From Chapter 1

“What are you doing here, Luna?” The honeyed tone he’d used on the waitress morphed to granite.

“Since when does the FDLE investigate missing persons?”

“Since when do you talk to Stryker? Or any of us, for that matter?”

“Why do you keep answering questions with another question?” Although she knew good and well she’d started it.

The squiggle of a blue vein bulged at Corbin’s temple, and she kind of enjoyed it. “Since we gave our baby up for adoption. Since you cut me out of your life.” His finger stabbed the table to punctuate each sentence. “Since you left town without a word and never looked back.”

Another crack formed. His words knifed her heart. Images of a teen beggar girl on the streets of Pakistan played through her mind. The one with dark hair and eyes that mirrored her own. The girl’s striking resemblance to herself had brought Luna back to the time when she held a tiny life in her arms. The baby girl she’d given up—not because she wanted to, but because she refused to let her child suffer the life she’d had.

The daughter she’d brought into being was somewhere out there in the world, and she needed Stryker to tell her where.

The pang cut deep, but Luna gathered her composure and locked her emotional armor down tight. She wasn’t the only one who’d walked away. “You broke up with me, Corbin. You told me you didn’t want to be a father. You made that choice. I just made sure our daughter had a future.”

The skin around his collar flushed crimson. She could see his neck straining. “I can’t believe you—”

A sharp glint of light flashed through the storefront windows. Whatever Corbin was saying faded into nothingness. She watched Stryker emerge from his rusty old Jeep parked across the street. His hair, a blend of salt and pepper, hung in a knot at the nape of his neck. Aside from the silver strands, he looked like the same athletic man she’d known when she was a teenager.

Years melted away. She saw the man who’d seen the good in her, even when she was a mess of anger and bad choices. The man who’d taken a lost and confused girl and forged her into something stronger, something more. He’d pulled her back from the edge, shown her a different path. And somehow, against all odds, the rebellious girl who’d once cursed every cop in sight had become a government agent.

He’d challenged her, pushed her, never let her give up on herself. And she hadn’t. Would he still recognize that girl in the woman she’d become?

A black SUV slammed to a halt outside. Doors flew open. Three dark figures jumped out, faces swallowed by masks, bodies muted by black tactical gear.

Guns. They had guns.

Luna was on her feet before she knew what was happening. Her brain put it together on the fly. Outside. Help Stryker.

Corbin’s chair scraped back. Clattered over. He was on her heels.

Stryker wouldn’t go down without a fight. With his reflexes, he could disarm a shooter and break a few bones faster than she could blink. His resistance would buy them the priceless seconds they needed to get outside.

One man pointed a Taser at Stryker and squeezed the trigger. Two barbed probes shot through the air and embedded into the back of Stryker’s neck, sending fifty thousand volts of electricity screaming through his body. The other two men caught him under the arms before he hit the sidewalk and hauled his limp body into the back seat.

Luna and Corbin burst outside. Shouts. A woman screamed. But Luna’s eyes were laser focused on the dark vehicle. The doors slammed shut.

Corbin had his gun out. “Police! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The SUV’s engine roared. The vehicle lurched forward, tires shrieking, grabbing traction. It fishtailed, sideswiping two parked cars. Then it swerved back on course, speeding down the street. It blew through a stop sign and disappeared around the corner.

Bits of red and yellow confetti littered the street and sidewalk. Luna crouched and used her fingernail to scrape up a few of the tiny round dots.

Corbin sprinted half a block chasing after the vehicle before he stopped. Feet set shoulder width apart. Knees flexed. Arms extended and ready to fire.

She marched over and slapped her palm on the muzzle of his gun to shove the barrel down. “Put that away. You can’t shoot into a busy street at a fleeing vehicle.”

He was breathing hard. “No plates. They wore masks. Should be able to get surveillance footage and interview witnesses.” Like her, Corbin was already thinking of the next steps.

She had her phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. The secret code used to send secure cables to the Agency wouldn’t work on this plain smartphone. The only person whose number was stored in this one had just been kidnapped.

Corbin muttered something Luna couldn’t hear. He had a hand on his waist. The tail of his blazer was pushed back, showing the gun in its holster on his hip. He rattled his name, badge number, and their location into his phone. “I’m reporting a confirmed kidnapping in progress. Requesting immediate backup and notify detectives.”

With Stryker gone, she had no reason to stay. Time to start searching for him. She did an about-­face and went back inside.

Angie was on the phone in hysterics. It’d be a wonder if the dispatcher could make sense of the gibberish behind her sobs. Luna marched to the table and picked up her purse. Paused long enough to drain her lemonade and toss a twenty on the table before heading back outside.

Corbin fell into step beside her, phone still pressed to his ear. “Where are you going?”

She kept walking.

“Hey, you can’t leave a crime scene.” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

She caught his hand in a wrist lock and rotated his forearm until his knees buckled. “You’ve gotten slow in your old age.” She flashed a thin smile and shoved him, releasing her hold.

Corbin stumbled a few steps. The look on his face was almost worth the agony of seeing him again. She turned and headed for her car.

The last person she’d ever wanted to see was Corbin King. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

“Luna! You can’t just walk away. Luna!”

Stryker was not only her mentor but a father figure. She wouldn’t stand by and let someone hurt him. Besides, he was the one who’d arranged the adoption. Handled everything himself, outside the system when she was too young and emotionally wrecked to question the details. Back then, she hadn’t wanted to know. Convinced it was better that way. But that had changed.

Now, without Stryker, she had no way to find the only blood relative she had left. And after everything she’d lost in Pakistan, she could not afford to lose anything else.

The weight of it all didn’t matter.

She would save Stryker.

She would find her daughter.

And she would do it without Corbin King.

***

Excerpt from Girl Lost by Kate Angelo. Copyright 2025 by Kate Angelo. Reproduced with permission from Kate Angelo. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

New Caney, Texas
October, Thursday, Current Day
Therese

The shrill ring of my mobile phone jolted me awake at 2:00 a.m., a haunting prompt that emergencies seldom emerged in daylight. Someone had ventured into the wilderness and needed me to lead a rescue mission. My skills of trekking over precarious terrain to find victims who suffered from physical injuries, dehydration, starvation, or all three, kept me on alert. At times I viewed my life like a Star Trek tagline, “Where no man has gone before.”

I grabbed the phone off my nightstand. Unidentified caller. “Hello?”

“Ms. Palmer, this is Professor Rurik Ivanov from Houston Leonard University. We met nearly a year ago. You taught a course in wilderness survival as an adjunct professor.”

I captured a mental image of the Russian man—gray-blue eyes, stone-gray hair, angular face. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I apologize for the hour, but I’m in a desperate situation.”

The angst in his voice zapped me into guarded mode, especially when I barely knew the man. I snapped on my bedside lamp. “Are you all right?”

“No, ma’am, which is why I’m calling you. Do you remember my wife and daughter?”

“I met them both at a faculty dinner last Christmas. A lovely family.”

“My wife was murdered today, and kidnappers have taken my daughter.”

I inhaled sharply, and alarm for the professor’s family fired hot from the soles of my feet. “Daria? Alina? What happened?”

“A man called me late this afternoon while I prepared to leave for home. He said he’d taken Alina. Then he sent a link to a video showing my wife’s execution—”

He stopped abruptly, his final words drumming into my senses. The seconds ticked by, and I waited.

“I watched Daria grab her chest and struggle . . . The blood rushed from her precious body—my dear Daria’s life gone forever.” He grappled again to control his tear-filled voice. “He said they would release Alina unharmed if I paid three million dollars. They’d call with instructions. When the man hung up, I hurried home thinking it had to be a terrible mistake or someone had used AI to generate the video. On the way, I phoned Daria and the call went to voice mail. I also redialed the man who’d contacted me. The phone rang repeatedly, but the number offered no way to leave a message. I contacted Alina’s school and learned Daria had picked her up before noon.

“At home, reality rooted. A lamp and a table in the living room lay in pieces. Daria would have fought hard, but there were no signs of blood. I didn’t recognize the place in the video where they killed her. I even checked for geotag information on the clip, but it had been stripped. I later clicked on the link . . . the video had disappeared.”

I ached for his loss. “What do the police say?”

Silence answered me, then Rurik finally said, “Contacting them is impossible. The man warned me against telling anyone who works in law enforcement, or I’d never see Alina again.” He sobbed into the phone. “Please, give me a moment.”

“Take all the time you need.”

The professor taught Russian language and literature at Leonard University and was highly respected and liked among faculty and students. I’d enjoyed our occasional chats, and he’d observed some of my classes. What had he done to upset the wrong people?

“Thank you. I can talk now,” he said. “I have no idea where the killers have taken Daria’s body or how to find Alina. Neither do I suspect anyone.”

I willed my pulse to slow. “Professor, the police are trained in handling confidential matters and how to find who is responsible. They have families and understand what you’re going through.”

“And endanger my daughter?” Panic throbbed in his ragged voice.

“I’m sorry.” My grief over losing Kate many years ago surfaced raw and bleeding. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. At home.”

“Are there family or friends who can stay with you?”

“My family is in Russia, and I do not trust anyone.”

“You could very well be in danger too.”

“My welfare is unimportant.”

“Who are these people, and why has your family been victimized?”

“I have no idea. The man refused to identify himself, but he did say ‘we.’ Maybe he thinks I have money or believes I have done something criminal to my country or to the US.”

What was he not telling me? I tossed off my blanket and stood in my bedroom, shivering, not from the cold but the horror of this unfolding story. “Professor Ivanov, I’m confused. Why call me? This is a job for the police or the FBI.”

“I cannot risk my daughter’s life. You are my only hope to find Alina. You have the skills to get her back.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I’m a wilderness-survival specialist, nothing more. I’m not equipped to carry out a hostage negotiation without backup, which is another reason you need to involve the authorities.” More questions bolted into my mental space like a landslide. “How would I find her?”

“That’s where I can help you. Alina has GPS trackers hidden in her shoes. Not even Daria knew about them.”

“Why would you track your young daughter?”

“Alina’s biological mother died when she was a baby, and I’ve been consumed with protecting my daughter ever since. I checked my phone app and learned at one thirty this afternoon, Alina was taken to a private landing strip west of Houston. I called there, and a woman who worked in the small office said no one had filed a flight plan. But she made a mistake. The tracker had stopped registering.” He coughed and asked me to wait while he got a glass of water.

A connection at Harris County Office of Homeland Security & Emergency Management popped into my consciousness. They had the technology to confirm the date and time a plane took to the skies and where it landed.

“I’m better. I apologize for my lack of control,” the professor said. “My app showed tracking again near an abandoned airstrip in a remote area south of Hobbs, New Mexico. The tracking indicated ground-speed movement for two and a half hours to a section on the north side of Guadalupe Mountains National Park called Dog Canyon. That’s where the tracking ended, and I’ve detected nothing since. I assume the kidnappers parked the vehicle and proceeded on foot with Alina. Research shows the area is off-grid. Ms. Palmer, did they remove her shoes? How would they expect her to walk in bare feet?”

My thoughts trailed to the worst possible scenario. Why take Alina to a remote location unless they planned to dispose of her body there? Another argument lay with logic. Why go to the expense of transporting a kidnap victim there when they had the ability to dispose of her body in their backyard? A morbid idea, except true. Whatever the reason, they risked exposure from security cameras until they reached an off-grid area.

“I can’t stress enough how the authorities have technology and skills to find Alina. They can unravel valid threats and comprehend the danger of taking your story to the media.”

“The man who called me said they’d be watching my every move. I bought a burner phone tonight to call you.”

His anguish rippled through me, interfering with my ability to think clearly. “What about the ransom?”

“I can liquidate assets here and in Russia to meet their demands, but the statistics on kidnappers returning my Alina alive are not good. Perhaps they would accept what I can put together now. I’m sorry . . . I wish I had an answer. Why harm an eight-year-old little girl?”

“I have empathy for your grief.” Daria’s lovely face and the white-blonde-haired little girl refused to leave me alone. “Although I could lead you into Dog Canyon, I have no idea how to pull her out of the clutches of dangerous men. You’d need armed law enforcement and possibly a negotiator.”

“That would draw attention. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“Money is not the issue, Professor—”

“Alina means more to me than anything else in this world. What is love but to take ownership of a problem and do all I can to stop those men?”

“What if I fail?” The terror of not finding his daughter alive resurrected an echo from the past that had shaped my career.

“Can you live with yourself if you don’t try?”

Unaware, he’d pressed my weakest button. “I’ll hear you out. But I don’t believe you’ve given me the whole story, and I need the truth before I risk my life.”

“I’ve . . . I’ve given you all of it.”

“You’ve stated what you want me to know. What have you done or not done in this tragedy that Daria is dead, Alina is missing, and you can’t go to the police?

***

Excerpt from Canyon of Deceit by DiAnn Mills. Copyright 2025 by DiAnn Mills. Reproduced with permission from DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.

The monsoon gale was relentless, tearing apart the redwood trees that dotted the sweeping curves of Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. Traffic was minimal, with only a few drivers braving the hundred-year storm that assailed the Santa Cruz Mountains that day.

Mount Herman Road

The storm was brutal. John Nord squinted through the moving windshield wipers; his brows drawn with tension. The visibility was close to zero. He was clenching his jaw, angry at how the wipers were not quick enough, even at their fastest.

The rain came down in sheets, thundering on the roof of John's faded blue Taurus Wagon. His car swerved on the deserted but slick curves of the road, the winding asphalt reflecting the wagon's headlights at him. The midday sky was heavy with dark clouds, the torrential rain blinding every driver on the road.

The world beyond the shelter of John's car was pure chaos. The noise of the storm hemorrhaging through the car’s windows. Even though the windows muffled the sound, John was fully aware of the creaking as the redwoods bent under the pressure of the wind.

Felton Empire Grade Curve

The roadbed spiraled around consecutive two hundred and seventy degree turns while clawing another one hundred feet of altitude; sheets of rain pelted the road and hillside.

The wind whipped redwoods side to side, and the raging gale edged up in pitch and fury. Massive trees groaned in protest. Branches snapped in the wind, the redwood needles adding to the hell that poured down the Felton Empire Road curve.

The sound of heavy wind in an evergreen forest had its own fierceness. The high-pitched growl of trillions of needles scratching the air mixed with the guttural low-frequency strain of heavy timber, stretching to survive, foretold doom. A large branch slashed across the road and down the cliff along the side of Felton-Empire Grade.

The roadway rose two thousand tortuous feet from the foot of the grade. Hurricane-force winds lashed and moaned from the forest above the pavement as it twistingly ascended through a nasty corner. No one should be out driving, but John had no choice.

Mount Herman Road

“This is Santa Cruz classic rock. It is a wonderful day to stay indoors with another classic from Yes, Owner of a Lonely Heart.

The DJ's voice crackled through the radio. The song’s instrumental began to bleed through the speakers of John's car. The riff of the electric guitars was easy to hear, even over the noise of the heavy rain. The blue wagon sped away from the Highway 17 exit. Mount Herman Road wedged itself between the competing strip malls of Scotts Valley. John ignored the discordant symphony of horns behind him, protesting his driving.

John focused on another vehicle that zoomed in and out of the midday traffic ahead of him. The black sedan he followed sped past cars on the four-lane highway, snaking through the rush of traffic as John stepped on the accelerator in anxious pursuit.

The DJ's voice broke into the song's flow.

"Folks, we have a breaking story. A national weather alert for the Santa Cruz Mountains, torrential rain for the next six hours, and a landslide warning. Back to Yes.”

“Move yourself,” the singer belted.

John's eyes darted to the signboard above, making a mental note of how soon Mount Herman Road would leave Scotts Valley behind. The sedan sped forward smoothly, unaffected by the torrential rain. John's faded blue wagon whizzed past five more cars, jumping ahead of traffic before the stoplight turned green.

The road began to narrow as the chase continued, the four lanes shrinking to one going uphill. John scanned ahead for the sedan, squinting through the downpour.

He spotted the dark sedan pulling past a fuel tanker truck beginning its slow ascent uphill. John gritted his teeth in frustration, staring at the sedan fast disappearing in the rain.

“Never thinking of the future. Prove yourself,” the song continued.

In his rush to catch up with the sedan, John almost missed the tanker changing lanes. He winced at the wrenching sound of metal against metal. The scrape was a sickening contrast to the rock song. Still, his car sped forward. John straightened up in his seat checking the damage his wagon had sustained.

The hauler had clipped the Taurus, taking the right turn signal with it. John veered right, narrowly escaping a collision with an oncoming logging truck. As he returned to his lane, the logger angrily sounded his air horn. The headlights behind him were blinding, the truck's beam set high.

“You are the move you make.
Take your chances, win, or lose.
See yourself. You are the steps you take.
You and you, and that's the only way.”

The downpour got heavier as the road narrowed. The wind and rain had increased to hurricane strength. Branches snapped, and mud oozed over the road. Sludge began covering the inside lane as the howling wind increased.

Inside the Taurus, John, a rough handsome man in his thirties, ran a hand through his blonde hair, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled. His gaze darted frantically to the mirrors, checking his position on the hill. His heart still thundered from the near-death experience of almost totaling his wagon into a logging truck. He was feeling the strain of the high-speed chase.

John sped after the dark sedan. It was the only thing he could do. His hand fell for his phone as he kept his gaze on the road, glancing down in time to see that it would not turn on no matter how many times he pressed the button on the side.

“Shake…”

The car veered sideways again as John's eyes darted around for the car phone charger. The charger he kept on the dashboard slid off onto the passenger side floor, out of reach.

John grunted, annoyed. The charger thumped against the soft makeup case his fiancée had kept there. He glanced down to see a nail file and cuticle clippers peeking out from the case. The passenger side was a mess of clutter, as if the woman who sat there would return any moment, gather her things, and pass John a smile and a wave as she headed off to work.

A Sutter Healthcare security pass slid out from her purse on the floor beside the case. John's throat tightened at the sight of the face staring back at him from the badge.

The sound of the truck horn faded into the downpour. John swallowed sharply, dropping the phone in his lap while pressing down on the gas, willing his car to speed up.

“Shake yourself…”

The rain hammered down on his windshield. John turned up the wipers' speed, clearing the windshield for a millisecond before the view returned to a blur of rain and the heavy wind. The redwoods bent whichever way the wind pleased, and the thunderous crackle of smaller trees falling and branches snapping leaked into the safe shell of John's car.

The redwood trees moaned as the rain blew sideways, cracking as nature continued its violent assault. Muddy rivulets trailed down into the roadway.

"You're every move you make.
So, the story goes, owner of a lonely heart.”

The narrow path had turned into a steep incline. As John urged his car up the slope, the faded Taurus battled against the wind and rain. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white as his jaw ached, his fiancée's face flashing before his eyes.

He had to make it.

"Owner of a broken heart.
Owner of a lonely heart.”

John let out a heavy breath as his faithful Taurus pulled through. The windshield cleared again momentarily, and John's eyes widened at the sharp curve ahead. The slick roadways would make it impossible to make it through in one piece. John clenched his jaw, determined as he turned the wheel, whispering a silent prayer as he felt the rear wheels slide on the turn slewing off the road entirely for a moment.

John held his breath, his heart stammering as the wheels floundered, barely staying on the road as he entered the town of Felton.

“You've been hurt so before; watch it now.
The eagle in the sky.
How he dancin' one and only, you, lose yourself.
No, not for pity's sake; there's no real reason to be lonely.
Be yourself.”

The blue wagon slid to a rolling stop at Gramhill Road as he caught his breath. The chase had started taking a toll on him, but it was up to him. John's head whipped toward the right, gaze zeroing in on his target. The dark sedan was speeding away, unaffected by the storm. John stepped on the gas, shaking his head, his car rocketing away in pursuit.

“Give your free will a chance.
You've got to want to succeed—owner of a lonely heart.”

The blue wagon crossed Highway 9 onto Felton Empire Grade at a breakneck speed. The car veered left and right; John was understeering to get his vehicle under control. John caught his breath as his car straightened. He felt the tension in his shoulders, the steady ache that increased with every passing moment. A battered green pickup truck on Highway 9 spun out of control at the light. Most drivers were pulling their cars onto the side of the road at awkward angles, not wanting to drive in blinding dangerous conditions.

John slammed his fist on the steering wheel, willing the car's exhausted, faded, battered remnants to push its limits for one more charge. He fought to steer left, the road both turning and rising as it curved uphill and steepened. John felt like he may as well have been chasing that sedan on foot. Steering the distressed Taurus was no less than a marathon.

The faithful wagon journeyed onward, the song's chorus continuing as the trees on either side had started to canopy the road John was on, supplying a temporary respite from the assaulting rain. John exhaled; his relief was short-lived as he took in the approaching hairpin curve.

“After my own indecision, they confused me so.
Owner of a lonely heart.
My love said never question your will at all.
In the end, you've got to go.”

The rock song continued as John sped forward. No turn could scare him enough to stop his pursuit. Just then, a giant redwood branch fell onto the road. Spotting it in time, John avoided it, but the road ahead now seemed impassable. The wind whipped branches off strong redwood trees and laid them out crossways on the road. But John refused to slow down. He pushed the Taurus to its last limits, sweat beading on his forehead.

John muttered a silent curse as a branch landed heavily on the roof of his car.

Up ahead was a sharp turn that veered left, then right, with fifteen miles an hour posted.

“Look before you leap—owner of a lonely heart.br>And don't you hesitate at all - no, no.”

As the song faded into a guitar solo, John stared at his next challenge: the hairpin corner.

The roadway snaked through a series of turns. The rain softened the shoulder of the mountain opened to a ravine below. He steered a centerline through the extreme right hairpin as the pavement descended into the Redwoods. The water poured down the hillside in torrents that became gushing creeks.

John Nord nodded to himself, determined. He slammed his foot down on the pedal as the dark sedan sped seamlessly toward the turn, disappearing around the turn raising wakes of road water.

“Owner of a lonely heart.
Owner of a lonely heart.
Much better than a
Owner of a broken heart.
Owner of a lonely heart.”

The road straightened slightly out into rhythmic curves. The wagon strained against the weather, the rasping sounds from the engine a sure sign of the price the chase cost the wagon. The straining engine mirrored John's mental state, the faded Taurus manifesting the intensity of its driver's panic, fear, and determination.

John floored it. The chorus of the song repeated, inching toward the end.

“Sooner or later, each conclusion,
Will decide the lonely heart.
Owner of a lonely heart.
It will excite; it will delight.”

The song faded into silence as John approached another yellow fifteen-mile-per-hour sign leaning to the left. The storm bent the pole planted into the ground. The road spiraling up to the left, the slick road ahead had large cracks across the surface, promising him a harrowing experience.

“It will give a better start.
Owner of a lonely heart.”

The music faded, John's panic winning out as he braked hard for the hairpin turn. The wagon dropped into the large crack in the road, jerking his body as the sun visor popped down. John felt the jolt run through him, his head slamming back against the headrest.

"Don't deceive your free will at all.
Don't deceive your free will—owner of a lonely heart.
Don't deceive your free will at all,
Just receive it—"

John sighed, gritting his teeth, reaching over, switching off the radio.

The blue wagon drifted through the hairpin curve and raced around the sweeping blind turn as the rain saturated hillside mud slipped down into the valley. The dark sedan disappeared while John, caught in the unforgiving road collapse, slid into the abyss.

In defeat, John pounded the steering wheel.

“And I thought I had it made.

***

Excerpt from MILD MANNERED MEN by Walter Horsting. Copyright 2025 by Walter Horsting. Reproduced with permission from Walter Horsting. All rights reserved.

Prologue

She wants to kill you.

Martha’s fingers tightened onto the Pentel No. 2 pencil, clutched in her lap like a secret talisman. Dr. Ellijay picked up the stack of test booklets, squared them on her desk with soft raps, and began handing them out. She walked slowly down the aisle, her heels popping on the linoleum.

Not today, Martha thought. Please, Lenny, not today.

Outside the casement windows, the campus was awash in gray, a silent movie, as it had been for days, suspended between fog and drizzle, the dull light suppressing shadows, flattening the neo-Gothic buildings of Ponce de Leon College like a plywood set. Only two o’clock, but outside looked more like dusk.

The quad was empty, except for a lone figure seated on a bench, a man in a tweed blazer taking notes in a composition book. He looked up in Martha’s direction, then down at the notebook, then toward her again. To escape his gaze, she looked elsewhere, beyond the campus buildings, above the crenellated rooflines.

It was there again. She had seen it before, on bad days, and now it stretched across the buildings, high above the spires and turrets, gelatinous and nearly invisible except for a network of threadlike capillaries. It pulsed and it heaved, breathing, alive.

Don’t look at it, Lovie. Lenny murmured in her ear, his voice moist and intimate. You know they don’t want you to see that, right? Just pretend you don’t see it.

Today Lenny was only a voice, but on some days she could see him. He was tall and gaunt, his skin white and mottled, like the belly of a toad. Spiked hair. Blue jeans shiny with stains. Canvas sneakers, gray and frayed.

Martha felt a touch on her shoulder, jerked around.

“Relax, Martha.” Wade leaned forward in the desk behind her. “You look as tight as a piano wire. You’ll do great.”

You won’t do great. You’ll die. Lenny hissed. S’truth. You’ll die if you even touch the paper.

This was the first time Wade had spoken to her in months. In the early weeks of the semester, he had flirted with her, singled her out for special attention. For a while, the attraction had been mutual. She liked his pug nose, his subversive sense of humor. But that was before.

Dr. Ellijay walked to the end of the next aisle, Martha’s aisle.

Have a look out, Lovie. ’Ere it comes.

Martha tried to concentrate, to review her mental notes. This was the final. Her grades had been floundering—that’s all part of the plan, innit?—but Martha had decided she would overcome the plan. She wouldn’t let them win.

Don’t touch the paper, Lenny rasped. It’s printed with poison ink. It’s like them colorful frogs in Ecuador. We learned about that in Biology 101, remember? Beautiful, but lethal. If you touch the ink, you’ll die.

Dr. Ellijay returned to her desk at the front of the room and glanced at her wristwatch. “All right, you have forty-five minutes,” she told the class. “You may begin now. Good luck.”

Look at ’er. She’s watchin’ you. She wants to see you fail. Touch the frog poison, and you’ll die. Look out the window. The man on the bench, he’s watchin’, too. They’re all watchin’. They’ve all been waitin’ for this moment, doncha see?

Martha stared at the page, paralyzed. She felt a drop of perspiration release from her armpit and crawl down her side. Around her, she heard the frantic scratching of her fellow students’ pens. They mingled with the sounds of the rats in the walls, the ones that chewed at the masonry with their sharp teeth, like yellow rice grains. The other students acted as if the rats weren’t there.

She glanced at the clock. Six minutes gone already. She looked down at the paper and tried to focus, to form the answers in her mind.

If you fall for it—don’t say I din’t warn you, Lovie.

She wanted to cry, or to scream, but she was motionless except for the pounding of her heart.

Don’t react. Don’t let ’em know. Don’t let ’em on to you, right? That’s the worst thing.

She heard Dr. Ellijay’s footsteps approach and stop next to her desk. She didn’t look up.

“Martha? It’s been ten minutes, and you haven’t even started. Are you all right?”

A swarm of ghostly, amoeba shapes floated in front of Martha’s eyes, and she felt as if her head would explode.

“Martha?” Dr. Ellijay placed a hand on her shoulder.

Martha screamed and lunged out of her seat, pushing the desk over, causing books to tumble out.

Run. It’s yer only chance—run like hellfire.

She bounded up the aisle, reached the door, and flung it open with a bang.

Run, Lovie.

In the hallway, Martha collided with a student on his cellphone, texting. She turned the corner onto another hallway and spotted the door to the custodial closet. She tried the knob. It opened. She slipped inside, squeezed next to a plastic mop bucket with rubber wheels, pulled the door closed, and slid to the floor.

In the darkness, she could smell ammonia. She heard the rats scurry around her. One brushed against her ankle, another along the back of her neck. Out in the hallway, footsteps approaching.

Voices calling her name. But Martha remained silent, invisible.

This is one thing we’re good at, hey, Lovie? Lenny said. We know how to vanish.

Chapter 1

Ten months later

Martha sat on an iron bench in front of the Wash-and-Fold and watched a column of ants as they marched away carrying crumbs from the smashed corner of a ham sandwich.

She had made the walk from the Pritchett House to Tobias Avenue in only fifteen minutes, strolling past dew-damp lawns and sprinklers, reaching the business district early. Nothing to do now but wait and watch the town slowly wake up. The morning was hazy, already humid. The rising sun painted sharp, expanding triangles of yellow on the buildings and storefronts.

Martha opened her leather satchel and unfolded the advertisement, the one Vince found on the bulletin board at the Gateway Center. She reread it for the hundredth time.

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT
The Historical Society of Amberleen, Georgia, seeks a full-time intern to assist with book project. Must be bright, organized, and detail-oriented, able to hit the ground running. Will transcribe/edit interviews, write introductions, assist with research. Three-month term with stipend. Assist with book project. Must be bright, organized, and detail-oriented, able to hit the ground running. Will transcribe/edit interviews, write introductions, assist with research. Three-month term with stipend.

She felt restless, considered moving to the local diner for a cup of coffee, then scrapped the idea. Like so many things, caffeine was no longer admissible.

She wished she’d brought a book to read, or maybe a newspaper. Anything to take her mind off the fluttery feeling in her gut, a sensation that took hold yesterday when the Trailways bus crossed the Intracoastal Waterway and rolled past that sign in the grass median:

Welcome to Amberleen. Spacious Oaks, Friendly Folks.

Martha held the leather satchel close to her face and sniffed. The smell calmed her. It reminded her of her father, who kept it bulging with papers as he shuttled between their house and the university. She tilted the satchel and heard a faint rattle from within, a secret sound. The part of herself she would keep hidden.

A Lincoln Continental pulled up in front of the brick building across the street and parked. A tall woman with white hair and an old-fashioned, collared dress got out, unlocked the glass door to the building, and entered. Martha checked her watch—eight fifteen. She took out a mirror, freshened her lip gloss, and brushed a few strands of loose hair from her face. It was time.

***

Excerpt from THE GIRL IN THE MAZE by R. K. Jackson. Copyright 2025 by R. K. Jackson. Reproduced with permission from R. K. Jackson. All rights reserved.