31 October, 2024

October 31, 2024 0

A Broken Reflection by Shelly M. Patel

 

A BROKEN REFLECTION

by Shelly M. Patel

October 7 - November 1, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Broken Reflection by Shelly M Patel

In the game of deception and betrayal, nothing is ever as it seems, not even murder.

Secrets would be revealed in the dead of night, and lives would be changed forever. With each body count rising, Claire and Stephen began to unveil the truth, exposing the dark side of their seemingly perfect lives. In the shadows, Jessica watched from the sidelines with grave anticipation, ready to take hold of her moment. The game of cat and mouse had begun. Will Claire and Stephen be able to ride out the storm and rebuild their lives? Will Jessica seal her place next to Stephen no matter what the cost? Will the killer ever be caught?

 

 

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Published by: Self-Published
Publication Date: October 2024
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9798350963038
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Claire

It’s probably going to sound crazy to you, but I felt as though someone was watching me all the time, night, and day. You know how it is—you sense these things. Well, I did, anyway.

That’s right; I could sense it. A hole the size of a crater slowly burned in the back of my head, created by their stares. By ‘they,’ it wasn’t clear who it was that watched me yet.

But they were there, for sure.

An eerie silence had seemed to follow me everywhere, and it was impossible to shake that feeling of someone observing from afar. Someone spying, tracking me.

Knowing everything…

I shook my head quickly as if it could banish the intrusiveness from my head.

Damn, these wretched thoughts! I said to myself. But every time, a chill would run down my spine like icy fingertips tracing their way up and down my back. Taunting me, Poking fun at me.

My eyes darted, nervously searching for any sign of movement in the crowd, but there wasn’t anyone out of place; everyone seemed totally normal. Well, except for me, of course.

Okay, I’m just exaggerating, but you know how it is when you feel pursued like that.

I almost dared not glance back, afraid to ask who it could be, feeling as if they were observing me again, peering in on everything like a pervert.

The idea sent shivers up my spine, making the hair on my arms and back stand on end. And my gut clenched as if it would make me vomit, just that sensation of someone there, knowing everything I did, every tiny move. Initially, a tingling came to my scalp, which gradually traveled down my head and neck before settling into the back of my skull.

It was the same nervousness that had pervaded me when taking my dental admission test; it was that cold bite gnawing at my gut, a feeling unwilling to go away. This was a warning, and that was clear; a terrible thing was about to occur.

It was an omen, a premonition if you like. Something very bad would be coming my way.

Soon.

To try and regain my composure, I closed my eyes.

There was little doubt that if Stephen had overheard me saying all this, he’d have me committed to a mental institution.

I needed to zero down on the task at hand.

So, I took a half-day off work, using it to come here.

I’m all by myself now. See. Look around! Who can wish me harm?

Choosing the proper dress for the charity ball hadn’t been easy either; after all, who liked wasting time wandering from store to store? I supposed some girls didn’t mind it. Some even claimed to like shopping. As for me, it was loathsome, a chore, and irritating.

However, the attire had to be suitable for the occasion. The planning committee had chosen to preserve the masquerade ball theme for this year’s event.

Phyllis was in charge this year, so Stephen and I wanted to show our support.

I had little interest in the woman, but as Stephen often reminded me, I should “be nice, Claire.” He played golf with her husband, Bob, you see, and Bob happened to be Stephen’s long-time friend and business partner. Both were decent guys; they wanted me to back Phyllis up and ensure the event went well. It was something I had to do—according to Stephen.

And Stephen was never wrong about this kind of thing, was he?

But Phyllis was the kind of person who always seemed to try too hard. She needed to be liked to extremes, so she was a bit of a people pleaser, always fussing about something.

It all had to be just so, just perfect. So annoying. Everyone had to love everything about her, big or small as if she would implode if you missed a moment’s flattery.

Phyllis had an oblong face framed by a short blonde bob hairstyle that she thought made her look stylish and sophisticated, but to me, it smacked of desperation and made her look maternal.

But despite this, people seemed to love her enthusiastic and friendly demeanor. Phyllis would pop up no matter where she went or what group she joined.

“Everything all right for you, dear?”

Or “Oh, your hair is lovely, dear,” she would say.

Or “Wherever did you buy such a divine dress?”

“Look at you,” she enthused. “Your makeup is so on point today! Very pretty, sweetie.”

Ugh. Her words were creepy, all this excessive enthusiasm about every topic imaginable. I’d look around me when it happened, and the weird thing was that everyone around Phyllis looked as if they felt charmed by her efforts. But weren’t they ultimately exhausted from all the energy being thrown their way, like I was?

And then there was that other thing—the other side of her.

***

Excerpt from A Broken Reflection by Shelly M. Patel. Copyright 2024 by Shelly M. Patel. Reproduced with permission from Shelly M. Patel. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Shelly M Patel

Shelly M. Patel enjoys writing mystery books. Her first Children's book, Jake has Dyslexia, entered the Reader's Choice award in 2021. In 2023, she won second place in CloutBooks for the Reader's Choice Award for her novel When Secrets Kill. She lives in Virginia Beach with her husband, three beautiful children, and their dog, Teddy.

Catch Up With Shelly M. Patel:
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Instagram - @shellympatel
Facebook - @ShellyPatelauthor

 

 

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28 October, 2024

October 28, 2024 0

Color Me Dead by Teresa Trent

 

Color Me Dead by Teresa Trent Banner

COLOR ME DEAD

by Teresa Trent

October 14 - November 8, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Color Me Dead by Teresa Trent

Artist Gabby Wolfe has the ability to see not only the beauty of the living but the despair of the dead. When she returns to her childhood home in Henry Park Colorado, she is forced to bring along her younger brother Mitch. He is on a “break” from college where he was majoring in wine, women, and song. If that isn’t enough they also have Mitch’s rambunctious beagle Luigi along who prefers to spend his days wallowing in junk food. When Gabby draws the death of a young woman before it happens, she knows she must tell someone and risk a new job and her professional credibility. Will she reveal her secret in time to save the woman in the water or will it be too late?

 

 

Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Cozy Mystery
Published by: Harbor Lane Books
Publication Date: September 24, 2024
Number of Pages: 260
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

We pulled into the driveway of a home nestled into the banks of Lake Henry. The overhanging roof, a dark silver color, provided ample shade on the front porch. As if guarding the home against the outside world, stone pillars stood on either side of the door. I parked my car on the circular drive that made its way through the deep, green lawn. Clarence Bradford’s home was well-kept, and the square corners and functional design reflected a sense of order. The light played between the two pillars, creating stripes on the slats of the porch. Built up on the mountainside, the house almost looked like a natural part of the landscape.

Standing on the porch was a man I recognized from his book covers: Clarence Bradford. He was still quite handsome for his age, and his outfit—a forest-green button-down shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots—told me every day was casual Friday. His silvery hair augmented his healthy tan.

“You made it.” He took in my cotton flowered tunic, my favorite pair of jeans, and the high tops I was wearing and said, “You are young.”

Maybe the high tops were a little much, but they were my favorite shoes. Even in my late twenties, I still hadn’t shed this style of footwear left over from my teens. Maybe it was the artist in me not conforming to uncomfortable heels that made my knees wobble. Clarence stood next to a tray set with a pitcher of tea and glasses. “You made good time. I was just on a break and decided you might be near and need some iced tea.”

Luigi leaped out of the car first and ran like a maniac around the yard.

“Will he run off?” I asked.

Mitch scowled. “I told you. Luigi is the product of discipline and training. He’ll let off a little steam and then be back to his guard-dog status.” From the wild look in Luigi’s eyes as he tried to bounce off a pine tree, I doubted his strict training included that.

Trying to put Luigi out of my thoughts, I gave an awkward little wave to my new employer. “Hi. I’m Gabby and this is my brother, Mitch.”

My brother walked over and plopped into a chair, grabbed an icy glass, and kicked off his flip-flops. “Excellent, Mr. Bradford.”

“Please, call me Clarence.”

“Clarence then,” he said, downing the tea in almost one gulp. Nothing like a hangover to make you thirsty.

I took a seat in the third chair. The smell of pine trees was so intense around me that it gave me the giddy feeling of Christmas. “You have a beautiful home, Clarence.”

“Yes, it’s where I get all of my inspiration. But, of course, growing up around here you already knew how beautiful it was. If I had to write the Adventure Kid books in the city, I don’t think they’d be any good. Can’t exactly have my little adventurers taking the subway to get to their next escapade.” He refilled Mitch’s glass.

“Working here,” I paused to look around at the towering trees and listen to the birdsong emanating from them, “sounds like paradise. I work in coffee shops a lot myself.”

“Ugh, what a terrible thing. I don’t know how people concentrate in those places,” he said in disgust.

“Earbuds,” I answered.

“Excuse me?” Obviously, Clarence Bradford had no need to block out sound and pump in music.

I pulled my earbuds out of my pocket. “These things.”

“Oh, yes. I see young people wearing them all the time. It’s like they have to have an extension cord wherever they go. Seems kind of ridiculous-looking to me.”

“You’re so right, Clarence,” Mitch said. “What I hate is hearing people’s phone conversations in the store. Do they even know how stupid they look having a heart-to-heart in the middle of the hemorrhoid creams?”

Clarence’s laugh boomed from his chest as he slapped his knee. “I can see you’re going to make this summer interesting, Mitch.”

“Mitch makes every summer interesting,” I added. “We’re renting a house on the other side of the lake, so it will be easy for me to come to work over here.”

“That’s good. Would you like to see where we’ll be working?”

I followed Clarence Bradford to what I thought would be a book-lined study, complete with the smell of cherry tobacco and a roaring fire. Instead, he took me to a room at the back of the house almost entirely encased in windows. There were blinds built into the double panes of glass. Clarence Bradford’s study wasn’t an office at all. It was an air-conditioned room on the lake.

“This is beautiful,” I said, spinning around. “I don’t know how you get any work done here.”

“Oh, but that’s the secret to writing outdoor adventure books for kids. I write them practically outdoors, with the modern conveniences of air conditioning and Internet. It’s my oasis.”

“What a fantastic idea.” The wall facing the windows was lined floor to ceiling with books. As an artist, I appreciated just how much there was to see from Clarence Bradford’s view of Lake Henry.

“Do the people going by in their boats watch you? I mean, do you feel like you don’t have any privacy here?”

“Tinted windows. I can see them, but they can’t see me. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The view was stunning, and I also made a mental note that whenever I needed a cigarette, I shouldn’t smoke it within view of this office if I wanted to keep it a secret. As I looked across the lake, the wavy line of the shore caught my eye. It looked like something I had seen before. I stepped closer to the glass.

“Are you a bird-watcher?” Clarence asked.

“Uh, no. I just thought I saw something familiar.”

“Is your house visible from here?”

“No. We’re too far away, and our house is on the other side of the road.”

I glanced back at the shoreline. My shoulders began to feel cold, and I held onto my arms. The vision was trying to come in again. I must be close to whatever it was that was causing the woman with the cold hand to invade my senses.

“I must have the air conditioning up too high in here. You’re shivering,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

“No, I’m fine. Really.”

“Of course …” he said but then asked once more, “You’re sure you’re alright, now.”

“Yes.” I turned my back to the window. “This is my first children’s book, so I’m sure I have a lot to learn,” I confessed, changing the subject.

***

Excerpt from Color Me Dead by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2024 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Teresa Trent

Teresa Trent started out teaching English, but life and children intervened and she began writing mysteries starting with her Pecan Bayou Cozy Mystery Series. After that, she wrote the Piney Woods and the Swinging Sixties Mystery Series. Color Me Dead is the first book in her new Henry Park Series and while all her other books take place in Texas, this series is set in Colorado, where Teresa grew up. Teresa is also the author of several short stories and is teaching writing at her local library encouraging new writers. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son.

Catch Up With Teresa Trent:
TeresaTrent.com
Books to the Ceiling
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Instagram - @teresatrent_cozymys
Threads - @teresatrent_cozymys
Twitter/X - @ttrent_cozymys
Facebook - @teresatrentmysterywriter

 

 

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24 October, 2024

October 24, 2024 0

Unnatural Intent by Brooke L French

 

UNNATURAL INTENT

by Brooke L French

October 24, 2024 Book Blast

Synopsis:

Unnatural Intent by Brooke L French

A Letty Duquesne Thriller

 

The last one they sent didn't come back.

Disease ecologist Letty Duquesne is barely settled in to her new job when a colleague goes missing in the field. Letty arrives in Alaska's Katmai National Park to take over the investigation, only to find a violent welcome and the case in shambles. No record of the last scientist's work exists. His footsteps at the incident site disappear into nothing. And the polar bears Letty has been sent to find are hunting for human prey a thousand miles from the pack ice where they belong.

If Letty can't figure out why, more people will die. An unimaginable threat lurks under the icy waters of the Arctic, animals stalk the people of a tiny seaside village, and the greatest danger waits where Letty least expects it.

Praise for Unnatural Intent:

"Field research has never been so riveting—and potentially deadly. Unnatural Intent is a tense combination of scientific detective work and corporate intrigue, set within the brutal but starkly beautiful landscape of the Arctic, where man is no longer an apex predator."
~ Regina Buttner, author of The Revenge Paradox

"Unnatural Intent is like Michael Crichton’s State of Fear meets Michael Connelly’s The Rapture of the Deep..."
~ Cam Torrens, award-winning author of Stable and False Summit

"French weaves a complex tale of corporate greed, ecological disaster, and survival in this thriller, inserting you deep into the minds of her characters. The science is as accurate as it is terrifying, and the plot twists will keep you engaged until the final chapters."
~ Gary Gerlacher, author of the AJ Docker thriller series

Book Details:

Genre: Action and Adventure, Medical Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: October 24, 2024
Number of Pages: 319
ISBN: 9781685134976 (ISBN10: 1685134971)
Series: A Letty Duquesne Thriller, Book 2 | Each is a Stand-Alone
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Black Rose Writing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

October 16, 2018
San Diego, California

Letty Duquesne wound her way through the ornate Spanish architecture of Balboa Park, dodging tourists and scanning the crowd. Even on a weekday, the place was packed. Families taking photos, school kids on their way to one of the twenty-plus museums spread throughout the park, and an assortment of street musicians playing everything from Mozart to Bon Jovi.

She dropped a few dollars in an upturned hat and aimed for the shade of an archway. As much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, her shift from the familiar comfort of working in academia to her current situation — a new job, in a new company, in a new city — hadn’t been exactly smooth. No matter how committed she was to making the Jessa Duquesne Foundation a success, the past month she’d spent “starting over” was harder than she’d expected.

Lonelier.

Which was how she’d wound up on the friendship equivalent of a “first date.”

Letty scanned the crowd again and, this time, spotted Gemma on the opposite side of the lily pond, waving to her from the foot of the Botanical Building.

The JDF’s office manager and general jack-of-all-trades looked like Debbie Harry. She had a shock of what had to be home-dyed platinum-white hair, Doc Martens, and jeans that had been hacked off mid-calf.

Gemma pointed to a short stone bench, her eyebrows raised in a question — this good?

Letty gave her a thumbs-up and made her way through the crowd to where Gemma now sat cross-legged on the bench. “This is perfect.” Letty smiled as she sat beside her. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Thanks for the invite.” Gemma slid a silver packet from the pocket of her oversized blazer, her voice kissed with a South London accent. “I usually eat at my desk. But with everything that’s been going on, I’m glad for the break. I’m knackered.”

“I bet.” Letty pulled a takeout salad from her bag and balanced the plastic clamshell on her lap. “Seems like getting Mark ready for tomorrow’s presentation took a full-court press.” The handful of people that made up the foundation’s on-site staff had been in and out of his office all day, every day for the past week. Mark would be at his desk when she arrived in the morning and still there when she left each night, poring over binder after binder of data. Reviewing everything the foundation had been able to find about the rise in animal attacks, the increase in zoonotic diseases crossing over to the human population, and the myriad governmental responses… or failures to respond.

In a reasonable world, the volume of the data alone would’ve been enough to establish the need for greater action. The need for some centralized agency, like Jessa’s foundation, to manage a response. But, of course, things didn’t work that way. Not when half the congressional committee formed to look into the public’s concerns were the same folks who claimed climate change was a hoax.

The thready notes of “Livin’ on a Prayer” slipped through the courtyard, the street musician’s violin shrill but on beat.

“You have no idea how mad it’s been.” Gemma ripped open the silver packet and pulled out a rainbow-sprinkled Pop-Tart. “Usually Mark’s only in after hours. He’s got to be at Stafford Oil during business hours, but lately he’s at the foundation all the time. And he’s stressed as hell.” She picked a sprinkle from the top of the pastry and popped it in her mouth. “At least Kathryn came to the rescue. I can’t imagine how we would’ve gotten Mark ready without her helping to manage his Stafford Oil work load this week.” Gemma chewed another bite and swallowed. “Even if having her here does set my teeth on edge.”

“Really?” Letty forked through her salad, building the perfect bite of chicken, feta, and cucumber. “She seems nice enough.” And the day Kathryn had arrived had been the only time Letty had seen Mark smile since she’d come to California.

“She’s alright, I guess. Does so much for the JDF, she should be on payroll.” Gemma shrugged, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “I just don’t trust anyone that doesn’t age.”

Letty laugh-choked on a piece of lettuce. Kathryn’s Upper East Side vibe was sort of intimidating. “Well, Botox or not, I’m glad she’s gonna be there tomorrow to back him up.” They had too much riding on what happened at that meeting for Mark to go it alone. There was only so much the foundation could do to identify what might be causing the changes they were seeing in the animal world without having access to real-time information about what was happening globally. As much good as they were doing handling any individual case, it wouldn’t be enough to make a real difference unless they could see the trends and follow them back to the source.

Poor Mark had to know how much was riding on tomorrow’s presentation, had to feel the weight of what failure would mean. Especially when the foundation’s future would be decided by a bunch of political cronies. “I can’t imagine how stressed he must be. I mean, who gets called to speak before a congressional committee?”

“He didn’t exactly get a summons. He volunteered, so that’s a little less scary. And he’s there for the greater good. Maybe he’ll get a nicer reception than they give their usual lot.”

“True.” The other CEOs who spoke before congressional committees were usually there to get a public reprimand. A slap on the wrist after they’d used the corporate structure to get away with one form of mass destruction or another. And those people were nothing like Mark. She felt an odd sense of pride in her once almost brother-in-law, now boss, even though she couldn’t claim responsibility for all the work he’d done in Jessa’s memory. For all the things he was still trying to do.

Letty picked her way through the salad. Where would he be now? On a plane? Probably halfway to DC, with his dark head bent over another binder. Wearing the glasses that made him look so much more serious than he did in her memories.

The ones she shouldn’t be thinking about.

Gemma popped open an energy drink. “All we can do at this point is keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Letty cleared her throat, forcing herself back to the present. To reality. “I’m glad we did this.” She looked up at the palm trees swaying above them, then to the giant lath structure of the Botanical Building reflected in the pond. Built for a world’s fair more than a hundred years before, it still stood proud and beautiful, giving them shade on a day too warm for October. “It’s nice to be outside for a bit.”

“Careful what you ask for.” Gemma broke off another piece of pastry. “I’m surprised they didn’t just skip orientation and send you out into the field already. We’ve been swamped all summer and now into the fall, every scientist on the team out on assignment since the doors opened. Seems like every other day we get a request from somewhere. Mountain lions turning the hiking trails in Oakland into a buffet. Or some crazy hyper-virulent bird flu popping up in the middle of Copenhagen. God knows what’s next.”

Letty shoved a bite of salad in her mouth, chewing it along with the guilt she’d been trying to ignore since she’d realized how understaffed the foundation was. A situation that was in some part — maybe a large part — her fault.

She’d been meant to start working with the foundation in August. But it had taken longer than she’d expected to end her lease, to close up her life at the university, to say goodbye to Bill and Priya. And, then, she hadn’t wanted to miss Andrew’s wedding. A smile flickered over her face. Renee had been beautiful at the ceremony, she and Andrew both glowing over Renee’s baby bump.

Of course, she hadn’t realized her delay would leave the foundation short a scientist. She cringed. It was not an ideal situation for them to be in as Mark prepared to offer up their services to the world.

Literally.

Gemma finished her Pop-Tart and took another deep swig from an eye-poppingly chartreuse can of caffeine. “You know, if Mark convinces the committee to let the foundation manage the country’s national response, you may never see the inside of an office again.”

Letty couldn’t imagine anything better. She stabbed a cucumber with her fork. “I’d almost always rather be in the field.” And a little space from Mark wouldn’t be a bad thing either. He’d be back in a few days, and so would the awkward silences that cropped up anytime the two of them were alone together.

It wasn’t that he was rude. He’d taken her to lunch when she first started, said all the right things — he was so glad she was there, she should let him know if she needed anything, maybe they could grab a coffee or he could help her get settled. But it was stilted, and no matter how nice he was when they ran into each other in the halls or at the office coffee pot, she could never think of what to say. She put her fork down with the cucumber still stuck to the tines. It was like the past clogged up her throat, wrapped her brain in cotton, and nothing but basic banalities would come out. If that.

He had eventually stopped trying.

Which was almost worse.

Gemma’s phone rang from her purse. As she went digging for it, a huge brown bird with white markings swooped through the promenade. It narrowly missed a camera-laden tour group, the crowd ducking and screeching as it swept past.

A red-shouldered hawk.

Letty tracked the bird’s ascent back into the sky as it rounded over the Botanical Building and came back for a second pass. What was it after? She scanned the ground for a mouse or chipmunk. Maybe a smaller bird? Hawks would eat most anything their size or smaller. Although it was odd for it to be hunting here, in a place so crowded with people.

“This is Gemma.” Her new friend finally answered the call, her tone now formal and pure Queen’s English, which meant the call must be important. Something for the foundation. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear that. Could you start again from the beginning?”

The hawk swept back across the pond, its trajectory lower as it headed toward the entrance to the Timken Museum. It landed on the handle of a baby carriage. The mother stood with her back turned to the stroller as she searched for something in a diaper bag.

Gemma lowered her voice. “What do you mean missing?”

Letty glanced back to Gemma. Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good. She kept half her attention on Gemma, the rest on the bird.

The hawk leaned forward, as if trying to see past the cloth draped over the carriage to find what soft morsel might wait inside.

Letty’s mouth went dry, and she clapped her hands, hoping to startle the bird into flight.

It ignored her.

The animal would have no reason to hurt a child. But if the past year had taught her anything, it was that she couldn’t assume it would act predictably. Things were different now. Very different.

Letty shifted to the edge of her seat.

The bird turned, meeting Letty’s gaze. Its eyes reflected a flat, predatory black.

“Shoo.” She stood, clapping her hands again in its direction and moving closer. “Excuse me?” She called out to the mother, who was still busy digging through the baby’s bag.

The hawk kneaded its claws against the stroller’s handle.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Gemma turned her way.

Letty didn’t break eye contact with the bird. “Hang on.” She strode toward the carriage, the bird not moving an inch. A few other tourists turned to look, but no one moved to help.

The mother plucked a pacifier from the bag and turned. A shriek tore out of her, and she threw herself toward the carriage.The bird took off in a flutter of indignant feathers, and a wail came from inside the stroller as the mother hurried to wheel the child away.

Letty finally let go of a breath and turned back to Gemma, who seemed only now to have realized what had been happening with the hawk. They both watched as the bird disappeared over the roof of the museum.

Gemma refocused on Letty, and lines creased around her eyes. “Cody Crawford’s gone missing.”

“Crawford?” Letty tried to place the name. “That’s the large mammal guy, right?”

“Yeah. That’s him. He’s been up in Alaska working on our polar bear case. Seems he went out to the incident site and got lost in the woods.” She cringed, whether from worry or as an acknowledgment of how bad that sounded, Letty couldn’t tell.

Gemma dropped the phone back into her purse. “Search and Rescue’s out looking now, but they say it doesn’t look good. No sign of him.”

Letty sat on the bench, watching the sky for any sign of the hawk.

The idea that Crawford might just “get lost” in the woods didn’t sound right. She’d spent an hour after work one night browsing the bios for the foundation’s other scientists, mostly out of a perverse desire to know how she stacked up. From what she remembered, Crawford was an experienced field researcher like her, mostly working with large carnivores. He would have known not to go out to the site alone. And, even if he had, he wouldn’t just wander off and not be able to find his way back. When you spent your life working in one unknown wilderness after another, navigation was part of the basic skill package.

Letty closed the lid on her salad, her appetite gone.

If Crawford was missing, chances were good he wasn’t coming back.

***

Excerpt from Unnatural Intent by Brooke L French. Copyright 2024 by Brooke L French. Reproduced with permission from Brooke L French. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Brooke L French

Brooke L. French is a recovering lawyer, author, and boy mom. Her debut thriller, Inhuman Acts, hit number one on Amazon’s kindle charts in both medical thrillers and suspense in 2023, and her second novel, The Carolina Variant continues climbing the charts. Brooke got her undergraduate degree in English from Emory University, followed by a law degree, which, after many long and sometimes fulfilling years of practice, she mainly uses now as a coaster for the cup of coffee she puts down only to type. Brooke lives with her husband and sons between Atlanta and Carmel-by-the-Sea, California.

Catch Up With Brooke L French:
www.BrookeLFrench.com
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Instagram - @brookelewisfrench
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Facebook - @brooke.l.french

 

 

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21 October, 2024

October 21, 2024 0

The Chemical Detective by Fiona Erskine

 

The Chemical Detective by Fiona Erskine Banner

THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE

by Fiona Erskine

October 7 - November 1, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE by Fiona Erskine

A Jaq Silver Thriller

 

Dr Jaq Silver blows things up to keep people safe. An engineer and explosives expert, she's also an excellent skier.

Working on avalanche control in Slovenia, Jaq stumbles across a problem with a consignment of explosives. After raising a complaint with the supplier, a multinational chemical company, her evidence disappears. Jaq is warned, threatened, accused of professional incompetence and suspended. Taking her complaint further, she narrowly escapes death only to be framed for murder. Absconding from police custody, she sets out to find the key to the mystery.

Racing between the snowy slopes of Slovenia and the ghostly ruins of Chernobyl, can she uncover the truth before her time runs out?

Don't miss your chance to access the limited time pricing for THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE, Kindle edition, at only $0.99!

Praise for THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE:

"Just the right blend of suspense and tension... I recommend this original and compelling debut novel for fans of mysteries and thrillers, as well as for those looking for a credible female protagonist in a genre dominated by male superheroes. Already, I am looking forward to reading the next instalment in this series."
~ Forbes, Editors' Pick

"Explosive science, strong women, and snowy landscapes, all within a gripping, smart, fast-paced read."
~ Helen Sedgwick, author of When the Dead Come Calling

"Imagine the love child of Jack Reacher and Nancy Drew...a delicious cocktail of dating and detonations. Call it Mills and Boom."
~ Evening Standard

"An audacious, female-led thriller which took the disposable women of the James Bond franchise and flipped the concept entirely on its head."
~ Chemistry World

"Fiona Erskine is an engineer, and in Jaq Silver, who shares her profession, she has created a wonderful antidote to all the resentful, floppy victims of much domestic noir... Her adventures are eye-popping and exciting."
~ Literary Review

Book Details:

Genre: Sexy Engineering Thriller
Published by: Snickered Mole
Publication Date: August 2024, US
Number of Pages: 400
ISBN: 978-1-7385120-5-8
Series: Jaq Silver Thriller series, 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookBub | Goodreads | Kobo

Read an excerpt:

PRELUDE

Teesside
Thursday 24 February, Teesside, England

The trouble with Semtex is the smell. Dogs can sense it. Most humans can’t. Boris could. Not the plastic explosive itself, you understand; neither RDX nor PETN – the main components – have much of an odor. The scent comes from the tracers added, to make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Hands like his. Chemist’s hands. Wide hands with long fingers, calloused from handling hot glassware, thickets of black hair curling over the knuckles and between the joints. Hands now gripping the steering wheel of a five-axled truck hurtling toward the Zagrovyl factory in Teesside.

Boris only carried a small amount of Semtex these days, just enough for his personal use. He kept it in a Tupperware container, wrapped in Clingfilm, under his sandwiches. Sentimental value, really. He’d moved on. To some, it might look like a backward step, from laboratory shift work to long-distance truck driving. But only to those who didn’t know the tedium of analytical testing. The same samples, the same tests, the same results, hour after hour after hour. Not like the old days, when you had thorny problems to solve and real fires to fight. Nothing more boring than a well-run factory. He was glad when they sacked him. Glad to be free of the monotony. Glad to be out on the road. These days, his insight into tracers was a key skill for the job.

Boris yanked the wheel to the left and hauled the truck into a lay-by with a view. The chemical plant skulked on the far side of a chain-link fence. One factory was much like another. Plumes of steam billowed into the sky, glowing orange in the sodium lights, bright against a dark, winter day. He traced the familiar shapes in the condensation of his side window: an hourglass – the cooling tower curving to a waist and then flaring out again; two, thin vertical lines – the nitric acid absorption columns lit up like Christmas trees; three circles – the ammonia storage spheres, massive, metal balls trapped by sturdy legs to stop them rolling away; a rectangle – the ammonium nitrate prilling tower looming over the A19, the main road out of Teesside.

The wind whistled up the river, screaming through the gap between the warehouses, bringing with it a faint whiff of sulfur, reminding him of home: Pardubice in the Czech Republic. The Semtex factory where he trained.

He watched the car park from the lay-by, waiting until the last company car roared away, before driving up to the gatehouse and presenting his papers. At the collection bay he plugged a small black box into the vehicle’s lighter socket. It beeped, and flashed, a red light showing it had located the Zagrovyl computer network. He tucked the jamming device under the passenger seat before turning off the ignition and stepping down from the cab.

“Snow Science, right? Two metric tons?” The bald warehouseman tapped his keyboard. “Bloody system down again.”

Boris slid his papers through a hatch. “Twenty metric tons.”

“Fertilizer grade?”

“Explosives grade.” Boris jabbed his finger at the product code on the order.

“You sure?” Baldy frowned and inspected the order line by line. He picked up a phone, running a hand over his eggshell-smooth head as he waited. When there was no response, he shook his head and cursed, “Lazy tossers, all buggered off early.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “I’ll get you loaded up in a jiffy, mate.”

The metal ramp screeched against the concrete floor as a forklift truck drove into the back of the truck, delivering the first pallet. Two forklifts worked in tandem, an intricate dance, weaving and turning on a dime as they loaded the cargo. Within fifteen minutes it was finished. Fast and skillful, these old men of the north.

Boris secured the load, signed the paperwork and drove out of the factory gate.

Click. Location 54.597255, -1.201133. Intensity 800X

Instead of taking the A19 south, he headed east to Haverton Hill and a decrepit warehouse lying in the shadow of a blue bridge. A damp chill rose from the misty river. Boris shivered as he opened the cab door and scanned the quayside.

A tall, thin man materialized out of the fog, moving slowly with labored, jerky movements. He emerged into the sidelights: dark coat, spiky black hair, gaunt white face. The Spider. Christ, this run must be important.

“So?” The question came out as a hiss.

“All good.” Boris pointed to the trailer. “No problems, boss.”

The Spider pressed a button and battered doors began to open, groaning and squealing with neglect.

Boris backed the truck into the warehouse and hopped down from the cab. “How long will it take?” he asked, as he unlocked the back doors and dropped the ramp.

“Assist,” The Spider ordered. “Time is of the essence.”

Two hours later, Boris’s arms ached as he maneuvered the truck onto the southbound motorway. Bloody amateurs. Leaving him to do all the heavy work.

Boris made good time to the south coast, skirting London after the rush hour. Transport of explosives was not permitted in the Channel Tunnel, so Boris and his truck boarded the ferry to France.

Click: Location 51.12646, 1.327162. Intensity 152X, 648C

He stood on deck, sipping a watery, English coffee, as the white cliffs of Dover receded into the mist. Plain sailing from here. He shivered as the towers of the titanium dioxide factory beside the Port de Calais hove into view, and returned to his truck.

Click. Location 50.96622, 1.86201. Intensity 152X, 648C

The drive through France was uneventful as far as Strasbourg, but a young border guard flagged him down at the crossing into Germany for extra checks. So much for a borderless Europe. Boris remained calm. It had happened before. Nothing to worry about.

The ginger-haired guard puzzled over the papers, wrinkling his brow. “You do know what you’ve got in there?”

“Yes.” Boris lied easily now. After the first few runs, he knew how unlikely it was that anyone would check. And even if they did, what would they see?

Ginger picked up a phone and moved out of earshot. After a few minutes, he marched back. “Drive carefully.” He waved him on his way.

Click. Location 48.5857412, 7.7583997. Intensity 152X, 648C

Boris drove on past Baden-Baden. After lunch, near Munich, he took a nap in the back of the cab. When he woke, the stars guided his way to Salzburg and the crossing into Austria.

Click. Location 47.7994, 13.0439. Intensity 152X, 648C

As he approached the mountains, snow started falling, wet flakes that melted on impact. A weather report on the radio warned of treacherous conditions and several inches of snow up ahead. Great for the skiers, bad for lorries full of explosives and worse. Best to cross in the morning. He slid into a lay-by. A police car drove toward him, slowing as it passed on the opposite side of the road. Boris stared into the snowstorm, craning his neck to make sure it didn’t turn back.

Not that he need worry too much. The dispatch papers matched the Dangerous Goods Note. The bags had the correct hazard warnings. All the papers were faultless. None of the inspections, on any of the runs, had ever uncovered a thing. After all, who wanted to poke around inside bags of explosives? You could hide anything in there.

OVERTURE

Slovenia
Saturday 26 February, Kranjskabel, Slovenia

A strange bed. A naked man. And a few hours to kill before the explosives arrived. The day was looking up.

Jaq stretched, savoring the smooth cotton sheets against her skin. Snowflakes danced through a web of ice on the sloping, attic window. In the dawn glow, she could just discern the layout of the unfamiliar room. Two doors: one of solid oak with tongue-and-groove paneling, brass hinges and a sturdy lock; the other a flat, sliding panel leading to a modern shower room carved from a corner of the attic. A pine bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, a leather sofa and a couple of metal stools tucked under a bench that divided the bedroom and kitchenette. From outside came the faint swishing and rumbling of a distant snowplow. Inside, the gurgle of a fridge, creaks and sighs of an old house waking up and the steady, slow breathing of the man beside her.

Jaq breathed in. Musk and licorice. And a faint whiff of nitroglycerine. Her scent on his body.

She slid backward across tangled sheets and ran her eyes over the golden curls decorating the pillow, down the ridge of his spine to the curve of his buttocks, sturdy thighs and powerful calves. Definitely a skier. One foot hung over the edge of the bed while the other was tucked under a leg forested in fine, bronze hairs. A tall, blond skier. Athletic. And much too young for her.

She grinned as she reached for the quilt – curved, appliqué ridges between her fingers, uneven stitching, not machine-made – and gently covered him. He stirred but did not wake.

The room smelled of pine resin with a hint of lemon. Clean and tidy. Well, at least it had been before last night. Her eyes followed the trail of clothes across the oak floorboards. Her coat and hat hung on a wooden peg near the entrance door, but her long boots had toppled over and lay at angles to the pashmina snaking across the floor, coiled around a scarlet bra and matching thong. There was no sign of her dress, but on the chest of drawers in the corner she could see his clothes, neatly folded on top. When had he folded his clothes? While she was asleep? Certainly not as she was undressing him.

The guy from the karaoke bar. Nossa. What had he done to her brains last night? She’d known he was trouble the moment she heard him sing.

What had she been thinking of? She loathed office parties, but her boss at Snow Science had insisted on it. Team building, Laurent said, a bit of fun. Laurent was a fool.

She slid down the bed, covering her head at the memory of Laurent’s excruciating impersonation of Charles Aznavour. Carapau de corrida. He’d insisted on the drinking games afterward. Sheila and Rita had the sense to refuse but Jaq could never resist a challenge.

And then the man with the golden curls took to the floor.

The moment he opened his mouth, Jaq was hooked. His voice emerged an octave deeper than she expected. He sang with authority and passion, the pitch and cadence perfectly controlled. His voice rumbled right down the small stage, across the wooden floor, up through the soles of her feet, tugging at the tight knots that held her together, unraveling all the cords of restraint with the song. An old Russian lullaby. One she knew so well.

Had she stared too hard? Clapped too loudly? Was that why the singer with the deep voice and lopsided smile singled her out afterward? She wouldn’t have danced at all if Laurent hadn’t made such an arse of himself. Sitting too close. Breathing too hard. Whispering in her ear. Escaping to the dance floor was intended to put some distance between them; Jaq always danced alone. Laurent followed her, his manbag on one shoulder, lurching and gyrating, arms outstretched in invitation to an inappropriate waltz.

The stranger interposed himself, moving between Jaq and Laurent, a subtle, sinuous barrier, increasing the separation until the drunken Frenchman found another target for his amorous attentions. Jaq danced on for a few tracks, just for the joy of the music, and then made her escape.

And there he was, outside the bar ahead of her. Waiting. Something in his eyes gave her pause, drew her in. She could have walked straight past. What was it that held her? Made her stop? The gentleness of his touch as he helped her with her coat? The deep voice bidding her lahko noč, goodnight? Had she imagined an inflection, an upturn, a question? There was no mistaking the smoldering fire she glimpsed before he hooded his eyes and turned away. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her with such honest desire. A very long time. And, oh, amor de Deus, how she had missed it.

“Wait!” Her lips found his, and there was no mistaking the interest with which he returned her kiss. Gentle, searching, increasingly confident. Hot lips and strong arms. She remembered him asking but had no memory of her reply, or how they ended up at his place.

Time to face the morning after the night before. Careful not to touch him, her detailed inspection must have registered. He brushed the curls from his face and wrinkled his nose. His eyelashes fluttered, and his breath became shorter, shallower.

She slipped out of bed and wrapped the pashmina around her. Where was her bag? Dropping to her hands and knees, she spotted it under the bed frame and took it to the bathroom. The scent of lemon behind the sliding door hit her like a wave. She sat on the toilet and grasped the edge of the sink. How much had she drunk last night? When the dizziness passed, she took stock. Clean towels neatly folded on a rail, a shower, sink and toilet spotlessly clean. Had he expected company? She opened the glass cabinet above the sink. Soap, straight razor, shaving mirror, shampoo, cotton buds, toothpaste, one toothbrush, and dental floss. A large box of condoms, somewhat depleted after last night, but no sign of a permanent, female presence. Just one tidy man.

Jaq reached for her bag. Despite her love-hate relationship with handbags, her party clothes lacked sensible pockets, and this was the least-bad option. Black with silver buckles, the fabric was lighter and thinner than leather but textured, tough and waterproof. It could be carried by the arched handle like a briefcase or, releasing three ingenious hooks, clipped onto a bike as a pannier. When carrying a laptop or other heavy items, two, wide adjustable backpack straps unfurled so that she could take advantage of the padded, contoured panel for extra comfort against the spine. The pleated sides, held in shape by concealed Velcro strips, made it capacious enough for most outings. It even had two, parallel zippers, designed to slot over the handle of a rolling suitcase, but also perfect for carrying a snowboard.

She rummaged inside the bag for her phone, encountering ticket stubs, café receipts, coins, a set of Allen keys, a socket wrench, Maglite torch, penknife, comb, and packets of hot chocolate. Ouch! She caught her finger between the jaws of a Vernier caliper. No blood, just a scratch, but she continued her search more cautiously: hydrogel plaster, crepe bandage, latex gloves, paracetamol, ibuprofen, neodymium magnet hook, PTFE tape, thermos flask, duct tape, ball of hairy string, condoms, fuse wire, superglue, paper clip, Blu Tack, ball of rubber bands, sandpaper, a fold-up kite, Slovenian–English dictionary, an unposted letter, multiplug, catapult, USB stick, fluorescent highlighter pens, snow goggles, earplugs, spare socks, tissues, tampons, a silver propelling pencil, a tube of mints, a packet of dried apricots, a tuning fork and a green marble.

Like the Tardis, the bag was bigger on the inside.

A bunch of keys fell out, clinking against the tiled floor. Odd. She unzipped the secure inside pocket where she normally kept them and, at last! There was the phone. One missed call she had no intention of returning. Amid the dross of email, a single pearl from Emma with a long, chatty message about Johan and the kids. Not now, save for later, only one bar of battery left. No message from Snow Science. She put the phone back and zipped up the keys before dragging a comb through her hair.

As she emerged from the bathroom, the naked man sat up in bed, blue eyes fixed on her face.

Dobro jutro!” He switched to English. “Good morning.”

Now that he viewed her in the daylight, was there a shadow of surprise? If so, he hid it well. What did he see? An athletic woman, naked except for a brightly colored pashmina and a large shoulder bag. Tall - five feet nine inches in bare feet, with a Mediterranean complexion – brown eyes, olive skin and shoulder-length hair, dark brown, almost black, except for the hints of russet fire. Well proportioned, curvy even. His smile appeared uncomplicated, no hint of embarrassment or regret, only pleasure at finding her still there.

“I don’t think we were properly introduced last night.” He held out a hand. “Karel.”

She took his hand, smiling at the absurd formality. There was hardly an inch of each other’s bodies that hadn’t been stroked or kissed or explored last night, and yet the contact with his hand felt deeply intimate, sending a tingle straight to her core. Careful.

“Jaq,” she said. No second names. Polite but no promises. Civilized without commitment. “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” He raised the quilt in invitation.

So tempting. She hesitated and was gratified by the flicker of disappointment that rippled across his brow when she shook her head.

“Breakfast, then.” He sprang out of bed, bringing the sheet with him, wrapping it around his hips. He handed her a robe. The faint hint of musk was his. She let it envelop her and perched on a stool as he got to work in the kitchen.

“A quick cup of tea, or whatever you are making,” she said.

“Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.”

She started to protest, but the smell of butter melting in a pan made her stomach rumble. He heard it and laughed, breaking eggs into a bowl, many more than he could possibly eat alone. When had she last eaten? She’d gone straight from work to the karaoke bar, changing from coveralls to party dress in the lab toilets. There was no reason not to eat breakfast. No reason a one-night stand couldn’t be civilized.

“Nice flat,” she said.

“Belongs to a friend. He’s working abroad.” He grinned. “I keep an eye on things when he’s away.”

He served the scrambled eggs on toasted crumpets, a thin sliver of pink salmon sandwiched above the little craters of butter, turning opaque where it touched the hot egg piled in a pyramid and topped with a sprinkle of freshly ground black pepper and a sprig of parsley from a plant by the sink. A small glass of orange juice and a bowl of tea served black, fragrant with bergamot and dark tannin. The speed and ease with which he presented two perfect covers made her curious. A singer, a skier, a chef. What else could this man do? Her eyes traveled around the room and paused at the bed. Amid the otherwise orderly space it stood out, an explosion of disarray. A surge of warmth rose through her body, and she turned her attention back to the food.

“Mmmm.” Jaq wiped her lips with a napkin. “Very good.”

Karel bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. “More tea?”

Jaq shook her head. Time to leave. He was a young man with impeccable manners, but some awkwardness was only to be expected now. She would spare him the brush-off. He would have things to do, people to see, places to go. “My clothes?”

“I hung your dress up,” he pointed to the wardrobe. “But—”

“I should go.”

“Should you?” He moved toward her.

The glass rattled in the window above. A flurry of hail blasted the ice clear enough to reveal a storm-dark sky. No skiing today. No message from Snow Science about the delivery. Time to kill.

Karel laid a hand on her shoulder. Warm, gentle, no hint of coercion. Only invitation. Promise. He ran a finger up the side of her neck and whispered, “Come back to bed first.”

Her skin tingled under his warm breath. When his lips nibbled her earlobe, she had to fight the urge to grin inanely. The good food, the cozy little attic, the storm outside, the gorgeous man, the firm bed. She might regret this, but . . .

Last night she’d taken a risk, let herself go with the flow, to see where it led her. What did she have to lose? Things could hardly get any worse. Forget about the past. Forget about the future. Focus on the moment.

Focus on the pleasure.

***

Excerpt from THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE by Fiona Erskine. Copyright 2024 by Fiona Erskine. Reproduced with permission from Fiona Erskine. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="200"]Fiona Erskine
Fiona Erskine,
credit Gary Walsh and Stockton-on-Tees Library
[/caption]

Engineer by day, writer by night.

Fiona Erskine is a professional engineer, born in Scotland and now based in the North-East of England. As a female engineer, she is often the lone representative of her gender in board meetings, cargo ships and night-time factories, and her fiction offers a fascinating insight into the traditionally male world of heavy industry.

Fiona’s stand-alone portrait of a factory Phosphate Rocks: A Death In Ten Objects, made the UK Literary Review’s top ten crime novels of 2021.

Her international thriller series is published (outside USA, Canada and The Philippines) by Point Blank, the literary crime imprint of Oneworld, and follows engineer protagonist Jaq Silver blowing things up to keep people safe. The Chemical Detective (2019) was shortlisted for the SPECSAVERS DEBUT CRIME NOVEL AWARD at Crimefest, The Chemical Reaction (2020) was shortlisted for the STAUNCH Prize, The Chemical Cocktail (2022) was an FT Best Summer Book of 2022. Her latest novel is The Chemical Code (2023).

Fiona is passionate about music and outdoor swimming, though not generally at the same time.

Catch Up With Fiona Erskine:
FionaErskine.com
Substack
Goodreads
BookBub - @thechemicaldetective
Instagram - @thechemicaldetective
Threads - @thechemicaldetective
Twitter/X - @erskine_fiona
Facebook - @fionaerskineauthor

 

 

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18 October, 2024

October 18, 2024 0

The Bluff by Bonnie Traymore

 

THE BLUFF

by Bonnie Traymore

October 15-18, 2024 Book Blast

Synopsis:

The Bluff by Bonnie Traymore

“What do you have to lose, Kate?” Ryan asked me, as we stood on the bluff looking out on Lake Michigan.

Turns out, almost everything.

When I first moved from Manhattan to this small town six years ago, I worried about many things. I worried about finding a job. I worried that I’d be bored. I worried that my relationship with charming photographer Ryan Breslow was moving too fast. But I never worried about whether the ground beneath my feet would crumble—both literally and figuratively.

My marriage didn’t go as I’d imagined. A year ago, Ryan met his untimely death in a car accident that’s still under investigation. Isolated and alone, all I wanted was to sell my home and leave Crest Lake and its painful memories behind.

But with my home inching ever closer to the edge of the crumbling bluff, the property has become unmarketable. All of us on the lakefront have lost chunks of property, and tempers are at a boiling point about what to do next.

And now, on the evening of a contentious vote about how to fix this pressing issue, my nemesis on the shoreline committee has been murdered. I know how it looks, but it’s not what it seems. But I have to get my plan passed and cash out.

Because I do have secrets.

And they won’t stay buried forever.

Praise for THE BLUFF:

"With a slow-burn intensity that explodes into a jaw-dropping finale, this psychological thriller is both bingeworthy and delicious. Traymore is a master of layered tension, and she left me guessing until the last page."
~ Noelle W. Ihli, #1 bestselling author of Gray After Dark

"With its high-stakes plot and complex characters, the novel is a masterclass in building tension and intrigue."
~ NetGalley

"Gripping and full of surprises, The Bluff is a clever psychological suspense with layered characters and an atmospheric setting. Traymore masterfully ratchets up the tension little-by-little until the shocking, explosive end."
~ Tracey Devlyn, USA Today bestselling author

"This was a slow burn psychological suspense that heated up to a twisty, thrilling finale. A domestic thriller with a timely topic in the background. Great setting. Highly recommended."
~ NetGalley

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Thriller, Psychological Thriller
Published by: Self/ Pathways Publishing imprint
Publication Date: September 1, 2024
Number of Pages: 277
PRINT ISBN: 979-8218417543
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Doug Mitchell takes in the shoreline of Lake Michigan, letting his Sundancer drift around in the currents. The sight of his house high atop the bluff reminds him of what’s at stake. The vote is tonight, and it’s sure to be a doozy of an evening. There’s a cool wind whipping up what little sand remains on the shrinking beach, and he can see the bare patch of earth where the southern stairs collapsed two years ago. But he feels safe and warm on the deck with the soon-to-be-setting sun still overhead, beaming down on him.

It’s not the same shoreline it was decades ago, but then the world is an ever-changing place. He knows this, although he doesn’t let on about it to most people. Right now, his mind is drifting to another place, and he feels a delightful stirring. He pictures the curve of her back. Her slender, graceful neck. The look on her face when he makes her moan. He takes another sip of his cocktail, closes his eyes, and sinks into it.

After a few minutes, a different kind of feeling washes over him. He’s dizzy. And tired. Way too tired. He’s barely had one drink. He opens his eyes, and the world appears blurry. He feels clumsy. Almost immobile. Shaking his head, he tries to snap out of it, but everything’s…

Fuzzy.

Confused.

Off.

He came out here alone, he thought, although he didn’t check the cabin before leaving the dock. A figure is standing on the deck now, too far away from him to make out who it is. It’s someone, though, and even with his mind dulled, he knows this isn’t good.

Seized with panic, he struggles to pull himself out of the quagmire. Finding a last burst of strength, he attempts to spring up and go on the offensive, but his legs are like rubber. His body rocks forward a bit, accomplishing nothing.

He sinks back into oblivion as the figure approaches.

You?

ONE

Kate

I arrive five minutes late, breathless from my run in from the parking lot. The proceedings haven’t started yet. I rush in, whip off my scarf and coat, and take a seat.

Just in time.

The stage is set for a contentious evening. Tonight, the town council will vote on the pressing issue of the failing bluff. I head up the shoreline committee, and I’ve been invited here this evening to present my plan, one of two the board will consider.

“Hi Kate,” the board member next to me says. “Glad you made it.”

She gives my shoulder a squeeze, confirming that I’ve got her vote.

“Of course,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.”

A tingling sensation creeps up my spine, and a feeling of dread squeezes my stomach like a vise. Perhaps it’s the weather. It’s early fall, but it may as well be the dead of winter. It’s bitter cold and gray, with intermittent downpours. The howling wind whipping off Lake Michigan has been keeping me up at night. It’s the same kind of weather we were having when my husband met his untimely death a year ago, which is likely stirring up some buried feelings. A widow at forty-one. Not the way I expected my life to go when I moved here six years ago.

“The meeting of the Crest Lake Township board of directors is now in session,” the president proclaims, banging his gavel with the countenance of a man desperate for power and relevance. Sam Bolger’s his name.

Sam takes role, and it’s lost on nobody that Doug Mitchell is absent. I fiddle with a strand of hair, twirling it between my fingers. It looks darker in this light, almost auburn. My eyes search the room, and hushed tones fill the silence as people whisper to each other.

Where the hell is Doug?

Are we really going to start without him?

I hope he’s okay.

His allies look concerned, naturally, but even his opponents seem troubled, although that could be an act. It would be unacceptable to show their glee, in the event they were feeling it. But I’m not feeling smug or excited or victorious. I’m feeling nervous. Doug is scheduled to present the opposing plan, and there’s no way he would miss this meeting.

Tempers have been flaring over the issue of what to do about the eroding bluff. The police had to be called during the last public hearing. And there have even been a few death threats, anonymous posts that most of us brushed off.

Silly, really. We’re all on the same team, trying to fight mother nature. Desperate to give ourselves the illusion of control. Struggling to keep our large, lakefront luxury homes from plummeting onto the shrinking shoreline that hugs the massive body of water eighty feet below the fragile bluff.

On some level, we all know that whatever we do will only be a stop-gap in the big picture of geological time, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what’s making people so angry. Humanity’s stubborn insistence that we can bend the planet to our will. Because it’s obvious that we can’t, and perhaps it’s easier to blame each other than to face the realization that humans are at the mercy of forces we don’t really understand and can no longer control.

The president seems to be stalling, fumbling with his computer as he tries to pull up the agenda and project it onto the TV screen. The board member to my right shares a theory with me. Perhaps Doug’s pulling a stunt for dramatic effect, she whispers in my ear. Maybe the president’s in on it—he’s on Doug’s side—and Doug will come bursting in at the last minute, waving some new study in his hands. But after a few moments, it’s clear to everyone that’s not going to happen.

Sam tables the vote for the time being and moves on to other issues. The board gets to work. There are a handful of mundane items on the agenda aside from the one that matters to me. What to do about the shoreline. I wait patiently as the board members work through other business, waiting for Doug’s arrival. He’s a board member and I’m not, and I’m surprised that they didn’t ask me to sit outside.

I wonder what will happen if he doesn’t show. Will they postpone the vote, or will it go my way by default, with my proposal the only option? Item after item is addressed, and I can feel my pulse starting to race as they tick them off.

Parcel tax proposal.

New library budget.

Changes to the vacation rental rules.

My stomach is in knots. Because if the vote goes my way, it will be a Pyrrhic victory, inflicting massive economic consequences on my lake front neighbors. Doug’s plan to simply shore up the bluff at the toe, the spot where the waves hit and wear it down, is the simple one. The less expensive one. But it’s got the environmental groups up in arms. They’ve grown increasingly vocal over the last few years.

The environmentalists want to force the removal of all existing seawalls, like the one Doug Mitchell installed in front of his home, and ban all such structures. Let nature take its course. Force lakefront owners to move back their homes or demolish them if they are in danger of falling off the bluff. But none of them are on the shoreline committee, and none are on the board. And they’ll be upset whichever way it goes tonight.

My plan is a compromise of sorts. But if I win, there will be consequences. Expensive ones that will dramatically reduce some people’s property values and limit beach access for everyone. And lots of visceral anger, much of it directed at me, especially from my wealthy lakefront neighbors who will absorb most of the cost. Several million dollars, split between ten of us. Sweat beads form at my temples as the minutes tick along to the rhythm of the cheap wall clock mounted above my seat.

Why do they keep it so hot in here?

The council meets at the town center, a small, institutional structure that used to serve as a middle school. The chairs are small and uncomfortable. I sit up and twist from side to side, trying to stop my lower back from cramping up. After an hour or so, there’s nothing left on the agenda but the bluff, and I’m wondering if they’ll postpone my presentation and the vote.

A knock at the door startles us.

Police, a voice calls out.

The door opens, and a young officer enters tentatively, crouching his way into the room. It’s a tight community, and he’s likely a bit intimidated. We’re a powerful bunch. If he ran into one of us around town, I imagine he’d be deferential. But this isn’t a coffee shop or a grocery store, and this isn’t a social call.

After a moment, he straightens up, and his face registers the requisite look of authority. “Doug Michell’s been reported missing,” he says. “He went out on his boat earlier today and never returned. The Coast Guard is conducting a search.”

My stomach sinks, and gasps echo around the room. We all sit with the shocking news for a few moments as the officer bites his lower lip.

He continues. “We’re going to need to interview all of you. Detective Whittaker is on his way. Please stay seated and be patient.”

And with that, the vote is delayed.

***

Travis Whittaker leans back in his chair, eyeing me. I can see tension lines in the detective’s forehead. He seems to have aged since I last saw him, although his thick, dark head of hair reveals few strands of gray. It’s his eyes. They look heavy and full, like the weight of the world sits behind them.

He’s been working his way through the group, and I’m second-to-last. It would have been better to get it over with. Waiting around only increased the tension. Nobody really knew what to say to each other, so there was nothing but awkward silence filling the space between us as we stood in the hallway waiting for our turns to go in and be interviewed.

“So, Ms. Breslow. You arrived five minutes late,” he says.

“I just said that,” I reply, immediately regretting my sharp tone.

The detective’s nostrils flare, ever so slightly. He’s an attractive man for his age—early fifties or so—with a neatly trimmed beard and dark, haunting eyes. Right now, though, he looks menacing.

“Yes. I was about five minutes late,” I say, in a softer tone. My throat feels as if it’s about to close.

He narrows his eyes on me and I look away. I catch myself absent-mindedly stroking my neck and stop myself, placing my hands on the table top.

This feels all too familiar.

“And why were you late?”

“The rain,” I offer. “It got heavy when I was driving down Lakeside.” I tap my fingers on the table top as I search for something to add. “I had to drive more slowly.”

He nods and jots something down on his notepad. Almost everyone at the meeting had to drive down that road in the rain. It’s not a very good excuse, but it’s all I can give him.

“Did Doug Mitchell give you any indication that he was planning to miss the meeting tonight?” he asks.

“No, not at all,” I say. “We were all shocked when he didn’t show up tonight.”

“Have you heard from him today?” he asks.

I shake my head no.

“When’s the last time you had any contact with him?” he asks.

I look off to the side, struggling to keep myself focused and calm. I turn back to him. “In person?” I ask.

“In general,” Whittaker replies.

“We’ve been on the same email and text chain over the last week or so. Exchanging information, in anticipation of the vote.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I swallow. He’s already seen our text stream, I assume. “Yesterday. Around seven in the evening.”

“Was that an email or a text?”

“It was a text.”

“And what did it say?”

I pull up my phone, hold it in my palm, and let him read the exchange. His eyes rest on my last line to Doug Mitchell.

If you do that, I’ll bury you.

It would have been less stressful for me if Whittaker’s face had registered some kind of surprise. Instead, he closes his notepad and puts his pen down. I struggle to keep a neutral look on my face. Then he informs me that I can leave and asks me to send in the next board member.

I start for the door but then turn back to him. “In paperwork,” I offer. “I meant I’d bury him in paperwork.” Then I turn away again and continue to the door.

“Don’t leave town,” he calls out. “We’re sure to have more questions as the investigation develops.”

I nod and keep walking.

***

As my car winds up the dark, curvy road to my lakefront home, I struggle to steady my shaking hands. This night already had me on edge, and I can feel my pulse racing as I reach the bend in the road, near the top. The part where the drop-off is the steepest. They replaced the guardrail with another one that looks exactly the same.

What was the point of that?

Sometimes I can ignore it and drive right past. On sunny days, when the sky is bright and the birds chirp and all is well in the universe. It looks so different in the daylight. But tonight is foggy and foreboding, and I drive slowly. So slowly, I’d probably get a ticket if an officer was behind me. I don’t look to my right though, because then I have to picture it, and imagine the look of terror on his face as he plunged through the rail and over the side.

What was he thinking?

Or was he not thinking at all?

Did he scream?

Or was there no time?

A chill runs up my spine as I turn carefully around the bend and breathe a sigh of relief. Sometimes, I get a sensation that he’s in the car with me, and I can almost feel his breath on my neck. And now Doug’s missing, and I have no idea what to do next or what this means for me and my shoreline plan. All I know is I have to sell my house get out of this town, before I lose my mind.

Or worse.

***

Excerpt from The Bluff by Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2024 by Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Bonnie Traymore

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon International Bestselling author of six domestic/psychological thrillers. Her "popcorn thrillers" feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

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14 October, 2024

October 14, 2024 0

Frozen Lives by Jennifer Graeser Dornbush

 

FROZEN LIVES

by Jennifer Graeser Dornbush

October 7 - November 1, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Frozen Lives by Jennifer Graeser Dornbush

A Coroner's Daughter Mystery

 

Dr. Emily Hartford is back in Frozen Lives, the next thrilling mystery from Jennifer Graeser Dornbush.

Chicago surgeon Emily Hartford has never quite shaken off the dust of her hometown in Michigan. She may be a professional success and have a princely boyfriend in the Windy City, but she can’t seem to let go of being “the coroner’s daughter” from Freeport.

Once again, she finds herself pulled back upstate during a wintery late March when Jeremiah, the eleven year-old son of her best friend, Jo, goes missing on the frigid shores of Lake Michigan. Emily immediately joins the search for the boy.

To everyone’s relief, Jeremiah turns up days later, alive and unharmed. But tensions remain high, and suspicions of every sort continue to grow. Jeremiah’s account of his abduction doesn’t add up and Emily worries about Jo’s unraveling marriage. Jeremiah’s recovery, it turns out, is not the end of their terrifying tale. It’s only the beginning …

For moving among them is a devious, malevolent force. Sowing panic while seeking to fulfill his own twisted needs, this wolf in sheep’s clothing leaves a trail of rack and ruin, negligent to the damages in his wake … and the bodies he leaves behind.

Emily solidifies her role as coroner’s daughter when she puzzles out this madman’s chilling machinations. Risking everything dear to her, Emily goes the icy distance to end his killing spree.

Praise for Frozen Lives:

"Fast paced, engaging, evocative."
~ J.A. Jance

"FROZEN LIVES is what a thriller should be—dark, twisty, and oh so scary. Lock your doors and enjoy."
~ DP Lyle, award-winning author of the Jake Longly and Cain/Harper thriller series and co-creator of the Outliers Writing University

"Jennifer Dornbush scares the living hell out of me. When I want to stay up all night, I just read one of her books, and Frozen Lives doesn’t disappoint. On par with Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River, Frozen Lives weaves a terrifying tale of evil, paranoia and when you go to bed at night make sure your doors are locked tight. A terrific story."
~ Don Bruns, USA Today Best Selling Author

"Chilling! Jennifer Dornbush has crafted a thriller that haunts the mind and can keep you deep in the pages into the wee hours! A not to miss psychological mystery with twists and turns throughout."
~ Heather Graham

Book Details:

Genre: thriller, suspense, female detective
Published by: Blackstone Publishing
Publication Date: October 29, 2024
Number of Pages: 350
ISBN: 9798212638364
Series: The Coroner's Daughter Mysteries, 4
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Blackstone Publishing

Read an excerpt:

 

 

Author Bio:

Jennifer Graeser Dornbush

The television or movie screen is the closest most people will ever come to witnessing the forensic world. But Jennifer Dornbush was raised in it. As the daughter of a small-town medical examiner whose office was in their home. There were body parts in the fridge. She investigated her first fatality, an airplane crash, when she was 8 years old. Picking up pieces of skull with her father who simply saw it as an anatomy lesson. The first of many coroner lessons she experienced over two decades.
After exploring journalism and high school teaching, Jennifer turned seriously to screenwriting where she began to connect her coroner world to her writing. She sought out a degree at the Forensic Science Academy in Los Angeles to gain more forensic training and earned a unique kinship with LA’s top CSIs, fingerprint specialists, DNA scientists, and detectives.
To share her love of forensics with the writing world, she authored the top selling non-fiction authoritative book, Forensic Speak, used by not only by show-runners and writers, but also crime investigators and law enforcement.
She created an Amazon top selling mystery novel series, The Coroner’s Daughter, which she is currently developing as a series for TV. Her crime thriller, Hole in the Woods, is currently optioned for screen. She is a contributor to mystery anthologies, Hotel California and Thriller. She has also penned two true crime books.
As a screenwriter Jennifer wrote the theatrically released film and novel, God Bless the Broken Road (2018), adapted a popular YA novel to script, and sold a children’s show. She is currently developing TV drama series and feature films with various productions companies.
As a forensic consultant, she is frequently asked to consult with TV writers on shows such as: Bull, Conviction, Hawaii Five-O, Leverage, Suits, and Rectify. She teaches screenwriting and mentors aspiring writers.
Jennifer is a member of the Writers’ Guild of America, Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Crime Writers Association, & the FBI Citizen’s Academy Alumni.

Catch Up With Jennifer Graeser Dornbush:
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Instagram - @jgdornbush
YouTube - @ForensicSpeakJenniferDornbush
Facebook - @JGDornbush

 

 

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