Prologue

The early evening light in the sparse room was growing dim as the weathered photo was gently placed on top of a desk near the window. The left half of the image had been cut out of a newspaper and was then ripped in two down the middle; the shot depicted an angelic fourteen-year-old girl in a snowy setting, a pink wool cap on her head. The torn caption read: Teenaged Skiing Champ…

A few seconds later, a different image of the same girl was also set down on the desk and then another. In less than a minute, more than a dozen photos were methodically laid out—some in color, some in black and white—all of the same sweet girl, smiling, innocent, happy.

After several more minutes, the photos were organized in a symmetrical order that only had meaning to the person placing them there. The occupant of the room stared at the photos, lost in memory, consumed by anguish, anticipating the retribution about to be delivered. Though trying to subdue the rage inside, the fury soon grew too intense, and the owner of the photographs suddenly smashed both hands down on the desk and began tearing up each of the images over and over until every precious photo was sent flying to the ground in pieces, lost forever.

Just like her.

Chapter One

What I wouldn’t give to be having one of my usual nightmares instead of the real-life nightmare I’m living through now. Maybe the one where I’m only eight years old, waiting in front of my elementary school for my father to pick me up but he just keeps driving past me over and over. Or maybe the one when it’s three years ago, I’ve just graduated high school, and I pose for a cell phone photograph with my famous father and then see I’m somehow not in the image at all.

Detecting a recurring theme here? Unfortunately, for reasons too horrific for me to even begin wrapping my head around, my daddy issues are utterly unimportant now because all that matters is finding out what happened last night and why I’ve lost my best friend forever.

Not that I care what they must be saying about me, but I can only imagine the joy my family’s detractors must be feeling at this very moment. To everyone across America, my name is infamous at worst and privileged at best. Brian Blaine, the twenty-one-year-old junior at the University of Maryland who—despite his so-called genius-level IQ—has yet to choose a major, minors in ditching class, and seems mainly interested in serving as some kind of spoiler in his own family’s legacy.

And that was before last night.

Truth is I can’t blame them because I am rather a mass of contradictions. Confident one minute, deeply uncertain the next. Yearning for intimacy yet brimming with cynicism about the human animal. Pensive to the point of withdrawal at times yet surprisingly sociable when the mood strikes me at other times. Desperately wanting to love and be loved yet forever unsure whom to trust with that love.

Then there’s the little matter of my longstanding impatience with people who practice the infuriating art of “political speak”—talking in paper-thin little sound bites instead of actually saying what’s on their mind. Which makes me a card-carrying hypocrite, I suppose. Because for someone who extols straight talk, I realize at this worst moment in all of our lives that I’ve avoided just that my entire adult life.

After all, I’ve spent all this time in the public eye but rarely let anyone really see me. I’ve recited “heartfelt” speeches but never truly spoken from the heart. I’ve told my father what I’m doing, where I’m going, and who I’m seeing, but I’ve never told him who I really am. And, unfortunately, I don’t remember the last time he asked.

And now I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance.

Well, I think I’ve covered “me” as much as I can at this point. College. Drifting. Straight talk. Loneliness. Or didn’t I mention that last one?

Anyway, I guess that’s about it for now. Oh, yeah. Two other minor points.

My father is President of the United States, and I’ve just been arrested for murder.

Chapter Two

My new residence—jail—makes my just-off-campus apartment seem like Versailles by comparison. How I miss that crappy, wonderful, little place with its peeling paint, ugly carpet, and useless heater. How I miss my roommate and best friend, Ben Porter.

In deference to my father and security concerns, I’m mercifully being held in a cell by myself, thereby happily denying some tattooed bunkie named Moose lifelong bragging rights about boinking the president’s son. Nevertheless, my relief over being alone in this miserable place is more than overshadowed by my boundless grief and my ever-growing fear.

How could this have happened? How could someone—me?—have shot Ben in the head? How could I have been found apparently drunk or drugged and unconscious on Ben’s bedroom floor with my hand beside the gun that killed him? How could I not remember Ben’s murder when I was, according to everyone who saw me that night—Secret Service included—alone in the apartment with him at the time?

Yet all these unanswered questions take a distant backseat to the one question that’s dominated my every thought since this nightmare began: How am I going to ever come to grips with the loss of my closest friend? The one person I could trust and confide in completely. The one person who could see the real me and not the character I play for the press and the public. No wonder that despite my desperate attempt to maintain a veneer of stoic resolve as I wait here in this cold, dark cell, I can’t help but curl up in the corner and silently cry as I realize for the millionth time that Ben is really and truly gone forever.

Forcing myself to take my mind off my late friend for a moment, I pace the small cell and consider the reality that the court of public opinion has almost certainly already pronounced me guilty. I can almost hear them now: “Such a mercurial young man…so quiet and aloof…so impulsive...Not at all his father’s son…”

My father. Good God. I can only imagine how this is going to affect his job approval ratings, not to mention his re-election chances in November. He and I may have drifted apart the last few years, but whatever I think of him as a father, I’ve never doubted for a second how lucky I am—we all are—to have him as a president.

***

Excerpt from First Line of Defense by Peter Berk. Copyright 2024 by Peter Berk. Reproduced with permission from Peter Berk. All rights reserved.

I started back for my appointment with the sanctuary’s business manager when I heard voices coming from behind a desk. I recognized one of the vices. I snuck behind to look and listen.

“I know you want her job, and to tell the truth, I’d much prefer you,” Nick Lamonica said.

“Why can’t you fire her?” asked the other man. I couldn’t see his face, but he wore orange leather boots.

“Be patient,” Nick answered, “She may be gone sooner than you realize.”

A woman’s scream pierced the air.

Nick and the man in orange boots sped off in the direction of the scream. I raced after them.

The screams had come from Gina Garone, the sanctuary director. She pointed to one of the animal habitats. Spread across the grass was a body.

Hovering over the body was a mountain of fur with fangs.

Bella the bear.

***

Excerpt from Bearly Evident by Lois Schmitt. Copyright 2024 by Lois Schmitt. Reproduced with permission from Lois Schmitt. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

There it was—smoking meat, the sweet stench of my childhood. Hickory, molasses, tomato, brown sugar. Kansas City’s love letter to everyone but me.

Darnell, my best friend from our early rehab days, drove us into the parking lot of Rocky’s BBQ Smokehouse, and I gagged on the meat-thickened air. Don’t toss your waffles, Tori. The giant statue of Rocky the Pig— “Rocky the Cannibal”—smiled down at me in his chef hat and apron, holding a platter of ribs like he was trying to turn my stomach.

Darnell parked his truck with a displeased grunt. “Seriously, Tor,” he said, wiping the sweat from his bald head. “I said I’d help you move, not run a stakeout in a hundred degrees.”

“Don’t worry.” I took a gulp of Topo Chico to help settle my queasy gut. “My target should be here soon. Then you can help me move into my aunt’s place.” I twisted the zoom lens onto my digital camera and aimed it at a family tottering out of the restaurant with sauce-splattered shirts.

“Fine, then I’m running in for some brisket,” Darnell said. “At least, assuming they’ve got any with the meat drought they’ve been—”

“Hold up,” I cut him off and nodded at a green sedan rolling into the lot. “That’s her.” I pointed my lens at the driver’s door, getting ready to fire away. When a woman stepped out with crutches, I groaned.

“Guess she wasn’t lying.” Darnell shifted the car out of park. “The brisket will have to—”

“Wait.”

Darnell hit the brakes, jerking us forward. “Now what?”

“I want to see if she uses them inside. It would be hard in a buffet line.”

“You’re kidding, right?” He raised his brows at me. “If you go in there with that huge camera, there’s no way she’s ditching her crutches.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking. I only knew to come here because my target’s sister posted this online.” I pulled out my phone to show Darnell the selfie post of Sasha Wolf with the caption, Waiting for @GinnyWolf. #RockysBBQ #SisterLove.

“Okay,” Darnell said. “Am I supposed to be seeing something here?”

I tapped on Sasha’s photo, zooming in on her sunlit head. “See that sunlight shining on her ponytail?”

“Yeah, and?”

“She’s under an atrium, which means I’d have a great shot from the roof.”

“The roof? You’re not seriously thinking of climbing Rocky’s, are you?”

“Why not?” I said, tying my blonde curls into a fist of a ponytail. “You’ve seen me scale walls and trees before. I’m a nimble little freak.”

“I meant about trespassing.” Darnell pointed to his police badge like he might arrest me.

“You know us private eyes don’t have to follow your rules.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Just have a smoke, and I’ll be back before you’ve even put your butt out.”

“One cig, Tor,” Darnell warned, tapping a pack of Marlboro Lights on the face of his watch. “Otherwise, have fun moving by yourself.”

For a recovering addict, Darnell was a horrible liar. I knew he’d never abandon me, not for anything. Hanging my camera around my neck, I hopped out of the truck into the afternoon sun, where I already felt like I was sucking meat-flavored steam through a cocktail straw. I’d just have to deal with the nausea. I hustled toward the black and orange pavilion, noting its unclimbable plastic siding and security cameras mounted at the entrance. Maybe I’d have better luck in the back.

I circled around and found luck in the form of a supply truck parked right beside the restaurant. No driver, no cameras, no people. This was my way to the roof.

I hoisted myself onto the hood and made my way up the windshield to the top of the truck. The gap between the truck and building was only two feet, so I made the easy jump. Soon as I hit the roof though, my phone started buzzing in my pocket. This wasn’t an ideal time to take calls, so I let it ring out while I got on my hands and knees to crawl toward the atrium.

When I got to the glass, I peered down below at a buffet hall where six dozen carnivores were dressed for the upcoming Fourth of July weekend and savagely stuffing their smeared, sticky faces with brisket, thighs, and ribs. My stomach surged at this familiar scene. I’d been avoiding the barbecue world for nearly fifteen years, and now that I was looking down on it like some floating deity, I remembered why I’d stayed away. Barbecue didn’t just upset my stomach. From my head to my chest to my teeth, it made me mad everywhere. But I didn’t want to think about why. Not after what I’d done last night.

As I searched the crowd of meat-eaters, I found Ginny, my target, at a table with her sister, her crutches against the wall. I raised my camera to my eye and focused on Ginny’s face. She was teasing Sasha, lifting her brows and puckering her lips, and as she stuck out her tongue, a memory flashed in my head—I was a fourteen-year-old again in an inflatable pool of barbecue sauce with my cousin Annie. My hands shook, releasing the camera, but I jolted my neck back before the camera hit the roof.

That memory was another reminder why I avoided meat, but it made sense why the past was on my mind when Annie was the reason I was on this stakeout. She’d filed her case to investigate Ms. Wolf with my agency yesterday afternoon.

I had no idea though who this Ginny Wolf was to Annie as I placed the burning hot camera back on my face and snapped pictures of Ginny, her crutches, her gold pendant and butterfly tattoo, all material things identifying her.

When she stood up for the buffet, leaving her crutches behind, I videoed the fraudster walking free and easy without them. As I’d thought, another liar.

***

Excerpt from Burnt Ends by Laura Wetsel. Copyright 2024 by Laura Wetsel. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Santa Rosa, California

Anne McCormack surveyed the living room, casting her eyes from one gilt-framed oil painting to another, taking in the antique red tasseled lampshades, red flocked wallpaper, red floral overstuffed sofa, and the oriental rug woven with every imaginable shade of red. All that exuberant red reminded her of a magazine layout she’d seen featuring the late Vogue editor Diana Vreeland’s famous New York apartment. Tastefully garish.

The house was one of many Victorian homes lining McDonald Avenue, Santa Rosa’s historic “Victorian row.” The tree-lined boulevard was the filming location of several Hollywood classics, including the 1943 Shadow of a Doubt by Alfred Hitchcock, Disney’s 1960 Pollyanna, and the nineties camp horror film Scream. The Victorian in which Anne was standing was owned by her newest clients, the family of the recently deceased, very wealthy Lily Danielson, who had left behind more treasures and personal effects than her heirs could handle.

Those belongings were why Anne, owner of McCormack Estate Services, was here after eight o’clock on a Sunday night with her teenage assistant, Chloe Grindel. Anne’s job was to dispose of everything in the house, one way or another: to assess, catalog, toss out, put up for auction, sell, save for the family, or donate to charities. The executor, the family’s lawyer, wanted it all handled ASAP before any more troublesome family fights could break out. Fine, Anne thought, the sooner the job was done, the sooner she’d deposit a commission check on the proceeds of any sales.

They were still at the sorting and boxing up stage.

Seven banker’s boxes were stacked precariously in the middle of the room, the top ones on the verge of toppling over onto Chloe, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Next to her on the rug was an old diary she’d found in the bookcase. Chloe was packing up books—except for the first editions, which would be offered to dealers—and sighing theatrically.

“How are you doing over there?” Anne asked.

“Slow, very slow. I’m not fast like you are,” Chloe said, standing up to stretch, raising her arms to the heavens. “But then, you’ve been doing this for decades…”

“A slight exaggeration,” Anne said. In fact, she was fairly new to family estate services. She’d spent most of her twenties as an FBI agent in Sacramento’s Violent Crimes division. After six years, she left the Bureau voluntarily, under no cloud (You did not get fired, her Uncle Jack, a retired cop would insist). Under no cloud, that is, except the one she conjured up and obsessed over (But it did get ugly after they discovered I was using their high-security database software to track my ex-husband, she’d counter).

On the same day she was confronted by her supervisor, she dropped her resignation letter on his desk and walked out the door, vowing that her next career would be a complete 180 from law enforcement. She would follow her passions—researching art and its provenance—and someday be her own boss, health benefits or not. Turns out, those passions were the exact skills required for family estate sales services. And since it was a far cry from crime-fighting, she figured why not do it professionally? For two years she worked as an assistant to estate services guru Marty Holmes, who became her mentor in the business. His mantra: “Estate sales are not garage sales!” The estate sales business, he’d insist, is about helping families dispose of the treasures left behind after a loved one’s death, and then getting a big fat commission from the sales of said treasures. Period.

After learning the trade, Anne struck out on her own three years ago. If she’d ever imagined that being a business owner meant naming her own hours and taking long vacations, she was quickly proven wrong. The reality was that when business was good—and it finally was—she ended up working relentlessly long hours. Like tonight.

“After finishing that box, let’s call it a night,” she said. Chloe had school in the morning.

“Not yet,” Chloe pleaded. The girl was always angling for longer hours, arguing, “You won’t find cheaper or better child labor than me.” And Anne almost always relented. She knew that nearly every dollar Chloe earned was being squirreled away into her college fund. Besides, she liked Chloe’s company. Chloe was the favorite grandchild of one of Anne’s first clients, Claire Murray, whose death two years before had hit the teenager hard. Anne had grown fond of Claire and missed her too, and while she and Chloe worked, they would often swap Claire stories.

But recently, all Chloe wanted to talk about—when not complaining about her mother’s strict hours or the unfair soccer coach—was the “Battalion Chief” competition at her high school. Not much had changed about the yearly contest since Anne had participated: The student who searched private homes and collected the most “fire hazard” violation tickets was the winner. Back then, the winning prize was simply being named “Honorary Battalion Chief.” But this year, the stakes were high—a $25,000 college scholarship to the winner in each class, donated by a group of wealthy vintners who wanted to encourage fire safety in the wildfire-ravaged Sonoma County.

“I can put it toward any college I want. When I add that to what I’m making working for you, and what my parents can chip in, I might get to go to UC Berkeley, Harvard, or California College of the Arts, who knows!”

One of their phones pinged.

“Sky’s the limit,” Anne agreed, looking down at her phone. Nothing. She hadn’t heard from Scott, her boyfriend of three months, since their fight two days before. Nodding toward Chloe’s phone on the coffee table, she said, “Bet your mom wants you to come home.”

Chloe sauntered over to pick up her phone. Leaning against a wall, she stared intently at the screen—reading the text message, answering it, and reading the response.

“Oh, no,” Chloe blurted out. She slowly slid down the wall, crumbling to the hardwood floor. “There goes everything,” she said in a low, ominous tone. “Everything I’ve ever worked for.” She set her phone down beside her and hugged her knees to her chest.

Anne bit her lip to keep from smiling. How much work could Chloe have done in her short life? How much did she have to lose? Chloe was a month shy of being sixteen years old, not some frail senior citizen whose life savings were ruthlessly embezzled or whose house was destroyed in a fire without any insurance to cover rebuilding it. But as Anne watched tears well in Chloe’s eyes, she knew there was nothing even slightly amusing about whatever was going on. Chloe was heartbroken.

Anne crouched down in front of her. “What do you mean by ‘lost everything?’ What happened?” she asked in a gentle voice.

Chloe uncovered her eyes, let out a sigh, and pointed to her phone. “That girl. Pam O’Brien. Tomorrow is the last day to hand in our tickets to see who wins the scholarship. She asked me how many I had….”

“And?” Anne prompted.

“I told her I had forty-five, which is way more than anyone else in the class. The nearest kid to me is Justin Frey, and he only has thirty-two. Then Pam texted back, ‘Too bad, cause I have fifty.’ That’s five more than me,” Chloe’s voice broke. “I never even knew she was close!”

Fire hazard violations were hard to come by, as Anne well knew. She remembered having to screw up the courage to knock on the door of a neighbor or acquaintance, then taking a deep breath and asking permission to go poking through their house looking for fire hazards like loose wiring, stacks of newspapers, overloaded electrical outlets, aging space heaters. Most people were good-humored about it, accepted their copies of the tickets, and promised to do better. But others tried to talk her out of the tickets, thinking the violations would be reported to city officials and they’d be fined. That never happened, of course; the fallout would have ended the contest years ago.

“And she tells you this at 8:30 at night…”

“Too late…”

Anne stood up abruptly. “Where’s your book of tickets? In your backpack?”

“Yeah. For all the good it does me,” Chloe said, giving the bag a shove as if it were to blame for her crushed dreams, the late hour, Pam O’Brien’s taunts. Everything.

Anne reached out her hands to the sobbing girl and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed their jackets off the couch and tossed Chloe’s to her.

“Get in the car,” Anne said.

***

Excerpt from Running on Empty by Karin Fitz Sanford. Copyright 2024 by Karin Fitz Sanford. Reproduced with permission from Karin Fitz Sanford. All rights reserved.

PART 1 – THE NEW WORLD

CHAPTER 1 – BELLADONNA

THE ISLAND OF JAMAICA, The fifth of NOVEMBER, 1614

“Just a short trip to Curacao,” Isaak said, as he stood beside her on the dock, “I will return shortly, I promise.”

Belladonna wondered how many women had heard the very same words from their fathers, sons, and lovers, and how many had returned to their families, as promised.

“Why must you go?” Belladonna had waited so long and given up so much to be with Isaak. She secretly believed their union was at risk every time they were away from each other.

“Despite our efforts to attract the English to Jamaica, the Spanish have moved faster, and the heirs of Christopher Columbus have been bought off. We need to find somewhere else to settle,” Isaak said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

She raised her eyes skyward, to keep the tears from rising. “Then my brother died for naught.”

“We cannot change the past, but we must try to find the way to our future, for you and I and for your brother Roderigo’s family. Curacao has been abandoned by the Spanish and will soon become part of the dominion of the Dutch West India Company.”

Belladonna wanted to believe his promise, but after a life tossed about at the whim of Fate, it seemed like random interventions could foil any plan they made for the future.

Isaak caressed her cheek. “It is also a port of call of the Jewish Brethren. Under the Dutch we have little to fear. The Dutch are the only nation who does not force its Jews to live separately in a Ghetto. We will soon formalize our union. There lies our potential future.”

Belladonna sighed. “In Curacao do you believe no one will care about our origins ̶ if we are Jew or Christian?”

Like her sister-in-law Mariella, she had begun life as the daughter of a New Christian landowner who had sought freedom in the New World. In a terrible twist of Fate, on a visit to Recife, Brazil, the Inquisition had murdered her parents because of their Jewish heritage, turning her into a refugee. Luck had found her, and she had been rescued by Isaak from Barbary pirates. Thanks to Isaak she had been taken to Venice, but he had soon set sail once more, leaving her to save others from captivity.

When Isaak returned to Venice to reunite her with her brother Roderigo, feelings between the courtesan and the corsair were rekindled, and Belladonna made her decision to sail with Isaak. Giving up her palazzo, her wealth and servants had gone against her usual cynicism but for once, she had chosen love over security.

“It is worth the chance,” said Isaak, and then he pulled her close, “You must stop nourishing your guilt over the death of Roderigo. You have come here to take care of his family as you promised. And we have accomplished the impossible: we are together at last.”

Belladonna acknowledged her satisfaction with her decision. “Over the past year in Jamaica and with you, I have discovered the comfort of family, which had been missing from my life for so long. Why dare Fate to disrupt our happiness once more?”

Isaak looked beyond her towards the sea. “There is a storm coming, which will provide us with a distraction to sail by Spanish war ships gathering along the coast.” He lifted her chin and brushed her lips with a last kiss. “Both the storm and the Spanish ships represent a bad omen. But do not fear, I am a seasoned captain and have sailed through worse brews than this. But my senses tell me our idyll in Jamaica is bound to come to an end. I must go to Curacao.”

Belladonna did not want to let him go, but he kissed her, and gently disengaged from her. She ran to the edge of the wooden dock, and leaned as far forward as she dared. He waved one last time as he boarded his ship. She reasoned that the fierce winds should be good for sailing and would speed Isaak’s journey. Squinting, she tried to see his figure on the bridge, imagining him making his farewell to Jamaica and to her.

Isaak’s fears about Jamaica were not unfounded. The Spanish were becoming bolder in establishing their dominion over the island, even though it officially remained under the sovereignty of the heirs to Christopher Columbus. The end of Jamaica’s independence was near, and once the Spanish took over, both she and Isaak, as well as her newfound family would be in danger because of their Jewish blood.

“Senora, we must go. Big storm is coming, and we must prepare. The sky do not look good. Horses do not like it.” The coachman peered up at the amassing dark clouds, and then gave her a pleading look.

Reluctantly, Belladonna turned away from the sea towards the mountains. “Let us go.”

Adjusting his hat so it was firmly placed on his head, the driver flicked his whip and the horses responded by taking off at a gallop, as if they were as eager as the driver to find shelter. Belladonna craned her neck, still looking towards the dock as they drove away.

The coachman kept the horses going at a fast gallop, so she had to hold tight to both sides of the carriage to avoid toppling forward. The wind kicked up the dust of the roadway, flinging it through the bushes and trees, shaking loose leaves and petals, swirling through the air and into their faces.

“Hiyah!” the coachman shouted again at the horses, flicking his whip so they galloped even faster. Used to traveling by boat in Venice, she knew little of carriages and put her faith in the coachman to get them home safely.

Lurching from side to side in the speeding carriage, she closed her eyes to shut out the frightening views of a careening landscape. She dared open them only when the carriage slowed, and the wails of the wind were softer. They had entered the sheltering thickness of the mangrove forest adjoining her brother’s land. The trees here were very thick and though their upper boughs still rustled in the wind, she felt more protected. The respite from the wind did not last long, and soon the carriage emerged from the mangrove trees into a slashing rain. The downpour swamped the open carriage, soaking her completely and making it even more difficult to move forward. Though it seemed like an eternity in the wind and rain, the coach soon drew to a sharp halt. Safe.

Her brother’s plantation house stood two stories tall, surrounded by trees, which the wind lashed against the closed shutters. Assailed by wind and rain, it did not seem to be the safe haven it had seemed several months ago when she first arrived on the island. After over a year at sea, when she first stepped onto the grand veranda, it had conjured long-ago memories of home. Though not as grand as the palazzo she possessed in Venice, it did have many rooms, furnished comfortably with bright island fabrics on sofas and chairs. There were flowers in abundance, and island paintings and pottery similar to her childhood home on the island.

That home and her family had been torn from her when the Inquisition came to Recife, Brazil where they had been visiting relatives. Her parents were New Christians, having been born Jews but then baptized, like many others who had come to the New World, and easy targets for accusations of heresy and the fires of an auto de fé. Both she and Roderigo had escaped capture, but each did not know the other survived until very recently, when they had found each other in Venice. Their reunion was short-lived; and Roderigo’s dying request was for Belladonna to find his family in Jamaica and make sure they were cared for.

After securing the door behind her, Belladonna stood in the entry hall, water dripping from her gown and pooling at her feet.

“Mariella!” she shouted, hoping her sister-in-law was in the house, and could hear her above the howling wind.

Mariella and Moises, her son, bounded down the stairway from the upper floor, each carrying armfuls of clothing and possessions.

“We do not have much time,” Mariella shouted back to her above the rattling of the shutters and the wind, “We must go. Take what you need.”

“We cannot stay here?”

Moises answered for his mother. “When the wind is this strong, the house is not safe. We must go to the Cave.”

Cave? Belladonna shivered in her wet clothes at the thought of it. Mentally, she checked off what she needed to take, including the small leather sack of jewels which had been with her since Venice. Hurrying up the stairs with her water-heavy skirts, she raced to her room. She quickly shed her wet clothing for dry ones, then pulled up a few select floorboards and retrieved the leather sack. She stuffed it into a bundle of clothing she had grabbed, and was heading for the stairs just as the shutters of her room banged wide open. Rain and wind invaded as Belladonna ran, skirting the flying debris of a large tree that had crashed through.

Her wet feet slid on the polished wood floors where she landed from her flight down the stairway, but neither Mariella nor Moises were in sight. She called out both their names, and let out a breath of relief when Moises emerged from behind the door to the servant’s area and beckoned to her.

She followed Moises below the stairs to the servants’ dining area and the kitchen. The servants’ quarters were protected by bushes and were on a lower level, so Belladonna assumed they could take refuge there. The few servants huddled together on plain wooden benches.

“Ready to go?” asked Mariella, Belladonna’s sister-in-law, who had taken full charge. “We have taken some food and supplies. The storm is growing more severe, and it is best we go now, or we will not be able to make it to the Cave.”

“What is this Cave?”

“The Cave of Christopher Columbus. It is on the highest point on the island, safe from flooding, and deep enough to avoid the damage of the wind.”

“That is not the same cave from the map that Roderigo—”

Mariella held up a hand and did not allow her to continue. “Yes, it is. But there is no time for talking or explaining. It is imperative we leave this house now, before another tree crashes down.”

A whimper from a maid was the only other comment as the servants were instantly on their feet, each clutching a bundle of belongings.

Mariella wrapped a shawl around her head and handed another to Belladonna to do the same. As soon as the outer door opened, the wind swept them into its maelstrom. Clustered together, they braced themselves as best as they could, and faced the storm.

***

Excerpt from The Courtesan's Pirate by Nina Wachsman. Copyright 2024 by Nina Wachsman. Reproduced with permission from Nina Wachsman. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

SEPTEMBER - CARRINGTON

My role as a hostage negotiator often plunged me into the evil designs of the human mind. I embraced the responsibility and possible danger because it’s my identity— a one-woman battlefront determined to free others from victimization.

The challenge excited me, but fear of failure stalked me, and respect for human life was my constant companion. Too often innocent lives depended on my ability to negotiate their safe release without anyone getting hurt. The demands, rewards, and sometimes the defeats with tragic outcomes kept me awake at night. How could I have done things differently? My apprenticeship began when I was eight years old, but thinking about those days didn’t change the past. Right now, lives were in jeopardy. . . .

I’d driven ten minutes out from a critical situation on a Wednesday afternoon when my cell phone rang. My contact, a detective from the Houston Police Department, had spent several hours talking to an angry man who held his wife and son hostage.

“Carrington, we have the information you requested,” Detective Aaron Peters said. “The man inside the home is the owner, Nick Henderson. Age thirty-five. Married to Christine. He’s holding his wife and eight- year- old son at gunpoint. Yesterday, he was served divorce papers, and we believe this is in retaliation.”

Hurt. Rejected. Probably a lit stick of dynamite. “You talked to him from the outside?”

“We’ve routed his calls through our mobile command center. I tried talking to him. Got nowhere. He hung up on me.” Aaron blew out his frustration.

Domestic calls were the most dangerous, often violent, causing me to appreciate my Kevlar vest. I had a handgun in my purse, but I could count on one hand the times I’d pulled it. Never used it. “All right. I’m nearly there. SWAT in place?”

“Yes, two have clear shots. Not an action I want to take unless necessary.”

“Me either. What are Henderson’s demands?”

“Just to leave him alone or he’ll pull the trigger on his family.”

Cool, calm focus settled on me. My ability to mediate critical discussions depended on my wearing emotional blinders to the outside world. “When did the problem start?”

“The wife phoned 911 at 8:00 a.m. today. I don’t know how long he was there before she reached out to us. We’ve been called here twice in the past month for domestic abuse.”

I glanced at my watch, and it neared 4:00 p.m. “Have HPD negotiators been talking to him?”

“Yes. Henderson hung up on them too. He’s drinking. Slurring his words. Seems to have trouble concentrating.”

Alcohol could make him more volatile. Flashing lights appeared on the residential street ahead. “I’m parking now. Give me five minutes.”

“I’m standing beside my car in front of the house.”

“Aaron, do you have Henderson’s work history?”

“Fired three months ago from Home Depot, where he held a management role. They walked him out of the store in front of his employees.”

The man definitely had nothing to lose.

Phone in hand, I hurried from my parked truck and raced to where police cars barricaded the entrance to the street where Henderson held his family. A reporter blocked my way between vehicles. She rammed a mic in front of my face.

“Carrington Reed, do you think this standoff will have a peaceful resolution?”

My blood boiled. The last time I had verbally unleashed on her aggressive means to get the best story, she lied in her article about my concern for those in danger. I paused long enough to give her eye contact. “My goal is always a peaceful solution. Excuse me, I need to talk to HPD.”

“Are the police advocating a violent takedown?”

“No.” I sidestepped around her and ignored her shouts.

Aaron stood in front of the home and waved. He had the appearance of average—average height, weight, gray eyes, brown hair, and shoulder span— but nothing about his physical appearance showed his intense scrutiny of a crime scene. His rating as one of HPD’s finest hit my respect button.

“Good to see you. I’d like the man’s cell number,” I said. “I assume my cell phone is routed through the command center too?”

“Sure thing.” He gave me the information. “The wife’s name is Christine, and the son’s name is Rand.”

I nodded my thanks and pressed in the digits. A man answered on the second ring.

“Nick, this is Carrington. I’m standing beside a police car outside your house, and I’d like to help you.”

“I . . . leave me alone.” He spoke fast and loudly. “I’m busy.”

“What do you need?”

“You can get rid of all those cops. I can’t breathe.”

I expected a more belligerent response. “Nick, I can’t do that. These officers are here to protect you in case someone tries to break into your home and hurt you.”

“I’d kill my wife and kid first.”

“Tell me why you feel that way.”

“They deserve it for the way they’ve treated me.” He stumbled over his words. “I’m a good husband and dad.”

“I’m sure you’re great at both. Tell me what’s hurting you.”

***

Excerpt from LETHAL STANDOFF by DiAnn Mills. Copyright 2024 by DiAnn Mills. Reproduced with permission from DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.