22 June, 2026

Debdatta Dasgupta June 22, 2026 0

Lies to Forever by Marlene M. Bell

LIES TO FOREVER

by Marlene M. Bell

June 1 - 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.

April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being scammed out of her life savings by a trusted friend, April is left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her position as an interior designer at her old architectural firm, even if it means a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex.

But that’s not the only hitch. When the owner of the firm turns up dead, the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.

Now the killer sets a plan for April and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Chased from her dream home and cornered like prey, April is hemmed by the wintry forests of Tennessee with few options. As chilling memories of childhood abandonment haunt her, it seems everyone has a hidden agenda to take April down.

Only one thing is certain. A monster is stalking Smoky Creek, and April must unmask them before they land the fatal blow.

Readers of Sarah Alderson and Kiersten Modglin will love the twisted betrayals and dark obsession of Lies to Forever, the latest standalone thriller by award-winning novelist Marlene M. Bell.

Praise for Lies to Forever:

"A must-read for fans of smart, character-driven suspense fiction. Highly recommended."
~ The International Review of Books

"Author Marlene M. Bell has crafted a gripping, psychological thriller. ...a suspense-laden drama where the twists and turns of the plot are genuinely surprising and rewarding."
~ The Book Review Directory

Lies to Forever Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Crime
Published by: Ewephoric
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages:316
ISBN: 9798986340982
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.

When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.

The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover.

He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door.

Without so much as a warning.

My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles.

The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend?

“April.”

My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office.

Whang.

A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface.

A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient.

“I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.”

The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes.

“Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name.

My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees.

A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.”

Haven’t heard that in a while.

Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes.

I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way.

Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped.

A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early.

“Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm.

“Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area.

“Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.”

I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant.

He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought.

“Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair.

I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.”

From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable.

I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.”

“Miss.”

I turn toward the voice.

“I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.”

My first slam-and-crash date request.

It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared.

Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest.

“If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table.

“Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?”

I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.”

“April, he’s not coming in.”

“That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.”

“Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.”

With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk.

“I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?”

“Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.”

“Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.”

The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.”

Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress.

“Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.”

“You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs.

“It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds.

“Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.”

“Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks.

“Been there a few times.”

“You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso.

Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment.

Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say.

When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude.

The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take.

Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out.

While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain…

A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather.

I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps.

Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow?

A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace.

I don’t smell burning wood.

My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub.

Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa.

“Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?”

I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—”

A metallic odor hits me.

“Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived.

Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene.

I can’t be implicated in this.

***

Author Bio:

Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world.

When Marlene's not busy plotting her next novel, she's exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she's always hunting for the next spark of inspiration - or the next adventure calling her name.

Catch Up With Marlene M Bell:

www.MarleneMBell.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @dorsetghal
BookBub - @dorsetgalwrites
Instagram - @marlenemysteries
X - @ewephoric
Facebook, Personal
Facebook - @marlenembell

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Lies, Deception… and a Deadly Giveaway

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Marlene M. Bell. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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20 June, 2026

Debdatta Dasgupta June 20, 2026 0

Mini Review: How To Live Your Life by Ruskin Bond

How to Live your life offers its readers a few gentle truths, that somehow leave you feeling lighter than before. Made up of short, thoughtful chapters on love, friendship, dreams, luck, time, and happiness, it’s a book you can finish in under an hour. Yet many of its reflections linger long after you’ve turned the final page. Bond has a remarkable gift for expressing profound ideas in the simplest words, proving that wisdom doesn’t need to be complicated to be meaningful.

What stayed with me most was the warmth running through every page. There’s an innocence and kindness to Bond’s writing that feels increasingly rare. Reading this book is like listening to a beloved grandparent share life lessons on a quiet afternoon, without judgment, without preaching, just gentle observations gathered over a lifetime.

It’s a beautiful little reminder to slow down, pay attention, and appreciate the ordinary moments that make up a life. Few writers can say so much with so little. Ruskin Bond is one of them. This book may just melt your heart and help you reconnect with the part of yourself that still sees wonder in the world.

Amazon

Other reviews you may like:

18 June, 2026

Debdatta Dasgupta June 18, 2026 0

Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner

WILDWOOD EXIT

by Joel E. Turner

May 25 - June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A deadly family vendetta at a Jersey Shore restaurant finds John McGinty (aka Ginty) tailing his boss's lying wife and junkie son into a dark world of embezzlement, drug dealing and murder.

Ginty has just stepped in as the manager of a Wildwood restaurant owned by his friend, Lou Scolletta, after Lou fires the old manager for dipping in the till.

Ginty starts out ordering rolls of salami and bottles of Galliano, but quickly becomes Lou's consigliere, picking up questionable packages from sketchy associates; tailing Lou's wife Concetta on her furtive trips to Cape May; scouring the Jersey Shore for Lou's son, Davy, a junkie on the lam; and wondering why a possibly bent State Trooper keeps showing up everywhere he goes.

Things in Ginty's world don't improve when a drug shipment goes wrong, a blackmail note appears...and a body is found floating in Delaware Bay.

Ginty is now the unwilling-yet trusted-confidante of all the Scollettas, and realizes that everyone in this twisted family circle is in danger-including himself.

WILDWOOD EXIT is as sordid as it is comic, and should be on every beach towel from Asbury Park to Cape May.

Praise for WILDWOOD EXIT:

"A quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart"
~ Amy Rosenberg, Philadelphia Inquirer

"Funny, thrilling . . . a captivating crime story with a vivid Jersey Shore setting."
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Amateur Sleuth, Noir/Hard Boiled, Crime fiction, Noir Fiction, Jersey Shore Noir, Literary Noir
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 6, 2025
Number of Pages: 329
ISBN: 9781685129729 (ISBN10: 1685129722)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books | Main Point Books | Wildwood Historical Society (Signed)

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The car bumped hard, the undercarriage hitting the edge of the shoulder, as it careened off the Garden State Parkway, heading for a stand of trees. The bump woke me up, and I jammed on the brakes and fought the steering wheel, cutting it hard left, but it was too late. The car fishtailed as the front smashed into a tree, the rear swinging right as the brakes took hold and crashing into another tree. I was flung forward, my hands coming off the wheel and banging against the console.

My hands were cut and bleeding as I sat staring at the road, the car twisted at a forty-five-degree angle. Pain throbbed from my right temple, and I realized I must have hit the windshield or the roof. A heaviness pressed down inside my head above my eyes, and I felt an urge to close them and go to sleep.

I forced myself to stay awake and get out of the car. I knew I was still technically drunk, but the crash had pumped enough adrenaline into my veins that I was hyper-aware, despite the likely concussion. I tried to open the trunk, but it was stuck shut, the right fender crunched in and bent on the top where it met the hatch.

A car passed going north on the other side of the Parkway. I looked back up the south-bound lane and saw no traffic. I stepped onto the road and half-jogged across, stepping over the median and across the north-bound lane. I glanced back at the car, slanted cock-eyed in the grass just past the Exit 6 sign for North Wildwood, then hurried through the grassy stretch alongside the road and into the woods that bordered it.

My only thought now was to avoid getting a DUI. I could deal with the car later. What a disaster. I had just bought the damn thing yesterday afternoon from a guy in Buena with a badly running nose and a burning desire to take my cash and go meet someone to make him well. That’s what I got for taking a lead on a cheap car from a guy holding up the end of the bar at a beer-and-a-shot place down the street from my house. I could have asked Lou to hook me up, but the price was right, and I just wanted something to get me through the summer. So I hitched a ride to Buena from a buddy who was headed to Margate, where I met Drew, the guy with the dripping nose. Drew had that pressing business to attend to, so he was fine with giving me the uncompleted paperwork.

Drew said, “Just see Mitch at the title place here next week, he’ll handle it.”

I trudged through the patch of woods, distancing myself from the Parkway. I came to a two-lane road and ran across that into deeper woods on the other side. I was about ready to just sleep under a tree there, when through a gap in the branches I saw an open field.

I pushed forward to the perimeter of the woods and stopped, trying to make out where I was. If it was somebody’s back yard, I would have to be careful. But there were no lights, just a dark field spreading out before me. I looked to my left and saw a brighter patch on the ground and a hundred yards beyond that a low building, maybe a garage?

I walked through tall grass to shorter grass, and as I got closer to the bright patch, I realized what it was: a sand trap.

I was on a fairway of Wildwood Country Club, the home course of my friend Lou Scolletta, whose house I was supposed to have been at four hours ago. There was probably a caddie shack I could hide out in, but I opted for a makeshift bed in the grass of a hollow a few fairways over. I lay down and, in the brief period before I passed out, wondered if this was the best way to prepare for the first day on my new job.

* * *

There was no way I wanted a full-time job working for Lou. I knew just enough about Lou to know not knowing anything more was the prudent path. The fact that he had just fired the prior manager for dipping in the till did not make the opportunity more appealing.

But there was a crazy part of me that thought running a place—a restaurant, not McNabb’s Tavern, the decrepit neighborhood tappie in Southwest Philly where until last year I humped kegs, mopped up fluids, breathed a lot of smoke and told myself I was the “manager”—might be something I could do. Because I was nowhere right now. No degree, no trade—just fifteen years of bartending that had ended when the last McNabb standing decided—wisely—that this was no way to make a living. The new owners didn’t need a mug like me in the fern bar that McNabb’s was to become.

I knew The Seabreeze, the quintessential Jersey Shore restaurant. When Lou bought it six years ago, I helped out a few weekends bartending when some of the corner boys he had hired just disappeared on him. It wasn’t hard finding someone to cover for me at McNabb’s. Our weekends were slower in the summer anyway, with a lot of folks going to the shore.

Lou and I hung out more back then. He bought the place in 1977 when I was thirty and Lou maybe thirty-seven. It was sort of a vanity project for him; his main business was a Cadillac dealership in South Philly. The following summer, he showed up at my bar with his son Davy—guess the kid was sixteen. He wanted Davy to get a summer job. Could we take him on, washing dishes, whatever? I wondered why he didn’t hire him at the dealership, but I guess he wanted him to work for someone else.

So I hired him, and he was okay, typical teenager, hardly said a word. There really wasn’t that much to do—we had a kitchen and did some sandwiches, but it wasn’t much to keep a dishwasher busy.

I guess that was the first favor I did for Lou. And I did owe him big, seeing as how his dad got me out of the draft back in 1967. Plus, Lou got me my first restaurant job, which was really a pretty good gig at a nice South Philly restaurant. But with Lou, you never felt like he was looking for payback. He just came off as a great guy, not like he was some connected dude that you had to say yes to. I’m sure he sold a lot of cars seeming like a great guy.

I used to give Davy a ride home sometimes, which often led to Concetta—Lou’s wife—asking me in to eat. There was always food, loads of food. She’d give me a plate of pasta, red wine out of a jug—might be ten o’clock in the evening, but so what? Then Lou would show up, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash that I was there. Then he had me down to a little mom-and-pop restaurant near his dealership for dinner, and I met some of his friends. They were mostly older and had gone to Bishop Neumann or Southern, but a few knew guys from Kingsessing, my old neighborhood in Southwest Philly.

I thought about that pasta and how a mick like me was going to run a real restaurant, and, as I passed out in the wet grass at 3:30 AM, whether Davy was still having the same nose-dripping problems as Drew from Buena, a path I saw him starting down two and a half years ago.

* * *

The sound of a mower woke me up. The guy running it looked like he had seen worse. He pointed me to the caddy shack and gave me some coins for the payphone. Thank God Lou picked up, but then that’s Lou, he’s not surprised if some fuckup calls him at dawn. I washed up as best I could with cold water and no soap in the filthy sink in the shack’s bathroom, then waited outside the locker room, not wanting to meet up with anyone, until Lou arrived.

What a night. Blitzed out of my mind, drinking stingers like I was twenty in Somers Point, dancing with those crazy chicks, trying to teach me to moonwalk like Michael Jackson on that Motown show a couple of months ago. It was the Friday after a Monday Fourth of July, and it felt like the bar itself was stumbling under the strain of a week-long bender.

I had just stopped in for something to eat, then met these girls, three of them, late teens, which led to my dancing lesson. As it got late and the stingers took their toll, I figured maybe I’d just crash in the back seat for a couple of hours, then get breakfast somewhere, rather than roll in drunk at four in the morning and freak out Concetta.

Then two of the girls disappeared and the last one, Sharon, became glued to a chair at my table—that is, her butt was glued to the chair, but her face ended up stuck to the table itself, her long brown hair straggling out into the sticky remains of many ungodly drinks. At closing time, I struggled her to her feet and managed to get her to moan out where she was staying in Sea Isle City, a couple of towns south. After she vomited in the parking lot, I got her into the back seat and drove as carefully as I could, taking Route 9 to avoid the faster traffic.

I got the girl out of the car at her shabby rental duplex, leaving her sprawled on a chaise lounge in the screened porch. I banged on the door until one of her roommates appeared in a long t-shirt. We got her into bed and I talked the roommate through how to make sure Sharon didn’t choke on her own vomit.

I sat in my car, worrying about the girl. I was old enough to be her father, but being plastered in a Somers Point bar at closing time didn’t exactly qualify me to be in loco parentis. I was just a more experienced wastrel, a thirty-six-year-old failed bartender who would have been a disappointment to someone, if there was anyone left to fill that role.

When I left the girl’s rental, I figured it wasn’t much farther to Wildwood, and what the hell, why not take the Parkway? But of course, that’s what impaired judgment is all about. So fatigue and drunkenness once more exacted their toll on a stupid Irishman, and here I was creeping around at dawn like an escaped convict.

***

Author Bio:

Joel E. Turner’s first novel, WILDWOOD EXIT, a noir tale set at the Jersey Shore, was published by Level Best Books in 2025. Amy Rosenberg of the Philadelphia Inquirer called it “a quirky sand-in-your-shoes crime novel with a romantic heart”.

His second novel, BRENDA’S GREEN NOTE, forthcoming from Cynren Press in 2027, is a coming-of-age story about a young woman with synesthesia who harnesses her ability to see sounds as colors to become a key player in the vibrant music scene of the 1960s in Philadelphia.

His fiction has appeared in many US and UK journals. His website joeleturnerauthor.com, has samples/links to his work and posts about books, film and music. Articles he has written about Soul music have been featured on the UK-based Soul Source website, a major platform for news on the Northern Soul scene.

Mr. Turner splits his time between Philadelphia and White Cloud, Michigan.

Catch Up With Joel E. Turner:

JoelETurnerAuthor.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram - @bzturner
Threads - @bzturner
BlueSky - @joeleturner.bsky.social
Facebook - @joeleturner2

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Shore Thing: Join the WILDWOOD EXIT Celebration

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Joel E. Turner. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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16 June, 2026

Debdatta Dasgupta June 16, 2026 0

Mini Reviews: The Memory Bookshop / XOXO / ASAP / The Name Drop

Book 1: The Memory Bookshop by Song Yu-jeong (Author), Shanna Tan (Translator)

Tender, thoughtful, and deeply compassionate, this story explores grief with remarkable care. Rather than dwelling on regrets or “what ifs,” it gently nudges us toward the present moment: to live in the present and love in the present, even when loss makes both feel impossible.

It’s a quiet, comforting reminder that healing isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about finding reasons to keep turning the page.

And a special mention for the author’s note, which added an extra layer of warmth and sincerity to an already beautiful reading experience.

Amazon

Book 2: The Name Drop by Susan Lee

The Name Drop was such a fun read.

The mistaken identity/name confusion premise was ridiculous in the best way. Was it a little implausible? Absolutely. Did I happily go along with it anyway? Also absolutely. What I enjoyed most, though, were the different family dynamics woven throughout the story. They gave the book a lot of heart and made the characters feel more real beyond the romance.

Speaking of the romance… it was cute, but I honestly wanted more of it. There just weren’t enough Elijah and Jessica moments for me. I kept waiting for more scenes between them because their chemistry was one of my favorite parts of the book.

And can we talk about Elijah’s sister? Because I would very happily read her story next.

A light, entertaining rom-com that’s perfect when you’re in the mood for something sweet, funny, and a little bit chaotic.

Amazon

Book 3: XOXO & ASAP by Axie Oh

XOXO and ASAP were exactly what I expected them to be: fun, fast-paced reads with plenty of K-pop flavor.

As someone who follows K-pop, there were definitely a few moments that required a generous suspension of disbelief. Some aspects of the industry and idol life felt a little too convenient to be entirely convincing.

That said, I really enjoyed the cultural elements woven into both stories, especially the parts that went beyond the K-pop setting itself. Those details added warmth and personality to the books.

Neither novel asks for a huge emotional investment, and sometimes that’s exactly what you’re in the mood for. They’re light, entertaining reads that are easy to fly through in a couple of sittings.

Perfect for K-pop fans looking for a fun fictional escape and a dose of romance along the way. 

XOXO on Amazon | ASAP on Amazon

Other reviews that you may like:

15 June, 2026

Debdatta Dasgupta June 15, 2026 0

Deadly Gold Rush by Landis Wade

DEADLY GOLD RUSH

by Landis Wade

May 18 - June 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE INDIE RETIREMENT MYSTERY SERIES

Murder, mines, and missing millions—retirement just got interesting.

When a shady real estate developer is found murdered beneath Harriet Keaton’s family home—shot, stabbed, and surrounded by rare 1830s gold coins—her estranged twin brother Joey is the prime suspect. He insists he’s innocent...but won’t name the real culprit.

With Joey refusing to talk and millions missing from the retirement accounts, the future of the Independence Retirement Community is suddenly on the line. Now, whip-smart Harriet and her sleuthing partners—Craig Travail (savvy lawyer, reluctant romantic) and Yeager Alexander (conspiracy theorist, resident rabble-rouser)—must dig into the past to solve the crime.

Their best lead? A decades-old memoir from Harriet’s treasure-obsessed father and whispers of a long-lost gold hoard.

But treasure has a way of attracting trouble. As fortunes vanish and suspects multiply, the trio must untangle two decades of betrayal—before the killer strikes again.

Murder, mayhem, and the Carolina gold rush: welcome back to the Indie, where retirement is anything but quiet.

Praise for Deadly Gold Rush:

"Deadly Gold Rush is a satisfyingly complex entwining of events and personalities that proves hard to put down."
~ Midwest Book Review

"Deadly Gold Rush caught my attention from the first sentence and kept me transfixed to the very end. Couldn’t put it down."
~ Readers’ Favorite Reviews

"Lively mystery bubbling with unforgettable characters and historical spirit."
~ Booklife Reviews

"Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees."
~ Kirkus Reviews

DEADLY GOLD RUSH Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Legal Thriller, Historical
Published by: Lystra Books & Literary Services, LLC
Publication Date: March 3, 2026
Number of Pages: 378 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 979-8992136357, Paperback
Series: The Indie Retirement Mystery Series, Book 2 | Each is a Standalone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Death in the Passage

The narrow alleyway walls muffled the gunshot as uptown Charlotte slept. It was one thirty in the morning on Tuesday, April 1.

The phone call didn’t last long.

“It’s me,” the caller said. “I need your help.”

“I’m listening.”

“I have a body.”

“Whose?”

“Chance Landry.”

“Where are you?”

“Lincoln Street. Inside the Rivafinoli Passage in South End. Next to the Queen Charlotte mural.”

“Anyone with you?”

The caller explained who else was still there.

“You leave. Tell them to stay with the body and wait for my call. I need to think.”

Three minutes later, the call was made to the only living person remaining in the passage who could help.

“I am going to text you an address.” Next, they explained what to do with Landry’s body when they got to the address.

“Are you kidding? He’s already dead.”

But the person giving instructions had no sense of humor. “Just do it.”

A text message followed with the address.

The person who received the message knew how to follow directions and did as they were told.

Chapter Two

Vengeance is Sweet

The 11:15 p.m. email on Craig Travail’s phone read: Your friends are about to suffer financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations. You have only yourself to blame.

What?

Travail read the email again, slower this time. He read it twice more. There was no author name. Just an unknown vengeanceissweet email address.

Travail exhaled. His email checking practice was a bad habit, a routine held over from his career when clients expected their lawyers to be available 24/7.

Nothing good ever came of his itch to scratch his email in-box for late-night messages, like now, when it would be twice as difficult to sleep after watching the late night local news—with its smorgasbord of crimes, collisions, and natural disasters—and reading this email.

One news story was about elder fraud, a reminder of how susceptible retirees are to financial fraud schemes. Was that what was coming for his friends at the Independence Retirement Community, which everyone called the Indie? Were the residents about to suffer financial ruin because of risky investments? If so, he’d be angry at the perpetrators for their heartless guile and frustrated with his friends for being so gullible.

The television show made the point, though, and he agreed, that adults spend most of their lives collecting assets to make retirement possible and the rest of their days worried if their accumulated treasure will last as long as they do, leading some retirees to make risky and uninformed choices with their nest eggs. Was that what his friends had done? Made bad choices with their money? Is that what the emailer taunted him about?

Travail’s instinct was to fire off a harsh response to the email with some choice lawyer-like words and warnings, but he ignored the bait—he suspected they wouldn’t respond anyway—and he punched the remote control instead.

The television screen faded to black, and his den fell silent, save for Blue’s rhythmic snores and his jerking legs. Travail’s black and tan coonhound must be dreaming, chasing ducks along the lake behind Travail’s cottage, as he was apt to do in real life, and as usual, failing to catch the waterfowl before they darted back into the water. Travail leaned over his club chair’s arm and let his free hand graze on Blue’s back until his pet stopped running in his sleep.

Maybe the email was a prank. Maybe, like him, a friend had become bored with life at the Indie. And yet, the email bothered him.

Whose lives—which friends’ lives—were about to be shattered? And how? And for that matter, why? And what did he have to do with it?

Since moving a year earlier into the Independence Retirement Community, Travail had made two best friends, Harriet Keaton and Yeager Alexander, and several other good friends. He’d met many other retirees, some whose company he tolerated and some whose company he could do without. Either way, he didn’t want to see anyone hurt. He certainly didn’t want his close friends to suffer, and he didn’t want to be the person responsible for their pain.

The flame on the candle he’d lit this morning was down to the base of the wick. He turned away from it, detesting the severe loneliness of March 31.

There was no logic for feeling so alone—what with all the crimes, court cases, and historic mysteries Harriet, Yeager, and he navigated since he arrived at the Indie and the time they spent together—but it was hard to control his feelings, especially the feeling of being by himself. A Jewish resident told him about the tradition of lighting a candle on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. It felt loving to strike the match in Rachael’s honor, but as day became night, Travail’s mood shifted. It had been three years to the day.

The flickering light had a strobe-like effect on the things that reminded him of Rachael: her furniture, her quilts, her artwork, her pictures. Travail missed Rachael’s kindness, her playfulness, her creativity, and the rituals they shared. The flicker made the past too present, making him long for another night and morning and day together. She was here, there, and everywhere, but nowhere at all.

Assertive is what he’d needed to be in the moment that changed everything. He and Rachael were in the mountains at a high-elevation rental for a getaway when a freak storm rolled in and dumped six inches of snow on the ground. Rachael decided to drive to the local general store to stock the pantry for their cozy weekend together. He had a work call and offered to go with her after he finished.

“It’s just snow,” she’d said.

“Okay, but be careful,” he’d responded.

“Always, dear.” Then she kissed him on the mouth, patted his bottom, and walked out of his life forever.

The news came in a phone call from the local police. First came the shock, then the grief, and then the Monday-morning quarterbacking. He should have insisted Rachael let him drive her. He should have done more to protect her. If he had, maybe she would still be here. Maybe the out-of-control delivery truck that hit the black ice would have killed him instead of her, or maybe Travail could have prevented the accident.

Spring in North Carolina was supposed to be about new beginnings, not endings, with the dogwoods and azaleas in bloom, but his eyes grew wet from the memories, and he felt a sudden heaviness in his body.

He looked at the email again and became resolute. For sure, he would not make the same mistake twice with the people he cared about. He would protect them.

But who was behind the email?

Whoever wanted sweet vengeance against his friends wanted vengeance against him too, because their pain would be his pain. The question for his lawyer brain—used to solving riddles for years—was: who despised them and him that much?

Like an unexpected electric shock, the answer startled him. This email was exactly the kind of plot his nemesis, Robert Elkin, would conjure. If Elkin hurt Harriet, Yeager, and his other close friends, he hurt Travail worse.

But wasn’t Elkin no longer a threat? They’d exposed his concealment of the truth about the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, avoided death at the hands of his father, pushed him out of his Big Law leadership position, and seen to it that the state bar took his law license. Elkin no longer had big-time lawyer power. The only thing he had was anger, resentment, and a low-paying job as a paralegal with a former client, though Travail didn’t know the client’s name or their business. It was a sharp drop from the level of influence that had made the man dangerous, and yet, there was reason to be cautious. Elkin was cunning and would hold a grudge till death do they part.

Travail leaned his head back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and pondered the text again: financial ruin, untold heartbreak, and trials and tribulations.

Harriet was too smart to get caught up in a financial scam. Not so with Yeager. He was impulsive, likely to jump at the chance to possess something shiny because it might become shinier.

Travail pulled an olive-colored sweatshirt over his t-shirt, woke Blue, and took him into the backyard to do his business under the stars. While he waited, Travail glanced across Lost Cove Lake to Harriet’s cottage. He inhaled the fresh night air, and he marveled at the main building’s reflection on the lake’s surface. Harriet’s lights were out. She, an early riser, must be asleep.

Seeing Harriet’s peaceful cottage raised a question he’d been pondering. Should he ask her on a date? Carrie Roberts, the Indie Gossip Queen, thought so and often shared her opinion.

Most days, it seemed like the right decision not to ask Harriet—or anyone else, for that matter—on a date. Three years wasn’t that long, really, since Rachael died. And yet, here he was, caught in a web he’d spun for himself, trapped somewhere between what he no longer had and the companionship he wanted but resisted. Harriet was his friend. Should he keep it that way?

Harriet would most likely turn him down anyway. He was a project, and he knew it, starting with the lesson she’d had to teach him last year that retirement living is not life’s dead end but a fresh path forward. And now, with him being a sixty-six-year-old widower afraid to address his feelings, she’d be quick to beg off.

Blue finished up, and the two headed inside. His watch told him it was a new day. He blew out the dwindling flame on the candle and headed to his bedroom, where Blue was already curled up on the end of Travail’s queen-size bed. Wearing only striped boxers and a white cotton t-shirt, Travail pulled the covers up to his chin. With a good night’s sleep, he’d be fresh in the morning to put his effort into stopping Elkin. He still had his law license, after all, and as Yeager would tell him from time to time, “You ain’t dead yet.”

He closed his eyes and imagined tying a dry fly rig with two nymphs on a dropper line, the key to catching river trout on and below the surface at the same time. This falling-asleep system was better than counting backward from three hundred by threes. It worked its charm in less than five minutes.

Travail didn’t know when he dozed off that the murder train had left the station. He didn’t know when he began to snore that someone had already set the trap for his friends. And he didn’t know when he fell into a deep sleep that when the sun came up, he would ponder, and not for the first time, how he could have been so wrong to believe retirement living would ever be boring or lonely.

***

Author Bio:

Landis Wade is a recovering trial lawyer turned author who writes award-winning mysteries and legal thrillers with a historical bent. His publication credits include six works of fiction, eight non-fiction writing books, many short stories, and a podcast that produced 400 episodes of author interviews and writing discussions. His first novel in his Indie Retirement Mystery series, Deadly Declarations, won ten awards and Kirkus Reviews said of his second in the series, Deadly Gold Rush, that “Mystery fans who love Richard Osman’s cozy Thursday Murder Club books will enjoy the similarly energetic take on mystery-loving retirees.” Landis splits his time between Charlotte, Durham, and the North Carolina mountains. He is the recipient of the 2025 Founders Award for service to the Charlotte Writers Club and the literary community.

Catch Up With Landis Wade:

LandisWade.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @LandisWade
Instagram - @landiswrites
Threads - @landiswrites
YouTube - @authorlandiswade
Facebook - @authorlandiswade

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14 June, 2026

Debdatta Dasgupta June 14, 2026 0

Mist In The Willows by Lucy Linne

Mist In The Willows
Lucy Linne
(Spirit Fleet Chronicles, #1)
Publication date: August 25th 2025
Genres: Adult, Gothic, Horror, Urban Fantasy

Discharged unexpectedly from the British military at the peak of her career, Jade Palmer must find a way to rebuild her life. Haunted by strange nightmares and fragments of her own fractured memories, Jade finds herself thrust among unfriendly family and unfamiliar friends. Her only comfort is in the cobbled streets, quaint cottages and winding river paths that hold the happy echoes of her childhood.

But in the local cemetery, older than living memory, a strange mist rises among the willows in the depths of the night… and with it, a vengeful entity that seems to stalk Jade’s every footstep with terrifying purpose.

Alongside her faithful dog, Cannelloni, and wild-child sister, Leela, Jade must fight once more—braving a tangled journey through ancient supernatural lore, and the depths of her own hubris, to protect those she loves.

For the dead have truths to tell… and their retribution comes as cold as the grave.

Mist in the Willows, the first entry in the Spirit Fleet Chronicles, is a chilling and cozy gothic novel about loss, cupcakes, annoying family, mysterious steampunk strangers, and the ways in which violence may haunt us all.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo

—

CHAPTER 1:

The first time I heard the chilling whisper calling my name, it came from Grandad’s old analogue radio.

I was unpacking the five sad-looking boxes containing all my worldly belongings and didn’t pay much attention. Dad stored them in his basement, and spiders were crawling out of every corner.

When I picked up my phone to check for messages, a mega-arachnid scuttled on eight hairy legs along my fingers. It had insidiously blended in with the black case of my mobile and became invisible. Now it took up most of the screen. I dropped my phone on the coffee table and spotted its mate, the same incredible size, scampering across the floor and under the couch. At least Grandad went to bed early and didn’t see this infestation I’d brought to his cherished houseboat.

I ran from the lounge to the open plan kitchen and grabbed a glass to trap the intruders.

As I passed by, the radio on the windowsill abruptly switched to a hoarse faltering static.

The music returned as I shook the glass out of the barge door, tossing the eight-legged giant, into the grass by the river path. The other one, nowhere to be found. I regretted trying to trap and release them. I would have rather squashed them with my hiking boot. But cleaning bug goo off the floor is a task I will avoid where possible. A flamethrower would be ideal but I’m out of those since I’m back home. So, the spider got to live another day.

As I rinsed that glass to put it away, I noticed it.

Wait a minute? What’s going on with the radio?

Standing beside the little radio, where it sat since my childhood, gathering dust on the windowsill, I listened to the static.

It had a quality about it that I found almost obscene. It sounded alive, fluctuating from deep cavernous whispers to a strange whistling. I fled the kitchen when it pitched that abominable screech of steak knives against dinner plates.

The static immediately faded away, returning to Grandad’s favourite sixties rock radio station. Back in the lounge, I punched a pile of empty boxes flat to bin them. Not that I wasn’t glad the static stopped. But something about the way it had switched so fast bothered me, as if it knew I had moved away from the radio.

Moments later I returned to the kitchen. The music shifted to static in an instant. I stood next to Grandad’s ancient kettle, plugging in my coffee maker, a survivor since my student years in the dorms.

How could it be so loud and not wake up Alan?

Its pulsing tones surged, like the call of a bottomless pit, then lulled to a sinister hum at the very edge of hearing. Every time it came, I cringed, as if plunging into neck deep water with ice cubes bobbing all around me.

Before I knew it, I had crossed the room and stood with one hand on my dog’s collar.

“You don’t like it either, huh? Good boy,” I said, as Cannelloni sat back down among the window seat cushions. The static melted away behind me, the music replacing it. Cannelloni tucked his head in his paws again with a huff.

I glanced back at the old radio. Had it sounded a bit like whispers in some guttural language? Surely, I was over thinking it. It could be nothing but static.

I headed for the desk to start my Wi-Fi set up, hoping to stream a movie and chill after the gruelling day, moving in with Grandad. And most importantly, to make sure her messages would come through on a stronger signal.

I reached and patted my cargos’ pocket, the little one with the zip on my hip. It was still there: I felt the round shape of her compact mirror. The only thing I have of her, until we meet again.

I felt better. There are good things in the world, and good days ahead.

As I pulled up the lid of my laptop, in the split second before the dark screen lit up, your face flashed at me.

It’s only been happening in the last few years or so, that my reflection startles me, looking like you. I’ve always had your impossibly thick and straight, dirty blonde hair. And your bushy brows over cobalt blue eyes. But most of all, in my late thirties, I’m now your age. The way I remember you. You would be much older today but if we could somehow meet, across death and time, both aged 38, we’d look like twins. Anyway, it only lasted a fraction of a second, and then the desktop lit up and I was looking for a movie right away.

Ten minutes later, I glanced suspiciously at the radio. Nothing.

Twenty minutes later, nothing.

Halfway through an outbreak of a superbly gruesome zombie apocalypse, I still couldn’t stop thinking about the static. Was I causing it? It only happened when I neared the radio.

Run a test?

I hesitated. So many other things to worry about at this moment. Why did I even care if the songs were interrupted a few times?

Because of how freakin weird this noise sounded.

I paused the movie, resigned to my curiosity. I edged along the back of the loveseat towards the kitchen. The music staggered as I reached the counter. Just to pretend to myself I didn’t come to test the radio, I reached out and grabbed a handful of cookies from the doggie jar.

The static soared.

Sounded like a cold gust whistling savagely out of a black chasm. Then dulled to the throaty whisper of an unsettling breeze through dead leaves. That did it. I got the hell out of the kitchen.

Joining Cannelloni at the window seat, I felt an unreasonable amount of relief that the music returned on the radio. Cannelloni thought so too. He gave such a profound growl he even startled me a bit. He bared his teeth at the kitchen. Not like him at all.

“Don’t worry, just a funny noise!” I said, letting him slurp the cookies on the palm of my hand. My gaze wandered back to the spot I had been standing.

A funny noise that comes only when I’m close to the radio. But how close, exactly?

I stood up, arms crossed and edged to the back of the couch marking the end of the lounge, not quite entering the kitchen.

“Ok Cannelloni let’s see, one step. Two steps, three…”

The music faltered. I stopped moving.

I leaned back as far as I could go without shifting my feet. The music flowed. I chuckled.

Not because I wasn’t scared. More like, because I was getting too scared.

Then I leaned forward.

The music faltered.

I tried to hold my balance, bent as far as I could reach like some demented yoga teacher who forgot which warrior pose they were demonstrating. A sudden fear, out of nowhere.

Rivulets of crimson streaking dry sand. Something solid in the blood. Glistening strips of sinew. Twitching on the red mud. Not again!

The gaps in the music, for some reason, flashed images from my nightmares in my mind.

I straightened up. This wasn’t funny anymore.

I’m good at pushing the memory of the nightmares away during the day and focusing on my work and everything else I have to worry about. This bloody radio thing was getting on my nerves.

I jumped with a yelp as a sharp pinch came from behind my left knee.

“Cannelloni! What are you doing?”

The dog had bitten hard into my trouser leg and was pulling at it. As if he wanted me to leave the kitchen.

“Aren’t you clever,” I said, disentangling myself and coming to sit with him by the window seat. “It’s ok, I’m staying here, you can snooze again!” I scratched under his ears until he turned around full circle on his cushions and plopped in the comfiest spot.

At least I know. It’s about four steps into the kitchen.

That would mean I can’t reach the counter without setting off the weird.

But I was done experimenting. Hated the way the static made me feel, and what it did to my dog too.

This boy, the only good thing about this new, civilian life, was normally a big bundle of cuddles. At the moment he looked perturbed, ears twitching. Cannelloni’s natural state was passed out, belly up, and fast asleep on his giant plushie bed. Ever since I brought him here from the shelter after Easter, he acted as if Grandad ’s houseboat has always been his rightful kingdom, where he reigned supreme and absolute. Yet now he kept sitting up, fretting, scanning the room with anxious eyes. Tiny whimpers squeaking at the back of his throat. I sensed danger too. But I couldn’t understand why.

I cast my gaze around the empty room.

I felt watched.

The dark water of the Thames sparkled under the moonlit sky from every side of the semi-circular cabin. I hated the glass, U shaped wall of the main cabin, but that’s what you get when living in a wide beam Dutch barge. The lounge was basically an open balcony. Anyone could be watching me from the dark river paths on either side of the banks, and I had zero visibility at night. Meanwhile, I lived and breathed in full view, unless I went to hide in my cabin at the back of the houseboat.

I went around lowering the window blinds post-haste.

Better. Only the kitchen window remained. I hesitated. I wanted to close those blinds too, but that would get me in the vicinity of the radio.

Pressing my hand to my brow, I felt sweat droplets at the root of my hair.

I took two steps forward. I was nearing the invisible mark I’d noted mentally, on the kitchen floor.

Two steps more. The music was faltering. Maybe if I went really fast it wouldn’t happen.

I dashed to the cord hanging at the casement, leaning in, real quick, my hand reaching out to the blind. The static came loud.

Flustered, I backed into the lounge again, and the songs came back on.

I sat down onto the couch, feeling like a coward.

The radio on the sill kept singing its quiet and perpetual song.

Grandad never changes station or switches the music off. He turns the sound up when he is around, which isn’t often. He doesn’t think the kitchen is a man’s place, he only comes to fill the water can when he looks after Grandma’s flowerpots. He treasures her little terrace garden in the front of the barge. He lowers the volume when he heads for his berth to watch his shows, the music from the radio playing quietly through the days and nights in the main cabin.

I wanted to close the kitchen shades but an irrational fear of going near the radio pinned me to the spot.

“Don’t be a twat, this happens all the time. People moving around a device can mess up the signal. Just fucking go,” I thought.

I moved to the window directly and lowered the blinds to the sound of loud static. It seemed eerily similar to fast, angry whispers.

And this time I could not deny it.

The radio called my name.

Jade… JADE!

OK, I hadn’t imagined that.

I ran back to the lounge to grab Cannelloni by the collar. He growled at the radio, irritated. I led him to my berth, shutting the door. We never went near the kitchen for the rest of that night.

Quite annoying, because the Wi-Fi signal is terrible in my cabin, so I had to go stand at the door every ten minutes to check for her messages.

None came.

Seemed ungrateful to complain. Grandma’s bedroom: Hands down the biggest room I had ever called my own. Walk in wardrobe. En suite bathroom. A recliner armchair, proper Victorian style. Fancy letter writing desk, with the miniature drawers to put in useless shit like ink bottles. Good to store the USB cables I keep losing. Queen bed. Four memory foam pillows. An army of multi shaped squishy cushions on a crochet throw. Fluffy duvet and matching dog blanket for Cannelloni (that’s store bought, I got it so my dog feels like he fits in). Lush. But still, I couldn’t chill enough to finish my movie.

I kept thinking about the radio saying my name.

In the cosy safety of my berth, it all seemed ridiculous. Of course, the radio didn’t say my name.

Probably someone spoke from outside, maybe someone else called Jade. Walking past with a friend.

I pressed play in my movie for the umpteenth time, getting comfy on the bed.

Lost cause. I couldn’t pay attention. Not even when the hordes of undead swarmed down the streets towards the hapless group of survivors hiding in the rubble. I was absolutely unable to stop wondering who had called my name outside the boat, in the dark.

That voice spoke to me.

Unwelcome memories from a few of hours earlier made my teeth grind as my jaw tightened.

“You’re staying with Alan then? How you gonna get yourself a nice man if you’re living with your Grandfather?” Their old man cackles, phlegmy snarling that ended in ugly coughs, had resounded across the river. Grandad ‘s friends sailed by leisurely, at a speed easy for him to jump over from their boat on to our deck. They wiped sweaty foreheads with beefy hands and stared at me while Grandad hopped on board.

“I’m not looking for nice,” I said, and watched their confusion halt their sneers. They’d thought I’d say I’m not looking for a man. All three of them took a gulp of their cans of lager, manspreading their knees a little wider as their boat bench creaked under their weight.

“What you looking for then?”

“None of your business.”

“Don’t be a smart ass,” Grandad told me under his breath, as he waved goodbye to the six seater rental sailing on. His friends don’t own a boat. And they take up two seats each.

“You look after your Grandfather now!” one of them called back to me.

“I will.” But I won’t be doing the kind of looking after that you lot expect of me.

“Your Grandma kept the Lady Thomasine spotless!” said another, looking over his shoulder.

“She had cinnamon buns hot from the oven every morning!” called the third over the growing distance between the boats.

Which meant that Alan had already complained to them about me. I only just moved in today for fuck’s sake.

“Grandad, can you please not discuss me with your friends?” I said. All I got in return, was a scowl in the direction of his laundry basket, parked in front of the washing machine. And a loud slam of his cabin door.

As if.

“Adults wash their own clothes,” I called after him. “And the bakery in the village has excellent cinnamon buns.”

Distant calls from the river bend reached me, and more guffawing. Something along the lines of ‘get in that kitchen, woman!’

I was used to their banter devolving, from barely friendly to openly woman-bashing, in T minus half a can of lager; I didn’t reply.

“They don’t mean anything, just joking!” shouted another one of them, as I turned around to look at them. Their shoulders were shaking from laughter; they found the women in the kitchen comment hilarious.

“Watch out for my high school mate Caden at the Lock today,” I called back.

“Why, you gonna marry the new Lock keeper?”

“No. His wife’s with the Port of London Authority, she has the power to breathalyse those suspected of boating under the influence.” I grinned as they choked on their snorts. “Have a nice evening now.” As they glowered wordlessly at me, I slammed the deck door behind me.

I generally never met Grandad’s friends, apart from on their river pub crawl weekends, when they picked him up and dropped him off. It’s an aspect of life back home, that I’m not looking forward to: seeing the three bigots Alan calls my ‘uncles’. Since I was a girl, they spent every moment of our brief weekly meetings cracking jokes at me, because apparently, I’m doing girlhood wrong.

I’m great at fixing the plumbing and maintaining the generator around the boat, every time I visited. Who cares if I don’t know how to operate the oven; when shit kept breaking after Alan tried to repair them three and four times over, Grandma called me; and I got the job done. Grandad hated it. Called me an odd ball ever since I was young. When I grew up, he and his friends took the piss every time I pulled out my toolbox. Which, incidentally, is bigger than any of theirs.

So, it had to be them, they probably came for a walk down the river path, calling my name outside the boat in the night. Stupid of me to buy it.

I turned to sleep, a tight knot in my stomach. Grandad’s friends are arseholes.

Not the best first night back home.

But I guess this is not really home. Just where I stay for now.

Cannelloni’s soft fur felt warm against my side, as he plopped down and curled up with a happy blink.

“Our first real night together, huh? I’m so glad to have you, boy,” I said, throwing an arm around him. The way he acted towards me with complete trust, as if we’d known each other out whole lives; it was amazing.

But as the dog fell fast asleep, I stayed wide awake in the dark. So, you see, Mum, it’s not been fun moving in with Grandad.

***

Jade paused and took a sip from her beer bottle. Her short ponytail waved in the breeze and brushed against the tombstone. The sun hung heavy on the horizon. Darkness draped more than half the graveyard. The thousand-year-old church, nestled among the graves and willow trees, cast a long and wide shadow over the grounds. The gust that blew from those darker tombs under its shadow, brought a chill to where Jade sat. She hugged her knees and shivered.

The golden disc of the sun vanished behind the treetops. As the world darkened around her and the evening birdsong gave away to silence, her blue eyes were vague, lost in thought.

The screen of her phone flashed, and she snatched it up. She looked at the message, but it wasn’t the one she wanted. She rolled her eyes.

“Leela won’t quit,” she muttered and threw the phone on the grass beside her again.

She turned to the grave and looked at the violin carved there. “Only thing I’m glad about is getting to chat with you whenever I like, now, Mum. I missed this when I had to be away all the time. But the shitty thing is I’ve never had a real, grownup civilian job in my life. I need one, to afford a place of my own. Clearing Grandad’s friends’ laptops from viruses is not going to get me a deposit for a flat.”

Taking another sip of her beer, she gazed at the tall-stemmed glass that stood, untouched, at the step of the gravestone, full to the brim with red wine.

“Sorry for the cheap bubbly, Mum, I can’t afford your posh vino at the moment. I’ll bring you better soon. Everything’s gone to hell right now. I never planned to retire from the Corps, but those nightmares! They just fucked everything up. Got a diagnonsense now. No more tours for me. And typical Dad, he refused to let me stay with them. What a great way to welcome me home at the airport! At least he said he will pay for therapy to sort out the nightmares. But only because I’ll never hold down a job if I can’t sleep through the night. Not that he cares, other than making sure I’ll never again ask him to stay in my childhood bedroom. She’s turned it into a jewellery crafts studio.” Jade rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I honestly don’t mind living on the boat. Really. Easier to get here from the mooring on my bike. Just hope that weird stuff with the radio will stop so I can get some work done and get some money saved. To move out as soon as possible.”

She finished her beer in one last sip. Blond locks had come loose from her ponytail and fallen over her face as she put her bottle away in her backpack. The tips of her hair were sun-bleached to almost white by nearly two decades in the desert sun; in contrast to her once fair skin, now tanned to a deep bronze.

Movement among the distant graves made her look up. Someone had crossed the cemetery gates in the twilight. Jade instinctively hid behind her mother’s tombstone and watched him follow the winding path among the tombs.

“That’s a bit late for visiting this place,” she muttered. She waited to see which grave he would visit, ready to make a mental note of its location and check the tombstone later on. He looked young, even hunched as he was, with his face in the shadows; his gait was light and his pace swift. Jade guessed someone that age was probably not here for a partner; more likely, like herself, for his mum or dad…

Her curiosity slowly turned into a frown of surprise. He’d kept going. He crossed the path into the grove of the willows. And still he walked on.

“Why that way, that side is the old burial ground.” She crouched deeper and leaned to peer from the other side of her mother’s tombstone. He crossed to the pitch-black darkness at the back of the old church. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see any details of his face or clothing; it was too dark on that side. The ancient burial ground was off the path and the light of the lampposts didn’t reach it. Only the dim pearly starlight granted some shapes to the vista of mossy headstones crumbling there. No one had been buried there in the last two hundred years; the latest dates on those stones were in the eighteen hundreds. No fresh flower bouquets were left on those graves, and moss grew on the stone unchecked, deepening the cracks and eating away at the skull symbols etched there. No one ever cleared away the ivy growing over those names.

Why would anyone go there?

A clink of glass alerted her that she had almost knocked over the wine sitting at the front of the tombstone. Jade lost all interest in the stranger.

“Sorry Mum.” Making sure the wine was safe, Jade picked up her phone once again.

“No new messages.”

She sighed.

“I keep re-reading the old messages: No dates yet, but everything is short notice. People get told to pack at noon and fly out before sunset. It could happen any minute. I know it will be my turn soon. Ami wrote that three days ago. I replied: I miss you. I can’t believe it’s taking so long. It looks like chaos over there, it’s on the news every day. Are you ok. One day later, without getting a reply, I texted again: I haven’t heard your actual voice in four weeks. I can’t stand it.” She paused.

“That text was so embarrassing,” Jade muttered. “Throwing my own pity party while I’m back home, and meanwhile she is in the desert, her deployment extended and she’s dealing with the madness of the evacuation. I wish I had deleted it.” She bit her lip.

“Thirty-two hours later, came a reply: I know, I miss you too. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I just never imagined anything like this. How are you? How is Cannelloni? Is he settling in? Happy to have a new family?”

A chuckle. Then Jade got serious again looking at her screen.

“That’s the last I’ve heard from her. I replied: Cannelloni ‘s the best! He’s with Grandad for a few weeks already, I dropped him off first. You’d think he’s been living on the boat all his life! Grandad sent me photos. I wrote this on the last days of packing back on the base,” Jade murmured wistfully. “That dog is so cute I’m actually looking forward to moving day so I can see him. I guess your plan worked. I’m not 100% devastated to be leaving. There’s this teeny, tiny part of me that can’t help being happy. So damn happy about a stupid dog.”

Jade sighed.

“There’s been no reply since.” She fidgeted with the phone in her hands. “I’ve been sending her photos of Cannelloni nonstop since I arrived at the boat, but they haven’t been delivered. I wish I could tell her how awesome he is! I was worried he’d have forgotten me over the few weeks I had to leave him with Grandad and go back to base to pack and check out of the accommodation. But he remembered me right away! Fell in my arms like we are best friends. Maybe he’ll always know I’m the human who came and took him out of the dog charity, I guess. Maybe that’s why he likes me so well. I’m so glad I got him, Mum. These feel like the worst days of my life and yet he makes me smile all the time. Ami was so right telling me to get a dog.”

The night chill made her shudder.

“I think I’ll head home, Mum. Love you always.” She picked up the glass and poured the wine slowly on the grass covering the grave. She finished the silent goodbye by brushing a kiss on her own fingertips and pressing them for a heartbeat on the stone, where the name Evelyn could just be discerned carved in silver against the darkness.

“See you soon, Mum.”

Jade stood.

“Hang on, hang on. Where the hell did he go?”

She was alone in the cemetery. The stranger was no longer among the Celtic crosses and gothic inscriptions of the ancient tombs, nor had he come back down the path.

“There’s nowhere to go from that side,” Jade said, puzzled. She scanned the ivy-covered wall surrounding the churchyard. It was too tall to climb over. And yet the man had somehow managed to get out.

“Ok Mum, I think next time I’ll bring a ginger beer. Clearly, alcohol doesn’t go well with late evening chats in the cemetery.”

She scanned the darkness one last time.

The only thing moving where the stranger had been was a veil of pearly white mist, flowing over the grass like wisps of coiling tongues licking the gravestones.

She shrugged.

“Whatever. Bye, Mum.”

She walked briskly down the solitary path and through the cemetery gates, where her bike stood tied to a railing. Just like Jade’s trainers and backpack, the bike was well used, but pristinely clean. She welcomed the sounds of laughter and clinking cutlery that came from the garden of the village pub down the road. It was always too quiet inside the cemetery, once you crossed through those gates.

She’d often wondered how the ancient stone wall around the churchyard blocked all auditory evidence of life—no voices at all, even though the riverside path was often busy with couples or families deep in conversation as they strolled by the Thames. No crunching of footfalls, no dogs barking, no bubbling cavitation of boats zooming past, no music, no clicking of bicycles’ wheels—but the burble and swoosh of the river was ever present. It made the cemetery feel like an isolated world of its own.

Like it somehow cancelled out all living sound.

Author Bio:

Doodler. Living in a perpetual state of Halloween. Fueled by chocolate. Boxer. Unapologetic introvert. Adopted by three cats and a cat-sized dog. Purple everything. Psychology student. Goth. Can be bribed with artsy, hard cover notebooks. Ghost friendly. Will be summoned by freshly brewed coffee. Suspiciously familiar with Greco-Roman mythology, and several dead languages commonly used for demon summoning. Wall-frames maps. Devout observer of cupcake o’clock. Feminist Motto: Skulls, Bats and Witches’ Hats. Spinning while audiobooking. All you need is fluffy socks and a pint of nice-cream. Frequently channels Disney Villains. Names her house spiders. Owner of a pet GAMER, whom she’s kept in his man cave, on a diet of pizza and horror movies, for well over two decades.

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