Prologue

THE DRIVE TO the dingy bar outside of the city had been rough when the directions led him down a series of dirt roads before reaching what managed to loosely be called civilization. The bell above the door chimed a dull sound, barely registering his presence. He shook his rain-soaked umbrella, drawing a few curious glances his way before the three men at the bar decided their cold beer and stale peanuts were more interesting than him.

The bartender, a man in his late fifties with a marine tattoo on a bicep, asked him if he wanted anything. Though kind, if the bartender had offered him a bottle of the Alps’ finest water, he wouldn’t accept—not in a place like this—but he was trying to blend in.

“Whatever is on tap,” he said, and found a table in a back corner.

Although he had no intention of staying longer than necessary, the location offered him anonymity. The front door, with its surprisingly clean window, opened and brought with it a strong wind and his associate. The new arrival scanned the room, nodded at the others, and crossed the dark bar.

“You’re late.”

“I’m here now. You have something for me, Hewitt?”

He’d made a mistake giving the man a name, even if it wouldn’t lead back to him. They’d agreed not to use names, not here, not ever. He removed a black, zippered deposit bag from the inside pocket of his rain slicker and slid it across the table.

The man across from him chuckled and unzipped the bag.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hewitt asked, his whisper a low hiss. He quieted when the bartender set a beer in front of him.

His associate raised an eyebrow and continued to wear his smile. “You’ve seen too many movies.” He closed the bag and leaned forward. “Do you honestly think anyone here cares who you are or what you’re doing? At least you dressed for the occasion—kind of.”

Hewitt stared at the man across from him, confident that despite his off-balanced behavior at times, he’d get the job done. History had proven he was capable, if not entirely trustworthy, and willing to do anything—for a price.

“You’re forgetting something,” he said.

Hewitt hated this man. “It’s in the bag.”

Another chuckle. “In the bag, I like that.” He pulled the colored photograph from the deposit bag and studied the image. “How’d you find me?”

“Does it matter?”

“I like to know what I’m getting into.”

Hewitt studied him, unsure now of his idea but knowing he had to move forward. “All you need to know is I can make your other . . . inconvenience go away.”

“And what might that be?”

Hewitt pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket and slid it across the table.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“You know who I work for?” Hewitt asked.

“I checked it out.”

“Then you know I can do what I say,” Hewitt said, growing impatient. “Will it be a problem?”

“No, no problem.” Instead of returning the picture to the bag, he slipped it into the pocket of his dark, denim shirt. “You going to drink this?” he asked before he lifted Hewitt’s beer and drank deeply.

From Chapter One

JORDAN EASED THE rented SUV into the graveled parking lot of the lakeside lodge. Nestled in the thick pine forest surrounding Moosehead Lake, the Highlands Lodge reminded him of the fishing camp his family frequented in Alaska.

He stepped out and walked around to the back of the vehicle, breathing in the fresh northern air. Though nothing like his hometown of Stewart Crossing, which was tucked away on a remote Alaskan bay, Moose Creek, Maine, was a pleasant escape from the spring heat of North Carolina, where he operated the main branch of Eagle Wilderness Journeys.

The parking lot was empty, but he heard voices coming from the back of the lodge, laughter carrying through the trees and echoing over the water. Adam, his college roommate and the reason Jordan trekked up north, ambled across the gravel and pulled Jordan into a big hug. Considering Adam stood four inches shorter than Jordan and weighed thirty pounds less, it wasn’t easy.

“Dang, it’s good to see you.”

Jordan returned the amiable smile. “You look happy.”

“Wait till you meet her.” Adam opened the back of the SUV and lifted the duffel out before Jordan objected. “You’re going to love her. I mean, whoever thought I’d ever be monogamous.”

Jordan laughed, closed the back door, and followed Adam to the lodge. “If I recall, you didn’t know the meaning of the word throughout our senior year.”

“Well, yeah, but could you blame me?” Adam led him around the corner of the lodge and stopped. “Wait, there she is.”

Adam had described her perfectly. Girl-next-door pretty and fresh off the cheerleading squad, Grace was only a year younger than his friend. Her pale, blond curls bounced as she walked on long legs across the lawn. “She’s something all right. I wouldn’t have expected—”

It wasn’t often when life’s unexpected moments stunned Jordan into silence or immobilized him, but none stopped his breath quite like his first glimpse of the woman standing next to Adam’s fiancée.

“Who is she?”

“It’s Grace, man, who do you think . . . Ah.” Adam nudged Jordan’s ribs with his elbow and laughed. “That’s Heather, Grace’s maid of honor.”

Jordan didn’t want to use the word “dumbstruck,” but at the moment, he couldn’t formulate another. His sister would have called him “twitterpated” and normally he would put her in a headlock until she cried “mercy” and take it back, but it had been a long time since she’d had cause to tease him about a girl.

“Hey, buddy, close your mouth before you drool.”

Jordan wiped his mouth before he realized Adam was messing with him. “Don’t forget, I can still kick your golf-playing butt from here to next Tuesday.”

“Why don’t I introduce you instead, and then you can owe me one.”

***

Excerpt from Shadow of Betrayal by Blaire Morgan. Copyright 2026 by Blaire Morgan. Reproduced with permission from Blaire Morgan. All rights reserved.

ONE

Over the Water

Grief is a scab that I can’t stop picking at, no matter how hard I try. It pokes at me now as I sit in my truck on the deserted ferry dock, surrounded by dense morning fog and waiting for the boat to take me across an expanse of dark water to a house rumored to be cursed.

My fingers trace a photograph taped to my dashboard. My hand trembles, likely from an empty stomach or sleeplessness, as both are constant companions. But I outline the beloved face, forever frozen, like a precious object in amber. Lost to me in the real world, calling to me from the next.

The ferry slides into the dock in front of me with a bump against the pilings. A lone figure moves across the empty deck, while an old, grizzled seaman stays inside the tiny wheelhouse. One captain and one first mate.

Tying the ferry off with ropes thicker than my arm, the mate’s actions are practiced and steady. He lowers a ramp and waves me forward. Ever so slowly, I roll across the water, fighting against holding my breath—the superstition I’ve clung to my entire life every time I cross a bridge. The thirty-minute sail to Salish Island, and tiny Monk’s Rock where my new job awaits, won’t allow me the indulgence, so I might as well continue to breathe despite my need to cling to anything, even a silly belief, to keep me safe.

After parking the truck as the mate directs, I wait as he shoves bright orange chock blocks around all four wheels, as if, without a barrier, my vehicle might drive itself into the sea.

I open my door a crack; our eyes meet. “Can I get out?”

“Of course.”

The first mate is rugged, with an air of confidence like he’d be good in a crisis. Smooth skin on his cheeks. Bright, inquisitive eyes. Broad shoulders visible under the bulky uniform of dark green waterproof overalls and a yellow slicker.

He holds out his hand as I step out. “Careful. Parts of the deck can be slippery when it’s this wet.”

Electricity flies between our fingers, and I pull away as if he poses a threat. I don’t want to feel desire. Intimacy is dangerous. But what does it mean that I’m looking at men again?

He gives me an odd look. “We’ll be underway in a few minutes.” He walks back to the ramp, where two men unload a battered white cargo van. The three of them quickly stack boxes to one side, lashing them in place. No doubt provisions for an island that’s home to five hundred hearty souls—and me. At least for the time it takes to complete the finish carpentry in one enormous house.

I’d once been a very good carpenter. Before my life exploded into hospitals and medical visits, overwhelming helplessness and all the endless paperwork connected to dying. Since then, I’ve done a poor job of putting myself back together. The rough pieces of grownup life refusing to fit a new pattern now that I’m alone.

My mentor Bill Thomlinson had started this project less than a week ago but fell and broke his leg in multiple places. After he came through the surgery, metal pins in place, he convinced the homeowner to take a chance on me.

“You need this,” he said to me over the phone, his voice surprisingly strong for someone coming out of anesthesia. “I’m done watching you flail. This job can save you. Don’t let me down.”

Now I stand on the deck of a private ferry while the engines roar out a steady vibration under my feet, and wonder if I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Crossing to the rail, I pin my eyes where the horizon must lie out beyond the mist. Clouds above and waves below. Indistinguishable from each other because of the heavy air, thick like smoke. My stomach lurches at the thought of everything that swims underneath my feet and the unknown depth of the sea.

Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . focus on the future. Focus on the work.

All I know about the job ahead of me is that the original carpenter vanished, forcing the owner, Cameron Lang, to bring in someone else, but then Bill ended up with pins in his leg. Given that I haven’t slept in so long that I shouldn’t be trusted with power tools, I hope that whatever the curse is, it doesn’t come in threes.

When I feel like I’m losing my mind, it helps to ground myself with something physical, so I grip the hard, cold rail in my hands. No matter how much ending my life is a viable choice, some small part of me refuses to let death win again.

The fog brightens, and we cross a physical line in space, plunging into a blue so pure it hurts my eyes. I gasp and grip even tighter as the sky separates from the water, which now spreads out below me in an endless black void.

“Not quite got your sea legs?” The first mate watches me with barely disguised curiosity.

Salt spray traces tears down my cheeks. I must look like I’m crying. “I didn’t expect to come out of the fog so abruptly.”

“It does that sometimes. Now you see it, now you don’t. No matter how often we sail through a bank, it always feels like magic.”

“I can imagine.”

He lingers nearby. Maybe there’s little to do once the ferry is underway. Although small talk is beyond my ability, part of me longs to hear his voice again, even if I say things that sound insane.

The temperature drops as we head further out to sea.

We’re soon dodging between uninhabited land masses. “Some of these islands are so low they disappear in high tide.” He gestures to the slopes of land. Rocky outcroppings just under the surface. Dangerous, like unexploded mines in the sand.

Panic rises. The water below us taunts me—my troubles will be over if I simply fall into a watery grave. The voice becomes louder and more insistent that I should do something I can’t take back. To keep my mind off the words in my head, my eyes search for the defiant piece of US rock thrusting out of Canadian waters. If I can make it back to dry land, I can get through another day.

“That’s what you’re looking for.” The first mate’s breath tickles my ear as he comes closer, speaking over the hum of the engines, the slap of water on the hull, and the cry of seagulls. My gaze follows his arm to the far-off outline of Salish Island, where Monk’s Rock perches off the northern-most end, tethered to each other by the narrowest of bridges.

“Take this.” He presses a business card into my hand. “Just in case.” Under his name is a single word, handyman, and a phone number.

“Adrian Han?” I look up, his eyes capturing mine. “I thought you were the first mate.”

“I’m a lot of things.” His words are casual, but something reflects in his expression, an emotion I can’t put my finger on.

“You might realize at some point there’s a project you need help with. Nothing against your skills. Everyone needs another set of hands once in a while.”

“I have a helper.”

“Chuck, yeah. I’ve worked with him before.” His tone is carefully neutral.

My new boss made the arrangements for Chuck to help me with anything that requires two people. Am I going to regret his choice?

“How do you know why I’m here?”

Adrian’s carefree expression returns. “Emily Grace Turner. Carpenter. Here to finish the End of the World.”

It’s a jolt that he knows anything about me when I’ve worked so hard to become invisible. He reads me again, and his tone turns reassuring. “It’s a small town—people talk.” He gestures toward the wood rack that fits over my camper shell and the bumper sticker: Proud Member of the Carpenter’s Union. “Plus, your name was on your ferry registration.”

I chuckle for thinking his words are sinister until a darker emotion, one that looks like fear, crosses his face. “That house—” His lips purse as if he holds something back. “Just call if you need help. Anytime.”

The island takes clearer shape, and Adrian returns to the wheelhouse, his absence palpable, as if a physical hole remains in the air after he’s gone.

He’s taken his fear with him, except for the small part he’s left behind with me.

***

Excerpt from The Haunting of Emily Grace by Elena Taylor. Copyright 2025 by Elena Taylor. Reproduced with permission from Elena Taylor. All rights reserved.

Manhattan, 1925

Everyone came to the Nightingale looking for something.

They didn’t have much else in common, the folks who snuck down the alley toward a single electric light that flickered like it had been forgotten for years and could burn out at any moment. You never knew who would whisper the password at the door under the light, who would make their way through the midnight velvet curtains that muffled loud laughter and louder jazz.

Maybe your family could have bought half of Fifth Avenue, or maybe you couldn’t even buy new shoes. More likely, you lived somewhere in between, with work that paid your bills and the hope, one day, of something a little more. At the Nightingale, it didn’t matter who you were in the daytime. If you could hold your booze and let loose on the dance floor and keep a secret for a stranger, you were in.

They came looking for excitement, for the thrill of breaking a law that no one liked anyway. They came to dance and drink and maybe find a new friend, the sort of friend who—¬ after a glass or three of champagne—¬ would meet them in a quiet corner to get a little bit friendlier.

They came because they loved the music, the way it curled through the air and carried them across the floor, the way the singer’s voice filled the room and made their hearts ache.

They came for the party. They came to escape.

If they were lucky, they could pretend that whatever waited for them back at home didn’t exist. They could lose themselves in the music and the arms of someone new. They could feel free, even if it would never last, because in that moment nothing mattered but the next dance, the next drink, the next hour.

If they were lucky, they found what they were looking for, and they left before trouble could find them.

But not everyone was lucky.

***

Vivian recognized the sound of danger before she even realized what she was hearing.

Twilight had settled on the city, humid and heavy and speckled with the glow of streetlamps. She and Beatrice Henry—¬ Beatrice Bluebird, as she was known at the Nightingale, where she sang six nights a week—¬ moved through it with the practiced carefulness of two women who were used to navigating New York’s streets alone. Their steps were quick, but their eyes were quicker, always on the lookout for a man who might be trouble or a cop who might be trailing them.

The Nightingale paid off the police weekly, like any other dance hall or juice joint. But everyone who worked there knew to be wary just the same.

It was that wariness that sent a prickle of warning down Vivian’s back when they were two blocks from the Nightingale’s back entrance.

“Bea—¬ ” Vivian tossed out a hand to stop her friend in the middle of the sidewalk. A few steps ahead of them, a cat yowled as it ran out of a narrow alley. “You hear that?”

For a moment, the only sound out of the ordinary was the distant grumble of thunder. Then Vivian heard it again.

“Look a little closer, pal.” The voice was low and menacing, snaking out of the shadows and clearly not meant to be overheard. “I want to make sure you and me is on the same page.”

“Viv—¬ ” Bea hissed, but Vivian couldn’t help herself; she took a step forward, just enough to peek down the alley.

Halfway down the narrow stretch of filthy brick walls, two men were just visible in the fast-¬ fading light. One had his back against a wall. He was the taller of the two, but he still shrank back from the menacing bulk of the second figure. That one loomed toward him, his wide shoulders cutting off any escape as he shoved some kind of paper toward the nervous man’s face.

“—told you, when I have something, I’ll let you—”

The menacing man shoved him against the wall, the gesture nearly careless enough to hide the violence of it. The voice broke off with a grunt of pain, but it had been enough. Usually, Vivian would have stayed far away from anything that sounded like a beating and wasn’t her business. But she recognized that voice.

“Don’t interrupt,” the menacing man snarled. “My boss don’t take kindly to rude fu—”

“It’s Spence,” Vivian hissed.

Bea tried to pull her away. “It’s not our business. We can tell Silence or Benny,” she whispered, naming two of the bruisers who worked at the Nightingale keeping customers—¬ and anyone else who needed it—¬ in line. “They’ll come handle it.”

“That’ll take too long.” Vivian shook her head, pulling away from Bea’s cautious hand and running down the alley toward trouble. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The bruiser barely glanced over his shoulder at her, just cocked his fist back and drove it, almost casually, into the nervous man’s stomach. He doubled over, heaving and gasping for air, as his assailant tipped his hat mockingly. “We’ll be seeing you soon, boyo. You can count on it.”

He was gone before Vivian could reach them. She stood, panting and staring at the gap between buildings where he had disappeared. A drizzling rain began to fall, plastering her hair against her cheeks. She wasn’t dumb enough to go after him.

“You okay, Spence?” she asked instead, turning toward the remaining man as he braced his hands on his knees.

“Swell,” croaked the Nightingale’s second bartender, a lanky, mouthy, handsome grump. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently chasing off the fella who was about to beat you to a pulp,” she said, stung. Spence had been working at the Nightingale all summer and still hadn’t managed to endear himself to any of the other staff. But Vivian had expected at least some gratitude. Instead, he scowled at her like she was the one who had just punched him in the stomach, not the one who had run the attacker off. “But no need to say thanks or anything.”

He hauled himself upright, wincing. “I had it handled, you know,” he said, still sounding resentful. “I didn’t need a rescue.”

“Sure you did, pal,” Bea said, joining them at last. “That was a stupid thing to do, by the way,” she added, glancing at Vivian as she opened her umbrella and held it over both their heads. “Be glad he didn’t have a friend waiting to beat the stuffing out of you too.”

“My stuffing’s doing just fine,” Spence groused, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and straightening his jacket and tie.

“What was that about?” Vivian asked, laying a hand on his arm. “Spence? Are you in trouble?”

***

Excerpt from LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN by Katharine Schellman. Copyright 2025 by Katharine Schellman. Reproduced with permission from Katharine Schellman. All rights reserved.

Manhattan, 1925

Everyone came to the Nightingale looking for something.

They didn’t have much else in common, the folks who snuck down the alley toward a single electric light that flickered like it had been forgotten for years and could burn out at any moment. You never knew who would whisper the password at the door under the light, who would make their way through the midnight velvet curtains that muffled loud laughter and louder jazz.

Maybe your family could have bought half of Fifth Avenue, or maybe you couldn’t even buy new shoes. More likely, you lived somewhere in between, with work that paid your bills and the hope, one day, of something a little more. At the Nightingale, it didn’t matter who you were in the daytime. If you could hold your booze and let loose on the dance floor and keep a secret for a stranger, you were in.

They came looking for excitement, for the thrill of breaking a law that no one liked anyway. They came to dance and drink and maybe find a new friend, the sort of friend who—¬ after a glass or three of champagne—¬ would meet them in a quiet corner to get a little bit friendlier.

They came because they loved the music, the way it curled through the air and carried them across the floor, the way the singer’s voice filled the room and made their hearts ache.

They came for the party. They came to escape.

If they were lucky, they could pretend that whatever waited for them back at home didn’t exist. They could lose themselves in the music and the arms of someone new. They could feel free, even if it would never last, because in that moment nothing mattered but the next dance, the next drink, the next hour.

If they were lucky, they found what they were looking for, and they left before trouble could find them.

But not everyone was lucky.

***

Vivian recognized the sound of danger before she even realized what she was hearing.

Twilight had settled on the city, humid and heavy and speckled with the glow of streetlamps. She and Beatrice Henry—¬ Beatrice Bluebird, as she was known at the Nightingale, where she sang six nights a week—¬ moved through it with the practiced carefulness of two women who were used to navigating New York’s streets alone. Their steps were quick, but their eyes were quicker, always on the lookout for a man who might be trouble or a cop who might be trailing them.

The Nightingale paid off the police weekly, like any other dance hall or juice joint. But everyone who worked there knew to be wary just the same.

It was that wariness that sent a prickle of warning down Vivian’s back when they were two blocks from the Nightingale’s back entrance.

“Bea—¬ ” Vivian tossed out a hand to stop her friend in the middle of the sidewalk. A few steps ahead of them, a cat yowled as it ran out of a narrow alley. “You hear that?”

For a moment, the only sound out of the ordinary was the distant grumble of thunder. Then Vivian heard it again.

“Look a little closer, pal.” The voice was low and menacing, snaking out of the shadows and clearly not meant to be overheard. “I want to make sure you and me is on the same page.”

“Viv—¬ ” Bea hissed, but Vivian couldn’t help herself; she took a step forward, just enough to peek down the alley.

Halfway down the narrow stretch of filthy brick walls, two men were just visible in the fast-¬ fading light. One had his back against a wall. He was the taller of the two, but he still shrank back from the menacing bulk of the second figure. That one loomed toward him, his wide shoulders cutting off any escape as he shoved some kind of paper toward the nervous man’s face.

“—told you, when I have something, I’ll let you—”

The menacing man shoved him against the wall, the gesture nearly careless enough to hide the violence of it. The voice broke off with a grunt of pain, but it had been enough. Usually, Vivian would have stayed far away from anything that sounded like a beating and wasn’t her business. But she recognized that voice.

“Don’t interrupt,” the menacing man snarled. “My boss don’t take kindly to rude fu—”

“It’s Spence,” Vivian hissed.

Bea tried to pull her away. “It’s not our business. We can tell Silence or Benny,” she whispered, naming two of the bruisers who worked at the Nightingale keeping customers—¬ and anyone else who needed it—¬ in line. “They’ll come handle it.”

“That’ll take too long.” Vivian shook her head, pulling away from Bea’s cautious hand and running down the alley toward trouble. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The bruiser barely glanced over his shoulder at her, just cocked his fist back and drove it, almost casually, into the nervous man’s stomach. He doubled over, heaving and gasping for air, as his assailant tipped his hat mockingly. “We’ll be seeing you soon, boyo. You can count on it.”

He was gone before Vivian could reach them. She stood, panting and staring at the gap between buildings where he had disappeared. A drizzling rain began to fall, plastering her hair against her cheeks. She wasn’t dumb enough to go after him.

“You okay, Spence?” she asked instead, turning toward the remaining man as he braced his hands on his knees.

“Swell,” croaked the Nightingale’s second bartender, a lanky, mouthy, handsome grump. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently chasing off the fella who was about to beat you to a pulp,” she said, stung. Spence had been working at the Nightingale all summer and still hadn’t managed to endear himself to any of the other staff. But Vivian had expected at least some gratitude. Instead, he scowled at her like she was the one who had just punched him in the stomach, not the one who had run the attacker off. “But no need to say thanks or anything.”

He hauled himself upright, wincing. “I had it handled, you know,” he said, still sounding resentful. “I didn’t need a rescue.”

“Sure you did, pal,” Bea said, joining them at last. “That was a stupid thing to do, by the way,” she added, glancing at Vivian as she opened her umbrella and held it over both their heads. “Be glad he didn’t have a friend waiting to beat the stuffing out of you too.”

“My stuffing’s doing just fine,” Spence groused, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and straightening his jacket and tie.

“What was that about?” Vivian asked, laying a hand on his arm. “Spence? Are you in trouble?”

***

Excerpt from LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN by Katharine Schellman. Copyright 2025 by Katharine Schellman. Reproduced with permission from Katharine Schellman. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Place the blame where it should go: on chocolate. The good stuff. The variety that melts way too fast as you swirl it over your tongue and let it cuddle the inside of your mouth, knowing the sensation is fleeting, which makes it more delicious. Yeah, that’s the kind I’m talking about.

I opened the front door of my Vegas condo and instantly tried to slam it. Except, the man I faced handed me a golden, foil-wrapped box with the unmistakable Godiva logo.

He placed it in the palm of his right hand and extended his arm. Then he stepped back. With elegance and skill, he had baited the hook, and I was snagged. Just like that.

I’m fast and grab the box before he could pull away. Or maybe that was his plan all along. If it hadn’t been for the lure of delectable dark chocolate, I would have stayed happily ignorant about sex slaves, black-market babies, cheating preachers, and an assortment of lowlifes that suddenly intruded on my cluttered, frazzled life.

If only I’d slammed the door, I would never have been rejected, arrested, and nearly exterminated.

Wait, did you just say, “Back the truck up”? Sorry, writing a memoir is new to me, and I just got overly excited to tell you everything. Instead, I’m taking some deep yoga-style breaths and will give you the whole story, nothing but the truth, just like it happened.

You see, at the stroke of another scorching Las Vegas summer midnight, I found myself feeling the still sizzling breeze swirling around my sleep shorts and tank top—front door open, air conditioning spewing out into the neighborhood. I stood and sniffed the corners of the box, knowing full well the pleasures that were inside. Why was this guy on my doorstep? It was wrong. It was a moment, much later, I wanted to stop time—like you can while watching Netflix. Instead, I ripped open the box, placed a scrumptious piece of heaven-on-earth into my mouth and eyed up and down what the devil had dumped on my doorstep.

Medical studies have proven it’s a bad idea to let a woman with PMS eat a pound of Godiva at one time, or so some new report said. Trust me, however. It’s an even worse idea to try to take chocolate away from a woman, PMS or not.

Fortunately, this guy certainly knew women. So he waited. I gobbled three more. In a row. Then handed him back the two-thirds empty box. I’m not greedy, see?

Forget whatever you’re thinking. This man was not a hunka, hunka burning love, but seemed to be my pudgy grandfather. Or a doppelgänger dressed collar to cuffs in glitter galore, gold, and some gosh-awful alligator-esque cowboy boots. In blood red.

He squinted in the light of the front steps of my townhouse/condo combo, and his chin dragged low. He grumbled, muttered, and withdrew his left hand from behind his back, producing yet another box with the chocolatier’s signature wrapping. I told you he was good. I salivated, snatched it, and stepped out of the way. I’m not addicted to the stuff; I just like it a lot, a whole lot.

Okay, that gives you the abbreviated version of why, five minutes later, my disgruntled relative was huddled on the beige sofa in the sterile Las Vegas condo that came with my current job. It does not explain why I was stomping up and down in front of him, but I’ll get to that. You see, I’m usually the one who solves problems; that’s my field, being I’m a minister and all.

You heard it right. I might not look like any preacher you’ve ever met, being that I’m rounded in all the right places, and I prefer a flashier wardrobe than you may have seen on church ladies. Like it or not, that’s me, Pastor Jane Angieski. I’m ordained and licensed, overly educated and fully confused a good portion of the time. I’ve been told, by the governing board of my denomination, that I should be more professional. It’s taken a long time and therapy, but I like me as I am.

You’re not the first, you know, to wonder how a flashy gal like me got into the ministry business. Most folks do not come straight out and ask because they’re dumbfounded to find out I know the Good News backward, forward, and well done in the middle. My response when they sputter a question or raise both eyebrows to the ceiling? “You see. They have quotas. Recall affirmative action? The denomination needed more females who had curves and padding in their ranks. There were plenty of string bean ones.”

Honestly? Hold on to something sturdy:

When I returned to college to finish my master’s, I was working part-time in retail at Victoria’s Secret, then at a mortuary where I applied makeup to the dearly departed. I also gave out contraceptives and condoms at a free clinic in Watts, and did some hard time asking, “Do you want fries with that?” Along the way, I made enough to avoid incurring huge debt. Psychology was to be my field. I am outrageously curious about people. We humans are so weird, and I love it.

One steamy Los Angeles day, I attended a program on campus because the AC in my apartment was broken. I also knew that with luck there’d be cake and coffee. The program, as I found out, was to recruit grad students into the ministry. It was probably the sugar talking, but I signed on the dotted line and started that summer attending seminary. Graduated with honors, accepted an assistant minister gig straight out of the seminary doors and got kicked out because I volunteered to help the cops in tracking down hoods in the hood where I was the pastor in this ghetto church.

The church council didn’t mind that I nabbed the bad guys looking like a lady of the evening who could do it all night. What they didn’t like was that I appeared on the front of the L. A. Times in a hot pink leather miniskirt, strappy sandals that wound up to my knees and a blouse leaving little to the imagination of Great Aunt Tillie, or anyone else. The news story hit the floor running, and little old me was seen and talked about on PBS News Hour, CNN, Fox News, and then YouTube, and then it went viral. As if no one had seen a minister before. Go figure.

People magazine beseeched and besought me for an interview, full four pages of me, but better judgment kicked in. I turned it down after a call from a member of my denomination's district council put the brakes on that one. Besides I don’t always want to stay and play second fiddle in the church hierarchy. I do have some pride and ambition. I’d like to be known someday as an important voice in ministry, not one of those television evangelists with flapping eyelashes and hair like dear old Marge Simpson. No offense, Marge. It’s not a good look for either of us.

The metaphorical knuckle-wrapping, to me, was worth it. It resulted in the dealing, drugging, and pimping partners in crime who went off to a helping place in another area of California, clogging an overstuffed prison system even more. Not my problem there. I got a letter of commendation from LA’s mayor and my backside booted to Vegas. I wasn’t exactly demoted, but I was no longer a full pastor. These days, if I should burp without saying, “pardonnez-moi,” the council hears about it. In detail. Hence, the youth minister I’m filling in for left exact instructions on the requirements of my professional demeanor so that I wouldn’t lead any teens down a slope where a flashing sign reads: Beware: She’s Crazy and Dangerous.

Back to the man of the midnight hour littering my living room. His grumbling continued. Like waiting out a storm, I sat down next to the huddled mass of manhood whose name isn’t Woe Is Me, but Henry J. Angieski, Ph.D.—my grandfather who just happens to have an alternative personality, one of a classic rocker with the 70s band Slam Dunk. You may have heard of him when he was called Hank A. Yes, that’s Gramps. Although you wouldn’t recognize him. I didn’t.

Gramps is a “let’s get coffee” kind, friends with Sir Paul, Bruce, Mick and a lot more you can name, if you like the older stuff. In all of my thirty-five years, I’d never known him to be defeated, never seen him without a sly smile and a plan to take on the world.

Quick familial footnote: He and Gram couldn’t have children, and they knew it before they married. Gramps told me like this: “Uncle Sam really needed me and thought a tropical Asian trip might help me understand humanity better.”

Translation? It was 1965. He’d dropped out of grad school to find his musical mojo. He was drafted, surprise, surprise, and sent directly to Vietnam where horrible things were happening, like an unpopular and soul-crushing war. Did you wonder how I got into this mix?

Gramps said, “I found the son of my heart there, honey. The kid was always hanging around the barracks. He had red hair like your gorgeous gram and the most intense almond-shaped eyes I’d ever seen. He picked up English like it was nothing, and one day when I handed him a guitar, he started to play chords. He was six or seven, but he didn’t know his birthday and had forgotten his father’s name, if he'd ever known it. Mom died in childbirth, and the bio family shunned him. The other guys in my unit adopted him like a mascot.

“I was finishing my deployment when I got word that I’d been accepted into the music program at the University of Southern California. Your Uncle Sam thought I deserved to return to California because, with this chunk of shrapnel in my knee, I was pretty useless as a foot soldier, and I told everyone the kid was mine.”

That country was in shambles, already invaded by the French, English, and Russians before the US stepped into the mess. So Gramps returned to Gram with a ready-made son whom they adored.

Fast forward ten years. Gram died after a painful battle with cancer, and a couple of months later I came into the world. My father somehow neglected to tell Gramps there was a teenager in his life who was about to birth their baby, and it was a surprise all around when she showed up one day with me in a pink blanket.

Parenthood didn’t rock the Richter scale of life for this young couple. Gramps, once more, manned up, and he became the saving grace for me. The story goes that the twosome, my bio parents, piled their macrobiotic rice, pine nut smoothies, ceremonial drums, unfiltered carrot juice, and love beads inside a rusting, hand-painted purple VW bus, dotted with yellow daisies, and went in search of their bliss. I believe they were about ten years past the real hippies, but that didn’t seem to deter them. The last I heard, when I was sixteen, was that they were in Sedona, selling therapy rocks to tourists. I was happy for them; I had the best grandfather, the coolest Gramps in my school. However, getting a rock in the mail for one’s birthday stunk.

Enough about me. At least for a few minutes—unless it has to do with the reason I wrote this memoir, which is to explain why I ended up a viral sensation on YouTube. Again. Although the in-between stuff scared me silly.

Gramps interrupted my gallop down Memory Lane with a grunt that sounded suspiciously like he was swearing, which I knew he didn’t. Or the normal-ish grandfather I previously claimed didn’t swear.

“Call me Onesimus,” he growled.

“What-a-muss?”

“Get a clue, you’re a preacher. You know this stuff. Always spouting it off as you do all that Bible-belting.” Then he grumbled about how his granddaughter could easily become a pompous prig.

“I’ve never belted a Bible in my life, I’ll thank you.” And I wondered in a tiny spot in my heart if I should look up the definition of prig before I felt insulted.

“Don’t give me that look, girl. I’m immune. Been looking at myself too long for one of your freeze-frame frowns to frazzle me and make me spill my guts.”

“Are you talking Old Testament or New?”

“Look it up, Pastor.”

He never calls me, Pastor. Never before had he even raised his voice to me. “Who are you and what did you do with my grandfather?” I demanded. My now mostly-retired from sex, gals, and rock and roll, and teaching at the university, grandfather lived in the beachy town of Carlsbad, California. “It’s midnight, and my real grandfather is safety tucked in bed right now, not in Vegas, baby.”

We stared at each other, then a flickering two-watt bulb flipped on. “Are you talking about Onesimus, as in the slave the Apostle Paul wrote about?”

“Bing-a-ding ding, girl. Listen, Janey, I’m having a crisis, one that, well, is personal, as private as it can get for a man.”

From the dancing rhinestones embedded on his denim shirt, past the belt buckle the size of Rhode Island, and the boots which had three-inch heels, the man was either auditioning for a low-budget movie or had lost his marbles. My real grandfather was a rock star, wore a lot of black, dragged a guitar everywhere and didn’t dress like a cowboy. He was dependable, had style, sure, and a heart for the next gal and guy. Always.

Okay, there were some ladies of a certain age, groupies if I’m honest, who would have had their way with him, but Gramps was incredibly discreet about that stuff. Then again, I never had a conversation about the birds and the bees with him.

“Oh, personal and private,” I muttered, regretting my decision to have that second Lean Cuisine Mexican Medley. I did not ever, ever, want to discuss my grandfather’s sexual inadequacies or his performance issues, and the souring sensation in my stomach agreed. Big time.

Instead, I blurted, “Men your age are well past that. For Pete’s sake, don’t tell me you’re in Vegas to marry an 18-year-old, half-naked dancer who wears pink feathers that glow in the dark with matching pasties that barely cover her nipples. And that she’s just misunderstood and currently employed at a local strip joint because she’s putting herself through med school.”

He just took off a boot. There was no denial.

“She’s not some chorus babe, Jane. She has to be at least 18 or 19, however. Guess she could be 16 with a fake ID. I never asked.”

***

Excerpt from Jane Won't Quit by Eva Shaw. Copyright 2026 by Eva Shaw. Reproduced with permission from Eva Shaw. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Jacksonville, Florida, USA
Thursday, 7 p.m. EST

THE PHONE STARTED to vibrate its way across the kitchen counter. I hated that. It shook when it went unanswered, bleating like a wounded sheep.

Pay attention to me. Answer me.

But it was my day off, and my phone had been set to DO NOT DISTURB. Yet it still rang. I was watching the NCAA basketball tournament, as was my right on my day off. My Florida Gators were struggling more than they should as the favorite in their first-round game. I had a little bit of money but mainly pride on the line.

Still bleating.

I read an article recently, saying members of Generation Z were now offended if you called unannounced. Text before you call, they so arrogantly professed. Make an appointment to hear any voice associated with the participation-trophy generation.

Being neither a Gen Zer nor a trophy, I didn’t know who was calling. Someone in my contact list had called in rapid succession, working around the do-not-bother-me setting. So, either something was up, or the spam callers had cracked another smartphone code.

I got up and went to the kitchen and to the phone. I wanted another beer anyway.

The name on the screen said Cole Nathan, one of my college buddies.

Not work. Thank you, basketball gods.

I was fully expecting we would immediately jump into a conversation about why our star player was launching three-pointers without anyone under the basket to rebound. The phenom had also seemingly forgotten how to pass.

I picked up the phone and just started talking, “Can you believe this guy? I mean, I know he’s gonna be in the NBA next year, but he’s like one step from half-court and letting it fly.”

“Pete, I’m not watching the game, sorry,” Cole said. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. “What’s going on?” “Uncle Scotty is in jail.”

“What?” I said. I had to think for a second. I had met Cole’s uncle a few times in college. We went out to bars with him. “What happened?”

“He got arrested yesterday at the airport in Singapore.” “You’re kidding. Shit. For what?”

“Drug possession.”

“Damn. That sucks. Singapore?” Questions were flowing through my head faster than I could articulate them. “Um, I don’t really know what to say, man. I can’t even remember Scotty doing drugs. It was usually fun, but it’s been years since you have even mentioned him. Did he have a problem?

And wait, Singapore?”

“He’s not a drug dealer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cole said.

“I don’t know what I’m asking. Let’s start with what happened and what you know.”

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. We got a report they found drugs in his luggage when he was going to Singapore on business.”

“What kind of business?” I asked. Scott was always pretty slick.

“He works for a real estate fund. He’s been there before.

It’s a big mess,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Cole. It’s terrible. Do you need a referral for a lawyer? I can talk to my brother. I don’t think this is the kind of thing he does, but he knows a lot of other lawyers.”

“Well, he’s got a lawyer over there, and we’re talking to some guys here. But we think it might hit the news and be bad, and that’s why I thought about you.”

“Okay, Cole, you know I cover Jacksonville, right? Every once in a while, something crazy happens and I cover national news, but I’m not sure how I can help.”

“Uncle Scotty lives in Jacksonville,” Cole said.

“He does?” I said, putting down the not-yet-opened new beer and looking for a pen.

“Yes, he does.”

“Oh, okay, if a business guy from Jacksonville just got arrested in Singapore, I’m guessing our desk already knows about it. I don’t know who’s going to cover this or even if it’ll get assigned to somebody. Do you guys want the world to know about this? I mean, I can’t kill it if the desk is on it, but I might be able to help. What do you want?”

“Pete, we’re worried the world will think my uncle is a drug dealer. You know him. I don’t know what happened, but something is not right about this. It makes no sense. I need help figuring out what is going on. My uncle is rich. He has no reason to smuggle drugs.”

“Was he traveling alone?” I asked. “Did he ever get mar-ried?”

“My uncle, married? That’s a good one.” Cole said. “He was traveling alone, baching it like always.”

“Got it. Well, I was supposed to be off today to watch the game, but it looks like our Gators have this one under control.”

Famous last words.

The Gators were up eight with seven minutes left. “I will make some calls, see what I can find out, and call you back. Is this the best number?”

“Yes and thanks,” Cole said.

As I hung up, our star guard again launched a bomb from the mid-court logo, which clanged off the rim and bounced over the backboard. Not sure who was giving me more heartburn—the star player or Cole’s uncle.

I called the breaking news desk at WJAX-TV where I work as a general assignment reporter and sometimes investigative journalist. My friend and colleague Olivia Marquez, a breaking news digital journalist and all-around technology maven answered.

“I thought you were off,” she said.

“I am, but when did that ever stop me from bugging you?” I said. “Have you heard anything about a Florida businessman being arrested in Singapore on drug charges?”

“Is he from Jacksonville?” “He is.”

“I think I would have noticed that.” I could hear her typing, and I turned to take another look at the game.

A moment later, she found it. “Well, here’s something from the Associated Press about American executive Scott Wilkins arrested in Singapore, I guess yesterday.”

“That’s the one,” I said.

“But isn’t it already tomorrow over there, like a major difference, twelve hours ahead?”

There were several questions in there. Olivia had a su-premely quick brain. “Says he entered the country from a flight from San Francisco, and he originated in Orlando.”

“Gotcha. Well, he’s from Jacksonville.” “Do you know him?”

“Well, sort of. He’s my friend’s uncle. I met him when I was in college. We painted the town a few times, among other things. The family is freaking out.”

“Can’t blame them. What do you want me to do with this?”

“Do me a favor and just hold tight on it. I will call you back.”

Cole answered on the first ring. “Pete, what do you know?” he asked.

“It’s on the AP wire with his full name and that he’s an American businessman arrested in Singapore on drug charges. It’s short. The story is tagged Orlando because I guess he flew out of there. I’m guessing the story hasn’t gotten any traction because he’s not from Orlando and the time difference.”

“What do you mean about Orlando?”

“Stories come across the wire tagged with locations, kind of like keywords. In Jacksonville, we care about stories relevant to Jacksonville. In Orlando, they are looking for stories tagged to there. Doesn’t mean anything except it kind of gives you and your family some time to try to get ahead of it.”

“Okay, so it’s not all over the place?”

“Not yet. But it may not turn into anything because, you know, the news gods are fickle. Right now, Orlando news stations might be trying to confirm he is from Orlando, but they aren’t finding anything because he’s not. So the story is in limbo.”

“You are in a weird business, Lemaster,” Cole said with a sigh.

“Yes, I am. Listen, it’s up to you. It’s my day off. I can do nothing on this story and be fine with it, but I can’t prevent somebody else from covering it. If you want me to do something today, then you have a bit more control because, well, we’re buddies, and I’m gonna make sure it’s balanced. Honestly, we would probably start with a short item that this local guy was locked up in Singapore. If I get you on the record, confirming it and the basic info, then we can pull a short story together, maybe thirty seconds or so. Just a short item. We don’t have a lot. We would need to get a picture.” I paused. “Or I could watch the end of the game, and we can wait it out and talk tomorrow. It’s up to you.”

“My uncle has been locked in a fucking jail cell in Singa-pore for like the past two days, so whatever they’re doing now hasn’t gotten him out,” he said, somewhere between pissed off and distressed. “So I say let’s try to generate some support. We’ve got to maybe try to get the government to help us or somebody to help us.”

“I get it,” I said.

“Do you know what the penalties are for drug possession in Singapore, Pete?”

“I have no idea.”

“Google it. It’s scary. We need to do the story.”

“Okay, Cole. So, let me get this on the record and make it official. You are confirming that your uncle, business executive Scott Wilkins of Jacksonville, was arrested in Singapore on drug charges?”

“Yep, 100 percent. He lives in Ponte Vedra Beach.” “And you are saying he is being wrongfully detained?” I added, coaching-prodding in a way I technically should not do.

“Absolutely. Singapore has made a huge mistake, and we need the support of the US government to get him out. How does that sound?”

“That helps me. Do you have a picture of him?” “I will send you one.”

“Okay, I will let you know if I need anything else.” We hung up.

I called Olivia back.

“Hey, so is Rod there?” I asked.

Rod Kirby was the acting general manager of the station and my boss.

“Yeah, he’s in his office. Do you want to talk to him?” she said.

“No, not yet. Please do me a favor and take this down. I can confirm business executive Scott Wilkins of Ponte Vedra Beach has been detained on drug charges in Singapore. Looks like it happened two days ago. I’m trying to get you a picture. The family in the US is saying he has been wrongly detained, and they want the US government to intervene. Please take this to Rod and see what he wants to do with it.”

“Okay,” she said.

My phone chimed, and I opened a text message from Cole with an image attached, and there he was—Scott “Uncle Scotty” Wilkins—just as I remembered him. He had light brown hair just past collar length, with a little bit of gray in the temples, and steely blue eyes that accented high, chiseled cheekbones. In the photo, he had a light tan, a big smile, showcasing perfect teeth, and a day or two of manicured stubble. He looked like a model, straight off a billboard. He was wearing a casual linen long-sleeved shirt with a sweater pretzeled over his shoulders in a way no one ever wore—just people who were posing for pictures. He wore jeans and unfinished leather loafers, no socks. The perfect, eligible rich guy online dating photo.

“I just got his photo—sending it to you now,” I said.

I forwarded the image to her and a moment later heard her phone beep.

“Oh my god, he’s hot,” she said, giggling. “Is he single?” “Well, I don’t know, but he’s not available because he’s in jail in Singapore.”

“He’s ridiculously good-looking. Gotta share this with the girls in the office.”

“How about talking to Rod first?” I suggested, hoping to bring her back to earth.

“Yeah, I’m on it.”

“Thank you, Olivia.” I hung up and texted Cole that we were probably going to run an item with the photo, and I would stay in touch.

I turned the basketball tournament back on, watching my Gators advance to the next round, not knowing I had just lit a most unusual fuse.

***

Excerpt from The Pawn by John David. Copyright 2026 by John P David. Reproduced with permission from John P David. All rights reserved.