Synopsis

A thriller that depicts the resilience of a woman faced with devastating loss, the unexpected friendship forged from tragedy and the recurring societal themes that confront every generation.

Julianna Sandoval is living in limbo. Her husband’s plane has vanished over the Atlantic Ocean and although the Coast Guard has suspended the search, she clings to hope that he’ll still be found alive. Three months later, a young woman appears after hours at Julianna’s Ormond Beach restaurant, declaring, “He’s not who you think he is.” Before the stranger can say anything else, a gunshot through the window kills her instantly. Seasoned detective Paul Grant is assigned to investigate the girl’s murder. He senses that the shooting was not random but doesn’t know the connection to his only witness. Was the girl referring to Julianna’s presumed dead husband, her lazy stepson, her shady bar manager, or someone else? As Grant methodically gathers evidence and challenges alibies, Julianna’s faith in her friends and family is tested. The investigation leaves her wondering who she can trust and culminates with an eerie link to the past that no one sees coming.

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Excerpt

Julianna | Monday, July 5

I poured myself a glass of red wine from an open bottle at the bar and pictured Michael sitting across from me. We were having a nightcap now that the diners had finished their desserts and coffee and were headed home, their tummies full of pasta with homemade Italian sauce. He raised his glass to make a toast—to having me all to himself for a few weeks. I was about to do something I considered reckless: abandoning the restaurant for two weeks to go on vacation in Italy. Before Michael, I’d never been out of the country, much less on a cross-Atlantic flight, but he’d planned our adventure to the last detail. We’d never really taken a honeymoon. I was too worried about leaving the restaurant unsupervised, but he’d finally convinced me to relax. Samantha and Alex could easily handle things while I was gone.

I guess it just wasn’t in my DNA to be so carefree, a work ethic I’d inherited from my father. Little by little Michael had shown me that it was okay to have fun. Taking time off for an overdue celebration of our marriage was part of enjoying life. He was a hopeless romantic.

I dabbed my eyes with a cocktail napkin. Now I was the romantic one, clinging to a distant memory. I was also feeling more hopeless—it had been ninety-five days since I’d last seen my husband.

I started to take a sip of wine when I heard a voice behind me.

“We need to talk,” she said.

I whipped around to see a woman leaning against the hostess stand at the front of my restaurant. We had closed over an hour ago. My bar manager and chef had just left for the night, leaving me alone to finish some paperwork. She seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

Her voice sounded like a girl’s, but she looked more like a Real Housewife. She wore a tight navy dress with a scooped neckline that accentuated her rounded breasts. Gold bracelets adorned both wrists and her heels were so high that her feet arched unnaturally. Her bleached blonde hair was tousled about her face, and her skin was deeply tanned, the color that came from hours of soaking up the Florida sun.

“We’re closed,” I said, perplexed that this woman was somehow in my restaurant at nearly 1:00 a.m.

“You’re Julianna, right?” she asked. Her eyes squinted slightly.

Most of my customers, even the regulars, called me Miss Sandoval. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something off-putting about the informal way she said my first name. Or maybe I was just irritable from a long night. Holidays were always busy, and that night’s Fourth of July dinner crowd had been no exception.

“Look, I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” I repeated. “You’ll need to come back during normal hours.”

For an instant, I thought about my pistol in the safe in the back office. It wasn’t that I felt in danger—she looked more like the type who’d be robbed than someone who’d do the robbing. Still, her presence was strange, especially on the one night when my stepson was out of town, leaving me to close the restaurant alone.

“He’s not who you think he is,” she said.

I shook my head, trying to make sense of her words. Was she drunk? High? And who was she talking about? It didn’t matter. She was keeping me from going home and I was already exhausted. I reached in my jacket pocket for the key to the front door and stepped from behind the expansive bar to escort her out. As I approached, I got a better look at her face. She was heavily made-up, with contoured cheekbones, lash extensions and plumped-up lips. I reiterated that we were closed and she needed to leave.

“You stupid bitch,” she sneered. “You don’t have a clue!”

I stopped in my tracks. My entire body stiffened. The hatred in her voice was personal, as if she knew me, which she didn’t. Before I could respond, I heard a blast outside. Glass shattered like someone had dropped a full tray of dishes onto the concrete floor.

Her eyes bulged and she gasped for air, opening and closing her mouth like a hooked fish. Her doll-like face was now oddly contorted. She stumbled forward a few steps, struggling to maintain her balance. When she tried to speak, blood spewed from her mouth.

I screamed.

She lurched forward, arms outstretched, and tried to grab me.

I instinctively stepped back and watched in horror as she clutched her chest and gasped for air.

Our eyes locked.

She stared at me, terrified. Her expression was the haunted, helpless look of someone who knew death was certain. Then she collapsed face-first to the floor.

I took another step back, turned and sprinted through the open archway toward the kitchen. I continued retreating down the hall to my office and slammed the door behind me. My heart was pounding in my ears. My fingers trembled as I struggled to twist the flimsy bar lock on the door knob.

Only then did I realize that I had no escape. My small office had no windows or other exits.

I frantically snatched the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” I chanted into the receiver.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

“A woman,” I panted. “A woman has been shot.”

I glanced at the space between my desk and the back wall and squeezed myself into the small opening. My desk was made of wood. It wouldn’t stop a bullet. Still, I felt safer crouched behind it.

“What is your address?” the dispatcher asked.

“Café Lily. 216 South Atlantic Avenue, Ormond Beach.”

“And your name?”

“Julianna Sandoval. Please, send the police right away!”

I listened for any sounds of movement in the hallway. Whoever shot her could be coming for me next. The restaurant was eerily quiet, but that didn’t mean I was alone.

“Help is on the way, Julianna. Just stay with me. Where are you?”

“In my office.” My voice cracked. I tried to swallow but my mouth was dry.

“Did you see who shot her?”

I blinked, trying to recall the scene I’d just witnessed. I’d heard the gunshot and the window shattering. Why hadn’t I looked in that direction? The entire time, I’d never taken my eyes off the woman. Why hadn’t I tried to identify the shooter?

“Ma’am, are you still there?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m here,” I whispered.

I eyed the safe on the wall. I’d have to give up the cover of my desk to retrieve my pistol, but I had no choice. A flimsy lock wouldn’t hold up against someone determined to break down the door. I stood quickly and pressed the cold metal keypad—0216, my parents’ anniversary. Or was it 0212?

My mind went blank.

No, it was 0216.

With a single motion, I grabbed the gun and darted back to my hiding place. I squatted behind my desk with the phone pressed against my ear and my gun pointed toward the door. As much as I tried, I couldn’t catch my breath.

“You’re doing good, Julianna. The police are on their way.”

But what if help didn’t arrive in time?

About the Author

Liz Lazarus grew up in Valdosta, Georgia, known for its high school football and being the last watering hole on highway I-75 before entering Florida. She was editor of her high school newspaper and salutatorian of her class. Lazarus graduated from The Georgia Institute of Technology with an engineering degree and Northwestern’s Kellogg Graduate School of Management with an MBA. She went on to a successful career as an executive at General Electric’s Healthcare division. Later, she joined a leading consulting firm as a Managing Director and is currently head of Operations for a healthcare start-up. Interestingly, Lazarus initially ignored the calling to become a novelist—instead, she tackled other ambitions on her bucket list: living in Paris and learning to speak French, getting her pilot’s license, and producing a music CD. But, as she explains, her first book “wouldn’t leave me alone—it kept nudging me to write to the point that I could no longer ignore it.” Though her first novel, Free of Malice, released in the spring of 2016, is fiction, the attack on the main character is real, drawn from Lazarus’ own experience. It portrays the emotional realities of healing from a vicious, physical assault and tells the story of one woman’s obsession to force the legal system to acknowledge her right to self-defense. Reader response to Lazarus’ first novel was so encouraging that she embarked on a writing career, releasing her second novel in the spring of 2018. Plea for Justice is a thriller that depicts the journey of a paralegal investigating the case of her estranged friend’s incarceration. As she seeks the truth, loyalties are strained and relationships are tested leaving her to wonder if she is helping an innocent man or being played for a fool. Her third novel, Shades of Silence, released in 2021, showcases the resilience of a woman faced with devastating loss, the unexpected friendships forged from tragedy, and the recurring societal themes that confront every generation. Lazarus lives in Atlanta and is engaged to fiancé, Richard. When not working, she enjoys reading, traveling, and spoiling their cat, Buckwheat.

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