tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31543875794500455552024-03-27T12:13:16.349-04:00Wall-to-Wall BooksWall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.comBlogger1986125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-25215542260991465852024-03-27T07:27:00.002-04:002024-03-27T07:27:15.727-04:00Wet, Warm and Noisy by David A. Willson - with a GIVEAWAY!<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">March 4-29, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></b></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div><h4>A supernatural crime thriller set in Alaska, the Last Frontier...</h4>
<p>Surrounded by the unforgiving climate of the frozen north, Jake Ward, a tenacious Alaska State Trooper Investigator and cancer survivor, is on a relentless quest to regain his health and return to full-duty status.</p>
<p>But Ward's world takes a bone-chilling turn during a routine polygraph examination when a woman escapes custody, leaving an officer critically injured. What started as an ordinary investigation transforms into a complex web of intrigue, where medical experimentation and consciousness collide.</p>
<p>In "<i>Wet, Warm, and Noisy</i>," Willson masterfully blurs the boundaries between law enforcement and the supernatural, leading readers on a heart-pounding journey through a realm where the tangible and the mysterious intersect. With time slipping away, can Ward decipher the enigmas that defy reason, or will forces that transcend human experience overwhelm him?</p>
<p>Author David A. Willson, with over two decades of experience as an Alaska State Trooper, brings a rare authenticity to crime fiction that will both enlighten and captivate you. Prepare yourself for an electrifying thriller that challenges the very foundations of our reality.</p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Series: A Jake Ward Novel, 1<br />
Book Links: <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/1Fj00" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/RByfy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></span></b> </p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h6>Palmer, Alaska - Today</h6>
<p>Cool springtime winds kicked up across the shooting range just outside the Palmer city limits. Behind the long mound of dirty ice and gravel that served as a backstop, the majestic Chugach mountains, half-covered in snow, stood proudly in the distance as two men faced a target stand. The target was cardboard, the outline of a human torso stapled to two upright posts. The men were real, however. One was an Alaska State Trooper firearms instructor serving as range master. The other was Trooper Investigator Jacob Ward.</p>
<p>The shot timer sounded and Ward’s right hand went to his hip. In a fluid motion, his thumb defeated the retention mechanism and his fingers clasped the handgrip to free the .40 caliber Glock pistol from his belt, then pointed it toward the target. At least he hadn’t gotten hung up on the holster this time.</p>
<p>Grip. Clear. Rock-and-lock. </p>
<p>Almost a second had already passed when his left hand moved from its place on his solar plexus to the pistol, completing his grip on the gun. The smack step.</p>
<p>He pushed it forward to the target, closing one eye as he focused on the front sight. The look step.</p>
<p>He imagined his index finger pulling the slack off the trigger as he prepared to deliver two shots, center mass, but couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t feel it. Not even a bit.</p>
<p>Pop. Pop.</p>
<p>Two shots. One had gone early, and hit wide of the target because his presentation was terrible. It’d been too long since he’d been to the range and the results were showing. Then, of course, there was the other issue.</p>
<p>He aimed the gun higher, focusing on the head of the paper target. </p>
<p>Focus.</p>
<p>His finger started to pull back again when the shot timer beeped again.</p>
<p>Pop.</p>
<p>Too late.</p>
<p>“Overtime,” the range master said, as if Jake didn’t know. It was his third penalty in as many rounds. “First shot went off early, which wouldn’t be a problem if you had a better presentation, but it’s wide. And slow.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Fingers still numb?”</p>
<p>“Nah,” Ward lied, then turned back and forth, doing his safety scans before inserting a full magazine and replacing the pistol into the holster at his hip. Frustrated and nervous, he needlessly adjusted his hearing protection. A breeze swept across the range, startling him as it brought a chill to his shaved head. Maybe he should have worn something warmer than his State Trooper ball cap, but the blue BDUs and cap were as close to a uniform as he could get until he got approval for full duty. He wanted to feel like a Trooper today. In a bad way.</p>
<p>“Are you pushing this too soon? The Captain is happy to keep you on light duty for a while yet.”</p>
<p>“If I don’t get out here and just do it, I’ll never qualify. Neuropathy or not.”</p>
<p>“True. But with three overtimes already, I’m not sure you’re gonna make any progress with a qual course today.” The burly range master took a step closer, a concerned look on his face. Ward had rarely seen the man show any feeling - he was all business. “Everyone knows you shoot well, but you’ve had a rough go lately. You’ll get there, but not all at once. Let’s ditch the course and do some slow presentations. Dry practice, maybe. Fundamentals.”</p>
<p>But Ward didn’t move, instead squaring up to the target. It wasn’t just the neuropathy and numb fingers. He had weak toes and shaky hands. And shaky confidence. But he wouldn’t get his mojo back by sitting at a desk. And pity didn't help one bit.</p>
<p>“Suit yourself,” the range master said, then let out a huff and took a step back. He paused a moment, then raised his voice back to range levels. “Again, fail to stop drill at seven yards. Five seconds from the holster.”</p>
<p>Ward focused, his eyes drilling a hole in the target where he wanted the shots to hit.</p>
<p>“Shooter ready!”</p>
<p>The timer sounded.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>The drive to work along the Glenn Highway was uneventful, other than a speeder that insisted on doing eighty-five, tailgating everyone who dared occupy their lane. If he’d been driving his assigned vehicle, Ward would have activated his emergency lights and pulled the punk over for a friendly conversation. But light duty status means no Trooper rig unless you have special permission, not even an unmarked one. And no gun, at least until he could qualify.</p>
<p>The occasional wind gust caused Ward’s blue Chevy pickup to sway within the lanes, distracting him from the sound of the political commentary streaming through the truck’s speakers. The talk radio host paused for a news report announcing a shooting at a gas station in Anchorage last night, municipal budget cuts, and something about a missing college kid. There would always be crime, and therefore, plenty of job security.</p>
<p>The traffic got thicker as Ward traveled through Eagle River, Anchorage’s closest suburb, then even worse as he exited off the highway onto Muldoon Road. Muldoon became Tudor Road, and he turned into the parking lot of the Alaska Bureau of Investigation.</p>
<p>He parked the truck and came through the side entrance, stopping at the break room to see if the coffee was rolling yet, hoping that a fellow caffeine addict had beaten him to work today. The empty pot announced no such luck. A few minutes later, he welcomed a steady stream of black goodness into the pot and he was on his way down the hall to the office.</p>
<p>The Alaska Bureau of Investigation’s Technical Crimes Unit was a modest space in a boring, rectangular building in east Anchorage. What happened between those walls, however, was anything but boring. One sergeant, two civilian techs and three investigators were involved in some of the biggest criminal investigations in Alaska. Even when they didn’t have primary case responsibility, they provided critical support to other officers. It was the variety that had attracted Ward to this kind of work. Sure, he had a talent for technology, which helped get the job, but that wasn’t why he was here. What attracted him was the fact that no two days were ever the same. He could write a search warrant for a child exploitation case in the morning, then do a forensic computer exam for a homicide case before lunch. He might kick a door on a building search, only to be called away to sit shotgun in a helicopter, acting as a spotter for a search and rescue. The variety of work duties assigned to an Alaska State Trooper Investigator was unparalleled.</p>
<p>Unless you were on light duty.</p>
<p>“Ward!”</p>
<p>It was Sergeant Ballack down the hall, shouting from his office. Ward got to his feet, snagging his notebook and a pen on the way out of his cubicle. That shout always came with some ‘other duty as assigned,’ or so the trooper saying goes.</p>
<p>As always, the sergeant’s office smelled old, musty maybe. He didn't know if it was Ballack’s bad cologne or his shampoo, but then his sense of smell kinda sucked. Chemotherapy will do that to ya.</p>
<p>The Sergeant turned to face Ward as he entered, grabbing a few papers off his desk as he did so. The man had quite the glorious head of hair and it probably took some pretty fancy conditioner to keep its form, adding a good three inches to his already impressive height.</p>
<p>“Whatcha got for me, boss?”</p>
<p>“Have a seat,” Ballack said. He was impeccably dressed, as always, with a sharp red tie and blue tailored suit. “How ya feeling?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Ward, you’re not fine. Cut the crap. Nobody who’s battling pancreatic cancer is fine. Serious. How are you?”</p>
<p>“Surgery went well enough. Chemo is over and my oncologist thinks I’ve got a shot. Neuropathy is getting better every day. I’m ready for full duty, sir.”</p>
<p>“My wife has a friend that works at a cancer clinic. She said you’re not out of the woods till you hit five years. Is that right?”</p>
<p>Heck, I’d love to make it five years. A few months ago, I thought I was toast.</p>
<p>“With pancreatic, it comes back fast, or it doesn’t come back at all. If I make it two years, I’m probably ok.” He didn’t tell him about the other problems, though. Digestive issues causing low energy, the numb fingers and toes, memory lapses, concentration, yada yada. Ya can’t kill cancer cells without killing a lot of other stuff, apparently.</p>
<p>“Don’t rush it, ok?” Ballack put down the papers. “I can keep you busy on light duty for a long time.”</p>
<p>Not the words he wanted to hear, and standing in the Sarge’s office discussing death and light duty, which was almost as bad, tested Ward’s patience.</p>
<p>“What do you have there, Sarge?”</p>
<p>“Polygraph. You game?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely. What’s the case?”</p>
<p>“Palmer patrol picked up some crazy chick on grave shift. Ahem. I mean, ‘a person in crisis.’ She tried to break into a warehouse a couple of nights ago. Then she babbled about being kidnapped, something about a kid, all kinds of nutty stuff.” Ballack rolled his eyes. “I’m thinking poly her, see if she’s cracked. If her claims are legit, we’ll follow up. What do you think?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been looking for some actual police work to do.” He reached for the paper.</p>
<p>“Find out about the kidnapping. If it happened at all. If you get admissions about why she was trying to get into the warehouse, well, that’s really the target.”</p>
<p>“We rarely run polygraphs on victims.”</p>
<p>“She’s full of crap. She’s a doper who tried to rob a building and we want to know why. Poly is a pretext for interrogation on the burg.”</p>
<p>“That’s fine. I haven’t run a poly in months and I’m going blind on all those public information requests you keep handing me. It’ll give me something real to do.”</p>
<p>Ward moved to walk out of the office.</p>
<p>“Ward.”</p>
<p>He turned back.</p>
<p>“Take it easy, son.”</p>
<p>“It’s a polygraph, boss.” Ward furrowed his brow. “I’ll survive.”</p>
<p>“Sergeant Vance told me about the range.”</p>
<p>Crap.</p>
<p>“Don’t push it, Ward. I’m not talking about the polygraph, or the range. Just in general. Bodies take time to heal and you’ve been through hell.”</p>
<p>He has no idea. “Got it, boss.”</p>
<p>“I mean it. We’ll wait for you to be strong.”</p>
<p>Ward bit his lip, trying to hold back, but the pity was too much for his pride. “I got it, ok? Got it. You care. Everyone cares. Don’t rush it. Loud and clear. I’m good.”</p>
<p>Then he walked out of the room.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Wet, Warm and Noisy</i> by David A. Willson. Copyright 2024 by David A. Willson. Reproduced with permission from David A. Willson. All rights reserved.</p>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="David A. Willson" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/wet-warm-and-noisy-by-david-willson-author.png" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>David A. Willson, a retired Alaska State Trooper with more than two decades of service, brings unmatched authenticity to his crime fiction. During his career, he served as a certified police instructor, polygraph program coordinator, court-certified computer forensics expert and supervisor of both Major Crimes and Technical Crimes units. With over a decade in an investigative capacity, he supervised thousands of felony cases, chasing Alaska’s most dangerous criminals.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Our Author:<br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/EOvIt" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.DavidAWillson.com</a><br />
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<p><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Holy crap, this book was good! Did not want to stop reading. It was quite a pleasant surprise, actually. I was hoping I would like it. But I didn’t realize that I was going to love it this much! This book wrecked me! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">First of all, I do get very attached to characters. I love character driven stories. While this one I would not necessarily say was a character driven story, it was for me. The character development was excellent! I really liked Jake Ward, the trooper. And, this one being the first in a series, I look forward to reading more about him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">But... Belle, I fell in love with her from the onset! I needed to know more about her. I don’t think I’ve ever been this invested or obsessed about a character, especially a secondary character in a long time. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">She got to me. She was in my heart. And while she was not front and center all the time David, the author, just did a wonderful job with her. And I think the fact that she wasn’t a main part of the story made her even more intriguing to me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Without giving too much away or giving any spoilers… She was both a criminal and a victim. Or maybe she was a criminal <i>because</i> she was a victim. And that just made me love her even more and I felt for her.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whew, this book was crazy in so many ways. It was exciting, interesting, suspenseful, heartfelt, and I loved the sci-fi/paranormal parts (one of my favorite genres!). They added such a fun element to it. OK, and also - this book made me cry. Man, I love when a book can make me cry! But I didn't cry while reading it. No, I cried the next morning after it had set in. It just hit me. This is the kind of book that will leave you thinking about it for a very long time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are so many good parts to this book that I can’t tell you about. Because you would all hate me for spoiling it for you! All I can tell you is this is definitely a book that you want to read. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">David Willson is now on my list of Authors to watch. I am positive that I would read another one by him! This one will be on my list of favorite books for the year!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-82069988181069340402024-03-20T07:56:00.000-04:002024-03-20T07:56:03.573-04:00Struck Dead by Andrea Kane - with a GIVEAWAY!<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">March 4 - 29, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</span></b></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">5+ STARS!</h2><div><br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div><h4>The fragile line between life and death… Families that will never be the same…</h4>
<p>When a tragic hit-and-run takes the life of a hardworking family man, multi-millionaire Christopher Hillington becomes the prime suspect, and the whole city of New York alights with speculation as to what happened.</p>
<p>But before the NYPD can establish Hillington’s guilt, he himself is brutally murdered in his own home. As he lays dying, he scrawls the name Casey Woods with his own blood, and the Forensic Instincts team is drawn into a complex mystery that has placed its president in the sights of a desperate killer.</p>
<p>A millionaire’s life is full of secrets and suspects. So as the baffled NYPD investigates Casey for the murder, and the body-count ratchets up, Casey herself becomes another potential victim. The FI team’s hardcore investigation has them twisting and turning through suspects and secrets, where the stakes intensify―and so does the collateral damage. As Casey and the team get closer to finding the killer, the unthinkable happens, and the life of one of FI’s own hangs in the blood-stained balance.</p>
<p>They say dead men tell no tales, but blood doesn’t lie. Peeling back layer after layer of deception, the team will cross whatever lines are necessary to solve the case, get justice for the families, and make their team whole again…unless the relentless killer gets to them first.</p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Series: Forensic Instincts (#10)<br />Book Links: <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/xeD7Z" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/IirNy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/7Cjk6" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/lJRXY" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></span></b></div>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>1</h4>
<h6>Offices of Forensic Instincts<br />
Tribeca, New York<br />
Main conference room<br />
Monday, 9:40 a.m.</h6>
<p>Casey Woods, the president of Forensic Instincts, stood at the head of the oval table, her jaw having dropped. She pressed her iPhone closer to her ear, and tried to reconcile herself, both to who the caller was, and the reason for her call.</p>
<p>She certainly didn’t sound like the Angela King that Casey knew. And why in the name of heaven was she reaching out to Casey, of all people?</p>
<p>Angela repeated her original demand: “I need you to meet me now—as in drop everything and get over here.” This time her voice was commanding but shaken.</p>
<p>Shaken? Angela King?</p>
<p>Casey’s mind raced.</p>
<p>Angela was a high-powered and aggressive criminal defense attorney at Harris, Porter, & Donnelly. A virtual barracuda. Rumor had it that she was next up to make partner. No surprise. She successfully defended the richest of the rich, from corporate executives, to wealthy entrepreneurs, to “businessmen” with rumored links to Organized Crime—a fact she chose to overlook since they were affluent enough to pay her fees. She and Forensic Instincts were on opposite sides of law enforcement. They’d battled it out more than once the criminals that FI had helped catch becoming the very criminals Angela would defend.</p>
<p>Needless to say, the FI team and Angela weren’t friends.</p>
<p>And yet, here she was, calling Casey on an urgent, time-is-of-the-essence matter—one she seemed incredibly high-strung about.</p>
<p>“Casey?” Angela repeated. “Did you hear me?”</p>
<p>Casey lowered herself into a chair. “I heard you. What is this about? And why me, of all people?”</p>
<p>“You’ll see for yourself,” Angela replied. She rattled off the address of a luxury skyscraper on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. “Hurry. I’m jeopardizing my career by waiting to call 9-1-1. I can’t wait much longer. But you have to view the scene first and later provide me with some answers. No more questions. Just come. I have a key to the building’s back door. I’ll let you in. We’ll use the freight elevator.”</p>
<p>Casey’s common sense was urging her to refuse. 9-1-1 meant a crime scene, and questions meant involving her. Both those things were screaming for her to stay away. She pushed aside that inner voice. She was too intrigued to refuse. “I’m on my way.”</p>
<p>She shrugged into her wool winter coat as she called John Nickels, Forensic Instincts’ number one on their security team. Then, she blew out the front door, not waiting to fill the FI team in on where she was going. There was no time. Plus, they’d only try to talk her out of it.</p>
<p>Holiday decorations were glistening everywhere, and tiny snowflakes danced in the air.</p>
<p>Casey didn’t notice any of it.</p>
<p>John pulled around a few minutes later, and Casey hopped into the car, gave him the address, and urged him to hurry.</p>
<p>With a brief nod, John was on his way, navigating the FDR Drive in record time. He got Casey to her destination in thirteen minutes. He dropped her off around back, far from the doorman’s view. Then, he waited to return her to the brownstone once her meeting was over, as per her instructions.</p>
<p>Angela was pacing inside the building, and opened the door to let Casey in the moment she saw her. No matter how dire the occasion, Angela always looked stunning. An Armani cobalt blue pants suit that set off her dark skin, matching four-inch Louboutin heels, and long wavy black hair styled at the highest end salon. She carried herself like a queen. In short, she was a knock-out.</p>
<p>Now she looked more rattled than Casey had ever seen her.</p>
<p>“Let’s go,” she said. She led the way to the freight elevator, where she and Casey rode up.</p>
<p>“Tell me what’s going on,” Casey stated flatly.</p>
<p>Angela didn’t answer. She glanced at her Apple Watch, her gaze snapping up as the elevator stopped on the twenty-first floor.</p>
<p>The doors slid open.</p>
<p>Angela paused only long enough to ensure that Casey was right behind her. Then, she strode down the hall, made a turn, and halted in front of Apartment Twenty-One B. She unlocked the door, pulled Casey inside, and faced her to offer the first few words of an explanation.</p>
<p>“This is the home of my client, Christopher Hillington. We had a nine-thirty AM meeting scheduled to be held here.”</p>
<p>Casey’s brows rose. Christopher Hillington was a renowned and phenomenally wealthy managing director of the private equity firm YNE. He was also a major suspect in a vehicular homicide, and Casey knew through various news sources that he’d been questioned several times by the NYPD and was on the verge of arrest.</p>
<p>“I see you know of him,” Angela said. “Given the circumstances, I’m not surprised.” She gestured toward a breathtaking sunken living room. “In here.”</p>
<p>Casey bit back her question about what Angela had just said. She sensed she was about to get her answers. So she remained silent.</p>
<p>The two women stepped down and Angela stood to a side and waited.</p>
<p>Casey got the full view immediately.</p>
<p>Christopher Hillington’s body was crumpled on the Oriental carpet beside his desk, blood pooling out around him. His head was bashed in, clearly having been struck multiple times by a heavy object. The bloodied sledge hammer lying next to the body was obviously the murder weapon. Judging from the damage done, the killer had been, not only determined, but brutal.</p>
<p>Casey eyeballed the scene, feeling sickened as well as confused. She was about to ask Angela what this horrific scene had to do with her when she spotted the letters, written in blood, on the lower edge of the desk, right beside Hillington’s outstretched arm.</p>
<p>She walked over, careful not to touch anything, squatted down, and squinted. The two words were completely legible, and they made Casey’s blood run cold.</p>
<p>Casey Woods.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Struck Dead</i> by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2024 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Andrea Kane" border="0" height="279" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/O4cAq55VIryL-20040907_Kane_199-purple-sofa.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="200" /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></div><p>Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-two novels, including eighteen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.<br />
Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, <em>Run for Your Life</em>, became an instant New York Times bestseller. <br />
She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including <em>No Way Out</em>, <em>Twisted</em> and <em>Drawn in Blood</em>.<br />
Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, <em>Struck Dead</em>, showcases the dynamic, eclectic team of investigators as they hunt down a desperate killer who’s threatened one of their own. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the New York Times bestseller, <em>The Girl Who Disappeared Twice</em>, followed by <em>The Line Between Here and Gone</em>, <em>The Stranger You Know</em>, <em>The Silence That Speaks</em>, <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-murder-that-never-was-by-andrea-kane/"><em>The Murder That Never Was</em></a>, <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/face-die-andrea-kane/"><em>A Face To Die For</em></a>, <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/dead-in-a-week-by-andrea-kane/"><em>Dead In A Week</em></a>, <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/no-stone-unturned-by-andrea-kane/"><em>No Stone Unturned</em></a>, <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/at-any-cost-by-andrea-kane/"><em>At Any Cost</em></a>, and <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/struck-dead-by-andrea-kane/"><em>Struck Dead</em></a>.<br />
Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include <em>My Heart’s Desire</em>, <em>Samantha</em>, <em>Echoes in the Mist</em>, and <em>Wishes in the Wind</em>.<br />
With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages. <br />
Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.<br />
Author Hometown – Warren, New Jersey</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Andrea Kane:<br />
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<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/wYMdl" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @authorandreakane</a><br />
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nailed it!</span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yaaassss!!! Oh my gosh I love these guys! I feel like I am finally back with my friends again! That’s what the <span style="color: black;">Forensic Instincts team </span>in this series are like… they feel like friends to me. And it’s funny… Every time I read a book in this series (I think this is book # 5 for me) I have a different favorite character. Each team member is so different, different personalities, different skills, but each one so wonderful. I love learning more and more about them each book.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book starts out so comfortably like you’re just reading about your best friends or your family and you just know them so well. But I think even if you hadn’t read any of the other books that you would still feel comfortable reading this because Andrea does such a good job of telling who everyone is. By the end of the story you will feel like you're a part of the team.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mid book... hand is covering my mouth, and tears flowing down my face! Claire drops her cup… You know something big is happening. She can sense it, she can feel it. That’s when I lost it. </span>Oh my gosh, I have chills! <span style="font-family: inherit;">Well done Andrea Kane! Very well done!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book was so suspenseful. I love a mystery that leaves you bread crumbs! I loved walking through the play by play as if I was working for Forensic Instincts myself. And I totally would love that! Think they would hire me? :-)</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This novel is just expertly, brilliantly executed! </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">All this book did was get me super excited about reading the next one!! Every time I sat down to read </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn’t want to stop yet I didn’t want to read too fast, I wanted to be able to devour every word.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I think this is my favorite book of the series so far. Andrea Kane will have a hard time topping this one! <span style="font-family: inherit;">Definitely going on my top 10 list for the year. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read this one - you are in for a treat!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-10183876279756225682024-03-14T08:42:00.002-04:002024-03-14T08:42:56.874-04:00Objects of Desire by Valerie Webster<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">4 Stars!</span></i></h2>
<h4>March 11-22, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Objects of Desire by Valerie Webster" border="0" height="308" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/8eLhNZ1CCJS5-OOD-ebook-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p>It’s August in Baltimore City. Nothing’s hotter - until Rita Mars gets a shocking visit from the police. Her ex-partner is missing and police are relentless in trying to pin her to the disappearance. One cop in particular has made her his crusade to indict. In the meantime, Rita accepts a client who suspects someone is out to destroy the charitable foundation she works for. Rita hires a hacker named Roswell and a cyber game of cat and mouse commences. This is a high-speed chase of a read that will leave you wondering – could it happen here?</p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Series:</b> A Rita Mars Thriller, 2<br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/vSNzO" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/DTi5M" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></span></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>Prologue</h4>
<p>“I ain’t here to clean the house.” The person on the porch blocked the usually sunny opened doorway.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry?” The woman inside the house stood waiting for an answer. She was a tiny person, slim, noticeably agitated by the unexpected break in her routine. </p>
<p>“I brought you something.” </p>
<p>“I have a meeting this morning. I’m afraid I have to get ready. Maybe later.” The woman inside started to close the door, but a booted foot wedged in the frame to stop progress.</p>
<p>A broad hand with thick stubby fingers rested against the door. “Just take a minute.”</p>
<p>The woman inside hesitated, irritated, undecided.</p>
<p>“Promise. A minute.” The boot in the door sill stayed in place.</p>
<p>“Uh, ok. “The woman ran a hand through her hair. “But I really need to finish dressing for my meeting.”</p>
<p>“No problem.” The beefy palm touched the door but did not push. The woman inside opened her house.</p>
<p>The figure outside stepped in, overshadowing the home owner by almost a foot. “Nice house. I always wondered what it was like in here.”</p>
<p>“You have something for me?” asked the woman.</p>
<p>“I do.” The visitor took time surveying the foyer and living room as the two stood by the still open door.</p>
<p>“Can we hurry this up, I need to leave.” A trickle of sweat beaded at her temple. She glanced toward the kitchen where her cell phone lay on the counter.</p>
<p>“Ok, so let’s get you ready to go.” The figure’s paw snagged the woman’s arm and clutched it so that the woman’s sleeve crushed with the pressure.</p>
<p>“Hey, let go.” The woman pulled against the grip but she was no match. “Stop.” She dug her nails into the grasping arm.</p>
<p>“Let’s go upstairs.” The woman was half dragged, half lifted toward her stairwell. </p>
<p>“What is the matter with you? I’m going to call the police.” The woman threw all her weight away from her trapped arm trying to loosen it. “Stop,” she cried. She began to flail with every ounce of strength.</p>
<p>The intruder shook her head. “Now you know you don’t want to do that. We need to get you packed up and ready.”</p>
<p>The woman now grabbed the banister as the intruder strong-armed her up the steps. She could not hold against the brute strength of her attacker who easily drew her upward.</p>
<p>“Gotta suitcase?” The attacker maintained the commanding grip.</p>
<p>The attacker held fast while she went through the woman’s chest of drawers, her closet and bathroom, throwing clothes and toiletries into a small roll-aboard that had been in the bedroom closet. All the while, the impinged victim wrestled, clawed and dug her teeth into the arm that tightened around hers.</p>
<p>The woman screamed again, but the free meaty hand covered her mouth. The attacker drew out a roll of duct tape and secured the woman to a vanity chair. She then took a pillow case and made a gag.</p>
<p>“Get you all set up here,” said the attacker. “You’ll need stuff. Now I know this is a little bit of a surprise for you. But don’t worry, I will take care of you.”</p>
<p>The woman in the vanity chair bowed her head as tears streamed down her face. </p>
<p>“Ok, so we’ve got everything, I think.” The attacker shut and snapped the suitcase closed. “I wanna take that pillow case off your mouth but you need not to scream. You gonna be good?”</p>
<p>The woman nodded and her intruder unknotted the pillowcase.</p>
<p>“Uh, I think I should leave a note,” said the woman.</p>
<p>“I don’t think so.” The intruder had removed the gag, but made no move to release the woman from the vanity chair.</p>
<p>The woman’s eyes roved quickly back and forth as she scoured her brain for an escape plan. “People will wonder where I am and we don’t want them to know, do we?”</p>
<p>“That’s my girl,” said the attacker. “Good idea.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Objects of Desire</i> by Valerie Webster. Copyright 2024 by Valerie Webster. Reproduced with permission from Valerie Webster. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Valerie Webster" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/cXJpHREYBf8q-VWblack2_edit.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p><p>Valerie Webster is a crime fiction author whose 30+ year career was focused on developing and implementing technology applications for the purpose of criminal surveillance and tracking, information security, crime deterrence and homeland security. She interlaces her work on real cases and policing applications throughout her writing and her storytelling leads you through the shadow worlds of the criminal as well as the crime fighters. She has written two books in the Rita Mars Series: <em>DRIVEN: A RITA MARS THRILLER</em> is her debut novel in the series. Her second book is <em>OBJECTS OF DESIRE: A RITA MARS THRILLER</em>. Valerie makes her home near Boulder, CO. Learn more about Valerie and her work at <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/xx5Q1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">valeriewebster.com</a></p>
<h3>Catch Up With Valerie Webster:<br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/xx5Q1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">ValerieWebster.com</a><br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/Dv1vt" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/74its" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @vwebster</a><br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/7Q31a" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @rmarsauthor</a><br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/auk8w" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @RMars4Hire</a></h3>
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<p> <b>MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><p>I really liked this one! I did not read the first book - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/DRIVEN-Rita-Thriller-Valerie-Webster/dp/1952347033/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1X3NNJIL3PBPN&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.kvm3g8Fas6DUVv15cLUnu3uSq_u9Bc0hQ363Qk7DitvxipL00lCDWAy4BiDZ8DeZjxfM0QWTXxfVn6yIUXqkYmiPwapq8RRATbJczAxOerDRoalM-IaWfm6F33KRYAUN4z4emr6apgkDicQ_RiMm7UX5NrYHywUFJOgMEcxpVuz0kbaapACUz4LjqYAHC_2bNQcd7NCRcASB1F-QKZgmyYuCStBobfslFgUWs1crVbw.7mJDpS-h_zfBS5b0_1ffAWD2JbuY9Svhu-Ngsf1YCYA&dib_tag=se&keywords=driven+valerie&qid=1710419768&s=books&sprefix=driven+valerie%2Cstripbooks%2C111&sr=1-2" target="_blank">Driven</a>, while I did feel like I missed a little of the backstory... I had no trouble reading this one at all! It was very easy to follow along and get to know the characters.</p><p>Two mysteries going on at the same time. Rita, the main character (loved her BTW) finds out that her ex is missing. She is also hired to look into some missing funds at a Charity organization. ALSO... we get a few chapters of Diane, the missing ex, with her abductor! These were the chapters I liked the best. I love it when an author gives us an inside view. Of course we have no idea who her abductor is until later in the story.</p><p>The missing Diane was definitely my favorite of the two "cases". I actually would have loved a whole book just about that! I was really interested and invested in that. I didn't really get into the other one until well into the book. Then it did start getting more interesting.</p><p>There was a bit of action and some exciting parts. I thought the whole book was written very well. I liked the characters especially Rita! I think I would definitely read another book about her!</p><p>*** If you are concerned... the cover and even the title are very deceiving! The book is not like that at all! This is actually a very clean book!</p><p><br /></p><p><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></p><p><br /></p>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-69030847726134314842024-03-13T08:31:00.000-04:002024-03-13T08:31:21.229-04:00Never Fall Again by Lynn H Blackburn<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJP3MUxckqqseGAv4ZBUDMhHCWd_OJDAT91AdgRvRCH2Cl1CSol9XO_gfpOqdQO9ILLxOetbb7pf7-IMI4NxPaA1atY-jR-xGvzfOFh4s_bRfty-nEJN6gR51jY3vwGUsUtED6bkX9AV_Z8qkku0FK3Be38CpatMfuQR9znamKXlOrNOKMNItsEE_kBmGd/s648/never-fall-again-by-lynn-h-blackburn--cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="419" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJP3MUxckqqseGAv4ZBUDMhHCWd_OJDAT91AdgRvRCH2Cl1CSol9XO_gfpOqdQO9ILLxOetbb7pf7-IMI4NxPaA1atY-jR-xGvzfOFh4s_bRfty-nEJN6gR51jY3vwGUsUtED6bkX9AV_Z8qkku0FK3Be38CpatMfuQR9znamKXlOrNOKMNItsEE_kBmGd/w259-h400/never-fall-again-by-lynn-h-blackburn--cover.png" width="259" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS</span></b></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>March 4-29, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p>Landry Hutton has spent three years rebuilding her life behind the secure gates of The Haven, an exclusive resort on the outskirts of Gossamer Falls, North Carolina. As the artist-in-residence, and with her pottery prized by The Haven's guests, Landry is finally ready to settle in permanently. She wants to give her daughter, Eliza, a safe home to grow up in and hires former Marine Callum Shaw to handle the construction.</p>
<p>Cal grew up in Gossamer Falls and always knew he would someday join his family's business. He longs for a family of his own but has almost given up on that ever happening. Landry is funny, gifted, and everything Cal could ever want in a partner, but he vows to keep his distance. Landry has a daughter and a past. Cal has been down that road before and barely survived when the woman he loved left, taking her two sons with her. He can't bear to lose like that again.</p>
<p>Before construction on the house can begin, Landry's pottery is destroyed in a suspicious fire. It soon becomes clear that Landry and Eliza are in grave danger--but because of whom? But, after losing one relationship, he is hesitant to try again.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Never Fall Again</i>:</h3>
<p>"What a fabulous story with characters who will live in your head--and heart--long after the last word." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Lynette Eason, award-winning, bestselling author of the Lake City Heroes series</span></p>
<p>"Lynn Blackburn's voice is unrivaled! A must-read." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Elizabeth Goddard, bestselling author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/cold-light-of-day-by-elizabeth-goddard/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Cold Light of Day</a></em></span></p>
<p>"This book had it all--a delicious romance, obsession, found family, redemption and reconciliation, edge-of-your-seat suspense, and the kind of ending we all root for!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Susan May Warren, USA Today bestselling and RITA Award-winning author</span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<b>Series:</b> Gossamer Falls, Book 1 <br />
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/gO2ZH" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/gAmk9" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/eItIx" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/2WFci" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/Bz2j2" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Baker Book House</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<p>They passed several offices before they reached an open door. </p>
<p>“Maisy. Stay.” That same deep voice from the intercom floated to the hallway. </p>
<p>“Oooh! A dog!” Eliza dashed into the room. </p>
<p>Her little sprite was fast and already halfway across the office before Landry realized what was happening. “Eliza, wait!” Fortunately, she stopped at Landry’s words. </p>
<p>“I know, Mommy. Never touch a dog without permission. I just want to see.” </p>
<p>Eliza turned her big brown eyes toward the man who had come around his desk and knelt beside a dog now quivering with excitement. </p>
<p>The man—Callum Shaw, she assumed—met her daughter’s eyes and said, “Your mom’s right. You can’t ever rush at a dog, even dogs as gentle as this big baby. But if it’s okay with your mom . . .” </p>
<p>His eyes, which were as blue as the Carolina sky, now met hers. There was humor and gentleness. And shadows. Something dark flitted across his gaze. But then he blinked and it was gone. </p>
<p>Landry nodded her permission, and he turned all his attention back to her daughter. “This is Maisy. She’s a golden retriever. She’s three years old. She loves long walks in the woods, sunbathing, peanut butter, and belly rubs.” He demonstrated the belly rub. Maisy melted under his touch, and Eliza crept closer. “You can pet her. Maisy doesn’t bite my friends.” </p>
<p>Eliza dropped to her knees beside Callum and held out her hand toward Maisy’s nose. </p>
<p>Maisy took a quick sniff and rewarded Eliza’s good behavior with a lick. Callum stayed where he was until it was clear to everyone that Eliza and Maisy were set, then he rose to his feet and extended a hand. “Ms. Hutton.” </p>
<p>“Landry. Please.” </p>
<p>“Landry. A pleasure.”</p>
<p>Landry kept the contact brief. “Sorry, my hands are rough.” She turned them palms up. “Hazards of the job.” </p>
<p>Why had she said that? What did it matter if her hands were a bit on the crispy side? She didn’t have to prove anything to this man. Embarrassment crept across her and burst through her pores, heating her neck and face, and now she had no idea what to do with her hands. Should she put them down? Tuck them behind her back?</p>
<p>Callum glanced at her hands and turned his own up. “Same here.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “It’s to my eternal despair that I’ll never land that hand modeling contract I’ve always hoped for.” </p>
<p>His easy humor made it automatic to tease him back. “Well, there’s always ditch digging.” </p>
<p>“Good point. If this construction gig doesn’t work out, I’ll have something to fall back on.” Callum turned his attention to Eliza. “And I gather your name is Eliza?” </p>
<p>She giggled with the abandon unique to happy children. “That’s right, but sometimes Mommy calls me Liza or ZaZa, but never Lizzy because that’s too close to Landry, and it gets confusing.” </p>
<p>Landry tried to keep a straight face as Eliza parroted what she’d heard Landry say too many times to count. </p>
<p>“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Eliza.” Callum pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m Cal Shaw. I’ll answer to Callum, but not LumLum because”— he dropped his voice to a stage whisper—“that’s just not dignified.”</p>
<p>Eliza’s laughter filled the room. Bronwyn hadn’t been wrong about Cal Shaw. He was very good with children. Even now, he kept his attention on Eliza. “Are you good here with Maisy while your mom and I talk?” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir.” </p>
<p>Cal grabbed a legal pad and pen from his desk and took the chair opposite the one he directed Landry to sit in. From their seats, they could both see Eliza and Maisy. </p>
<p>She waited for him to start the conversation, but maybe she was supposed to go first? </p>
<p>“She’s a beau—” </p>
<p>“Land—” </p>
<p>They both stopped talking, and his smile seemed genuine as he nodded to her. “Please. Go ahead.”</p>
<p>“I was going to say your dog is beautiful.” She willed her body to stop flushing scarlet, but it refused to cooperate. She didn’t have to see herself to know that her face, neck, chest, and even her feet were on fire. This was why she did best behind the walls of The Haven. She could interact with the patrons there with minimal difficulty. But put her out in public, and she became a tongue-tied, socially inept disaster. </p>
<p>Cal’s grin held mischief, and he leaned toward her. “If all goes as planned, she’ll be pregnant soon. I bet Eliza would love a puppy for Christmas.” His voice was cajoling and teasing, but at least he had the good sense to keep it too low for Eliza to hear. </p>
<p>He winked in a way that was friendly and not flirtatious, and Landry understood why Bronwyn liked him so much. He leaned back and in a normal voice said, “I gathered from your conversation with Carla that you’re going to build nearby.” </p>
<p>“Yes. I have three acres on the edge of Pierce land.” She watched him carefully as she spoke and was unsurprised when his grip tightened on the pen at her words. </p>
<p>“How long have you lived in Gossamer Falls?” </p>
<p>“Long enough to know the Pierce and Quinn families don’t get along.”</p>
<p>
</p><p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Never Fall Again</i> by Lynn H Blackburn. Copyright 2024 by Lynn H Blackburn. Reproduced with permission from Lynn H Blackburn. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Lynn H Blackburn" border="0" height="250" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/UbprwAL7EctK-Lynn-H-Blackburn-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p><p>Lynn H. Blackburn is the award-winning author of <em>Unknown Threat</em>, <em>Malicious Intent</em>, and <em>Under Fire</em>, as well as the Dive Team Investigations series. She loves writing swoon-worthy Southern suspense because her childhood fantasy was to become a spy, but her grown-up reality is that she's a huge chicken and would have been caught on her first mission. She prefers to live vicariously through her characters by putting them into terrifying situations while she sits at home in her pajamas. She lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina, with her true love, Brian, and their three children.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Our Author:<br />
<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/3iccr" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.LynnHBlackburn.com</a><br />
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<a href="https://pictbooks.tours/cRmhp" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @LynnHBlackburn</a></h3>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><p>I loved this book! I love character driven books and that is exactly what this was. It was really all about the characters. And the characters and development were fantastic! I know I say this all time lol, but I really loved Landry and feel like I could have been friends with her. Cal was like every woman's dream guy! I loved this whole extended family. Each character was done so well, even Eliza, Landry's daughter. Spot on!</p><div>Now... yes this is romantic/suspense - so there is some suspense in here as well. And I did gasp a few times. But I have to say the suspense kind of took a backseat in the story, which was fine with me. This was such an easy reading enjoyable story! With some suspenseful moments.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you love this kind of thing - you will love this book. </div><div>OH, and did I mention there's a dog??!! Personally, I am not a dog person. I know, I know, So sue me! But - this dog... Maisy, is fantastic! I think I would have even loved her IRL.</div><div><br /></div><div><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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</div>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-50046485796753886652024-03-07T08:49:00.002-05:002024-03-07T08:49:49.172-05:00The Good Wife by Gemma Rogers<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMNfjASVNSM-SX4AGaI1coPKZGxpaZPW8PIciTqxCOh8bem07wiTO7l5X4Mo8UucQPqZo4OASbuVjYjqRphbqhSYA3Y6KEq_KGK9xnhfGRWY9B0KqPlP-QlSEpF3Mut9SPGUMCYRZvHNYqBt7s9GcLCfiGqdKVLSlzT8th6OUDjcKZ3kfQMKqWsexV-VY/s2340/The%20Good%20Wife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2340" data-original-width="1525" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMNfjASVNSM-SX4AGaI1coPKZGxpaZPW8PIciTqxCOh8bem07wiTO7l5X4Mo8UucQPqZo4OASbuVjYjqRphbqhSYA3Y6KEq_KGK9xnhfGRWY9B0KqPlP-QlSEpF3Mut9SPGUMCYRZvHNYqBt7s9GcLCfiGqdKVLSlzT8th6OUDjcKZ3kfQMKqWsexV-VY/w261-h400/The%20Good%20Wife.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>5 STARS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="background: white; border-bottom: none windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 3.0pt 0in;">
<h2 style="background: white; border: none; line-height: 133%; margin: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 3.0pt 0in; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; padding: 0in; page-break-after: auto;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 133%; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Appearances can be
deceiving…<o:p></o:p></span></b></h2>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After a whirlwind
romance and three years of marriage, I’d tried to be a good wife.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My husband Tom is always
watching, controlling my every move. He chooses my clothes, my hairstyle, even
instructing what and how much I’m allowed to eat – just ten mouthfuls.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’ve become isolated
from those I love, forbidden to work and stuck at home to fulfil his every
whim. My identity along with my life is long gone. I am slowly suffocating but
I know Tom will never, ever let me leave alive.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But a chance encounter
with Savanah changes everything. Tom just couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
I hoped she might be my savior. What if I asked for her help?<br />
Paid her to steal my husband away?<br />
Could my husband’s desire for another woman be the answer to my prayers, to my
freedom?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bestseller Gemma Rogers is back
with another gripping, page-turning thriller. Perfect for fans of Liane
Moriarty, Shari Lapena and Lisa Jewell</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Amazon Purchase Link - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Good-Wife-completely-addictive-psychological-ebook/dp/B0CMP2ZDZ3/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3PYUT4KXGDCZV&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.WMc2JZEbG-NSPRLUUf4QEAVsEIjkQCragaPunW2rzBOXBh45jKi0-Wn7gQm9ptl5Cgl_wrDnZA74wXpvZO1eiZBGb6G0l6p0MFn2w6XYMNtppQnt-TuinzQOM0eie1kxmsvYJd99b_9zF7OYEAolWZwsd_75AnXfnlyux-nxa_W-tZgeozamTefWdq-yh8GpdAeY7CzqLawrBoIbpKHokFgNiY4JgWwcy3ng2zpOTAg.mn20pYR9cjW2ojdFr6YNQgCwFbxEBksi6nEAeldnYoA&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+good+wife+gemma&qid=1709818707&s=books&sprefix=the+good+wife+ge%2Cstripbooks%2C94&sr=1-1">HERE</a></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJF_iWk_Crfk9ubc2kF4gsQY-BeheMtBbW5bFrUQdsznvKr0jrpkbhrT965u7xCzjvDr6cL_dty2hd3hYZidS2Hlk7-_AEQVxDwJCE7p9ymtXkZYa7wd4IpnF5v3bu7dA1UdiTcB35UXReXS-_DJkHqmz_GJCDPVMiBkPaeAlS5W70DR6RTHFQ_rvNNZW/s3294/Gemma%20Rogers%20(2).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3294" data-original-width="2500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJF_iWk_Crfk9ubc2kF4gsQY-BeheMtBbW5bFrUQdsznvKr0jrpkbhrT965u7xCzjvDr6cL_dty2hd3hYZidS2Hlk7-_AEQVxDwJCE7p9ymtXkZYa7wd4IpnF5v3bu7dA1UdiTcB35UXReXS-_DJkHqmz_GJCDPVMiBkPaeAlS5W70DR6RTHFQ_rvNNZW/s320/Gemma%20Rogers%20(2).jpeg" width="243" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 11.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-highlight: white;">Gemma Rogers lives in West Sussex with her husband, two
daughters and a bouncy French Bulldog called Boycie. Her love of writing began
in her early teenage years, inspired by hours spent buried in Point Horror,
Richard Laymon and Christopher Pike with the occasional Judy Blume thrown in
for good measure. Other passions include movies - horrors especially (who
doesn't love a good scare), country walks, swimming and anything involving
cake.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Social Media Links – </span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Facebook: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/GemmaRogersAuthor"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://www.facebook.com/GemmaRogersAuthor</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Twitter: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://twitter.com/GemmaRogers79"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://twitter.com/GemmaRogers79</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Instagram: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/gemmarogersauthor/"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://www.instagram.com/gemmarogersauthor/</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="color: #103cc0;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Newsletter Sign Up: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://bit.ly/GemmaRogerNews"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://bit.ly/GemmaRogerNews</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-highlight: white;">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bookbub profile:</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/janet-hoggarth"><b><span style="color: windowtext; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 150%; text-decoration-line: none;"> </span></b></a><a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/gemma-rogers"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://www.bookbub.com/authors/gemma-rogers</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-highlight: white;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Wow! Just wow! I know I must sound like a broken record because every single time I read a book by Gemma Rogers I always say wow. But sometimes a book just deserves a good old-fashioned… Wow!</div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b><p></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This book was brilliant. It may be my favorite one by her yet (and I have read so many). This one is going to deserve a slot in my favorite books of the year for sure.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What an emotional roller coaster ride! And not always a good ride. :-(</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Having been through spousal abuse myself with my first husband, this book really hit home for me. I really felt a deep connection with Chloe because I knew and felt everything she was going through. Desperately wanting to leave but also afraid to leave. Always thinking and always looking for a way out.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Everything in this book was spot on and very believable. It was like experiencing it first hand.</div><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: white; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-highlight: white;"></span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Top notch character development! Even Tom the jerk of a husband was perfectly spot on, I saw so much of my ex in him! </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Gemma, thank you so much for putting this out there! You always seem to hit a nerve with your edgy, gutsy writing.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="a-size-base" style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><b><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from </i></b></span><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>Rachel's Random Resources </i></b><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>- Thank You!!</i></b></div>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-53520085219129707482024-02-21T08:15:00.002-05:002024-02-21T08:15:23.904-05:00Playing Dead by TG Wolff - with a GIVEAWAY!<p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div><div><div><h3><a href="https://pictbooks.tours/DeLaCruz" rel="noopener" target="_blank">The De La Cruz Case Files</a>, Book 4</h3></div><h4>February 19 - 23, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</h4></div><!--wp:spacer /--><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; text-align: left; width: 225px;"><img alt="Playing Dead by TG Wolff" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/kaNyKDggDCLz-PlayingDead-A2.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div><!--wp:spacer /--><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;">The nightmare is over. Alexander “Rotten” Carter is dead. But when his body is dumped in Cleveland Homicide Detective Jesus De La Cruz’s neighborhood, there are more questions than answers. Rotten was dressed up like the king of hearts, right down to the dagger in the suicide king’s temple. The elaborate staging is perplexing at the same time seems to be sending a message.</p><p style="text-align: left;">As Cruz investigates, he discovers Rotten Carter was more complex than the simple villain he had painted him to be. So is his murder, which is related to the deaths of his two lieutenants months prior. Both were strangled and found, with playing cards in their mouths. Jacks.</p><p style="text-align: left;">As the body count climbs, connection tie back to a dead CI and an accident that made a cop a widower. A web becomes apparent with one man in the middle: Narcotics Detective Matt Yablonski. But is he the spider or another fly?</p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px; text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Book Links: <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/Hdt6y" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://pictbooks.tours/4PfMa" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></span></b></p></blockquote></div></div>
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<h3><span style="font-size: medium;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>The crime scene was around the corner, no more than ten houses from Cruz’s own. Two streets came together at a sharp angle, creating oddly shaped yards. An island was formed at one of the peaks, surrounded by roadway. It was the length of one of the yards facing it. Geometric colors showed brightly in the morning sun, giving the landscape a third dimension it didn’t naturally have. Cruz approached, his mind transforming the lines and shapes into the macabre corpse.</p>
<p>“I called 9-1-1 and, thankfully, no one else has come out,” Binnie, the girls’ father, said. He stood guard over the island in worn sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He was barefoot.</p>
<p>“Aurora kept the girls. She’ll settle them down.”</p>
<p>“Good. I didn’t want them to see this, not any more than they had.” Binnie turned until he and Cruz were side by side. “The island was part of the city’s Color the Corners Chalk Festival. It took the artist two days to do it.”</p>
<p>That explained the background, a mosaic reminiscent of a stained-glass window, but not the character on it. Cruz thought Francie’s description of a costume was accurate. The victim, male, White, was in his twenties. The torso was covered by a tunic, the kind a knight might wear. Instead of regal, the tunic was decorated with hearts in groups of twos and threes, some facing up, others down. The costume was thin fabric. Details were printed on, not embroidered. The legs were dressed in a pair of tights, the red color coordinated with the tunic. The feet were bare.</p>
<p>The arms were bare as well. One was bent at the elbow with the hand resting on the lower abdomen. The other was positioned upward. The hand curled around the hilt of a long dagger, the blade buried in the head. It was an unnatural position that forced the wrist, elbow, and shoulder out of a flat alignment.</p>
<p>Cruz rounded to the base of the figure. He recognized it. “Someone made him into the king of hearts. Better get shoes on, Binnie,” he advised as vehicles began arriving at the scene. “This isn’t going to be quick.”</p>
<p>“I’ll put some coffee on,” he said and headed to the house directly behind them.</p>
<p>There was no estimate on when the man had died. His body temperature was lower than was naturally possible given the weather. The nighttime low bottomed out around fifty degrees. The body was low forties. The Cuyahoga County Medical Examiner would use methods more sophisticated than temperature to estimate time of death.</p>
<p>A cursory review of the body found no cuts, wounds, or contusions aside from the knife in the head. The blade had been driven in above the left ear. The handle was wrapped in leather, the complicated over-under weave spoke of skill and craftsmanship. Cruz examined the round, silver ball at the end and found it to be slightly flattened and marred with scratches.</p>
<p>Something about the position of the mouth drew Cruz’s attention. He applied pressure on the chin, opening the jaw. Inside was the white edge of folded paper. Widening the opening, he gently pulled. The folded item came easily. It wasn’t paper exactly. It was thicker. Coated. He turned it over, both sides printed in a blue elaborate pattern reminiscent of…a playing card.</p>
<p>He unfolded it, revealing the king of hearts.</p>
<p>Rising, he compared the body position to the card. It was a match.</p>
<p>He pictured the man resting his head on a table. His killer standing over him, holding the dagger in position with one hand and using a hammer in the other to drive the point deep. There were no defensive signs. It was as if the man simply lay down and allowed the knife to be driven into his head. The ME would tell him if the man was incapacitated via drugs or other means.</p>
<p>Wherever happened, it didn’t happen here. Beneath the body was the chalk of the drawing. The lines separating the colors were disturbed directly beneath but even that was minor. There was minimal transfer to the back of the clothing. The man was set in place, not dragged, which meant either multiple people were involved or one person strong enough to handle a body. The man was average to short with sinewy arms and legs. Cruz put him in the 160-pound camp.</p>
<p>Ready to tackle the timetable, Cruz went up the short walk to where Binnie waited with a cup of coffee.</p>
<p>“It’s nice and hot,” he said, holding out the insulated Cleveland Browns cup.</p>
<p>Cruz went up one step to accept. “I appreciate it. Tell me what happened this morning.”</p>
<p>“You know, Cruz, I can’t tell you much. I was dead asleep when Sunny screamed. You know how it is, one second out cold, then wide awake. I went to the front door. I could tell there was something on the island but not what it was.” He pointed to the screen now hiding the crime scene. “It didn’t make sense until I was nearly to the sidewalk. I told the girls to go get you and ran back in the house to get my phone. I didn’t even think about shoes. I called 9-1-1 and waited for you or them to arrive.”</p>
<p>“What time was this?”</p>
<p>Binnie pulled out his phone and searched for outgoing calls. “Eight minutes after seven. The sky was light but the street still dark. You know. You arrived just a few minutes later.”</p>
<p>Cruz did know but wanted details to supplement his own observations. “What about cars on the street? Anyone leaving the area? Any vehicles that didn’t belong?”</p>
<p>His witness thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Everything was quiet. I didn’t even see anyone walking their dog yet.”</p>
<p>“I had someone go house-to-house. Anyone who was awake was in their kitchen or backyard. There was no answer next door. Any idea where your neighbor is?”</p>
<p>“Metro General Hospital. He works first shift in the maintenance department. He left at twenty to seven. When he started his car, I woke enough to read the clock and decide it was too early to get up.” Binnie pointed to a pair of patrol officers waving their way. “I think they want you.”</p>
<p>“We’re close to wrapping up here. Let me see what they need, then we’ll go to my house. I need to ask your daughters a few questions.” Cruz left the porch, turning his attention to the officers. “What do you have?”</p>
<p>“The victim has been identified as Alexander Carter, age twenty-seven,” the leading officer answered. “His listed address is his parents’, but he’s spent a lot of time as a guest of the county. In and out for possession, assault, petty theft. He’s—Detective?”</p>
<p>Cruz stalked to the protective tent.</p>
<p>“Detective? Cruz?” The officer hurried to keep up.</p>
<p>Cruz took a knee next to the dead man’s shoulder and studied the face. He’d seen it in pictures a dozen times, only twice in person. In every case, the eyes had been narrowed with hate, the chin tipped up in challenge.</p>
<p>“Do you know this guy?” the officer asked.</p>
<p>“Not just me. We’ve been after Rotten Carter since July. Send me the information on his next of kin. I’ll make the trip after we wrap here, and I follow up with the girls. Go back through the neighborhood, see if anyone here knows our vic.”</p>
<p>The officers left the tent to execute orders while Cruz studied the man he daydreamed about killing. Without the attitude he wore like skin, Rotten Carter had a clean-cut look. He didn’t have ink tatted across his body or battle-earned scars saying the man fought his way through life. He could have been a family man with a white-collar job.</p>
<p>He could have been an ordinary guy earning an honest living.</p>
<p>But he wasn’t.</p>
<p>Rotten Carter was a mid-level dealer who had been on Cleveland police’s radar for years. His sister, Natasha “Sasha” Carter was a confidential informant to Cruz’s best friend, Narcotics Detective Matt Yablonski. Sasha snitched with her brother’s permission or at least knowledge. She fed information on Rotten’s competition, keeping her brother’s territory solid.</p>
<p>One day last January, Sasha got in touch with Yablonski and asked for a meetup. She didn’t follow their normal protocols, wanting Yablonski to come to her place. He arrived at the agreed upon time and found Sasha overdosing. Yablonski called for backup and began CPR. Rotten walked in and misread the situation. While Rotten and Yablonski fought, Sasha died.</p>
<p>Rotten blamed Yablonski. He focused his energy and resources on finding the man who killed his sister. Bad luck or bad timing put Rotten in the same place at the same time as Yablonski, and Yablonski’s wife, Erin.</p>
<p>Rotten saw his opportunity for revenge and took it.</p>
<p>That night, Erin and Aurora were driving to a restaurant for a celebratory night out. Rain poured down, making the street dark and the road slick. There was no evidence Rotten Carter tracked Erin’s car through downtown Cleveland. There was no proof Rotten drove the car and instigated the crash. There were no witnesses to point to Rotten as the reason Erin Yablonski was dead and Aurora’s legs might never be the same.</p>
<p>And yet there was no doubt.</p>
<p>Alone in the tent with the corpse of the man he hated, Cruz felt empty. This didn’t fix a damn thing. And now, it would be his job to find the killer who had done him and the rest of the city a favor.</p>
<p>Cruz didn’t want the job, but he wasn’t going to pass it on. He was going to use it to his advantage and prove Rotten Carter was behind the crash.</p>
<p>Closure. That’s what he could give Aurora and Yablonski.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Playing Dead</i> by TG Wolff. Copyright 2024 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from TG Wolff. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="author" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/Y9WmOgYpo3kw-DSC5549-jpg.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>TG Wolff writes mysteries that play within the gray area between good and bad, right and wrong. She specializes in puzzles, giving you everything you need to solve the mystery. Diverse characters mirror the complexities of real life and real people, balanced with a healthy dose of entertainment. TG Wolff is the co-creator and co-host of <em>Mysteries to Die For</em> podcast. She holds a Master’s Degree in Civil Engineering and is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With TG Wolff:<br />
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh my word, talk about a spider webby story! Lots of dead guys, lots of suspects, all connected to each other in one way or another. This author does a great job of walking you through everything.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">It did get a tiny bit confusing because there are just so many characters to keep track of. But the main characters are excellent and they stay </span><span style="color: #222222;">consistent</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> throughout the story. I was never lost for long though because </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">the author did a good job of bringing me back.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Besides all of that… I also loved just the “human“ side of the story. The characters have lives. Cruz is married to Aurora and they are currently trying to sell their home and looking for another one. I absolutely love this whole process! So, I love that the story was half murder mystery and the other half was just about their every day lives. I think this really made me connect to the characters more.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even though this one was a tad slow for me about half way, it didn't stay that way for long. It soon pick up and was a solid, quick mystery! </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-29200755552078271742024-02-07T09:04:00.004-05:002024-02-07T09:05:55.080-05:00The Committee Will Kill You Now by JL Lycette<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h4><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></h4><h4>January 22 - February 16, 2024 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Committee Will Kill You Now by JL Lycette" border="0" height="304" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/mq4DxbncvsEs-The-Committee-Will-Kill-You-Now-eimage.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<h4>ABOUT THE BOOK -</h4><h4>The gripping new book from the author of <i>The Algorithm Will See You Now</i>. Based on the true-life rationing of kidney dialysis in 1960s America, a medical intern in 1992 Seattle tries to leave his painful past behind, only to uncover a shocking truth of thirty years prior and the lasting, generational harm of hidden secrets…</h4>
<p>After a co-intern dies by suicide, a grieving Noah Meier commits an accidental error. In a desperate move to save his patient's life, he covertly seeks help from audacious surgical resident Marah Maddox, igniting a bond between them.</p>
<p>When the hospital is suspiciously quick to sweep everything under the rug, Noah turns to his late father's journal for guidance and makes a chilling discovery, all while trying to stay out of the crosshairs of abusive Dr. Rankel, keen to make an example of Noah. Worse, Rankel clearly has it out for Marah as the only woman in her program.</p>
<p>As the hospital's patriarchal power structures, and the truth about his father's past, threaten Noah and Marah's burgeoning relationship, Noah will have to choose: shoulder his father's devastating legacy or create his own daring future.</p>
<p>The latest sensational page-turner from physician-author JL Lycette, <i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i> is a riveting historical suspense about the inner workings of the medical world and the personal struggles of those within it.</p>
<p>A thrilling near-historical drama that exposes the dark side of the medical establishment and a must-read for anyone interested in medicine, ethics, and the human struggle for justice.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i>:</h3>
<p>"A page-turner with heart, <i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i> will appeal to both doctors and non-doctors alike, and to anyone who’s ever needed to find the courage to stand up for what’s right." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Hadley Leggett, MD, author of <em>All They Ask Is Everything</em></span></p>
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<h3><i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i> Trailer:</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yZ-Bi7nkomo?si=cTE1PJA2EMZiCOcp" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Book Links: </span></b><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://amzn.to/47yy38v" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3SFHnDx" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3MGU6Ci" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/46cC7u3" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3SHaExA" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Black Rose Writing Press</a></span></b></p></blockquote>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>CHAPTER ONE</h4>
<h6>April 27, 1992<br />Seattle, WA</h6>
<p>The hospital had a saying—you came to work unless you were dead. </p>
<p>Apparently, being dead on the inside didn’t count.</p>
<p>The latter, which Noah had quipped months ago at intern orientation, hadn’t earned him any points with Dr. Artie Andrews, the Program Director. Although his peers had laughed, and he supposed that mattered most.</p>
<p>Humor, his stalwart companion, was nowhere to be found these days. His pre-med-school self, who’d studied literature and philosophy and naively believed medicine a noble art, had become a distant memory. For interns, the drudgery of <i>bodies</i> had become their entire existence—how much their patients pissed, shit, vomited, or bled. Plato could wax all he liked about the separation of body and soul, but most days, Noah had to struggle to even remember his patients <i>had</i> souls, let alone find time to doctor them. Hell, most days, he was pretty sure his own soul had shriveled up and died a few months ago. It had been somewhere around the halfway point of his internship year, when a patient had died and he’d felt <i>nothing</i> when he’d crossed their name off his list. Only another body.</p>
<p>But he had no time for such thoughts this morning. Noah mentally shoved the memory back into its compartment, physically shoved his notes into the pocket of his short white coat, and headed off the Gen Med ward to make his way to Monday morning Resident Report. It didn’t matter he’d been up all night, mandatory was mandatory.</p>
<p>Before he got two steps from the nurses’ station, the sharp voice of Kathy, the ward secretary, rang out from behind her desk. “Dr. Meier, wait. Sign this before you go.”</p>
<p>Noah suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder, where he instinctively expected to see Dr. <i>Thomas</i> Meier, gifted surgeon, renowned academic—and his late father. Accepting the chart Kathy shoved under his nose, he signed off on the orders he’d missed on his 6:00 A.M. admission. That’s what sleep deprivation did to you. </p>
<p>Behind him, the never-ending rain of the Seattle winter clattered on the windows, fraying his already heightened nerves. He scribbled his name and the time and date—7:50 A.M., 4/27/92.</p>
<p>He handed the chart back, his body already angling away, but Kathy’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Any update on when Dr. Doherty will be back?”</p>
<p>Noah’s sleep-fogged brain was slow to process her words. “Jasmine Doherty?”</p>
<p>Kathy bobbed her head, the chain attached to her reading glasses glinting as it looped around her neck beneath her permed hair. </p>
<p>Noah squinted at her. A part of his overtaxed brain urged him to catch up with his team or risk being late, something heavily frowned upon, but his curiosity won. “Jasmine’s out?”</p>
<p>Interns didn’t take sick days.</p>
<p>Kathy finished transcribing Noah’s signed orders from the chart and deftly shelved the heavy plastic binder back on the rack before answering with a shrug.</p>
<p>Did this have something to do with the free HIV testing for the homeless project that Noah, Jasmine, and a few of the other interns had been trying to start? The project Dr. Andrews had warned would risk distracting them from their required hospital duties? Had Jasmine gone down to the homeless camp and been delayed? Noah dismissed the uneasy feeling in his gut and said something to appease Kathy. “Maybe she had a family emergency.”</p>
<p>The ward secretary gave him a skeptical glance. </p>
<p>Noah countered with a conspiratorial grin, wielding his familiar shield, humor. “If you don’t already know what’s going on, Kathy, I’m sure you will by noon.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion with her hands, but he didn’t miss the pleased expression that flashed across her face.</p>
<p>His grin, a shallow thing that didn’t penetrate his hollow core, lingered as he grabbed his coffee and jogged off toward the elevators to catch up with his team, comprising his senior resident, Harper Li, and his co-intern, Colleen Peterson. </p>
<p>Noah found them both outside the University hospital’s east-wing elevators. The early morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows beneath the lobby atrium’s vaulted ceiling, bestowing a halo around them. The sight of his colleagues buoyed his spirits. All he had to do was get through these last few months of internship. Then he’d be able to start practicing more of the medicine he wanted to practice, like bringing free HIV testing to the homeless population. Once they got through internship, they’d become people again instead of indentured servants of the hospital. </p>
<p>From her rumpled scrubs and frizzier-than-usual red hair, Colleen’s call night had been no better than his. They’d been so swamped with admissions he’d hardly seen his co-intern all night. She mumbled to herself, shuffling her index cards. Her freckles stood out on her paler-than-usual face, making her appear even younger than her age, which was somewhere in her mid-twenties. Internship had given the opposite gift to Noah—premature aging. At twenty-eight, gray hairs already sprouted at his temples. Perhaps the only thing he’d inherited from his father, according to his mom, at least.</p>
<p>He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to them. His father had been too much on his mind of late. The staff calling him “doctor” only spiked his lifelong anxiety about not measuring up. After all, Noah hadn’t yet earned the long white coat of a second-year resident.</p>
<p>It was those damn boxes his mom had asked him to help move last weekend out of the attic of her historic, steep-gabled home on Queen Anne hill. The boxes where he’d discovered his father’s old journal. The journal he’d never known existed and had spontaneously grabbed, tossing it in his car even though he told himself he’d never read it. It would be a waste of time —</p>
<p>“You ready?” </p>
<p>Noah dropped his hand from his eyes.</p>
<p>Harper didn’t wait for an answer before pressing the elevator button. By unspoken agreement, they only allowed themselves the luxury of passive motion in the depths of post-call morning exhaustion—when they’d been on duty over twenty-four hours straight and still had twelve hours to go. </p>
<p>While they waited, Noah had to stop himself from attempting to smooth down some of Colleen’s wild hair. Instead, he held up his coffee, and they touched their paper cups together in a silent toast that acknowledged their mutual suffering. The last time he’d tried to touch Colleen’s hair had earned him the outrage of both the women on his team. He’d meant nothing by it, only he’d come to think of Colleen as the younger sister he’d never had and always wanted. He imagined the close bonds he and his co-interns had formed in the pressure-cooker of residency to be similar to siblings.</p>
<p>This past month on Harper’s service had been one of Noah’s most rewarding of the year. He’d found a mentor, instructor, big sister, and friend in her, all wrapped up in one. He didn’t want the month to end, as it would mean moving on to be assigned to a different R3.</p>
<p>Harper leaned close to speak in his ear in a low voice. “The announcements should come any day.”</p>
<p>Noah shot a glance toward Colleen, but she was fretting over her notes and didn’t appear to have heard. His heart rate sped up. Did everyone know how much he wanted an invitation to the prestigious Osler Society? Or only Harper, the first female member and arguably the most brilliant. Did her words mean he had a shot?</p>
<p>There was the national medical honor society, Alpha Omega Alpha, and then there was Dr. Artie Andrews’ Osler Society, or as it was known around the hospital, “the Society.” </p>
<p>Andrews had started it two decades ago, and it had attained near-mythical status at their university teaching hospital. Any intern or junior resident inducted into the Society would get their top fellowship or faculty placement choice. It had been no surprise to anyone when they’d inducted Harper as an intern.</p>
<p>But no one on the outside knew what actually transpired at their meetings. Noah had asked Harper once, but she’d only muttered, “Primum non nocere.”</p>
<p>“First do no harm?” Noah had asked. “But isn’t that what all of Medicine is about?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but with Artie, it’s… different,” she had said and shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”</p>
<p>Noah envisioned them all sitting around Andrews’ office, pontificating about the art of medicine and quoting Latin to each other. Pretentious academics. He’d rather let an E.R. nurse shove a 14-gauge I.V. in the back of his hand. But he wasn’t fooling himself. He wanted to be a part of it, more than anything. To belong. To prove it to the one person he never could. His father.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i> by JL Lycette. Copyright 2023 by JL Lycette. Reproduced with permission from JL Lycette. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2><span style="font-size: medium;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="JL Lycette" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/tMY7brWeSYla-author-photo-JL-Lycette-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Jennifer / JL Lycette is a novelist, award-winning essayist, rural physician, wife, and mom. Mid-career, she discovered narrative medicine on her path back from physician burnout and has been writing ever since. She is an alumna of the 2019 Pitch Wars Novel Mentoring program. Her first novel, <a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-algorithm-will-see-you-now-by-jl-lycette/" rel="noopener" target="_blank"><i>The Algorithm Will See You Now</i></a>, was a 2023 SCREENCRAFT CINEMATIC BOOK COMPETITION FINALIST, 2023 READER'S FAVORITE BRONZE MEDAL WINNER in the Medical Thriller category, 2023 MAXY AWARD'S FINALIST - Thriller category, and 2023 PAGE TURNER AWARD'S FINALIST - Best Debut Novel category. <i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i> is her second novel.</p>
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<p><b> MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><p>Another winner by JL Lycette. This book is scary real. The kind that you won't want to read sitting in the er waiting room... and yet that's what I did. Not one of my better decisions LOL. All kinds of thoughts were flying through my head. </p><p>I love how this author writes books that really make you think, questioning literally everything about the medical organization. I do love medical thrillers and medical drama, especially when they are this real and well written.</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">While I did like the first book - <span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;">The Algorithm Will See You Now, just a tad better (my favorite book of 2023). This one was a great follow-up, or should I say prequel. This one actually comes first as far as the timeline goes.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;">With only two books under her belt, Jennifer Lycette has quickly become a go to author for me.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></p><p><br /></p>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-4227806313022527762024-01-24T10:48:00.000-05:002024-01-24T10:48:07.374-05:00All Grown Up - Catherine Evans<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUm3UyZUT2ZTK3dMsn5ddMiTcRLhxRTqBz014Jv4K9LuyAwSa0djNH0AK3uR3oGLE-tQ6_LlHJZVeRGcJvnP2jgDhaZu6td0k6REssjQ_n9jzgcr6t6LbeFE-kXilBq-2Kv-Z_vjmyvzXv8bpUXH8tMrZmUSLM_t-akYmmFyIPaXRc6hSjwBq9Er1PIqY5/s1315/All%20GU%20Front%20cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1315" data-original-width="832" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUm3UyZUT2ZTK3dMsn5ddMiTcRLhxRTqBz014Jv4K9LuyAwSa0djNH0AK3uR3oGLE-tQ6_LlHJZVeRGcJvnP2jgDhaZu6td0k6REssjQ_n9jzgcr6t6LbeFE-kXilBq-2Kv-Z_vjmyvzXv8bpUXH8tMrZmUSLM_t-akYmmFyIPaXRc6hSjwBq9Er1PIqY5/w253-h400/All%20GU%20Front%20cover.png" width="253" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK -</b></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">All
Grown Up<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Neveah is
fifteen. A schoolkid.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"> <span class="s1ppyq">With a secret
life.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">She’s a
digital freelancer, and is having an affair with her biggest client.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">Giles is
married. He thinks Neveah is twenty-two.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">She’ll do
just about anything to stop him from finding out her true age.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">But
secrets have a way of spilling out.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;">With
devastating consequences.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Purchase Link -</span></b></p><p></p><p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/All-Grown-Up-Catherine-Evans/dp/1739630556"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">https://www.amazon.com/All-Grown-Up-Catherine-Evans/dp/1739630556</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">
</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span class="s1ppyq"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</b></span></span></span></p><p class="04xlpa" style="line-height: 15.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Catherine Evans is an author and publisher. She’s
the Editor of fictionjunkies, which publishes book and short stories online by
authors around the world and the co-founder of Inkspot Publishing – </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.inkspotpublishing.com/"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">www.inkspotpublishing.com</span></a></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">, which has now
released four titles. She’s a trustee of the Chipping Norton Literary Festival,
and lives in Oxfordshire. She’s married with a daughter and three
stepdaughters. </span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Social
Media Links – </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.cathyevans.com/"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">www.cathyevans.com</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">, </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.inkspotpublishing.com/"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">www.inkspotpublishing.com</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">, </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Instagram: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/inkspotpub"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">https://www.instagram.com/inkspotpub</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> , </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Facebook: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/inkspotpublishing"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">https://www.facebook.com/inkspotpublishing</span></b></a><!--[if !supportNestedAnchors]--><a name="_Hlt156385995"></a><a name="_Hlt156385994"></a><!--[endif]--></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Twitter: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://twitter.com/Inkspotpub"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">https://twitter.com/Inkspotpub</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></b></p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS - </span></b></p><p>Oh my goodness, to be honest, I'm not even sure how to go about reviewing a book like this.</p><p>Was it good - yes, great even! But it is so full of sadness, and also sometimes very disturbing. The story and the characters (especially the two young, underage girls) were so real. I was way too invested in their lives. This is <span style="font-family: inherit;">definitely a book that will stay with me in my head for a long while.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is definitely a book that made me want to write out a cast of characters. There are a lot of people to keep track of and it was a bit confusing for me at first. It took me a while to figure out and remember who everyone was and how they connected to each other. Once I had that down then the story really started to flow a lot better and I started enjoying it more.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While this book was hard to read at times due to the content - It was also extremely hard to put it down.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span><i><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">*Content warning - </span>swearing<span style="font-family: inherit;">, drugs and </span></span><span style="color: #222222;">alcohol</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">, under age sex, rape, and abuse</span></i></span></span></p><p><span class="a-size-base" style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><b><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from </i></b></span><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>Rachel's Random Resources </i></b><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>- Thank You!!</i></b></p>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-74115184991338538452024-01-17T11:23:00.003-05:002024-01-17T12:51:53.203-05:00The Good Twin - by Diane Saxon<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_q2pEmMQz64ClBTTIOch0SxRtb3ySHXnG7a7uOSUFGMGoJFylt0WOoLvUaAYtHYA1N66_sV3tW21H-Ta79QNNmxbgIdZpNmAm8sxoMs4oJEYEQEpLEOBlNRzzM5CpGDph-RaHwRB01Q1o_cB8hdAXU6Cf1jckxXqt2NrUhQd9En8lZhPmXckIaMgh0fe/s2339/THE%20GOOD%20TWIN%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1524" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_q2pEmMQz64ClBTTIOch0SxRtb3ySHXnG7a7uOSUFGMGoJFylt0WOoLvUaAYtHYA1N66_sV3tW21H-Ta79QNNmxbgIdZpNmAm8sxoMs4oJEYEQEpLEOBlNRzzM5CpGDph-RaHwRB01Q1o_cB8hdAXU6Cf1jckxXqt2NrUhQd9En8lZhPmXckIaMgh0fe/w260-h400/THE%20GOOD%20TWIN%20cover.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">A mind-blowing 5 stars!</span></b></p><p><b>ABOUT THE BOOK -</b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Be careful
what you wish for…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Mum passed
recently. It was sudden and unexpected. On the cusp of adulthood, my twin
sister, Skye and I are left with decisions to make that will change our lives
forever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As
identical twins, we’d normally stick together like glue, but anger and grief
gets the better of us and we push and pull in different directions.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Skye wants
us to desert our broken family for university. Whilst I want us to postpone our
university entry and huddle together at home with our grief-stricken dad and
our younger sister, Jade and try to heal our broken hearts and learn to live
without our mother.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At an
impasse, each of us stubbornly gets our wish.<br />
Finding myself alone and without the other half of me, I’m desperately lonely.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I need a
friend.<br />
Someone to talk to.<br />
Someone who understands.<br />
But, when I find that special someone, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake and
trusted the wrong person<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Diane
Saxon’s compelling new thriller will have you questioning who you can trust to
keep your family safe.</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Purchase
Link - </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://mybook.to/goodtwinsocial">https://mybook.to/goodtwinsocial</a></span></span><u><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: blue; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <o:p></o:p></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBSMPbbER9ywW8R9vz6yjLqsbjCJfA2YOTH8CEmscjnWi2U1nOhlVU4jKp2n-PSnEfxSy7_Zk38Oe7BQTHu_Ii1Wr4di4Npbjt_o2j0_orCDHdQWYaqFqUT3e9A3JGhcwJCcfrlYkNRRIrvCmLkn2l3Ad8FyMNx2ka6BnzCkvfLrZyvegfZi-pCoYOd-j/s1800/Diane%20Saxon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBSMPbbER9ywW8R9vz6yjLqsbjCJfA2YOTH8CEmscjnWi2U1nOhlVU4jKp2n-PSnEfxSy7_Zk38Oe7BQTHu_Ii1Wr4di4Npbjt_o2j0_orCDHdQWYaqFqUT3e9A3JGhcwJCcfrlYkNRRIrvCmLkn2l3Ad8FyMNx2ka6BnzCkvfLrZyvegfZi-pCoYOd-j/w133-h200/Diane%20Saxon.jpg" width="133" /></a></b></div><b><br />ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Diane Saxon
previously wrote romantic fiction for the US market but has now turned to
writing psychological crime. <i>Find Her
Alive</i> was her first novel in this genre and introduced series character DS
Jenna Morgan. She is married to a retired policeman and lives in Shropshire.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Social Media Links – </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Facebook: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dianesaxonauthor"><b><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://www.facebook.com/dianesaxonauthor</span></b></a></span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Twitter </span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://twitter.com/Diane_Saxon"><b><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://twitter.com/Diane_Saxon</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #103cc0; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Instagram</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/janet_hoggarth_author/"><b><span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration-line: none;"> </span></b></a><a href="https://www.instagram.com/dianesaxonauthor/"><b><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://www.instagram.com/dianesaxonauthor/</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Newsletter Sign Up:</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://bit.ly/JanetHoggarthnews"><b><span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration-line: none;"> </span></b></a><a href="https://bit.ly/DianeSaxonNews"><b><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">https://bit.ly/DianeSaxonNews</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Bookbub profile:</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/janet-hoggarth"><b><span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration-line: none;"> </span></b></a><a href="https://www.bookbub.com/authors/diane-saxon"><b><span style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Diane Saxon Books - BookBub</span></b></a></span><b><u><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1155cc; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><b>MY THOUGHTS -</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Holy moly this one is INTENSE! In the very beginning I thought it might be a tad slow. Whoa, was I wrong! It got intense very quickly.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The character development was excellent, maybe a little too good. Some of these characters I didn't really need to know, if you know what I mean. </span></p>This book is dark, and disturbing. So be warned. But it just grips you and won't let you go. Its like when you are watching something horrible but you just can't look away. I could not stop reading.<p></p><p>The descriptions are so vivid. I had a picture of everything in my head. It's like they say "I can't unsee that" this book will now forever be in my brain. I can't unsee it. This is a book that I will be thinking about for a long time.</p><p>This is definitely an author I want to read more of.</p><p>*** - I do feel like I have to put a content warning - there are about a million triggers in here. It is pretty graphic and disturbing... But I loved it! LOL</p><p><br /></p><p><span class="a-size-base" style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><b><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from </i></b></span><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>Rachel's Random Resources </i></b><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>- Thank You!!</i></b></p>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-47510217019593467772024-01-10T08:16:00.001-05:002024-01-10T08:16:29.618-05:00Homecoming Chaos - D W Brooks<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3t-EQx_yjAhAbST1uhJgCF9x8m66MStUZiwa7XXcqN9DdSlSVxjq_SCpsBMEociLkHVQdPZBUNRC6ZNPpXzu5O2lZmPH41lYxjjM_Y_3ynCtJQDt4-GQ6cyhy8c4qYk576RJN9Ismztr_T5_umAdT_aihaJeUKDc326RGQKoVTB1vvt1iN-z6OtYm9MQ_/s1050/homecoming-chaos-teaser-1.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3t-EQx_yjAhAbST1uhJgCF9x8m66MStUZiwa7XXcqN9DdSlSVxjq_SCpsBMEociLkHVQdPZBUNRC6ZNPpXzu5O2lZmPH41lYxjjM_Y_3ynCtJQDt4-GQ6cyhy8c4qYk576RJN9Ismztr_T5_umAdT_aihaJeUKDc326RGQKoVTB1vvt1iN-z6OtYm9MQ_/w640-h427/homecoming-chaos-teaser-1.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>A dead body in the parking lot of her family’s business,
a killer on the loose, and a handsome detective asking a lot of questions…</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jamie Scott’s life fell apart four years ago when she broke
off her engagement, turned down a dream job, and went overseas to run away from
her life. Now she’s back, but the reunion is not without problems. She arrives
home just in time to attend the soiree her mother planned, but she’s not
prepared for what she finds—a dead employee in the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Detective Nick Marshall is assigned to the murder case at
the forensics lab owned by Jamie’s family. He meets the headstrong Jamie, but
he has a job to do. And his attraction to her… well, he’s a professional.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jamie knows the stakes are high. She has to face the past
and save her parents’ business while dealing with her family drama and an
uncertain future. She also has to deal with Nick, who wants her out of the way
of his investigation. But fate keeps throwing them in one another’s paths… and
into chaos that they both want to avoid, but neither can seem to escape.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Order your copy from Amazon - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Homecoming-Chaos-D-W-Brooks-ebook/dp/B0CKS9P7PF/ref=sr_1_1?crid=33L4APNJX0DSX&keywords=homecoming+chaos+by+d.w.+brooks&qid=1704892513&s=books&sprefix=homecoming+chao%2Cstripbooks%2C88&sr=1-1" target="_blank">HERE</a></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2JnNsDwXLbkZH-BTnBnUNYzGu9s311Lovj-M-nTAl7oPvKc4L6lWpKJVUVobLK0fzuCBMKdxd_Q_dr0tS06AbGG6pWimEkl4e0YtupRTT4GG-cpzd2-i0f1q91BljViSTelHUtB0ujnuyp0yK5iCcbYL9CzwXhU02PRFFZxXigUMkbDhtN8mEVeH34MPn/s1080/DWBrooks.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2JnNsDwXLbkZH-BTnBnUNYzGu9s311Lovj-M-nTAl7oPvKc4L6lWpKJVUVobLK0fzuCBMKdxd_Q_dr0tS06AbGG6pWimEkl4e0YtupRTT4GG-cpzd2-i0f1q91BljViSTelHUtB0ujnuyp0yK5iCcbYL9CzwXhU02PRFFZxXigUMkbDhtN8mEVeH34MPn/s320/DWBrooks.webp" width="240" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have always been an enthusiastic reader. Breakfast in my
childhood home was a slow process as I would read any object on the
table—newspapers, cereal boxes, milk cartons, anything. Taking away my books
was an effective punishment.<o:p></o:p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">As part of this interest, my cousins and I created a
neighborhood of preteen and teenage characters who had adventures and solved
mysteries. We drew out this neighborhood, identified where everyone lived, and
created character profiles for each one. We were well ahead of our time and
wrote a lot of unfinished stories which disappeared into the attic as we got
older. After this failed experiment, I still had thoughts of writing my own
stories one day.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Becoming an author was an early dream pushed aside by
practical thoughts and fears. I decided to take a more surefire route of going
to medical school and residency. While I didn’t write my own stories, I spent
time writing in a medical and education capacity.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal">A health crisis awakened the desire to write again. And the
ability to self-publish, I could see a path to getting my words and stories out
of my head and into a bound book others can read and hopefully enjoy.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">A nice suspenseful read. This book really amps up in the
last half and gets quite intense. The first half was a little slow for me, but
halfway through I really started enjoying it more.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I really liked the characters. The main character, Jamie, seemed like someone I would like in real life. She was smart, sensitive, strong, a perfect leading lady. I liked reading about her family, and their conversations. I felt like a fly on the wall. That’s what kept me going at first. I
kept reading and then BAM! The second half of the book really took off, all the sudden it gets
crazy with suspense and excitement.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal">A nice worthwhile read! I recommend this one. It's a "sit in the Livingroom with a cup of coffee while it snows outside" kind of book. :-)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Thanks to the author, D. W. Brooks, for sending me an ecopy to read and review.</i></b></p><p><br /></p>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-53681427278411045432023-12-13T08:22:00.000-05:002023-12-13T08:22:00.511-05:00Arranging Words by Fran Abrams (Poetry)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuX2_pQuYWVXEat7nbR8twOhTI1Gl4KKpzoeA-vwoLR3IajDKZZq-bvZFwohe-45LtFUce_LMf5XXfu0xxdAJrWHFGZmk5k2STMEq0D9rcRukcG97pwdsaCMUKd1t0IO-znIAdiVTsFILmZKAAjtXk1YLjjhUIj3dRGyn6XQlGdta1tO-cVyLRJEoPC24O/s2200/Arranging%20Words%20Cover%20Update.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2200" data-original-width="1499" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuX2_pQuYWVXEat7nbR8twOhTI1Gl4KKpzoeA-vwoLR3IajDKZZq-bvZFwohe-45LtFUce_LMf5XXfu0xxdAJrWHFGZmk5k2STMEq0D9rcRukcG97pwdsaCMUKd1t0IO-znIAdiVTsFILmZKAAjtXk1YLjjhUIj3dRGyn6XQlGdta1tO-cVyLRJEoPC24O/w273-h400/Arranging%20Words%20Cover%20Update.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></b></p><p><br /></p><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">About the collection:</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Arranging Words is Abrams’ second chapbook collection. It is a series of light-hearted poems that asks the reader to look at words from a new perspective. These poems approach letters, words, and everyday phrases in a way that pokes fun at the eccentricities of the English language.</div><div><br /></div><div>For example, her poem titled “K Knows How to Hide and Seek” begins with the line “Kknocks twice, but we only hear him once,” reminding us how often “k” is a silent letter.</div><div><br /></div><div>The poem “Poetry Exercise” plays on the meaning of the word “exercise” with the line “Brain cells stretch, lift your arms, reach for words.” Phrases are deconstructed into literal meanings, such as in the poem “Beside Myself” that asks, “Am I myself or the one beside myself?”</div><div><br /></div><div>This collection illuminates the quirks of the English language in a lively, humorous way while demonstrating a love for words themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background: 0px 0px rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #4e4e4e; font-family: "Myriad Pro", "Trebuchet MS", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Available on <a href="https://amzn.to/3Mowu4T" style="background: 0px 0px; border: 0px; color: #0071bb; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Amazon,</a> <a href="https://poeticbooktours.wordpress.com/_wp_link_placeholder" style="background: 0px 0px; border: 0px; color: #0071bb; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Bookshop</a>, and <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/book/1144248969?ean=9798989153114" style="background: 0px 0px; border: 0px; color: #0071bb; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Barnes & Noble</a>.</b></span></span></div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">About the Author:</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8cpW_VT7wbyYF9NGQiNXMdjjSUv7DHZSlAbBdSOwHbxXIZe7wkvhsA2R4h2wxaVNPAN_TB6EdF31O-nx5GR7djDGohvCfokGeborSmXszKTNIy9kFr3BsSF_M2gC6WS3UerMHyWtuszRbIew2hGWTACkFSPwMa8IaZwzDDEMpjm8I6626MMEPrg6hq9Aq/s4912/Arranging%20words%20author.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4912" data-original-width="4912" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8cpW_VT7wbyYF9NGQiNXMdjjSUv7DHZSlAbBdSOwHbxXIZe7wkvhsA2R4h2wxaVNPAN_TB6EdF31O-nx5GR7djDGohvCfokGeborSmXszKTNIy9kFr3BsSF_M2gC6WS3UerMHyWtuszRbIew2hGWTACkFSPwMa8IaZwzDDEMpjm8I6626MMEPrg6hq9Aq/w200-h200/Arranging%20words%20author.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div>Fran Abrams lives in Rockville, MD. Her poems have been published in literary magazines online and in print and appear in more than a dozen anthologies. In July 2022, the title poem of this book, “Arranging Words,” was a finalist in the 2022 Prime Number Magazine Award for Poetry. Her two previous books are: I Rode the Second Wave: A Feminist Memoir (2022) and The Poet Who Loves Pythagoras (2023). Learn more at <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.franabramspoetry.com&source=gmail&ust=1702558624000000&usg=AOvVaw2IY7Skxw9O9yFrEL_gO4AU" href="http://www.franabramspoetry.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.franabramspoetry.com</a> and Connect on Facebook at <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.facebook.com/people/Fran-Abrams-Poet/100086920783601/&source=gmail&ust=1702558624000000&usg=AOvVaw1vUTWQFV3wbQUeRakjLuga" href="https://www.facebook.com/people/Fran-Abrams-Poet/100086920783601/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Fran Abrams, Poet</a>.</div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div><br /><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What a fun poetry book! One doesn’t usually say that about poetry. But that’s what this was, it was fun to read and fun to try and figure out the clever poems. Just pure entertainment.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A few of these poems in the beginning were about the different letters of the alphabet. As I’m reading this I was thinking of my grandchildren who are homeschooled by my daughter. And I was thinking that this would actually be a great book to use for homeschooling and teaching the kids about the use of different letters and letter combinations! My granddaughter is six years old and I think she would really appreciate these poems.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I love this - taken from tastes like chocolate…</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>If I knew the ingredients for a poem </i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>that taste like chocolate, </i></b><b><i>I would present </i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>my poem to those who insist,</i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>I never understood the poetry.</i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>A collection of poems that taste like chocolate </i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>might tempt more people to enjoy </i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>a morsel of insight, a reminder of sweetness,</i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>a serving of comfort.</i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">All of the poems in this book are quite literally "arranging words", or playing with words or a play on words. The author/poet is very clever indeed!</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Some of my favorites -</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Three Little Words ~ Ha! </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Beside Myself ~ <img alt="❤️" aria-label="❤️" class="an1" data-emoji="❤️" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/15.0/2764_fe0f/72.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and Two Left Feet made me giggle out loud!</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img alt="😆" aria-label="😆" class="an1" data-emoji="😆" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/15.0/1f606/72.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /><img alt="😆" aria-label="😆" class="an1" data-emoji="😆" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/15.0/1f606/72.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /> Cold Shoulder… this poet is brilliant!</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">She totally reminds me of Shel Silverstein! This would be a great book to read out loud with your family and be sure to include the children! </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">She has a couple other books out that I might check out. Simply put, Fran Abrams… I love you!</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Lora, serif;"><i><b>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving an e-book copy of this from </b></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Lora, serif;"><i><b><b>Poetic Book Tours</b>. </b></i><i><b>Thank you! </b></i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-52460496049191348012023-12-11T08:11:00.000-05:002023-12-11T08:11:26.815-05:00The Immortal Detective by D. B. Woodling (with a GIVEAWAY!)<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-immortal-detective-by-d-b-woodling/" title="The Immortal Detective by D. B. Woodling"><img alt="The Immortal Detective by D. B. Woodling Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/the-immortal-detective-by-d-b-woodling-banner-.png" width="600" /></a></h2></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">November 27 - December 8, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</span></b></div>
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<h2><br /></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Immortal Detective by D. B. Woodling" border="0" height="309" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/XWNL4gvT9PVN-Woodling_THE-IMMORTAL-DETECTIVE_FC-IPG.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div><h4>Sometimes being immortal makes you wish you were dead.</h4>
<p>Celeste Crenshaw has survived her parents’ grisly murders, grueling and gender-biased police training, a battle with rogue vampires, and even her own death. While immortality might seem a dream come true, can she accept the strings attached?</p>
<p>Celeste spends the start of her immortal life being mentored by the Elders of the Hollow Earth. They release her once they feel certain Celeste has honed her supernatural powers. But little do they know, Celeste isn’t wholly committed to granting eternal life to those deserving. Upon a return home to her immortal lover, and the Kansas City Detective Squad, she battles mortal foes, not so unlike the demonic undead. And when a fellow detective falls victim to a murderous gang member, Celeste faces a gut-wrenching decision and the possible wrath of the Elders.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Immortal Detective</i>:</h3>
<p>"…impressive vampiric worldbuilding {with} a fascinating cast." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;"><em>~Publishers Weekly</em></span></p>
<p>"A new, original, fresh, fascinating and fun take on the Vampire genre. THE IMMORTAL DETECTIVE by D. B. Woodling is a “must read” pick for the legions of vampire fiction fans and an immediate and enduringly popular addition to community library Fantasy Fiction collections. Exceptionally well written…" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;"><em>~Midwest Book Review</em></span></p>
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<h3><i>The Immortal Detective</i> Trailer:</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1igA4-GwEgk?si=0fPu94eAi-gXgbpY" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div>
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<h3><br /></h3><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Series: The Immortal Detective, 1<br />Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/46eaFg6" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ZJpCF3" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3POzycH" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3RwXR00" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3POzHNh" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">CamCat Books</a></span></b></div>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<p>I found Liza McCuskey strung out in an alley between a strip joint and a pawnshop. The report listed her as twenty-two, but she looked every bit of forty-five. The color of her hair reminded me of chili peppers and hung limp against bruised and bony shoulders. Her face wasn’t a ray of sunshine; it forecasted Noah’s flood. I flashed my shield, which convinced the john pressing her against a building to take off. She was hesitant to talk until I showed her a crisp twenty-dollar bill. She reached for it, feigning goodwill the way addicts always do.</p>
<p>“Not so fast, Liza. You tell me what you know about Gunner’s murder and there’s more where that came from.”</p>
<p>She shook her head, so hard her entire body shook with it, then she wrenched her head sideways and puked. A man wearing a T-shirt advertising the club swaggered from the strip club’s rear entrance, whistling as he unzipped his pants and peed a steady stream. I assumed he was the bartender.</p>
<p>“When you’re done there,” I called out, “bring her a club soda–room temperature, no ice.”</p>
<p>He wagged his penis, then zipped up. “I don’t know if you noticed, princess, but we don’t do curb service.”</p>
<p>“You do tonight. Make it fast and the KCPD might even throw you a tip.”</p>
<p>He scurried back inside, and I hoped he planned to return. Liza hitched her short skirt back down over skeletal hips, losing her balance twice. Her fishnet stockings were ripped here, torn there, and could have snagged a small shark. If she had worn panties when she came into the alley, she didn’t have them on now. I pointed to her hand. “What happened there?” It looked like a defensive wound to me. “Did that happen recently?” She hid her hand behind her back. “Maybe around the time somebody stabbed Gunner to death?”</p>
<p>“Like I told those other cops, I got nothing to say.”</p>
<p>“I think you were there, Liza. Witnesses saw you with Gunner an hour before a passerby discovered his body. And that knife wound on your hand isn’t just a coincidence.”</p>
<p>She turned her back and faced the building. The bartender crashed through the rear door. Wearing a scowl and a snippet of actual barbed wire for a nose ring, he pressed a plastic cup in my direction, then exchanged the club soda for a ten-dollar bill and took off. </p>
<p>I bumped Liza with my elbow. “Here, drink this.”</p>
<p>She gulped the entire glass, and I fought the urge to get her something to eat. She belched then swiped a grimy hand across her mouth and headed toward the street.</p>
<p>“Have it your way,” I called after her. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when the next cop you meet arrests you for murder.”</p>
<p>She stopped dead and whipped around to face me. “I didn’t kill him.”</p>
<p>“But if you know who did and you don’t come forward, you’re considered an accessory after the fact. Which means prison time, Liza. That’s one hell of a way to get clean.”</p>
<p>She began to tremble, so violently her knees buckled, and I could hear her teeth chatter. “I talk, I’m dead. That motherfucker is crazy.”</p>
<p>“Then tell me off the record: No written statement. No subpoena to testify.”</p>
<p>Her dull eyes brightened. “I still get the money?”</p>
<p>“That depends on the information. I want a name.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know his name. You gotta believe me,” she whined like a kid advised of bedtime.</p>
<p>“I don’t believe you, Liza. But let’s start with a description.” I’d made two attempts to make sense of the jumbled thoughts inside her head. Reading her mind was a lot like wading through the waste in Chernobyl.</p>
<p>“I didn’t see him real good, okay?”</p>
<p>“But you were in the car?”</p>
<p>She nodded and looked away.</p>
<p>“Then help me understand; if you were in the car, why didn’t you see him?”</p>
<p>“Because I had my face buried in Gunner’s balls.”</p>
<p>“You were performing oral sex?”</p>
<p>She sniggered. “Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it. I give him a blowjob, he gives me crank.”</p>
<p>“And what happened when the killer began stabbing him?” She hid her face in her hands. “Come on, Liza. I’m trying to understand why you didn’t see the person who opened the door, or leaned in the window, and stabbed Gunner to death?”</p>
<p>Tears began to stream down her face. “Blood was squirting everywhere, Gunner making this horrible gurgling sound, and I-I tried to get down, get on the floor. But then. . .the guy with the knife grabbed my hair and yanked me up, and all I could see was that knife. I pushed my hand toward him, you know, like when you tell somebody to stop.”</p>
<p>“And that’s when he stabbed you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s when he stabbed me,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“How did you get away?”</p>
<p>“A car pulled up across the street. A bunch of guys got out and he grabbed the drugs and the money Gunner had on him and ran. They weren’t after him or anything, he just ran.”</p>
<p>“Where did you run, Liza?”</p>
<p>“Into the bushes until the guys went inside a house and I knew for sure the guy with the knife was gone. Then I went home.”</p>
<p>“Before you answer, remember everything you say is off the record. Most of all, you have to know that the killer didn’t intend to leave any witnesses. He wants you dead, Liza. For all we know, he could be out there right now looking to finish the job. I’d like to find him before he has the opportunity to do that. So tell me his name.”</p>
<p>“I told you. I don’t know it.”</p>
<p>Because she’d returned to working the streets, it was possible Liza didn’t know the killer’s name or he hers. But drug addiction was a powerful motivator. Maybe she was willing to risk her life for her next fix. I dug around in my pocket and withdrew all the cash I had. “Then give me a description,” I said, walking toward her and fanning various denominations. “You must have seen something.”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay,” she said, staring at the cash. “Gunner pushed me off him when the guy started stabbing him, you know, to try to fight him off. Before I made it down to the floor, I saw the back of the guy’s head. He didn’t have any hair, and he was white.”</p>
<p>“What else?”</p>
<p>“He had a tattoo, but I couldn’t see all of it because his jacket covered some of it and his neck was all scrunched up, you know, from leaning in the window.”</p>
<p>“To the best of your knowledge, what did it look like?”</p>
<p>“It was fucking weird. It looked like an up and down line on the top part, a sideways line below that.”</p>
<p>I handed over the money and gave her my card. “In case you remember anything else or decide to clean up your life.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Immortal Detective</i> by D. B. Woodling. Copyright 2023 by D. B. Woodling. Reproduced with permission from D. B. Woodling. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="D. B. Woodling" border="0" height="250" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/ASn9cNTEkGL7-small-retouched-author-photo.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p><p>Acquiring an early appreciation of prose written by Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, and the audacious Stephen King, Woodling chose to follow in their intimidating footsteps, evidenced by <i>The Immortal Twin</i> (CamCat Books 2020) and <i>The Immortal Detective</i>, released by CamCat Books, March 2023. She recently completed a supernatural small-town murder mystery and has a Hollywood whodunit in the works, with Book Two of The Immortal Detective series vying for her attention. Woodling is a multi-genre author, and <i>The Immortal Detective</i> is her eighth novel.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With D. B. Woodling:<br />
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div>Looking for a great vampire book? I’ve got one for you right here!</div><div><br /></div><div>Great first line!</div><div>“The only thing worse than never waking up is waking up dead.”</div><div><br /></div><div>There are really two parts to this book. The first four chapters are of Celeste waking up as a vampire. She meets with all of the elders as they teach her the ins and outs of all of the super powers she will now have such as… Walking through walls, becoming invisible, teleportation just to name a few. Then the whole rest of the book is pretty much every day life as a vampire detective. It’s as “every day“ as a vampire can get. Lots of fun, lots of action.</div><div><br /></div><div>The real winners in this book are the characters! With characters like Queen Elizabeth 1, Socrates, Nostradamus, Leonardo da Vinci, her “adopted” daughter Raina, and the warm, hilarious, and flamboyant Fane (umm housemate/Raina’s caregiver and also a vampire) - he was my favorite!</div><div>“Fane was unicorns and rainbows, tornadoes and Armageddon, all wrapped up in one disturbing package.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“If I am subjected to one more ghastly reading of that trope-filled Alice in Wonderland, I shall slit my own throat. Whoever thought it a grand idea for young children to idolize obviously demented Alice suffers similar mental decline.” “It’s a classic, Fane.” “Ha. The same could be said of dinosaur excrement, but do you see me devouring it?”</div><div><br /></div><div>Our main character, Celeste, a detective who is also a vampire is wreaking havoc on the bad guys! The suspects/perps don’t stand a chance against her! With blood in a thermos and armed with powers such as opening locked doors, hovering above the ground, seeing into their memories, and I’m pretty sure threatening a confession out of someone by showing your fangs isn’t exactly legal.</div><div>My gosh, this would make a great TV series! I think I’m seeing the next wonder woman here!</div><div>“I forced a laugh. “I’m human after all, not some kind of superhero.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I was late starting this book so my intention was to read it quickly and even skim through some pages. Nope, that didn’t happen. I had to read literally every single word because this book was so enjoyable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Make this vampire book your next read! I can't wait for more in this series! </div><div><br /></div><div><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-62563376904509527502023-12-06T08:15:00.001-05:002023-12-06T08:15:51.236-05:00Lest She Forget by Lisa Malice (with a GIVEAWAY!)<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h4>November 20 - December 15, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Lest She Forget by Lisa Malice" border="0" height="309" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/GOipJmuwgbU0-Malice_LEST-SHE-FORGET_FC.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div><h4>Haunted by a forgotten past. Hunted by a ruthless killer. No one to save her but herself.</h4>
<p>After surviving a car crash, Kay Smith wakes from a coma with amnesia, a battered face, and no one to vouch for her identity. Her psychiatrist is convinced that her memory loss is connected to the horrific flashbacks and nightmares haunting her. As she digs for clues to her past, Kay uncovers a shady character following her every inquiry. Who is he? And what does he want from her?</p>
<p>As Kay’s probes deepen, she realizes that everyone around her has deadly secrets to hide—even her. Emerging memories, guilty suspicions, and headline-screaming murders push Kay to come out of the shadows and choose: will she perpetuate a horrendous lie or risk her life to uncover the truth?</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Lest She Forget</i>:</h3>
<p>"Lisa Malice’s debut, <i>Lest She Forget</i>, is filled with twists and turns that will leave you guessing until the very end!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Debra Webb, <em>USA Today</em> Bestseller</span></p>
<p>"Brimming with intrigue, <i>Lest She Forget</i> takes readers on a dark and twisted journey with surprises around every corner. It’s a thriller that grips you from the first page!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Ellery Kane, award-winning author of the Doctors of Darkness series</span></p>
<p>"This twisty thriller takes you deep into Kay’s psyche, even as she runs for her life. Whoever you think this woman is, whatever you think she’s seen or done, prepare to be surprised!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Sarah Warburton, author of <em>Once Two Sisters</em> and <em>You Can Never Tell</em></span></p>
<p>"Lisa Malice’s psychological thriller <i>Lest She Forget</i> is a tense and twisty debut, an intricately plotted story that grows more and more complex with each new revelation. Don’t even try to guess how this novel ends; just put yourself in Malice’s capable hands and enjoy the ride!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Karen Dionne, author of the #1 international bestseller <em>The Marsh King’s Daughter</em> and <em>The Wicked Sister</em></span></p>
<p>"Lisa Malice turns an amnesia story on its head in this twisty, unique tale of intrigue, suspense and unexpected turns. You won’t be able to predict the next chapter, much less the ending." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Lisa Black, <em>NYT</em> bestselling author of the Gardiner & Renner and Locard Institute series</span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/3PfzykI" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/462rM4k" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ra7jfi" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3RgykIj" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3LgYNSm" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">CamCat Books</a></span></b></div>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<p>The loud heavy beat of my heart echoes in my ears, pulsing in sync with the car’s wipers as they furiously slap at the snow alighting the windshield. The frantic rhythm draws me in as I stare ahead into the darkening night and the thick snowflakes swirling in the beams of the headlights. The effect is almost mesmerizing.</p>
<p>My eyelids start to droop. I want nothing more than to sleep, let my mind shut off. Under slumber’s spell, the ache in my heart would subside, the guilt in my soul would vanish, and, if I was lucky, I’d wake up to find that the words I heard earlier today were just part of a gruesome dream, an awful nightmare.</p>
<p><i>She’s dead.</i></p>
<p>My chest tightens, my heart races as my thoughts are pulled toward our last moments together. Fraught with suspicion, accusations, anger. My eyes tear up.</p>
<p><i>It’s your fault.</i></p>
<p>The words reverberate in my ears as my head starts to throb. How could I have been so stupid and naïve to fall for that man’s lies, his manipulations? If I could go back in time and change everything, fix my mistakes, right a host of wrongs, I would. Things would have turned out differently. Two—<i>no, three</i>—people would still be alive. But there’s no going back. Worse, I see no path forward, at least not one I can live with.</p>
<p>My gaze is drawn to a hazy pair of headlights reflected in the rearview mirror. A chill runs down my spine, even as a bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face. My fingers, clenched atop the steering wheel, go numb as my foot presses down on the accelerator.</p>
<p>“Calm down,” I tell myself. I can’t let fear trick me into imagining what is not there.</p>
<p>I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, then open them again and glance into the side mirror. They’re still there, those headlights, keeping pace with me. I focus on the road in front of me, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Get a grip,” I tell myself. “If he wanted me dead, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”</p>
<p>Staring ahead, a forest of tall pines engulfs the road, blocking out much of the remaining daylight and casting a gloom all around that grows blacker and grimmer with each fleeting moment. But I can’t go back. Not now. I’d have to face the truth, accept my own culpability, surrender myself, my life, my future. I’m not ready to do that.</p>
<p>I turn on the radio and press the scan button, hoping for a distraction. Music pours through the speakers in short clips—Spanish, hard rock, country, polka—and then a soft, familiar melody, its words just on the tip of my tongue.</p>
<p><i>“. . . I would surrender my soul, if it would bring back yours . . .”</i></p>
<p>My gut twists with remorse. The pain is cut short as the radio scanner moves to the next station.</p>
<p><i>“. . . Could you forgive me, if I made it to Heaven . . .”</i></p>
<p>Tears well up in my eyes as the radio, again, moves on.</p>
<p><i>“. . . My name won’t be on St. Peter’s list . . .”</i></p>
<p>A mournful sob erupts from deep inside me. My hands, clutching the steering wheel, suddenly go weak and start to tremble. Those songs, their lyrics—words that never held any personal meaning—now haunt me. It’s as if some cosmic disc jockey knows what I’ve done and doesn’t want—no—won’t let me forget it.</p>
<p>“Please, no more!” I shout.</p>
<p>A woman’s voice pops over the speakers, a news program. “Finally, I sigh, poking the scan button to set the station.</p>
<p>“. . . it’s time for a quick station break, after which we’ll go to a weather update with WCVA’s meteorologist, Alec Bohanan. Our weather team says this blizzard hitting Virginia and much of the East Coast, the first significant snow event of 2017, is a bad one. It could be a killer, so sit tight at home and keep your radio dial tuned to this station . . .”</p>
<p>She’s right. The snow is coming down thicker and heavier with each passing mile. The roads will only get worse. But I need to press on. I must get home. I can think better there. Figure out what options I have left.</p>
<p>My attention is pulled back to the voice on the radio. “When the last segment of <i>The June Jeffries Show</i> returns, we’ll join the Virginia State Police press conference with breaking news on the missing person case of—”</p>
<p><i>It’s your fault.</i></p>
<p>The words echo in my ears, pulsing louder and faster with each echo, drowning out the newscaster’s voice. I slam my fist down on the radio’s power button.</p>
<p>Suddenly, flashes of light bounce off the windshield. The muscles in my jaw tighten. My neck stiffens. My hands, locked in a death grip on the steering wheel, grow cold, numb. My gaze darts to the rearview mirror. Unable to look away from the looming vehicle behind me, I throw my left arm up to block its intense beams.</p>
<p>The steering wheel jerks to the right, pitching the passenger-side wheels off the road. I grasp the steering wheel with both hands and pull to the left, but overcorrect. The car careens across the snow-swept blacktop, skids beyond the center line.</p>
<p>When I finally pull the car into the right lane, my heart is pounding, my body trembling, while my grip on the steering wheel goes weak. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Lest She Forget</i> by Lisa Malice. Copyright 2023 by Lisa Malice. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 300px;"><img align="left" alt="Lisa Malice" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/ZSoh2ZXvcaDC-Lisa-Malice-headshot-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="267" /></div>
<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p><p>Lisa Malice earned her B.S. in psychology at the University of Minnesota, her M.S. and Ph.D. at the Georgia Institute of Technology. Her debut novel, <i>Lest She Forget</i>, a psychological thriller, was a finalist in five unpublished manuscript contests. Lisa is an active member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, and the Authors Guild. A native of Minnesota, Lisa lived in the Atlanta area with her husband for nearly thirty years before moving to the Tampa area in 2019 to enjoy a life of sailing, fishing, and shelling on the Florida Gulf Coast. They have two adult children and a granddog.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Lisa Malice:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/44UdqCk" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.LisaMalice.com</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/45C3lLj" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/468i1ll" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @LisaMaliceAuthor</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3Z9vtDd" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter/X - @LisaWMalice</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3ZanV2O" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @LisaMaliceAuthor</a></h3>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh my goodness, talk about suspenseful. Mind blowing suspense, twists and turns, and spiderwebs.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book was absolutely unputdownable! Or I should say my Kindle was </span>unputdownable<span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">By the middle of chapter nineteen I was literally suspicious of everyone, yep, every single person! I found someone else who was reading it at the same time as I was and we were constantly comparing notes and thoughts the whole time. This book would be great for a Book club or Book talk!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt like every few chapters the author would give me another jigsaw piece to add to the puzzle, little nuggets along the way. And then finally at the end - the puzzle was complete. Each time I received a new piece of the puzzle I would think back a few chapters and the revelation would come…</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh! That’s why that happened!” there were so many of those Ah-ha moments.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book, this storyline, was brilliant! I love books about memory loss (don't know why???) and this one was perfect!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
<h2>Tour Participants:</h2>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-7495093994853933302023-11-30T07:57:00.000-05:002023-11-30T07:57:13.381-05:00Face of Greed by James L'Etoile (with a GIVEAWAY)<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/face-of-greed-by-james-letoile/" title="Face of Greed by James L’Etoile"><img alt="Face of Greed by James L’Etoile Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/face-of-greed-by-james-letoile-banner-rev.png" width="600" /></a></h2></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>November 6 - December 1, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>5 STARS!</b></span></div>
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<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Face of Greed by James L'Etoile" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/FT7WGn6hsZyG-FOG-2-small.jpeg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<h4>Greed, corruption, and betrayal— no murder is as simple as it seems</h4>
<p>When a prominent Sacramento businessman is killed and his wife injured in a brutal home invasion, Detective Emily Hunter and her partner, Javier Medina, are called to investigate. At first glance it seems like a crime of opportunity gone horribly wrong, but Emily soon finds there might be more to both the crime and the dead man.</p>
<p>The high-stakes investigation also comes at a time when Emily is caring for her mother who has early-onset Alzheimer’s, and Emily struggles to balance her job with her personal life. The city’s political elite want the case solved quickly, but darker forces want it buried.</p>
<p>Could there have been a motive behind the attack, making it more than a random home invasion? Emily uncovers clues that cause her to reconsider her understanding of the crime. A deadly game of greed and deception pulls Emily deeper into the shadowy world of gang violence and retribution. She has to walk the razor’s edge to identify the killer—without becoming the next victim.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Face of Greed</i>:</h3>
<p>"An incredible story that grabs you by the throat and tosses you across the room. L’Etoile is a gem." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">—J.T. Ellison, <em>USA Today</em> best-selling author</span></p>
<p>"James L’Etoile is such a talented and terrific storyteller! His real-life experience in the criminal justice system gives his compelling, high-stakes thrillers an authenticity that only a savvy insider can provide. You'll be turning the pages as fast as you can!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">—Hank Phillippi Ryan, <em>USA Today</em> best-selling author</span></p>
<p>"Smart-mouthed, tough, pull-no-punches Emily will do whatever it takes to solve the case, and she and Javier keep investigating until they finally uncover the tragic, shocking truth. The suspenseful, twist-a-minute, fast-moving plot . . . make[s] this an outstanding must-read." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">—<em>Booklist</em> (Starred Review)</span></p>
<p>"<i>Face of Greed</i> is yet another fantastic offering from James L'Etoile, thoroughly enjoyable, a true winner—Bravo!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">—Baron Birtcher <em>Los Angeles Times</em> best-selling author</span></p>
<p>"L’Etoile’s long career in California criminal justice lends veracity to this page-turner—the courtrooms and precincts feel uncommonly lived-in. Admirers of strong female protagonists will be eager to see more from Hunter down the line." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">—<em>Publishers Weekly</em></span></p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Detective Emily Hunter, Book 1</b></span></div><p>
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/3RsEm8U" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Pshkwd" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3EMYbjW" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/48ptJde" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/48krgAL" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Oceanview Publishing</a></span></b></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>CHAPTER ONE</h4>
<p>Emily Hunter learned to be wary of open doorways when she rolled up to a call. In the five years of her assignment to the detective bureau of the Sacramento Police Department, she knew bad things often lurked in the dark behind partially open doors. When it was the front door of your own home, at seven in the evening, the anxiety bit deep.</p>
<p>She crept close, listening for anything or anyone who didn’t belong. Her hand tapped the grip of the Glock on her hip as she climbed the stairs. The lights were on, and the television blared an infomercial for a product promising the end of dry skin.</p>
<p>“Mom?”</p>
<p>Emily had moved her mother in with her four months ago after the seventy-year-old retired teacher suffered a series of memory lapses and household accidents. The advancing scourge of dementia meant Connie Hunter was unable to live a safe, independent life in her own home.</p>
<p>“Mom, are you there? Sheila?” Emily called out for the caregiver she’d hired to stay with her mother while Emily worked long hours as a detective.</p>
<p>When no response came from within, Emily’s subconscious went to a very dark place. She’d investigated a series of home invasions in the city where gangbangers targeted the homes of elderly people to terrorize and loot money and prescription drugs from the weak and powerless.</p>
<p>The front door hadn’t been kicked in, and there was no sign of a forced entry. Emily entered and scanned the living room—except for the missing mother and caregiver, the home appeared normal.</p>
<p>She turned off the television and heard the kitchen faucet running. A quick look into her remodeled kitchen found the water running over a sink full of dishes, but no one there. She shut the water off and spotted Connie’s GPS-enabled pendant on the kitchen counter. She held the tracker in her hand.</p>
<p>Emily heard the front door slam followed by the metallic click of the deadbolt. She heard the voices before stepping into the living room. Sheila had draped a comforter from the sofa over Connie’s frail shoulders. Her mother was wearing a light housecoat and a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. She shivered as Sheila rubbed her arms, warming her.</p>
<p>“What happened? Where were you?” Emily asked.</p>
<p>“I found her wandering down the street, near the park,” Sheila said.</p>
<p>Connie looked small and fragile in the housecoat, one too thin for the cold spring air.</p>
<p>“Mom, what were you thinking?”</p>
<p>“It was time to go,” Connie said with a shiver in her voice.</p>
<p>“Go? Go where?”</p>
<p>“Home.”</p>
<p>Emily bit her lip. It wasn’t the first time her mother mentioned going home, or a need to do something somewhere else. Sundowner’s Syndrome, the doctors called it. A little gift that came with dementia—confusion, a sudden surge in anxiety, and a feeling that she was lost. In a way, she was.</p>
<p>“Mom, this is home now,” Emily said.</p>
<p>“I swear, I turned my back for a second while I was finishing up the dinner dishes, and she slipped out.”</p>
<p>“She hasn’t pulled that one before. What happened?”</p>
<p>“She seemed a little more confused than usual but couldn’t tell me why. She was watching her shows, then walked out. I can’t be responsible for her wandering off. You might want to think about moving her into a facility—”</p>
<p>“I’m not putting my mom in a home.” Emily draped the GPS locket around her mother’s neck.</p>
<p>“Why weren’t you wearing this?”</p>
<p>“That’s not mine.”</p>
<p>“Yes, it is. Remember? We talked about it.”</p>
<p>Connie didn’t respond, but the look behind her eyes was one of confusion and uncertainty.</p>
<p>Emily’s work cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Calls after seven in the evening weren’t telemarketers who should be banished to a leper colony. These nighttime calls invariably meant someone suffered a beating, rape, or another murder in a city with no shortage of victims. In earlier years, she’d wondered if she didn’t answer the phone—if she let it ring until it stopped—would the crime still occur? Could she prevent another victim from ending up in some desolate field? A few hundred calls later, her naïve hope evaporated, and she came to terms with the fact the flow of victims in this city was never-ending.</p>
<p>She stabbed the answer button. “Hunter here.”</p>
<p>“Evening, Detective, please hold for the Watch Commander,” a woman’s voice instructed. </p>
<p>While Emily waited, she plodded to the office in the rear of her home and removed a fresh notebook out of the bottom drawer. On the first line of the first page, she wrote, “<em>1935 hours, rec’d call from Watch Commander</em>.”</p>
<p>“Hi Emily, Lieutenant Ford here. Initial report is a home invasion gone bad. One victim dead and one injured.”</p>
<p>“Another one? Where are we talking about?”</p>
<p>“The location is . . .” Emily heard rustling paper in the background. “Here it is. It’s 1357 46th Street. That’s a nice neighborhood.”</p>
<p>“It used to be anyway. I’ll call Medina and get there as soon as I can,” Emily responded.</p>
<p>“I called him first. His name was up on the rotation. Javier said he would meet you on scene. Emily, there’s something else you need to know.”</p>
<p>Emily fell silent.</p>
<p>“The Chief’s already there. He’s taking a personal interest in this one.”</p>
<p>“Oh sweet Jesus! That’s never a good sign.” Emily tossed the notebook on the desk.</p>
<p>“Gotta mean this is a high profile case. So, watch your back.”</p>
<p>“I appreciate the heads up. I’ll be there as soon as I tie up something.” She disconnected the call and tried to figure out how she could work the case remotely. Maybe her partner, Javier, could hold up his phone and livestream the crime scene. Who was she kidding?</p>
<p>“Sheila?”</p>
<p>Emily found her mother and Sheila parked in the living room watching a television show that was popular in the sixties. Connie had calmed, and her face was relaxed.</p>
<p>“I can stay,” Sheila said. “I overheard the call. I think she’s calm now. It won’t be long until she’s off to bed. I’ll keep an eye on her.”</p>
<p>“Thank you. Call me if there is any problem and please make her wear that GPS pendant. I’ll figure something out . . .”</p>
<p>As Emily changed into a fresh blouse, the thought of Chief Clark wandering through the crime scene kept surfacing. Whatever drew the top cop out to a crime scene after dark wasn’t going to bode well for the assigned detectives.</p>
<p>Once in her dark blue Ford Crown Victoria, Emily let the defroster attack the rapidly-forming condensation on the windshield. Sections of the window cleared and showcased the obnoxious blue Christmas lights her neighbor clung onto four months after the holiday season. They blinked on and off at once, stabbing a constant strobe into the detective’s bedroom window—another flimsy excuse for her insomnia.</p>
<p>As the car warmed up, Emily got out and scraped a thin film of ice from the driver’s window with the side of her hand. She stole a glance down the quiet street, gathered her shoulder length dark hair in a ponytail, and stepped back into the shadows, away from the car. She followed the fence line to the neighbor’s glowing stale yuletide shrine. Emily pulled the seventh and tenth small bulbs from their sockets and partially rethreaded the hellish electrical orbs back in the strand. The entire string blacked out, and she basked in the electric silence without the hellish current knifing out into the night. Then she returned to the car, backed out of the driveway, and wondered when her lazy-ass neighbor would recognize he’d become a victim of a drive-by-bulbing.</p>
<p>Emily made a right on J Street and sped to 46th, where the glow from the blinking red, blue, and yellow lights of emergency vehicles exacted some sort of revenge for her neighbor’s light display. Residents of this upscale enclave didn’t typically park their Benz, Jag, or Maserati on the street. Their precious status symbols were locked away in garages, or behind walled courtyards. She recognized the silver Crown Vic in front of her as the Mayor’s car and crept forward until her front bumper came within an inch of the Mayor’s sedan, effectively boxing the politician’s ride against a fire vehicle with a bright red and white sign warning, “Keep Back 100 Feet.”</p>
<p>“The Chief and the Mayor at the crime scene. Fricken awesome.”</p>
<p>The residence dwarfed the other homes on the block by double. A massive red brick front, coupled with heavy black iron gates to the right side of the residence, gave the place the feel of an embassy compound. Emily approached the front door, where an officer stood post, ensuring only official personnel entered the crime scene. She identified herself to the young officer in his freshly pressed dark blue uniform. After signing in on a clipboard held by the officer, Emily snagged a pair of blue paper booties from a box on the porch and pulled them over her shoes. She stepped through the front door and immediately noticed blood spatters on the marble floor, each marked with yellow plastic numbers. She grabbed a set of nitrile gloves and pulled them on before she accidentally contaminated the scene.</p>
<p>Emily followed the sound of voices and the strobes of camera flashes to a room down from the entryway. She paused at a large living room space where a petite blond woman sobbed on a white leather sofa. A paramedic knelt in front of her and tended to a red lump on her forehead. Detective Javier Medina sat in the chair next to her.</p>
<p>Javier and Emily became partners six months ago, and while he had more time in the department, Emily’s tenure in-grade as a detective made her the senior investigator. Unlike many of his fellow officers, he didn’t resent a woman—particularly one with fewer years behind the badge—holding the lead position.</p>
<p>Emily thought Javier possessed a natural inclination to the job. He could coax a confession from a suspect, or listen to a victim with an honest sense of compassion.</p>
<p>Javier nodded at Emily and pointed toward the kitchen. The Mayor came strolling out with a glass of wine, handing it to the woman.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Johnny.”</p>
<p>Mayor Stone perched next to her on the sofa and held her hand—the one not holding a wine glass.</p>
<p>“It’s probably not a good idea to drink anything until we make sure you’re checked out. You took a pretty solid blow to the head,” Javier said.</p>
<p>“Lori needs a little something to calm her nerves, something you certainly aren’t doing,” Mayor Stone said.</p>
<p>Emily continued down the hallway and located the hub of activity in a well-appointed office. It gave off more of a library vibe, with floor to ceiling polished mahogany bookcases on the two sidewalls and subdued lighting through Tiffany glass lampshades. A set of French doors with large windows opened out onto a manicured garden.</p>
<p>Chief of Police Thomas Clark, a tall man with the weathered face of a ranch hand, stood off to one side as an evidence technician framed-up a series of photographs of a dead man, face down in a pool of blood, in the center of the room.</p>
<p>“I’m glad you and Medina caught this one, Detective,” the Chief said, somber with a glance toward the Mayor.</p>
<p>“Chief,” Emily replied with a quick nod of her head to the living room and the city politician.</p>
<p>Chief Clark shrugged. “Long-time family friend is what I understand. Sure seems there’s more to it than that. She called him first thing after 911.”</p>
<p>Emily circled behind a medical examiner’s assistant who secured paper bags over the victim’s hands to preserve any forensic evidence. A uniformed officer stood near the patio door and observed the activity.</p>
<p>“You first on scene?” Emily asked.</p>
<p>“That would be me,” the officer said. “My partner and I responded to a 911 call from the residence. We found the wife in here kinda hanging over him. She seemed pretty messed up with what she stumbled into.”</p>
<p>Emily scanned the overturned furniture, files strewn on the floor, said, “What were they looking for? Wife give you any indication?”</p>
<p>The officer shook his head.</p>
<p>She noticed a red smear on the officer’s gloved hand. “Did you touch the body?”</p>
<p>The officer held up his bloody right latex glove and explained, “Yeah, I checked for a pulse and found his throat slit from ear to ear.”</p>
<p>Emily nodded. “You have an ID on this guy yet?”</p>
<p>“Yep, sure do. That’s the homeowner, Roger Townsend. He and his wife, Lori, are the only two occupants. She came home and interrupted the suspects.”</p>
<p>“She able to give any ID on them?”</p>
<p>“Detective Medina is with her now.”</p>
<p>A medical examiner’s assistant unfolded a plastic tarp next to the body to contain any fibers or trace evidence. The assistant said to whoever listened, “We’re gonna roll him now.”</p>
<p>The body stuck on the hardwood flooring where the thickened blood adhered to Roger Townsend’s face. A sickening elastic snap sounded as his head released from the floor. When the body rolled face-up, Townsend’s dead eyes stared up at the assembled group hovering over him. One eye was puffy, his cheek welted from a blow. The body settled, and Roger’s jaw fell slack, exposing the gaping slash wound to his neck. The wound severed the major blood vessels and nearly cut through to his spine. The victim’s head remained attached only by the thick muscle bundle at the back of his neck.</p>
<p>Deputy Forensic Pathologist Elizabeth White knelt alongside the body. “Ward, get a shot of this, please.” She pointed to the gash in Roger’s throat.</p>
<p>One of her staff stepped in and snapped a series of photographs of the victim’s body in the new position.</p>
<p>“Our subject suffered a gunshot wound to the back, but I see no evidence of an exit wound,” Dr. White said.</p>
<p>“COD?” Emily asked.</p>
<p>“There’s no surviving an attack this severe. Exsanguination—he bled out right where he dropped.”</p>
<p>“Looks like he took a beating before he died. Any defensive wounds?”</p>
<p>“None evident now. I’ll be able to tell you more later, Emily. We’ve taken liver temps and gotten everything we can from the scene. I’m ready to transport the body. I've tentatively set TOD approximately two hours ago. You need anything else before they cart him off?” Dr. White asked.</p>
<p>“When can I take a look at your crime scene photos?”</p>
<p>“By the time you return to the bureau, they’ll be downloaded and emailed to you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Doc,” Emily said. She remembered a few years ago the same photos would take hours. A vestige of the past that labeled her as one of the last dinosaurs to leave the comfort of paper and convert to the digital age. New detectives coming on board now would never know the joys of film developing, paper map books, and carbon paper.</p>
<p>The Chief motioned for Emily, who had paused behind the victim’s desk over a stack of papers spread out on the slick bloody surface. She felt the papers were too neat, too tidy, in a room that suffered a tossing. Emily used her phone and snapped a photo.</p>
<p>“Here’s what they came for,” the Chief said and pointed to the open floor safe.</p>
<p>Emily approached the floor safe, squatted, and shot photos of the high-end safe and the sliding cabinet capable of hiding it from view. She ran her gloved hand around the lip of the safe. Nothing felt rough or out of alignment, telling her the safe wasn’t forced or cut open; someone opened it using the combination lock. Emily started to stand when a white smudge in the bottom of the dark safe caught her attention. A small trail of light-colored crystalline powder stood out on the safe’s black steel floor.</p>
<p>“Hand me an evidence vial, would you,” Emily said to one of the crime scene techs behind her.</p>
<p>She grasped the clear plastic tube in one hand and swept up the powder into the container with a plastic scraper. After she capped the vial, Emily used a pen from her pocket, labeled it with her name, badge number, and sequence number of the sample. “I want to make sure this is tested back at the lab. Not enough to do a field test without destroying the whole sample, but I’d swear it’s meth.”</p>
<p>“Then it belonged to the killer. He must’ve dropped it when he stole whatever Roger kept in the safe,” the Mayor said. So much for keeping the crime scene secured.</p>
<p>“We don’t know yet, Sir,” Emily answered.</p>
<p>“What we <em>do</em> know is Roger Townsend wasn’t involved in the drug trade.”</p>
<p>Emily stood and faced the Mayor. “And exactly how do we know that?” The irritation on the detective’s face bled over into her voice. At five-six, she needed to look up at the politician.</p>
<p>“Townsend held power and influence in this community. He ran my last reelection campaign and donated a significant amount of money to several prominent legislators. He had no need to be involved in drugs.”</p>
<p>Emily shrugged and replied, “Maybe it’s how he raised his donated cash. If he was involved in politics, then he’s dirty.”</p>
<p>The Chief stepped between the two, and Javier caught his partner’s eye as he stuck his head in around the corner. He had a knack of sensing Emily’s fuse of self-destruction burned short and knew to extract her before this confrontation with the Mayor exploded.</p>
<p>“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, I’m done with Mrs. Townsend. I’m sure she would appreciate a moment of your time,” Javier said.</p>
<p>Mayor Stone’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles on his jaw tightened into thick cords on his square face. He glared hard at Emily, then turned and strode out of the room toward the front of the home.</p>
<p>The Chief turned to Emily. “Don’t poke the bear.”</p>
<p>“What? Because our victim here ran in some high-powered political circles, I’m supposed to ignore the evidence?”</p>
<p>“No one is saying sweep it under the rug. Make sure you use a little diplomacy and document the hell out of everything.”</p>
<p>A metallic rattle interrupted the conversation, and the medical examiner’s team rolled a compact folding gurney into the room. One of the two men opened up the gurney and lowered it close to the ground next to the victim’s plastic-wrapped body.</p>
<p>“You ready for us to take him?” one of the M.E.’s staff asked.</p>
<p>Emily turned to Javier, who nodded and responded, “Yep. He’s ready for you. We’ve gotten what we need.”</p>
<p>While the M.E.’s technicians bundled the body and placed it onto the gurney, Emily asked her partner, “When did the Mayor get here?”</p>
<p>Javier leaned back against a bookshelf. “He was already here when I arrived. And I got here twenty minutes after the first units rolled up. They caught me on my way home from a date.” He grimaced and closed his eyes immediately after divulging his abbreviated date.</p>
<p>“Really? A date? Ended kinda early didn’t it? I take it you struck out?”</p>
<p>Javier’s cheeks flushed, and he approached the victim’s desk and sorted through the documents. “It was fine, thank you very much.” Javier changed the topic. “I called the Chief and let him know Mayor Stone happened to be here consoling the widow when I arrived.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, good call.”</p>
<p>“Turns out Mr. Mayor lives a few blocks away.”</p>
<p>“Uh huh,” Emily responded. “What did you get from the wife?”</p>
<p>“Not much. She came home, found her husband on the floor, and someone clocked her from behind. When she came to, she worked herself free from a phone cord, but by then the killer had disappeared.”</p>
<p>“She get a look at who hit her?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“How long was she out?” Emily asked.</p>
<p>Javier paused from sifting through the paperwork on the victim’s desk and said, “She doesn’t know, but it took her about ten minutes to work free from the phone cord around her wrists.”</p>
<p>“You buy her story?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. If someone clocked me from behind, I wouldn’t have a goose-egg on my forehead.”</p>
<p>“You think she’s holding back?”</p>
<p>“I do. Perhaps not intentionally. Could be shock,” Javier said.</p>
<p>“Did the wife tell you if anyone else knew the combination, or what he kept in the safe?”</p>
<p>“No, she didn’t mention the safe.”</p>
<p>“Well,” Emily said. “Let’s go ask her.”</p>
<p>The newly widowed Mrs. Townsend parked on the white leather sofa with Mayor Stone, her hands held tightly in his. “Lori, we’ll handle everything. You need to take care of yourself now,” he said.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Townsend, I need to ask you a few questions,” Emily said in a soft voice. For all of her faults, the detective handled the survivors of murder victims with sensitivity and compassion. She didn’t refer to them as the “next-of-kin,” which implied they weren’t victims of the crime. Wives, brothers, husbands, and children who experienced a loved one ripped from their lives were victims. The only difference is they remained behind and continued to suffer the loss. They bore the pain of surviving.</p>
<p>Mayor Stone dropped Lori Townsend’s hands and said, “Detective, this isn’t necessary right now—she’s been through quite enough, I would think.”</p>
<p>The small-framed blonde turned in her seat and crossed her legs. Blood stained the knees of Mrs. Townsend’s spandex tights, and when she noticed the red patches on her legs, she became conscious of them and tried to cover the spots with her hands. The red polish on her right index fingernail was chipped and she seemed self-conscious about it. “I’ve already told the other detective what happened. I don’t know what else I can say,” she said.</p>
<p>“I realize you’ve spoken with Detective Medina, and we know you’ve been through an ordeal. I’d appreciate a few moments of your time to help us find the person responsible for the death of your husband.” Emily sat on the corner of a large white marble coffee table directly across from Mrs. Townsend.</p>
<p>“Detective,” the Mayor warned.</p>
<p>“It’s all right Johnny,” Lori responded, putting a hand on the Mayor’s knee. “Go ahead, Detective. I’m not sure what happened. Maybe it will help me put the pieces together, too.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Mrs. Townsend.”</p>
<p>“Please, call me Lori,” she responded while she pulled her blond hair together, quickly securing it back in a ponytail, readying for a fight. Her stiff posture told Emily this woman was used to being in control.</p>
<p>“Tell me, how many people knew your husband kept a safe in his office?”</p>
<p>“I really couldn’t say. I mean, he didn’t do a great deal of business here at the house. Every so often he’d hold a meeting in his office, so someone could’ve seen him open the safe.”</p>
<p>“I’ll need a list of those people, Mrs. Townsend.”</p>
<p>“Really now, Detective.” Lori let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sure Councilman Perkins, Senator Rodriguez, and the Mayor didn’t conspire to murder my husband.”</p>
<p>“How many people knew the combination to the safe, Mrs. Townsend?” Emily asked.</p>
<p>“That was Roger’s safe. I don’t think anyone else knew the combination.” Her face hardened as she thought about the question. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you? Roger never gave me the combination. That was his baby.”</p>
<p>The Mayor puffed up and put his hand on Lori’s shoulder. “I’m sure that’s not what the detective meant. Did you, Detective?” He cut an icy glare at Emily.</p>
<p>“I asked if anyone else other than your husband could’ve opened the safe?”</p>
<p>“No, Roger was the only one with the combination.”</p>
<p>“What did your husband keep in the safe?”</p>
<p>“I know he kept some cash in there, along with business papers.”</p>
<p>“How much money would he keep in there?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, not much; maybe ten—twenty thousand or so?”</p>
<p>Emily considered her response and wondered what kind of world it would be where ten grand was pocket change. She decided to throw her a curve and asked, “Did your husband keep any drugs in the safe?”</p>
<p>“Hunter, damn it! I’ve already told you Townsend was not involved with illicit drugs. You’re done here. Lori, I’m taking you to the hospital,” the Mayor announced as he stood and extended his hand to Lori.</p>
<p>Lori Townsend drew herself up from the sofa in a slow and calculated way that carried a feline quality. She stood up on her toes and kissed the Mayor’s cheek. “Thank you, Johnny, I’ve had quite enough for one night.”</p>
<p>As the Mayor held out a jacket for Lori, she turned her back on Emily. “Roger wasn’t into drugs. He wasn’t that kind of man.” She shrugged into the jacket. The Mayor put his arm around her shoulder and escorted her out of the room.</p>
<p>Javier leaned against the hallway near the living room, said, “Well, that went well.” He paused until the front door sounded. “The Mayor’s all twisted up with this one. There’s more here than some family friend connection. Trying to cover some shady campaign financing?”</p>
<p>Emily stood at an assortment of photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Townsend arranged on a small white enamel table. Javier picked up one of the silver frames and handed it to Emily. A group of smiling people in black tie dress; Roger Townsend and his wife, Lori, with another attractive blond woman and Mayor John Stone.</p>
<p>From behind them, a young uniformed officer called out, “Hey, Hunter, move your car so I can drive the Mayor home with his prom date.”</p>
<p>Emily tossed the officer her keys. “I’ll follow you out. Give me a minute to finish up.”</p>
<p>“Poor kid, I wonder what he did to deserve his assignment?” Javier asked.</p>
<p>The cell phone in Javier’s pocket played the first few notes of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” and he pulled it out quickly. “Detective Medina.” He listened for a few seconds and hung up. “That was the Medical Examiner’s Office. They’ve scheduled the post for eight in the morning. That’s quick.”</p>
<p>Emily nodded. “Everything about this case is quick—too quick.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Face of Greed</i> by James L'Etoile. Copyright 2023 by James L'Etoile. Reproduced with permission from James L'Etoile. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR - </span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="James L'Etoile" border="0" height="267" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/ceKGOi4j3mBx-LEtoile-author-photo.jpeg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>James L’Etoile uses his twenty-nine years behind bars as an influence in his award-winning novel, short stories, and screenplays. He is a former associate warden in a maximum-security prison, a hostage negotiator, and director of California’s state parole system. <i>Black Label</i> earned the Silver Falchion for Best Book by an Attending Author at Killer Nashville and he was nominated for The Bill Crider Award for short fiction. <i>Dead Drop</i> garnered a Lefty and Anthony Award nomination, and a Silver Falchion Award, and a PSWA win for best novel.</p>
<h3>You can find out more at:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/46m3AKf" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.jamesletoile.com</a><br />
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<p><b> MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, so, so good! How do I even talk about this book without giving everything away? So many secrets, so many cover-ups, so much going on, and no one seems to be who they appear to be. And I can’t talk about any of this because it would give it all away. So, you’re just going to have to get this book and read it for yourself!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This author has a very easy style. Everything just flows so nicely. So easy to follow you really feel like you’re there every step of the way. This is like a "grab your coat and go along for the ride" type of book. The suspense in this one is through the roof! But there were also a few little giggle moments here and there.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Emily? Amazing! I love her. She’s sarcastic, strong, strong willed, gutsy, but also warm hearted when it comes to family and those she cares about. She gets things done. It may not be the correct way or the way you or I would do it, but she does get things done.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her partner, Javi, is like the straight man in this duo. He’s kind of Emily's conscience in a way, but he also can't resist the chance to tease her once in a while. They make a wonderful team.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Great ending. This book was smart and clever. Full of suspense and excitement, one that kept me reading late into the night and starting again very early in the morning. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet another five star book from this author, in my opinion! This is the start of a great series and I will definitely be reading the next one.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-64692245753748878682023-11-24T20:00:00.001-05:002023-11-24T20:01:15.004-05:00Dark Dweller by Gareth Worthington<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;">
<div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">November 13-24, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div></div>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="cover" border="0" height="306" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/iSz8v4xFK0Kg-Dark-Dweller-HB-cover-copy.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p>Captain Kara Psomas was pronounced dead when her research vessel slammed into Jupiter.</p>
<p>More than a century later, the crew of the Paralus, a helium mining freighter, find a pristine escape pod with a healthy young girl nestled inside. A girl who claims to be Kara—and she brings a message of doom.</p>
<p>She says she has been waiting in the dark for that exact moment. To be found by that particular crew. Because an ancient cosmic being has tasked her with a sacred responsibility. She claims she must alter the Fulcrum, a lever in time—no matter the cost to the people aboard—or condemn the rest of civilization to a very painful and drawn-out demise.</p>
<p>She sounds convincing. She appears brave. She might well be insane.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Dark Dweller</i>:</h3>
<p>"... intense, exciting, and nerve-wracking ... taut, tense, and ultimately explosive. A fantastic read not just for science fiction aficionados but for all lovers of adventure." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Readers' Favorite</span></p>
<p>"Dark Dweller is that rare beast of hard sci-fi that can pull off high-end concepts, but also entertain the reader with tension and strong set pieces." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ SFBook Review</span></p>
<p>"A story steeped in intrigue, vivid descriptions, and action-packed dialogue." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Midwest Book Review</span></p>
<p>"Epic, bleak, provocative." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Indiereader Review</span></p>
<p>"Knuckle-hard science fiction." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Bestsellers World</span></p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Dark Dweller</i> Trailer:</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/k3PAlPgWdek?si=trmb3CqhF5lTzYSr" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/3LhNZTV" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3LnHzTz" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ZnSfHt" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/468OBTZ" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></b></span> </p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>PROLOGUE</h4>
<h6>Dr. Sarah Dallas</h6>
<p>"Are you the fucking pilot, Hair?” Boz screams at me, piggy eyes aflame in her round face. </p>
<p>I hate that moniker: Hair. Not important right now. The fact we’re going to die is. “No, I’m not, but—”</p>
<p>“Then stay in your lane and shut your hole.”</p>
<p>Breathe, Sarah. Don’t punch her. You’re the ship’s counselor. Be professional. Do <i>not</i> punch her. The mantra rings over and over in my skull, but Boz tests every ounce of my training. There are four of us on this twelve-year round trip. Assaulting the pilot isn’t the best idea.</p>
<p>I release a very measured breath and fix my attention on the largest planet in our solar system looming large in the viewfinder of our liner—the <i>Paralus</i>. Jupiter is enormous, its surface banded with reddish-brown and off-white clouds, rushing and crashing into one other. Its one angry red eye stares at us, at <i>me</i>.</p>
<p>My supposed intellect short-circuits as I try to quantify and categorize. In the face of something truly awe-inspiring my tiny human biological computer is unable, or refuses, to comprehend the sheer magnitude of this world. Yet my limbic system must have some ancient recollection of dealing with overwhelming reverence, forcing a rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream and into my trembling muscles.</p>
<p>Just <i>look</i> at it.</p>
<p>The <i>Paralus</i> shudders as we hurtle into the upper atmosphere. Jupiter has a will of its own, intent on sucking us into its gassy interior. Ironic, given we’re here to grab its vapors. Helium-3 to be specific, to act as cryogenic coolant for our nuclear fusion reactors at home and space stations set out along the Interplanetary Transport Network. Jupiter has helium in spades, while Earth has precious little, and so now we risk our lives on ridiculously dangerous missions to mine the ether. In the age of interplanetary travel and colonization, profit trumps human life—as always.</p>
<p>Metal squeals and the hull creaks. The luminous tabs and keys beneath crystal glass control panels stutter and flicker. Even the slick white walls and soothing curves of the Bridge’s interior can’t muffle the complaints of the frail, human-made underpinnings.</p>
<p>A tear slips from the corner of my eye and my knuckles are white as I grip the armrests.</p>
<p>“Are you crying?” Boz yells, peeling her stare from the enormous viewfinder to gawk in disgust at me for daring to have any emotion other than anger.</p>
<p>“We’re coming in too hot,” I press, flitting a concerned frown from Boz to the planet and back again in hopes she takes the hint to watch where the hell she’s going. “Can’t the AI take over?”</p>
<p>“Which part of <i>shut up</i> isn’t penetrating all that hair?” Boz clicks her tongue, then tweaks on the thruster yokes. Sweat beads on her forehead. “I got this, Dallas. Now back off.”</p>
<p>I wriggle back in my seat and adjust the harness again. Everyone hates a backseat driver, but if she gets this wrong Jupiter will seize the <i>Paralus</i> and we’ll never have enough thrust to escape. We’ll either be torn to shreds or crushed like a tin can. Either one a shitty way to go.</p>
<p>Our freighter shakes like a rag doll in the mouth of a puppy, the nuts and bolts of this dilapidated piece of junk threatening to come loose. The <i>Paralus</i> is fragile as all hell and entirely breakable—the sort of construction a five-year-old makes out of drinking straws and modeling clay. A mile-long needle with a nuclear fusion engine at the aft end, a Scoop and transport shuttle docking bay, the AI mainframe in the center, and two spinning rings: one for cargo, and one for medbay, exercise room and living quarters. Ops, also called the Bridge, sits right in the nose.</p>
<p>Perfect for a front-row seat to our doom.</p>
<p>“Still too much speed,” Boz says. “Increasing retro-thruster burn.”</p>
<p>Will that do anything? The main retro-thrusters have been firing while we’re asleep for months now, slowing us to enter orbit correctly, which sounds great on paper but—given the heap of shit we’re in—means diddly squat.</p>
<p>“Boz, keep her steady,” Commander Chau calls from his chair.</p>
<p>“I’m trying, sir,” she yells back.</p>
<p>“Tris?” Chau says loud enough to be heard over the din of warping metal punctuated at regular intervals by the warning alarm.</p>
<p>“The trajectory is off, something’ changed,” Tris Beckert, our co-pilot and chief engineer, replies in his Texan drawl. “Jupiter’s not where we predicted. It’s not a big ol’ shift, but enough.”</p>
<p>I swear my ass just clenched hard enough to make a button on the seat. A ton of unmanned craft have slammed into their destination planet or just whizzed on by into space forever. I’m no astrophysicist, but was once told reaching a target in space like standing on Everest and firing a bullet at a pea-sized target on the other side of the Earth.</p>
<p>“We’re comin’ in a little steep,” Tris says, tapping away at his readout. “AI is helpin’ Boz compensate—”</p>
<p>The alarm blares again.</p>
<p>“Warning, orbital entry path suboptimal,” says a synthetic, sonorous voice from overhead.</p>
<p>Only an AI could so calmly announce our deaths.</p>
<p>“Yes, I fucking know, Dona,” Boz spits back. “Reverse thrusters won’t do it. Gotta skip over the atmosphere. Just need to burn more delta-v.”</p>
<p>The <i>Paralus</i> lurches under a burst from the engines. The horizon of Jupiter fills the viewfinder, its swirling fumes mixing like milk and coffee in a fresh latte. A fresh latte? Shut up, Sarah.</p>
<p>On the horizon, flashes of white light, tinged with green edges, emanate from just below Jupiter’s cloud line.</p>
<p>Tris shoots a worried look at Boz.</p>
<p>“Asteroids exploding on impact?” she yells without breaking her concentration.</p>
<p>“I don’t think so,” Tris shouts back.</p>
<p>“You better fucking hope not or we’re about to get cratered,” Boz says.</p>
<p>Cratered. Great. Pebble-dashed with chunks of space rock. The spindly nature of the Paralus helps it to not be a gigantic target, but it only takes one puncture and we’re all screwed.</p>
<p>Why am I here, again?</p>
<p>“Hold on to your pantyhose,” Boz says, perspiration running down her temples.</p>
<p>The <i>Paralus</i> is battered, a pathetic kite in impossibly strong winds, as we plunge farther into the outer atmosphere of Jupiter. The viewfinder is near black—sunlight can no longer penetrate the violent vapors assaulting us. Multiple feeds from external cameras cycle on and off, but offer no help.</p>
<p>Boz roars long and loud, heaving on the yokes while Tris taps away at his console, calculating and recalculating—pinging his very human assumptions off the computations of the AI. Chau sits, smooth jaw set and stoic, his narrowed sights fixed on some imaginary endpoint to this nightmare of an orbital entry. He looks oddly calm.</p>
<p>I squeeze my eyes shut and mumble a prayer, though to whom I don’t know. God, Yahweh, Allah. Anyone who’ll listen. In moments of extreme stress, time seems to slow, the human mind suddenly able to function on some higher level, absorbing all the information it can in hopes of averting disaster. Behind my eyelids, in a weird half-dream, half-out-of-body experience, I see myself clinging to the harness. Observing the cowardly pose fills my astral-projected self with shame, which only grows with the knowledge I’m not praying for loved ones at home who might miss me when I’m gone, but to make it out alive so I can go on ignoring them for a little longer.</p>
<p>Except for Dad, always have time for Dad.</p>
<p>The shuddering stops.</p>
<p>I open my eyes. The last wisps of Jupiter’s atmosphere slip past revealing vast, open space. Here, unadulterated with the light of human cities, the universe is alive. The light from the smallest of stars reaches out to me from across the expanse. The feeling of relief at still being alive is replaced with nausea. The same feeling one gets when peering into a pitch-black well, wondering how far down it goes. We came so close to death, but what difference would it make? The universe doesn’t care. Look at how <i>big</i> it is.</p>
<p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” Boz says, slumping back in her chair.</p>
<p>“Hey now,” Tris pipes up.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Tris.”</p>
<p>She’s not sorry. Tris doesn’t like too much swearing, but Boz does it anyway. Several times a day. So do I, just in my head. Isn’t that what we all do? Hide a little piece of who we are to placate others. To survive society. But again, it’s hard to care when you’re out here knowing the cosmos really doesn’t give a rat’s ass what we do. The desire to let loose a string of expletives nearly overwhelms me. Nearly.</p>
<p>“I want to know what happened,” Chau says, his expression cold like granite. “How could our trajectory be that off?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t,” Tris replies, shaking his head. “I told you, Jupiter moved.”</p>
<p>Chau narrows his eyes. “Not possible.”</p>
<p>“Engineer Tris is correct,” the AI says, its tone unchanging. “Jupiter’s orbital path appears to have altered.”</p>
<p>“How the hell is that possible?” Boz asks.</p>
<p>“Ya’ll got me,” Tris replies, tapping at his screen. “Some kinda gravitational irregularity?”</p>
<p>“Affecting Jupiter?” Chau says, one eyebrow raised. “Jupiter moves celestial bodies, not the other way around.”</p>
<p>Tris shrugs. “I’ll look into it.”</p>
<p>“Fine, but after the grab,” Chau says.</p>
<p>“I need to get us back into a proper orbit,” Boz says, already tapping away at her console. “That’s gonna take a while. We had to burn long and hard to skip over the atmosphere. It’s gonna be like turning a galactic Buick.”</p>
<p>“Do it,” Chau says.</p>
<p>“Um.” As the word leaves my lips I wish it hadn’t.</p>
<p>All eyes fix on me.</p>
<p>Shit. Well done, Sarah. Best follow through now. “Is that an aerostat in our flight path?”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about, <i>Doctor</i>,” Boz says.</p>
<p>I point out of the main window.</p>
<p>The crew follows the imaginary path from my fingertip out into space and to the spheroid metallic object. “If that’s an aerostat, it’ll do a lot of damage if we hit it.” Though they’re flexible, colliding with one of these weather stations dropped into the atmosphere to monitor the constant violent storms would fuck us up.</p>
<p>“That ain’t an aerostat, that’s a ship,” Tris says, squinting. “Too far out of the atmosphere. Wrong shape.”</p>
<p>“Are we going to hit … whatever that <i>is</i>?” Chau asks.</p>
<p>Boz shakes her head. “We’re headed out. Seems it’s geo-synched, in orbit.”</p>
<p>“You’re eyeballing it?” I ask.</p>
<p>Boz glares at me. “How about you let me do my job, Dallas?”</p>
<p>Chau holds up his hand. “Enough. What do we do about it?”</p>
<p>Tris clears his throat. “ITN protocol says we have to prioritize the grab, but … this is a little unorthodox. There’s no precedent for an alien ship.” He shoots a nervous glance at Chau.</p>
<p>Chau sniffs hard. “There’s no evidence to suggest it’s an alien ship. How close will we come to it?”</p>
<p>Tris’s fingers flit across his console at lightning speed. Then, with a dramatic swipe, he sends the flight path file from his panel to Boz who looks it over.</p>
<p>“Within a hundred feet,” Boz says. “Just like I said.”</p>
<p>Yes, Boz, I get it— you’re a genius and I’m an idiot. Seriously, Sarah, hold it together. “Do we need to adjust?”</p>
<p>“If we try that, we’ll push ourselves further out,” Tris says, “and it’ll take longer to re-enter synchronized orbit.”</p>
<p>“At a hundred feet we can get a pretty good look at it, though, right?” I say.</p>
<p>Tris nods. “I’d get a window seat now, because we’re about to zip by.”</p>
<p>We, of course, aren’t going to unbuckle and float over to the large window, so we all just fall into a confused silence and fix our attention to the small vessel that is fast approaching—or rather the one that we are fast approaching.</p>
<p>Could this really be alien? Are we the first humans to encounter other intelligent life? Finding microbes on Mars some fifty years ago was a little anticlimactic, especially at a time when humankind had finally started to pay consideration to our own dying world. Too little too late. But a spaceship? Maybe this crappy trip was worth it after all.</p>
<p>The alien vessel is now large enough in the viewfinder to study it a little better. Too damn close if you ask me, but hey, I’m just the shrink right?</p>
<p>Boz glances over her shoulder at Chau. The two of them don’t cross words, but exchange an unspoken question.</p>
<p>They’re right to be confused. What the hell <i>is</i> going on?</p>
<p>The ship, or pod, is roughly egg-shaped, and in the outer lights of the <i>Paralus</i> seems to be grey in color. No windows. Small rear thrusters. And an ITN insignia.</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” Boz says. “It’s an escape pod.”</p>
<p>“Did the last liner report a pod ejection?” Chau asks.</p>
<p>“Not to my knowledge,” Boz says. “Tris?”</p>
<p>The Texan shakes his head. “I got no record of that.”</p>
<p>“Those markings, they’re old,” I pipe up. “See the logo? Saturn is included now, since the expansion. This is pre-rebrand, done more than twenty years ago. Actually, that looks even older. Museum old.” That tidbit of information only serves to remind them who I am, how I’m here, and that they really don’t like me or my family. Shit.</p>
<p>“Chief,” Tris says. “We gotta see what’s over there. I can take a Scoop.”</p>
<p>Chau looks to Boz.</p>
<p>She just shrugs. “I have to swing her around Jupiter to get us into orbit. I can use the gravity to catapult us ’round and come up on the pod again. Give us time to gear up.”</p>
<p>Chau tents his fingertips. “How will that affect the grab?”</p>
<p>“Well, it’ll delay it,” Tris says, rubbing at his square jaw. “But Jupiter isn’t going anywhere.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you just say it moved?” My lips try to hang on to the last word as if I can suck back the regrettably snarky remark.</p>
<p>Tris pinches his lips together and gives a subtle shake of his head.</p>
<p>You’re right Tris; <i>shut up</i>, Sarah.</p>
<p>“Oh man, we best still be haulin’ when we return,” Boz says, and shoots me a look as if this whole thing is somehow my fault. “Only get paid if we have a load.”</p>
<p>Hauling back Helium is all anyone gives a shit about, because it means getting paid. Helium is this century’s gold rush. This is hilarious, given I’ve listened to enough company speeches to know that helium is the second most abundant element in the universe. The problem is, while God was handing out the element, He—or She or It—seemed to skip Earth. Our planet’s crust is probably not even in the parts per billion range. In the Earth’s atmosphere, it’s only 5.2 parts per million per volume. So, Jupiter is our reservoir, our lifeline. Still, the ITN has protocols for situations like this. The pod could pose a threat to continued mining. Though no idea what kind of threat, not my wheelhouse. “I think the ITN are gonna call this one,” I add. “Something like this will trump a helium grab. The AI has probably locked all systems anyway. We won’t get to do the job yet.”</p>
<p>Boz tuts again.</p>
<p>“You are correct, Dr. Dallas,” the AI says. “Current mission suspended until investigation completed.”</p>
<p>Chau tents his fingertips. “The faster we clear that pod, the faster we get back on mission.”</p>
<p>Everyone unbuckles and swims out of the only door in or out of the Bridge. Boz gives me a long, hard, disapproving stare, but Tris flashes a grin. Chau doesn’t even bother to acknowledge me. For him, a shrink has two jobs on these freighters: make sure the crew don’t lose their minds in deep space, and stay the hell out of the way.</p>
<p>So far, no-one’s lost their marbles, yet.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Dark Dweller</i> by Gareth Worthington. Copyright 2023 by Gareth Worthington. Reproduced with permission from Gareth Worthington. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Gareth Worthington" border="0" height="250" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/Gareth-vert.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Gareth Worthington holds a degree in marine biology, a PhD in Endocrinology, an executive MBA, is Board Certified in Medical Affairs, and currently works for the Pharmaceutical industry educating the World's doctors on new cancer therapies. </p>
<p>Gareth is an authority in ancient history, has hand-tagged sharks in California, and trained in various martial arts, including Jeet Kune Do and Muay Thai at the EVOLVE MMA gym in Singapore and 2FIGHT Switzerland. </p>
<p>He is an award-winning author and member of the International Thriller Writers Association, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and the British Science Fiction Association. </p>
<p>Born in England, Gareth has lived around the world from Asia, to Europe to the USA. Wherever he goes, he endeavors to continue his philanthropic work with various charities.</p>
<p>Gareth is represented by Renee Fountain and Italia Gandolfo at Gandolfo Helin Fountain Literary, New York.</p>
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<a href="https://bit.ly/3r3YnIl" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">GarethWorthington.com</a><br />
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div>Yet another very satisfying read from talented author, Gareth Worthington. This book was fantastic right out of the gate and had me hooked immediately.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am a fan, and have red several of his books, all of the others that I have not read are on my wish list. He is definitely one of my go-to authors.</div><div><br /></div><div>He has a way of taking a dark Hardcore sci-fi, and turning it into a character driven, heartfelt story… Still hard-core sci-fi, lol but with so much more meaning. I love his style!</div><div><br /></div><div>The characters in this book were great. I loved all these people! I really got so attached to them. They were doctors, scientists, psychiatrists, commanders and such. And yet they were so real, snarky, sarcastic, and hilarious.</div><div>The chapters take turns being told in the voice of the different characters. I personally love this style and the author does an amazing job with this, making each character so unique.</div><div><br /></div><div>This whole book is pretty intense but, Holy crap it gets intense towards the end!</div><div>Gareth Worthington is a true mastermind! I love how it all came together. Honestly, it didn't end like I wanted it too. :-( I actually got teary eyed. But, it was fantastic, a great ending and I know it had to be that way, regardless of my feels.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few fun quotes from the book that you don't hear everyday -</div><div>"Damn artificial gravity."</div><div>"Standing screws me up every time." <span style="color: #666666;">~ <i>I feel you sister, standing screws me up every time too especially after I’ve been sitting reading for a while. LOL</i></span></div><div>"Humans have forgotten how to survive without power." <i><span style="color: #666666;">~ Absolutely 100% true!</span></i></div><div>"I’ll be drinking the water content of my urine in just a few hours."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ha! I love how he snuck in a mention of Stu Jones in the book (an author he has written a few books with).</div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div><div>This book is the true definition of "all Hell breaking loose". If you are looking for something different, hard-core, a tad scary, a little sad and masterfully crafted - you've found it! It's right here.</div><div><br /></div><div><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-62055647695395255802023-11-22T08:18:00.001-05:002023-11-22T08:18:42.371-05:00Girl Among Crows by Brendon Vayo (with a GIVEAWAY!)<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;">
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<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>October 30 - November 24, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</b></span></div>
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<h2><br /></h2>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK -</b></div><h4>Beware the Brotherhood of the Raven</h4>
<p>When two boys vanish from her hometown, Daphne Gauge notices uncanny parallels to her brother’s disappearance 30 years earlier. Symbols of an ancient Norse god. Rumors of a promise to reward the town’s faithful with wealth and power, for a price. She warns her husband that another sacrifice is imminent, but just like last time, no one believes her.</p>
<p>This leaves her with a desperate choice: investigate with limited resources, or give in to the FBI’s request for an interview. For years, they’ve wanted a member of the Gauge family to go on record about the tragedy back in 1988. If she agrees to a deposition now, Daphne must confess her family’s dark secrets. But she also might have one last chance to unmask the killer from back then . . . and now.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Girl Among Crows</i>:</h3>
<p>"Brendon Vayo has crafted a pagan potboiler that is equal parts mystical and mysterious, profane and profound, blissfully existing at the intersection of horror and whodunnits." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Clay McLeod Chapman, author of <em>Ghost Eaters</em></span></p>
<p>"Fans of Gillian Flynn will love Girl Among Crows . . . Brendon Vayo’s debut thriller is eerie, mysterious, and addicting." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Brooke L. French, author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/inhuman-acts-by-brooke-l-french/">Inhuman Acts</a></em> and <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-carolina-variant-by-brooke-l-french/">The Carolina Variant</a></em></span></p>
<p>"Brendon Vayo’s <i>Girl Among Crows</i> is an eerie page turner rich with Norse Mythology, cult rituals, and creepy twists to rival Stephen King, Shirley Jackson and Stephen Graham Jones." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ MQ Webb, author of <em>When You’re Dying</em> and <em>How to Spot a Psychopath</em></span></p>
<p>"This fresh, artful thriller, as genuinely frightening a novel as you’ll read all year, darts smoothly between the decades as not one but two mysteries unfurl like stairways into darkness. Intelligent, original, audacious—and scary" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ A.J. Finn, #1 <em>New York Times</em> bestselling author of <em>The Woman in the Window</em></span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3r0iKpO" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/44xk8h7" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45vWNhc" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3PlFmKG" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3suK4g3" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">CamCat Books</a></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<p>My husband Karl shakes hands with other doctors, a carousel of orthopedic surgeons in cummerbunds. I read his lips over the brass band: How’s the champagne, Ed? Since he grayed, Karl wears a light beard that, for the convention, he trimmed to nothing. </p>
<p>The ballroom they rented has long windows that run along Boston’s waterfront. Sapphire table settings burn in their reflections. </p>
<p>The food looks delicious. Rainbows of heirloom carrots. Vermont white cheddar in the macaroni. Some compliment the main course, baked cod drizzled with olive oil. My eyes are on the chocolate cherries. Unless Karl is right, and they’re soaked in brandy. </p>
<p>At some dramatic point in the evening, balloons will drop from nets. A banner sags, prematurely revealing its last line. </p>
<p>CELEBRATING THIRTY YEARS! </p>
<p>Thirty years. How nice, though I try not to think that far back. </p>
<p>I miss something, another joke. </p>
<p>Everyone’s covering merlot-soaked teeth, and I wonder if they’re laughing at me. Is it my dress? I didn’t know if I should wear white like the other wives. </p>
<p>I redirect the conversation from my choice of a navy-blue one-shoulder, which I now see leaves me exposed, and ask so many questions about the latest in joint repair that I get lightheaded. </p>
<p>The chandelier spins. Double zeroes hit the roulette table. A break watching the ocean, then I’m back, resuming my duties as a spouse, suppressing a yawn for an older man my husband desperately wants to impress. A board member who could recommend Karl as the next director of clinical apps. </p>
<p>I’m thinking about moving up, our careers. I’m not thinking dark thoughts like people are laughing or staring at me. Not even when someone taps me on the shoulder. </p>
<p>“Are you Daphne?” asks a young man. A member of the wait staff. No one should know me here; I’m an ornament. Yet something’s familiar about the young man’s blue eyes. Heat trickles down my neck as I try to name the sensation in my stomach. </p>
<p>“And you are?” I say. </p>
<p>“Gerard,” he says. The glasses on his platter sway with caffeinated amber. “Gerard Gedney. You remember?” </p>
<p>I gag on my ginger ale. </p>
<p>“My gosh, I do,” I say. “Gerard. Wow.” </p>
<p>Thirty years ago, when this convention was still in its planning stages, Gerard Gedney was the little boy who had to stay in his room for almost his entire childhood. Beginning of every school year, each class made Get Well Soon cards and mailed them to his house. </p>
<p>We moved before I knew what happened to Gerard, but with everything else, I never thought of him until now. All the growing up he must’ve done, despite the odds, and now at least he got out, got away. </p>
<p>“I beat the leukemia,” he says. </p>
<p>“I’m so glad for you, Gerard.” </p>
<p>If that’s the appropriate response. The awkwardness that defined my childhood creeps over me. Of all the people to bump into, it has to be David Gedney’s brother. David, the Boy Never Found. </p>
<p>My eyes jump from Gerard to the other wait staff. They wear pleated dress pants. Gerard’s in a T-shirt, bowtie, and black jeans. </p>
<p>“I don’t really work here, Daphne,” says Gerard, sliding the platter onto a table. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.” </p>
<p>The centerpiece topples. Glass shatters. An old woman holds her throat. </p>
<p>“Gerard,” I say, my knees weak, “I understand you’re upset about David. Can we please not do this here?” </p>
<p>Gerard wouldn’t be the first to unload on what awful people we were. But to hear family gossip aired tonight, in front of my husband and his colleagues? I can’t even imagine what Karl would think. </p>
<p>“I’m not here about my brother,” says Gerard. “I’m here about yours.” His words twist. </p>
<p>“Paul,” I say. “What about him?”</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry,” says a waiter, bumping me. Another kneels to pick up green chunks of the vase. When I find Gerard again, he’s at the service exit, waiting for me to follow. </p>
<p>Before I do, I take one last look at the distinguished men and a few women. The shoulder claps. The dancing. Karl wants to be in that clique—I mean, I want that too. For him, I want it. </p>
<p>But I realize something else. They’re having a good time in a way I never could, even if I were able to let go of the memory of my brother, Paul.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The catering service has two vans in the alleyway. It’s a tunnel that feeds into the Boston skyline, the Prudential Center its shining peak. </p>
<p>Gerard beckons me to duck behind a stinky dumpster. Rain drizzles on cardboard boxes. </p>
<p>I never knew Gerard as a man. Maybe he has a knife or wants to strangle me, and all this news about my brother was bait to lure me out here. I’m vulnerable in high heels. But Gerard doesn’t pull a weapon. </p>
<p>He pulls out a postcard, its edges dusty with a white powder I can’t identify. The image is of three black crows inscribed on a glowing full moon. </p>
<p>“I found it in Dad’s things,” says Gerard. “Please take it. Look, David is gone. We’ve got to live with the messes our parents made. Mine sacrificed a lot for my treatment, but had they moved to Boston, I probably would’ve beat the cancer in months instead of years.” </p>
<p>“And this is about Paul?” I say. </p>
<p>“When the chemo was at its worst,” says Gerard, “I dreamed about a boy, my older self, telling me I would survive.” </p>
<p>I take my eyes off Gerard long enough to read the back of the postcard: </p>
<p><em>$ from Crusher. Keep yourself pure, Brother. For the sake of our children, the Door must remain open.</em></p>
<p>Crusher. Brother. Door. No salutation or signature, no return address. Other than Crusher, no names of any kind. The words run together with Gerard’s take on how treatment changed his perspective. </p>
<p>Something presses my stomach again. Dread. Soon as I saw this young man, I knew he was an omen of something. And when is an omen good? </p>
<p>“Your dad had this,” I say. “Did he say why? Or who sent it?” </p>
<p>An angry look crosses Gerard’s face. “My dad’s dead,” he says. “So’s Brother Dominic. Liver cancer stage 4B on Christmas Day. What’d they do to deserve that, huh?” </p>
<p>“They both died on Christmas? Gerard, I’m so sorry.” First David, now his dad and Dominic? He stiffens when I reach for him, and, of course, I’m the last person he wants to comfort him. “I know how hard it is. I lost my mom, as you know, and my dad ten years ago.” </p>
<p>The day Dad died, I thought I’d never get off the floor. I cried so hard I threw up, right in the kitchen. Karl was there, my future husband, visiting on the weekend from his residency. I didn’t even think we were serious, but there he was, talking me through it, the words lost now, but not the comfort of his voice. </p>
<p>I looked in his eyes, daring to hope that with this man I wouldn’t pass on to my children what Mom passed down to me. </p>
<p>“Mom’s half-there most days,” says Gerard. “But one thing.” </p>
<p>The rear entrance bangs open, spewing orange light. Two men dump oily garbage, chatting in Spanish. </p>
<p>“Check the postmark, Daphne,” says Gerard at the end of the alleyway. He was right beside me. Now it’s a black bird sidestepping on the dumpster, its talons clacking, wanting me to feed it. I flinch and catch Gerard shrugging under the icy rain before he disappears. </p>
<p>The postmark is from Los Angeles, sent October last year. Six months ago, George Gedney received this postcard. Two months later, he’s dead, and so is another son. </p>
<p>What does that mean? How does it fit in with Paul? </p>
<p>Though he’s gone, I keep calling for Gerard, my voice strangled. Someone has me by the elbow, my husband. Even in lifts, Karl’s three inches shorter than me. </p>
<p>“Daphne, what is it? What’s wrong?” </p>
<p>“Colquitt. I need Sheriff Colquitt or . . .” Voices argue in my head, and I nod at the hail swirling past yellow streetlamps. “Thirty years ago, Bixbee was a young man. He might still be alive.” </p>
<p>“Daphne, did that man hurt you? <em>Hey.”</em></p>
<p>Karl demands that someone call the police, but I shake him. </p>
<p>“It’s fine, Karl,” I say, dialing Berkshire County Sheriff ’s Office. “Gerard’s a boy I knew from my hometown.” </p>
<p>Karl’s calling someone too. “Some coincidence,” he says. </p>
<p>Though it wasn’t. Here I am trying not to think about the past, and it comes back to slap me in the face as though I summoned it. Paul. The little brother I vowed to protect. </p>
<p>The phone finally picks up. “Berkshire Sheriff’s Office.” </p>
<p>“Hello,” I say, “could I leave a message for Harold Bixbee to call me back as soon as possible? He is or was a deputy in your department.” </p>
<p>“Uh, ma’am, I don’t have anyone in our personnel records who matches that name. But if it’s an emergency, I’d be glad—”</p>
<p>I hang up. Damn. I should’ve known at nine p.m., all I’d get is a desk sergeant. I’d spend half the night catching him up to speed. </p>
<p>“Daphne.” My husband lowers his phone, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “I asked Ed to pull the hotel’s security feed. You’re the only one on tape.” </p>
<p>“What? No.” </p>
<p>“It shows that you walked out that door alone,” says Karl, gesturing, “and I come out a few minutes later.” </p>
<p><em>The Door must remain open.</em></p>
<p>Dread hardens, then the postcard’s corner jabs my thumb. I’m about to show Karl my proof when I realize that now there are only two crows in the moon. </p>
<p>“How’d he do that?” I keep flipping it, expecting the third one to return, before I sense my husband waiting. Distantly, I hear wings flap, but it could be the rain. “Gerard wanted me to have his dad’s postcard.” </p>
<p>“So this boy Gerard comes all the way from Springfield to hand you a postcard,” Karl says. “And he can magically avoid cameras?” </p>
<p>“I’m not from Springfield,” I say, shaking off a chill. Magically avoid cameras. And Gerard can turn pictures of crows into real ones too. How? </p>
<p>“You seem very agitated,” says Karl. “Want me to call Dr. Russell? Unless . . .” Karl’s listening, just not to me. “Ed says the camera angles aren’t the best here. There’s a few blind spots.” </p>
<p>“I said I’m not from Springfield, Karl. Any more than you’re from Boston.” </p>
<p>My husband nods, still wary. “Boston is more recognizable than Quincy. But how does your hometown account for why Gerard isn’t on the security footage?” </p>
<p>I lick my lips, my hand hovering over Karl’s phone. </p>
<p>When we first met, I wanted to keep things upbeat. Me? I’m a daddy’s girl, though (chuckling) certainly not to a fault. In the interest of a second date, I might’ve understated some things. </p>
<p>“Here,” I say, “it’s more like I’m from the Hilltowns. It’s a remote area.” My lips tremble, trying to force out the name of my hometown. “I was born and raised in New Minton, Karl.” </p>
<p>Somewhere between Cabbage Patch Kids and stickers hidden in a cereal box, the ones Paul demanded every time we opened a new Crøønchy Stars, is recognition. I can tell by the strange flicker on Karl’s face. </p>
<p>“The New Minton Boys,” he says. “All those missing kids, the ones never found.” Karl is stunned. “Daphne, you’re from there? Did you know those boys? God, you would’ve been a kid yourself.” </p>
<p>“I was eleven,” I say. And I was a kid, a selfish kid. I came from a large family. Brandy was seventeen, Courtney fifteen, Ellie nine, and Paul seven. </p>
<p>The day before my brother disappeared, I wasn’t thinking that this night was the last time we’d all be together. I wasn’t thinking about the pain Mom and Dad would go through, especially after the town gossip began. </p>
<p>No. I thought my biggest problems in the world were mean schoolboys. So I ruined dinner. </p>
<p>“Daphne?” Now Karl looks mad. “That’s a big secret not to tell your husband.” </p>
<p>If only he knew.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Girl Among Crows</i> by Brendon Vayo. Copyright 2023 by Brendon Vayo. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Author Bio:</span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Brendon Vayo" border="0" height="267" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/2ddJqf5ycNlt-brendon-vayo.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Brendon Vayo was born in Okinawa, Japan, and now lives in Austin, TX. He has a wonderful wife and three children. The kids keep him awake at night, so he hopes his books do the same to you.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Whew! </b></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">My mind is spinning. There is a lot going on in this book. A very interesting read for sure! This was eerie, creepy, spooky and very vivid! I love books like that! A lot of action, especially towards the end.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wow, the ending! The ending… and by ending I mean the whole last third of the book, makes all the rest of it worthwhile. The author definitely wraps it all up and makes it a lot easier to understand everything that had happened.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ll admit this book was a bit confusing at times, I was liking it, I just had a hard time getting used to the different writing style. It was not always clear as to how things connected and exactly what was going on.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But, I am glad to say that it did get much better the last half of the book and was a worth while read, for sure.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think I will keep my eye out for this new author.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div></div><h2>Tour Participants:</h2>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-41730865211825824212023-11-15T11:16:00.000-05:002023-11-15T11:16:58.501-05:00 I HEARD A FLY BUZZ WHEN I DIED, by Amanda Flower<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBPswuNXock3b3jWwMuGFViDAvRziBu-RFnPQkhHaybNowDacxWmJizO4hMSNZmzXWVhZKst5e0H04e2Ux-KBCxLTDjpuh9IU8TxsFX0x6omKO8iIwPzUJxTzLncHPFr7KvVOdfxPDjo2RBviGBUOZ-iBq9CxsueLxYtV8FQamXN41mjOi5tKET30Wy8n/s2395/I%20heard%20a%20fly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2395" data-original-width="1548" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBPswuNXock3b3jWwMuGFViDAvRziBu-RFnPQkhHaybNowDacxWmJizO4hMSNZmzXWVhZKst5e0H04e2Ux-KBCxLTDjpuh9IU8TxsFX0x6omKO8iIwPzUJxTzLncHPFr7KvVOdfxPDjo2RBviGBUOZ-iBq9CxsueLxYtV8FQamXN41mjOi5tKET30Wy8n/w259-h400/I%20heard%20a%20fly.jpg" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">4.5 Stars!</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div><b>ABOUT THE BOOK -</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">August 1856. The Dickinson family is comfortably settled in their homestead on Main Street. Emily’s brother, Austin Dickinson, and his new wife are delighted when famous thinker and writer Ralph Waldo Emerson comes to Amherst to speak at a local literary society and decides he and his young secretary, Luther Howard, will stay with the newlyweds. Emily has been a longtime admirer of Emerson’s writing and is thrilled at the chance to meet her idol. She is determined to impress him with her quick wit, and if she can gather the courage, a poem. Willa Noble, the second maid in the Dickinson home and Emily's friend, encourages her to speak to the famous but stern man. But his secretary, Luther, intrigues Willa more because of his clear fondness for the Dickinson sisters.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">Willa does not know if Luther truly cares for one of the Dickinson girls or if he just sees marrying one of them as a way to raise himself up in society. After a few days in his company, Willa starts to believe it’s the latter. Miss Lavinia, Emily’s sister, appears to be enchanted by Luther; a fact that bothers Emily greatly. However, Emily’s fears are squashed when Luther turns up dead in the Dickinson’s garden. It seems that he was poisoned. Emerson, aghast at the death of his secretary, demands answers. Emily and Willa set out to find them in order to save the Dickinson family reputation and stop a cold-blooded fiend from killing again.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieyXkkP-ht-rI7eVMVLxpZgSh7VHrx9JopgfOT16VF5YeaoxMDzjledcRIpE4yL5WStao6goRGZ_Zd_7wgRxyMeXtvRL055S4C-NcArmqGlbc-fs97g7kqiHPnjPLfbfQ-A4kUYRR3AEO9gyk6W0JVBAWfjEpKZ95N7B1J2VhWhsVnKsFAJjoHUX3s-QoH" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1366" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieyXkkP-ht-rI7eVMVLxpZgSh7VHrx9JopgfOT16VF5YeaoxMDzjledcRIpE4yL5WStao6goRGZ_Zd_7wgRxyMeXtvRL055S4C-NcArmqGlbc-fs97g7kqiHPnjPLfbfQ-A4kUYRR3AEO9gyk6W0JVBAWfjEpKZ95N7B1J2VhWhsVnKsFAJjoHUX3s-QoH" width="160" /></a></div><br />ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</b><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: black;">Amanda Flower</span></b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> is the <i>USA Today</i> bestselling and Agatha Award-winning mystery author of over forty novels, including the nationally bestselling Amish Candy Shop Mystery Series, Magical Bookshop Mysteries, and, written under the name Isabella Alan, the Amish Quilt Shop Mysteries. Flower is a former librarian, and she and her husband, a recording engineer, own a habitat farm and recording studio in Northeast Ohio. Learn more online at <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.amandaflower.com&source=gmail&ust=1700057890226000&usg=AOvVaw3R4_9OgPRelgi0Wv6muTC2" href="http://www.amandaflower.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">www.amandaflower.com</a>.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><b><u></u>MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;">I was so excited about reading this book because it was a historical mystery using Emily Dickinson and family as characters! I did not realize it was the second book in a series. But, no worries - I used one of my Audible credits and listened to the audio of the first one - Because I Could Not Stop For Death.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">These two books were such a joy to read! I loved them both. I’ve love historical fiction. I have just lately gotten into historical mysteries. I think this is going to be one of my favorite genres!</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I’ve always loved Emily Dickinson’s poems and writings. She had a very sad life, especially in the later years.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I loved Emily's character in these books! I don’t know if I would’ve liked her in real life, but I loved her in here. She certainly was a strong woman who spoke her mind. I love that kind of female character in a book.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img alt="😱" aria-label="😱" class="an1" data-emoji="😱" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/15.0/1f631/72.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /> There are a couple of other famous guest appearances in these books… Ralph Waldo Emerson is one of the main characters and Louisa May Alcott, author of little women (and a lot more!) is in the second half of this book. I loved her! I do think I would have liked her in real life!</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Both of these books were told in the voice of Willa, Emily Dickinson’s maid. She was an absolute delight! </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The mysteries in both these book were fun. And it was great going along with Willa and Emily to try to solve them.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;"><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Listening to the audio version of the first book was amazing. The reader did an excellent job! </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As soon as the character, Emily Dickinson spoke for the first time my whole body changed. I got this big smile on my face, and felt as if I was starstruck! I mean, I know it wasn’t really her lol but still! It was amazing and it did feel real!</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Could a woman really be a writer and support herself while doing it?" This was a thought in both books and it reminded me of A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf which is about the injustice to women and especially women writers of that time. I loved that book. If you haven't read it give it a try.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I would definitely read more by this author! Thanks </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Berkley | Penguin Random House for the e-book and chance to give my honest review.</span></span></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px;"> </p></div>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-82112500631030955472023-11-08T08:19:00.001-05:002023-11-08T08:47:10.013-05:00Girl on Trial by Kathleen Fine - With a GIVEAWAY!<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/girl-on-trial-by-kathleen-fine/" title="Girl on Trial by Kathleen Fine"><img alt="Girl on Trial by Kathleen Fine Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/girl-on-trial-by-kathleen-fine-banner-rev1.png" width="600" /></a></h2></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>October 23 - November 17, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></b></div>
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<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Girl on Trial by Kathleen Fine" border="0" height="311" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/yWL4M6apiD1u-Girl-on-Trial-Cover.jpeg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /><br /></div>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK -</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><b><i>Does doing one bad thing make you a bad person?</i></b></span></span></p><p>Sixteen-year-old Emily Keller, known by the media as Keller the Killer, is accused of causing the deaths of a family of four, including young children. Emily is one of the youngest females to be accused of a crime so heinous, making this the nation’s biggest trial of the year. But what really happened that fateful night—and who’s responsible—is anything but straightforward.</p>
<p>Living in a trailer park in Baltimore with her twin brother and alcoholic mother, Emily’s life hasn’t been easy. She’s had to grow up fast, and like any teen, has made questionable decisions in a desperate attempt to fit in with her peers. Will her mistakes amount to a guilty verdict and a life in prison? It’s up to the jury to decide.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Girl on Trial</i>:</h3>
<p>"Kathleen Fine has written a compassionate, thought-provoking thriller that will have readers asking themselves big questions about redemption while also turning the pages with breathless anticipation. From her opening pages, Fine grabbed my attention and didn't let go until I closed the book, hardly twenty four hours later. Fine's story reminds us that everyone has a backstory and that the root of empathy involves discovering the particulars of someone else's history with an open heart and mind." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Christie Tate, Author of Reese’s Book Club and NYT bestseller <em>GROUP</em></span></p>
<p>"In her sharp debut <i>Girl on Trial</i>, Kathleen Fine deftly weaves the past with 16 year-old Emily Keller’s present-day manslaughter trial, allowing readers to put together the puzzle pieces of what really happened the day everyone says Emily killed an entire family. With her vivid characters and a well-developed setting, Fine evokes compassion for people trying their best and reminds us that there’s more to every story than meets the eye. Girl on Trial asks readers to wonder: are we more than our biggest mistake, and does everyone deserve redemption?" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Jessie Weaver, author of <em>Live Your Best Lie</em></span></p>
<p>"Readers will be on edge as Emily’s decisions lead her to become involved in and vulnerable to dangerous situations… The epilogue brings the roller-coaster ride to a satisfying conclusion…. Gripping, tragic, but ultimately hopeful." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ <em>Kirkus</em></span></p>
<p>“In Kathleen Fine’s <i>Girl on Trial</i>…interpersonal dynamics are revelatory… reality wars with public perception…a suspenseful thriller in which a maligned teenager is forced to fight for justice.”<br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ <em>Foreword Reviews</em></span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/45BZZaE" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3slieTC" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45xcO6a" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3E53tHc" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45eaCRq" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">CamCat Books</a></span></b></div>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>Prologue</h4>
<h6>January 12, 2022</h6>
<h5>i</h5>
<p>“The only reason I come to this meeting is for my weekly caffeine high,” Tiffani with an <em>i</em> admitted. Emily nodded at her friend as she took a sip of her lukewarm, watered-down coffee, a taste she’d gotten used to. A taste she now associated with healing. </p>
<p>“I’m not no strung-out addict or nothin’,” Tiffani continued and then focused on Emily, remembering that Emily, in fact, wasn’t there just for the coffee. “No offense—wasn’t tryin’ to say nothin’ bad about addicts. It’s just they don’t give us caffeine inside, ya know?” </p>
<p>“No offense taken.” Emily smiled as she wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, relaxing her tense shoulders. She’d become used to Tiffani’s candor and had grown to appreciate the woman’s raw honesty. She watched as Tiffani sprinkled some sugar into her undersized paper cup and stirred it with the plastic spoon tied to a container with blue yarn. Tiffani glanced around the room and then untied the yarn, placing the spoon into the pocket of her gray, state-issued sweatpants. Emily bit her lip, debating if she should stop her, but then decided not to. Tiffani was going to do what Tiffani wanted to do—she always did and always would. </p>
<p>“I gnaw on the edges of this enough and it gives me a sorta sharp blade.” She gave Emily a wink as she patted her pocket, keeping the new weapon safe as she took a seat in the circle with the other women. </p>
<p>“One minute, ladies,” the guard announced to the group as the chatter quieted down and the women took their seats in the circle. Emily picked up an NA book from the only empty seat in the circle that Nikki left for her as a placeholder. She sat down in its place, shifting uncomfortably in the metal chair. She moved her eyes toward the group secretary, Darlene, as she flipped through a stack of papers on her lap. </p>
<p>“Hello, I’m an addict and my name is Darlene. Welcome to the Lincoln Juvenile Correctional Center’s group of Narcotics Anonymous. Can we open this meeting with a moment of silence for the addict who still suffers, followed by the serenity prayer?” Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she tried to stop her palms from sweating. She still got anxious even though she’d been attending the meeting every week for the past year. <em>How has it been an entire year?</em> she wondered. <em>So much has happened in only twelve months.</em></p>
<p>“Is there anyone here attending their first NA meeting or this meeting for the first time?” Darlene asked. “If so, welcome! You’re the most important person here! If you’ve used today, please listen to what’s being said and talk to someone at the break or after the meeting. It costs nothing to belong to this fellowship; you are a member when you say you are. Can someone please read, <em>Who Is an Addict?</em> and <em>What Is Narcotics Anonymous?</em>” </p>
<p>“I will,” Chantelle volunteered as she reached across the circle, grabbed the paper from Darlene, and began reading aloud to the group. </p>
<p>“Yo, Em,” Nikki leaned over and whispered in Emily’s ear. “You celebratin’ today?” Emily nodded at her timidly. She didn’t like speaking in front of people even if it was a group of women she trusted. </p>
<p>“You’ll do great,” Nikki whispered as she punched Emily lightly in the arm. Emily peered around the circle to make sure no one was paying attention to Nikki’s whispers. They weren’t supposed to have side conversations during the meeting—the guard would send them out of the room if he caught them. </p>
<p>When Chantelle finished the reading, Darlene thanked her and said, “Now can someone please read <em>Why We Are Here</em> and <em>How It Works</em>?” </p>
<p>Emily watched anxiously as the paper was passed down to Trina. She closed her eyes and listened to Trina’s words, clenching her jaw tightly. </p>
<p>“I used last night,” Nikki muttered so quietly, Emily wasn’t sure if she was meant to hear her. She glanced over at Nikki, who was staring down into her coffee cup shamefully. Nikki had been the first person to introduce herself to Emily at her initial meeting, making her Emily’s OG friend in the group. Emily furrowed her brow and placed her hand on top of Nikki’s. She wished Nikki had told her about the relapse earlier—then she could have had an actual conversation with her about it. She wondered where Nikki could’ve gotten her hands on anything since she’d heard a rumor the guards had been doing weekly bunk checks. </p>
<p><em>One day at a time</em>, Nikki had told Emily, so many months before when she’d been a broken shell of herself. “One day at a time,” Emily whispered, trying not to let the guard hear their buzzing. </p>
<p>Seeing Emily’s tentative face, Nikki mumbled, “My roommate snuck some smack up her papusa. Had her boyfriend’s kid bring it in when he visited her. Whack, dude. Whack.” She shook her head and rubbed her buzzed hair with her rugged hands. “She’s a bad influence on me. I gotta get a new roommate.” </p>
<p>Emily frowned, aware that there was nothing she could do to help Nikki. Nikki had to want sobriety for herself, just like Emily had wanted it. She squeezed Nikki’s hand tightly and whispered, “Glad you’re here.” As much as Nikki’s relapse upset her, it gave her a tiny bit of strength to share her story. Maybe she could help Nikki even a little bit today by sharing her own struggles. </p>
<p>“No touching,” the guard yelled from across the room, eyeing Nikki and Emily. As if being scolded by a teacher, Emily reddened and instantly pulled her hand away from Nikki’s. </p>
<p>Darlene reached below her chair and lifted a shoebox to her lap. “This group recognizes length of clean time by handing out key tags. If you have one coming to you, please come up and get it. The white one is for anyone with zero to twenty-nine days clean and serene.” Darlene opened the box to reveal a white key tag and dangled it in the air. Nikki glanced at Emily and then hesitantly stood up to collect her tag. The group clapped and whistled wildly as she crossed the circle and took her tag. She gave a couple of the women fist bumps as the group chanted, “What do we do? Keep coming back!” Emily put her fist out as Nikki gave it a bump. She hoped this small gesture, this modest group of women cheering for Nikki, would be the reason she’d quit for good this time. </p>
<p>“The orange one is for thirty days clean and serene.” Emily watched as two women got up, collected their tags, and sat back down. Applause and chanting “What do we do? Keep coming back!” vibrated the room. </p>
<p>As Darlene handed out the tags for two months, three months, and so on, Emily gripped her chair, knowing her turn was coming. Her palms, damp with her sweat, began to slip along the chair’s metal sides. </p>
<p>“The yellow one is for nine months clean and serene,” Darlene announced. </p>
<p>Nikki peered at Emily and nudged her bicep. “Your turn is coming up soon,” she whispered. Emily smiled at her, trying to give the façade of bravery, but she felt anything but brave. What she really wanted to do was run as fast as she could out of the room and into the parking lot. </p>
<p>“The glow-in-the-dark one is for a year clean and serene.” <em>You can do this</em>, Emily thought as she unsteadily stood up and walked toward Darlene. All the women in the room clapped loudly and chanted as she took the tag and went back to her seat, her face flushing with pride. </p>
<p>Darlene placed the box back under her chair and collected the sheets of readings from the women who had read. “Today, Emily is celebrating her one-year anniversary with us. You ready, Em?” </p>
<p>The women’s applause quieted and all eyes turned toward her. Clenching her fists tightly, she felt her beating heart rise to her throat. She scanned the room at the women and girls before her. Addicts, inmates, and friends. <em>My people</em>, Emily thought as she said, “My name is Emily, and I am an addict. This is my story . . .”</p>
<h4>1</h4>
<h6>Trial Day 1: January 7, 2019</h6>
<h5>i</h5>
<p>The alarm on Emily’s phone chimed just as Sophie whispered in her ear, “Wake up, Emawee. Wake up.” She opened her eyes widely, her body covered in sweat, her sheets soaked yet again. “Time to wake up.” She heard Sophie’s whisper get farther away, humming distantly from somewhere in her dreams. </p>
<p>From somewhere in her nightmares. </p>
<p>As she turned off the alarm, she tried to overlook the numerous text messages that’d surfaced from numbers she didn’t recognize. </p>
<p>“Die, killer” </p>
<p>“You’ll pay in hell for what you did.” </p>
<p>“Murderer”</p>
<p><em>How can people I don’t even know want me dead?</em></p>
<p>With shaky hands, she deleted the texts as a CNN report popped up on her screen, updating her on the “Trial of the Year,” that was beginning that day: </p>
<p align="center"><em>CNN Breaking News<br />The Biggest Trial of the Year Begins Today, January 7, 2019. Emily Keller, also known by the media as Keller the Killer, is accused of causing the deaths of four family members, two of them small children. Only 16 years old, Emily is one of the youngest females to be accused of a crime so heinous.</em></p>
<p>Emily buried her face in her pillow, taking a deep breath. She tried to hold back the habitual tears that were creeping out from the corners of her eyes. <em>I have to be strong today; no crying</em>, she told herself as she rubbed her temples slowly. <em>I need to put on my protective armor, or I’ll never make it through today alive.</em> She reached under her mattress, grabbed her orange pill bottle and gave it a shake, the rattling sound of the tablets comforting her. She poured two pills onto her clammy palm and placed them gently on her tongue. <em>Protective armor.</em></p>
<p>“Emily?” her brother, Nate, quietly inched open the bedroom door, “You awake? It’s time to start getting ready for court.” </p>
<p>Without looking up at him, she nodded as she rolled out of bed, trying not to think about how wrong the prosecution had the facts and how she could be sent to prison because of it. As she attempted to walk toward the door, her ankle monitor snagged on her lavender bedsheet. She yanked the sheet off in frustration and dragged her feet to the bathroom to prepare for the first day of her new life. </p>
<p>Debbie and Nate were already waiting for her in Debbie’s rumbling Toyota Camry when she stepped out of the trailer. </p>
<p>“It’s your turn for shotgun.” Emily opened the door to the backseat where Nate was already buckled in. </p>
<p>“You can take it today,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact with her. </p>
<p>“I don’t need pity shotgun just because I’m on trial for murder, Nate,” Emily replied curtly as she reluctantly sat down in the front seat. As she buckled her seat belt, she already regretted scolding Nate for doing something kind. <em>I’ll apologize to him later</em>, she told herself. Nate had been up with her until three o’clock that morning, listening to her cry and consoling her. <em>I don’t deserve him</em>, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. </p>
<p>She rolled down her window and took a deep breath of fresh morning air as her mom lit a Virginia Slim, her hands trembling. “Morning vodka shot hasn’t kicked in yet?” Emily muttered under her breath as she turned on the radio. <em>Or maybe one shot doesn’t cut it anymore</em>, Emily thought. </p>
<p>“What hasn’t kicked in?” Debbie asked as she ashed her cigarette into an empty coke can, oblivious to Emily’s disrespectful comment. </p>
<p>“Coffee hasn’t kicked in yet?” Emily corrected herself as she investigated her face in the cracked side mirror of the car. The face staring back at Emily was swollen from weeks of nonstop crying. Although she’d put on some of her mom’s waterproof mascara, she still looked like someone had run her over with a truck. <em>You’re so repulsive</em>, she thought as she tried to comb her drab chestnut hair with her fingers, squinting at her image through the cracked glass. She wanted to disappear. Sink down into the seat of the car and disappear forever. </p>
<p>As she pinched her upper cheekbones to give her face some color, she glanced at Nate through the corner of the broken mirror, hoping he couldn’t tell she was staring at him through the mosaic lens. Since he had headphones in his ears, she assumed he was listening to a news podcast about the trial. The expression on his face looked like it was straining to stay calm, but she could read his emotions no matter how hard he tried to hide them. When you shared a womb with someone, you knew everything they were feeling. </p>
<p>There was actually supposed to be three of them. Her dad had left when he’d found out Debbie was pregnant with triplets. He’d said since he didn’t want one baby, he definitely didn’t want three. Emily used to sometimes think about how different her life would’ve been if their other brother hadn’t died at birth. Maybe he would’ve punched Tom Swanson for dumping her two years ago since Nate didn’t do a thing about it. Maybe he would’ve taught Emily to throw a football since Nate was anti-athletics. </p>
<p>Maybe he could’ve stopped Emily before she lost herself. Maybe he could’ve stopped this whole situation. Maybe no one would have died. </p>
<p>“Valerie told us to meet her around back when I spoke to her on the phone last night,” Emily directed her mom as they pulled up to the courthouse. Debbie nodded as she navigated her ancient car around to the back of the building, avoiding the crowd hovering at the entrance. </p>
<p>“Shit, look at all of the people,” Nate announced as he stared at the crowd and cameras surrounding the front of the building. No one seemed to notice their rickety car escape past the swell to the rear parking lot. <em>Maybe they were expecting some sort of official-looking black SUV like you see in crime movies and not our pathetic piece of tin</em>, Emily speculated, thinking about how some seniors at her school owned nicer cars than her mom’s. She peeked down at her gray dress and nervously picked little lint balls off it as her mom parked the car. </p>
<p>“You look fine, Em,” Debbie insisted as she opened a mini bottle of vodka from her purse and took a swig, “That dress looks lovely on you.” Debbie had spent her tip money to buy Emily “new” thrift store clothes for the trial. Emily was now pulling at a seam on the edge of the dress, making it unravel. </p>
<p>As she waited for her mom to finish her shot, she felt around for the phone in her purse to make sure it was turned off. She’d turn it on later that night once her mom and Nate were sleeping so she could read through her texts and the news in privacy. That way, if she cried, no one would see her. <em>Strong people don’t cry</em>, she told herself. </p>
<p>“You need a pill?” Debbie asked as she fumbled through the large purse on her lap. The Valium Emily had taken that morning was beginning to set in, and she was starting to feel unreasonably calm. </p>
<p>“I’m good.” <em>Although I’ll need another one soon</em>, she thought. It hurt her too much to live in reality. </p>
<p>Emily’s lawyer, Valerie Anderson, was standing at the back entrance of the building, propping open the heavy metal door with her bright red heel. As Emily stepped out of the car, Valerie waved her hands frantically, “Quick, before they catch on that you’re back here!” she shrieked as she lifted her long, hot pink nails to her mouth. </p>
<p>“We better hurry.” Debbie grabbed Nate’s and Emily’s hands, tugging them toward Valerie. </p>
<p>“Wait,” Emily urged as she struggled to catch up to her petite mom’s gait. Without warning, her black heel wobbled to the side and she stumbled, falling onto the hard concrete. Before she had the chance to assess the damage to her knees, Nate dropped his mom’s hand, grabbed Emily up by the arm, and quickly escorted her to the door. As they approached Valerie, all eyes looked to the blood running down Emily’s knees. Emily was surprised the wounds stung so badly even though the rest of her felt numb. </p>
<p>“We’ll have to find some Band-Aids ASAP before we converse.” Valerie’s heels echoed in the hallway as she led them to their room. Emily slouched over even more than she had been as she followed Valerie, spying the name <em>Keller</em> stuck to a metal door with a yellow Post-it. As they stepped inside, the heavy door slammed behind them with a loud thud. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Girl on Trial</i> by Kathleen Fine. Copyright 2023 by Kathleen Fine. Reproduced with permission from Kathleen Fine. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</b></span></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Kathleen Fine" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/wxDS3jW9ULyY-kathleen-fine-pic.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 3px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 3px 5px 15px;" width="212" /></div>
<p>Kathleen Fine received her Master’s in Reading Education from Towson University and Bachelor’s in Elementary Education from University of Maryland, College Park. She is a member of the Maryland Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, and Author’s Guild. When she’s not writing and selling real estate, she enjoys spending time with her family, traveling to the Outer Banks, and of course, reading anything she can get her hands on. She currently lives in Baltimore, Maryland with her husband, three children, and Sussex Spaniel. Her short stories have been published in Litro Magazine, Pen in Hand, The Maryland Writer’s Association Anthology, and in The Indignor Playhouse Anthology. <i>Girl on Trial</i> is her debut novel. </p>
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<p> <b>MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This was an amazing book. One that I read in 24 hours! I don't even remember the last time I did this. I could not stop reading. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The author's writing style is so good that you literally cannot walk away from this book.</span> I was so attached to Emily, the main character, that I had to know if she was going to be OK, as if I knew her personally. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought that Emily's 16 year old character was spot on! I felt as if she could have been someone pulled right from my own high school. At first, I didn't really care for her lawyer. I didn't think she was doing a good enough job and it infuriated me! But, she grew on me and by the end of the book, I ended up liking her. I'm sure she had reasons for the way she did things. And, the other teenagers in the story... Oh my word... as terrible as they were, it was very true to life. I speak from experience as someone who attended a very large city high school.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book brought back so many memories for me, not all of them good. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">A lot of people have commented that this was a very difficult book to read. Well... it is, and it should be! People are uncomfortable reading about such horrible things. But they do exist and closing our eyes to them doesn't make them go away. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I am glad that this author took the chance to write such an eye opening book as this.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">One thing that stood out for me was this quote - </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">“Next time you get the craving to do it (commit suicide), will you promise to call me first? Maybe if you call me to talk about how you’re feeling, maybe you won’t feel like you have to.” </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This part reminded me of when I was a teenager in high school, and one of my best friends called sounding really sad, and told me that she felt like killing herself. She said she was going to slit her wrists. I took a chance and told my mom. My mom actually took it very seriously and we got in the car and drove over to her house. When we got there my friend seemed happy to see me. She promised that she would never actually do it, even though she did feel like it sometimes. I made her promise to tell me if she ever felt like that again. ~ <b>If anyone ever tells you they feel like doing this - please do not ignore it! You may be saving someone's life!</b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A very excellent debut novel! I have a feeling that this author has a bright future ahead of her. I can't wait to see what she has in store for us next. I will be reading it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></p><p><br /></p>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-16913483085581231962023-11-01T08:06:00.001-04:002023-11-01T08:06:10.299-04:00Killing Johnny Miracle by JK Franko - with a GIVEAWAY!<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>October 16 - November 10, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!!</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b><div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Killing Johnny Miracle by JK Franko" border="0" height="308" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/killing-johnny-miracle-by-jk-franko-cover.png" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div></div>
<p>Johnny Miracle thinks he’s got it all… and he’s in love, just not with his wife, Mary. He wants a divorce and he’s got leverage. Johnny knows her deepest, darkest secret. He’s going to use that to take everything: her vineyard, her money, and her priceless family heirloom. He’ll do whatever it takes to get it all.</p>
<p>But, as Grandma Nellie used to say, “No man, no matter how smart or strong, can compete with a motivated woman.” Mary is a motivated woman, she’s got her own agenda, and it doesn’t include losing. She’s going to kill Johnny. To get away with it, she needs a plan and an alibi. And she thinks she has both.</p>
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<h3><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/45JU04a" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Pw4nBV" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></span></b></h3>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Read an excerpt:</span></b></div>
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<h5>Nobody ever said it was going to be anything better<br />
than a round of poker on the raft of Medusa.<br />It’s not who wins the game that counts.<br />
Nobody wins. It’s who gets out least lost.<br /><em>From Memo, by Todd Hearon</em><br />
</h5>
<h4>PART ONE</h4>
<h6>MARY’S WORLD FALLS APART</h6>
<h4>CHAPTER ONE</h4>
<p>
Mary Miracle would always recall with clarity the moment she decided to kill her husband. It wasn’t a decision she’d come to suddenly. She had loved him at one point, with all her heart. But over the course of their marriage, there’d been an accumulation of things he’d done that—little by little, like a blowtorch burning paint off steel—scorched away chunks of her love.</p>
<p>Usually, once love is gone, only indifference remains. In which case, the logical thing for Mary to do would have been to get a divorce, not kill him. But in Mary’s case, there was one final thing Johnny did to her that obliterated not just the love, but even indifference. And from the charred remains of everything she had once felt for him grew a revulsion so deep that she refused to live in a world where he existed.</p>
<p>After Mary decided that Johnny had to die, she spent the rest of the week working out the best way to do it, the ‘best’ way meaning how to kill him in the manner that was least likely to end with her in prison or—as they lived in Texas—on death row.</p>
<p><em>As his wife, I’ll be the prime suspect. The fact that we’re in the middle of a divorce makes that even worse. Lord knows, I’ve got plenty of motives.</em></p>
<p><em>It needs to look like an accident. Poison? A hit and run? Maybe a burglary gone wrong?</em></p>
<p><em>And I’m gonna need an iron-clad alibi.</em></p>
<p>It took Mary a few days to figure out the accident part. The more difficult piece was the alibi. She came up with lots of ideas. But in the end, she concluded that to pull off a foolproof alibi she needed help: an accomplice. There was only one person in the world she could trust with something like this. Abby Winehouse. They’d grown up together, shared secrets. They knew each other like sisters. </p>
<p>Abby also had the skills to help Mary put the finishing touches on her plan. The only downside was that she’d probably try to talk her out of killing him; Mary was almost sure of that.</p>
<p>She arranged to meet Abby at her place that Friday for some wine and cheese. The house was just west of downtown Austin and had been in Abby’s family since the late 1800s. The two friends sat, as usual, on the wooden back deck in lawn chairs overlooking the small yard. Its perimeter was marked by a hurricane fence. The lawn was thick Saint Augustine grass. There was a small rock garden in one corner, in the center of which sat a broken bird bath; the bath part was dry and dusty. A couple of beat-up cornhole boards leaned against the fence by the gate to the alley. It was just past seven. A cool fall evening. </p>
<p>Abby was sharing some of the highlights of her week. She was on a bit of a rant. “And so, I told him, ‘Don’t be mansplainin’ to me about what a rollin’ stop is. You may have a badge, but I was runnin’ stop signs while you were still on training wheels!’”</p>
<p> Mary nodded and smiled as her friend spoke, but she wasn’t listening. She was rhythmically clinking her fingertip against the stem of her wineglass to disguise the slight tremor in her hands. Nerves. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say. And how to say it. Still, her neck felt tight. Could Abby tell that she was distracted? Abby was never one to pry. She had always been the type to chat, entertain, all while waiting for Mary to open up.</p>
<p>“So fiiiiinally,” Abby dragged out the word, “he agreed to let me off with a warnin’.” She shook her head. “But I had’ta get all pissed off <em>and</em> tell him I’m a lawyer to get ‘im to back down.” She scoffed. “Imagine how they treat regular folk . . . ” She stopped to pour herself some more rosé.</p>
<p>Mary decided to capitalize on the lull. The sound of cars rushing down Mopac highway nearby provided white noise that she felt protected their conversation from prying ears. But she reached out and turned the music on the Bluetooth speaker up a bit, just to be safe. A song by The Dixie Chicks was playing, the one about Earl. It was a song she knew well, but she was so focused on what she wanted to say that the irony was lost on her.</p>
<p>“I need to tell you something, Abby,” she said. “Ask a favor, really . . .” </p>
<p>Abby finished refilling her glass. She turned to look at her friend, and her face fell. “Oh, shit! What’s wrong? No. Don’t you cry, girl,” she reacted instinctively, then backtracked. “Or go on and let it all out if ya need to . . .”</p>
<p>Mary hadn’t realized her eyes were watering. Tears were not on her agenda. She inhaled, seeking to extract confidence from the air around her. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.</p>
<p>“What is it, Mare?”</p>
<p>“I’m gonna need your help with something,” Mary said. The tension in her neck eased slightly as she spoke.</p>
<p>Abby cocked an eyebrow, and Mary watched her eyes dart back and forth as if scanning through a spectrum of possibilities. Despite all her rehearsing, Mary couldn’t help beating around the bush just a little. “It’s a big one,” she added, her eyes turning hard and her chin tilting up slightly. </p>
<p>The air around the two women suddenly felt almost electric. Mary saw that her friend felt it too; the hair on Abby’s arms stood on end.</p>
<p>She leaned towards Mary, placing a hand on her knee. “You know you can count on me, hon.” She unconsciously lowered her voice to a whisper. “What can I do?”</p>
<p>“I . . . It’s about . . . him.”</p>
<p>Abby inhaled deeply and sat up straighter. Her lips pursed, then she took a swallow from her wineglass. “Well, what’s he gone and done now?” Abby’s head tilted; her mouth set in a hard line. “It’s high time you divorced that sumbitch. I know it’s been a mess. But of course, you can count on me—”</p>
<p>“Oh, no. It’s not about the divorce.” She sat back, more confident now that she had gotten the topic on the table. “I mean, thank God, I found out <em>because</em> of the divorce. But . . .”</p>
<p>Mary had read somewhere that when the police deliver news of a family member's death, they use simple, direct language to avoid confusion. In the shock of the moment, brutal clarity works best. Mary had decided to follow that approach. That’s what she had rehearsed. </p>
<p>She took a sip of wine, her gaze locked on Abby's. She breathed in, then exhaled slowly and, for the first time, said out loud what she’d been thinking, planning, what she knew she had to do.</p>
<p>“I’m going to kill Johnny.”</p>
<p>Her tone made it clear that this was not a figure of speech.</p>
<p>Abby sat for a good while studying her friend. She was searching, hoping for some indication that she was misreading the moment—that Mary wasn’t actually declaring her intent to commit murder.</p>
<p>When it became clear that Mary had nothing further to add, Abby started to speak several times. Mary watched as her mouth would form the tip of a word, before aborting the effort as new scenarios percolated out of her keen mind. Finally, Mary saw that look in her friend’s eyes; her best friend was still there, but the lawyer in her was sharing control. Abby clasped her hands together, resting them softly on her knee, then spoke the best open-ended reply of them all.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Killing Johnny Miracle</i> by JK Franko. Copyright 2023 by JK Franko. Reproduced with permission from JK Franko. All rights reserved.</p>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p>
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<p>J.K. Franko was born in Texas and spent his childhood in Corpus Christi where he attended St. Patrick’s Elementary and Incarnate Word Academy. He was educated by Irish nuns who thought his conduct poor and academic effort lacking. Franko admittedly spent too much time at the video arcade, playing hacky sack, and later hanging out with friends drinking beer and listening to eighties music (this was in the eighties) at Swantner Park.</p>
<p>He would not change any of that (if he could).</p>
<p>Franko got his act together in college, during what he calls his Tour of Texas: Del Mar College, Baylor University, University of Dallas, University of the Incarnate Word (BA Philosophy, cum laude), St. Mary’s Law School (Juris Doctor, summa cum laude), and UT Austin’s McCombs School of Business (MBA, Kozmetsky Scholar).</p>
<p>He worked for ten years as a trial lawyer in Texas, then went on to work as an executive in the Fortune 100 in Europe and Asia.</p>
<p>Franko has written a number of non-fiction books and articles. But storytelling has always been his passion.</p>
<p>Publication of Franko’s first three novels—the Eye for Eye trilogy—was complete in 2020, with international publication in translation beginning in 2021.</p>
<p>He will be publishing two books in 2023: <i>Killing Johnny Miracle</i> and <i>The Black Book</i>.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With JK Franko:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/41YCvep" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">JKFranko.com</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3LtV978" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3p8jIic" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @jk137</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3et0R7W" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @jkfranko.author</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/42kyIYF" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter - @jk_franko</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3LS0Mxl" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @jkfranko.author</a></h3>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Wow, what a crazy, fun book to read!</span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I loved Mary’s character right from the first chapter. You know, she’s going to kill her husband, it says so in the blurb, it says so in the first sentence of the book, and yet through the whole book, I kept wondering is she really going to follow through with it, will she really do it? And the whole time I’m saying to myself "Oh God, I sure hope so!" What kind of person does this make me? LOL</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Well, Johnny was just a jerk! There’s no other way to put it. Cheating, scheming, conniving, backstabbing, thieving jerk. If anyone “needed killing“ it was him.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">If Mary kills her husband - does that make her the "bad guy"? I guess legally it does, and yet you are rooting for her the whole way through the book.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The character development was fantastic! Oh my gosh I loved Mary. I thought she was gullible at times and stupid for believing in him and falling for his schemes, but without ruining the story because again, you know she’s gonna kill her husband… She ends up restoring my faith in her. And as much as you love Mary, you HATE her husband Johnny! Oh the author made him the perfect scumbag! But another one of my favorite characters is Ruby. Ruby was kind of a spin off story within the story, a secondary character, but a very prominent secondary character in the book and the whole time you don’t know what her purpose is in the story until the very end. I loved her! Man, she had guts! I would love to of read a whole book just about her.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A painting by Monet is another big part of this story and Monet happens to be my favorite artist. So I loved reading these parts. </div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This book was crazy... crazy fun, crazy wicked, crazy good, and crazy suspenseful! You just don't know what will happen next. Excellent writing that totally draws you in. My first one by this fantastic author but I am definitely putting more of his books on my list.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-89288494553979869692023-10-27T08:00:00.002-04:002023-10-27T12:27:10.815-04:00The Algorithm Will See You Now by JL Lycette - With a GIVEAWAY!<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-algorithm-will-see-you-now-by-jl-lycette/" title="The Algorithm Will See You Now by JL Lycette"><img alt="The Algorithm Will See You Now by JL Lycette Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/the-algorithm-will-see-you-now-by-jl-lycette-banner-.png" width="600" /></a></h2></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<h4>October 16 -27, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></b></div>
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<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Algorithm Will See You Now by JL Lycette" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/0piriRwfibTD-The-Algorithm-Will-See-You-Now-eimage.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="205" /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div><h4>Medical treatment determined by artificial intelligence could do more than make Hope Kestrel's career. It could revolutionize healthcare.</h4>
<p>What the Seattle surgeon doesn't know is the AI has a hidden fatal flaw, and the people covering it up will stop at nothing to dominate the world's healthcare-and its profits. Soon, Hope is made the scapegoat for a patient's death, and only Jacie Stone, a gifted intern with a knack for computer science, is willing to help search for the truth.</p>
<p>But her patient's death is only the tip of the conspiracy's iceberg. The Director, Marah Maddox, is plotting a use for the AI far outside the ethical bounds of her physician's oath. A staggering plan capable of reducing human lives to their DNA code, redefining the concepts of sickness and health, and delivering the power of life and death decisions into the hands of those behind the AI.</p>
<p>Even if the algorithm accidentally discards some who are treatable in order to make that happen...</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Algorithm Will See You Now</i>:</h3>
<p>"I've been waiting for a book like this: a full-frontal assault on the dangers of artificial intelligence and the failures of our mangled health care system, all wrapped up in a clever, ripping thriller. Jennifer Lycette is an author to watch." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Rob Hart, author of <em>The Paradox Hotel</em></span></p>
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<h3><i>The Algorithm Will See You Now</i> Trailer:</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RJKflov3QPY?si=Cdevh8gwOKxhxFcz" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div>
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<h3><br /></h3><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/47MOFu7" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QUesun" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QOCqY9" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3sqEAmz" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QRAwWE" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Black Rose Writing</a></span></b></div></blockquote><p> </p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>MONDAY 08 OCTOBER 2035<br />7:15 AM</h4>
<h6>PRIMA, Prognostic Intelligent Medical Algorithms<br />Main Campus, Seattle</h6>
<p>Dr. Hope Kestrel was the only person who knew the patient in Room 132 wasn’t responding to the algorithm-selected treatment. </p>
<p>She shuffled forward in the hospital security line, wanting to get her day started already yet dreading how she’d tell her patient the unexpected and devastating news. The straps from her work bag dug into her right shoulder as she shifted the trays of coffee and scones in her arms, her usual Monday morning offering to the staff. From PRIMA’s lofty location at the top of “Pill Hill,” the floor-to-ceiling windows framed downtown Seattle’s skyline, lit up by the early morning sun—its first appearance in over a week. In the distance, a ribbon of pink sky silhouetted the Space Needle, the tip poking out of the murky blue of the cloud bank. She frowned down at her pale hands, unable to recall the last time her skin had seen the sun. Even her freckles were fading.</p>
<p>Her heart lifted when she spotted Bear, the Security Force service dog, rounding the corner. The German shepherd dashed for her, pulling Kyle, his Security Force guard, with him. The people next to her in line stepped back.</p>
<p>Bear nosed at her lab coat, and she lifted the pastry box in one hand higher while shielding the cardboard carrier of coffee in the other. Hot liquid sloshed onto her wrist, the sting on her skin not far off from the burn in her chest that had been present all morning, triggered by the impending meeting in Room 132. One where she’d need to engage on an interpersonal level without the usual buffering layer of technology.</p>
<p>Her gaze shifted from Bear to the familiar logo on the wall behind Kyle’s head—<i>Prognostic Intelligent Medical Algorithms</i>—and she shut out the searing pain in her chest. They were so close to the breakthrough to enhance the artificial intelligence even further. To render tumors like her mom’s curable. Because to rely on only <i>hopefulness</i> promised everything and got you nothing. No matter her damn name.</p>
<p>She had to focus on the big picture. All she needed was to maintain her top ranking for a few more months. Then the coveted post-residency position at PRIMA would be hers—complete with her own research lab. Soon, she’d work side-by-side with her mentor Cecilia, no longer an underling.</p>
<p>Bear gave a muffled woof and sat down obediently at her feet. Although Kyle would probably deny it if asked, she strongly suspected the guard went out of his way each morning to find her, knowing how much she loved Bear. It had been their unofficial routine for five years now.</p>
<p>Hope gestured with her elbow. “Kyle, could you take this for a sec?”</p>
<p>The burly, middle-aged man accepted the breakfast offerings with a flash of white teeth gleaming in contrast to his warm brown skin. “You got it, High Resident Kestrel.”</p>
<p>“For the millionth time, you can call me Hope.”</p>
<p>His eyes twinkled. “Whatever you say, oh most High One.”</p>
<p>Heat flamed Hope’s cheeks, and she tried to cover it with an eye roll. Three months into her final year, she still wasn’t used to her lofty title. She’d be called the Chief Resident—not the High Resident—at any other program, but PRIMA had its own language.</p>
<p>The loyal dog emitted another stifled woof from his barely contained seated position.</p>
<p>Hope fished in the front pocket of her white scrubs for one of the dog biscuits she always carried and tossed the treat to Bear, who snapped it up.</p>
<p>Kyle returned the pastries, then spoke in the deep, rumbling voice that Hope had come to learn only masked his kindly nature. “He sure loves you, Dr. K. He’d follow you anywhere. Have you reconsidered about one of the puppies?”</p>
<p>She shifted her grip and gave a wistful shake of her head. “It wouldn’t be fair. I’m never home.”</p>
<p>“So? You’d figure it out. Hire a dog walking service—and doggie daycare, too. You don’t have to do it on your own.”</p>
<p>“I’d be nothing more than a familiar stranger who provides shelter and food.”</p>
<p>Kyle bent down to rub Bear behind his ears, only to glance up and hastily straighten into a military posture, shoulders back. He tugged Bear to heel, his gaze fixed over Hope’s head.</p>
<p>The dog sensed his handler’s shift in mood, the fur on his neck bristling upward.</p>
<p>Hope swiveled, following the direction of Kyle’s eyes. More coffee dribbled on her hand, but she barely felt it this time. A man and woman in matching black suits and pressed white shirts were staring in their direction. Hope couldn’t help but stare back. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, mid-thirties, with angular cheekbones and deep-set eyes, his striking features set off by his onyx black hair. The woman appeared to be of similar age and height, equally imposing, with skin paler than Hope’s, commanding eyebrows, and white-blonde hair in an identical short haircut to her partner. </p>
<p>Hope’s eyes darted to Kyle, who flashed another smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.</p>
<p>“Are those two—?”</p>
<p>“Not regular Security Forces. They’ll notice me deviating from my route.” Kyle grimaced. “And letting Bear interact with civilians.”</p>
<p>“But—”</p>
<p>Kyle dropped his voice. “Last week, another disgruntled non-responder tried to get in.”</p>
<p>A <i>non-responder</i>. A patient the algorithm had identified as refractory—resistant to all known therapeutics—and therefore wouldn’t be offered treatment at PRIMA. Or <i>shouldn’t</i>, at least. </p>
<p>Hope went cold all over. All patient volunteers agreed to abide by the algorithm’s determinations in exchange for free healthcare. What would the guards do if they discovered another non-responder already here, admitted by mistake? On Hope’s service, no less.</p>
<p>But that wasn’t her fault—</p>
<p>“You’re a busy doctor, and we shouldn’t be holding you up.” Kyle tugged Bear away before she could ask him anything more. “We’ll see you again soon, Dr. K.”</p>
<p>Before the dog was out of reach, Hope hurried to transfer the pastry box to the crook of her elbow, bracing it against her side enough to allow her to extend a hand to trail her fingers in Bear’s soft fur. The brief comfort the touch provided would have to last until tomorrow. She re-joined the line to watch the man and woman cut through the security checkpoint.</p>
<p>Her muscles tightened, and she forced them to relax. She needed to focus. At least medical training had made her a champion at putting extraneous thoughts out of her mind. Compartmentalization for the win.</p>
<p>A few moments later, she passed through the checkpoint and stepped onto OASIS—the <i>Oncologic and Surgical Intervention Success Unit</i>—and its familiar buzz of activity. </p>
<p>Patients strolled the oval hallway in the sunshine-yellow robes and plush slippers allocated upon admission. If not for the slim IV poles, they might be in a luxury hotel. The hidden panels in the walls and ceiling secured all medical equipment out of sight. </p>
<p>Abbie Fuentes, the charge nurse on OASIS for as long as Hope or anyone else could remember, spotted her arrival and trailed her into the break room. Hope wordlessly handed her one of the coffees, and she took a noisy sip while scanning Hope up and down, her impeccably bobbed hair not moving an inch. “What’s going on with you today? You’re late.”</p>
<p>Hope shrugged. The nurses hadn’t yet seen her patient’s latest test results, and the part of Hope that feared being perceived a failure planned to wait until the last possible moment to tell them. “Line at security. You know, it’s getting slower every day.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Algorithm Will See You Now</i> by JL Lycette. Copyright 2023 by JL Lycette. Reproduced with permission from JL Lycette. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="JL Lycette" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/hJbQ6owVydFD-author-photo-JL-Lycette-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="203" /></div>
<p>Jennifer / JL Lycette is a novelist, award-winning essayist, rural physician, wife, and mom. Mid-career, she discovered narrative medicine on her path back from physician burnout and has been writing ever since. She is an alumna of the 2019 Pitch Wars Novel Mentoring program. Her first novel, <i>The Algorithm Will See You Now</i>, was a 2023 SCREENCRAFT CINEMATIC BOOK COMPETITION FINALIST, 2023 READER'S FAVORITE BRONZE MEDAL WINNER in the Medical Thriller category, 2023 MAXY AWARD'S FINALIST - Thriller category, and 2023 PAGE TURNER AWARD'S FINALIST - Best Debut Novel category. <i>The Committee Will Kill You Now</i> is her second novel.</p>
<h3>Connect with her, see more of her writing, and subscribe to receive the latest updates at:<br />
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<p><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I am a fan of futuristic/sci-fi, always have been. But I’m also a fan of medical drama and medical suspense. This book was the best of both of those worlds! Written by someone who is in the medical field herself, this one felt so real. </span>I started out thinking I would give this book a solid 4
stars but it was the last quarter of the book that really pushed it over to
that 5 star mark. Dang, parts of this book were so philosophical. So much food for thought!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Excellent characters, excellent (scary but believable) storyline. But this
was so much more than just a fictional story, it spoke to me. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This book hit me on a personal level. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I am a huge believer and advocate for choices, peoples right to choose and a woman’s right to choose what happens to their body. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This gives </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">a whole new meaning to </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">the term “my body, my choice”. If confronted with medical decisions such as chemotherapy, what would you choose? Some people would choose any intervention they could get just to give them a little more time. While others would decline the intervention and just want to live out the rest of their life in peace no matter how short. What if the intervention only had a 5% chance of working, 10%, 20%? What percentage would you need to change your decision? What if there was an algorithm that could tell you what your chances of surviving were, would you even want to know? But… We all have that choice. What if that choice was taken away from us. If you take away our fundamental right to choose, then what are we? Puppets? Robots? Isn’t it the right to choose one of the things that makes us human?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">To even think that part of this "story" could be true in our future is scary to me. No thank you. I like my right to choose!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Just read this book! It will touch you!</span></span></p><p><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-58922849298809699892023-10-20T08:23:00.000-04:002023-10-20T08:23:11.440-04:00Judge Not by Nikki Stern<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;">
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<div><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 Stars!</span></b></i></div>
<h4>October 9-20, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4><div><br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div>
<h4>Sam Tate returns to track a serial killer with a warped sense of justice. </h4>
<p>Five detectives in five states have been brutally executed by a murderer focused exclusively on law officers. When the FBI invites Sam Tate onto its task force investigating the deaths, she gladly accepts. Though once known as a serial-killer catching cop, she’s hit a wall. Her career is stalled, her past tragedies unresolved, her future uncertain. Still, her experiences make her a valuable asset to the Bureau. Unfortunately, they also make her a target.</p>
<h4>#1 New York Times bestseller Harlan Coben meets Lisa Gardner in this twisty thriller about rectifying the sins of the past that will keep you on your toes until the very last page.</h4>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Judge Not</i>:</h3>
<p>"One of the most compelling new sleuths in the genre" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Best Thrillers</span></p>
<p>"Powerful...poignant...delivers a thrilling climax." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Indie Reader</span></p>
<p>"High-octane drama" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ D. Donovan, Midwest Book Reviews</span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The Sam Tate Mystery Series, #4</span></b><br />
</p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Get Nikki Stern's Books:</b> <b><a href="https://amzn.to/45WLAGj" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/44FMmqa" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3r1Z98E" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45DqNaV" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></b></span></div><p></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<p>Pat McCready, former patrol deputy and newly minted detective, knocked on her open door. “Got a minute, Lieutenant?”</p>
<p>“Always for you, Detective McCready,” she responded. He was one of her favorites, especially after working closely with him to catch the murderer who executed Arley Fitchett, a beloved local treasure hunter. Enthusiastic and hard-working, McCready turned out to be observant and a damned good shot to boot. </p>
<p>Jax bounded over to the grinning young man, hoping for a romp or at least a head scratch, maybe a treat. McCready glanced at the jar on Sam’s desk. “Can I?” he asked. She nodded.</p>
<p>After offering a biscuit to the dog, who took it back to his bed, McCready grew serious. “I came across some information while I was compiling notes from the domestic complaint last night,” he said.</p>
<p>“If it pertains to that case, you should take it up with Sergeant Gordy. I’ll review everything at our next meeting.”</p>
<p>McCready bounced on his toes, trying to keep his natural enthusiasm in check.</p>
<p>“Lieutenant, it’s not about any of our current cases. It’s more something that relates to your, uh, past cases. I mean, it’s probably nothing, but … ” </p>
<p>Sam felt a momentary flutter. “Okay, Detective. Show me what you’ve found.”</p>
<p>“This all started with my uncle’s brother-in-law, Roy,” McCready began. “He’s from Sacramento, okay? Well, he was, but he’s moved back east to be closer to the family after his divorce. Okay, that may not be relevant,” he added when Sam frowned. </p>
<p>“What is important is that he told a story about a serial killer that was active back when he lived there. This would have been twenty-odd years ago. The guy murdered five teachers over seven months. Stabbed them through the eye and left their bodies right in front of the schools along with some sort of memento, I think a notebook. Pretty grisly. Two Sacramento detectives caught him. California has the death penalty and back then, they used it in this guy, although it took seven years.”</p>
<p>“How is this relevant to me, or rather, to this department?” </p>
<p>McCready put his tablet in front of her. He brought up the website for the <em>Sacramento Bee</em>.</p>
<p> “I decided to research the case on my own time, Lieutenant. Just curious to see how crime-solving was covered in the days before everyone used social media. Then I found this recent obit for one of the lead detectives, name of Jack Frost if you can believe it.”</p>
<p>Sam scanned the article. “Says here he was killed outside his home two months ago,” she summarized. “An ice pick to the eye and a black and white notebook at the scene. Creepy, even perversely clever but not a shock. The man was a homicide detective. He likely investigated plenty of violent crimes during his career. Someone with a grudge decided to take him out using the same method as the serialist.”</p>
<p>“Hold on, Lieutenant, there’s something else I need to show you.” McCready turned the tablet around, brought up a second screen, and turned it back. All the while, he was shaking his foot fast enough that Sam felt her desk vibrate. </p>
<p>Another news site. This one belonged to the <em>Billings Gazette</em>. Curious, she read: </p>
<p style="font-family: Garamond; margin-left: 25px;">Rosebud County Sheriff’s Office has announced the death of Under Sheriff Mackenzie “Mac” Scott, 38. His body was found on Anika Vista Ranch, north of Lockwood, nearly a week after he went missing. The ranch belongs to the Tubb family. Scott’s neck was reportedly broken and then branded with the ranch logo. <br />
Dillon Tubb, son of owner Carter Tubb, found the body around 6 pm yesterday near one of the cattle pens. The family has disavowed any knowledge of the incident before the discovery.<br />The death is considered suspicious. “It’s been cool at night, which may have preserved some of the biological evidence,” said a representative from coroner’s office in Billings. “We hope that will aid in our investigation.”<br />Mac Scott achieved some notoriety when he caught Deke Garrity, aka the Cattleman Killer eight years ago. Garrity was accused of murdering three prominent cattle ranchers by breaking their necks and then branding them because, as he put it, “they needed to be treated the way they treated their animals.” Garrity was sentenced to death and executed last year after his last appeal failed.<br />“This is a heinous crime,” declared Sheriff Jarrod Greene. “Mac was a dedicated law officer, a loving family man, and a good friend of mine.” He asked that anyone with any information call the department hotline. <br /><em>We will continue to update this story as information becomes available.</em></p>
<p>Sam reread the article, aware of McCready’s intense gaze. He wanted a reaction. She wanted to keep a lid on her emotions until she had a chance to examine them.</p>
<p>“This is dated a few days ago,” she observed.</p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p>
<p> “These two homicides have elements in common, I’ll grant you that. A dead investigator. A duplication of the MO used by a serial killer brought down by the very men who are now victims of someone else. On the other hand, this Montana case isn’t nearly as specific. People’s necks are broken, either by accident or on purpose. As far as branding a victim, that may not be unusual out in Montana. Let me ask you: Have you located any more such incidents?” </p>
<p>“Not as of yet,” McCready admitted.</p>
<p>“Pat, you can do anything you want on your own time, and that includes researching unusual cases. But if you’re in here to ask me if I think there’s cause for further action, I’m afraid I don’t. Nor do I think in any event we’d have any jurisdiction. Do you?” </p>
<p>“No, ma’am, I guess not officially.” McCready reached for his laptop. He looked like a puppy who’d been sent to his crate. </p>
<p>“Look, the similarities between these two homicides could be a fluke, but you keep track. If another detective known for chasing serial killers goes down, let me know. I’ll pass it along to the FBI. Okay? And let’s keep this between us.”</p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He rose.</p>
<p>“Shut the door on your way out, please.”</p>
<p>As soon as he left, Sam pulled up a copy of <em>Police Chief Magazine</em> on her computer. There was the statistic she’d seen: 131 law officers killed last year. The article predicted a higher number this year. The detective in California and the undersheriff in Montana were just two. </p>
<p><i>Not your business, Lieutenant</i>, she reminded herself even as her hand reached for the phone.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Judge Not</i> by Nikki Stern. Copyright 2023 by Nikki Stern. Reproduced with permission from Nikki Stern All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR - </span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Nikki Stern" border="0" height="256" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/WZEZJGYIU6Pq-NikkiSmallArtsy.jpeg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="207" /></div>
<p>Nikki is the author of seven books, including four in the award-winning Sam Tate Mystery Series. The latest, <i>Judge Not</i>, is out now. Other works include two non-fiction books and a stand-alone thriller. Nikki also co-authored the interactive murder mystery musicals that make up the Café Noir series, published by Samuel French. When she's not writing about strong complex women, Nikki supports several philanthropies and attends to the needs of her Cavachon puppy Pepper Ann. Please visit her website and subscribe for updates. No one will sell, share, give away, trade, barter, or clutter your email.</p>
<h3>For more on Nikki:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3YCCtIm" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">NikkiStern.com</a><br />
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<a href="https://bit.ly/3OHfcjS" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @NikkiStern</a><br />
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<p><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"> MY THOUGHTS -</span></b></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Geez!!! For what I thought started out a tad bit slow for me, it sure kept me up way past my bedtime reading and then again up at 5:00 in the morning reading until I finished the book! Warning, this book is addictive!<br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is book number 4 but my 3rd one in the Sam Tate series. I missed one somehow. I will have to go back and read it. A lot of action, a lot of suspense, and even some heartbreak. Sam Tate is a tough cookie, tough to get to know, tough to like her... and yet, I love her! She is my kind of character LOL. She is just what I like in a female lead.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This one has a great ending, not the pre-ending… That’s the heartbreak part :-(, but the actual ending leaves room for what I think will be a fantastic next book. I am very excited at the thought. And I certainly will be reading with the next book!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nikki Stern is a very edgy writer, one that I have grown to love and always watch for her next books to come out.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">Here is my review for - </span><b style="color: #222222; text-transform: uppercase;">THE WEDDING CRASHER - </b><span style="background-color: transparent; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="color: #222222;"><a href="https://wall-to-wall-books.blogspot.com/2019/06/the-wedding-crasher-by-nikki-stern.html">https://wall-to-wall-books.blogspot.com/2019/06/the-wedding-crasher-by-nikki-stern.html</a></span></span></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And my review for -<b> Freeze Before Burning -</b> <a href="https://wall-to-wall-books.blogspot.com/2021/12/freeze-before-burning-nikki-stern.html">https://wall-to-wall-books.blogspot.com/2021/12/freeze-before-burning-nikki-stern.html</a></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-72181142513690842892023-10-18T08:09:00.001-04:002023-10-18T08:09:23.357-04:00The Water Tower by Amy Young - with a GIVEAWAY!<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/the-water-tower-by-amy-young/" title="The Water Tower by Amy Young"><img alt="The Water Tower by Amy Young Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/the-water-tower-by-amy-young-banner-rev.png" width="600" /></a></h2>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2>4.5 Stars!</h2>
<h4>October 9 - November 3, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2><br /></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Water Tower by Amy Young" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/st6JoD85hogR-THE-WATER-TOWER-cover-.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></p><p>Josie Ashbury was a successful Hollywood actress with a booming career—until an on-set breakdown sends her back to her small Ohio hometown to recover. Taking a job teaching at her old high school, Josie is beginning to put the pieces of her life back together when one of her students dies under suspicious circumstances. The police close the case quickly, without any real answers. Josie is determined to find the truth behind the girl's death.</p>
<p>At the same time, Josie is battling demons of her own. As she faces debilitating insomnia that leaves her with gaps in her memory, she dives into the tangled secrets surrounding the investigation. When she finally unravels the web, she discovers that the truth lies much closer to home than she could have ever imagined.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Water Tower</i>:</h3>
<p>"Start with a suspicious death of a beloved student, add a devoted former starlet turned drama teacher, and a dash of the police closing the case far too quickly, and you have the makings of a twisting and propulsive mystery. Amy Young’s <i>The Water Tower</i> will keep you flipping the pages to find out who killed the politician’s young daughter, and then have you checking if your teenager is where they should be tonight." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Mary Keliikoa, multi-award nominated author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/hidden-pieces-by-mary-keliikoa/">HIDDEN PIECES</a></em> and the PI Kelly Pruett mystery series</span></p>
<p>"<i>The Water Tower</i> is an electrifying work of suspense that depicts a wonderful hometown setting. This slow-burn mystery with sparkling prose has a well-crafted plot that is at once engrossing and fully realized from beginning to end. I highly recommend this engaging mystery." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ David Putnam, Bestselling author of the Bruno Johnson series and Dave Beckett series</span></p>
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<blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;">
<h3>The Lakeview Mysteries, Book 1</h3><p>
<b>Book Links:</b> <b><a href="https://amzn.to/43UbOsf" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Ps9cxE" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3PlJ7jH" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3XivXWB" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></b></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<p>She stood on the water tower, looking at the skyline she had only observed from the ground. You really could see the whole town from up here. Funny how your whole life can fit into one 360-degree glance. Peering down at the ground, she was no longer able to see individual blades of grass, all of them blurring into a sea of perfect emerald green. To her right was the roof of Lakeview High School, looking small from this vantage point. She felt as though if she leaned over far enough, she could almost touch it. But that was ridiculous; the school had to be several hundred feet away. Her vision came in and out of focus as she swayed, thinking about her life, her past, her future. </p>
<p>In her three years at the school, she had never been up on the tower. No one she knew had been up here, either. Most students wouldn't dare to scale it. Too scared of getting caught, too scared of breaking the rules, too scared of living. When she looked down at the ground, she thought she could see movement, like little grass men dancing and hopping around through a crowd of their peers. Kind of like high school. More like, exactly like high school. Everyone looks the same; maybe some are a bit taller, a bit shorter, a bit wider, but everyone dressed in essentially the same uniform, hopping over one another, trying to make their mark. </p>
<p>How many feet above the ground was she—50, 60 feet? Was that high enough to kill you, or maybe just break a few bones? It would probably depend on how you hit the ground. Here she was, high above the town, pondering the angle at which you might hit the ground and live through the fall, the velocity at which an object might fall from here. </p>
<p>Her body felt warm all over, despite the crisp air of late fall, and she took off her jacket and threw it aside. She leaned against the rail and spread her arms, allowing the breeze to blow through her, inhabiting every cell for just a moment, before moving off in another direction to go dance with someone else. Her 17 years had all been spent here, in this one place, in this small, boring town where, it seemed, nothing was all that was destined to happen. </p>
<p>The clock tower chimed; it was 11:00. She felt she had eternity in front of her, the rest of this night, the rest of her life, stuck here in this town. Would she ever get out? Did it even matter if she did? She thought about the college catalogs arriving at home, the hundreds of pages of sales pitches clamoring for her family's money. The sprawling campuses, the smiling students, the serious, but friendly, professors—what was the point? She would just end up back here, raising the same family as her friends, living the same life that her kids would eventually live. </p>
<p>Reaching out her slender arm, she twirled her wrist. She could hardly wait for graduation when, everyone said, “real life” would begin. “I can't wait to get out of here,” her friends exclaimed, dreaming of big cities and even bigger lives in far off places: Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, anywhere but here. But she knew they would return, just like their parents, raising 2.5 kids with a Labradoodle and a balding husband in one of the best-little-suburbs in the country. Was it really so bad? She watched all these super-educated women who had given up their careers to stay home and clean up after the kids and drive to soccer practice, instead of changing the world as they'd so hopefully planned when plotting their escape years earlier. Was that her fate? Was that what awaited her now? Dozens of similar thoughts swirled and crashed like waves in front of her, mixing in a fantastic spray of colors, lights, and sounds.</p>
<p>She was dead before she hit the ground.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Water Tower</i> by Amy Young. Copyright 2023 by Amy Young. Reproduced with permission from Amy Young. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Amy Young" border="0" height="200" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/9O3ooGsl3McS-Pawlukiewicz-headshot.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Amy Young is an author, comedian, and actor based in Cleveland. After spending a decade in Los Angeles working in the entertainment industry and writing her debut novel, <i>The Water Tower</i>, she returned to Ohio to be closer to family. Amy is working on her second book, a thriller, and in her free time she enjoys going to the theatre, bingeing reality TV, and spending time with her husband and many, many cats. She has a B.A. in English from Kenyon College.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Amy Young:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/43ThCCw" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">AuthorAmyYoung.com</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3pbs4pZ" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/42YzQBc" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @authoramyyoung1</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3qWFfeS" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @amypcomedy</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/43UpKm9" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter - @authoramyyoung</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3NdSrmQ" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @authoramyyoung</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/46huiVi" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">TikTok - @amypyoung1</a></h3>
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<p><b> MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><p>Great debut novel for this author, and number one in a series - win! I really liked this one. An easy read that flows nicely with lots of suspense and great characters. There were a few shocking and gasp worthy moments, especially in the beginning. I love when a book can make me gasp out loud and this book made me do it a few times.</p><p>Ex actress turned teacher, Josie was very relatable to me. I really liked her. What I loved most was the interactions between her and her friends. I love when a book does this. It's almost like this group of friends takes on a character personality of its own. I love reading about a group of women girlfriends! Kind of like a "Sex and the City" vibe.</p><p>This book pulls you in different directions as it starts to spiderweb out. I tried a few different scenarios in my head, but was wrong. I read the last half of the book in one evening. It got pretty intense and I did have an inkling as to who the suspect was, but dismissed it... more like wishful thinking that it wasn't them.</p><p>Very good mystery. Very good book. This one is a winner and I will be reading more from the new author!</p><p><br /></p><p><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></p><p><br /></p>
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<h2>ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN:</h2>
<h5>This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Amy Young. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-31222309464869418632023-10-11T08:01:00.003-04:002023-10-11T08:38:37.894-04:00Death and the Sisters by Heather Redmond (with a GIVEAWAY!)<h2><br /></h2><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">September 25 - October 20, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</span></b></div><h2><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/death-and-the-sisters-by-heather-redmond/" title="Death and the Sisters by Heather Redmond"><img alt="Death and the Sisters by Heather Redmond Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/07/death-and-the-sisters-by-heather-redmond-banner-.png" width="600" /></a></h2><div style="text-align: center;">
<h1>5 STARS!!!</h1><div><br /></div>
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<div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK -</span></b></div>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Death and the Sisters by Heather Redmond" border="0" height="302" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/640a68df5b7c6-027E6EFB-1F8B-4DF5-AD44-049EE83AA288.jpeg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<h4 style="text-align: left;">The tangled relationships between <i>Frankenstein</i> author Mary Shelley, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Mary’s stepsister Jane Clairmont form the backdrop for an intriguing historical mystery, set in London in 1814, that explores the complex dynamic between sisters and the birth of teenaged Mary’s creative genius.</h4>
<p style="text-align: left;"><strong>London, 1814:</strong> Mary Godwin and her stepsister Jane Clairmont, both sixteen, possess quick minds bolstered by an unconventional upbringing, and have little regard for the rules that other young ladies follow. Mary, whose mother famously advocated for women’s rights, rejects the two paths that seem open to her—that of an assistant in her father’s bookshop, or an ordinary wife. Though quieter and more reserved than the boisterous Jane, Mary’s imagination is keen, and she longs for real-world adventures.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">One evening, an opportunity arrives in the form of a dinner guest, Percy Bysshe Shelley. At twenty-one, Shelley is already a renowned poet and radical. Mary finds their visitor handsome and compelling, but it is later that evening, after the party has broken up, that events take a truly intriguing turn. When Mary comes downstairs in search of a book, she finds instead a man face down on the floor—with a knife in his back.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The dead man, it seems, was a former classmate of Shelley’s, and had lately become a personal and professional rival. What was he doing in the Godwins’ home? Mary, Jane, and Shelley are all drawn to learn the truth behind the tragedy, especially as each discovery seems to hint at a tangled web that includes many in Shelley’s closest circle. But as the attraction between Mary and the married poet intensifies, it sparks a rivalry between the sisters, even as it kindles the creative fire within . . .</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>
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<div><b>Praise for <i>Death and the Sisters</i>:</b></div>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"<i>Death and the Sisters</i> is a terrific blend of gritty history with a mystery that will keep readers turning pages. Impeccably researched and imaginative, Redmond’s first Mary Shelley Mystery immerses readers in the drama of young Mary Godwin and her family, as well as her budding romance with Percy Shelley, as they work together to solve a wonderfully bookish murder. I thoroughly enjoyed this series kick-off and can’t wait for the next story!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Susanna Craig, author of <em>The Lady Knows Best</em></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"<i>Death and the Sisters</i> is a rip-roaring murder mystery with twists and turns that introduces teenaged Mary Godwin, not yet the author of the immortal work Frankenstein, as an amateur detective. Redmond's foray in the world of rational atheists in early 19th century London is a mesmerizing, forceful delight." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Eilis Flynn, author of <em>The Riddle of Rym</em></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Crafted with vivid historical detail, an artfully twisted plot, and engaging characters, <i>Death and the Sisters</i> is an excellent start to what I hope will be a long-running series." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Dianne Freeman, author of the award-winning <em>Countess of Harleigh Mysteries</em></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"It might be the way London comes to life in all of its dark and gritty complexities, or the dynamics between Mary and her step-sister, Jane, as they set out to find the killer of the man who they discover dead in the bookshop. Everyone is a suspect—even Percy Shelley who has caught the eye of the women in the household. Propulsive and immersive, Heather Redmond is at the top of her game until the intense and satisfying end." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Mary Keliikoa, author of <em><a href="https://partnersincrimetours.com/hidden-pieces-by-mary-keliikoa/">Hidden Pieces</a></em></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"An intrepid cast of characters, a stunningly atmospheric 19th-century London, and a riveting murder… Highly recommend." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Melissa Bourbon, bestselling author</span></span></p>
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<h3> Mary Shelley Mystery, 1</h3><p>
<b>Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/3NQ1zyp" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Da35GV" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3DcjwCj" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3JZHq8a" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3PWKMN1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Kensington</a></b></p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<p>“Come, Mary.” Jane flopped onto her bed. “Tell us a story about the prisoner ghosts wailing.”</p>
<p>“I’ll have to think it up,” Mary said and then began to quote. “‘This relation is Matter of Fact, and attended with such Circumstances as may induce any Reasonable Man to believe it.’”</p>
<p>“What’s that?” Jane asked. The floor creaked as she kicked off her slippers and knocked them to the floor.</p>
<p>“Defoe, I think,” Mary said, already considering the form of her story. If only Mother had written such fanciful tales, to give her ideas on how to construct them. “I’ll consult his works in the bookshop for further inspiration. It seems like quite a good start to a ghost story.”</p>
<p>Mary placed her slippers next to Jane’s and walked down in her stocking feet, hugging the wall so as not to set off the worst of the creaking stairs. If Mamma heard her, she’d be set to mending something. Her stepmother never thought about the cost of candles when she could make her daughters work themselves into exhaustion after dark.</p>
<p>The bookshop’s interior door hung open. Very odd, as Mamma was particular about making sure that the smells of domestic life, particularly cooking odors, did not damage the books.</p>
<p>Mary shrugged, glad she had come downstairs, because if Mamma had been the first to notice, she’d have no doubt blamed Mary. She lit the lantern kept in readiness for customers who wanted to browse in the dark corners.</p>
<p>While she knew exactly where Defoe was kept, she first went to a back corner of the shop and dropped to her knees, then pulled out a much-loved volume that Mamma kept in stock because she knew that it sold, even though it was anything but highbrow or philosophical. Ann Radcliffe’s <i>The Romance of the Forest</i>. Feeling a little breathless, like a Gothic heroine about to swoon, she opened the book to her favorite page. With the lantern held over the engraving, she examined the bare legs of the man removing a blindfolded girl from a house.</p>
<p>She bit her lip as she looked over the engraved musculature, feeling a familiar shiver dance up through her body. Did Shelley have legs so magnificent? He certainly possessed the broad shoulders and narrow waist of the figure on the page. She set down the lantern when it shook in her hand.</p>
<p>“Oh, to see a form like that,” she whispered to herself. None of her Scottish suitors had possessed a body she wanted to caress. As such, none of them had enticed so much as a kiss from her. After a last heated glance, she closed the book and tucked it away again.</p>
<p>The next shelves were in front of the bow windows. The Juvenile Library was shelved there, at the perfect height for children. Works of historical merit were on the other side. Mary rose.</p>
<p>Her foot twisted as she took the first step. She grabbed for the edge of the bookcase with one hand, the other gripping the lantern tightly. Her fingers were trembling by the time she righted herself. She reached down and swiped at her foot. Something sticky coated her fingers. What was on the floor?</p>
<p>“Honestly,” she muttered to herself. More cleaning. She set the lantern on the bookcase and walked past the windows. Slatted lines from the shutters were illuminated by the oil lamp that burned all night at the corner of the road.</p>
<p>Distracted by the sudden reflected light, she tripped again. “Blast,” she cried.</p>
<p>When she tried to take another step forward, her way was blocked by something solid. Confused, she prodded it with her foot. It felt warm, dry, and slightly yielding. She backed up to take the lantern in her hand again, then cupped the side of it with her hand to keep the illumination from the road. When she reached the mass again, she held the lantern out over the floor.</p>
<p>Her mouth dropped open when she saw what lay in front of her. A man, like something out of a painting of the French Revolution, was sprawled on the floor. Facedown. She swept the lantern over his body. Her hand shook as she saw first one knife, then another.</p>
<p>The first was impaled in his back. The other, in the mysterious recesses between his legs.</p>
<p>“Faith!” Wobbly, Mary blinked hard, then forced herself to kneel down beside the sprawled figure, to touch the man’s hand.</p>
<p>Still warm. She squeezed it, feeling that strange sensation of callused male flesh under hers, then dropped the hand. What was she doing? Molesting a corpse?</p>
<p>She scooted back, her eyes closed, then opened them again, feeling her lips tremble at the sight of the dark blue velvet coat, the dark stain around the knife gleaming wetly in the light. She knew that coat. Shelley! That fine figure of a man, ended so cruelly. They had just seen him leave not twenty minutes earlier. Had he been accosted in the street and dumped here?</p>
<p>“I could have loved such a being.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she let them fall, keenly feeling her sensibility. Hadn’t he said he was a new father? And his poor young wife, not even twenty yet, a widow.</p>
<p>“Mary?”</p>
<p><i>Drat that Jane.</i> Could she not offer up a moment’s solitude to anyone?</p>
<p>Her stepsister’s footsteps came closer, along with the bobbing of a candle flame.</p>
<p>“Don’t come any closer,” Mary warned. She set the lantern down.</p>
<p>Ignoring her, Jane came down the space between the bookshelves and turned in the nook in front of the windows.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” she asked.</p>
<p>Mary scrambled to her feet, hoping to block her sister’s view. The candle wavered as Jane took in the scene. She gasped loudly.</p>
<p>“What,” Jane asked, “is that?”</p>
<p>“Knives,” Mary said. “Murder has been done here.”</p>
<p>“What?” Jane repeated, some frantic power coming into her voice. “Papa?”</p>
<p>“No,” Mary said, grabbing the candleholder before the candle dropped. “Shelley.”</p>
<p>She saw what was going to happen and held up her other hand, hoping to forestall it. But she failed, and Jane, coming closer, screamed. Mary bent under the onslaught and grabbed her sister’s hand.</p>
<p>“Hush,” she begged, pulling her away. “We have to tell Papa before the watch comes.”</p>
<p>Though Jane resisted, Mary pulled her through the bookshop, then forced her to sit on the steps and hold the candle while she went back for the lantern. She set it on the table in the hall.</p>
<p>“Stay here,” she commanded.</p>
<p>“But,” Jane whispered. “But the body.”</p>
<p>“Papa will know what to do.”</p>
<p>“But the watch.”</p>
<p>“Papa should call them, not us. Do you want him surprised?”</p>
<p>“The bookshop,” Jane said next.</p>
<p>“Yes, it’s very bad,” Mary agreed.</p>
<p>“It isn’t S-Shelley,” Jane stuttered. “He just left.”</p>
<p>Mary pulled the handkerchief from her sleeve and tucked it into Jane’s unresisting hand. “It must be,” she said. “Who else? Cry quietly, please.” Hoping her sister obeyed, she picked up her skirts and ran up the steps to her father’s library.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Death and the Sisters</i> by Heather Redmond. Copyright 2023 by Heather Redmond. Reproduced with permission from Heather Redmond. All rights reserved.</p>
</div>
<p></p><div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img alt="Heather Redmond" border="0" height="266" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/640a68e46ef1b-A636CAE8-9D9F-41EA-9414-BE09008B5B7E-scaled.jpeg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px; text-align: left;" width="200" /></div> <p></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><b> <span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Heather Redmond is an author of commercial fiction and also writes as Heather Hiestand. First published in mystery, she took a long detour through romance before returning. Though her last British ancestor departed London in the 1920s, she is a committed anglophile, Dickens devotee, and lover of all things nineteenth century.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">She has lived in Illinois, California, and Texas, and now resides in a small town in Washington State with her husband and son. The author of many novels, novellas, and short stories, she has achieved best-seller status at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other retailers. Her 2018 Heather Redmond debut, <em>A Tale of Two Murders</em>, has received a coveted starred review from <i>Kirkus Reviews</i>.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Heather Redmond:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3NVcRBL" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.HeatherRedmond.com</a><br />
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<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>MY THOUGHTS -</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Oh my goodness, I LOVED this book, absolutely loved it! It was wonderfully brilliant!</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> I thoroughly enjoyed it! </span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I love anything historical anyway, but especially if it’s done well… And this one was done absolutely perfect! </span>1814 London, a murder, authors and poets, a bookshop, and great characters - what more could you want?</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The first win was that it took place mainly inside of a book shop, and the characters were authors. This book oddly reminded me a little bit of Little Women. Especially just the conversations and relationships that the sisters had between each other.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I loved the language used in the book and the conversations, it made it so much fun to read. It felt totally authentic to me. The author did an excellent job of transporting me to London in 1814.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There were so many great lines I was highlighting all throughout the book, what fun. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here are just a few. -</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"I am me." I said, my own little war cry. I would
follow my own drum. Even if it had to take me down paths all by myself. <i>~
Love!</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Poets are never good role models."</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Mamma, I must have some fresh air. I'm
expiring!"<i> ~ haha I think I am going to use that line!</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"I was pleasantly scandalized, the irritated, as the
moment seemed to go on."</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And finally - "For such a child, you say intelligent
things sometimes." ~ LOL</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I loved Mary (someday to be Mary Shelley)! She may be one of my most favorite characters ever. She was so straightforward and snarky even. Were people snarky back then? But besides her, there was also Jane, the other main character in the book, equally fantastic. Mary and Jane were stepsisters and the chapters took turns with each of them. They were a dynamic duo, sister act for sure! So, besides loving Mary as a main character, I loved Mary and Jane together. They were sisters, best friends, but also at times, rivals.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This book had me googling, all kinds of things! That is the sign of a good story. </span>One reason I love historical fiction/mysteries is that they are usually about real people and include real facts. I got stuck going down a long rabbit hole with Mary and Percy Shelley on the internet LOL. They have such a fascinating history. I would love to read and learn more about them. I now need to read Frankenstein as well.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The only reason I wasn't sad that this book ended is because I know that this is book one in a series! Woot woot! I will absolutely be reading the rest of this series. I can’t wait for the next one to come out. After only one book, I’m such a fan! This book was a huge win for me - it is going to be on my top 10 books of the year for sure. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-23478339881999214742023-10-10T07:55:00.000-04:002023-10-10T07:55:41.085-04:00The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater by Jaime Jo Wright (with a GIVEAWAY!)<div style="text-align: center;"><h4 style="background-color: white; color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 22.5px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">October 9 - 20, 2023 Virtual Book Tour</h4><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWQfxxBh9Q8pU2mlfDrsbmYmq1c29eeHFYcG2XsoX3mV2Oiq325TrXapVvQYL1OaGF8Va9BKSEsFqiNJTS2EwpjGquSn7UyPeT74961zfd1bMzJ7tN83kr6MCvNDP1l7s-z5rtYDtnTE-gobDfhbHEk8iZFaGncs9Otswinq97Ec6oNPE9SopUmDE7fN2/s1600/the-lost-boys-of-barlowe-theater-by-jaime-jo-wright--cover-3d.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWQfxxBh9Q8pU2mlfDrsbmYmq1c29eeHFYcG2XsoX3mV2Oiq325TrXapVvQYL1OaGF8Va9BKSEsFqiNJTS2EwpjGquSn7UyPeT74961zfd1bMzJ7tN83kr6MCvNDP1l7s-z5rtYDtnTE-gobDfhbHEk8iZFaGncs9Otswinq97Ec6oNPE9SopUmDE7fN2/w400-h400/the-lost-boys-of-barlowe-theater-by-jaime-jo-wright--cover-3d.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">5 STARS!</span></b></div></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div>ABOUT THE BOOK -</b><h4>It promises beauty but steals life instead. Will the ghosts of Barlowe Theater entomb them all?</h4>
<p>Barlowe Theater stole the life of Greta Mercy's eldest brother during its construction. Now in 1915, the completed theater appears every bit as deadly. When Greta's younger brother goes missing after breaking into the building, Greta engages the assistance of a local police officer to help her unveil the already ghostly secrets of the theater. But when help comes from an unlikely source, Greta decides that to save her family she must uncover the evil that haunts the theater and put its threat to rest.</p>
<p>Decades later, Kit Boyd's best friend vanishes during a ghost walk at the Barlowe Theater, and old stories of mysterious disappearances and ghoulish happenings are revived. Then television ghost-hunting host and skeptic Evan Fisher joins Kit in the quest to identify the truth behind the theater's history. Kit reluctantly agrees to work with him in hopes of finding her missing friend. As the theater's curse unravels Kit's life, she is determined to put an end to the evil that has marked the theater and their hometown for the last century.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater</i>:</h3>
<p>"Jaime Jo Wright takes readers on a journey that leaves them with a renewed sense of hope... Read this story. You won't be sorry." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Lynette Eason, bestselling, award-winning author of the Extreme Measures series</span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<b>Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/3rXtOE6" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3qglG0Y" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3QmKi2V" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3OJLegC" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45dLLN1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">ChristianBook</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/45BsLrV" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Baker Book House</a></b></p>
</blockquote>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<h2>Greta Mercy</h2>
<h6>OCTOBER 1915<br />
KIPPER’S GROVE, WISCONSIN</h6>
<p>Sometimes death came quietly. A phantom swooping in and siphoning the last remnant of a soul from one’s body, leaving behind a shell of a person who once was and would never be again. Other times, death decided that dramatics coupled with terror were its preferred method of delivery. Tonight, that was the chosen form death took.</p>
<p>Screams echoed throughout the theater’s golden, embellished auditorium and drifted upward to the domed, hand-painted ceiling, where Putti flew as angelic, childlike spirits over the mass of onlookers.</p>
<p>A shoulder rammed into Greta’s arm as a husky man, far too large for the narrow seats, pushed his way past her toward the center aisle.</p>
<p>“Let me pass!” he barked. Urgency spurred him forward. “I’m a doctor, let me pass!”</p>
<p>The vaudeville lights on either side of the stage boasted letters <i>a</i> through <i>g</i>, with the <i>g</i> lit and distinct over the other letters.</p>
<p>“I’m letter <i>g</i>!” The doctor shouted while those in front of him jostled to the side or hurried ahead to move out of his way. Doctors were assigned specific letters from the vaudeville lights, and if they were lit, a doctor was needed—either at home, on call, or in the vicinity.</p>
<p>The vicinity was here. It was now.</p>
<p>Onlookers continued to gasp and protest. Women in beautiful silks and satins hurried to the back to find respite in the upstairs ladies’ room. Men in evening wear catapulted over seats and to the floor on the far left of the auditorium.</p>
<p>Greta was frozen in place, her seat having flipped up against its back so she could move. But her eyes were fixed with horror on the scene unfolding. They lifted to one of the box seats above the floor, where men, including the doctor, were congregating en masse. The gilded box was a flurry of activity. A man embraced a woman, who fought and clawed at his hold. Her screams had many onlookers staring at her, including the performer in her violet gown and befeathered hair. Moments before, her vocals had swirled around them all in a cadence of beauty and refined music. Now, her mouth was open, her face pale, her entire pose aghast. She had captured an enthralled audience, all whose gazes toward the stage had kept them from seeing what Greta had seen. Greta, who shouldn’t have been here to begin with. She didn’t belong with the pomp and circumstance, the heady scent of perfume and cologne, which made her mind thick and her eyes wander. They’d wandered to the box seat, and she’d witnessed what no one else had. The white hands stretching, reaching over the side,<br />
dangling . . .</p>
<p>“It was a <i>child</i>!” The horrified cry slipped for the third time from Greta’s lips. She could hear herself screaming and was unable to stop. Her screams had ripped through the performance as the child in a white nightdress plummeted into the shadows of the floor’s obscure corner.</p>
<p>The woman in the box seat had been pulled from view, its red velvet curtain shut swiftly.</p>
<p>“It was a baby!” Greta rasped out as horror strangled her.</p>
<p>“Greta. It’s all right.” The reassuring voice of her friend, Eleanor Boyd, as well as the comforting grip on Greta’s arm finally stilled her.</p>
<p>Greta focused again on her friend—her wealthy friend who should not be her friend at all.</p>
<p>Eleanor’s blue eyes were round with fear that must mirror Greta’s own. Her blond curls swept upward and were twisted with pearls. Her dress was a baby-blue silk. Any other moment, Greta would have soaked in the awe that tonight she, Greta Boyd, who could barely keep her family fed and clothed, was sitting among the elite, pretending to be one of them. But now? It hardly mattered. The borrowed corset that tucked in her waistline, the aged but wearable pink dress she had borrowed from Eleanor, and even the gloves she wore on her dry, cracked hands—none of them mattered now.</p>
<p>“What happened? What did you see?” Eleanor clutched at Greta’s arm.</p>
<p>Greta couldn’t reply. The sheer magnitude of the moment, the honor of being in the audience of the Barlowe Theater had been overwhelming . . . until she’d seen it. The <i>baby</i> launched over the side of the box seat. Like a cherub from the mural above, it had taken flight before it disappeared.</p>
<p>Greta’s knees gave out, and she fell to where her seat should have been had it not folded in on itself. Her hip struck the polished wood arm.</p>
<p>“Greta!” Eleanor reached for her.</p>
<p>Greta felt Eleanor’s brother on her other side, grabbing for her waist to give her support. But it was too late. She had collapsed to the narrow walkway between the seats. Her knees hit the carpeted floor.</p>
<p>Was she the only person who had seen death’s swift visitation tonight? The only one who had witnessed its evil intent as it ripped the babe forcefully from its mother’s arms?</p>
<p>It wouldn’t survive. It could not. The fall was too far, too great.</p>
<p>Death had decided to match the theater’s reputation for drama and awe. Greta couldn’t tear her gaze from where she’d seen the small form disappear on its way to its resting place on the floor of the Barlowe Theater.</p>
<p>The babe had slipped. No, it had been <i>tossed</i>. Its mother’s screams still echoed from the hallway beyond the curtain. Those in the crowd cried “Accident,” “Traumatic mishap,” and other such things. But Greta knew differently. She had known before she came tonight, and she should have stayed away.</p>
<p>Barlowe Theater was not a place that brought joy and entertainment, as was its supposed purpose. No, it had already taken lives in the construction of it, tortured the ones who dared stand in its way, and now it was hunting those innocents who had happened into the shadows of its deadly interior. The theater was cursed.</p>
<h2>Kit Boyd</h2>
<h6>OCTOBER, PRESENT DAY<br />
KIPPER’S GROVE, WISCONSIN</h6>
<p>Death stuck with a place. Once the blood had seeped into the carpet, the flooring, the walls, it stayed there, long after the stains were removed. They were the testament to lives robbed of their rightful journey through time. Cut short. Obliterated. B</p><p>Barlowe Theater was not a place that brought joy and entertainment, as was its supposed purpose. No, it had already taken lives in the construction of it, tortured the ones who dared stand in its way, and now it was hunting those innocents who had happened into the shadows of its deadly interior. The theater was cursed.</p>
<h2>Kit Boyd</h2>
<h6>OCTOBER, PRESENT DAY<br />
KIPPER’S GROVE, WISCONSIN</h6>ludgeoned into nonexistence. Smothered by the grave, burrowed into by the worms—<p></p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>Fingers snapped in front of Kit Boyd’s face, and she startled out of her staring into the dark, narrow stairwell that led beneath the stage of the Barlowe Theater.</p>
<p>“Get with it, bruh.” The fingers snapped again. Kit looked up at the taller man beside her. He was overweight and smelled like pizza, but he had a nice face. His name was Tom, they’d told her, the crew from the TV show <i>Psychic and the Skeptic</i>.</p>
<p>“Sorry.” Kit offered him a wince. She’d paused on the first concrete step while her best friend, Madison, the psychic medium, Heather Grant, and the skeptic investigator, Evan Fischer, disappeared into the bowels of the theater. Tom the cameraman was held back by her hesitation. She gave him a warning look, though the theater’s darkness in the midnight atmosphere probably hid most of her expression. “You <i>do</i> know people died here . . . have disappeared here.”</p>
<p>“That’s the point.” Tom waved her forward, the camera on his shoulder blinking a red light. “But I need to catch them on film if I can, and you’re in my way.”</p>
<p>Fabulous. She was on camera. That would probably make the show too. Kit Boyd, the quirky sidekick to Madison Farrington, the historical activist, the beauty, the granddaughter of the town’s ambitious CEO of all things expansion, modern, and money-making.</p>
<p>“Hello?” There was definite irritation in Tom’s voice.</p>
<p>“I’m <i>going</i>! I’m going.” Kit hurried down the steps. She’d taken them many times before. Anyone who was native to Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin, had grown up in the Barlowe Theater at one point or another. Dancers had tapped and glided across its stage in recitals, high school glee clubs with dreams of Broadway had warbled off-key through its hall, and the local theater guild had put on such plays as <i>Arsenic and Old Lace</i> and <i>The Music Man</i>. Kit hadn’t been in any of those. Instead, she was the one backstage handing bottles of water to the performers, smiling and cracking jokes to encourage the stage-frozen little six-year-old dressed in a yellow tutu with glitter on her cheeks.</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>c’mon</i>!” Tom hissed, his irritation past the point of being hidden. How he’d gotten behind her anyway was a faux pas for filming. He was supposed to stick close to the stars of the show, Heather and Evan. And boy, did those two get along famously—<i>not</i>.</p>
<p>“Whew!” Kit wheezed under her breath, not caring if Tom heard. “I’d try to avoid those two if you could.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, I have a job to do.” Tom squeezed past Kit as she hugged the cement-block wall at the bottom of the stairs to let him through. He elbowed her arm and didn’t bother to apologize. He probably felt as if she owed him that luxury. The luxury of being annoyed.</p>
<p>Okay, fine. She did.</p>
<p>If she was being honest, Kit wasn’t a fan of the Barlowe Theater past dark. Which was the cliché of all theaters built just after the turn of the century. It was dark. Haunted. The place was like a tomb. Crank up some vaudeville music and the place became a literal haunted house of horrors for Halloween. And Kit hated Halloween. The darkness, the Gothic look and feel, Halloween was for morbid people who thought Edgar Allan Poe was romantic in his mystery and lore instead of macabre and bleak. Hadn’t he died questionably? She’d heard a podcast once that claimed the poet might have been murdered, contrary to the popular belief that his death had been the result of some fatal malady undiagnosed.</p>
<p>Kit shook her head to clear her thoughts. Mom said cobwebs couldn’t possibly gather in her head because she had too many ideas. Mom was right. Kit would never be accused of having an underactive imagination.</p>
<p>A finger jabbed into the back of her shoulder.</p>
<p>“Stop it!” Kit spun to glare at the offender.</p>
<p>No one was there.</p>
<p>Her skin began crawling. “Gahhhhhh!” She waved her hands wildly at the unseen ghost finger. Probably her imagination, but whatever. She had let Madison sucker her into a ghost hunt for the popular ghost-hunting television show. This was her penance? Getting poked by an elusive spirit?</p>
<p>“Sorry, God.” Kit mumbled an apology to the Almighty, who was probably rolling His eyes at their attempts to mess with the spirit world. But this was Madison. She believed <i>anything</i> was possible. Kit had been raised to believe that this type of <i>anything</i> was probably demonic. There had to be a middle ground. Hadn’t there?</p>
<p>Kit hurried around the corner, stubbing her toe on a bolt that rose half an inch up from the floor. Dampness and time had warped the theater’s floor, making it uneven. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her bare toe. Flip-flops on a ghost hunt. Bad idea.</p>
<p>She looked around—well, as best as she could. The basement was dark, as were the dressing rooms to her right, sized like prison cells. The short hall to her left leading directly below the stage was also dark.</p>
<p>“Hello, darkness,” Kit crooned quietly, craning her neck to peer ahead. “Hello?” she tried again, this time louder.</p>
<p>No answer.</p>
<p>“Seriously, someone?” Kit was beginning to share Tom the cameraman’s annoyance now. Two argumentative television stars, her best friend, and a cameraman didn’t just vanish within minutes. The basement wasn’t <i>that</i> huge.</p>
<p>But it was Barlowe Theater.</p>
<p>“<i>Tom?</i>” Kit hissed, daring a few steps into the dank blackness. “Madison?”</p>
<p>Again, no one answered. The only light was a flickering bulb that had to be a wattage short of worth having at all. It buzzed too. Of course it did. If this stunt was for show<br />
dramatics . . .</p>
<p>“Madison!” Kit shouted. In the ten years since they’d graduated high school, she had followed this woman around. She was owed some loyalty in return. “If this is for ratings, it’s unkind of you!” Kit yelled. Her words echoed back at her.</p>
<p>“Madis—”</p>
<p>Light slammed into her face, blinding Kit. She raised her hands as the flashlight’s beam collided with her eyes.</p>
<p>“They’re gone!” It was Tom.</p>
<p>Kit could see the whites of his eyes just beyond the flashlight he swung around wildly.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Kit tried to take captive Tom’s arm as he flooded the hallway with the light, then a dressing room, then the ceiling. His camera wasn’t on his shoulder.</p>
<p>He wasn’t filming.</p>
<p>Kit’s throat tightened. Okay, that wasn’t a good sign. “Where’s Madison?”</p>
<p>Tom swung the light back in Kit’s face. “Where’s Evan? Where’s Heather? Where’s my <i>team</i>?” His voice shook with undisguised concern, turning fast into panic. “How big is this place?”</p>
<p>“Not <i>that</i> big.” Kit pushed past him. Concerned now. This had gone too far. Madison and her harebrained schemes to keep her own grandfather from ruining the historic downtown. Make it famous, she said. Put it on TV, she said. Make viewers defend Kipper’s Grove, she said. “Madison!” Kit shouted, anxiousness seeping into her voice. “Stop this! It’s not funny!”</p>
<p>Tom’s light bounced on the floor in front of them as Kit spun around and marched back toward him. She shoved past his husky chest and down the short passage to the door leading under the stage. Her fingers curled around the doorknob, its old mechanics making it wobbly beneath her grip.</p>
<p>Kit jerked it open.</p>
<p>She fell back with a shriek, colliding with Tom, who had come way too close behind her.</p>
<p>Heather, the medium from the show, stood stock-still facing them. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her skin white in the flashlight’s glow.</p>
<p>“She’s gone.” Heather’s monotone voice filtered through the passage.</p>
<p>Kit words were stolen from her as her stomach dropped.</p>
<p>“Who’s gone?” Tom demanded.</p>
<p>“Madison.” Evan Fischer, the cohost, the skeptic, and the all-around grumpy hero of the show strode past his partner. Heather’s expression didn’t waver as her eyes remained fixated on . . . whatever she was staring at in the spirit world beyond. “Madison’s gone.”</p>
<p>Evan left less than a few inches between his face and Kit’s as he bent his six-foot frame down to meet her five-foot-four one. “Where is she?”</p>
<p>“I don’t kn—”</p>
<p>“Where. Is. She?” He cut off Kit’s answer as unsatisfactory.</p>
<p>Her breaths came shorter, faster. She could feel Tom behind her. She was sandwiched between him and Evan, with Heather staring into the great abyss.</p>
<p>“I told you. I don’t know.” Kit heard the quaver in her voice. She shoved her trembling hands into her pockets.</p>
<p>“She’s gone.” Evan slapped the wall, glaring at Tom, who was speechless. “Is this a scam? A stunt?”</p>
<p>Kit couldn’t answer. Of course, the show would think it was a ploy by Madison. A publicity ploy. But it went deeper than that. Far deeper. Kit sagged against the wall, the air not reaching her lungs as it should.</p>
<p>She prayed then. Prayed that Madison really was messing with them. That she had simply gone too far ahead beneath the stage and left them behind.</p>
<p>But the theater was hungry, and everyone in Kipper’s Grove knew it was only a matter of time before this hunger added to the stories of death and spirits. That’s how the theater was, after all. Drama. Suspense. And the unearthly way that such things drifted through its rafters.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Lost Boys of Barlowe Theater</i> by Jaime Jo Wright. Copyright 2023 by Jaime Sundsmo. Reproduced with permission from Baker Publishing Group. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</span></b></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Jaime Jo Wright" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/eZLoPif3PDHl-Wright_Jaime-Jo-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Jaime Jo Wright is the author of nine novels, including Christy Award and Daphne du Maurier Award winner <em>The House on Foster Hill</em> and Carol Award winner <em>The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond</em>. She's also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime lives in Wisconsin with her cat named Foo; her husband, Cap'n Hook; and their two mini-adults, Peter Pan and CoCo.</p>
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<p><b> MY THOUGHTS -</b></p><p>This story was a little eerie, spooky, creepy, and super FUN!!! I won't lie. It did give me goosebumps in a couple places. But the good kind, the kind you love to get when you are reading a really good, intense book. Definitely got my heart pounding.</p><p>This takes place in two different time periods - 1915 and present day. Both taking place in the same theater in the same town. I think that made it a little creepier. I feel like both of these could have easily been a book all on their own. They were written that well! Each time period was equally interesting and I was emotionally invested in both. The way the author pulled them both together was amazing.</p><p>This book kept my attention ALL THE WAY THROUGH! Great characters. I think my favorite was Greta from 1915. I just really connected to her character. Her story was... sad! I just really felt for her.</p><p>Believe it or not, this was my first Jaime Jo Wright book!! I know, shocking, right?? Well it definitely won't be my last! I already own - The Vanishing at Castle Moreau, very excited to read that one sometime as well as others.</p><p>If you are looking for something a little edgy, maybe something that might give you a few goosebumps but fun and interesting - give this author a try! You won't be disappointed.</p><p><br /></p><p><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-size: initial; color: #202020;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span face="arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202020;"><span style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333;"><span id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>I voluntarily posted this review after receiving a copy of this book from Partners in Crime Tours</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" id="freeTextauthor5560617"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body"><i><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i>- </i><i>Thank You!!</i></span></span></span></span></span></b></p><p><b style="background-color: #fbfafe; color: #333333; font-family: Lora, serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: black;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
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Wall-to-wall bookshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08866065085086660318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154387579450045555.post-39566950152025144732023-10-03T08:04:00.007-04:002023-10-03T08:04:56.801-04:00Witches, Spiders, and Schemes by Elizabeth Pantley - Book Blast with a giveaway!<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h3 style="text-align: left;">Woot woot! I am very excited to share the next in the Destiny Falls series, which I fully intend on reading! This series is so much fun! 😍</h3><h4><br /></h4>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Witches, Spiders, and Schemes by Elizabeth Pantley" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/64225f674a12c-000A-BOOK-4-COVER-Witches-Spiders-and-Schemes900-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Welcome Back to Destiny Falls</b></span></div>
<p>A magic mirror to an enchanted world... A mysterious ghost... A hilarious, perpetually annoyed witch... A brave, sassy cat... Two unexplained deaths and a mysterious community filled with secrets... Can Hayden and the people of Destiny Falls solve the mystery and return the community to its peaceful, enchanted existence?</p>
<p>Hayden’s adventures in Destiny Falls continue in book four of the Destiny Falls Mystery & Magic series. Starting with a strange old woman at a cave and her father’s mysterious ferry journey, there are secrets to be unwound.</p>
<p>The enchantments in Destiny Falls are showing cracks, and Hayden suspects that it is tied directly to her family, which has a history that’s more complex than she realized. When two bodies are found floating in the bay it’s clear that the mysteries surrounding Gladstone and the ferry are more dangerous than people realize. And then . . . those spiders.</p>
<p>Luckily, Hayden and her sassy sidekick, Latifa have developed a group of family and friends in this enchanted place who are all ready and willing to help solve the mystery, and release Destiny Falls to resume its normal, amazing, enchanted existence.</p>
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<h3>Praise for <i>Witches, Spiders, and Schemes</i>:</h3>
<p>"Will blow you away!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Cozy Mystery Book Reviews</span></p>
<p>"Just when I thought I knew who the killer was, BAM, a twist." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Leslie, Storeybook Reviews</span></p>
<p>"The mystery, magic, and delicately woven story held me captive! I couldn’t ever imagine such a delicious story!" <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Goodreads</span></p>
<p>"So. Darn. Clever. It’ll keep you on your toes – hopping and guessing – until the final pages." <br /><span style="color: #c3ba2a; margin-left: 40px;">~ Pages & Paws</span></p><blockquote class="details" style="margin: 20px; padding: 20px;"><p>
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Series: Destiny Falls Mystery & Magic (#4)<br />
Book Links: <a href="https://amzn.to/3s9s2zU" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3sgbV3K" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></span></b> </p>
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<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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<h4>1</h4>
<p>I stared at the old woman. She was sitting on a rock in the mouth of a cave in front of us. She gawked at me as she sipped from a bottle of green Gatorade. How had a romantic hike up to the mountain lake taken such a strange turn? She told Han and me that her name was Mnemosyne, but that she was called Nemmy.</p>
<p>Nemmy? Could she be the woman from the stories I’d been told? Was that even possible?</p>
<p>Gaspar, the ghost who’d been telling me tales, had a daughter called Nemmy. She was King Gaspar Reuben’s youngest daughter of three. The one who had been tutored in black magic by an evil crone witch and bestowed with dark powers. She had lived a century ago but had partaken of the rumored fountain of youth found on the sinister island of Gladstone. Was this her? If it was, why did she look so old and frail? And how was she here?</p>
<p>I shivered and took a step closer to Han. He put his arm around my shoulders and the weight of it allowed me to exhale.</p>
<p>We had hiked for hours to reach the alpine lake. It was baffling to find an elderly woman sitting this far up. She didn’t look to be the type who’d be able to climb a set of stairs, let alone a mountain. She had no hiking supplies with her, and she wasn’t dressed for it either, in her long dress that seemed more suited for a carriage ride in the Middle Ages. When I asked her if she had hiked up here by herself, she laughed at my question, saying that no, she didn’t get here by herself, but then she changed the subject. As if that wasn’t crazy enough, she told us her name. I’m almost sure she said Nemmy. Her strange appearance, plus that familiar name, made it possible that she was the witch from the stories the ghost had told.</p>
<p>“You are the recently discovered Caldwell relative who fell through the mirror into Destiny Falls,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was clear that she knew who I was. “How kind of you to deliver yourself right to my front door. I have something especially for you, Helen.”</p>
<p>“It’s Hayden.” I corrected her automatically.</p>
<p>“Ah, right. Hayden.” She made an effort to stand up but was struggling, so Han and I helped her. As soon as she was upright, she raised her arm and pointed her bony finger inches from my face. With her other hand, she pulled a handful of herbs, dust, and dirt from a pocket and tossed it at me. “Ostend mee-hi virtute!” she shouted.</p>
<p>In a flash, Han tugged me by my arm and pushed me behind him. It was a sweet protective gesture that I appreciated in the face of this deranged old woman.</p>
<p>The woman did a panicky little jig, shook her hands wildly, then grabbed in her pocket for more of the mixture. She tried to throw it around Han and into my face. She repeated what she had just said. Only much more exuberantly. Then she stomped her feet in frustration and repeated loudly, “Virtute! Virtute!”</p>
<p>I coughed at the dust and squinted at her. “What is she doing?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth to Han.</p>
<p>“I have no idea. But it sounds like some kind of spell,” he side-whispered back. “Slowly back away.”</p>
<p>The woman who could be Nemmy rolled her eyes. “I’m not a superhero, but you know I can still hear you,” she whispered back to us out of the side of her mouth.</p>
<p>We both turned to look at her. She laughed heartily and we heard her mumbling, “A spell! What will they think of next?” Then her laughter abruptly stopped. Her face sagged and she growled at us to leave her alone.</p>
<p>What if she was just a random senior citizen and her name a coincidence? Maybe I misunderstood her, and she said her name was Emmy. “Are you sure you don’t want us to wait until your hiking partners come back . . . Emmy?” I asked.</p>
<p>She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Your benevolence is exhausting, young woman, and you’re more than I anticipated. Just leave me in peace.” She waved her arm and turned away from us. “Go! Go away!” she yelled. Then she stepped into the entrance of the cave, leaving us standing there gaping at the cavernous opening.</p>
<p>Han and I gathered up our gear and started the trek back down the mountain.</p>
<p>“Well. That was strange,” I said. “I feel badly about leaving her up here alone, but she was adamant, so what else could we do?”</p>
<p>“That’s true,” Han said. He was quiet for a moment, then he stopped walking and turned to face me. “Hayden, while we were standing at the cave, I experienced flashes of old memories returning.”</p>
<p>My jaw dropped and I waited for him to explain. He’d been in an accident not far from here. He had fallen off a cliff and suffered a concussion that caused him to lose his memory of the accident.</p>
<p>“What did you remember?”</p>
<p>“Random bits and pieces. The cave itself seemed familiar, except the one I recall had a wooden door on the front, which seems unlikely up here on the mountain. The old woman’s voice was familiar. I remembered hearing her say that Lazarus had taken control. But that’s it. It’s so frustrating not to be able to remember. I don’t know who Lazarus is, or what he’d taken control of, or who she was talking to. But the cave and her voice. Those I clearly remember.”</p>
<p>“Han! That’s so much more than you remembered before! Maybe all your memories of that day will start to return now?”</p>
<p>“I hope you’re right. It’s difficult having such a hole in my memory. Especially since what happened goes against all my years of training.”</p>
<p>I already knew that. Han’s position as Destiny Falls Special Forces Officer, and his past work in the U.S. Army’s Special Forces, meant that he would not have ignored all his training and fallen off an obvious cliff.</p>
<p>“If the woman is Nemmy, the witch daughter that Gaspar told me about, maybe she had something to do with your accident?”</p>
<p>“Exactly what I was thinking,” Han said.</p>
<p>I was baffled by our strange encounter and concerned about Han’s returning memory indicating the woman might have something to do with his accident. But if I were being perfectly honest with myself, I was mostly annoyed and frustrated that our first official date had been ruined by her sudden appearance. I’d waited so long for our first date, and it was going perfectly until her presence knocked the romance right out of the moment. We had just had our first kiss in the most romantic fairy tale setting by the waterfall. It felt like more than a kiss. It was the merging of two souls. I was basking in the afterglow of it when her cough had stolen our moment. I took a deep breath and refocused.</p>
<p>There was that name again: Lazarus. His name was mentioned on the list that was imprinted on the back of the letter that my missing mother had written me. There was no explanation. Just a row of question marks after his name. He’d also been mentioned in several stories about the ominous island of Gladstone and the illegal scheme to transport people there so that they could search for the fountain of youth. Based on the bits and pieces I’d heard, Lazarus appeared to be a dangerous human being. Who was this mysterious person, and how was he known by this old woman? This enigma. Possibly the king’s wicked daughter, Nemmy.</p>
<p>Han and I discussed all these questions as we made our way down the mountain. After two hours of this he suggested that we take a break, table our discussion for later, and salvage what we could of our first date. We found a beautiful clearing near a small stream and spread out what was left of our picnic. We even made a plan for our second date. The conversation turned happy and once we settled in, I absorbed every minute with a lightness in my heart.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Witches, Spiders, and Schemes</i> by Elizabeth Pantley. Copyright 2021 by Elizabeth Pantley. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Pantley. All rights reserved.</p>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR -</b></span></div>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Elizabeth Pantley" border="0" height="300" src="https://partnersincrimetours.com/wp-content/uploads/forminator/13997_115b15d08b2c7bb7da2712949e71a2f7/uploads/64225f6f63acc-Head-shot-HIGH-RES-3-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Elizabeth Pantley is the international bestselling author of The No-Cry Sleep Solution and twelve other books for parents, published in over twenty languages. </p>
<p>She simultaneously writes the well-loved Destiny Falls Mystery & Magic book series and the new Magical Mystery Book Club series.</p>
<p>Elizabeth lives in the Pacific Northwest, the gorgeous inspiration for the setting in many of her books.</p>
<h3>Catch Up With Elizabeth Pantley:<br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/45sSToZ" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.NoCrySolution.com/books</a><br />
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<a href="https://bit.ly/448ZXGe" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @DestinyFalls</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/459M2kr" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @destinyfallsmystery</a><br />
<a href="https://bit.ly/3OUsV8s" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @DestinyFallsMysteryandMagic</a></h3>
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<h2>ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN:</h2>
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