“Is that music playing in your office? You never listen to music at work?”

“I do on rare occasions.”

“That’s Alice Merton. How are you even aware of her music?” Erica asks, gobsmacked.

“I’m not, but I met Detective Torres at a Starbucks this morning and it was playing, and I liked it. I asked a Gen Z barista who the artist was and played it when I got in,” James says.

“I’m in shock.”

“I’m evolving,” James says, his words interrupted by the playing of the Johnny Rivers hit “Secret Agent Man” from his cell phone. “Alexa, off. Tim, hi, thanks for calling back. Erica is here with some information to share.”

“Hi, Erica. What’s going on?” Tim says.

“After we left the jail today, I went back to the office to work, and a few minutes ago, Belmonte called me to tell me that the DEA had been quote, ‘Requested,’ end quote to refrain from investigating or prosecuting Javier and that Javier was being moved to a different facility. Belmonte said the directive apparently came from the DNI. He called me from a burner phone and suggested we keep the circle of information as small as possible,” Erica explains.

“Holy crap,” Tim says.

“Any idea who could have that kind of juice?” James asks.

“None in particular,” Tim says.

“You didn’t tell anyone about meeting Javier?” Erica asks.

“Of course not,” Tim replies.

“Then how did anyone—” Erica begins.

“I have no idea,” Tim interrupts.

“One thing seems certain,” James says. “Aguilar was spot on. It is bigger than we knew.”

***

Excerpt from Chapter 24 of Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen. Copyright 2025 by Jack Luellen. Reproduced with permission from Jack Luellen. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van's side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney's wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Anne Compton, Almost Four Years Ago

Anne placed the empty gun carefully on the table, then folded her hands next to it. Moments earlier, to prevent the judge from granting their divorce, she fired it at her husband. She and Peter had shared such wonderful dreams of their lives together. But that was a long time ago—before he broke their vows. For that, there could be no forgiveness. And yet, he escaped his sentence.

All because of her interfering lawyer.

Anne peered down at the floor at Attorney Josephina Jensen, the woman she hired to prevent the divorce, and who had failed her. To add to her treachery, Jensen stepped in front of the bullets meant for Peter. Now, the divorce would go forward, thrusting Anne with him into eternal damnation for his sins.

In the hallway outside, footsteps pounded the marble floors. The courtroom's double doors burst open, shattering glass and splitting wood.

Anne met the panicked eyes of her former fiancé, followed by the first responders. She smiled as a single tear dropped to her cheek.

Chapter Two

Present Day, Josie Jensen, Thursday Afternoon

“Face it, Josephina Jensen. You’re a divorce lawyer.”

“No, brother dear,” the almost forty-one-year-old corrected as she twirled the stem of her wine glass on the bar. “I have a shattered pelvis and an assortment of scars from a couple bullet wounds to prove I was a divorce lawyer.” She held her cane up in the air. “I am now a law school professor.”

Reaching for his beer mug, Dan Jensen flashed his perfect bachelor-of-the-year grin. “I’ve got a great case for you. The divorce part is over. Judge Myers awarded the wife six million, plus a few million more in assets that are all in the husband’s name.”

“Let me guess,” Josie interrupted, concentrating on opening the package of oyster crackers that arrived with her fish chowder. “The husband refuses to authorize the transfers.”

“Correct. All you have to do is help the wife, now the ex-wife, collect.”

Out of patience, Josie yanked the cellophane hard, spewing the contents in all directions. “Oh, good grief.”

Dan swallowed a forkful of baked scrod and rice pilaf as she retrieved the crackers. “The couple has a chain of high-end grocery stores. They made a ton of money over the years. Plus, the stores are still operating.”

When Josie didn’t respond, he stilled her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “You got this. You’re a bloodhound when it comes to cases like this. It’s easy money for you.”

She glowered at him over her gold-rimmed glasses. “I remember you flying around the house in superhero costumes.” She removed her hand. “Those gorgeous eyes and that infamous charm get you nowhere with me.”

Deadpan serious now, Dan leaned in close, speaking fast. “The wife is Amy Castle. She’s a cousin on my mom’s side. Two years ago, I referred her to Barry Woodward because you were still recovering from your injuries. Barry did a fantastic job on the divorce. Sadly, he also put the moves on Amy, and they had an affair.” Dan shook his head. “Really poor form. She learned over the weekend that he was married, and she fired him. So, would you please help her?”

Josie sat back and tackled one piece of information at a time. First, their family tree. She and Dan shared the same father but had different mothers. Yes, that could result in unknown cousins. Next, she considered the aforementioned lawyer. “Isn’t Barry on his third wife?”

Dan resumed eating. “The fourth. She knows about the affair too. It’s a disaster.”

Josie balanced a piece of salmon on her soup spoon. “So, I’d really be doing this for you, right? To help ease your guilt over referring a family member to a brilliant, sex-addicted lawyer with commitment issues?”

He tilted his head. “Well, yes. And for Amy, an innocent victim of love, taken advantage of by her now ex-husband and deceived by her lover.” When Josie didn’t respond, he added, “She’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars, upfront, and you can bill her a c-note an hour. There’s plenty more after that if you need it.”

As if on automatic pilot, Josie’s mind started listing each step of the process needed to hang the ex-husband. Then the sane, less greedy side of her brain kicked in.

Stop. You don’t do that kind of work anymore.

Dan squeezed her hand again. “Please?”

Her resolve wavered. This not-so-humble, lawyer-of-the-year-type guy who just offered her a case other lawyers would beg for, was her life-long best friend and confidant. He also rarely said please. Twice. She pushed aside the chowder and swiveled in the bar stool to face him. “I hate you.”

His broad smile beamed. “You love me.” He picked up his cell. “Can I call her? She’s waiting in the parking lot to meet with you.”

Josie grabbed his hand. “I’m making no promises.”

“Agreed. Just speak with her.”

She scratched the scar on her chest. “Who’s representing the ex-husband?”

Dan’s cheeks and neck blotched red. “Oh yeah. About that.” He rose and tossed a bunch of bills on the bar.

Warning bells erupted in Josie’s brain. She grabbed the hem of his designer suit jacket. “Daniel Gabriel Jensen. Who is it?”

“Um, do you remember Richard Diamond?”

Chapter Three

Richard Diamond, Thursday Afternoon

“Mr. Castle is holding on line two.”

“Thank you, Dana.” Attorney Richard Diamond ended the intercom connection and drained a bottle of water.

Divorce caused even the most reasonable people to act unreasonably. And yet, Richard suspected his client, Malcolm Castle, displayed his “unique” form of unreasonableness long before his divorce commenced. To date, he held the record for the longest divorce case in the county, and the pandemic had nothing to do with the delay.

Richard didn’t need to review Castle’s file to recall the judge’s final decision when he granted the divorce. With millions of dollars up for grabs, Mr. Castle was ordered to transfer six of them in investments, plus a beach cottage, a boat, and a car, to his former wife within thirty days. And here they were, a hundred days or so later, and no transfers. Richard wondered if his client intended to break the record for this post judgment phase of the divorce as well.

Was Richard ruffled? Not at all. Malcolm already paid him close to two million in legal fees for the divorce. And he said he would commit to spending another two million for Richard to run circles around his ex-wife and her lawyer in order to hold on to his fortune until the last possible moment. And then, only then, would he direct Richard to make a deal. He was not going to pay anything close to six million and it was up to Richard to make sure of it.

Richard inhaled a deep breath and held it for five seconds. Then he released a slow exhale. It had been a long day, and it was about to get longer. After another second, he pushed the phone’s button for line two. “This is Attorney Diamond. How may I help you?”

“Hey there, Dickie Baby. It’s me, Mal. I hear Amy’s getting a new lawyer. A broad this time. She must have figured out, with some help, that this last one, who she was screwing, Wood something or other, was married. She gave him the boot Tuesday night.”

Richard never asked why or how his client always had up-to-date details about his ex-wife’s life. He didn’t want to know. Malcolm Castle may be slick, but more important, his skewed beliefs about how the world should operate, including his marriage and his divorce, created the type of no-holds-barred challenge that Richard relished.

And Malcolm, along with Richard’s other character-flawed clients, often expressed many prejudices, but they were not stupid. They ignored Richard’s dark skin because of the favorable results he produced. As for being Jewish, the topic never came up. Black Jews were not common in this country. Black Jewish lawyers of Ethiopian descent were even less common.

Richard gave his well-appointed office an appreciative glance. Mal wouldn’t pay his ex-wife, but he always paid his legal bills without question or delay. And the instant he didn’t, Richard would fire him.

“What’s the lawyer’s name?” he asked, disappointed that Barry Woodward couldn’t keep his pants zipped, or at least avoid getting caught.

There were few other lawyers left in the state who could handle a case of this magnitude. Like him, they treated the law as a game. The goal was to define the rules in each case, then be the best at figuring out how to enforce them or bend them. Which strategy depended on whose side you were on and how much money your client was willing to pay you.

“Some fat bimbo named Josephina Jensen,” Castle answered. “I already checked her out. She teaches at the damned law school. She quit going to court a couple years ago after her wacko client, the wife, mind you, got a gun into the courthouse. Jensen tried to stop her from shooting it off and she got hit pretty bad. If she represents Amy, it will be her first time back in court, in the same building. With all that emotional garbage and you in my corner, I doubt she’ll last a week. What do you think?”

Castle kept talking as Richard’s memory replayed the nightmarish scenes that came to be known as the Compton Catastrophe around Hartford’s Hall of Justice. He’d been down the hall when he heard the shots.

“Hey, Dickie, answer my question,” Castle demanded, drawing Richard back to the present.

Richard typed Jensen’s name into the attorney directory located on the state’s judicial website, confirming what he already suspected. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Malcolm.” He noted the calendar hanging on the wall and changed topics. “Are you all set for next Thursday?”

“You mean when I become unavailable?”

Richard cleared his throat. “Court starts at ten. It is my obligation to tell you to be there and on time.”

“Consider me told. Just be sure to cover my ass at all costs.”

“Consider your ass covered, Malcolm.” Richard hung up and jotted down the time spent during the call and its content. Next, he returned his attention to Josephina Jensen.

Holding his chin between his forefinger and thumb, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He recalled her body, wrapped in a white sheet and packed onto a gurney with an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Two silent paramedics, ignoring the media’s flashing cameras and shouted questions, wheeled the stretcher out of the courthouse and down the ramp near the steps. They lifted her into the waiting ambulance and raced off, lights and sirens blaring at full blast.

The image, along with one other, never left Richard’s mind. Over time, they had faded, but now they reemerged fresh as the day they happened.

Could Castle be right? Was she back?

Chapter Four

Josie

“Sit back down,” Josie insisted, tugging at Dan’s jacket.

The waiter returned just as her brother reclaimed his bar stool, interrupting the rant Josie was about to launch. “Shall I wrap your meal, madam?”

She looked at her barely eaten chowder and sandwich. “Do you want it?” she asked Dan.

He crinkled his nose. “After you played with it for the past half hour? No thanks.”

When the waiter left, Josie reduced her voice to a near-threatening level. “Richard Diamond is a monster, Daniel. Thirteen years ago, he roasted us alive in that Masterson case. Do you remember what happened when the judge read his decision, after that awful eight-day trial? Our client burst out of the courtroom and howled through the halls like a mama orangutang searching for her missing babies. And what did Diamond do? He stood there in his thousand-dollar suit, preening like a peacock, his feathers spread in full bloom.”

Straight faced, Dan pretended to study the dessert menu. “It’s not that we lost. The judge just didn’t give our client everything she wanted, the way she wanted it. Over time, the parents settled down and worked things out. And keep in mind, the playing field between you and Diamond is even now. You can take him. In fact, consider it your opportunity for payback.”

“We lost, Daniel,” Josie spat back. “And I don’t want payback. I haven’t handled a divorce case or any case for almost four years, and I don’t want to, ever again.” She hated that her voice started to crack mid-sentence.

Dan clutched her forearm and sought her tear-filled eyes. “Stop letting Anne Compton ruin your life. You’re an amazing lawyer and Amy needs you.”

Josie darted her attention to the nautical paraphernalia covering the bar’s walls. Even if he was right, she didn’t want to do it. “I doubt very much Richard Diamond has mellowed over the years. He’s like a clump of Roquefort cheese, its blue and green moldy disgustingness growing more and more pungent over time.”

Dan laughed. “That just makes it more challenging.”

Picturing Diamond in his element, Josie curled her upper lip. “He only represents wealthy, evil, greedy husbands and vengeful, spoiled, gold-digging wives. Their divorce proceedings last for years and always end with a trial. And for the rare times he loses, he files an appeal. There’s no end.”

“I agree.” He hugged her. “That’s why Amy’s divorce took so long.”

“And you want me to join that circus?”

He showed her his calendar on his phone. “Did I mention the contempt hearing against the ex-husband is scheduled for next Thursday?”

Josie straightened. “Are you listening to me at all? You act like we’re discussing a sale on one of your fancy suits.” She tapped her watch. “Luke and I are leaving for the Bahamas at eleven-fifty tonight. It’s his birthday present to me. We won’t be back until late Monday night.”

Dan’s grin and his eyes widened. “Then you’d better get started.”

Before she could stop him, he sent a text.

“I’m not doing it, Dan. I’m not stepping one foot into any courtroom with that fiend.”

Ignoring her, he stood and drained his beer mug. “You’re gonna love Amy.”

“I’m only agreeing to talk with her, Daniel.”

He waved. “There she is.”

Josie followed his gaze to the bar’s entrance.

A pretty, well-endowed and well-dressed older brunette stood in the doorway. With a worried smile, she waved back.

Perfect. Just perfect.

***

Excerpt from Love & the Divorce Lawyer by Barbara Newhart. Copyright 2025 by Barbara Newhart. Reproduced with permission from Barbara Newhart. All rights reserved.

Prelude

I’ll remember the day I died for the rest of my life.

Prologue

The sign at the gate read, “Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.”

It was before dawn, the night sky still dark and the compound silent as a cemetery. The cabin loomed in the distance: a den of crime, a place where the armed drug dealers spent much of their time. The police team approached as quietly as they could, the crunch of twigs beneath their boots the only sound to break the eerie silence. Fear tiptoed through their souls, its icy fingers tracing the contours of their restless thoughts. They took a collective inhalation of breath, not knowing if they were walking toward their death. They knew the property owner, the leader of the group, wasn’t kidding with his sign.

What they didn’t know was that a baby was crawling on the floor of the cabin they were about to storm.

***

Jon Eddie considered himself a champion. Now he understood he was in for the fight of his life.

Forty-two years old, with bulging eyes, a bushy beard and Fu Manchu mustache, he’d covered himself in self-righteousness, the way his tattoos covered almost every inch of his bulky body. He was proud of the group he’d brought together. Eddie liked to believe he was simply an entrepreneur, as his annual white power music festival, Nordic Fest, attracted skinheads from across the country. Full of music from “hatecore” bands such as Angry Aryans and No Alibi, supported by shouting speakers spewing their idiotic ideology, it provided a nice source of income—in addition to the dues Eddie charged, and the contributions he asked for. His major source of cash, however, was a raging drug-dealing business, his biggest sellers being meth, molly, and of course opioids.

His girlfriend, Krystal, was yelling at their baby to stop crying. Krystal, no mother of the year, picked the baby girl up and was about to shake her when Eddie noticed movement at the front of his property.

** *

Outside, the thundering silence was deafening. Two police officers accompanying the core team were selected to check the dense tree line that surrounded the compound’s fence. They knew there were often guards stationed behind the evergreens—if so, they needed to take them out as quietly and quickly as possible before the main assault could begin.

Everyone was on high alert. Though it was cool, sweat darkened their uniforms. Up ahead, closer to the cabin, they spied a truck with monster-size tires. Through binoculars, a sticker affixed to a large dent on the rear bumper was evident. It was a monstrosity, with a silhouette of crossed AR-15s next to the slogan, “Yours for White Victory.”

One cop, Jack—built like a sequoia tree—towered over the policewoman beside him, even though she was above average in height. He pointed his head toward the tree line and looked down with a smug expression. “You ready for this, Jill?” he asked, his voice full of confidence.

She rolled her eyes. Her uniform was pristine. “Shh. You know I can take care of myself,” she whispered.

He laughed silently. “Sure you can, Jill.” Then, under his breath, said, “Just don’t get in my way.”

Jill gritted her teeth and ignored his taunts. She’d always been competitive with him, ever since they were in the police academy together; they were like two racehorses heading neck and neck toward the finish line. Jill was determined to prove she was just as good as he was. No, better.

They looked at the team leader, who nodded. The two of them slowly moved forward, their breathing becoming more rapid. As they approached the fence, they heard rustling in the trees.

***

Krystal had never wanted to be a mother.

She’d really had no ambition to be anything at all. Stuck in a rut of life, like a sailboat without wind, she’d been tending bar when she met Jon Eddie. It wasn’t much of a bar; as you pushed open its dilapidated door, you were immediately hit with the pungent smells of bitter beer, cigarette smoke, and salty sweat. A long, sticky bar dominated the dimly lit

interior, lined with shaky stools and chipped coasters. The walls were covered in peeling, nicotine-stained wallpaper, and the floor was littered with discarded peanut shells and spilt spirits. Normally, the regulars, their lives littered as well, would sit hunched over their drinks, staring blankly into the distance. Unless Jon Eddie was around.

Eddie often drew a crowd, a mix of people in awe of him and people in fear of him. His mannerless mouth and domineering demeanor attracted Krystal. He clearly thought he was the shit, and just as clearly was a mean son of a bitch. But Krystal thought he was someone who could protect her. At first, she would shrivel from his drivel. Later, not knowing any better, she began believing him, impressed by his purported big ideas that the men around him enthusiastically nodded their heads up and down to. When the bar closed one night, he was in the parking lot, hovering, waiting for her, wanting her.

She went out the back door and saw him.

With an almost imperceptible shrug, she got into his truck. She stayed the night with him, which then became a month of muddling. Once she was pregnant, she was there for good. Or so she thought.

***

“Grab the guns!” Eddie yelled over the baby’s wails. Krystal looked at him, frozen, as she held the baby. “Leave the damn kid on the floor. Just grab the guns!”

** *

They could see two guards ahead.

The guards were behind a large oak tree, chatting quietly while looking at a cell phone. One laughed.

Jack motioned to Jill to wait a moment as he silently made his way to the larger of the two guards. Before anything even registered on the guard’s face, Jack started in on him.

Jack got him down, using a headlock and fireman’s carry maneuver that landed the guy on his head. He was knocked out and would have a concussion, but he’d live. Jack allowed himself a quick smile, then turned to the other man, who was backing away, suddenly preferring flight to fight. Jill had watched momentarily in admiration of Jack’s fighting skills but couldn’t admire for too long; the other guard was her job, and she had to be just as capable with him. He’d turned to run but had a gun in hand.

Jill moved catlike toward her prey. A tree root tripped her. The guard stopped. His gun hand was shaking.

Fast and agile, Jill quickly recovered, jumped, and landed a swift kick to his shaved head. Her steel-toed boot landed right in the center of his swastika tattoo; blood immediately gushed onto the soil. All those years of martial-arts training paid off. The gun fell out of the man’s hand, and Jill kicked it away before kicking him in the stomach to make sure he stayed down. The man’s eyes were wide, and it looked like he’d had enough, so she stopped, not wanting to overdo it. Jack watched her, ready to act, and looked similarly impressed, though he didn’t say a word to her after they’d cuffed and muzzled the guards.

Other cops quickly came over and dragged them away.

“Well, that was the easy part,” Jack said.

Jill, panting, just stared at him, knowing those words to be true. For a second, she thought of her dad, a former cop, and hoped his fate wouldn’t befall her.

The core team warily walked forward, heading into the unknown. Jack followed closely behind. Jill wiped the blood off her boot with some leaves and joined them. Her heart pounding, but with a lot of backbone, she put her best foot forward.

** *

The team leader, Nic, was as determined as a bulldog with a bone. He knew he had to stop the drug dealing, and he hated the group’s ideology. But even more, he was given this mission because an informant had told of a plan this group had to blow up a government building. Tomorrow.

As they came closer to the cabin, he scanned the area for any signs of activity. He saw movement within the cabin.

He could feel the sweat dripping down his face, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. While his officers were highly trained, he could see the fear in their eyes. It wasn’t a surprise. It was too easy for things to go bad.

He motioned for the team to spread out and be ready, with two officers heading around to the back. He knew they were dealing with very dangerous people but hoped to take them in without bloodshed. Especially their own.

***

The smoke bomb exploded on the floor.

Chaos. His vision clouded, an officer yelled, “Police, come out with your hands up!” There was more movement inside; Eddie was fuming. But no one emerged from the thick fog of smoke. The cops moved in, like a tidal wave crashing onto shore.

One of the team members was hit immediately; he was dead before his body hit the floor.

More gunshots rang out. As the men frantically searched the rooms, the team leader headed straight for the source of the gunfire, bullets whizzing by at a dizzying pace. Amidst the mist, Jill saw a woman on the floor, bloodied and unmoving. She then heard a cry, and looking down, saw a baby. Holy shit, she thought, and tried to yell to the others, but in the mayhem, she knew no one would hear or understand. A hail of bullets came their way, and Jill got down, covering the baby with her body, like an embryo in the womb.

Another gunshot rang out, and Jill saw blood.

***

Excerpt from What Goes Around by Michael Wendroff . Copyright 2024 by Michael Wendroff . Reproduced with permission from Michael Wendroff . All rights reserved.

From Chapter 1

Someone was smoking a cigarette. I sniffed, and spikes of pain started at my chin and shot through the top of my head. Oh God, make it stop, and I promise I’ll never touch another drop of tequila. Being another year older was bad enough—did I have to be punished for it, too? My nose twitched as the smoke teased my nostrils and caressed my olfactory nerves. I’d quit a month ago, but the longing for a cig came roaring back.

With my eyes still closed, and my head nailed to the pillow, I had one coherent thought: This is supposed to be a smoke-free hotel. As far as I knew, it was also bird-free, but the chirps and twitters assailing my ears were clearly coming from feathered creatures. Then again, it’s Atlantic City. Maybe the birds were part of the hotel show. Ever so slowly, I slid my hands from under the covers and cupped them over my ears.

“Please, birdies,” I whispered. “Stop singing.” Geez, they sounded close enough to be in my room. I exhaled, yoga style. C’mon, Tess, time to open your eyes. You can do it. Actually, I couldn’t, as my lashes were glued together. (Had I slept in my make-up? Not a good sign.) Still covering my ears against the piercing bird song, I fluttered my left eyelid and squinted.

Big, fuchsia-colored roses seemed to scream at me from the wall. And sun—blinding, eyeball-searing sun—streamed in through an uncovered window. And not a hotel window bolted shut and draped to keep out that awful light, but a wooden one with glass panes. And across the top, a ruffly white curtain.

Okay, not my hotel. So where was I? My empty stomach grew queasy; I wouldn’t have gone home with a stranger. Though I did remember a cute blond guy playing the slots next to me, but it was all so … blurry. I eased open the other eye. Across the room was a vanity table draped in more white ruffles. Somehow, I doubted the blond guy lived here.

This place was obviously some kind of historic inn or something, but that still didn’t explain how I’d gotten here. I looked down at the sheets, also decorated with roses. Only these were little yellow ones. Somebody sure liked her florals.

“So weird,” I muttered. Hands shaking, eyes half closed, I felt around for my phone, but my fingers landed on a string of beads. I let go of the necklace and blinked hard, trying to ignore the little flashes of pain behind my eyes. Next to me was an old-fashioned nightstand; on it was a lamp with a frilly pink shade, an analog alarm clock ticking loudly, and the “necklace,” which had a cross hanging from it. A face stared at me from a black-and-white photo. I shifted closer, peering at a guy with slicked-back hair, thick brows, and dark-lashed eyes. Across the bottom of the picture was a name, signed in blue ink. I frowned at the image. Who the heck was Tyrone Power? Was he someone’s boyfriend? Or part of the décor?

Hangover and rubber legs be damned, I had to get moving and find my phone. But before I could get a big toe out from under the covers, a knock sounded at the door. I sat up in the strange bed, holding my throbbing head as though it were a soft-boiled egg.

“Tess? Are you awake yet?” The voice on the other side of the door had a slight Irish brogue. “Can I come in, then?”

“Yes,” I croaked. Whoever she was, she knew my name. Despite the sunlight, the room was chilly, and I huddled under the cotton blankets as the woman bustled in holding a small tray. I sniffed coffee and toast, and when she set it down on the nightstand, my stomach gurgled audibly.

“Now,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “we served breakfast some time ago, and when you didn’t come down, I knew you’d be oversleepin’ again. Your auntie will have my hide and your own if you don’t get down to that kitchen.” She crossed her ample arms and sent me a stern look. “You know we don’t serve anyone in their rooms, guests or otherwise, but Carolina insisted I bring you your coffee. Said you’re no good without it.”

I looked up at a broad-shouldered woman in a green housedress. Over that was an apron in a loud, orange-and-green pattern of forks and spoons. Her thick white hair, twisted into a bun, was bright against her weathered skin. Her small dark eyes gave the impression of two raisins set in a gingerbread face. I’d never seen her before in my life.

“Sorry, Mrs. Flaherty.” How did I know that? It surely must have been her name because she didn’t correct me. I sat up quickly, my mouth hanging open in shock, and the blankets slipped to my waist.

Mrs. Flaherty took a step closer to the bed and narrowed her eyes at me. “Just what are you wearing, missy?” What was I wearing? I glanced down at the cursive “T” stitched on the pocket of my favorite monogrammed PJs. Expensive ones. And why did she care? I opened my mouth to answer, but Mrs. F got there ahead of me. “They’re silk,” she hissed. “And black, for the Lord’s sake.”

“Uh huh,” I said slowly, wondering if she commented on the nightwear of all her guests. Still, I pulled the blankets up to my chin.

“Best not let your auntie see them. Don’t know how in the world you afford such things,” she grumbled. “Eat up quick now, and bring down that tray when you’re through.”

“Okay,” I whispered, staring at the door she closed behind her…

***

Excerpt from Murder on the Steel Pier by Rosie Genova. Copyright 2025 by Rosie Genova. Reproduced with permission from Rosie Genova. All rights reserved.

Carillon Tower Park was buzzing with activity when Bay arrived for rehearsal. Desmond Carver, the director, was only steps ahead of her, so she dashed to catch up. Bay smiled at his signature bobbing walk on those extra-long legs that might belong to a pro basketball player instead of a theater professor.

“Desmond, hey. Looks like the students are psyched about the show.” Bay nodded toward the outdoor theater area where a portable tech booth had been set up. People inside were testing spotlights and sound effects.

The stage was midway through set construction showing false stone walls and two framed second story balconies. Someone was sweeping the stage free of pine needles, while a couple of others were taping the floor where furniture would go. Bay waved at Jen Yoo, her art professor friend, who was painting a flat with some students.

“It’s a positive sign when they show up early. Believe me, once we’re in the trenches, some will find reasons not to show up at all.” Desmond set a stack of scripts on one of the seats near the middle of the theater. “Actors,” he said using air quotes around the word.

Bay’s optimism didn’t dwindle. She was pleased with the turnout for auditions, considering it was a summer production, meaning many students were gone or working. The fact she and Desmond had backups for the main roles revealed enthusiasm for the show.

Desmond handed her a theater badge and key for the rooms beyond the stage. “By the way, in case I forget later, thanks so much for volunteering to help with the play. It can be a thankless job.”

Bay grinned but wondered why Desmond was being so pessimistic. He wasn’t close to retirement, maybe ten years older than Bay, and she’d pegged him as carefree and upbeat. Then again, in the two years she’d been a Flourish professor, she’d had a handful of short conversations with him.

At seven p.m. on the dot, the clock tower bell rang out the hour and Desmond spoke through a megaphone he’d brought to rehearsal. “Let’s get going. We start on time. We end on time. That’s my number one rule.”

To Bay’s surprise, every student hushed without delay. She’d heard Desmond was respected, and he knew these students from past plays. Many were seniors doing a final postgraduation show before entering the real world.

“For the first few rehearsals, we’re going to need to work around the set builders and the tech crew setting up lights and testing sounds. This isn’t a typical show. Summer theater is a shortened schedule, so we’re putting an entire production together in short order.” Desmond handed printed schedules to Bay, who passed them out to the actors and crew.

It wasn’t quite June, thankfully, because performances were marked for the last week of that month, just past the celebration of Midsummer on June twenty-fourth.

“You’ll notice on the schedule that all lines must be memorized by June tenth. That’s two weeks, my friends. Let’s make it happen.” Desmond used his teacher voice. Even Bay snapped to attention.

“Places everyone. We’ll start with the prologue and go straight through from act one as far as we can until eight-thirty. The script notes some introductory music, but we won’t add that for a couple of weeks. Proceed, Kitt.”

Bay and Desmond watched from the back third of the theater, taking notes as lines were delivered, stopping when necessary to help with enunciation or cadence. At the end of the second act, Desmond announced a seven-minute break, then headed to the tech booth to talk about lighting.

Bay noticed he seemed nervous about the tech crew being run by an intern. His normal production partner, Leo, another theater professor, was spending summer break in New York City at a Broadway intensive master class. Leo recommended a theater grad student from Madison to take his place.

As lights flashed on and off in different positions, Bay watched the techies at the booth. Desmond pointed at the script as intern Evan made notes, then flashed the light Desmond asked for. Bay noticed Evan’s body posture: alert, attentive, like a golden retriever eager to please. In contrast, Desmond alternated running a hand through the twists on top of his head, placing his hands on his hips, then rubbing the back of his neck before repeating the moves again.

“That looks intense.” Jen Yoo was sitting by Bay, a clean paint brush in one hand.

“Hey, Jen. Yes, I’ve never seen this side of Desmond. How about you?”

Jen shrugged. “I haven’t worked on a summer production in some time. The younger Desmond was laid-back. But some of us lose our patience as we age. Thankfully, I don’t have that problem.” She snickered.

Bay turned her full attention to Jen. “Why are you working on this production, anyway?”

“Two reasons. One: It fulfills my volunteer hours for the whole year. Two: It’s a show you wrote. I’m proud of you and want to see how it turns out.” Jen leaned her head over to meet Bay’s.

With break wrapping up, chatter from the stage echoed around the quiet outdoors. When a commotion ensued, Bay chalked it up to high energy from a new show, the honeymoon period. But then a loud thud sounded, someone began shrieking, and a cacophony of shouts and running feet ensued.

Bay, Jen, and Desmond ran to the stage, with the tech crew close behind. The adults vaulted onto the stage where the lead actor, Talon Hunt, lay crumpled in a twisted heap.

“Everybody back up,” Desmond shouted.

“He fell off the balcony,” one of the students called out.

“I didn’t mean to. We were goofing around, practicing a duel.” Jackson Lange knelt over Talon, his chest heaving, his face distraught.

Desmond, Jen, and Bay knelt beside Talon too, and Jackson stood up and looked away. Desmond checked Talon’s pulse, shook his head, listened for a heartbeat, and shook his head again. Bay called 911.

“Let’s straighten him a bit so I can do CPR.” Desmond motioned for Jen and Bay to get on either side of his legs and they gingerly turned him.

Desmond was still administering chest compressions and breaths when the emergency team arrived to take over. Thirty minutes later, the EMTs pronounced Talon dead.

***

Excerpt from Shake-speared in the Park by Joy Ann Ribar. Copyright 2025 by Joy Ann Ribar. Reproduced with permission from Joy Ann Ribar. All rights reserved.