Synopsis

 

When a family obsessed with true crime gathers to bury their patriarch, horrifying secrets are exposed upon the discovery of another body in his grave in this chilling novel from the author of Behind the Red Door and The Winter Sister.

At twenty-six, Dahlia Lighthouse has a lot to learn when it comes to the real world. Raised in a secluded island mansion deep in the woods and kept isolated by her true crime-obsessed parents, she has spent the last several years living on her own, but unable to move beyond her past—especially the disappearance of her twin brother Andy when they were sixteen.

With her father’s death, Dahlia returns to the house she has avoided for years. But as the rest of the Lighthouse family arrives for the memorial, a gruesome discovery is made: buried in the reserved plot is another body—Andy’s, his skull split open with an ax.

Each member of the family handles the revelation in unusual ways. Her brother Charlie pours his energy into creating a family memorial museum, highlighting their research into the lives of famous murder victims; her sister Tate forges ahead with her popular dioramas portraying crime scenes; and their mother affects a cheerfully domestic façade, becoming unrecognizable as the woman who performed murder reenactments for her children. As Dahlia grapples with her own grief and horror, she realizes that her eccentric family, and the mansion itself, may hold the answers to what happened to her twin.

 

 

Amazon * B&N * IndieBound * Kobo

 

The release date is August 17, 2021

 

 

Review

 

The Lighthouse family is not your normal type of neighbor. They are fascinated with true crime incidents; actually, I should say the mother is obsessed with these events and drills the details into her children’s schooling. I’m glad I am not a part of this family. However, a tragedy befalls their own family when Andy disappears. It takes four years before the truth is revealed and the ups and downs, twists and turns of the events might just surprise you as they did me.

All of the children are named after famous true crime events and their victims. The family is quite warped as you will find out near the end with the details surrounding Andy’s disappearance and then the discovery of his body. I never suspected the truth as it unfolded. I felt bad for Dahlia because Andy was her twin and she believed that he was still alive and would search for him in towns across the states in hopes of discovering some sort of digital footprint for him.

What actually happened was sad in the fact that children should never be exposed to these types of events. It does explain why the Lighthouse children were the way they were and what led them to the paths that they have chosen in life. The upside is that they inherited money at 18 and didn’t have to work too hard to find fulfillment through a job/career which could be a good and a bad thing.

While some might be able to discern the details and who the Blackburn Killer is, I had no idea. So you know, the Blackburn Killer is someone that killed women across the island over a span of about 10 years. The truth is discovered near the end of the book and it made sense once the facts were revealed.

I was engrossed in this book trying to discover the truth before it was revealed, but no such luck. I do think that this family needs some therapy after all was said and done! Perhaps they will find a better life now that the truth is out and any quirks they might have, such as Tate’s die-oramas that depict the Blackburn murders.

We give this book 4 paws up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Megan Collins is the author of THE FAMILY PLOT, BEHIND THE RED DOOR, and THE WINTER SISTER. She taught creative writing for many years, and she is the managing editor of 3Elements Review. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in many print and online journals, including Off the Coast, Spillway, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. She lives in Connecticut.

 

Website * Twitter * Facebook * Instagram

 

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

Jane has lost everything: job, mother, relationship, even her home. A friend calls to offer an unusual deal—a cottage above the crashing surf of Big Sur on the estate of his employer, Evan Rochester. In return, Jane will tutor his teenage daughter. She accepts.

But nothing is quite as it seems at the Rochester estate. Though he’s been accused of murdering his glamorous and troubled wife, Evan Rochester insists she drowned herself. Jane is skeptical, but she still finds herself falling for the brilliant and secretive entrepreneur and growing close to his daughter.

And yet her deepening feelings for Evan can’t disguise dark suspicions aroused when a ghostly presence repeatedly appears in the night’s mist and fog. Jane embarks on an intense search for answers and uncovers evidence that soon puts Evan’s innocence into question. She’s determined to discover what really happened that fateful night, but what will the truth cost her?

 

 

Amazon * B&N * BAM * Indiebound

 

Read for Free via Kindle Unlimited

 

 

Jane Eyre for the Modern Age with Lindsay Marcott

 

What is it about Jane Eyre that has made it a blockbuster for over a hundred and seventy years? The breathtaking writing, yes. The gripping plot: part Gothic romance, part coming-of-age story. The swooning romance between a rich man and a poor orphan, and the shock of the mad wife secreted in an attic.

But I think most of all it’s the voice of Jane herself: a young woman with an extraordinary sense of her own worth and independence. A voice that was revolutionary in 1847 when Charlotte Brontë published it. At the time, women had little say outside family and home. Their career opportunities outside of marriage were limited to underpaid servants and schoolteachers. Female characters in early Victorian novels were usually portrayed as either sugary too-good-to-be-true angels or fallen women seeking repentance.

Jane is neither. She’s constricted by the society she lives in–she needs to keep a stifling job as a governess or else starve to death—but she makes it clear she’d rather starve than sacrifice her will or stifle her intelligence. As a child, she has a temper and a will, even though she’s punished harshly for it. Later, when her employer, Mr. Rochester, grills her, she responds with strong opinions and engages in spirited debates. And when he tempts her to go live in sin with him in Europe, she escapes through the only means available to her—by running off to the surrounding moors, though it probably means she will die in those wilds. And she will not return to him until she learns he has fundamentally changed, and she can now love him passionately and physically without compromising her true self.

I believe it’s this will and independence of Jane’s that keep modern readers coming back for more (not to mention that throbbing romance!), and these are the same elements that inspire continual adaptations of the story. I had long dreamed of creating modern versions of these characters, because they so thrilled and delighted me and taught me life lessons over many years of my rereading the book. A nervy dream, yes. But also one that presented huge challenges: there are so many elements of the book that just won’t fly in an updated story.

For example: a current-day Jane would not be able to keep her curiosity under wraps about all the strange and spooky things going on in Mr. Rochester’s house. She wouldn’t just accept vague explanations or agree to his request to simply not ask about them. She would be itching to find out more.

Also a sexual relationship outside of marriage is no longer a taboo for most women of today. Jane wouldn’t have to flee that temptation. And of course a modern Mr. Rochester would be able to divorce a mad wife, though no doubt having to pay a heavy alimony for her future care. So that’s no longer even an obstacle.

But lies are always a problem in a relationship. Especially big lies.

A secret bigamist is a pretty big lie.

Being a secret murderer would be an even bigger one.

It was thinking about this that gave me the idea of adapting the book as a modern thriller. One in which Rochester does not have a stashed-away wife—instead he’s suspected of murdering a famous wife who has now disappeared. Jane would have to surreptitiously seek out the truth about him–guilty or not?–before she could give in to falling in love. And when spooky things happened, she would need to confront those as well. She would be risking an enormous amount. Losing the love of her life. And maybe also losing her life.

And so I set about writing a thriller, adding startling new twists, putting in jumps and shivers. The result is Mrs. Rochester’s Ghost. It was a joy to write, and I certainly hope it’s an equal joy to read.

 

Mrs. Rochester’s Ghost Excerpt

 

The fog streamed in white scarves and pennants, with a bright half moon playing hide-and-seek among them. I walked briskly down the asphalt drive, Pilot racing figure eights around me. We cut across switchbacks toward the highway. I kept to the gravel shoulder as the grade descended.

A pair of headlights glowered in the mist, then swept swiftly by.

The highway continued to dip. Pilot romped ahead and disappeared from my sight around a curve.

“Pilot!” I heard him barking but couldn’t see him. I quickened my steps.

I found myself in the middle of a dense cloud. Fog gathered in the depression in the road.

“Pilot?” I yelled again. “Where are you?”

Excited yapping. But he was a ghost dog.

The roar of a motorcycle echoed from around the far side of the bend. Through the blanketing cloud, I caught a glimpse of the poodle trotting onto the road.

“Pilot, get back here!” I screamed.

The motorcycle’s headlamp glowed dimly as it appeared on the near side of the bend. Pilot barked with sudden frenzy. The headlamp veered crazily. Pilot darted off the road into the underbrush. A sickening sound of tires skidding out of control on gravel. A shout.

With horror, I watched motorcycle and rider slam down onto the gravel shoulder.

I ran toward the rider. He was sprawled crookedly next to the bike, but his limbs, encased in black leather and jeans, were moving stiffly. Alive, at least. With a groan, he hoisted himself up onto his elbows.

“Are you okay?” I shined my flashlight on him. He whipped his head. “What the hell are you?”

“Just a person,” I said quickly.

He yanked his goggles down. “For Chrissake. I meant who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk.”

“What kind of lunatic goes out for a walk in this kind of fog?”

“Maybe the same kind of lunatic who drives way too fast in it.”

“You call that fast? Christ.” He gingerly gathered himself into a sitting position, then flexed his feet in the heavy boots experimentally. He took off his helmet and shook out a head of rough black curls. A week’s tangle of rough salt-and-pepper beard nearly obscured a wide mouth. The prominent nose might be called stately on a more good-natured face. “What the hell was that creature in the middle of the road?”

“A dog.”

“A dog?”

“A standard poodle. Unclipped.”

He put the helmet back on, then pulled a cell phone from his jacket and squinted at the screen. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“The reception’s kind of iffy around here.”

He flung out an arm. “Help me up, okay?”

I approached him tentatively. He was over six feet and powerfully built. About twice my weight, I guessed. “I’m not sure I can pull you.”

“Yeah, you probably can’t. Stoop down a little.”

God, he’s rude. I did, and he draped his arm around my shoulder, transferring his weight. My knees buckled a little but didn’t give. He began to stand, crumpled slightly, then got his balance and pulled himself up straight.

I suddenly became aware of his intense physicality. The power of his arm and shoulder against my body, the taut spring of the muscles in his chest. As if he sensed what I was feeling, he shook off my support and stood on his own feet.

“At least you can put weight on your feet,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”

“Are you a medical professional?”

“No.”

“Then your opinion doesn’t count for much at the moment.”

Go to hell, was on the tip of my tongue. But the fog’s chill was making me sniffle. It seemed absurd to attempt a stinging retort with a dripping nose. I swiped it surreptitiously with the sleeve of my jacket.

He walked, limping slightly, to the Harley. “This thing’s supposed to take a corner. That’s the main reason I bought it!” He gave the seat a savage kick. Then he hopped on his nonkicking boot and shook a fist as if in defiance of some bully of a god who particularly had it in for him.

I laughed.

He whirled on me. My laughter froze. The look of fury on his face sent a thrill of alarm through me. I edged backward; I felt at that moment he could murder me without compunction and leave my corpse to be devoured by coyotes and bobcats.

But then, to my astonishment, he grinned. “You’re right. I look like an ass.”

Pilot suddenly came crashing out of the underbrush.

“Is that your mutt?”

“Yes. Though, actually, not mine. He’s a recent addition at the place I’m staying.”

He stared at me, a thought dawning. I forced myself to stare back: deep-set eyes, dark as ink. I was about to introduce myself, but he yanked the goggles back over his eyes and stooped to the handlebar of the bike. “Help me get this up. Grab the other bar. You pull and I’ll push.”

“It’s too heavy.”

“I’ll do the heavy lifting. Just do what you can.”

Obstinately, I didn’t move.

“Please,” he added. He made the word sound like an obscenity.

I took a grudging step forward and grabbed hold of the handlebar with both hands. I tugged it toward me as he lifted his side with a grunt. The bike slowly rose upright.

“Hold it steady,” he said.

It felt like it weighed several tons—it took every ounce of my strength to keep my side up as he straddled the seat. He grasped both bars. Engaged the clutch, cursing in pain as he stomped on the pedal. He glanced at me briefly.

And then, sending up a heavy spray of gravel, the Harley roared off into the enveloping fog.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Rochester!” I shouted into the deepening gloom.

About the Author

 

Lindsay Marcott is the author of The Producer’s Daughter and six previous novels written as Lindsay Maracotta. Her books have been translated into eleven languages and adapted for cable. She also wrote for the Emmy-nominated HBO series The Hitchhiker and co-produced a number of films. She lives on the coast of California.

 

Website * Twitter

 

 

 

Giveaway

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

Synopsis

 

When a teenaged girl disappears from an insular small town, all of the community’s most devastating secrets come to light in this stunningly atmospheric and slow-burning suspense novel—perfect for fans of Megan Miranda and Celeste Ng.

The town of Whistling Ridge guards its secrets.

When seventeen-year-old Abigail goes missing, her best friend Emma, compelled by the guilt of leaving her alone at a party in the woods, sets out to discover the truth about what happened. The police initially believe Abi ran away, but Emma doesn’t believe that her friend would leave without her, and when officers find disturbing evidence in the nearby woods, the festering secrets and longstanding resentment of both Abigail’s family and the people of Whistling Ridge, Colorado begin to surface with devastating consequences.

Among those secrets: Abi’s older brother Noah’s passionate, dangerous love for the handsome Rat, a recently arrived Romanian immigrant who has recently made his home in the trailer park in town; her younger brother Jude’s feeling that he knows information he should tell the police, if only he could put it into words; Abi’s father’s mercurial, unpredictable rages and her mother’s silence. Then there is the rest of Whistling Ridge, where a charismatic preacher advocates for God’s love in language that mirrors violence, under the sway of the powerful businessman who rules the town, insular and wary of outsiders.

But Abi had secrets, too, and the closer Emma grows to unraveling the past, the farther she feels from her friend. And in a tinder box of small-town rage, and all it will take is just one spark—the truth of what really happened that night—to change their community forever.

 

 

 

Review

 

I have mixed emotions about this book. The characters are small-minded, racist, homophobic, and misogynic. Very few of the characters are likable outside of the children. Even then I’m not too sure because they aren’t painted with the best brush either. What happens throughout the book could happen anywhere and the twists kept me guessing.

The book does jump back and forth in time, but not in any specific pattern. We see bits of pieces from the past that shapes the characters into who they are today.

What we know – Abi has gone missing but what we don’t know if she is dead or alive. There are some tidbits of information that might lead you to believe one way or another as information is shared. What unfolds would shock most towns and people. I know I was dumbfounded that people can act this way (and there are too many examples to list) because it goes beyond human decency. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised because there are many people out there that live in a bubble and don’t know what to do outside of that bubble.

I did feel for Noah, Abi’s brother because of how he was treated by his father for being gay. And his brother Jude? That was an even sadder story. Their whole family was dysfunctional from day one and it did not get any better. Emma is Abi’s best friend and seems to be the only one that really wants to find out what happened to Abi. Unfortunately, what she uncovers will devastate many.

It did take me a bit to get into this book. It was harder for me to read because of the characters. At least the story is somewhat wrapped up at the end, but not completely.

Overall, we give it 3 1/2 paws.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Anna Bailey grew up in Gloucestershire and studied Creative Writing at Bath Spa University, before moving to Texas and later Colorado. In 2018, she returned to the UK where she enrolled in the Curtis Brown Creative novel-writing course. She currently works as a freelance journalist in Cheltenham, where she lives with her three cats.

 

Twitter * Instagram

 

 

Synopsis

 

Something unusual is going on with the dementia patients at Pleasant View Nursing Home.

Dr. Jim Bob Brady, Houston orthopedic surgeon, and amateur sleuth, finds himself in the midst of a different type of medical mystery. His friend and colleague, Dr. James Morgenstern, refers him a series of dementia patients with orthopedic problems from Pleasant View Nursing Home. Each patient dies, irrespective of the treatment, a situation that Doc Brady is unaccustomed to.

Each death prompts an autopsy, performed by another Brady colleague, Dr. Jeff Clarke, who discovers unusual brain pathology in each patient. Some of the tissue samples show nerve regeneration, a finding unheard of in dementia patients.

Doc Brady, enraged by the loss of his patients and obsessively curious about the pathologic findings, begins to investigate the nursing home, as well as its owner and CEO, Dr. Theodore Frazier. This leads Brady and Clarke on an adventure to discover the happenings at Pleasant View—an adventure that sees them running for their lives.

 

 

Amazon * B&N * IndieBound

 

 

Read for free via Kindle Unlimited

 

 

Excerpt

 

Chapter One

 

BEATRICE ADAMS

Monday, May 15, 2000

 

“Morning, Mrs. Adams. I’m Dr. Brady.”

There was no response from the patient in Room 823 of University Hospital. She was crouched on the bed, in position to leap toward the end of the bed in the direction of yours truly. I could not determine her age, but she definitely appeared to be a wild woman. Her hair was a combination of gray and silver, long and uncombed and in total disarray. She had a deeply lined face, leathery, with no makeup. Her brown eyes were frantic, and her head moved constantly to the right and left. She was clad only in an untied hospital gown which dwarfed her small frame. My guess? She wasn’t over five feet tall.

“Ms. Adams? Dr. Morgenstern asked me to stop by and see about your knee?”

She did not move or speak; she just continued squatting there in the hospital bed, bouncing slightly on her haunches, and staring at me while her head moved slowly to and fro.

I looked around the drab private room with thin out-of-date drapes and faded green-tinted walls. There were no flowers. I judged the patient to most likely be a nursing-home transfer.

I made the safe move by backing out of the patient’s room, and I walked the twenty yards to the nurses’ station. The white-tiled floors were freshly waxed, but the medicinal smell was distinctly different from the surgical wing. There was an unpleasant pine scent in the air that could not hide the odor of decaying human beings and leaking body fluids. It was the smell of chronic illness and disease.

“Cynthia?” I asked the head nurse on the medical ward, or so announced her name tag. She was sitting at the far side of the long nursing station desk performing the primary duty of a nursing supervisor: paperwork. She was an attractive Black woman in her mid-forties, I estimated.

“Yes, sir?”

“Dr. Morgenstern asked me to see Mrs. Adams in consultation. Room 823? What’s the matter with her? She won’t answer me. She just stares, sitting up in the bed on her haunches, bouncing.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You must be a surgeon.”

“Yes, ma’am. Orthopedic. Dr. Jim Brady.”

“Cynthia Dumond. Mrs. Adams has Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she gets confused. Want me to come in the room with you? Maybe protect you?” she said with a smile.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind the company,” I said, a little sheepishly. “Not that I was afraid or anything.”

“She’s harmless, Doctor. She’s just old and confused.”

We walked back to the hospital room together. The patient seemed to relax the moment she saw the head nurse, a familiar face. “Hello, Ms. Adams,”

Cynthia said. “This is Dr. Brady. He needs to examine your . . .” She gazed at me, smiling again. “Your what?” “Her knee.”

“Dr. Brady needs to look at your knee. Okay?”

The patient had ceased shaking and bouncing, leaned back, slowly extended her legs, laid down, and became somewhat still.

“Very good, Ms. Adams. Very good,” Cynthia said, grasping the elderly woman’s hand and holding it while she looked at me. “Go ahead, Doctor.”

The woman’s right knee was quite swollen, with redness extending up and down her leg for about six inches in each direction. When I applied anything but gentle skin pressure, her leg seemed to spasm involuntarily. How in the world she had managed to crouch on the bed with her knee bent to that degree was mystifying.

“Sorry, Ms. Adams,” I said, but continued my exam. The knee looked and felt infected, but those signs could also have represented a fracture or an acute arthritic inflammation such as gout, pseudo-gout, or rheumatoid arthritis, not to mention an array of exotic diseases. I tried to flex and extend the knee, but she resisted, either due to pain—although I wasn’t certain she had a normal discomfort threshold—or from a mechanical block due to swelling or some type of joint pathology.

“What’s she in the hospital for?” I asked Nurse Cynthia.

“Dehydration, malnutrition, and failure to thrive, the usual diagnoses for folks we get from the nursing home. The doctor who runs her particular facility sent her in.”

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Frazier. Know him?”

“Nope. Should I?”

“No. It’s just that he sends his patients here in the end stages. Most of the folks that get admitted from his nursing home die soon after they arrive.”

“Most of them are old and sick, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

I looked at her expression while she continued to hold Mrs. Adams’s hand.

“Were you trying to make a point?”

“Not really.” She glanced at her watch. “Are you about through, Doctor Brady? I have quite a bit of work to do.”

“Follow that paper trail, huh?”

“Yes. That’s about all I have time for these days. Seems to get worse every month. Some new form to fill out, some new administrative directive to analyze. Whatever.”

“I know the feeling. There isn’t much time to see the patients and take care of whatever ails them these days. If my secretary can’t justify to an insurance clerk why a patient needs an operation, then I have to waste my time on the phone explaining a revision hip replacement to someone without adequate training or experience. One of my partners told me yesterday about an insurance clerk that was giving him a bunch of—well, giving him a hard time—about performing a bunionectomy. He found out during the course of a fifteen-minute conversation that the woman didn’t know a bunion was on the foot. Her insurance code indicated it was a cyst on the back and she couldn’t find the criteria for removal in the hospital. She was insisting it had to be an office procedure, and only under a local anesthetic. Crazy, huh?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a brave new world.”

“Sounds like a good book title, Nurse Cynthia.”

“I think it’s been done, Doctor.”

“Well, thanks for your help. I do appreciate it. Not every day the head nurse on a medical floor accompanies me on a consultation.” “My pleasure. You seem to be a concerned physician, an advocate for the patient, at least. As I remember, that’s why we all went into the healing arts.”

She turned to Mrs. Adams. “I’ll see you later, dear,” she said, patting the elderly woman’s forehead. Still holding the nurse’s other hand with her own wrinkled hand, Mrs. Adams kissed Cynthia’s fingers lightly, probably holding on for her life.

I poured a cup of hospital-fresh coffee, also known as crankcase oil, and reviewed Beatrice Adams’s chart. I sat in a doctor’s dictation area behind the nursing station and looked at the face sheet first, being a curious sort. Her residence was listed as Pleasant View Nursing Home, Conroe, Texas. Conroe is a community of fifty thousand or so, about an hour north of Houston. I noticed that a Kenneth Adams was listed as next of kin and was to be notified in case of emergency. His phone number was prefixed by a “409” exchange, and I therefore assumed that he was a son or a brother and lived in Conroe as well.

Mrs. Adams was fifty-seven years old, which was young to have a flagrant case of Alzheimer’s disease, a commonly-diagnosed malady that was due to atrophy of the brain’s cortical matter. That’s the tissue that allows one to recognize friends and relatives, to know the difference between going to the bathroom in the toilet versus in your underwear, and to know when it’s appropriate to wear clothes and when it isn’t. Alzheimer’s causes a patient to gradually become a mental vegetable but doesn’t affect the vital organs until the very end stages of the disease. In other words, the disease doesn’t kill you quickly, but it makes you worse than a small child—unfortunately, a very large and unruly child.

It can, and often does, destroy the family unit, sons and daughters especially, who are caught between their own children and whichever parent is affected with the disease, which makes it in some ways worse than death. You can get over death, through grief, prayer, catharsis, and tincture of time. Taking care of an Alzheimer’s-affected parent can be a living hell, until they are bad enough that the patient must go to a nursing home. Then the abandonment guilt is hell, or so my friends and patients tell me.

Mrs. Adams had been admitted to University Hospital one week before by my friend and personal physician, Dr. James Morgenstern. I guessed that either he had taken care of the patient or a family member in the past, or that Dr. Frazier, physician-owner or medical director of Pleasant View Nursing Home, had a referral relationship with Jimmy.

Mrs. Adams’s initial blood work revealed hyponatremia (low sodium), hyperkalemia (high potassium), and a low hematocrit (anemia). Clinically, hypotension (low blood pressure), decreased skin turgor, and oliguria (reduced urine output) suggested a dehydration-like syndrome. For a nursing-home patient, that could either mean poor custodial care or failure of the patient to cooperate— refusing to drink, refusing to eat—or some combination of the two. Neither scenario was atypical of the plight of the elderly with a dementia-like illness.

According to Dr. Morgenstern’s history, the patient had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease six years before, at age fifty-one, which by most standards was very young for brain deterioration without a tumor.

“Dr. Brady?” head nurse Cynthia asked, appearing beside my less-than-comfortable dictating chair.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but might I have one of your business cards?”

“Sure,” I said, handing her one from the top left pocket of my white clinical jacket. “Don’t ever apologize for bothering me if you’re trying to send me a patient.”

She laughed. “It’s for my mother. She has terrible arthritis.” She paused and read the card. “You’re with the University Orthopedic Group?”

“Yes. Twenty-two years.”

“If I might ask, where did you do your training?”

“I went to med school at Baylor, then did general and orthopedic surgery training here at the University Hospital. I then traveled to New York and spent a year studying hip and knee replacement surgery, then came back to Houston to the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

“Is your practice limited to a certain area? I mean, do you just see patients with hip and knee arthritis?”

“Yes. Unless, of course, it’s an emergency situation, like one of those rare weekends when I can’t find a young, hungry surgeon with six kids to cover emergency room call for me.”

“Well, thanks,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be seeing you. I’ll bring my mother in.”

“Thank YOU, Cynthia. By the way, I’m curious. Why me? I would think you see quite a few docs up here, and I would imagine that your mother has had arthritis for years. Why now?”

Cynthia was an attractive, full-figured woman with close-cropped jet-black hair, a woman who made the required pantsuit nursing uniform look like a fashion statement. She looked me up and down as I sat there with Mrs. Adams’s chart in my lap, my legs crossed, holding the strong black cooling coffee.

“You’re wearing cowboy boots. I figure that all you need is a white hat,” she said, turning and walking away.

Not my sharp wit, nor my kind demeanor with her patient, nor my vast training and experience.

My boots.

 

Excerpted from Act of Negligence. Copyright © 2021 by John Bishop. All rights reserved. Published by Mantid Press.

 

 

About the Author

 

John Bishop MD is the author of Act of Negligence: A Medical Thriller (A Doc Brady Mystery). Dr. Bishop has led a triple life. This orthopedic surgeon and keyboard musician has combined two of his talents into a third, as the author of the beloved Doc Brady mystery series. Beyond applying his medical expertise at a relatable and comprehensible level, Dr. Bishop, through his fictional counterpart Doc Brady, also infuses his books with his love of not only Houston and Galveston, Texas, but especially with his love for his adored wife. Bishop’s talented Doc Brady is confident yet humble; brilliant, yet a genuinely nice and funny guy who happens to have a knack for solving medical mysteries. Above all, he is the doctor who will cure you of your blues and boredom. Step into his world with the first four books of the series, and you’ll be clamoring for more.

 

Website

 

 

 

DEADLY BUSINESS

 

by Anita Dickason

 

 

Pages: 324 pages

Publication Date: July 4, 2021

Genre: Suspense / Thriller / Crime Thriller

 

Scroll for Giveaway!

 

 

 

 

A Texas Multi-Billion Dollar Lure!

 

Following a tactical raid at an Oklahoma farm, a phone call sends U.S. Deputy Marshal Piper McKay rushing back to the East Texas cattle ranch where she grew up.

 

Her grandmother, Jennie Layton, is near death from a crushed skull. When local authorities claim the cause of the injury was an accident, Piper isn’t convinced.

 

Who wants Jennie dead and why? Is the reason connected to a dubious contract Piper finds in Jennie’s desk?

 

Piper realizes her grandmother isn’t the only one in danger when she barely escapes a deadly attack. Thrust into the middle of a high-stakes, high-risk shell game, Piper’s become the target.

 

The case takes a bizarre turn when Piper unknowingly crosses paths with a Special Ranger. If he can’t derail her investigation, it could cost him his life.

 

With millions of dollars on the line, nothing will stop a ring of cold-blooded killers, including the murders of a U.S. Marshal and a Special Ranger.

 

 

Amazon * Barnes and Noble * Kobo

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Deadly Trap, Part One

From Deadly Business

By Anita Dickason

 

 

 

 

Click to watch Part Two, starting 7/25, on All the Ups and Downs 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Award-winning Author Anita Dickason is a twenty-two veteran of the Dallas Police Department. She served as a patrol officer, undercover narcotics detective, advanced accident investigator, tactical officer, and first female sniper on the Dallas SWAT team.

Anita writes about what she knows, cops and crime. Her police background provides an unending source of inspiration for her plots and characters. Many incidents and characters portrayed in her books are based on personal experience. For her, the characters are the fun part of writing as she never knows where they will take her. There is always something out of the ordinary in her stories.

In Anita’s debut novel, Sentinels of the Night, she created an elite FBI Unit, the Trackers. Since then, she has added three more Tracker crime thrillers, Going Gone!, A u 7 9, and Operation Navajo. The novels are not a series and can be read in any order.

As a Texas author, many of Anita’s books are based in Texas, or there is a link to Texas. When she stepped outside of the Tracker novels and wrote, Not Dead, she selected Meridian, a small community in central Texas for the location.

 

 Website  ◆  Facebook  ◆  Twitter

 

 Amazon ◆ Goodreads

 

Pinterest ◆  LinkedIn  ◆ Vimeo

 

 

 

 

GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY!

 

FOUR WINNERS:

1st: Autographed hardcover copy + tote back, mousepad, pen, & bookmark;

2nd: Tote bag, coaster, pen, & bookmark;

3rd & 4th: eBook copy.

 

(US only; ends midnight, CDT, July 30, 2021) 

 

 

 

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway
 

 

 

 

Visit the Lone Star Literary Life Tour Page 

 

for direct links to each tour stop, updated daily.

Or visit the blogs directly:

 

 

7/20/21	Review	Bibliotica
7/20/21	BONUS Promo	LSBBT Blog
7/21/21	Notable Quotable	Missus Gonzo
7/21/21	BONUS Promo	Hall Ways Blog
7/22/21	Review	It’s Not All Gravy
7/23/21	Author Interview	That’s What She’s Reading
7/24/21	Video Excerpt	StoreyBook Reviews
7/25/21	Video Excerpt	All the Ups and Downs
7/26/21	Review	Reading by Moonlight
7/27/21	Guest Post	The Plain-Spoken Pen
7/28/21	Review	Chapter Break Book Blog
7/29/21	Review	Forgotten Winds
7/29/21	BONUS Review	Jennie Reads

 

 

 

 

Blog tour services provided

 

 

 

 

 

 

No More Words

 

By Kerry Lonsdale

 

Release Date: July 6, 2021

 

Publisher: Lake Union Publishing

 

 

Synopsis

 

Forced to choose between abortion or adoption, Olivia Carson’s younger sister, Lily, runs away from home. Sixteen and pregnant, she never returns. But she writes. Once a year, Lily mails a picture of her son, Josh, to Olivia until his thirteenth year. Then it’s Josh himself who arrives at Olivia’s house, alone, terrified, and in possession of a notarized declaration from Lily. It begins, “In the event I go missing…”

Josh has difficulty talking. He can’t read or write, but he’s a prolific artist, exhibiting skill beyond his age. His drawings are as detailed as they are horrific. Olivia soon realizes Josh’s artwork tells a story. There’s more to his arrival and to Lily’s untimely disappearance than it seems. Using the drawings as a road map, Olivia traces Josh’s path back to his mom. Each drawing sheds light on Lily’s past and reveals a darkness that forces Olivia to question everything she thought she knew about her family.

 

 

Amazon * B&N * IndieBound * BAM

 

Read for free via Kindle Unlimited

 

Inspiration for No More Words with Kerry Lonsdale

 

One summer night years ago I awoke at 2:00 am to glass shattering followed by the horrible sound of metal on metal. The acrid scent of burnt rubber reached me through the opened window I’d gotten up from bed to look out. Parked across the street was my neighbor’s ex-husband’s truck, the side door and panels looking more worse-for-wear than they had when I’d gone to bed. The sudden squeal of tires drew my attention to my next-door neighbor’s driveway where I watched in stunned horror as a green sedan shot across the street and t-boned the truck. The sedan backed up and rammed the truck again. Then again and again until the sedan’s front end crumpled, the bumper scraping the asphalt, the windshield cracking.

My neighbor’s ex-husband charged from the house in boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt hollering at the woman behind the wheel to stop. She didn’t, not until she’d pushed his truck up the sidewalk and onto the front lawn. Not until both vehicles were totaled. Not until the police arrived and convinced her to stop. And not until her face was so bloodied from hitting the steering wheel with each impact that she could no longer see. This was before airbags, and her eyes had swollen shut. An ambulance took her away from the scene.

Over the next few days, I learned that the woman behind the wheel was his girlfriend, and she wasn’t the least bit happy he was spending the night at his ex-wife’s house. She’d driven four hours, arriving in the dead of night, to show my neighbor’s ex-husband exactly how unhappy she was. She was also intoxicated. But the real tragedy was his daughter. He’d spent the night at his ex-wife’s house (on her couch) because he’d come to celebrate her eighth-grade graduation. And after the police left and ambulance drove off, I saw her standing on the porch dressed in pajamas, clutching her favorite stuffed animal. She’d witnessed the entire debacle.

I’ve often thought about her, the daughter, that is, wondering how that traumatic event affected her in the long run. There were others too. I wondered how they changed her relationship with her father. Did she pick up his habits as she aged, his boozing and gambling? Did she ever have a chance at a normal life, or did her childhood doom her to live with secrets and pain?

At the heart of the No More series I explore intergenerational trauma through the Carsons, the family featured in the series, and try to answer that exact question: Does a parent’s dysfunction prevent the younger generation from having a normal life, or have circumstances fated them to live with their trauma? From summers of neglect, lies and betrayal, teenage pregnancy, and serving time in juvenile hall, the Carson siblings have their share of baggage, thanks to parents who aren’t ideal. Dwight and Charlotte Carson’s parenting style leaves something to be desired, and of course, their actions lead to the tragic event at the center of the series that splits apart the Carson siblings.

I believe we experience and understand the world through our parents. We mimic their behaviors and habits. And in cases where abuse and neglect are involved, we forge coping mechanisms that aren’t necessarily ideal or healthy. We see this happen with Olivia, the protagonist in No More Words, and the oldest Carson sibling. She is in denial that she and her brother Lucas were treated differently by their parents than their younger sister Lily, who the parents often emotionally abused and neglected. Haunted by her past, betrayed several times over, Olivia has closed off her heart. Her trauma dictates her behavior and actions.

But despite this, I also believe that even though our past experiences can leave us fractured and flawed, we can rise above it, control it rather than letting our past control us. Through therapy, love, and acknowledgement, we can stop the cycle of intergenerational trauma. And we see this happen as Olivia works through her issues, taking ownership of the role she played in her family’s dysfunction and the disappearance of her younger sister Lily who she hasn’t seen since she ran away from home, sixteen and pregnant.

This makes me believe that the thirteen-year-old girl on the porch all those years ago has been living a rich, normal life that isn’t ruled by her childhood.

 

No More Words Excerpt

 

She glances back at Josh. He’s halfway down the hall looking at the framed photos on the wall. He makes a noise.

“What is it?” she asks, miffed. She thought he was right behind her.

He points at a photo and tries to speak, but the words stick to his tongue like wet sand on a damp bathing suit. He punches the air and roughly points at the photo, begging her to understand. Olivia motions with her hands for him to be quiet, glances back at her parents’ bedroom door, and makes her way over to him and studies the family portrait that has his attention. The photo was taken Olivia’s senior year in high school during Dwight’s third and last campaign. She was seventeen, Lucas fifteen, and Lily twelve-and-a-half. Big brown eyes fill Lily’s face. Braces hug her teeth. A flat chest doesn’t deter from her budding beauty.

Josh squeezes his eyes shut and bangs his head with his fists. He’s literally trying to beat the words out.

Familiar with his signs of distress, Olivia gently touches his shoulder. “Look at me. Josh, hey,” she says, urging him to come with her outside before Charlotte hears them. The fresh air and openness will calm him down. They can return later.

His eyes snap open and he makes a grab for the photo. “Shh. Don’t do that,” Olivia loudly whispers. She slaps a hand to the frame so the photo remains mounted. “Take a breath, Josh. Relax and talk your way through this. What’s wrong with this picture? Are you looking for your mom? She’s right here, see?” She prompts him like she’d read about for people with aphasia. Spell out the words. Give them the chance to speak.

His face reddens and a word pops from his mouth like a truck backfiring. “Bad.”

“The photo or the people in it?” Olivia’s gaze rakes over the family portrait. Charlotte had wanted a magazine spread when SLO Life featured her as a top real estate broker in the county. California Living used the same photo when the publication featured a sneak peek inside their custom-built home during Dwight’s campaign. Taken in the backyard, Dwight and Lucas wore tuxedos. They looked dashing in black with their silk ties. Charlotte, along with Olivia and Lily, wore champagne gowns with all the sparkle and glitz found at an Oscars after-party. Their dresses shimmered in the golden hour sunlight. Wind cut across the yard at the perfect moment, ruffling Lucas’s hair and lifting her cinnamon locks and Lily’s long auburn tresses off their shoulders the moment the photographer snapped the shot. A glamorous pose that rivaled that of any family of status. The photographer won a coveted award for the photo. Dwight posted the image on the About Us page of his corporate website. The photo, along with the accompanying articles, cemented the Carsons as a family to watch, much to Charlotte’s delight. How I wish my daddy could see me now, Olivia recalls her mom remarking on more than one occasion about the grandfather Olivia had never met.

If people could see them now.

What a mess the Carsons have become.

“Bad.” Josh jabs at the glass. The photo swings on its hook.

“Careful.” Olivia fixes the frame. There’s a larger version of this photo above the living room fireplace, but Charlotte will still have a conniption if anything happens to this one. It’s her favorite of all the portraits in the hallway.

“Bad.” Josh knocks her shoulder, pushing her back.

“Hey.” She stumbles against the wall.

“Bad. Bad.” He yanks the photo off the wall, ripping out the nail along with. Drywall dust sprinkles to the floor like snow.

Charlotte comes out of her room, tucking a pale-blue blouse into cream slacks, her makeup partially applied. Only one cheek has been rouged. Her lips are unadorned, making the color above her eyes stand out. She looks waifish, like a model in a designer label ad. “What’s going on?” She stops when she sees Josh. “Why’s he here?”

“Bad,” he yells, showing Charlotte the photo.

“Put that down,” Charlotte roars, her face deathly pale.

Her reaction sends a ripple of fear through Olivia. Where’s this coming from?

Olivia grips Josh’s arm. “We need to go.”

He shakes her off. “Bad. M-m-man!” He spits the word. Rage fills his eyes. Something else churns there, too.

Heart pulsating in her throat, Olivia looks at the photo. There’s only one man in the picture because Lucas is just a kid, not much older than Josh: her dad.

 

Review

 

This is a story of a dysfunctional family with secrets and lies and while you might be able to figure out some of it, the rest will come as a surprise.

The story centers around Olivia Carson and her siblings, Lucas and Lily. We meet her parents, Dwight and Charlotte, and the life that they are trying to portray to outsiders. It is a case of living larger than their income. The only solace for the children is being able to visit the Whitman family during the summer at their lake cabin. This is where Olivia and Blaze really fall for each other as teenagers but because of some events during Olivia’s childhood, she has a hard time trusting anyone. This fear torpedoes all of her relationships until the present day. Life is going along until all of a sudden a new arrival appears on Olivia’s doorstep, her nephew Josh who she has only seen in photos for the last 12 years. Due to an accident, Josh has a hard time speaking and expressing his thoughts and sharing what happened to his mother, Lily. From there it is a search into the past to uncover where Lily is and what happened to her.

This book totally sucked me in and since it is a trilogy, I can only assume that the other two books are about Lucas and Lily. There are many secrets that so many people are keeping from each other and as each is uncovered, it might change how you think about the various characters. Dwight, the father, is a scumbag and treats his children all differently. While I suspected why on one front it wasn’t confirmed until near the end. Charlotte, the mother, is a basket case and I honestly don’t know why the two of them ever became parents. Neither of them acts as if they like their children other than Dwight and Olivia’s relationship. However, as you delve deeper into the book you might wonder why they have that sort of relationship.

I liked that while there could have been a cliffhanger or two at the end of the novel, the author does wrap up the few dangling pieces which makes sense if the other books are about the siblings and what has happened in their life. There are some interesting twists with Lily’s life and I am curious to learn more about how she handled having a child and raising him on her own at the age of 16.

We give this book 5 paws up and can’t wait for the next two installments to see how this whole story plays out for the Carson family.

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Kerry Lonsdale is the Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and Amazon Charts bestselling author of Side Trip, Last Summer, All the Breaking Waves, and the Everything Series (Everything We Keep, Everything We Left Behind, and Everything We Give). Her work has been translated into more than twenty-seven languages. She resides in Northern California with her husband and two children. You can visit Kerry at www.kerrylonsdale.com.

 

Website * Facebook * Instagram * Goodreads * Twitter

 

 

Giveaway

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

Synopsis

 

After years of struggling to write following the deaths of his wife and son, English professor Connor Nye publishes his first novel, a thriller about the murder of a young woman.

There’s just one problem: Connor didn’t write the book. His missing student did. And then she appears on his doorstep, alive and well, threatening to expose him.

Connor’s problems escalate when the police insist details in the novel implicate him in an unsolved murder from two years ago. Soon Connor discovers the crime is part of a disturbing scandal on campus and faces an impossible dilemma–admit he didn’t write the book and lose his job or keep up the lie and risk everything. When another murder occurs, Connor must clear his name by unraveling the horrifying secrets buried in his student’s manuscript.

This is a suspenseful, provocative novel about the sexual harassment that still runs rampant in academia–and the lengths those in power will go to cover it up.

 

Amazon * B&N * Kobo * IndieBound

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt

 

Now that it’s out, I feel agitated, restless. My thoughts are a jumble. “Do you want a drink or something?” I ask. “I think I need bourbon.”

“Sure,” she says. “I always drank when you paid.”

I go back out to the kitchen, Grendel at my heels. It’s cold out, and I’d turned the heat down when I left the house. But I feel flushed, sweaty. Almost like I have a fever. I open the corner cabinet and take down a bottle of Rowan’s Creek and two glasses. When Jake was born, twenty years ago, Emily’s brother gave me a bottle of Rowan’s Creek, so whenever I drink it, I think of my son. My hand shakes as I pour.

Grendel starts eating. I hear his chomping in the corner.

“You were drinking a lot when I last saw you.”

I turn toward Madeline. She’s standing in the doorway from the living room, leaning against the jamb.

“I was,” I say. “I’ve cut back. A lot. I had to.” I hand her the glass, trying to control the trembling. “But I think I could use one or maybe two tonight.”

“I guess it isn’t every day that a ghost shows up in your house.”

I swallow and lean back against the counter. “They looked for you, Madeline. Searches all over campus and town. It was on the news. Some people thought you just up and ran off on a whim. Some students do that. Impulse trips.”

“Some kids can afford to do that.”

“Right. But they looked in your apartment. You left all your books and clothes behind. You were an excellent student, an honors student, a few months away from getting a degree. And you stopped coming to class. The police questioned everybody who’d had any contact with you, including me. Especially me because we were all at the bar that night.”

“And I left Dubliners right after you did.”

“Right. Some of this is fuzzy. How I got home . . . how I even managed to get my key in the lock and get inside . . . I kind of think you came with me . . . but I don’t know how far . . .”

“Out in the living room you were talking about the book,” she says, arms crossed, glass in front of her. “After you read it and wanted to talk to me and I was gone.”

I finish my first glass and pour another. This is it, I tell myself. Just two drinks.

“You know I have to publish to get tenure,” I say. “That’s the way to survive in academia.”

“I’ve heard about that.” “Publish or perish, they call it.” “It sounds awfully bleak.”

“It can be,” I say. “And I hadn’t published anything in the seven years I’d been here. That book of stories Autumn Sunset came out when I was still in graduate school, so it didn’t count. If you don’t get tenure, you get fired. And if I didn’t get tenure here, I probably wouldn’t get hired anywhere else. They’d see I failed to produce, and no one would touch me. Why would they want a middle-aged guy with a huge blank spot in his publication record?”

“You could tell them about your family,” Madeline says.

“Sure. And the university here gave me an extra year for bereavement. I still couldn’t produce a book or even a few stories.” Grendel appears to be finished eating. He slurps some water, shakes his head, and goes back out to his perch on the couch. “Dr. White, the department chair, is a pretty good friend. And he really looked out for me. But he could only do so much. And he was really on me, reminding me what was at stake. He kept telling me, ‘Just produce something, Connor.’”

“No pressure, right? Hurry up and write an entire book while you’re grieving.”

“Life goes on at some point.” I drink some more. “The world doesn’t stop forever. Six months had passed after you disappeared. Six months. No one really said it out loud, but everybody was thinking the same thing. After a few days—a week, really—people were thinking the worst had happened. That you weren’t coming back. That you were dead. Murdered. Even your mom said it in an interview she did with the local paper. Does she know you’re—”

“I’ll call her soon,” Madeline says, her voice sharp. “You just finish telling me about the book and how all of this happened.”

We’ve reversed roles. She’s asking the questions. She’s playing the part of authority figure. And I feel compelled to answer her and give a full accounting of myself.

“I had your book,” I say. “Almost all handwritten. And you were gone. And I had an agent interested in my writing from years ago, although I wasn’t even sure she still knew I existed. I took your handwritten book and retyped it on my computer.”

“You gave me a hard time about turning in a handwritten draft. I told you my computer died.”

“It turned out to be to my advantage. I made some of the revisions as I went along. I kept telling myself I wasn’t going to send it anywhere, that I was just going to type the book out as an exercise, a way to get my own creative juices flowing again. But the deadline was coming up for my tenure review. And I really wasn’t sure how I would handle it if I lost this job. On top of everything else, to be unemployed with nowhere to go.”

Madeline shows concern as she listens. She’s nodding, encouraging me to keep talking. And it feels good, really good, to finally unburden myself of the secret I’ve been carrying around for the past eighteen months. Even if I am unburdening myself to the person most directly harmed by my actions.

“It’s so hard to get a book published,” I say. “What are the chances for anyone? It was a whim. A Hail Mary play. But my agent loved the story. And within a few weeks, an editor loved it. And bought it. I kept telling myself to speak up, to tell them it wasn’t mine. But the train just kept gathering momentum and . . . I have to be honest . . . after everything that had gone wrong for me, after all my struggles with writing, to hear people saying such nice things felt really, really good.”

I look at her, and she swallows some of her bourbon. The look on her face has shifted, from concern and understanding to something I can’t really read. Her eyes look flat and cold, pale marbles staring back at me.

“I’m sorry, Madeline,” I say. “I really am.”

She takes her time responding, and then says, “Don’t worry. I didn’t show up here without a plan for how you’ll make this all right.”

 

Excerpted from KILL ALL YOUR DARLINGS by David Bell, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2021 by David Bell

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

David Bell is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning suspense novelist. His most recent thriller from Berkley/Penguin is KILL ALL YOUR DARLINGS. His previous novels include THE REQUEST, LAYOVER, SOMEBODY’S DAUGHTER, BRING HER HOME, SINCE SHE WENT AWAY, SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW, THE FORGOTTEN GIRL, NEVER COME BACK, THE HIDING PLACE, and CEMETERY GIRL. He is currently a Professor of English at Western Kentucky University.

 

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Goodreads

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

How far would one nurse go to help a dying patient with a dark secret?

Adrift, unfulfilled, and with a violent old flame suddenly back in her life, hospice nurse Scarlett Laurent is at a crossroads.

When a routine call leads her to James Francis, a mysterious patient with a dying wish, Scarlett is tasked with the unthinkable. Breaking her oath as a nurse will be no easy feat, and unfortunately for her, her problems have just begun.

As ghosts of James’s past come back to haunt him, Scarlett finds herself in the crosshairs of dangerous men hell-bent on revenge.

Lost and hunted by mobsters and crooked cops, Scarlett must navigate a web of dark secrets and lies if she hopes to make it out alive.

But who can she trust?

In a twisted game of fate, this dynamic thriller thrusts you into a whirlpool of betrayal, blackmail, and murder, and reveals just how truly fragile one can become…

 

 

Amazon

 

 

Review

 

Looking for a book that delves into the seedy underbelly of criminals and dirty cops? The characters that set you on edge and cringe at their actions? Then this might be the book for you.

The story follows several different characters whose storylines intersect. Luca – the criminal that was just released from prison; Scarlett – the hospice nurse that wonders if her life is all she wants it to be; Brooks – the crooked cop; Anton – in the Russian mafia and a former boyfriend of Scarlett; Josh – Scarlett’s fiance and seemingly good guy; Jimmy Francis – dying patient of Scarlett’s.

This is a fast-paced novel that kept me on the edge of my seat. As I have come to discover, many times characters are not who they portray themselves to be. But others are exactly as you see them described. These characters fit both bills. Luca is pretty much as you expect a hardened criminal to be with no intention of rehabilitating their life. Anton appears to have changed his ways, at least to Scarlett, but has he? Scarlett is a character that many might be able to relate to in the fact that she wonders if her life is going in the direction that it should be or if there is something else out there for her.

There were so many twists and turns to this book. The last 10% or so was extremely action-packed with a few crazy twists at the end. I thought about the situation Scarlett found herself in at the end and wondered if I could have done the same or how I would have handled the situation. You’ll have to read the book to find out!

We give this 5 paws up.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Gareth R.T. Owen is an award-winning author, screenwriter, and filmmaker from Wales, United Kingdom. Gareth’s love for stories developed at a very young age and soon blossomed into an obsession. He studied creative writing and screenwriting before moving to Los Angeles, CA, where his work on screen has earned him festival awards including best film and best screenplay. Whether it be enjoying the work of others, or creating himself, Gareth is drawn to gripping psychological thrillers with a gritty tone.

 

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram

 

 

 

 

EL PASO SUNRISE

 

& EL PASO SUNSET

 

by Louis Bodnar

 

 

Publisher: Morgan James Fiction

 

Pub Date: September 24th, 2019 | January 5th, 2021

 

Pages: 292 | 238

 

Categories: Thriller / Terrorism / Conspiracy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

El Paso Sunrise

 

From a Constitutional Republic to a Marxist Dictatorship led by a Muslim President in a Second American Civil War 

“Kill him,” the gravelly voice said on the speaker to the cream of the Russian and Muslim terrorist assassination squad infiltrating America from Canada and on their way to El Paso to kill lawyer Steven Vandorol.  Steven was leading the Texas prosecution of Federal government corruption and with national implications before the fall presidential election.

El Paso Sunrise is the first of two stand-alone novels that together tell a grand story of love, passion, intense hate, violence and horror all brought keenly alive against the intentional radical transformation of America in a Second American Civil War by progressives, Muslim radicals and the American Left from a Constitutional Republic.  It is also a portrayal of a future with the literal choking of Canada, Great Britain, Europe, the Middle East, particularly the sovereign State of Israel by Islamist radicals, ISIL, Hezbollah, Hamas and the spreading cancerous malignancy of a worldwide Muslim Caliphate.

Steven Vandorol had it all but lost everything when he fell hard from grace in the ultra-rich Sunbelt.  Escaping to Washington, D.C., he found himself embroiled in evil, corruption, sexual obsession and addiction but, confronting his own demons, found peace and serenity in El Paso.

Then stunning Vanessa Carson, Steven’s attorney friend and confidant amid the evil of D.C. brings her sunshine smile back into his life in El Paso and together as one, face their worst nightmares or rape, kidnapping and murder during the ultimate crises of a second American civil war started by powerful forces and only Steven and Vanessa stand in their way . . .

While El Paso Sunrise is a graphic story of evil in this world, it is also a timeless love story about goodness, faith, grace and friendship blossoming during a national emergency — a clarion call to the world to remember what truly matters — asking the question . . .

Can Steven force his own country and government to face their own demons before it’s too late?

 

 

 *LouisBodnar |Amazon | Barnes and Noble

 

 

El Paso Sunset

 

Within El Paso Sunset, Steven and his friend, Vanessa Carson, face their worst nightmare of rape, kidnapping, and murder during the ultimate crisis of a Second American Civil War started by dark, sinister, and shadowy forces and only Steven and Vanessa stand in the way. El Paso Sunset is the second and continuation of two stand-alone novels that together make a story of love, passion, obsession, intense hate, pure evil, violence, and horror, all brought keenly alive against the panorama of the radical transformation of the great American Constitutional Republic.

 

 

*Louis Bodnar | Amazon | Barnes and Noble

 

*Special Discount if you buy both books through Louis Bodnar’s Website

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE, PART ONE FROM

 

EL PASO SUNSET

 

BY LOUIS BODNAR

 

 

She was parked on the corner of Wilmot and Parkland Street in the west El Paso Walmart Supercenter parking lot. It was packed with almost a thousand cars of all shapes, sizes, and colors, but the majority were white, the norm in El Paso as citizens sought that color’s protection against the burning sun.

It was early afternoon in the unusually hot late December day. People were coming and going, shopping for New Year’s Day festivities and imminent football-watching parties.

Her targets were in a neighborhood three blocks away. She had scouted the home and the neighborhood near Coronado High School several times in the evenings. She was ready to carry out her assignment as a professional who did all her jobs very well. She enjoyed her work immensely and derived great satisfaction from it. She was a killer.

She was in a nondescript white Nissan Sentra with darkly tinted windows, gray interior, its engine idling, and the air conditioning on full blast—right in the middle of the parking lot next to cars almost identical to hers. She glanced at the car’s digital clock. 1:10 p.m. It was time. She had allotted one hour for her job. She was a very thorough professional.

She turned off the engine, stepped out of the car, locked the doors, and started walking toward Wilmot Street.

She could have easily passed for a high school senior. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore mirror-dark black sunglasses, their large lenses hiding most of her face, and a Dallas Cowboys hat. With no makeup on except for lip gloss, she was gorgeous. She wore a Coronado High School Thunderbird football jersey, sweatpants, and black Nike running shoes. A 9mm Beretta M9 semiautomatic, with silencer, was tucked against the small of her back on a belt, hidden by the jersey.

She also had a North Face backpack containing a nylon face mask, lip gloss, surgical gloves, and two extra clips of ammo. She was ready and getting a little excited as she always did before an assignment.

The sun was straight up in the sky, brilliant and white hot. Its glare made it hard to see in the burning haze.

She slowly walked across the parking lot, passing cars radiating and reflecting the sun. She couldn’t ignore the acrid smell of hot asphalt and gasoline. She seemed to be walking in a sun-city hell until she reached Wilmot Street. Looking both ways, she saw no cars coming, so she walked across to Parkland Street. She walked slowly to the right and continued down the block. All appeared deserted except for an occasional tricycle or other toys in the driveways. No one was braving the oppressive midday heat.

These streets had large, well-kept homes with long driveways and sprawling, landscaped lawns filled with desert plants, succulents, and silvery rock, which was, again, the norm in El Paso. Mesquite and acacia trees, plentiful all-around, gave shady respite from the searing sun.

The homes were large, mostly white and gray stucco with large windows, many with boxlike sun-reflecting awnings. Spanish modern architecture was prevalent in this expensive and ostentatious part of west El Paso.

She casually turned up on Vista del Sol and walked to number 1055, her final destination. She stopped and looked all around, turning slowly and scanning the nearby homes and the entire neighborhood. She checked the mailbox, opening it with the back of her hand. The mail had apparently been delivered as the box had a few envelopes. As she closed it back again the same way, she looked across the street. All window blinds were down. She could see the heat rising from the rooftops, the sun still blinding. She shaded her eyes to check again: all deserted, all garage doors down. She was completely alone.

She followed the cement walkway to the side of the house, took out the gloves from the backpack, put them on, and went through the gate to the backyard. As she closed the rough, cedar gate behind her, she noticed the backyard was completely surrounded by an eight-foot privacy wooden fence.

The backyard was large and ran the entire length of the house. It had two large, old elm trees that canopied most of the yard, lowering the temperature by twenty degrees at least. The landscaping was exquisite, with brick flower beds full of succulents and cacti, all professionally arranged. A huge rainbow playset sat between the trees. With its plastic slides and swings and a wooden playhouse on top, she thought it was probably very expensive.

The patio was to the right and was covered with a huge Sunshade retractable awning. She also noticed a massive built-in barbeque grill, two tables, chairs, two chaise lounges, and a small, plastic kiddie pool half full of water.

She walked to the glass patio doors, which had heavy, light tan curtains drawn, and tried the sliding glass door. It was unlocked, so she slid it open. All was dark and cool inside. She stepped in and was shrouded by the curtain. She stood behind it and waited. She knew no one was home. After a few seconds, she backed to an opening and was inside the family den.

She took out the sheer nylon mask, hesitated a moment, then put it back in the backpack. I won’t be needing a mask, she thought and smiled. She walked into the kitchen. Getting a glass from a cabinet, she filled it with water from the dispenser on the fridge, opened the door, got out a pear, and sat down on a bar stool. She took out the Beretta, tightened the screw-on silencer, chambered a round, put the weapon on the counter, took a drink, bit into the pear, and chewed as she waited.

 

Starting 6/27/21, click to continue reading chapter one on Chapter Break Book Blog

 

 

 

 

Louis Bodnar is a retired attorney currently living in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, with his wife Joan.  As a naturalized American citizen, he was born in Vilshofen, Germany, immigrated to Brazil with his mother and brother, and came to America in 1958.

He was educated in the United States in Oklahoma, receiving an undergraduate degree from Oklahoma State University, a Juris Doctorate from the University of Oklahoma, and was a candidate for an LLM in International and Comparative Law at Georgetown University Law Center in Washington, D.C.

 

Website | Amazon | Facebook | Twitter

 

BookBub | Instagram

 

 

GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY! GIVEAWAY!

 

ONE WINNER receives autographed copies of the two-volume set of the El Paso books.

 

(US only; ends midnight, CDT, July 2, 2021)

 

 

 

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway
 

 

 

 

Visit the  Lone Star Literary Life Tour Page

for direct links to participating blogs, updated daily,

or visit the blogs directly

 

 

6/22/21	Excerpt Book One	Texas Book Lover
6/22/21	BONUS Promo	LSBBT Blog
6/23/21	Review Book One	Forgotten Winds
6/24/21	Guest Post	It’s Not All Gravy
6/25/21	Dual Review	Bibliotica
6/26/21	Excerpt Book Two	StoreyBook Reviews
6/27/21	Excerpt Book Two	Chapter Break Book Blog
6/28/21	Review Book Two	The Clueless Gent
6/29/21	Author Interview	Hall Ways Blog
6/30/21	Dual Review	Reading by Moonlight
7/1/21	Series Spotlight	Missus Gonzo

 

 

 

 

blog tour services provided by

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

A young woman agrees to star in a filmmaker’s latest project, but soon realizes the movie is not what she expected in this chilling debut novel.

In the wake of her father’s death, Betty doesn’t allow herself to mourn. Instead, she pushes away her mother, breaks up with her boyfriend, and leaves everything behind to move to New York City crashing on her old friend Sophia and Sophia’s boyfriend Ben’s, couch. Sophia and Ben introduce Betty to their friend and indie filmmaker darling Anthony Marino, whose previous movie is a favorite of Betty’s. She starstruck by Anthony and, while slightly afraid of him, completely captivated by him as well. When he offers her the chance to play the leading role in his latest project, a loose remake of Cape Fear, she jumps at the opportunity.

The four of them head to Anthony’s family’s cabin off the coast of Maine for several weeks to shoot the film. Betty starts to get more apprehensive about what she’s gotten herself into. She continuously finds herself pulled under Anthony’s alluring spell, but there’s no real script, or at least one that Betty’s not privy to. Anthony gives her a new identity, Lola, and a radical makeover to fit the part. But Betty tells herself that this is exactly what she’s been looking for: the chance to reinvent herself. That is until she meets Sammy, the island’s caretaker, and Betty realizes just how little she knows about the movie and its director and is certainly in over her head.

 

 

Kobo * Google * Amazon * B&N * IndieBound

 

 

Excerpt

 

“Looking at you,” he says, replaying the short clip. “It’s like wandering into a labyrinth.”

 

“Thank you,” I say, though it sounds more like a question. I tear my eyes away from the camera, back up to his face.

 

All at once, the reality of this night hits me. I’m sitting in a restaurant in Brooklyn, talking to Anthony Marino. No, auditioning for Anthony Marino. And he thinks I’m beautiful. Like wandering into a labyrinth. I don’t know how I got here. But this is real, isn’t it? This is happening.

 

Without lifting his gaze from the screen, Anthony tells my video self, “This would be a commitment. This isn’t your usual film. It’s not a big‑budget sort of thing. It’s going to be an intimate shoot. We’ll live in my family’s cabin up north, for about a month. Maybe more, maybe less. And that’s where we’ll be filming, in the cabin. On the water. It’s just a small group of us—you, me, Ben, and Mads, the other actor. Mads Byrne. Well, you won’t have heard of him since you haven’t seen Reverence. Sofìa’s taking some days off work to join us for a bit, too. But this film is low‑key. No extra crew, just me and Ben working the set. Are you comfortable with that?”

 

I sit back, considering him. This is so fast. We haven’t done anything close to an audition. And I could believe, maybe, that he doesn’t care whether I tell him yes or no, because he’s been so casual about everything. He hasn’t asked for anything from me yet, no references, no monologue, nothing. But he’s looking at me too intently—his knuckles turning white around the camera—for this to be a spontaneous offer. Didn’t Ben say that Anthony was too picky? He could have anyone, that’s what he said. He’s delayed filming to search for just the right actress.

 

It seems he’s found one. Me.

 

I find myself saying yes before I can properly catch my breath. It doesn’t even sound like a word, yes, just an emotion jettisoned into the air.

 

“It’s a demanding project,” he tells me. “Most of it is pretty intuitive. But you’d have to be comfortable with some things. Nudity, for instance. Some violence.”

 

“Violence?” I feel another smile climb my cheeks, this one an imperfect reflection of my unease. How can there be violence when the film consists of just Mads Byrne and me? “What kind of violence? Like in a horror movie?”

 

He laughs. “Nothing like that. Arguments, shouting, you know, that kind of stuff.”

 

“Does it pay?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“How much?”

 

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

 

I try to stifle my gasp. What happened to the small budget? “That’s upon ‘signing.’” He crooks a finger in halfhearted air quotes. “And then another twenty thousand after we finish filming. Sound fair?”

Maybe there’s more to this than I understand. Forty thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money. A person will do a lot for that. A person will be expected to do a lot. And I know this should make me nervous. Everything about tonight should make me nervous. Suddenly, I wish I were older. Maybe then I would know how to handle this situation. I would know the right thing to say, the right thing to ask about this project, and why he’s so convinced I’m the one he wants, after such a short time together. I would know how to look at this man, and how to be looked at by him in turn. I wouldn’t be so overwhelmed.

 

But I’m not older. I’m just me. And no matter how much I know I should be, I’m not worried. This is like a dream come true, and I’m not going to question my impossibly good luck. I told people I wanted to be an actress in New York, and I meant it, even if it felt like a flimsy way of saying I wanted to figure out who I was, after Dad, as far away as possible from anything that re‑ minded me of him. Here is the opportunity to do exactly that. With Anthony Marino.

 

I suck out the dregs of my NorCal margarita through a pink straw. I don’t know why this drink is so region specific. Nothing of the tequila or lime reminds me of the wispy fog rolling off the cliffs, the soft, moist bark of redwood trees, the dusty roads. But the name is enough to transform it into home. I close my eyes on the last swallow. When I open them again, my mother’s voice and the images of my father hiking through the brush, out to the dazzling expanse of the Pacific, are replaced by Anthony’s eyes.

 

I nod—Yes, yes, I am comfortable with all that—but I can’t seem to find my voice yet.

 

He reaches for my wrist. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I’m not going to lie, I think you’re perfect for it. There’s something about you.” He motions to the camera between us. “Like I said, it’s impossible to look away from you. But a location shoot and the lead role are a lot to ask of an inexperienced actress. Do you have the energy for it?”

 

I nod again, once.

 

“I need to hear you say it,” he says, releasing my wrist. “Are you in, one hundred percent?”

 

I take his hand. He thinks for a second that I’m holding it, but I turn the gesture into a businessman’s handshake. His bones, as rigid as they look, bend a little in my grip. “Yes,” I hear myself say. “Of course.”

 

This is my new beginning. This is what I want. This is what  I need.

 

 

Excerpted from SHUTTER by Melissa Larsen, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2021 by Melissa Larsen

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Melissa Larsen has an M.F.A. from Columbia University and a B.A. from NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. She has interned and worked extensively in publishing. She lives in San Francisco, and Shutter is her first novel.

 

Website * Twitter * Instagram