiles, stinging his arms and legs as the car cut left, causing it to fishtail. It then sped off and exited the parking lot. Once it hit the road, Eddie heard the screeching of tires and the accelerating roar of the engine.

Even though it was impossible to catch the license plate number, he already had two clues: the driver’s name was Delroy, and he drove a BMW—the only European car he saw in this lot so far.

“Ed.”

Eddie turned to see Corey running toward him.

“I was looking all over for you.” Corey slid to a stop, a bit out of breath. “Didn’t you get my text?”

It didn’t take long for his best friend to notice his injury. “Bruh, what happened to your head?” Corey reached out to touch the bruise.

Eddie moved his head to dodge his hand. “That’s nothing.”

“What happened to you?”

Eddie continued searching for Shenice. “I wish I knew.”

“What?” Corey put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder to get his attention. “Were you fighting? Who did this to you?”

“Shenice.”

Corey tilted his head. “Shenice did that to you?”

“No, she was being attacked,” Eddie answered. “It was those same guys we saw earlier.”

“They did this to you?”

Eddie began to wander off. “No, not them.”

Corey moved quickly to catch up to him. “You ain’t making any sense.”

“We have to find her.” Eddie picked up the pace—looking left and right. “I think they raped her.”

“You serious? Where?”

“Over there, I think.” Eddie pointed to the spot where he’d last seen her. “I saw Durag and Bandana dragging her, and I yelled at them. Then someone jumped me from behind. That’s when I fell and hit my head. I tried texting you, but the phone signal’s out.”

“I know,” said Corey. “When you didn’t reply, I texted you again, but it bounced back. So I came out here looking for you.”

An object on the ground caught Eddie’s attention. It was a shoe, more specifically a stiletto—and it looked like one that Shenice had been wearing. Eddie darted right for it and picked it up. The heel was broken and dangled from its attachment like a shoelace. He showed it to Corey, who raised his eyebrows.

Shenice could’ve been running for her life.

They both frantically searched, looking underneath the cars in anticipation that she was on the ground, all while yelling her name.

A loud, frightening scream came from the entrance to the parking lot. Eddie jumped to his feet, and his mouth dropped in a gasp. A human torch ran blindly in zigzags and circles with both arms flailing. The person fell but continued to kick and thrash on the ground, screaming as the bright flames seared through fabric to flesh.

Eddie rushed to the victim while pulling off his shirt, then swung it as hard and fast as he could to beat out the flames. He didn’t care that his hands were getting singed. This person’s life was at stake. Moments later, he noticed that Corey was doing the same. They yelled for help as they lashed the victim and furiously kicked dust and gravel from the ground to help smother the flames.

Eddie’s shirt caught fire, forcing him to throw it on the ground. He grabbed his phone ready to dial 110…or was it 119? He went with his gut and dialed 110 while kicking as much dust as he could onto the victim. Still, the call wouldn’t go through. This didn’t make sense. Emergency calls always worked, whether there was a phone signal or not.

But Eddie’s gut told him they were already too late. It was the first time that Eddie had smelled burning human flesh, and it brought on a brief wave of nausea. He still didn’t stop kicking gravel onto the victim even though the flames had died down.

“Hey, do you hear me?” Eddie yelled.

No reply.

“Please answer. Can you hear me? Please say something.”

“Ed,” said Corey.

“Come on,” Eddie’s voice died down. “Say something.”

Eddie felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Corey shaking his head.

“Help! Somebody help!” Gritting his teeth, he ran toward the bar. He continued yelling for help, but it was as though no one heard him.

Eddie turned and ran back. “Did they say anything?”

Corey sighed and shook his head.

Eddie dropped to his knees in front of the victim and noticed they were missing their shoes. He then saw what remained of the dress. No long hair with gold highlights, which was most likely a weave that had completely burned away. It was definitely Shenice.

“Fuck!” Corey yelled as he stomped on the ground.

Eddie often read about Jamaica’s high homicide rate. He just never imagined that he would witness one within the first ten hours of his arrival. He didn’t know what had suddenly come over him as he stared at the smoking, charred body. Was it fear, shock, or both?

It wasn’t long before one of the patrons noticed what had happened. It began with one, then quickly became a few. Word spread swiftly, and others began showing up. As expected, cell phones were up as the mob suddenly became the paparazzi. They practically smothered him, Corey, and Shenice.

“Who dead?”

“Who do it?”

“Move outta de way. Put it pon Facebook.”

The last comment pissed him the fuck off. Eddie jumped up and spun in the direction of the person who said it. “Who said they’re putting this on Facebook? Don’t you have any respect? Jesus!”

The crowd went silent for a moment, then they resumed what they were doing as though they hadn’t been interrupted.

Eddie turned to look back at Shenice’s body. Most of the burns were from the neck down.

There was enough light from the flashlights on the patrons’ cell phones that allowed Eddie to notice that Shenice had suffered a skull-fracturing blow to the side of her head—maybe from a rock or a bat. But something was still off, and he was reminded of the red flags that hit him earlier. Something about Shenice’s body caught Eddie’s attention. He took out his smartphone to activate the flashlight so that he could get a better look.

What Eddie saw made him tense up while stifling a gasp. He quickly pointed the flashlight away from the victim.

So that’s what was bothering me.

“Clear outta de way!” Eddie heard a few brothas yelling. He turned to see that the crowd was being physically dispersed by the bouncers. They made it through, grabbing Eddie and Corey, then shoving them back.

“Bumboclaat!” yelled one of them as he turned his head away in disgust.

Another pointed his finger toward Eddie and Corey. “A two a uno do it?”

“We were trying to save her,” Corey answered. “We even lost our shirts trying to beat out the flames.”

Eddie didn’t understand a word the bouncer said. But after Corey answered him, it was obvious that the bouncer asked: “You two did this?”

The same bouncer eyed them while shaking his head.

“If we did this, why would we hang around to get caught?” Eddie couldn’t believe that this idiot would have the gall to accuse them of killing Shenice.

The bouncer then sighed and pointed to a spot away from the crowd. “Stay ova deh so, and no botha move!”

Move over there, and don’t bother trying to leave! Eddie understood that part.

Both Eddie and Corey obeyed and went to where they were instructed.

“That’s some straight-up bullshit,” said Corey as they looked at the gathering. “Those guys not only raped her, but they killed her too. What kind of sick fucks do such a thing?”

Eddie shook his head. “I have my suspicions, but I don’t think they raped Shenice. And if it’s possible, a medical examiner will confirm that.”

Corey turned to Eddie and tilted his head. “I thought you said that those guys attacked her.”

“Yeah, before someone jumped me.” Eddie turned to his friend. “I don’t know what happened while I was knocked out or how long I was out for.”

It was then that Eddie saw two of the bouncers talking into their mobile phones. He checked his own and saw that the signal was back.

“It’s good that we’re over here because I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”

“Overhear what?” asked Corey. “That you don’t think Shenice was raped?”

Eddie shook his head as he continued watching the crowd. “Whoever that person is, their real name isn’t Shenice.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I got a good look at the body before the bouncer shoved us away. I think this may be a hate crime.” Eddie then turned to Corey while he thumbed in the direction of the deceased. “Shenice is a brotha.”

Excerpt from Jam Run by Russell Brooks.
Copyright © 2023 by Russell Brooks.
Published with permission. All rights reserved.

Meet the Author

Russell Brooks is an Amazon bestselling author of several thrillers—Pandora’s Succession, Unsavory Delicacies, Chill Run, and The Demeter Code. If you enjoy heart-pounding thrillers with conspiracies, martial arts, sex, betrayal, and revenge, then you don’t need to look any further and see why these are among the best mystery thriller books of all time.

Connect with the author via: Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Twitter | Website

Giveaway

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This book tour, excerpt, and giveaway brought to you via Author Marketing Experts

Book Showcase: THE LAST LAP by Christy Hayes

The Last Lap by Christy Hayes
ISBN: 9781625720283 (Paperback)
ISBN: 9781625720276 (eBook)
ASIN: B0BTTQDRDL (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 341
Release Date: March 7, 2023
Genre: Fiction | Romance | Mystery

A man seeking closure after the death of his estranged brother. A woman grieving her sister and best friend. A connection they never saw coming. More than the temperature heats up in USA Today Bestselling Author Christy Hayes’ unforgettable page-turning romance about two tortured souls and their collision course with love.

Megan Holloway has learned a few hard truths in her twenty-eight years. Life isn’t fair. People she loves always leave. And she’ll be stuck on Key West running her parents’ gift store and raising her twelve-year-old niece for the rest of her life.

Thirty-year-old Bryan Westfall has come to Key West to clean out his dead brother’s apartment and search for answers about the woman who died with his estranged older brother. Bryan didn’t know the woman had a daughter and he sure didn’t expect her sister to floor him with her beauty and biting brashness.

Bryan’s persistent need to help and Meg’s bumbling business skills create an unlikely union. The more time they spend together, the more their feelings become too powerful to deny. Meg knows Bryan is leaving at the end of the summer and Bryan knows Meg is holding back to spare herself needless heartache. When a hurricane forces them to evacuate, Meg mentally prepares to let Bryan go while Bryan wonders if home is where he came from or is with the woman who stole his heart.

Purchase Links #CommissionEarned: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Amazon Kindle

Read an Excerpt:

He inched the door open a crack and his heart jammed into his throat. Instead of a beefy henchman, a willowy redhead stood fuming on his doorstep. He swung the door open wide and gawked at Amanda Holloway’s sister, tapping her sandaled foot on the mat.

“Stay away from us.” Her velvet voice quivered with rage. “Do you understand me?”

“Uh …” Bryan couldn’t organize his thoughts into anything resembling words. Seeing her in the store had been like a punch to the gut. Standing inches away on his doorstep where he could count the freckles across her nose and smell the perfume on her skin left him senseless. The woman didn’t need a baseball bat. She wielded a punch with her presence.

“You’ve got nothing to say?”

He extended his hand. “I’m Bryan Westfall. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

“Nice?” She gave his hand a death stare and her tone pitched higher. “You think this is a social call?”

Bryan dropped his hand. “I don’t have a clue what this is.”

“This is a warning.” She aimed a finger in his face. “Do not come near me, my niece, or our store, ever again. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re not going to weasel your way into our lives like your brother did. He did enough damage, thank you very much.”

Whatever evidence Bryan had been searching for landed squarely at his feet with her threat. Corey’s presence in this woman’s life had changed it for the worse. “Listen …”

“Meg.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Meg.”

His simple statement and quiet tone stopped her cold. She straightened her stance and folded her arms across her V-necked white t-shirt, an apostrophe forming between her brows. “What do you want from us? Why are you here?”

Bryan stepped back. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll explain.”

The crevice between her brows deepened and she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Of course she didn’t trust him. He was a stranger. His brother had slithered into her sister’s life and torn it to shreds. Meg was the living, breathing, reminder of what happened when people let Corey and his devil-may-care outlook into their orbit. “I’m cleaning out Corey’s apartment. Trying to piece together his last few months.”

“You’re his brother.” It wasn’t so much a statement as an accusation.

“You and your sister were close?”

The sadness in her eyes said as much as her choked agreement. Grief sat just below the surface. One tiny shift was all it took to uncover her pain. “Very close.”

“Corey and I …” How could he explain their complicated relationship? He couldn’t, not without a history lesson she didn’t care to hear. “We had a falling out.”

She snorted. “Of course you did.” She stared past him into the apartment filled with boxes labeled for charity. “That must make this pretty easy for you, huh? Boxing up his stuff, giving it away as if he never existed. You’re probably relieved he’s gone. No more fighting, no more messy feelings about your flesh and blood.”

Shame heated the skin of his neck, giving his voice a dangerous edge. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“My sister and I lived and worked together.” She raised her chin in the air, determined to drive her point home. “We raised her daughter together. Nothing about losing her was easy on any of us. I’m sorry for your loss, Bryan, but you can look for answers elsewhere. We’ve been through enough. The last thing we need is another slick-talking Westfall poking around where he doesn’t belong.”

Would she feel better or worse to know they shared the same impression of Corey? He decided not to find out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”

“It’s too late for that. Just hear me loud and clear—leave us alone. Pack your stuff and go back where you came from. Whatever Corey was up to before he died doesn’t change the outcome. He’s dead and he dragged Amanda down with him. If you care at all about those of us left behind, you’ll go and never come back.”

She turned to leave, and a panicked surge of impatience had him stepping toward her, had him saying something he should have thought through. “I know you feel—”

She turned back so quickly her hair tangled in her teeth. She pulled the strands free and speared him with an angry scowl. “You don’t have a clue how I feel.”

He didn’t, not really, but neither did she. “I lost my brother, too.”

She closed her mouth and stared at him, the heat coloring her cheeks dimmed.

“Maybe we weren’t close. Maybe I couldn’t have changed the outcome, but you’re not the only one grieving. He may be the villain, but he was my brother. He was a man—a flawed man—with a family who cared. I’m not here to get you all worked up, but I need answers. My family needs answers.”

She watched him with wary, grass-green eyes. “Your answers don’t involve us.”

“Your sister knew him better than anyone.”

She shook her head and the red strands caught fire in the sunlight. “That’s not saying a lot.”

He had no other option but to beg. “Please, Meg. I don’t know where else to turn.”

She stared at him, grasping the strap of the leather bag slung over her shoulder in a chokehold. “Then I guess you’re out of luck.” She pivoted and strode away, eating up ground with her long, slender legs.

Bryan watched the sway of her miniskirt as she stormed off, then closed the door and turned to face Corey’s apartment. He rubbed the ache in his gut. He may have needed answers, but finding them just got a whole lot harder.

Excerpt from The Last Lap by Christy Hayes.
Copyright © 2023 by Christy Hayes.
Published with permission. All rights reserved.

Meet the Author

Christy Hayes is a USA Today Bestselling author. She grew up along the eastern seaboard and received two degrees from the University of Georgia. An avid reader, she writes romance and women’s fiction. Christy and her husband have two grown children and live with a houseful of dogs in the foothills of north Georgia.

Connect with the author via: Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Twitter | Website

Giveaway

This is a giveaway for one (1) signed print copy of The Last Lap by Christy Hayes + a bookmark, courtesy of Christy Hayes via Author Marketing Experts. This giveaway is open to residents of the United States only. All entries by non-US residents will be voided. To enter use the Rafflecopter link below or click here.

This giveaway begins at 12:01 AM ET on 04/11/2023 and ends at 11:59 PM ET on 04/17/2023. The winner will be announced by 10:00 AM ET on 04/18/2023. Void where prohibited.

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Book Spotlight: SURRENDER by Lee Schneider

Surrender by Lee Schneider
ISBN: 9798987246634 (Paperback)
ISBN: 9798987246627 (Hardcover)
ISBN: 1230006014681 (eBook)
ASIN: B0BNLTJX8P (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 374
Publisher: Futurex.Studio
Release Date: February 13, 2023
Genre: Fiction | Science-Fiction | Thriller

It is 2050. Kat Keeper, grieving the death of her husband, hires a young artificial intelligence savant to recreate her beloved partner in software form.

A rising startup founder brought low by a crushing business failure, Kat is drawn into a love triangle with the artificial mind of her husband and the man who created it. She learns that the software savant, Bradley Power, leads a mysterious tech company planning to capture all human thought without consent. The company will use the stolen, unspoken thoughts of humans to train a machine intelligence to control the weather, all technology and learning, and even human will.

Kat knows she must stop this, but doesn’t know how. She is pursued by a secret circle of women who say they have the answer, and want her to lead them.

With the fate of human thought in the balance, and her safety at risk, Kat must choose to lead the secret circle before it is too late, and humanity is under machine control.

Surrender takes place in a future world that struggles to contain climate disaster using global machine governance, a world run by computers and the humans who are both empowered and controlled by them, and where a small band of resisters fight to keep human thought safe and free.

Meet the Author

Author Lee Schneider

Lee Schneider is the author of screenplays, teleplays, stage plays, short stories, and audio drama podcasts. His thirty-year career in media includes podcast production, documentaries, and series with History Channel, Discovery, Court TV, Food Network, Travel Channel, TLC, Dateline NBC, and Good Morning America.

The founder of Red Cup Agency, a podcast production agency, and an adjunct lecturer on the USC School of Architecture faculty, he is also the author of five non-fiction books. Surrender is his first published novel. He lives in Santa Monica, CA with his family.

Connect with the author via: Goodreads | Instagram | Mastodon | Twitter | Website

Giveaway

This is a giveaway for one (1) digital copy (ePub format) of Surrender by Lee Schneider, courtesy of the author via Author Marketing Experts. This is a worldwide giveaway. To enter use the Rafflecopter link below or click here.

This giveaway begins at 12:01 AM ET on 03/20/2023 and ends at 11:59 PM ET on 03/24/2023. The winner will be announced by 10:00 AM ET on 03/25/2023. Void where prohibited.

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Guest Post: Richard Podkowski – THE WALK-ON

Greetings, my bookish peeps. I’ve previously stated that I thoroughly enjoy reading books set in cities and towns I’m familiar with from past visits. It doesn’t seem to matter that those visits might have been 40 or even 50 years ago, there’s usually enough memory left for a sense of “I know that place” or “I’ve been there.” Today’s guest, Richard Podkowski, author of The Walk-On, revisits Chicago and shares his ties to the Windy City. I hope you’ll enjoy what he has to say and add The Walk-On to your ever-increasing TBR list. Thank you, Mr. Podkowski, for joining us today and sharing your Chicago story. The blog is now all yours.

The Walk-On — a true Chicago story
by Richard Podkowski

In The Walk-On, Mike “the Steelman” Stalowski is a blue-collar kid who grew up in the shadows of the Chicago steel mills, where hard-working immigrants poured molten steel 24/7 while smokestacks belched black smoke until they were shuttered in the mid-70s. The word steel in Polish is “stal” which is the root of the Steelman’s surname. Technically, my interpretation means he’s made of steel.

Chicago, one of the most diverse cities in the world, has many nicknames including Chi-town, City of Big Shoulders, Windy City, Second City, and oddly for most, the Third Coast. Although if you’ve ever been on the lakefront, you understand.

Many people have heard of the South, North, and West Sides. No East Side as you’d be in Lake Michigan. The city has over 200 distinct neighborhoods. You’ll find the Steelman in Hegewisch, Lincoln Park, Little Italy, Wrigleyville, and the Gold Coast. The long-standing North Side / South Side rivalry is real. One of my characters from the South Side mocks a friend from the North Side for not venturing farther south than Roosevelt Road. Technically, the dividing line is Madison Street. Ironically, both live in the western suburbs, which is another rivalry.

The South Side is known for being more blue-collar, and it definitely has some of the city’s most poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Conversely, the white-collar North Side includes the bustling downtown area, with its well-known skyscrapers, lakefront recreation and residential high-rises, mansions, upscale eateries and shopping options, and numerous cultural destinations.

I am proud to have grown up on the South Side. We were certainly blue-collar, poor actually, and I lived in a tiny cottage bungalow. Like Stalowski, my parents were Polish immigrants who came to Chicago seeking a better life. My dad toiled in the South Side stockyards until he became a printer. My mother worked on a Westinghouse Corporation factory assembly line, alongside other Polish and Hispanic women. She didn’t speak good English, and she didn’t speak bad Spanish. They got along just fine.

I didn’t visit downtown until I was in 1st or 2nd grade and never dreamed I would one day attend Loyola University on the North Side lakefront. In all fairness, I confess that after becoming empty-nesters, my wife and I lived in East Lakeview and loved it. We walked everywhere: grocery store, gym, church, Wrigley Field, live theater, restaurants, Lincoln Park, and even to the glitzy Magnificent Mile on North Michigan Avenue. Can’t do that in the towns of area codes 708, 630, or 847.

The baseball rivalry is real too. The Cubs are the North Side heroes. The White Sox are their South Side rivals. Fortunately, the whole city roots for the Bulls, Blackhawks, and Chicago Bears. In The Walk-On, the city cheers for the fictional NFL Chicago Storm. As the book begins, Mike “the Steelman” Stalowski, notorious hometown hero hailing from the South Side, has been a fan favorite for years.

I hope you’ll enjoy Mike’s escapades around Chicago — my beloved hometown.♦

The Walk-On by Richard Podkowski
ISBN: 9798885280334 (Paperback)
ISBN: 9798215806234 (eBook)
ASIN: B0BTF6C5PX (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 315
Release Date: February 23, 2023
Publisher: Acorn Publishing LLC.
Genre: Fiction | Sports Fiction

In the twilight of his NFL career as a middle linebacker for the Chicago Storm, Mike “the Steelman” Stalowski masks his physical pain and mental anguish with alcohol and painkillers. The fan favorite has a rebel image and a notorious reputation, and he plays a violent gridiron game fueled by inner rage.

While estranged from his wife and living in the fishbowl environment of professional sports, he unexpectedly meets the fresh-out-of-college Kim Richardson. She sees through Mike’s star persona to who he really is—a kind guy from the Southeast Side of Chicago who has never forgotten his humble blue-collar roots. The lives of the star-crossed, seemingly mismatched couple collide during a whirlwind romance that culminates in a tragic series of events.

The Walk-On is a timeless tale of love and loss that explores the consequences of personal decisions and the rewards of faith, redemption, and hope.

Meet the Author

Author – Richard Podkowski

Richard Podkowski, a native of Chicago’s South Side, began writing fiction while studying criminal justice at Loyola University Chicago. As a United States Secret Service special agent, Richard protected U.S. presidents and foreign dignitaries and investigated major domestic and international financial crimes until he retired in 2003.

Richard’s projects include a Christmas romantic comedy screenplay and a crime story, both currently in the works. In his free time, Richard enjoys riding his road bike, working out, and making Christmas ornaments. He currently resides with his wife in Los Angeles.

Connect with the author via Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Website

Giveaway

This is a giveaway for one (1) signed print copy of The Walk-On by Richard Podkowski + a small box of Frango Mints, courtesy of Wendy Koenig via Author Marketing Experts. This giveaway is open to residents of the United States and Canada only. All entries by non-US/Canadian residents will be voided. To enter use the Rafflecopter link below or click here.

This giveaway begins at 12:01 AM ET on 03/15/2023 and ends at 11:59 PM ET on 03/21/2023. The winner will be announced by 10:00 AM ET on 03/22/2023. Void where prohibited.

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Book Showcase: ON THE SLY by Wendy L. Koenig

On the Sly by Wendy L. Koenig
ISBN: 9798370385704 (Paperback)
ASIN: B09RWQXBQ7 (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 295
Release Date: February 20, 2023
Genre: Fiction | Amateur Sleuths | Mystery

Sylvia Wilson, a bar owner in St. Louis, Missouri, arrives at work to discover the body of an ex-police officer in her locked bar. The police focus on her as their primary suspect, so she decides to launch her own investigation into the dead man and his accomplices. But when the killer sends her clear messages that she and her loved ones are on his radar, she knows it’s just a matter of time before someone ends up dead.Purchase Links #CommissionEarned: Amazon | Amazon Kindle

Read an Excerpt:

I moved to the front again, checking shadows before dodging into them. Reaching the door, I leaned into it, listening. Silent as a ball of cotton. The key slid smoothly into the lock and turned. I eased open the door. Watched and listened for any movement or noise. Nothing. I slipped my arm in and turned on my lights. The alarm was already off.

Mayhem erupted from my backyard as my dogs snarled and threw themselves at the sliding glass door with angsted fervor. I hadn’t let them out there. Maybe Aaron had stopped by. But the dogs were clearly upset, and they wouldn’t be if it had been my brother who’d visited.

Even if there was a noise, I wouldn’t hear it over the violent ruckus. I sidled into the room. Nothing but my blue furniture and beige carpet. Through the glass door, I saw Ruffles was foaming and standing stock still. When he moved, it was with the stiff-legged, high-toed, movements of a mechanical being. His upper lip was curled completely over his nose and the resulting sound came through the glass like an outboard motor. I’d never seen him so livid, and I honestly wondered how he could breathe like that.

Satan was throwing herself at the door again and again, as if she were a small missile that would weaken and eventually punch through the glass. I could picture the trauma her body experienced every time she made contact. If I didn’t do something fast, she would be covered in bruises, maybe even broken bones.

Something had upset them so much that even my presence didn’t calm them. Moving quickly through my home, I cleared all the rooms; no one was hidden anywhere. Then, I put the safety back on the gun, set it down, and went to focus on my poor dogs. I pulled out the rod I kept in the track. That’s when I noticed the dark brown handprint on the sliding door.

Unless I missed my guess, that was dried blood.

I pulled my cellphone and dialed Eccheli. It took him a long time to answer, and he didn’t sound too happy, but his sleep-cracked voice got animated the moment I explained what had happened.

He said, “Don’t touch anything. We’ll be right there.”

“My dogs might be injured. I need to go out there and check them.” Satan had calmed a little, but she still paced the window in agitation. Ruffles was standing stock still, growling.

He hesitated. “Do you have kitchen gloves?”

“I have painter’s gloves.” Actually, I didn’t. But I did have some of the gloves the police left behind at the bar. Close enough.

“Perfect. Go out to them, don’t let them in. We’ll get there right away.” He disconnected.

I probably was working my way back up Johnson’s ‘person of interest’ list with this middle of the night phone call. Nothing to be done about it.

When he’d said they’d get there right away, he wasn’t kidding. I’d managed to find my gloves, put them on, and had only been outside a few minutes. I was sitting in the soaked grass, trying to calm a frantic Satan so I could inspect her for injuries when my cellphone vibrated against my thigh.

Eccheli asked, “We good to come in?”

“Yeah, we’re out back.”

The minute the front door opened, Satan became all claws and teeth and twisted out of my arms. She threw herself at the glass door, ballistic missile at work again. As for Ruffles, I was used to his snarls, but the intensity of the one he gave at that moment scared me.

I watched Eccheli and Johnson as they entered my house. Saw how he noticed my Colt Python on the counter, pointed it out to Johnson, and how she nodded and pocketed it. I certainly hoped she was going to give that back; it had cost me a pretty penny.

As the two detectives cleared the house, again, flashing lights of an arriving squad car ricocheted off the back fence of the yard. I would probably be as popular in my neighborhood as a scorpion. At least there was no siren.

Mr. and Mrs. Detective returned to the front room. Eccheli leaned close to the glass, studying the handprint. Johnson stared out the glass at me and pointed at the door handle. When I shook my head, she pulled out her phone and called me. “How are the dogs?”

I shouted over the violence of growls and barks. “Ruffles has no injuries, but I can’t get Satan to hold still to check her!”

“Want me to call animal control to tranq her?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to do that to my dogs, but I didn’t foresee Satan letting me check her any time soon and that bloody handprint scared me. I nodded to the woman staring out at me, feeling somehow like a traitor.

Excerpt from On the Sly by Wendy L. Koenig.
Copyright © 2023 by Wendy L. Koenig.
Published with permission. All rights reserved.

Meet the Author

Author Wendy L. Koenig

Wendy Koenig is a published author living in New Brunswick, Canada. Her first piece to be printed was a short children’s fiction, Jet’s Stormy Adventure, serialized in The Illinois Horse Network. She attended the University of Iowa, honing her craft in their famed summer workshops and writing programs. Since that time, she has published and co-authored numerous books and has won several international awards.

Connect with the author via: Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Twitter | Website

Giveaway:

This is a giveaway for one (1) signed print copy of On the Sly by Wendy Koenig & a pair of sunglasses, courtesy of Wendy Koenig via Author Marketing Experts. This giveaway is open to residents of the United States and Canada only. All entries by non-US/Canadian residents will be voided. To enter use the Rafflecopter link below or click here.

This giveaway begins at 12:01 AM ET on 03/08/2023 and ends at 11:59 PM ET on 03/14/2023. The winner will be announced by 10:00 AM ET on 03/15/2023. Void where prohibited.

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Book Showcase: ASSUMED by MHR Geer

Assumed by MHR Geer
ISBN: 9798987115923 (Paperback)
ASIN: B0BLXK18LR (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 296
Release Date: December 2, 2022
Publisher: MG3 Publishing
Genre: Fiction | Thriller

When her friend Sandy asks for help, Anne Wilson leaves her small, lonely life in Miami for the picturesque island of Saint Martin. But as soon as she arrives, Sandy is murdered, and her death exposes lies: an alias, a secret past, stolen money. Suspected of murder and trapped on the island, Anne is shocked when a cryptic message arrives:

Find the money. Take it and run.

She follows Sandy’s trail of obscure clues, desperate for proof of her innocence and must decide if she can trust the two men who offer help-the dark, mysterious Brit or the American with a wide grin and a pickup truck. When memories resurface-dark truths she’d rather leave buried and forgotten, her past becomes intertwined with her present.

Her only way forward is to face her own secrets.

Read an Excerpt:

A constant stream of jubilant holiday-goers jostled my suitcase as I paced the arrivals gate, but Sandy’s mobile went to voicemail a fourth time. I hung up without leaving another message and strolled past the baggage carousel. Again.

“Where are you, Sandy?” I muttered under my breath.

A man in a white Panama hat vacated a bench, and I collapsed onto the cold metal and hugged the handle of my suitcase. The other passengers exchanged greetings and gathered their baggage, and the automatic door slid open with a swoosh to receive them. Every time the door opened, humid air blasted my face.

The man in the white hat reappeared but saw me and turned away, presumably to find a bench without a slouching, scowling American. I raised my shoulders from a slump and crossed my legs.

“What now, Anne?” I asked myself, tapping the screen of my phone and resisting the urge to check the time.

A young boy, about five years old, wandered over and climbed onto the bench next to me. We exchanged nervous smiles. Couples and families regrouped near the door, and I watched their faces, expecting someone to claim the boy, but the door opened and closed, over and over, and he remained.

I was just about to ask where the boy’s parents were when a tall woman entered and rushed toward us, shouting in French. Her profile was dark against the bright sunlight outside, and her long hair swirled in the vortex of the doorway. The boy pressed against me, and I almost wrapped my arm around him, but the door closed, and she smoothed her hair back into place.

She pulled the boy from the bench, gripping his arms with long, slender fingers. I couldn’t understand her words, but her reprimand was clear. Her green eyes flashed with fear and anger. She blamed me for his disappearance. I shrugged, trying to remember how to apologize in French. Je suis desole? But I was unsure of the words, so I didn’t say anything, and she didn’t wait for my explanation.

He left with her, his little hand firmly inside hers, and when the door opened and whipped her hair back into the air, the boy turned back to me with a smile. I waved.

And then I was alone again.

I jumped when my phone buzzed.

Sorry, Sandy texted. Can’t make it. Take a taxi to 16 Rue de l’Aile Perdue.

I stared at the text and considered purchasing a ticket for a return flight, but my phone buzzed again with a second text.

Please, Anne.

I squared my shoulders and pulled on my sunglasses. Then I walked through the whoosh of the doorway and into the sunlight.

The taxi line had already thinned; it took only a few minutes before a lively man ushered me into the back of a bright green sedan. The driver offered a brusque “Welcome to Saint Martin,” and turned up her radio. Taxi code for no talking. Fine with me.

We sped through narrow streets, dangerously close to sunburned tourists wandering street markets. Stalls spilled out from under a rainbow of awnings, hawking loud shirts and oversized beach towels. The air was thick with cardamom and curry, mixed with the yeasty smell of a patisserie. My stomach rumbled. In my rush to make the early morning flight, I’d skipped breakfast.

We left town and traveled up and down winding roads that cut into the hillsides. The villas grew larger and farther apart and then disappeared into thick foliage behind security gates. I caught occasional glimpses of dirt lanes and even fewer paved driveways. When the driver pulled off the road, I leaned out the window to watch the tops of towering palm trees lining a long gravel driveway. We stopped on a cobbled motor court in front of a massive house.

I stared up at the imposing facade from within the safety of the taxi before I bravely stepped into the blazing sun. I thought there must be some mistake, but before I could say anything, the taxi drove away. Why had Sandy sent me to a dismal mansion and not to one of the dazzling resorts I’d passed?

Beyond the house, the sea stretched to the horizon. Sunlight reflected off the water, awakening childhood fantasies of pirate ships and mermaid tails. But the hot sun quickly melted the daydream, and I retreated into the shadow of the mansion.

Up close, the house was shabby and weather-beaten. Peeling gray paint revealed a history of more colorful choices. The porch railing leaned at a precarious angle, and as I cautiously climbed the rotting steps, the wood complained but held, and I reached the front door and knocked. The sound echoed within the house, but only silence followed. I knocked again, louder, and waited. Nothing.

“Now what?” I asked the house.

The house ignored me, but a piece of paper stuck between two floorboards fluttered in the ocean breeze. I stepped over and picked it up. She’d left a note—an inconsiderate welcome, even for Sandy. I exhaled loudly and unfolded the scrap of paper.

Meet the Author

Author – MHR Geer

MHR Geer was born in California but grew up in the Midwest. She attended the University of California, Santa Barbara to study Physics. After school, she moved to Ventura, CA, and started a small bookkeeping business. She lives with her two sons and her unicorn husband (because he’s a magical creature).

Connect with the author via: Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Website

Giveaway

This is a giveaway for one (1) signed ARC copy of Assumed, one (1) branded tote, one (1) branded koozie, one (1) bookmark, AND a $20 bookstore gift card to a winner in the US or Canada courtesy of MHR Geer. This giveaway is limited to residents of the United States and Canada only. All entries by non-US/Canadian residents will be voided. To enter use the Rafflecopter link below or click here.

This giveaway begins at 12:01 AM ET on 01/16/2023 and ends at 11:59 PM ET on 01/22/2023. The winner will be announced by 10:00 AM ET on 01/23/2023. Void where prohibited.

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Book Showcase: MISFIRE by Tammy Euliano

Misfire, Book 2 in the Kate Downey Medical Mystery Series, by Tammy Euliano
ISBN: 9781608095223 (hardcover)
ISBN: 9781608095230 (ebook)
ASIN: B09X5ZPQCL (Kindle edition)
Page Count: 368
Release Date: January 23, 2023
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Genre: Fiction | Medical Mystery | Thriller

MISFIRE by Tammy Euliano cover featuring a bluish-gray x-ray of a human chest with a defibrillator highlighted

A device that can save a life is also one that can end it

Kadence, a new type of implanted defibrillator, misfires in a patient visiting University Hospital for a routine medical procedure—causing the heart rhythm problem it’s meant to correct. Dr. Kate Downey, an experienced anesthesiologist, resuscitates the patient, but she grows concerned for a loved one who recently received the same device—her beloved Great-Aunt Irm.

When a second device misfires, Kate turns to Nikki Yarborough, her friend and Aunt Irm’s cardiologist. Though Nikki helps protect Kate’s aunt, she is prevented from alerting other patients by the corporate greed of her department chairman. As the inventor of the device and part owner of MDI, the company he formed to commercialize it, he claims that the device misfires are due to a soon-to-be-corrected software bug. Kate learns his claim is false.

The misfires continue as Christian O’Donnell, a friend and lawyer, comes to town to facilitate the sale of MDI. Kate and Nikki are drawn into a race to find the source of the malfunctions, but threats to Nikki and a mysterious murder complicate their progress. Are the seemingly random shocks misfires, or are they attacks?

A jaw-dropping twist causes her to rethink everything she once thought she knew, but Kate will stop at nothing to protect her aunt and the other patients whose life-saving devices could turn on them at any moment.

Perfect for fans of Robin Cook and Tess Gerritsen

While the novels in the Kate Downey Medical Mystery Series stand on their own and can be read in any order, the publication sequence is:

Fatal Intent
Misfire

Praise for Misfire:

“From surgery to suspense, Tammy Euliano knows the worlds she writes of. Misfire is a first-rate medical thriller—the kind that leaves you thinking that was too close!” —Michael Connelly, New York Times best-selling author

“A medical thriller meets domestic suspense meets serial killer terror all rolled into one page-turning extravaganza. You will read Misfire for the plot, but absolutely stay for the characters. I miss them already.” —Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times best-selling author

“Medical suspense as sharp as it gets. Euliano is off to a good, no, a brilliant start.” —Kathy Reichs, New York Times best-selling author

Read an Excerpt:

“You aren’t gonna let me die this time, are ya, Doc?”

Oh boy.

So started my Wednesday, with about the worst line any anesthesiologist can hear from a patient in preoperative holding.

“This time?” the nurse said.

“Last time my heart decided to dance a little jig instead of pumpin’ my blood.”

Sitting close beside Mr. Abrams, his wife squeezed her eyes closed. “Abe, tell Dr. Downey the whole story.”

“I read about it in your chart last night,” I said. “Last time they tried to fix your hernia, your heart needed a jump start.” To the nurse I added, “V fib,” a chaotic heart rhythm that usually requires electrical shock to convert back to a normal rhythm. “It happened when they were putting you to sleep and they canceled the case.” Instead of a hernia operation, Mr. Abrams ended up with a very different procedure that day—placement of an automated internal cardioverter defibrillator, or AICD. A device implanted in his chest to detect and treat the problem should it recur.

“Your AICD hasn’t fired, right?” The device had been checked by cardiology the day before.

“Right. Rosie watches it like a hawk huntin’ a rodent.” He nodded to his wife, who slipped her phone under the book in her lap.

“I completely understand,” I said to her, nodding at the hidden phone. “My aunt has the same AICD, and I can’t stop checking the app either.” Maybe a downside of the novel AICD, the Kadence communicated through the patient’s phone to the cloud, where I could view status reports on my beloved Aunt Irm’s heart. “I don’t expect any problems this time, but we’re ready if your heart decides on another jig.”

“Dr. Downey, I need to ask a favor.” Mrs. Abrams didn’t look at me, or at anyone. She gripped her paperback as if it would fly open.

“Call me Kate.”

“Come on, Rosie, let the doc do her job,” Mr. Abrams said.

She ignored him. “Dr. Yarborough is his cardiologist. She said if he could keep his phone during the operation, she would be able to watch his AICD.”

I generally like to honor requests. This one required a caveat. “I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll keep the phone close for Dr. Yarborough as long as you promise not to watch the app.”

Her sparse gray eyebrows drew together.

“During surgery, there’s electrical noise that can confuse the AICD. I don’t know what it might report and I don’t want you frightened.” Sometimes we turn off AICDs during surgery, but this operation was far enough away from the device implanted near his left shoulder that the noise shouldn’t cause a problem. What she might see on the app, though, I couldn’t predict.

She nodded uncertainly.

Eric, the anesthesia resident assigned to work with me on the case, arrived with a small syringe of a sedative. “What do you think about some happy juice?”

“I think my wife needs it more than me,” Mr. Abrams said.

Her lipstick appeared to redden as her face paled.

“Unfortunately, it goes in the IV,” Eric said with a kind smile for her. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“You’ll watch his blood sugar,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Eric unlocked the bed.

“And be careful with his AICD.”

“We will.” He unhooked the IV bag from the ceiling-mounted pole and attached it to one on the stretcher.

Tears dampened her eyes as Mrs. Abrams stood and leaned down to kiss her husband’s cheek.

“I’m gonna be fine, Rosie. Don’t you worry. I’ll be huntin’ by the weekend, and we can try out that new squirrel recipe before our anniversary.”

“We are not serving squirrel stew for our fiftieth anniversary,” she said.

Eric and I exchanged a smile.

“Oh now, you wait and see.” Mr. Abrams patted his wife’s hand.

“What’s squirrel taste like?” Eric pushed the bed from the wall.

“Tastes like chicken.” Mr. Abrams laughed loudly. “No, just kiddin’ with ya . . .” As they turned the corner, the voices faded. I stayed behind to reassure Mrs. Abrams.

“I can’t lose him.” Eyes squeezed shut, a sob escaped.

I wrapped an arm around her ample shoulders and waited. I knew that feeling; had lived that feeling; had lost.

“I’m sorry.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“No need to apologize. Last time scared you. Tell you what, once he’s asleep, I’ll give you a call and let you know it went fine.”

That calmed her. We walked together to the main doors, where I directed her to the waiting room. I turned the opposite direction to not let her husband of fifty years die during a hernia operation. No pressure there.

In the OR, we helped Mr. Abrams move to the operating table. After applying monitors and going through our safety checks, Eric held the clear plastic mask over his face and said, “Pick out a good dream.”

“Oh, I got one.” He winked at me. “I’ll try to behave this time, Doc.”

“I’d appreciate that.” I maintained eye contact and held his hand as I injected the drugs to put him off to sleep. Despite having induced anesthesia thousands of times, I always experience a tense few moments between the time the patient stops breathing and when the breathing tube is confirmed in the windpipe. During those couple of minutes, if we couldn’t breathe for him, there’s a real, if remote, chance the patient could die. Not a failure to save, but, in essence, a kill. Anesthesia is unique in that. We take people who are breathing fine, mess it up, then fix it, so the surgeon can correct the real problem.

When Mr. Abrams’ induction proceeded without incident, I felt an extra sense of relief and was happy to share that with his wife. The operation, too, went well, and an hour later, he awoke from anesthesia, gave a sleepy smile, and said, “How’d it go, Doc?”

“Fine. No more hernia. Are you in any pain?”

He shook his head. “Nope, you done good.”

As Eric gave his transfer-of-care report to the recovery nurse, I helped re-connect the monitors. Mr. Abrams looked great. Whether he’d be hunting squirrel in a few days, I couldn’t say. I headed toward the pre-op area to see our next patient.

“Dr. Downey!”

I spun back to see Mr. Abrams’ head loll to the side, his eyes closed, his hands on his chest. In two steps I was back at his side. “Mr. Abrams?” I placed two fingers to his neck where his pulse should be while the ECG monitor above showed ventricular fibrillation—a randomly bumpy line—and his pulse oximeter, the sticker on his finger that recorded pulse and oxygen, became a flat line. Cardiac arrest.

What the hell?

I forced the image of his wife saying, “I can’t lose him,” from my mind as I lowered the head of the bed and started chest compressions. “Eric, manage the airway.”

He placed a mask over Mr. Abrams’ nose and mouth and started squeezing the breathing bag. “Why isn’t his AICD firing?”

Good question.

The overhead monitor flashed and shrieked an alarm.

The fire-engine red crash cart arrived and a nurse snapped off its plastic lock. As she tore open the foil pack of defibrillation pads from the top of the crash cart, the charge nurse assembled medications. A smoothly running team, each member with his or her own tasks.

The overhead alert began, “Anesthesia and Charge Nurse stat to the PACU.” I tuned it out as a crowd in scrubs assembled around us. The anesthesiologist in charge of the recovery room said, “How can I help?”

“Call Nikki Yarborough in cardiology.” As I continued chest compressions, the nurse reached around my arms to place the large defibrillator pads on Mr. Abrams’ chest. I noticed the small scar where his AICD was implanted and silently ordered the damn thing to fire. The charging defibrillator whined with an increasing and eventually teeth-itching pitch.

Seconds before I yelled, “Clear!” the ECG monitor traced a “square wave”—three sides of a bottomless square, up-across-down. I held my breath, though it was only seconds. Normal sinus rhythm followed. His AICD had finally fired, kick-starting his heart back to normal electrical activity.

I stopped chest compressions and placed my fingers on his neck. Strong pulse. “Mr. Abrams?” I grasped his hand and leaned forward. His head turned toward me. “How do you feel?”

He rubbed his sternum with his other hand. “Chest hurts.”

“Like a heart attack, or like someone pounded on it?”

“Pounded.” He opened one eye.

“Sorry about that.”

“No. Thank you.” The corners of his mouth turned up weakly. “You did good.”

“I’ll have cardiology come check out your AICD and figure out why it took so long to fire.”

He nodded. “Can you tell my wife I’m okay?” It struck me his first thought was for his wife, and that I’d told her everything would be fine. Crap. It also struck me she might have peeked at his app.

The recovery room attending waited for me as I stepped away. “Dr. Yarborough’s in a procedure but will come by as soon as she’s done.”

I thanked him and hurried to the waiting room to check on Mrs. Abrams.

She must have followed directions, because I found her in the back corner of the crowded space, the book unopened in her lap. At my approach, she looked up.

“He’s fine.” Always the best lead, but she didn’t smile. I sat beside her and lowered my voice in an attempt at privacy. “After the surgery, he had a rhythm problem like before.”

She gasped and I placed a hand on her arm.

“We did CPR until his Kadence fired and everything is fine now. He’s awake and he asked me to tell you that.”

Tears filled her eyes.

Though I wasn’t supposed to invite her to the recovery room until the nurse was ready, Mrs. Abrams needed to see for herself. I knew what that felt like. “Would you like to see him?”

She nodded and walked with me in silence.

The very understanding nurse lowered one of the stretcher’s side rails, and Mr. Abrams extended an arm to embrace his wife. “Now, Rosie, I told you I’d be fine.” He looked past her shoulder and winked at me, but his eyes shone as well. Such a beautiful couple. I returned to work before we were all bleary eyed.

Meet the Author

Tammy Euliano author photo showing a smiling white female with brown, shoulder-length hair, wearing a blue-print top and a necklace with a blue stone

Tammy Euliano writes medical thrillers. She’s inspired by her day job as a physician, researcher, and medical educator. She is a tenured professor at the University of Florida, where she’s been honored with numerous teaching awards, nearly 100,000 views of her YouTube teaching videos, and was featured in a calendar of women inventors (copies available wherever you buy your out-of-date calendars).

When she’s not writing or at the hospital, she enjoys traveling with her family, playing sports, cheering on the Gators, and entertaining her two wonderful dogs.

Connect with the author via: Facebook | Goodreads | Instagram | Twitter | Website

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This giveaway begins at 12:01 AM ET on 01/10/2023 and ends at 11:59 PM ET on 01/16/2023. The winner will be announced by 10:00 AM ET on 01/17/2023. Void where prohibited.

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Book Showcase: LITTLE DIRT ROAD and JUICED by Ted Mulcahey

Join the O’Malleys, along with their ever-vigilant German Shepherd, Emma, on Whidbey Island as they take on criminals, embezzlers, drug lords, and murderers, putting themselves right in the center of all the danger. With the help of their friend, Bellevue Detective Bill Owens, will they come out on top?

Little Dirt Road: Bad Men on Whidbey Island, The O’Malley Adventures – Book 3, by Ted Mulcahey
ISBN: 9781735493244 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781735493251 (eBook)
ASIN: B09QFLG6PR (Kindle edition)
Release Date: January 12, 2022
Genre: Fiction | Mystery | Cozy Mystery

The O’Malleys are doing what? How is it possible that dangerous complications arise from their simple vacation in wine country? With their recent move to South Whidbey Island, only the O’Malley’s would stumble upon drug smugglers, embezzlers, and murderers amongst the locals. The quirky, pastoral island, reachable by a less than speedy ferry from Mukilteo or the narrow, deteriorating Deception Pass bridge, is no match for the wicked men about to visit.

A notorious drug lord and a nondescript enforcer with freakish hell-raising skills invade the peaceful Pacific Northwest island—where not even the friendly locales and free-roaming long-eared rabbits can soften his homicidal heart.

Weeding through the facts and surprisingly connected characters with their trusted friend, Bellevue Detective Bill Owens, the narrative swirls from Mexico to Canada and throughout Puget Sound. It’s a heart-racing and outrageously offbeat adventure for two innocent people, proving once again that trouble will find the O’Malleys without the slightest amount of effort on their part.

Juiced: Bad Men on Whidbey Island, The O’Malley Adventures – Book 4, by Ted Mulcahey
ISBN: 9781735493268 (paperback)
ASIN: B09VJPNDCF (Kindle edition)
Release Date: March 13, 2022
Genre: Fiction | Mystery | Cozy Mystery

Juiced is a fun, thrilling adventure involving secret, breakthrough research

An invention that can save the planet?

Somehow, someway the O’Malleys have found themselves in the thick of things once again. On peaceful, bucolic Whidbey Island, they become entangled in a corporate plot to stifle a paradigm-shattering discovery, one that promises to upend conventional thinking, topple markets, and create an entirely new industry.

Kevin and Jenne, along with scientists from the Pacific Northwest National Laboratory, find themselves pitted against a band of bumbling criminals who will stop at nothing to get what they want—including arson and murder.

It’s another rollicking adventure for the retired interior designers ably assisted by their favorite detective, the FBI, and Emma, their ever-vigilant German Shepherd Dog.

Read an excerpt:

ALERT: Mild Profanity

It was one of those dark, rainy afternoons in the Pacific Northwest. Four-thirty, and already the headlights were bouncing off the slick, shiny freeway.

I was on my way back to Whidbey Island. Playing golf in Seattle in late November was not for the faint of heart. Bundled up with rain gear, umbrella stuck on the push golf cart, wet khakis tucked into even wetter socks, we had slogged through eighteen holes of betting and swearing.

Usually, the Wednesday round was followed by more swearing, drinking wine, and playing gin rummy, but today was different. Today was Jenne’s birthday. It was the big one, double nickels. Well, sort of a big one.

Of course, she told me to stay, have fun and enjoy myself – no big deal. When you’ve been married more than once, you absolutely know for sure that birthdays are a big deal. Unless, that is, you don’t care if your sexual activities are curtailed for, say, a month or two.

Well, not this husband. No sir. I managed to make the 5:30 ferry. And also had the foresight to stop at Walgreens and select a lovely greeting card. From Hallmark. I figured the card with a heartfelt message, along with the bouquet purchased at the Star Store when I drove through Langley, would put me in Jenne’s good graces.

It should have been a wonderful evening.

But it wasn’t.

I made the right onto Little Dirt Road. About five hundred yards up the hill, on the unpaved surface, I turned on the crushed gravel driveway leading to our tidy, shingled home. We live on a bluff that normally overlooks Saratoga Passage. Tonight it was dark and rainy.

And there were no lights on in the house or on the grounds.

This seemed odd. I negotiated the six steps to the porch in the dark. Emma was inside, barking as only a German shepherd can, when anything, and I mean anything, is perceived as a threat.

“Easy girl, easy. It’s me.” She quieted only slightly until I opened the door—it was unlocked—and she calmed down. I flicked the lights on, rubbed behind her ears, and stupidly called out Jenne’s name. She’s not here, you dope. She wouldn’t be sitting in the dark. I walked to the kitchen counter. There was a note in her writing. “Went for a walk in case you get home early. Back around 4:30.” It was followed by a little heart and a smiley face.

What the fuck? It was 6:45. Still not accepting reality, I dialed her cell. The sounds of “The Irish Washerwoman,” her ringtone, came from the little nook with the fireplace, just off the kitchen.

This was strange. Even though she always thought she had forgotten her phone, she seldom did.

I stood there, searching my mind but coming up with nothing. Her car was in the courtyard, her phone in the house. Where the fuck is she?

We didn’t know that many people on the island. We knew our neighbors and a few others, but few were close friends. The only people Jenne was close to lived off-island. And they did not come up in this crappy weather.

One thing was certain, if she left around 3:30, she sure as hell wasn’t still on her walk.

I walked across the dark, grassy area separating us from our neighbors, Tim and Raye. I knocked on the door, perhaps a little too forcefully.

“Kevin. Hi, good to see you.” Tim was a gentle soul and a terrific neighbor, always there if you needed him, and highly considerate in every way.

“Hi, Tim. Have you seen Jenne? When I got home, the house was dark. She left a note saying she’d be back at 4:30. Do you know where she could be?”

“Geez, Kev, no, I don’t. I did see her a little before five. She was headed down the street. I thought it a bit odd because it was getting dark, but that was about it.”

“She was headed south?”

“Yes.”

“She always goes the other way on her walks and finishes by coming up the hill. She says it feels good to stretch out at the end of it.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m sure she was headed down. Is there anything I can do?”

“Thanks. Not yet. Let me think about it first.”

Tim’s face showed genuine concern. “You know we’re here if you need anything.”

“I do, Tim. Thanks.”

I went back home and stood in the kitchen. “Emma, what do you think? Where the hell is your mom?”

The ninety-pound black and tan animal looked directly at me and twisted her head to the left. “Ah, I wish you could talk, kiddo.”

If Tim saw Jenne go back down the hill, maybe she was going to one of the homes on Saratoga Road. For some reason. To someone’s house, she didn’t know. Sure.

“Emma. Let’s go. Get in the truck.” Before I went entirely off the deep end, I figured a drive around the area might be productive. Maybe Emma could be of some help. Maybe.

We drove slowly down the hill, past Tim and Raye’s house and past the Robinsons, who lived on the opposite corner. Most of the properties were well over an acre. As a result, there weren’t many homes nearby.

After turning right on Saratoga, where there was no traffic, thankfully, we crept as slowly as possible. I rolled down the rear windows in case Emma caught a scent.

We passed three homes. Emma acted as though this was a simple trip to the store. Maybe even treats if she behaved.

On the left was a huge vacant field where sheep occasionally grazed. Beyond that was a long, straight two-track that served as a driveway for a home hidden by tall firs and cedars.

During our walks, we’d always speculate as to who lived there. Occasionally we would see an island car chug and sputter down the drive. Island cars are beaters that nobody would ever take on the ferry. They frequently break down, and hell hath no fury greater than ferry patrons missing the boat because some yahoo couldn’t start their fucking car.

Meet the Author

Ted Mulcahey author photo

Ted Mulcahey has lived throughout the US, for the past 35 years in the Pacific Northwest. He’s an Army vet, sales and marketing VP, entrepreneur, business owner, avid reader, one of nine children, a former caddie, and lover of dogs and golf. The last twenty-five years were spent in partnership with his wife Patte, the owners of a highly respected and published hospitality interior design firm in the Seattle Area. They’re now living on Whidbey Island and enjoying its rural bliss.

Ted writes about things he’s seen and places he’s been. He tries to incorporate the personality traits of people he’s known into his fictional characters, although none of them exist in reality. Many of the locations are real but the names have been changed.

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November 2000

Rare Manuscripts

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The Eddie Barrow Series:Book 1: Chill RunBook 2: Jam Run

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The Walk-On — a true Chicago storyby Richard Podkowski

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The Eddie Barrow Series:
Book 1: Chill Run
Book 2: Jam Run

The Walk-On — a true Chicago story
by Richard Podkowski