Bookish Indulgences

Murder On Site by TG Wolff

2026-04-09T00:00:00.002+05:30

MURDER ON SITE

by TG Wolff

March 16 - April 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Rizk Brothers Legal Mysteries

In the corridors of Indiana’s justice system, power is both a weapon and a curse.

Jakob Rizk never expected to become Indiana’s acting attorney general—especially not after his mentor’s sudden death. Two weeks in, he’s losing sleep, battling a ruthless rival, and facing off with a powerful senator focused on his downfall. The last thing he needs is for his twin, Seth—a Miami cop hiding secrets of his own—to arrive unexpectedly.

Jakob is under pressure to prosecute a young engineer for the murder of a hard-nosed inspector famous for rooting out corruption. But with scant evidence and clear signs of political interference, the case is a minefield. Jakob has always lived by the law, but now one misstep could cost him a career.

Together, the brothers must unravel a web of greed and deception, each dead set on appearing strong in the other’s eyes. As they race the clock, which matters more: the truth, their careers, or fragile bonds that could be shattered forever?

MURDER ON SITE Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery; Legal Mystery, Whodunnit
Published by: Tule Publishing
Publication Date: February 23, 2026
Number of Pages: 279
ISBN: 9781969218989 (ISBN10: 1969218983)
Series: The Rizk Brothers Legal Mysteries, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Publishing

Read an excerpt:

~Jakob~

Wednesday. 2:30 p.m.

Jakob Rizk didn’t notice the concrete sidewalks of downtown Indy. He didn’t see the people. His body was on automatic pilot, his mind back in the office of the Marion County prosecutor. They’d worked a few cases together back when he, Jakob, was a senior attorney in the criminal department.

Which was last week.

Then Jakob had stepped into the role of interim attorney general after Harrison Stanley died unexpectedly. The death and appointment were as much a surprise to him as the rest of the state. From assistant county prosecutor to the state’s top attorney in three years. The change left no time to plan, to think, to grieve. Noon Monday, the governor publicly announced the interim appointment. An hour later, Jakob sat behind the shiny desk in the office with Harry’s name on the door, scouring through emails and hand-annotated notes to pick up where Harry had left off on Friday.

A shoulder bounced off his arm.

“My apologies,” he said automatically. Lifting his head, he saw a swarm of young teens in identical blue T-shirts. He bobbed and weaved, feeling like he was swimming upstream.

The metaphor applied to more than the sidewalk. He reached an intersection, pressed the “walk” button, and waited.

Three hours ago, his mobile rang. Glad to see a familiar name come up, Jakob had answered without hesitating. But he wasn’t calling as a friend, he was calling as a county prosecutor. He had a problem and needed Jakob’s advice. Could he come over to talk?

So, Jakob went.

“Walk. Walk. Walk.”

Jakob obeyed, staying between the white lines out of habit rather than intent.

The problem was a dead woman named Lucy Torok. Her body had been found in her truck, parked under the interstate bridge where she worked as a construction inspector. The Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department had a suspect but evidence was so thin the odds of securing a conviction were single digits. On the surface, the case was murder. But beneath the waters lurked a political bear trap. Should he hold out for more evidence or move forward to appease the well-connected family? And that was where his friend needed advice.

What would Harry do if he’d gotten the call …

“I like your shoes.” A rough, worn voice pulled Jakob from his thoughts. He glanced at the Italian leather on his feet. “Thank you,” he said to the man sitting against the nearest building. Likely homeless, the clothes were oversized for the man and too heavy for the hot June afternoon. But his shoes, those were pristine. A point of pride. “I like yours. It’s a challenge to keep white clean.”

“It is, but worth it,” the man said. “Yessiree. I like those shoes. But truth, I liked your other ones better.”

Jakob’s mind raced to decode the comment. Had the man seen him before and noticed his shoes? He had a collection that would be embarrassing if anyone but his wife saw it. More likely the man suffered from a mental illness. Addiction. Delusional disorder. What else could make a man imagine shoes? Didn’t matter. He needed to get back to Harry’s office.

“I like those, too,” he said, playing along. “But you have to mix it up sometimes. Have a good one.” Jakob hurried along to discourage conversation. One more street and he entered the building through the revolving door. Crisp cool air greeted his face and hands. He was tempted to pull off his suit jacket, but knowing he’d been sweating, he left it in place.

“You’re back again,” Anthony Raymond called out. The security guard was one of Jakob’s favorite people, always having a smile to share. “What a surprise.”

“That’s me,” Jakob said dryly as he put his phone in the bowl, backpack on the table. “Just full of surprises.” He walked through the metal detector, then waited on the other side for Anthony to clear his bag.

“I guess your plans fell through.”

“You mean my meeting? No, I had it. It didn’t take long.”

Anthony’s face betrayed his bewilderment.

“Meetings do occasionally end early.” Jakob chuckled. “It’s rare, but every once in a while, we get a few minutes back in our day.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I’m sure they do.” Anthony pushed the backpack toward Jakob but didn’t let go. “I just have to ask. Why did you change clothes again?”

Did Anthony get him mixed up with someone else? He felt a little hurt. He saw Anthony as a—well, they weren’t friends, but acquaintances. Apparently Anthony saw him as just another suit.

“The governor expects us to dress when we’re in the building. We need to paint the right picture, you know. Have a good afternoon, Anthony.”

“You, too,” Anthony called after him.

Jakob headed to the elevator, grateful the doors opened nearly instantly. They closed and he was alone with his ego, dented after the reminder he wasn’t special at all. He shared the short ride up with his reflection. A familiar stranger. Neither different nor the same, who was he now?

The doors opened and he put on a façade that included his confident smile.

He walked through the glass entryway that had been the gateway to his work for the last three years. The receptionist, Ivy O’Neil, wasn’t at her post. A rarity. He headed left, to the office of the attorney general. He nodded to a staffer, who blinked without nodding back.

Jakob was beginning to think there really was something different about this upcoming generation of attorneys and it wasn’t their overwhelming social skills.

The desk and area outside the AG’s office was the territory of Executive Assistant Lisa Hastings. The most senior person in the office, who was also conspicuously missing.

“Where is everyone?” Jakob had a moment of panic. Had he forgotten a meeting? An event?

Voices came from behind the door to Harry’s office. A dull thump. Something heavy hit the floor. What the hell was going on in there?

Jakob sucked air in, then narrowed his eyes at the closed door. Someone was looting Harry’s office. Confidential information was everywhere, valuable to both sides of the aisle, to corporations, to plaintiffs and defendants.

Not on his watch!

Jakob shouldered the door open, leaping inside. “Stop what you’re doing!”

The desk fell from two pairs of hands, the muted slap of wood against carpet. Four faces turned to him. Three wore slack-jawed expressions. The fourth grinned like a pirate looting treasure.

“Seth?” Jakob stepped inside, blinking to see if his twin brother was really there or a figment of his overloaded mind. “You’re in Miami.”

“Jakob.” Seth looked around the large corner office. “I almost like the digs.”

“Jakob?” Lisa Hastings took a step away from the man who looked strikingly like her boss. Her head was on a swivel.

Jakob. Seth. Jakob. Seth.

Amusement washed over Jakob and brought a smile to his face for the first time in days. “I apologize, Lisa. I should have warned you that if I showed up shouting ridiculous orders, you were to call an ambulance and have them bring restraints.”

Seth chortled.

“You’re twins,” she said, now shaking her head. “Identical.”

“I’m better-looking,” Seth said as Jakob said, “I’m smarter.”

Jakob scowled as he covered the distance to his brother in three strides. “You show up, unannounced, and you rearrange my office?”

Seth’s smile grew until it reached both ears. “You nailed it in one, Counselor.”

“God, I missed your stupid head.” Jakob grabbed his twin, pulling him in for a hard hug.

“Well, don’t think I missed your ugly face,” Seth said but hugged him just as hard.

Ivy picked up the law book from the floor. “We can put it all back,” she said, looking to the law clerk who always seemed to be lending the young woman a helping hand.

“Absolutely. Just take a minute.” Jakob lifted one end of the desk.

“Leave it where it is,” Seth ordered.

Jakob gave his brother the look that had gotten him accused of witness intimidation. “This is my office. I say where Harry’s desk goes. Put it—”

“—where it is.” Seth dragged him until they were face-to-face. “Haven’t you learned anything about security? Your desk does not go in front of the door. It gives a shooter a direct line of sight.”

“Ohmygod.” Ivy dropped the book in her hands. The dull thud was louder on this side of the door.

Jakob held out his palms as if to calm a frightened child. “It’s okay. Leave it for now. We’ll decide where to put Harry’s desk later.”

“We all have work to do.” Lisa herded Ivy and the clerk out of the office. “And you two … behave.” She closed the door behind her.

Seth pulled his arm back and dropped onto the long leather couch now positioned to face the door. “I bet nothing gets by her.”

“That’s it?” Jakob threw up his hands. “Are you just going to pretend like you didn’t appear out of thin air? What are you doing here, Seth?”

“I came to see you. It’s not every day I become related to the attorney general of a whole state. These are moments to be savored.” He stretched, inhaling deeply. “Feels good. I like it. How about you?”

Jakob gave his brother his perfected “don’t mess with me” stare.

Seth gave up the pretense with an eyeroll. “Put away your weapon. I give up, Counselor. I’m here for Harry’s funeral.”

“Thank you, Seth, but we talked about this,” he said, walking to his desk. “I told you not to come.”

Seth snorted. “Since when has that worked? I’m here and you’re stuck with me until I book a return flight. Now, how’s it feel to be the attorney general for Indiana?”

“I’m the interim AG, and it’s fine.” Jakob slid his hip onto the corner of his desk. “When did you get in? How was your flight?” The conversation drifted into the usual commentary on air travel and Indianapolis traffic. When it came to accommodations, there was no discussion. “You’re staying with us. We have plenty of room. Let me call Courtney and tell her you’re here.”

“I have a better idea.” Seth’s grin became mischievous. “We’ll trade clothes.”

“It’s not going to work. We’ve been trying to pull off a switch since Courtney and I dated at Indiana University. We’re 0 for, like, twenty. She won’t fall for it. She never does.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Seth argued. “I’m darker, but as long as your olive ass isn’t next to me, she won’t notice the difference.”

Jakob shook his head. “She’s smarter than both of us.”

“I’m not denying it, but she can’t always win.” He studied his twin, head to toe. “Why did you cut your hair so short? I hate our hair short. We look like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer. Why is yours so long? We look derelict. You working vice or something?”

“Something.” Seth ran a hand through the thick, wavy black hair their father passed on to them. Their build and features came from their father’s Mediterranean ancestry, with one notable exception—their eyes. They both had their mother’s Scottish misty gray eyes.

Seth hadn’t answered the question, but Jakob let it go. For now. “I’ll bet you a dollar Courtney knows it’s you in under a minute.”

“A minute? Done.”

His cell phone rang. His friend the prosecutor was calling back. Good news didn’t happen that quickly in Jakob’s experience. He looked to his brother.

Seth popped to his feet. “Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be wherever Lisa says you’re buying me lunch.”

***

Author Bio:

TG Wolff has never been able resist a good puzzle. With an engineer’s mind for logic and a lifelong love of mysteries, she crafts whodunnit stories that challenge readers to outsmart her detective. Her books are filled with quirky characters, red herrings, and—because she firmly believes solving (fictional) murders should be fun—a healthy dose of humor.

TG earned both her Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in civil engineering, learning early to see every problem as a mystery and each solution as the answer the result of asking the right questions. That same curiosity drives her fiction, where nothing is ever accidental and every detail counts.

When she’s not plotting fictional crimes, TG is a mystery reader and reviewer, and the co-creator / co-host of the whodunnit mystery podcast Mysteries to Die For. A Cleveland, Ohio native, she now lives in northeast Indiana with her husband and two sons, where dogs and mysteries are always welcome.

Catch Up With TG Wolff:

TGWolff.com
Mysteries to Die For Podcast
The Tule Group
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @TG_Wolff
Instagram - @TG_Wolff
LinkedIn
Facebook

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Life or Death by Andrea Kane

2026-04-06T00:00:00.004+05:30

LIFE OR DEATH

by Andrea Kane

March 16 - April 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

FORENSIC INSTINCTS

Who killed Ryan McKay’s cousin?

In suburban Westchester County, just outside the frenetic pace of New York City, a deadly murder occurs. After a violent struggle, FBI agent Shane Walsh is dead and his wife, Caitlin, has vanished. At the urging of a mysterious text, the Walshes’ nine-year-old daughter, Kennedy, has been safely whisked away by a close family member.

The FBI is determined to bring down whoever assassinated one of its own and is focusing on Caitlin as a prime suspect. Ryan McKay, Forensic Instincts’ chief technology officer, as well as Shane’s cousin and lifelong friend, vehemently disagrees. Ryan knows the Walsh family well. He insists that Caitlin is innocent, and that she, herself, is in danger.

After convincing his team to cast a wider net, Ryan leads FI on a zigzag course across two continents to locate Caitlin, sidestepping the FBI at every turn, and protecting Kennedy at all costs. But the FBI is on the warpath, and threatens to permanently shut down Forensic Instincts if they don’t back off. Undeterred by the FBI’s threats, FI goes underground in pursuit of their rogue mission.

As the pace quickens, Kennedy becomes the target of unnerving text messages. Both The FBI and the Forensic Instincts teams sense that the end game is near and that the chess match is spiraling to a stunning conclusion. Determined to declare “checkmate” before the killer, Forensic Instincts must not only protect Kennedy but make sure that their team doesn’t end up as collateral damage when the king falls.

Praise for Life Or Death:

"Life Or Death is a riveting read that explodes right from the opening pages with the shocking murder of an FBI agent - then takes the reader on a non-stop, roller coaster ride of thrills and suspense during a desperate search to find the victim's missing wife and to protect his 9-year-old daughter. Andrea Kane really delivers the goods in this book, the 11th in her Forensic Instincts series."
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson mystery series

"An adrenaline-fueled joyride. Andrea Kane doesn’t pump the brakes in LIFE OR DEATH. Centered around family ties, and who can you really trust when shadowy forces close in? Combustible pacing and a cast of characters you can’t get out of your head long after the last page."
~ James L’Etoile — award-winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

"Life or Death, the latest heart-stopping thriller from New York Times bestselling author Andrea Kane, delivers nonstop tension, emotional depth, and a twist-filled chase that spans continents. When an FBI agent is murdered and his wife vanishes, the elite Forensic Instincts team must outsmart the Bureau itself to uncover the truth. Ms. Kane once again proves why she's a master of psychological suspense. Fans of razor-sharp plotting, unforgettable characters, and fast-paced suspense will devour this one!"
~ Marjorie McCown, author of The Hollywood Mystery Series

"Forensic Instincts’ leader, Casey, is recovering from an injury sustained in a previous case when tragedy strikes. An employee’s cousin is murdered, and his wife has vanished. Left behind is their traumatized eleven-year-old daughter, Kennedy. As the FBI and Forensic Instincts compete to solve the case, Kennedy’s close-knit family and the FI team surround her with love and support. Life or Death, the eleventh book in Andrea Kane’s gripping series, draws readers into an emotional high-stakes race for the truth."
~ Stacy Wilder, author of the Liz Adams Mystery series

Life Or Death Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense Thriller
Published by: Bonnie Meadow Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages: 304, HC
ISBN: 9781682320686 (ISBN10: 1682320685), HC
Series: Forensic Instincts, Book 11 | Each is a stand-alone novel
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | RBmedia, Audiobook Links

Read an excerpt:

Bronx River Parkway
Friday, 3:55 p.m.

It wasn’t rush hour—not quite yet. So the drive was an hour plus away. That now left a short distance to go.

Ryan remained quiet and tense, staring out the passenger window as he had throughout the trip to Westchester County.

“Where are we going in New Rochelle?” Marc finally asked, glancing at his GPS, aware that he didn’t recognize the address Ryan had given him.

“To my cousin, Shane Walsh’s, house,” Ryan replied.

Marc nodded as they reached their exit and he eased his car around a loop and off the parkway. “Tell me only what I need to know. I’m not going to pry.”

“You’re not prying. I’m just really freaking out.” Ryan cleared his throat and relayed the entire situation to Marc.

Marc took it all in. “You’ve mentioned that you had a cousin with the Bureau. But that’s about all you’ve said, other than the fact that he has a wife and a young daughter.”

Ryan shrugged. “Shane’s a private guy, so I don’t talk about him much. He’s a Special Agent, Violent Crimes division, at the New York field office. He’s been there since he joined the FBI about eight years ago.”

“Does Hutch know him?”

“I never asked. But I doubt it. Hutch is in charge of all the Violent Crimes divisions. That’s too high up to know every agent who works under him.” Ryan pointed, shifting to the edge of his seat, and reiterating what the GPS was already showing them. “Make your next right. Two blocks down and make a left. Go through a few lights. You’ll see a cul-de-sac on your right. Marigold Terrace. Shane’s house is number 15.”

Marc understood that Ryan’s redundant supply of information was a manifestation of his anxiety. He just nodded again, then pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal to speed them up without accelerating too much. Suburban cops lived for speed traps.

Four minutes later, Marc turned onto Marigold Terrace and eased slowly around the curvy road.

“Three down on your left,” Ryan instructed. “White clapboard house, blue shutters.” His tension intensified as Marc reached Shane’s home. “That’s Caitlin’s car parked in the driveway. And Shane’s parked in his usual spot on the street. If they’re both home…but they don’t want Kennedy there… Shit.”

Ryan flung open the passenger door before Marc had brought the car to a complete stop. He was halfway to the front door, digging in his pocket for the key Shane had given him long ago, when Marc reached his side.

“Ryan, wait.” Marc grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Why?”

Marc tugged out the two pairs of latex gloves and shoved one pair into Ryan’s hand. “Put these on.”

Ryan gritted his teeth, while he and Marc worked their hands into the gloves. “Can’t leave any new fingerprints,” he muttered. “In case this is a crime scene.” He sounded ill.

“Is the door unlocked?” Marc asked, quickly assessing the garage door, which was up. He might have suggested accessing the house through there, but Ryan was already in motion. And time was precious.

Ryan jiggled the doorknob. “No.”

“Okay, use the key. I’ve got my Glock. Let’s go.”

Ryan’s hands were shaking as he turned the key and pushed open the door.

He and Marc stepped inside. The foyer was empty and quiet. In fact, the whole house was silent in a way that suggested no one was home.

“Shane?” Ryan called. A pause. “Caitlin?” No response. No sound of footsteps. Nothing.

Marc eased his way in front of Ryan, then crept ahead, sweeping the area with his gun.

Ryan followed behind him, aware that, not only was Marc armed, he was former FBI. He was trained at this. Ryan was not.

They’d barely gone fifteen feet, when Marc caught something in his peripheral vision, and swerved to his right. “Shit,” he muttered.

Ryan peered around him and gasped. Just outside the bathroom was a crumpled body, unmoving and lying in a pool of blood. Beside it, were two shell casings and a cell phone that had been crushed. On the other side of the cell phone was a jagged line of blood.

The inconsistency of the blood pattern struck Marc at once. Reflexively, he whipped out his cell phone and took a few quick photos.

Ryan was in a whole different headspace. Pushing past Marc, he strode over, squatting as he reached the body. “Shane,” he managed.

“Oh my God. Shane.”

Marc was beside Ryan in a heartbeat, restraining him from doing anything that would contaminate the scene. He leaned over Shane’s body, checking for a pulse, a breath—any sign of life.

There were none.

Marc gripped Ryan’s arm, standing and pulling him to his feet. Ryan’s entire body was stiff with shock, but Marc knew that consolation would have to wait.

“Ryan, we’ve got to get out of the house,” he said, visually sweeping as much of the ground floor as he could. “The killer might still be inside. He might have Caitlin.” A hard swallow, as Marc considered the possibility that she might also be dead. That additional jagged line of blood didn’t bode well. “I’ll call 911 as soon as we’re on the front lawn.”

Ryan didn’t budge. He was staring, wild-eyed, down at Shane’s lifeless form. It was only when Marc tugged insistently at his forearm that he regained some semblance of awareness. “No, Marc.” He gave a firm shake of his head. “I have to stay with him.”

“He’s gone,” Marc stated simply, placing a supportive hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “But Caitlin might not be. Let’s get the EMTs and the cops here. We might be saving her life.”

Slowly, Ryan turned, allowing Marc to lead him outside the house and to the front lawn, where he sank down on the grass, still unable to process this horrific occurrence.

Marc kept his Glock at the ready—just in case it was needed. “I’ll watch the windows and the doorways to block any attempt at escape,” he told Ryan. When there was no response, Marc glanced down, giving Ryan a worried look. The poor guy was staring off into space and wasn’t even hearing him.

Stationing himself close to his friend’s side, Marc took out his iPhone and called 911.

“What is your emergency?” was the immediate response.

Marc supplied his name, the address of the crime scene, and then, in staccato phrases, the necessary information.

He disconnected the call, knowing that it would be two minutes, at the most, before the ambulance showed up. He used the time wisely, pressing the button to Hutch’s private cell phone line.

One ring. Then, “Marc?”

“We’re in New Rochelle,” Marc said. “Ryan’s cousin, Shane Walsh, has been killed at his home. He worked for the Bureau, New York field office, Violent Crimes. I called 911, so the locals must already have been dispatched.”

Not even a heartbeat of a pause. “Text me the address.”

“Already done.”

“Then I’m on my way.”

***

Author Bio:

Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-three novels, including nineteen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.

Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller.

She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including No Way Out, Twisted and Drawn in Blood.

Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, Life or Death, forces this eclectic team of investigators to navigate a high wire act between the FBI on one side and a vicious killer looking to terminate the rest of a young family on the other. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the New York Times bestseller, The Girl Who Disappeared Twice, followed by The Line Between Here and Gone, The Stranger You Know, The Silence That Speaks, The Murder That Never Was, A Face To Die For, Dead In A Week, No Stone Unturned, At Any Cost, Struck Dead and Life or Death.

Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include My Heart’s Desire, Samantha, Echoes in the Mist, and Wishes in the Wind.

With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages.

Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.

Catch Up With Andrea Kane:

AndreaKane.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @akane
BookBub - @writetome1
Instagram - @AuthorAndreaKane
X - @andrea_kane
Facebook - @AuthorAndreaKane
TikTok - @author.ak
RBmedia Audiobooks

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One Click Could Be Life Or Death For Your TBR

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The Rat King by Aj Skelly

2026-04-04T23:30:00.005+05:30

The Rat King
Aj Skelly
Publication date: November 3rd 2026
Genres: Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Retelling

Save the Kingdom. Break the Curse. Don’t fall in love.

When Clara Seibert unwittingly humiliates a boy with a limp the first day of her senior year, she doesn’t expect him to become one of her closest friends. But when befriending Jakob Ratowitz leads to things she can’t explain, circumstances spiral into something much more sinister with Jakob at its heart.

As their friendship deepens, Jakob’s bone degeneration condition worsens, and so do the secrets surrounding him. When they’re thrust into the Land of Sweets-a magical realm of ancient danger-they must face a harrowing journey, insurmountable odds, and a growing attraction that could have deadly consequences.

Worst of all is a vengeful queen from Jakob’s past who will stop at nothing to see Jakob and everything he loves destroyed. With time running out and a kingdom at stake, can Jakob and Clara save the endangered realm and each other? Or will the Rat Queen’s curse descend on the Land of Sweets forever?

Add to Goodreads / Pre-order

Author Bio:

Writing books full of murder, mayhem, sometimes magic, and always kissing, AJ (also writing as April J. Skelly) is an author, reader, and lover of all things fantasy, medieval, and fairy-tale-romance. And werewolves. She has a serious soft spot for them. As an avid life-long reader and a former high school English teacher, she’s always been fascinated with the written word. She lives with her husband, children, and many imaginary friends who often find their way into her stories. They all drink copious amounts of tea together and stay up reading far later than they should.

You can read more about her stories, shenanigans, random factoids, and new books at www .ajskelly. com

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Wired for Magic by Janet Roberts

2026-04-02T00:00:00.000+05:30

WIRED FOR MAGIC

by Janet Roberts

March 30 - April 24, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Rowan Campbell has a stalker. Only her magic can stop him.

Her stalker's obsession goes beyond Rowan's natural beauty: he wants to control the magic she struggles to admit she possesses. More than anything, Rowan longs for normalcy. But the stalker's unlimited resources and unrelenting pursuit force her to accept that leaning into her magic is the only path to a chance to free herself. Angry and desperate, Rowan builds a plan to break free of her pursuer that requires her to come out of hiding, return home to America, and learn to use her inherited abilities. To do so, she'll enlist the help of her white hat hacker brother, Griff, and her aunt, the only living connection to her magic. Before she's ready to face her stalker, Rowan must evade capture, learn about her magical legacy, and accept that she can only prevail if she believes in herself and embraces her power.

Wired For Magic is the fast-paced story of a woman's journey to come to terms with her personal power in a battle for her life, freedom, and the chance to open a path to love.

Book Details:

Genre: Fantasy, Suspense and Thrillers, Women's Fiction
Published by: Porch Swing Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: March 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 336 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 9780997389692 (ISBN10: 0997389699)
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt from WIRED FOR MAGIC:

Author Bio:

Janet Roberts is a former global leader in cybersecurity education. Her books are set wholly or partially in Western PA, where her roots run deep. Her readers know to expect a female character who awakens to the discovery of her own inner strength while facing adversity. Wired For Magic (2026), her first fantasy thriller, combines a strong woman, magical realism, suspense, and elements of cybersecurity. She’s also the author of the award winning novel, What Lies We Keep (2024). A member of Women’s Fiction Writers Association and Sisters in Crime, she lives in Pittsburgh and loves travel, wandering through bookstores, reading on her porch swing, and sharing a bottle of wine with friends.

Catch Up With Janet Roberts:

www.booksbyjanetroberts.com
Let’s start with coffee, Substack
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @JanetRoberts
Instagram - @janetroberts77
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Round Up the Usual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens

2026-03-30T00:00:00.008+05:30

ROUND UP THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS

by Elizabeth Crowens

March 9 - April 17, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery

Against the backdrop of WWII, no one expected to find a murdered stagehand on a Warner Brothers sound stage. With so much at stake, Jack L. Warner hires Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, the two young private eyes who recently resolved his high-profile Maltese Falcon/Blackbird Killer Case. Social justice crusader Leon Lewis suspects local Nazi sympathizers are responsible. Lewis assigns a German stuntman, a veteran of the decadent subculture of Weimar Berlin nightlife and one of his newest operatives, to join forces with the private detectives.

According to Warner, the show must go on, but everything from bomb scares to the Japanese internment, to unruly parrots, forbidden love, and family crises conspires against solving the crime. “As Time Goes By,” actors Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and the rest of the Casablanca ensemble join the professional private eyes to round up the unusual suspects and capture the killer.

Love 1940s classic movies? Treat yourself to the award-winning Hounds of the Hollywood Baskervilles (Book 1) and Bye, Bye Blackbird (Book 2) of Elizabeth Crowens’ Babs Norman’s Golden Age of Hollywood mystery series by Level Best Books.

Round Up the Unusual Suspects Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Golden Age of Hollywood Mystery with humor
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: January 20, 2026
Number of Pages: 328
ISBN: 979-8-89820-189-0 (paperback)
Series: A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery, Book 3 || Amazon, Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Mystery Series

Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt from Round Up the Unusual Suspects:

Chapter One

“Nobody’s allowed to die on one of my sets!” hollered Jack L. Warner. “Who’s the jackass who wants to halt my production?”

Flanked by his personal assistant Bill Schaefer, Jack dragged Hal B. Wallis, his head of production, over to the sound stage filming Yankee Doodle Dandy, starring James Cagney. He swung open the door as soon as the red warning light turned off and stormed inside.

Michael Curtiz, the film’s director, dumped his megaphone and threw down the gauntlet. The parade band on stage accompanied his rage with a drumroll and cymbals.

Warner nabbed Curtiz’s discarded megaphone. “Rally the troops—all of them! I have a studio-wide announcement.”

Curtiz, turning red, clamped his hands over his ears. The actors and background extras, dressed in woolen military uniforms, stopped marching and sweltered under the hot lights. The live orchestra fell silent.

“Sir, maybe we should check out the dead body first,” Schaefer suggested with hesitation.

At Warner’s command, an assistant rolled back a piece of movable scenery to reveal a prone figure, an unknown young man wearing bloodied street clothes, but with a swastika carved on his neck.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Warner asked. “He looks like he’s just sleeping on the job.”

Backing up a few steps, Wallis broke out in a cold sweat. “Has any-one been a-ble to i-den-ti-fy him?”

The assistant director strained to keep self-control but trembled. “Every-one denies knowing him. Our director, however, insisted we ignore the victim and stay on schedule.”

Wallis, turning green, gulped down his rising bile but regained his voice. “That’s unconscionable. We should secure the set. Everyone will have to swear to secrecy, and under no circumstances is the press to know about it.” Schaefer clutched his stomach, and his knees became unsteady. He grabbed a chair to brace himself.

Jack L. strutted the sound stage like Napoleon planning a counterattack and examined the casualty of war with a sense of unnerving calm. He wrinkled his nose and instructed his assistant, “Better call the Burbank PD. Won’t take long under these broiling lights for him to stink to high heaven.” The actors, who’d remained in the stance of military attention, were about to wilt. Offstage, on both sides, waited singers and female tap dancers dressed in skimpy satin costumes as a tribute to Uncle Sam.

“At ease!” Warner shouted, accompanied by a round of relieved sighs. “You think you can direct my film picture?” Curtiz shouted in his choppy version of Hungarian-bastardized English.

“I can and I will,” Warner barked. “Don’t forget, I sign your paychecks! Furthermore, I still can’t understand why you summoned half the musicians’ union to play instruments off-camera when you could’ve used a recording. Money wasted!”

Curtiz glared, with fire in his eyes. “It’s because they’re featured on camera at the beginning and the end of the scene!” He cursed in his native Hungarian tongue and stormed off the set.

Jimmy Cagney, the star of the show, followed. “You can find me in my dressing room.”

Undaunted by his director and lead actor’s histrionics, Warner demanded to see the production notes. After a quick glance, he scraped his fingernails through his receding hairline.

“Too much…can’t picture it. Summon your editors and set up a projector—somewhere—anywhere, on the damned wall if we must. I’d need to see the dailies and bring me that hot-headed Hungarian Goulash Gulag Meister and his la-di-da lead actor.”

Wallis broke the point of his pencil by slamming it down on his notepad. “All these delays…I don’t want to hear a word from you about going over budget.”

“I’m the one who makes the final decisions. Respect your commanding officer!” Warner admonished his confused subordinate.

Wallis gave him a weak salutation, but only out of respect. “Aye! Aye, sir!” Warner gave one last look at the body. “Go ahead, call the police,” he said to Schaefer. “And hire those two private detectives.”

Wallis scratched his head with a look as if a screwball comedian had thrown a cream pie in his face. “Who?” he asked.

Warner clenched his jaw. “Babs Norman and Guy Brandt, those young kids who solved the Blackbird Killer Case and saved the cast of The Maltese Falcon. That was a close call for everyone.”

* * *

The phone rang at B. Norman Investigations. Guy picked up and said Jack Warner’s assistant was on the line. Babs motioned for him to hand over the receiver.

“The Big Boss desires your company,” Schaefer told her.

“If he doesn’t mind throwing in two mouth-watering prime-rib dinners at the Smoke House for us,” Babs said, who hadn’t eaten all day, “we’ll consider that his consultation fee.”

The two PI partners headed downstairs to their building’s garage, where they now had their own assigned adjacent parking spaces instead of playing roulette for empty spots on the street. Babs put her key into the ignition of her ailing Crosley—the Clown Car, the brunt of Guy’s constant jokes, with a paint job that resembled a motley patchwork. The moment she put her foot on the gas pedal, it made a bone-shaking screech of metal against metal and emitted exhaust that would’ve choked a triceratops.

“We’re taking mine,” Guy said after he stopped wheezing. He rolled up his windows to keep out the foul scent. “Can’t believe you never had the sense to replace that fossil since it never ran well.”

They pulled out of the garage, and he donned his sunglasses. “Now, you’re stuck with it since our government stopped new automobile production and only people in vital professions, such as doctors and clergymen, qualify to purchase remaining inventories.”

“Private eyes don’t have priority?”

He shook his head. “Not in your sweet life. Those assembly lines are being converted to produce tanks, aircraft, and weapons for the military. Mark my words. Next thing you know, they’ll demand that we ration fuel and rubber for our tires like they do in England. Read the papers if you don’t believe me.”

Guy flashed his Warner Brothers pass to the gate security guard. Babs panicked as she searched inside her purse. “I must’ve left mine in my car.”

“Try flirting,” Guy whispered.

She snorted in defiance. “I will not!”

Much to her surprise, he sweet-talked his way into saying, “She’s with me,” and pulled into an empty guest parking slot.

When they arrived at the Yankee Doodle sound stage, the crime scene investigation was well underway. The Burbank PD sectioned off the area where the deceased lay, but nearby, Curtiz insisted on conducting rehearsals even if it was too noisy to roll sound. He ordered the gaffer and his electrical crew to prep the lights for the next set of shots, but they went berserk, thinking a light was shorting out every time the crime scene photographer’s flashbulb went off.

Curtiz insisted his captive cast and crew finish what they started. He’d work around the police, even if it meant yelling and screaming, at the risk of losing his voice, to make sure they kept quiet.

“Isn’t Jimmy Cagney your star?” Guy looked around for the missing actor.

Curtiz made an unintelligible grunt and spat into his handkerchief. “We shall work around his crybaby tantrums.” He launched a new battle with Wallis. “You complain that clocks ticking means money. Then why does Warner have to be such a stingy fat cat?”

Wallis bit his lip to keep from laughing at the director’s deliberate jabs at the English language. “Our detectives-for-hire are here.” He pointed out Babs and Guy. “Jack wants you to perform the entire number, Yankee Doodle Dandy, from start to finish.”

The director stood his ground. “That’s not how we shoot it. We fall behind schedule. Then Jack gets more and more angry.”

Warner paced the floor, bellyaching to himself and to any of the cops who would listen. “What if Cagney had been the intended victim? Not that I’m glad this man is an unknown Joe Palooka, but you get where I’m coming from.”

The moment Babs saw the corpse, her stomach lurched. Guy took his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth. “Did you find any ID?”

“Found a driver’s license in his wallet,” said one cop. “He’s got a German-sounding name: Gerhard Sauer.”

Warner, holding a script, muscled in on their conversation. “I want to see this scene played out from start to finish.”

Since Cagney left the set, Guy volunteered to stand in and improvise his choreography, but the studio head ignored his suggestion. “If that fussy thespian wants to act like a child, I’ll just have to take over and go through the motions.”

Babs took her notepad out of her pocketbook. “Did anyone hear any strange noises?” She looked around for reactions but got none. “Did you consider that someone killed Sauer elsewhere and, for whatever reason, dumped his body backstage?”

Babs blew her anger out of her nose. No one seemed to listen. Wallis gave the PIs an overview to get them up to speed. “The film, Yankee Doodle Dandy, is about the life of lyricist and composer George M. Cohan. He performed with his family, and they called themselves The Four Cohans. Playing his father, we’ve got the famous actor who played the shot-up Captain Jacoby from The Maltese Falcon, Walter Huston.”

“Give My Regards to Broadway is also one of Cohan’s famous songs,” Guy mentioned.

“We’ve included that one, along with Over There. All patriotic numbers that helped us endure WWI. Just think, we have a song for every star and a star for every stripe.”

Wallis stopped and scratched his chin. “You know…I rather like that line. Must insist on using that quote for our trailer. However, what you’ll see on screen is a show within a show, as if our cinematographer was shooting a documentary. At the beginning and the end of the scene, the camera will pan, showing an establishing shot of everyone inside the theater. That’s where our live orchestra comes in.

“The Cohans perform in a stage production of a show titled George Washington, Jr. The song-and-dance medley scene we had been shooting before everything went haywire centers on Grand Old Flag. Once edited, it will look like we shot it from start to finish, but since Warner told me you used to be actors, you probably know that most of the time we shoot scenes out of order. We’ll stop within sections to film close-ups and from different angles. Everyone’s curious to see if there are clues about the killer in the footage we’ve shot so far.”

Babs asked Wallis if he’d drop her a line when the footage was available for viewing.

Jack Warner, however, seemed to have his own agenda. He took over as director and insisted on doing a dry run. “Up with the curtain! Places, please. Stand by, and on with the show of the century. It’s the most original thing to hit Broadway. You know why? Cagney…or Cohan, to be more accurate, is the whole darned U.S. of A. squeezed into one pair of pants.”

Wallis asked the PIs to follow him and take seats with the extras in the audience.

“How many actors does the scene start off with?” Babs asked.

“Not including the live orchestra and the packed seats filled with the audience, I guess there are about thirty-five, but more join in later.”

Lighter on his feet than expected, Warner skipped across the stage and justified substituting for Cagney, who refused to leave his dressing room. “Believe it or not, I’ve had experience as an entertainer. When my brothers and I started our family business, I used to sing in the aisles in between screenings.”

Wallis drew a deep breath and released it. “There he goes again. The boss loves telling everyone the story of his debut in show business. Often, I wonder whether Jack secretly always wanted to be a performer instead of running a studio.” He explained the upcoming scene while everyone blocked the action. “Jimmy sings Grand Old Flag. Twenty young Boy Scouts stride in from the top of the stairs. Betsy Ross sews the flag, upstage center. Eight more adults, who look like members of a military band, join them in song and advance from upstage right. After that, we cut away to five or six members of a fife and drum corps.”

The PIs made every effort to follow Wallis while Warner danced on stage with the hired actors. “Upstage left, a variety of singers march forward, representing the common man and the working class—policemen, bakers, bankers, a nurse, miners, railroad workers—showing their solidarity. Everyone turns toward the flag and breaks into My Country, ’Tis of Thee in front of people manning an anti-aircraft gun.”

Guy, who had been counting on his fingers, lost track. “How many would that add?”

“Probably another thirty. Central Casting must’ve broken out bottles of champagne after receiving our requisitions. Then the stage curtains close, and the spotlight falls on Cagney, downstage right. In come the tap- dancing dames, many bearing American flags. This is where we rival MGM’s schmaltzy musicals with their elaborate costumes and choreography. Enter Uncle Sam, played by Walter Huston, and the Statue of Liberty. Then Jimmy wows everyone with his signature dance steps. More female flag bearers emerge from behind the rear curtain. Our stage crew has rigged the floor with conveyor belts, giving the illusion that the actors are marching toward the audience while they’re actually staying in place.”

“Otherwise, they’d march right off the stage,” said Babs.

“Correct, but we wouldn’t want them to do that,” Wallis explained. “As the cinematographer pulls back and widens the focal length of his lens, background curtains continue to open until we see a painted backdrop of the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C. I’m no expert in visual effects, but it gives the audience the feeling there must be well over a hundred people proceeding down the boulevard. Pretty spectacular, don’t you think?”

The assistant director leapt onstage and reminded Warner that the soldier actors were still suffering under the scorching lights and waiting for their next order. “Sir, we’re not rolling camera. We should dismiss them.”

“Tell them it’s a wrap until further notice. I won’t approve an exorbitant dry-cleaning bill for everyone schvitzing in their costumes.”

With military precision, the assistants rounded up the various groups of performers and shuttled them toward wardrobe. Curtiz and James Wong Howe, his cinematographer, remained to discuss how they’d execute the rest of that scene.

Warner scribbled a note and handed it to his assistant. “Bill, tell these two to drop everything. I’m calling a meeting to order and want them present.”

Schaefer reviewed his memo pad. “Sir, you scheduled one with them already.” Then he checked his watch. “They should be there…right now.”

Jack pointed to Babs and Guy. “Then you’re coming with me and away from the crime scene.” In a rush, he sprinted ahead.

Babs shouted loudly enough for him to hear her as he gained distance. “We’ll need to sign a contract to make our assignment official!”

“Pick up the pace, you slowpokes, and I’ll cut you a check after we get there.”

***

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Crowens is bi-coastal between New York and Los Angeles, where she has worn many hats in the entertainment industry. Awards include Lefty nominee for Best Humorous Mystery, Agatha nominee in multiple categories, MWA-NY Chapter Leo B. Burstein Scholarship, NYFA grant, Eric Hoffer Award, Glimmer Train, Killer Nashville Claymore finalist, Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Top Picks, two Grand prize and six First prize Chanticleer Awards. Crowens writes Golden Age of Hollywood mystery with humor and alternate history in her Time Traveler Professor series. She also has a popular Caption Contest on Facebook.

Catch Up With Elizabeth Crowens:

www.ElizabethCrowens.com
Amazon Author Profile
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Instagram - @crowens_author
X - @ECrowens
Facebook - @thereel.elizabeth.crowens
BlueSky - @elizabethcrowens.bsky.social

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Who's Out There by Westley Smith

2026-03-27T00:00:00.001+05:30

WHO'S OUT THERE

by Westley Smith

March 9 - April 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Inside Marburg State Park lies the remains of Camp Southwoods, where four counselors were slain twenty-six years ago. Their murderer, Douglas Lee Carver, has become a local boogieman with a chilling nursery rhyme attributed to his name. Locals believe the now-abandoned camp is haunted.

Ranger Colt Mitcham, leader of the Ranger Rescue Unit for Marburg State Park, ignores the ghost stories of Camp South Woods. He has real-world problems to worry about, like apprehending the person who's been vandalizing the grounds, finding a missing local man who's disappeared inside the park, and making sure that his team secures the park before the rapidly approaching blizzard – the worst storm in years – unleashes hell across the land.

But when a member of Colt’s team is found murdered, Colt begins to wonder if the tales about Camp Southwoods are true. Has Douglas Lee Carver returned? Or is there someone else out there? Someone with a personal axe to grind against Colt and his team, hoping to use the urban legends as a cover for their crimes and keep what happened at Camp Southwoods three decades ago from being exposed.

Praise for Who's Out There:

"An abandoned summer camp with a dark history, a brutal winter storm, and a group of park rangers fighting for their lives are the core of Westley Smith's WHO'S OUT THERE. With no help coming from the outside, Colt Mitcham has to figure out how to protect his crew as a relentless killer strikes again and again. This intense, blood-spattered page-turner had me in its grip from the beginning and kept me guessing until the end. Westley Smith is the real deal."
~ Joshua Moehling, USA TODAY bestselling author of AND THERE HE KEPT HER and A LONG TIME GONE

"Taut. Relentless... a plot careening to the brink and you're clinging on the edge all the way. Move over Voorhees. Step back Myers. Smith's WHO'S OUT THERE sends you both packing. Don't read this book until your feet are up, your blinds are drawn, and your glass is full-you're in it till the end!"
~ Tj O’Connor, Award Winning Author of THE WHISPER LEGACY and THE DEAD DETECTIVE FILES

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Action Adventure
Published by: Manta Press, Ltd
Publication Date: February 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 9781958370322 (ISBN10: 1958370320)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

God, it’s cold. Rumor Shoff checks his digital watch. 10:45 p.m. The Marburg State Park ranger won’t start his nightly rounds for another fifteen minutes. It will take him at least half an hour to forty-five minutes, to reach this end of the park. Rumor has plenty of time to accomplish his task. Perfect.

At the bed of his Ford F-150, he lifts a duffel bag with R. Shoff sewn into the canvas, and throws the strap over his shoulder. He pulls the trucker’s cap tighter to his balding head, the air rushes through its vented rear and prickles his dome. Chills walk up his skin. He zips his coat to his chin. Christ, it must be near zero with the windchill. The crisp, dry air burns his throat, and the scent of the oncoming snowstorm tickles his nose.

He’s alone in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Only the forest trees are watching. Silent observers who won’t tell a soul what he is up to—even after killing plenty of their kin.

Good. But Rumor needs to move. If caught by the park ranger at a quarter to eleven, he’ll arrest Rumor and charge him with trespassing on state land after dark. That’s the least of Rumor’s concerns. What’s in his duffel bag, however, is.

Heaving the strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, Rumor starts toward a large ranch-style gate serving as the entryway onto Serpentine Trail. The white moonlight casts the gate’s arch onto the gravel trail winding its way through the forest like a snake, past the Shoff Family Cemetery, and down to the shoreline of Lake Clarke, directly across from the abandoned summer camp.

Rumor starts past the gate and into the forest, the moonlight has trouble penetrating the leafless trees; the branches so thick and interwoven they block all but a few streaks of white light cutting through the bare canopy. But Rumor doesn’t need a flashlight to guide him; he’s taken this trail many times to get to the cemetery—day and night—before the land was stolen from his father.

Rumor’s face grows warm even in the bitter cold at the thought of the Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources (DCNR) stealing his father’s land. The DCNR came to his father a year and a half ago with an offer to buy thirty-two acres of woodlands that made up the southwestern shore of Lake Clarke, excluding the small plot of land on which the Shoff Family Cemetery rests. No sir! Uncle Sam won’t pick up the tab to take care of that. They planned to add to Marburg State Park’s already sizable acreage. With his father’s refusal to sell, the DCNR made an eminent domain claim—the right of the government or its agencies to expropriate private property for public use. His father sued. But it was a losing battle from the start, and the courts ruled in favor of the DCNR, forcing his father to surrender the land with zero compensation.

The DCNR can claim eminent domain or whatever fancy legal jargon the lawyers invented to sugarcoat the truth, but to Rumor, it was theft—plain and simple.

The trail curves sharply to the right, and the Shoff Family Cemetery appears on the left. Behind an old wrought iron fence, fifteen tombstones jut from the forest floor like crooked white teeth. The wind blows with a haunting whistle. The bare branches sway back and forth, casting long shadows across the front of the tombstones that look like skeleton fingers caressing the grave markers. Rumor pauses by the gate. Even in the shadowy darkness, he spots his mother’s tombstone. Feels his heart ache.

Fuck cancer.

Rumor starts again. The gravel trail fades away and turns to dirt, worn-down over time by hikers making their way to the lakebed on the backside of the hill. He hasn’t been past the cemetery since August 1997 and doesn’t want to go down there now. Still, the DCNR needed to pay for what they had done. And by God, Rumor was going to collect in spades, even if that meant scaring up the memory of that dead girl he and his father discovered the morning of the camp massacre.

Along the shoreline, where the cold water of Lake Clarke laps at the rocks and bankside like a soft kiss, Rumor pauses to catch his breath. The smell of mud and fishy water mixes with the crisp night air that smells both clean and repugnant to him. The full white moon is visible above, and its reflection ripples across the water. In the open, the cold wind cuts across the lake bowl. It stings Rumor’s face and makes his nose leak. He slides the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffs back a glob of snot. The last time he stood there was the morning of the massacre at Camp Southwoods, when he was six.

Across the inlet of water, the steel cable tinks against the flagpole in the courtyard at Camp Southwoods. It’s a lonely, eerie sound that causes Rumor to shiver, as if a ghostly voice speaks from the past. The moonlight casts an eerie white glow across the rundown mess hall, tucked between two identical shotgun-style buildings—the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses. The dilapidated structures stand out against the clear northeastern sky—though it’s about to be overtaken by the dark snow clouds rolling in from the South.

The ghost-town vibe of Camp Southwoods still resonates with residual energy from the grisly murders in the early morning hours of August 5, 1997. Rumor’s stomach churns as the vivid memory unpacks itself and his eyes drift to where they found the girl, washed up on the shore. She was lying on her side, facing away from them, her brown hair tangled with lake weeds, wet leaves, and interwoven sticks. On the back of her yellow T-shirt was a word in large red letters: COUNSELOR. Rumor thought she was sleeping. But when his father rolled her over to check on her, Rumor saw her pretty face was split from her hairline to her mouth, leaving a fleshy fissure where the axe had struck her. On either side of that gory canyon, two lifeless, milky-white eyes were locked on him in a death stare. An arrow was through the swell of her left breast. Deep lacerations scarred her forearms, and the first two fingers on her right hand were gone. She was from Camp Southwoods, just across the inlet—the torn and bloody yellow T-shirt with the camp’s name and logo affirmed this.

Rumor remembers screaming in horror at the sight of the dead camp counselor. Then, his father was next to him, hurrying them back up the trail to call the police.

Her name was Alice King, and how she ended up there raises the hackles on Rumor’s neck. He tugs his coat closer. But she wasn’t the only camp counselor found slain. Kurt MacReady, Virginia Steel, and Ted Charno also met their demise at the hands of fifteen-year-old Douglas Lee Carver, who, for reasons unknown, decided to hunt them down with a bow and arrow (taken from the camp’s archery range) before stealing their faces with a violent strike with an axe. Three of the victims, Rumor has learned in his research of the murders, were disposed of quickly. But Alice King had valiantly fought back. Sadly, she fell to Carver’s wrath by the lake before washing up a few feet from where Rumor now stood.

Since the murders, a local legend arose of a curse on Lake Clarke and a curse on Marburg State Park itself. Locals claim to see shadow people on the trails or around the camp, hear whispering and laughing, and see lights emanating from the rundown cabins. The lore has grown exponentially over the years. So much so that locals have reimagined an old nursery rhyme, “Bye, Baby Bunting,” to scare the bejesus out of one another for nearly three decades. Rumor knew it well:

Little counselor running,
Douggie Carver’s gone a-hunting
Gonna catch that counselor,
Gonna cleave that counselor,
Little counselor done running.

But those campfire tales are just that…tales. You have work to do. Rumor checks his watch. 10:55 p.m. Get your ass moving.

He continues to follow the trail south along the lake to an area known as Ice Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a favorite spot for ice fishermen to set up because the water freezes fast and hard in the winter. By a large oak tree leaning dangerously over the trail, Rumor drops the duffel bag and squats beside it. He unzips the bag and pulls out a gardening shovel. A battery-operated DeWalt drill with a three-inch wooden drill bit in its jaws. A 350 ml syringe. And a bottle of Tardon—an herbicide that kills woody plants. He drops to his knees at the oak's base and begins clearing away a small patch of earth with the shovel. The January ground is frozen and tough to dig up. Perspiration dampens his back even in the cold. But he’s persistent, despite the challenging work, and continues removing the earth until the oak’s root system is bare.

He rechecks his watch. 11:10 p.m.

Need to hurry this up.

With the drill, Rumor bores into the oak’s most prominent root. Once done, he opens the Tardon bottle, takes out the syringe, dips the wide plastic needle into the herbicide, and extracts a barrel full of blue liquid.

What was that? Footsteps?

Rumor searches the trail ahead but sees no one in the moonlight. It could be an animal. A deer?

The legend of Camp Southwoods, and its murderous boogieman, has lit his imagination. Stop it. There ain’t any ghosts in these woods. I’m alone.

Rumor shakes the silly thought away, plunges the 350ml of Tardon into the root, and empties the barrel. Drink it up. The Tardon kills the trees slowly over several weeks. He’s poisoned many trees around the park. Some are on trails like this one. Some in parking lots where a tree collapse could damage structures, costing the DCNR a lot of money in time and repairs. That’s just what Rumor wants. He refills the hole with dirt, replaces his equipment in the duffel bag, and stands.

Gazing upon the oak leaning precariously over the trail, Rumor knows it’s just a matter of time before it topples. He smiles jovially. Poisoning the trees is only one of the many subterfuges Rumor has committed around the park: clogging the toilets in the guests’ facilities, wrecking the well pumps so the park didn’t have water for drinking and cleaning, dumping trashcans, spray painting obscenities on the public pavilions. He even lit a few fires that burnt some acres on the park’s western side in late September. Maybe I’ll drill holes in the canoes this summer. Or put wasps’ nests in the garbage cans. Or poison the drinking water. He has little concern about someone getting hurt from his shenanigans: people are collateral damage. Pride flows through his veins, pure like holy water, warming him. He’s giving it to the man for stealing his father’s land.

But the warmth is quickly blown away as another gust of wind howls across the lake. Rumor shivers and looks at his watch again. 11:22 p.m. Time to get going.

He returns to where the trail winds back into the woods, past the Shoff Cemetery, and eventually to the parking lot. The desolate tink, tink, tink of the cable snapping against the flagpole at the abandoned campground cuts across the inlet.

Footsteps! On the trail again.

Someone is there! Cold fear shoots through him and tightens his chest like a clenched fist. I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when there’s so much more to do.

He ducks behind a large white sycamore and checks his watch. 11:29 p.m. The park ranger may be down there, checking for trespassers or even looking for him after finding his pickup in the Serpentine Trail parking lot. Or it might be a few local kids hiking to the abandoned campground to get high, drink, or make out. They might even tell each other ghost stories about Carver’s victims haunting the area.

Rumor peers around the tree and scans the trail from which he just came. No one lingers about. The tightness in his chest eases. Still, he tries to tune out the wind and focus on the sounds of approaching footsteps. But if they were there and not a figment of his imagination, they’re gone now. He lets out a slow, grateful breath and feels the tension in his muscles relax.

Rumor steps out from behind the tree. He’s about to turn away when he sees a human silhouette step off the trail and duck into the forest about twenty-five yards away.

I’m seeing things, he thinks, as his balls shrivel into his pelvis and goose pimples rise from his feet to his scalp. He’s heard stories about hikers seeing shadow people on the trail, ducking in and around trees. Is that what he’s seeing now? A shadow person? No! There’s no one out there. It’s the wind causing the tree branches to swing and the shadows to move, nothing more. He swallows. His throat is dry like dust. But you heard footsteps—twice now—and saw the shadow. Someone or something is out here with you. Maybe one of Carver’s victims? An unseen frozen hand clasps upon his lungs in a powerful, vicelike grip.

Fuck this!

Rumor turns on his heels to bolt up the trail when a loose rock gives way, and his right foot slips out from underneath him. He loses his grip on the duffel bag, which slides from his shoulder into the dark somewhere, and falls hard on his right elbow. The impact with the unforgiving ground peels the flesh back, and the sting of cold air bites at the raw, bleeding wound. He stifles a scream. He can’t risk someone hearing. Through the discomfort, he pulls himself to his feet and darts up the trail toward the dark, concealing woods where he’ll be safe from…well, whatever it was that he saw duck off the trail.

He doesn’t stop or look back until he’s far enough from the shoreline, hidden deep within the woods where no one—man or ghost—can see him. He bends at the waist to catch his breath, to allow his heart rate to slow. It beats in his ears like a sinister drum. He now understands what it must be like for people who say they’ve seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster…

“A ghost,” Rumor whispers in the dark.

Of course, Rumor will never admit ghosts are real. Just like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are nothing more than stories made up by fringe outliers looking for attention. What he saw tonight were moving shadows, brought on by the wind and an overactive imagination. Rumor feels that the only ghosts down there are memories.

Then why were you running?

He doesn’t entertain this thought and looks at his watch. 11:40 p.m. Christ! I need to—

My duffel bag! It isn’t slung over his shoulder. You must’ve dropped it when you fell. His bloody elbow begins to thump with discomfort at his carelessness. How could you be so stupid! He can’t leave it behind. If found, the Rangers will easily link the tree poisoning and the vandalisms back to him because his damn name is stitched on the side.

No. Leaving the duffel bag isn’t an option.

Rumor gazes down the trail into the dark hollow and listens for footsteps again. But only the breeze blows through the trees, rustling what leaves remain on the branches. He’s positive that everything he’s experiencing—the footsteps, the shadowy figure—is a manifestation brought on by the camp’s violent history and his memories of that fateful day. His head was full of enough lore about Carver and Camp Southwoods to trick anyone’s brain into thinking someone was out there, maybe even following him.

Steeling himself against his fears—real or imaginary—Rumor takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s heading back toward the lake to find the duffel bag. In his mind, he keeps repeating:

They’re only stories.

***

Author Bio:

Westley Smith is the author of the crime thrillers Some Kind of Truth (Wicked House Publishing) and In the Pale Light (Watertower Hill Publishing). In the Pale Light landed on IngramSpark’s #1 pre-order charts in the mystery, thriller, and hard-boiled detective category. He is also the author of the psychological thriller, They Came at Night (Watertower Hill Publishing). He has two self-published horror novels, Along Came the Tricksters and All Hallows Eve.

Writing since he was ten, his first short story, "Off to War," was published nationally at sixteen. His short stories have recently appeared in On the Premise and Unveiling Nightmares. He was the runner-up contestant in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s Mysterious Photograph Contest, and his short story "Winter Reflections" was chosen as a finalist for Crystal Lake Publishing's Shallow Waters short story contest. He also had a short story, "The Security Guard," in the horror anthology "Hospital of Haunts," (Watertower Hill Publishing) which hit #1 on Amazon, and his true encounter with the urban legend of York, PAs, Toad Road and The Seven Gates of Hell, was featured in George Watertower and Other Childhood Terrors (Watertower Hill Publishing).

He lives in southern Pennsylvania with his wife and two dogs.

Catch Up With Westley Smith:

WestleySmithBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @wssmith100
Instagram - @wsmithbooks
Facebook - @westleysmith100

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Zig Zag by Ruth Knafo Setton

2026-03-23T00:00:00.005+05:30

ZIGZAG GIRL

by Ruth Knafo Setton

March 2-27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Zigzag Girl, by Ruth Knafo Setton, is a twisty contemporary mystery with a touch of magic, set in Atlantic City and the eerie New Jersey Pine Barrens. Lucy Moon, a brilliant young magician with a mysterious past, works in the town’s theatre, staging performances of enchantment and conjure. But one night, during the ‘Sawing a Woman in Half’ trick, Lucy discovers her friend’s body in the box, dead. As Lucy digs deeper, she uncovers a trail of murders and suspects. With the help of a fierce group of female magicians and mystics, she must expose the truth before she becomes the final act.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Published by: Black Spring Press
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages: 376
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | The Black Spring Press Group

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Atlantic City
Wednesday October 17
24 years later

Nine minutes to the finale.

Hand me a flower and I’ll transform it into a dove. Shoot me from a cannon and I’ll come out smiling. But lock me in the box and saw me in half, I’ll scream bloody murder.

Unheard of for a Moon – a member of America’s most famous magic family – to be terrified of that creaky old standard, the sawing box. But you’re hearing it now.

In exactly nine minutes, Charlie, our production manager, and Van, my friend and co-star, are supposed to reenact the famous Sawing a Woman in Half illusion as it was performed by Magnificent Morelli and his assistant Cleo West in this theatre during World War Two.

The classic poster hangs in the dressing room: a man with slick black hair and a thin moustache gesturing to a pretty strawberry-blonde who holds a Statue of Liberty torch.

Between them is the infamous sawing box. Black letters slash across the top of the poster:

MAGNIFICENT MORELLI! MAN OF MYSTERY

At the bottom:

NIGHTLY IN THE SCARLET ROOM WORLD-FAMOUS ATLANTIC CITY BOARDWALK

There’s one problem. Van should have been here two hours ago.

My best friend and other co-star, Stormie, and I managed to get through the show to this point because we’re used to working together and because even in the midst of frenzy, Charlie is an oasis of calm. We call it the Charlie effect. He quickly redesigned the order of illusions to make up for Van’s absence.

But Van still hasn’t shown up, so Charlie will saw me in half in Cleo’s original sawing box. This is not the contemporary sleek or transparent sawing box you see on a Vegas stage, but the real thing. Pure old-school; a deep, long wooden container that resembled a coffin. No openings for head or feet. No clamps for neck or ankles. The kind of box in which the magician’s assistant is completely locked inside, head to toe. If that’s not horrifying enough, this is the same box in which Cleo’s murderer placed her body.

Good publicity for a haunted theatre on Halloween, says Charlie.

At five-seven, I’m two inches shorter than the box. Stormie, coming in at a fraction under six feet and 190 pounds, can’t even squeeze inside.

Hanging right next to Morelli is our poster:

HALLOWEEN THRILLS, CHILLS & BLACK MAGICK! REBEL MAGIC
STORMIE, VAN, & LUCY BLACK WIDOW THEATRE, 13TH FLOOR – if you dare! MIDNIGHT CASINO, OCT 17 – NOV 10

Van and I flank Stormie – a magical version of Charlie’s Angels. As if instead of fighting crime, we resolve to change the world, one trick at a time. In the middle, Stormie towers over Van and me in an orange and black dashiki gown, enormous hoop earrings glinting through her copper- black hair that falls in long ropelike locks. On Stormie’s left is Van, a tiny silvery futuristic superhero who sometimes bills herself as ‘Kickass Korean Babe’ – spiked hair, jumpsuit, thigh- high boots with four-inch heels, and a gleaming knife in each hand. On Stormie’s right, I sparkle in my red-hot Miss Scarlett dress and stilettos. That’s me, on the corner of woo-woo and fuggedaboutit – a magic wand in one hand, a cannoli in the other.

Tonight is our opening night, and it means something big to all three of us: our breakthrough as sisters of magic, an opportunity to make our name in the good old boys’ world of magic, and for me, a chance to make my name without the Moons holding me up on stage.

Van wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Her silver jumpsuit is hanging on the wheeled rack, her knives ready for action. She’s not answering her phone, but during the intermission, she left Stormie and me a message: Emergency. Start without me.

Stormie’s golden-brown eyes were huge, her olive skin sallow, making the freckles stand out. ‘Emergency?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘That is not a Van word.’

‘An accident?’ ‘She’d tell us. No, it’s MLD.’

For the past couple weeks, Van has kept her new boyfriend on the lowdown. Boyfriend is normal – Van juggles men like her knives. Keeping him secret is not. Stormie calls him, ‘MLD,’ short for Mysterious Loner Dude.

‘Van would not miss our opening night for a guy, no matter who he is.’ ‘Then where is she?’ Stormie shook her fingers in my face. ‘Look at my hand. The girl’s giving me shpilkes.’ Whenever she’s emotional, Stormie brings out the Yiddish words her Jewish Nana taught her.

‘If by shpilkes, you mean bad vibes, I’ve got ’em too.’

Chapter 2

Seven minutes to the finale.

Backstage, hands trembling, I tug on Cleo West’s very own Stars n’ Stripes gown, slithering into the shimmering satin. Too short for me. Seams fraying – it’s been let out and tightened more than once. Cleo must have gained and lost weight during the war years.

I sit at the vanity, tightly clip my hair and pull on a long reddish-blonde wig. I hate wigs, they suffocate me and give me an instant headache.

Trapped, wrapped and bundled inside the constraints of hair and layers of fabric, my heart staccatos. When did the theatre get so cold? The scent of lavender crawls over my flesh, the sign that the Widow’s resident ghost, Cleo, is in the house. When you grow up with an Irish witch as an aunt, you accept the presence of ghosts. Doesn’t mean you like them, but you come to terms with sharing the space. According to Auntie Maze, ‘Cleo wants us to see the cracks and stains left behind by the past. When she slams doors or turns off lights, she’s saying, “Look! There’s something you’re not seeing!”’

I add final touch-ups to my stage make-up and check my reflection from every angle. I glimpse pinpricks of light in the mirror. Next to my reflection a woman’s face appears, rippling as if she’s underwater. Her fiery-gold hair wavers. Ice-pale eyes meet mine. Two Cleos in the mirror.

I grab the edge of the table. This is the first time she’s shown herself to me! Just in case she’s really there and I’m not losing my mind, I whisper, ‘You’re not real, Cleo. You’re dead. Look, I’m just pretending to be you for an hour, okay? Now please go away.’

She stares at me through the glass. Her lips move. I lean forward, press my face to the mirror, straining to hear.

Cleo disappears, and a large black figure looms in the mirror. Moves closer.

I jolt to my feet and whip around.

A man wearing a black hoodie. At least he’s real, not a ghost. He pushes back the hood. Dark hair falls past his chin.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demands.

Shifting on my feet, I keep my hands low at my sides, ready to punch. ‘You need to leave now.’

He steps closer. He’s half a foot taller, his strong-boned face scowling, his eyes bitter as black coffee. ‘Where’s Van?’

‘Not here.’

‘She said I could come backstage.’

‘Who are you?’ Is he Van’s mysterious guy?

Stormie arrives, breathless. ‘You’re on in five,’ she says to me, and then slits her eyes at the stranger. ‘Elvis Jones! What are you doing here?’

This is Elvis Jones? Definitely not the cheesy overweight Elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit I imagined when I saw his poster:

Elvis Jones Magic in Hell

Midnight Show No one will be admitted after the door is shut.

I found the blurb pretentious and, on principle, refused to see his show. If I’d known what he looks like, I might have taken a chance. He watches me with a sardonic grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

‘Hi, Stormie,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for Van.’

‘She hasn’t arrived. Yet.’

He retreats toward the door. ‘I’m outta here.’

Stormie and I watch him leave, and she mutters, ‘What the hell has that girl been up to?’

‘I’m scared for her.’ I hear the words and wish I hadn’t said them.

‘Maybe her phone died, and she’s stuck somewhere. She’s gonna show up.’

***

Author Bio:

Born in Morocco and raised in the Lehigh Valley, Ruth Knafo Setton is the author of the novel, The Road to Fez (Counterpoint Press). Her honors include awards and fellowships from the National Endowment of the Arts, PEN, CineStory, Nimrod, Cutthroat, Writer’s Digest, and residencies at Hedgebrook, Yaddo, MacDowell, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She is a multi-genre author whose fiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, and poetry have won many awards and appeared in journals and anthologies. A former Fiction Editor of Arts & Letters, she has taught Creative Writing and Multicultural Literature at Lehigh University and on Semester at Sea.

Catch Up With Our Author:

RuthSetton.com
Tips, Tricks, & Tea with Ruth (Substack Newsletter)
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @ruthsetton
Instagram - @rksetton
Threads - @rksetton
X - @RuthSetton
Facebook - @ruth.setton

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Secrets of the Midwife by Ann Ormsby

2026-03-20T00:00:00.000+05:30

Secrets of the Midwife
Ann Ormsby
Published by: Acorn Publishing
Publication date: March 18th 2026
Genres: Women’s Fiction

Anabel Leigh has spent years pouring herself into her career, polishing her image, and protecting her fragile heart after too many losses. But everything changes when a stranger presses a baby into her arms in a crowded New York park and vanishes. The child’s golden hair and trusting eyes stir a deeply personal longing Anabel thought she’d buried forever.

What begins as a surreal moment unravels into a storm of headlines and police questions.

Savannah Maas knows the truth. She’s hiding on a farm in Georgia, living by a different code—one forged from secrets, desperation, and choices that blur the line between compassion and crime.

As the world closes in, each woman struggles to keep her dreams from crumbling. For one, receiving the baby is a miracle. For the other, the handoff is a devastating mistake.

Heart-stirring and suspenseful, Secrets of the Midwife is a story of hope, resilience, and the unexpected ways love finds us.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

I am sitting in the little park situated between the town clerk’s office where happy couples come rushing down the steps, laughing and kissing after tying the knot, and the family court where some of them will end up, when things go badly. As I eat my lunch, I chuckle to myself at the irony of these two tall, brick buildings facing each other like powerful gods who already know our fate, providing what we need when we need it.

The thick scent of the candied hazelnuts cooking in a nearby vendor cart wafts over me in the cool April breeze. I pull the collar of my trench coat up around my neck and tighten the knot in my silk scarf. Collecting the wrapper from my sandwich, I put it back in the brown paper bag as my eyes catch a stooped old woman pushing a double stroller with two girls in it.

The one closest to me is a baby with golden blonde hair. Maybe a little more than a year old. I can’t take my eyes off her. The other girl has thick brown hair and looks to be about four years old. They make their way down the path to me, and then, without warning, the older girl unbuckles herself, jumps out of the stroller, and runs into the crowd.

The woman yells at her to stop, but the girl keeps running, weaving between the people walking through the park. After unbuckling the smaller child, the woman picks her up and thrusts her into my lap.

“Hold her,” is all she says before she runs after the other girl, leaving the stroller behind.

I look down at the small face staring up at me. The child does not seem afraid, relaxed even. She explores my face as a growing tension rises in my chest. Groaning in frustration, I stand up, holding the baby in my arms, shifting her weight to my hip, and desperately search the crowd for the woman or the other little girl. They’re gone. My first inclination is to go after them, but after a few steps I stop. What am I doing? I’m holding a child who isn’t mine in the middle of a public New York City park. My armpits grow wet with sweat, and I loosen the scarf around my neck.

Wondering what to do, I go back to the bench and sit down. Without thinking, I smooth the girl’s wavy blonde hair, tucking a piece behind her tiny ear. Time passes and the woman does not return. Panicking, I’m afraid to leave the bench because I want the woman to know where to find me. Assuming she’s coming back. The baby rests her head on my shoulder, and her beautiful blue eyes study me. Without disturbing her, I raise my arm, pull up the sleeve of my coat, and look at my watch. It’s getting late. I have to go back to work.

Twenty minutes pass. Without hope, I stand up again and look for the woman. The lunchtime crowd is starting to grow thin, and I am beginning to feel desperate. After pulling my cell phone out of my bag, I call 911 and the operator says she will send a patrol car.

The minutes tick by slowly. The wait is agonizing. Finally, a squad car pulls up, and I watch as two officers get out, walk to the gate, and scour the park. A man and a woman. They look so young, fresh-faced with heavy equipment hanging off their belts. They see me, and I stand up with the girl who is starting to feel heavy in my arms.

When they reach me, the male officer asks, “Did you call 911?”

“Yes. I was just sitting here, and a woman wearing a scarf and a long skirt gave me this baby.” I stammer knowing how incredulous it sounds.

The officers stare at me, then at the baby.

Finally, the female officer takes a pad out of a box on her belt. “What’s your name?”

“Anabel Leigh.”

“Where do you work?”

I tip my chin in the direction of my building. “Right there.”

“No. What’s the name of your employer?” she asks with annoyance.

“Oh, sorry. C&W Communications.”

“Okay. So, what did the woman look like? Where did she go?” She continues to question me.

“Yes, I need to go back to work. Will you take her?” I try to peel the baby away from my shoulder.

Author Bio:

"Ormsby has a wonderful eye for character and detail, as she fleshes out a keenly observed portrayal of small-town life." ~ Kirkus Review

"The Recovery Room" was a winner at the 2014 Paris Book Festival.

Ann Ormsby is a freelance writer with a master's degree in journalism from New York University. Her writings on reproductive freedom and other public policy issues have appeared in The Newark Star-Ledger, The Huffington Post, njspotlight.com The Westfield Leader and The Alternative Press. Her short stories have appeared in The Greenwich Village Literary Review, Every Day Fiction and hackwriters.com.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Newsletter / X

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—

Eyes to Deceit by Gabriel Valjan

2026-03-16T00:00:00.006+05:30

EYES TO DECEIT

by Gabriel Valjan

February 23 - March 20, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE COMPANY FILES: 4

Espionage is easy. Living with it isn’t.

The Company named it Operation Ajax. MI6 labeled it Boot. History would call it a coup.

Walker calls it the beginning of the end.

1953. The Company is orchestrating the overthrow of Iran’s elected leader—an operation cloaked in propaganda and alliances. In Rome, Walker is stationed with Leslie, former M16 and now Company agent, and tasked to coordinate efforts between the US and UK. But when resources on the ground become a liability, Walker is forced to make a difficult decision—one that threatens to unravel what’s left of his conscience.

As the coup’s first attempt crumbles and Washington grows desperate, old loyalties shift. Allen Dulles wants results. Kim Roosevelt wants glory. Darbyshire feels left out. And Walker begins to suspect he’s not there to help win the Cold War, but to prove he can stomach it.

From Missouri to Rome to the Catskills to Tehran, EYES TO DECEIT explores postwar American idealism—and the spies who find themselves too loyal, too late, to walk away clean.

For readers of le Carré, Furst, Kanon, and Vidich this is espionage at its most personal—and most perilous.

Praise for EYES TO DECEIT:

"A remarkable, fly-on-the-wall story of Cold War realpolitik, Gabriel Valjan’s EYES TO DECEIT careens from Rockefeller Center to a Catskill resort to Rome and Tehran, giving readers a front-row seat to the plotting of the 1953 CIA and MI6 overthrow of the Iranian government. With noteworthy cameos from the famous, the powerful, and the ruthless, EYES TO DECEIT is intelligent, high-stakes intrigue at its best."
~ James W. Ziskin, Author of the Anthony, Barry, and Macavity award-winning Ellie Stone mysteries

"The burdens of history and secrecy weigh heavily, gracing this excellent historical espionage novel with a gritty, nuanced, and ominous sensibility where betrayal is always possible. Even that of your own soul."
~ James R. Benn, author of the Billy Boyle WWII mystery series

Book Details:

Genre: Literary Noir, Historical Fiction, Classic Spy Fiction
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: November 4, 2025
Number of Pages: 212 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 9798898200510, Paperback
Series: The Company Files, Book 4
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

The Company Files

Read an excerpt:

Tania moved fast, her shoes clicked sharply on the floor. She fished a five-dollar bill from her clutch and approached a housekeeper in the hallway.

“A roll of toilet paper, and in a discreet bag, please.”

The woman hesitated, but Tania’s eyes were steady, unblinking. She slid the bill into the woman’s shoulder strap with practiced ease.

“Take it,” Tania said softly. “In case someone accuses you of theft.”

The woman nodded.

Ruth led the way. Tania followed, her mind already ahead, calculating the next move. In the bathroom, she locked the door and leaned against the wall. She heard Judith’s groans.

“It’s me, Judy.”

“Tania?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

The air was thick with sweat and nausea, sharp like unchanged hospital linens. Tania handed Ruth the roll of paper and a small perfume atomizer.

“Tell her it’s from London. She’ll like it.”

Ruth nodded and slipped into the stall.

Tania stepped back into the hallway, then stopped. A girl sick and humiliated in a stall behind her. She caught her reflection in a wall sconce—lipstick fine, hair in place, eyes clear.

Decide now.

This wasn’t strategy. She wasn’t gaining leverage. And still, her feet moved.

When she returned, Judith was pale, shaken, but upright. Tania offered her the drink.

“Peppermint helps nausea,” she said.

Judith studied her. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing.”

“There’s no game,” Tania said. “You have to believe me.”

Judith hesitated. “You and your uncle seem awfully interested in my father.”

Tania unwrapped a mint. “It’s a secret,” she said. “Just not the kind you think.”

She leaned in. “The government wants something your father owns or controls. Sheldon’s the go-between.”

Judith stared at her. “That sounds shady.”

“It might be.”

Judith exhaled. “They spiked my drink. Esther and those girls. Laxatives.”

Tania nodded. “Brutal.”

Silence settled between them.

Tania met her eyes.

“Want revenge?”

Judith smiled.

And didn’t say no.

***

Author Bio:

Gabriel Valjan is the author of The Company Files, and the Shane Cleary Mysteries with Level Best Books. He has been nominated for the Agatha, Anthony, Derringer, and Silver Falchion awards. He received the 2021 Macavity Award for Best Short Story, and the Shamus Award for Best PI in 2023. Gabriel is a member of the Historical Novel Society, ITW, MWA, and Sisters in Crime. He lives in Boston and answers to a tuxedo cat named Munchkin.

Catch Up With Gabriel Valjan:

GabrielValjan.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @gvaljan
Instagram - @gabrielvaljan
BlueSky - @gvaljan.bsky.social

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Abducted by J.S. Ash

2026-03-14T00:00:00.011+05:30

Abducted
J.S. Ash
(The Beast’s Burden Chronicles, #1)
Publication date: February 22nd 2026
Genres: New Adult, Science Fiction, Young Adult

Trapped aboard a living spacecraft hidden above her hometown, a teenage outcast must wage a one-girl war against ruthless alien mercenaries to save her best friend before the ship jumps into deep space.

A SHIP FULL OF ALIENS TOOK HER BEST FRIEND. THEY SHOULD’VE LEFT HER ON EARTH.

Abigail Ashby was raised to be a weapon by a dad convinced the world was on the brink of collapse. Then, inexplicably, he forced her into early retirement—aka high school.

These days, Abigail’s only battle is defending Harris, her outcast best friend who swears his parents were abducted by aliens. She’s secretly sure he’s delusional—right up until his bedroom explodes in amethyst light.

They wake up aboard the Beast’s Burden, an interstellar warship lurking above their town. Its leader, a sadistic warlord, seizes Harris as his prize, while Abigail slips away in the chaos—overlooked, underestimated.

Until she kills an alien to survive.

Now, hunted through the ship’s living corridors, Abigail must decide: retreat into the shadows, or unleash the lethal training she buried to wage a one-girl war and save everything she’s ever known… Because Harris isn’t just a hostage. He’s the trigger for humanity’s extinction.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

“Wait—I’m sorry. Abigail, I didn’t mean that. Please don’t go.”

Abigail froze in her tracks, but it had nothing to do with Harris’s plea. An unearthly shriek had erupted, ricocheting endlessly around the room, and all the warmth had instantly drained from her body.

“What is that?” she asked, ice surging through her veins.

Harris looked like he had seen a ghost. “I have no idea, but it’s coming from—”

With a deafening crack, four dark spheres shot out from underneath the bed and slammed into the corners of the room. Abigail watched, petrified, as the spheres oozed apart, spreading to cover the walls in a thick layer of disgusting sludge.

“You’re seeing this, right?” she said, voice trembling.

Harris nodded slowly, and Miss Biscuits started howling.

The ghastly sound reached a new ear-piercing level as the sludge began crackling with unstable amethyst purple energy.

“We need to get out of here!” Abigail shouted. She dashed for the window, but the light glittering across its surface flared violently in response, and she recoiled, backing away slowly.

The shriek was becoming unbearable. Abigail could hardly hear herself think, let alone process what was happening.

“This way!” shouted Harris as he lunged for the bedroom door, but the pulsing glow surrounding the handle suddenly sparked, jumping eagerly to his outstretched hand.

Amethyst purple light rippled through Harris’s entire body, shining beneath his skin. Abigail watched in horror as an unnatural smile slowly twisted across his face.

“Harris?” she said cautiously.

Harris’s head swiveled toward Abigail and his morbid grin twisted into fear. The amethyst purple light erupted out of his skin, contorting him backwards into a jagged arch. His body was suddenly blasted onto the ceiling, held there for a moment by an invisible force before dropping sharply to the ground, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust from the hardwood.

“Harris!” Abigail screamed, rushing to his motionless body. This was a nightmare. Everywhere she looked the amethyst purple light was encroaching—over the ceiling, across the walls, and covering the floor, inching right for them. Abigail scrambled to grab Harris under his arms and used every ounce of her strength to drag him onto the bed, only just avoiding the energy as it engulfed the remainder of the room’s surfaces.

“Harris, wake up!” she shouted as she checked for a pulse.

“Abby!?” came a muffled cry.

She strained to see Taylor pounding outside the window, an uncharacteristically horrified expression on his face through the amethyst-colored glare. He took a step back and then charged, but the barrier flared the moment his shoulder made contact, and he was repelled away in a shower of shattered glass.

Abigail’s eyes darted around the room, her fear mounting as the shrieking hit yet another plateau. Blood pounded in her ears. “Harris, wake up. Please wake up!” she pleaded, her voice barely audible over the howling of Miss Biscuits and everything else.

The sludgy spheres had re-formed in the corners of the ceiling and they were pulsing erratically. They seemed to be the source of whatever was happening—what was happening?!—perhaps they could be shut down somehow… But how? Abigail grabbed Harris’s hand, hopelessly begging him to wake up, and her fingers made contact with a ripple of raised skin—the scar.

Abigail’s gaze snapped to the samurai sword hanging on the wall. Scrambling to her feet, she ripped it from its mount and unsheathed it. The gleaming blade appeared as sharp as it had all those years ago.

“Abby! Abby! What are you doing?!” Taylor’s voice cut through the chaos. He was back on his feet just outside the shattered window. He was holding up a small metallic object that Abigail couldn’t quite make out through the amethyst refraction. She didn’t have time for this. The high-pitched shriek was growing more and more deafening, the amethyst-colored light burning ever more severely. Instinctively, she knew it was now or never. She had to disrupt whatever was happening.

She frantically scanned the spheres, her entire body shaking. Though she had no clue this would work, the one in the corner by the door seemed like her best shot. “You can do this,” she said to herself, but she didn’t remotely believe it. Gathering all her strength, she sprinted towards the edge of the bed, leaping into the air with the hilt held firmly in her grasp. With a loud clang, the sword sliced through the sphere, miraculously penetrating the energy barrier and lodging in the wall.

As gravity pulled Abigail toward the floor, time seemed to slow, and she watched the damaged sphere start to skitter in and out of reality, spewing sparks in all directions like it was about to explode. The blinding amethyst light and eardrum-bursting shriek reached their crescendos just before Abigail hit the ground.

She felt a surge of pure agony, and then, there was nothing.

Author Bio:

J.S. Ash has spent over a decade working in media at one of the largest tech companies in the world, though his true love remains storytelling. His creative DNA was forged in the 90s—a blend of blockbuster action cinema, console gaming, and the high-stakes melodrama of the era’s teen soaps. He lives with his wife and daughter, who serve as the primary inspiration for the resilient, protective heroines at the heart of his stories.

Website / Goodreads

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Last to Fall by Lynn H. Blackburn

2026-03-12T00:00:00.009+05:30

LAST TO FALL

by Lynn H. Blackburn

March 2 - 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

GOSSAMER FALLS

She's caught in a deadly game. He's the only one who can help her win.

Bronwyn Pierce has poured everything into The Haven, her family's exclusive mountain resort in Gossamer Falls. But when financial discrepancies surface and the numbers suggest something far darker than simple mismanagement, she's forced to call on the one person with the skills to help her: Mo Quinn, a former Army intelligence officer, her first love, and the last person she ever wanted to trust again.

Mo has spent years avoiding the woman he once loved and the secrets that tore them apart. But when Bronwyn calls, he can't walk away--especially when it's clear someone wants her gone for good. As they dig deeper into the treacherous motives behind a blackmail scheme, their proximity reignites long-buried feelings neither of them are ready to face. And when the evidence points to an unexpected culprit, Mo faces an impossible choice: trust the proof in front of him or trust his heart.

With danger closing in and no one else to turn to, Bronwyn must break years of silence with Mo to uncover who's trying to destroy The Haven. They'll have to risk everything--including their hearts--to expose the truth before it's too late.

The finale to Blackburn's Gossamer Falls series is an exhilarating romantic suspense novel packed with tension. This gripping read will hook fans of the family rivalry, bodyguard, small town, second chance romance, and forced proximity tropes.

Book Details:

Genre: Christian Fiction, Romantic Suspense, Romance
Published by: Revell
Publication Date: March 3, 2026
Number of Pages: 368
ISBN: 9780800745387 (ISBN10: 0800745388)
Series: Gossamer Falls, Book #3 | Learn more on Amazon, Goodreads, & Baker Book House
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Christianbook | Goodreads | BookBub | Baker Book House

Read an excerpt:

Author Bio:

Lynn H. Blackburn is the award-winning author of Never Fall Again, as well as the Dive Team Investigations and Defend and Protect series. She loves writing swoon-worthy Southern suspense because her childhood fantasy was to become a spy, but her grown-up reality is that she's a huge chicken and would have been caught on her first mission. She prefers to live vicariously through her characters by putting them into terrifying situations while she sits at home in her pajamas. She lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina, with her true love, Brian, and their three children.

Catch Up With Lynn Blackburn:

LynnHBlackburn.com
Subscribe to Lynn's Newsletter
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @lynnhugginsblackburn
BookBub - @LynnHBlackburn
Instagram - @LynnHBlackburn
X - @LynnHBlackburn
Facebook - @LynnHBlackburn
Pinterest - @LynnHBlackburn

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A Murder of Furies by Eleanor Kuhns

2026-03-09T00:00:00.008+05:30

A MURDER OF FURIES

by Eleanor Kuhns

February 16 - March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

AN ANCIENT CRETE MYSTERY

Bronze Age Crete, 1450 B.C.E.

When Tinos, the High Priestess's consort, asks Martis to search for his missing daughter, Martis becomes involved in the dangerous politics between Crete and Egypt. A minor Egyptian prince is courting Hele, the High Priestess's daughter, despite her persistent refusals. And despite the lobbying by Hele's brother, Khoranos, who seeks the Cretan throne for himself.

Then the High Priestess is found murdered, savagely stabbed multiple times. Martis discovers plans to kidnap Hele and she has to be spirited away to safety. Egyptian soldiers occupy Knossos and Khoranos installs his ally as the High Priestess.

Can Martis rescue the High Priestess's daughters and identify the murderer before Khoranos, with Egypt's help, takes the throne? Martis must embark on several dangerous quests to succeed.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Murder Mystery
Published by: Indie
Publication Date: January 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 274
Series: An Ancient Crete Mystery, Book 3
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

The Ancient Crete Mystery Series

In the Shadow of the Bull

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

On the Horns of Death

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Although it was just late March, Crete was already growing hot. Sweating and panting after the bird dance, I pushed my mask to the top of my head. I sucked in deep breaths and flapped the long white sleeves, pinned to resemble wings. Air rushed over my damp arms and legs,

At least my dance was finished. Other dances would also be performed, and, in fact, the next one was already beginning. The younger girls, all maidens and too young to wear the red spotted scarf, were clad in bearskins. They danced to honor the Lady of Animals and Childbirth. I remembered that hot smelly costume from previous years. Now, at almost seventeen, I danced as a bird in a graceful circle of white-clad girls twisting around one another. I thought we really did look like flying birds; not imprisoned by the earth. We each wore the mask of a different species. Although I’d hoped to dance as a gull or an owl, I was only a sparrow.

The other bird dancers removed their masks and scattered into the audience to join friends and family. Except the vulture. Funny, I thought, I didn’t recognize the vulture. Now that I’d begun my agoge and visited the dorms regularly, I thought I knew all the young women – at least by sight. I certainly should know everyone who I danced with.

Despite the identical white gowns and the masks covering the faces, the bodies were difficult to disguise. This girl was heavier, that other one was as slim as a papyrus reed. Although every girl danced the same steps, some jumped higher and some twisted with an extra roll of the hips. Easy to know them even though we weren’t supposed to – for this short space of time we were the creatures represented by our masks. But I did not recognize the vulture. I squinted against the bright sun. I didn’t remember the vulture from the rehearsals either. And surely at least one girl was missing –

“If you’re Martis, the High Priestess’s consort wishes to speak to you,” said a treble voice behind me. I turned and looked first at the grubby little boy and then around at the crowd. I saw no sign of Tinos.

“Where is he?” I asked, my heart leaping.

At one time, I’d thought – hoped – Tinos and I had developed a special connection. But last fall, during the investigation into the murder of the bull dancer, we’d fallen out. I’d seen very little of him since then and only at a distance, as he conducted his duties. Sometimes I imagined we were still close friends. Other times I despaired we’d ever be friends again.

“I’ll take you to him,” the boy said, extending a grimy paw. I took hold and followed the boy through the crowd.

We went a distance from the theater, finally pausing at a copse of trees. Tinos waited within, almost unrecognizable without his headdress or jewelry. His long black hair had been pulled back and tied with a string. “Martis,” he said. As his eyes drifted from my hair to my white dress, his eyebrows rose in surprise. I touched my long hair self-consciously. I now wore it in the fashionable style - with most of it tumbling down my back except for the locks pulled in front of my ears.

“You’ve grown up? I always think of you in a boy’s kilt . . .”

“I wear that only when I am bull dancing,” I said shortly, affronted. Did Tinos believe I would be a child forever? I was old enough to marry - although I’d vowed before the Goddess that I never would.

Tinos nodded and stared over my head as though regretting this meeting. I could see he felt awkward, without the easy camaraderie we’d once enjoyed, and I was both sorry and angry with him. I’d looked forward to talking with him once again and now he seemed, well, disappointed. “You wanted to see me?” I asked, my tone taking on some sharpness.

He turned to look at me.

“That’s the Martis I remember,” he said, grinning for the first time. “Still as quick to anger as ever.” I went hot.

Unable to think of a smart response, I tossed my head.

“Have you seen Atana lately. I know you and my daughter are friends.”

I knew Atana of course and I’d made an effort to befriend her. At one point, I’d hoped to see more of Tinos, which hadn’t happened. Atana was only nine so I didn’t spend a lot of time with her.

I turned and looked over my shoulder as though I could see through the trees and the crowds beyond. Atana should have joined the younger girls in the bear dance but, because she was the High Priestess’s daughter, she’d been allowed to dance with the birds. Now I knew who’d been missing.

“Did you see her this morning?” Tinos continued, his words rushing out.

“No,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

“No. We – um - quarreled,” he admitted, his eyes seeking the ground beneath his booted feet. “I haven’t seen or spoken to her for several days.”

“Ah.” I said in understanding. Before I moved to the girls’ dorm, I’d been arguing frequently with my mother Now that I stayed occasionally in the dorm, I saw her less often and so we quarreled less. “I saw Atana at most of the rehearsals,” I said now. “How many days has it been since you’ve spoken to her?”

“Almost three. She’s been avoiding me. It was a very bad quarrel,” Tinos’s eyes slid away from mine. He took a deep breath and looked at me. “I’m worried about her.”

“Surely the High Priestess –“ I began. But Tinos was shaking his head.

“She’s too busy now,” he said. I narrowed my eyes at him. Too busy to wonder where her daughter went? After so many days without seeing me, my mother took pains to seek me out. “Atana talks about you,” Tinos continued. “She says you are her friend.”

I stared at him. Friends? Sure, we were friendly, but she was more like my younger sister. We were the two outsiders. I’d just moved into the dorms, years after most girls my age, and I stayed there infrequently, so I didn’t know any of them well. I didn’t care to. They were all looking forward to marriage’ I wasn’t.

“Where would Atana go?” I asked. Atana, Tinos’s oldest child, was much shyer than her older half-siblings and did not make friends easily. Perhaps because of her position – Atana’s mother was the High Priestess after all, the other girls alternately teased or flattered her.

“That’s it, I don’t know,” Tinos said. A pleat formed between his brows and he suddenly looked tired. “But I am very worried. Will you ask the other girls if they’ve seen her?”

“Why can’t you ask them?” I asked. “They would have to answer you.” As the High Priestess’s consort, I meant. Tinos was the most important man in Knossos.

The fingers on Tinos’s right hand began to twitch nervously. “I can’t,” he said at last. “It wouldn’t be wise. The High Priestess . . .” His voice faded and disappeared.

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

“Speaking to them would be easier for you.” Tinos tried again. “You see them regularly and no one will find it surprising if you talk to them. My appearance would cause too much comment.” He looked at me and I nodded. I was not so much around the younger girls but I did see them as they ran races and wrestled. “Well then,” he said as though it was all settled. “I just want to know she’s safe.”

“And if I find her?” I asked.

“Tell her I’m worried,” he said. “Would you ask her to come home and visit me. And tell her – .” He paused. “Tell her I’m sorry. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, all right,” I said. I did not believe this would be so difficult.

“And Martis,” Tinos continued, “if she objects or becomes angry with you, don’t argue.” He shot me a stern look from under his heavy brows. “Understand? Just come and tell me.” I nodded although I didn’t understand. Why would I quarrel with Atana? Why would Atana argue with me? More to the point: what exactly had happened between Tinos and his daughter? That was the real puzzle.

“I have to go now,” Tinos said, glancing at the sky. “It is almost time for the Showing. I’ll see you later.” He turned and started down the slope. I watched until he disappeared behind a thicket of trees.

I slowly made my way back to the throng of people gathered around the theater. I did not think I could force my way through the crowd to rejoin my fellow birds and besides I would not watch the Showing. Every spring the High Priestess and her consort copulated in full view of the people of Knossos. It was important for the fertility of this land. But now that I knew Tinos and knew him well, I couldn’t bear to see that ritual.

I pushed my way through the crowd at the bottom of the paved area. As I squeezed by a woman in the fashionable ruffled skirt and tight jacket, the lady wrinkled her nose and tried to move away. I guessed I stank of perspiration.

And then, with a collective sigh, everyone turned to look at the walkway below. The High Priestess, riding sidesaddle on a white bull, was approaching. Her unbound hair tumbled down her back and, instead of skirt and jacket she wore a loose white robe that left her neck and arms bare. Bronze bells hung from the bracelets on her wrists and ankles and they tinkled with every movement. The bull was also decorated; garlands of bright spring flowers festooned his horns and encircled his neck.

Usually, the High Priestess smiled and waved at the people of Knossos but her expression today was uncharacteristically grim.

I turned to look at the top of the stadium. The bull-masked consort waited, glistening with water, as if he had just arisen from the sea. The huge white bull’s head covered Tinos’s head and part of his shoulders, the horns tipped with gold and glittering in the sun. Even though I was not supposed to recognize Tinos, even though who else could it be but the High Priestess’s consort, I’d have recognized him anywhere. His broad shoulders tapered to the narrow waist where the thick twisted scar was just visible as it reached his back. Once a bull leaper, the scar served as a reminder of the bull’s horn that had caught him and ripped open his side.

The white bull came to a halt and the High Priestess’s attendants helped her down. She walked the last few yards to the bed at Tinos’s feet. When she reached him she slid the robe from her shoulders and stepped out of it. But she did not unfasten Tinos’s loincloth, as she had done every one of the nine years previously. Instead, after an awkward few seconds, Tinos slid off the garment himself.

I turned and fought my way through the audience, arriving on the other side of the crowd gasping and trembling. I’d seen this ritual enacted almost every year of my life but a year or two ago I had found I couldn’t watch it anymore. I knew that the bodies coming together on the stage were not the Goddess and Her consort but the High Priestess and Tinos acting their parts. And knowing Tinos and wishing he had his arms around me made everything different.

I set off running, fleeing the central court, to hide in the room in which the dancers changed.

***

Author Bio:

Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 Minotaur/Mystery Writers of America winner for first crime novel. She won for A Simple Murder and now has twelve books in the series.

A Murder of Furies is the third in the Bronze Age Crete Series which began with In the Shadow of the Bull.

A lifelong librarian, she transitioned to full time writing during the pandemic. She lives in upstate New York with her husband and her dog.

Catch Up With Eleanor Kuhns:

www.Eleanor-Kuhns.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @eleanorkuhns
Instagram - @edl0829
Facebook - @writerkuhns

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Explore A Murder of Furies, an Ancient Crete mystery, and enter to win!

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That Other Family by Lis Angus

2026-03-05T00:00:00.005+05:30

THAT OTHER FAMILY

by Lis Angus

February 23 - March 20, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Julie Walker thought she knew her life: three teenagers, a husband, and her job at the Ottawa library. But when a stranger confronts her with a shocking claim about her late father, everything she believed about her family is thrown into question.

At first she struggles to know what to believe. But once the truth is revealed, a series of unsettling incidents escalate into real danger: her family has become the target of someone with resources she cannot match and few limits to what they might do. Drawn into a web of menace and betrayal, and uncertain who to trust, Julie must find the strength to confront an enemy she doesn’t fully understand.

Layered with dread and emotion, THAT OTHER FAMILY is a domestic thriller about fractured loyalties and one mother’s fight to keep her family safe.

Praise for That Other Family:

"Lis Angus has written a nail-biting cat-and-mouse crime thriller that has you suspecting everyone, trusting no one, and rooting for a woman desperately trying to protect her family from the sinister consequences of long-buried secrets. You won’t put it down until you’ve made it through the heart-pounding finale."
~ Katie Tallo, international bestselling author of Dark August (Gus Monet mystery trilogy)

"Lis Angus provides a tale of secrets, betrayal, and sharply drawn characters that had me gasping at the final twist. A great, fast-paced mystery."
~ Amy Tector, author of the Dominion Archives Mysteries

"Taut and riveting from the first page, this is a domestic thriller with real emotional stakes. What begins as a shocking family revelation becomes a harrowing fight for survival. With its layered characters and relentless tension, That Other Family will hold you in its grip to the very end. This is a great second novel from author Lis Angus. Those who liked her first book, Not Your Child, will love That Other Family."
~ Mike Martin, award-winning author of the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series

"From Lis Angus, author of the gripping and fast-paced debut, Not Your Child, comes her eagerly anticipated second novel. That Other Family is another page turner, a story of betrayal and buried secrets — and a mother who will risk everything to protect her family."
~ J. Woollcott, Daphne du Maurier award-winning author of A Nice Place to Die and Blood Relations

"Lis Angus weaves another thrilling tale of family deception that crosses borders, wrecks lives, and calls to mind the question of what it truly means to be a family. That Other Family is tightly paced and intriguing until it's exciting end!"
~ Michelle Hillen Klump, author of A Dash of Death and Murder Served Neat

That Other Family Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Next Chapter
Publication Date: December 29, 2025
Number of Pages: 290
ISBN: 9798241761187 (Paperback)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub | Additional Links

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

JULIE

The woman slid three photos to me across the table, her manicured nails immaculate. “I know you don’t want to believe me. But you need to look at these.”

I was already on my feet, having told her—Frances Boyle, she said her name was—that we had nothing further to discuss. She had no business coming to me with this preposterous story, and certainly not here at the library where I worked. Her manner suggested she wasn’t used to people saying “no” to her, but I wanted her gone.

Yet I couldn’t help glancing at the faded snapshots she’d spread in front of me. All showed the same grouping: a couple, seemingly in their forties, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl.

“That’s my family,” she said, a rasp deepening her voice. “My parents with my brother and me. That was the year before Papa died.”

Against my will, my eyes were drawn to the man in the photos. “Papa,” she’d called him. He sure looked like Dad. My memories of him were vivid, though I was only eight when he died. That dark hair, cut short, with a white streak just off-center. Neat ears, firm chin, and warm smile. And those pointed eyebrows: unmistakable.

But I’d never seen the other people in those photos before.

Heat flared at the back of my neck, and the walls of the small meeting room felt like they were closing in on me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I wished I’d thought to bring a bottle of water in with me.

Frances leaned forward, the gold chain around her neck glinting as she moved. “From your reaction, Julie, I’d say you recognize him.” Her gaze intensified. “Now do you believe me? Our father had two wives, two families. Yours and mine.”

This couldn’t be true. I gripped the edge of the table and took a deep breath, fighting to get my emotions under control. Who was this woman and what was her game? Inspecting her more closely, I guessed she was in her late forties, a little older than me. Well-groomed. Stocky but not fat. Wearing cropped pants and a short-sleeved silk blouse, a good choice for the hot weather we were having. Her clothes looked expensive, more Nieman Marcus than Walmart.

“Can you show me some ID?” I demanded. Maybe I should have asked for that earlier.

She smiled coolly and reached into her leather bag, pulling out a passport. The photo was definitely her, but with shorter hair. Her name: Frances Louisa Boyle. Date of birth: 1975.

“Wait a minute. Boyle?”

“That was Papa’s name—James Boyle.”

The tightness in my shoulders loosened. “So. That’s not my dad.”

“When he married your mom, he used the name James MacMillan.”

That was Dad’s name—but this was ridiculous. She was claiming not just that he’d had two families, but two names.

She sat back abruptly. “I can see you’re having trouble accepting it,” she said. “I understand. It’s hard to take in.” Her expression hardened. “I only found out after Mama died in February and I was going through her papers. I found some old letters tucked away, referring to his other family.” She raised her eyes to mine again. “Your family.” After a moment, she added, “I have a couple of the letters with me, if you want to see them. They’re in my safe at the hotel.”

My mouth tasted of something bitter, metallic. “What are you after?”

She clasped her hands together. “I had a private investigator locate your mother, your family. I came here to find out more.” Her gaze swept over me. “I thought it was best to come to you first, to see if you knew about it. Before I approach your mother.”

“You can’t be thinking of disturbing my mother with this!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s why I’m here. To find out what she knew, or knows, about what happened.”

If Frances confronted Mom with this story, it would devastate her. “Give me some time to think about this first.” There must be some way to check this woman’s claim. “Can I have copies of those photos?”

She pushed them toward me. “Those are for you.” She rose and pulled a card from her purse. “I realize you may need a bit of time to get used to the idea. Here’s my cell number. When you’re ready, give me a call.” She dropped the card on the table. “But don’t take too long. I can play tourist here in Ottawa for a couple of days, but then I’ll need to talk to your mother.” She straightened her shoulders and left.

I watched her cross the library’s open lobby, passing Tony at the info desk, heading toward the main entrance. I paced back and forth in the hallway, fuming. What she was claiming couldn’t be true.

But a coldness was rising in my stomach. Could Dad really have done this to Mom? To us?

Returning to my office, I closed the door and collapsed into my chair, my stomach churning. I dropped my head back against the headrest and stared blankly at the ceiling. Frances’s story kept echoing through my mind. It had to be nonsense…except for those photos. That guy did look like Dad.

When she asked for me by name at the front desk, I had hoped the interruption would be short. I hadn’t anticipated how shaken our conversation would leave me.

I needed to get back to work; I had to post next month's staff schedule soon. But after staring at my computer screen for a few minutes, I picked up my phone to call Caroline.

She and I had been friends since our university days in Toronto. I was studying library science and she was a psychology grad student. We met when we both moved into a shared student house near campus and clicked from the beginning. We’d stayed close friends ever since.

I came back to Ottawa after graduating. When she moved to Ottawa as well, joining the psychology staff at the Royal, our friendship grew. She had become my rock, the person I turned to first for advice.

“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked.

“I do. What’s up?”

I quickly recapped my meeting with Frances and the story she’d told.

“That’s quite the tale.” Caroline’s voice deepened. “But you don’t think it’s true?”

“I’m not sure.” I wanted to say no. But those photos had left me with doubts.

“Have you told Matt?”

My husband. “No. I haven’t had a chance.” I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell him.

“Or your mom?”

My jaw clenched. “If Dad had another family, if he deceived Mom, I don’t see any need for her to know about it after all these years. She’d be heartsick.”

“But you say Frances wants to talk to your mom. How can you prevent that?”

“Maybe I can’t. But I wish I could find out first…”

“If it’s true?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a foolproof way to check. A DNA comparison.”

Trust Caroline to have a scientific suggestion. “Yeah. But I don’t know if Frances would agree to be tested.”

“Why wouldn’t she? She’s the one who says you’re related.”

I sighed. “Testing takes time, and I don’t think Frances wants to wait.”

She paused. “Do you know about Ancestry.com?”

“…I’ve heard of it, but don’t really know—?”

“It’s a site where people upload their DNA, and check to see if they match with anyone. I keep hearing about people finding linkages there to relatives they didn’t know about.”

“So we could check that site to see if we’re related to Frances?”

A doubtful tone entered her voice. “Well, maybe not, if you’ve never sent in a sample. If you send one in now, it could take several weeks for results to show up. And you don’t even know whether anyone on Frances’ side has uploaded there. If not, there’d be nothing to match to.”

I grimaced, disappointed. “Doesn’t sound like DNA’s going to help us. In the short run, anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe not. So let’s look at this another way. Is Frances’ story plausible? Could that have happened?”

Frustrated tears were pressing behind my eyes. “I don’t think so. But I wish I remembered more about our family, how things were before Dad died. I was so young, and my memories are pretty thin.”

“How about your brother? Would he remember more?”

I sat up at the thought. “That’s a good idea.” Patrick was four years older than me, so his memories of our family life back then would be better than mine.

Calling Patrick was complicated by the fact that he lived in Canberra, where he moved when he married Melissa six years ago.

Checking my watch and doing a time conversion, I realized it was still the middle of the night in Australia. But if I called around 4 p.m. my time, it’d be 6 a.m. there. I didn’t know what shift he’d be working—he was a paramedic with the Capital Territory Ambulance Service. If he was on the day shift, he’d be up. I’d text to see if he was awake.

He replied with a yawning-face emoji, but I took that to mean I could call. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah.”

I cut our usual time-and-weather chitchat short. “Listen. A woman came to see me today with a weird story.” I blurted out Frances’ claim that Dad had had two families, ours and hers.

His reaction was immediate. “That’s ridiculous.”

Thank you. “I know, right? It’s just not possible.”

“Wait, let me put on some coffee.” A series of indistinct sounds came through the phone. Then he was back. “Tell me the whole thing. From the beginning.”

I ran through it all, starting with Frances showing up at the library, and ending with her dropping a card as she left.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. He was silent for a moment. “You think it’s Dad in those photos?”

“I don’t know.” I breathed out. “It looks like him. But photos can be manipulated…”

“Can you send me copies?”

“Sure. Hold on. I’m sending them now.”

While he waited for the images to arrive, he asked, “Are you thinking it’s some kind of scam?”

“Well, what could she be after? It’s not like there’s any inheritance or anything…”

He gave a small cough. “What about Mom? Are you going to tell her?”

“No! Can you imagine her reaction?” I swallowed. “Even raising it…I don’t want to spoil her memories of Dad.”

“Hold on—the photos are coming through.”

***

Author Bio:

Lis Angus is a Canadian suspense writer. Originally from Alberta, she has also lived in Germany and Toronto. Before turning to fiction, she worked with children and families in crisis, and later as a business writer, conference organizer, and policy advisor. Her debut novel, Not Your Child, was a finalist for the 2021 Daphne du Maurier Award and was published in 2022. That Other Family is her second novel. Lis is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, Crime Writers of Canada, and Capital Crime Writers. She lives in a small town south of Ottawa with her husband.

Catch Up With Lis Angus:

LisAngus.com
Lis Angus's Newsletter
Amazon Author Profile
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Instagram - @lisangus459
Threads - @lisangus459
X - @Lisangus1
Facebook - @lisangusauthor

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The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth

2026-03-02T00:00:00.005+05:30

THE FIRST TO DIE

by Suzanne Trauth

February 9 - March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing. Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn’t know. Now, fifteen years later, Simone’s murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral—she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave. Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother's disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn’t know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die…but not the last.

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Between the Lines Publishing
Publication Date: November 18, 2025
Number of Pages: 334 (Pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-965059-65-4
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Between the Lines Publishing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Now

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.

42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.

Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.

Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.

The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.

“Connie Tucker!”

She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.

She’d aged. And not well.

Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”

Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.

“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”

Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”

“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”

The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”

Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.

Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.

Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.

The door swung open.

With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.

A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.

Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.

A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.

***

Author Bio:

Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include The First to Die, What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women's Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time and Killing Time. Ms. Trauth has co-authored Sonia Moore and American Acting Training and co-edited Katrina on Stage: Five Plays. She is a former member of the theatre faculty at a university and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.

Catch Up With Suzanne Trauth:

www.SuzanneTrauth.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads, @suzannetrauth
BookBub, @trauths1
Instagram, @suzannetrauth
Facebook, @suzanne.trauth.2025
Facebook, @SuzanneTrauth (Author)

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The Fatal Saving Grace by Jim Nesbitt

2026-02-21T00:00:00.003+05:30

THE FATAL SAVING GRACE

by Jim Nesbitt

February 9 - March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

ED EARL BURCH HARD-BOILED TEXAS CRIME THRILLER

MAYHEM WITH A BADGE

After wandering the peephole wilderness of a private detective for two decades, defrocked Dallas homicide detective Ed Earl Burch is finally an official manhunter again, wearing the badge of a district attorney's investigator working in the harsh desert mountains of West Texas.

Big D, it ain't. And life as a resurrected lawman isn't everything he hoped it would be. Too many rules. Not enough satisfaction. And a boss who hates him for saving his life.

But Burch is back, playing the same deadly game he mastered as a murder cop, tracking a serial killer who tortured and murdered his ex-lover with a straight razor—an Aryan Brotherhood gang leader Burch thought he killed in a desert shootout.

He's also trying to protect the fugitive granddaughter of an old friend and her four-year-old son—from this remorseless killer and cartel gunsels hired by her incestuous Dixie Mafia daddy.

Throats get slashed. Bullets smack flesh. Bodies drop. And Ed Earl Burch and his partner, Bobby Quintero, are in reckless pursuit, dodging death, closing in on their prey.

No place Burch would rather be. Unless he gets killed.

Praise for The Fatal Saving Grace:

The Fatal Saving Grace is the Independent Press Award Distinguished Favorite for Action/Adventure 2026

"Nesbitt delivers a scorched-earth tale where every shadow conceals an ambush and every road bleeds history. He paints West Texas in colors of rust, smoke and whiskey, and the result is a story that feels carved in stone. This is cowboy noir at its finest."
~ Baron Birtcher, Will Rogers Medallion winning author of Knife River

"Ed Earl Burch, who's partial to Lucky Strikes and Maker's Mark, makes Mike Hammer look like Miss Marple. Jim's novels offer wicked humor, an eye for detail, brass-knuck action and language that would strip the paint off a Hummer."
~ Noel Holston, author of Life After Deaf and As I Die Laughing

"Jim Nesbitt knows his Texas crime and writes one fine line at a time. Hard-boiled with prickly pears, old leather boots, a bit of tobacco, freshly spit of course, he gets it right."
~ Joe R. Lansdale, champion mojo storyteller and author of the Hap 'N Leonard crime thrillers

"A gritty and deadly must-read, THE FATAL SAVING GRACE cements Nesbitt’s standing among the best writers in the pantheon of Southern noir."
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, bestselling author of the Detective Justice Mysteries

"Ed Earl Burch is back, and that’s great news for readers who love classic hard-boiled noir, colorful characters, crackling dialogue and plenty of action. Highly recommended!"
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Gil Malloy and Clare Carlson mysteries

"Some would call it justice. Some would call it revenge. No matter what you call it, the concept has been a long running theme of the Ed Earl Burch series. The same is very much true in the fifth book of the series, The Fatal Saving Grace: An Ed Earl Burch Novel by Jim Nesbitt."
~ 'Ace Texas book reviewer' Kevin Tipple

Book Details:

Genre: Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction, Western
Published by: Spotted Mule Press
Publication Date: December 15, 2025
Number of Pages: 301
ISBN: 9780998329482 (ISBN10: 0998329487)
Series: Ed Earl Burch Hard-Boiled Texas Crime Thriller, Book 5 | Each is a Stand-Alone Thriller
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Ed Earl Burch Novels, 1-4

The Last Second Chance

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

The Right Wrong Number

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

The Best Lousy Choice

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

The Dead Certain Doubt

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

When a man gets hit by a .45 ACP Flying Ashtray or three, by all that's ballistically holy, he ought to get dead and stay dead.

All manner of official paperwork swore he was dead. All of it based on a bogus death certificate filed by parties unknown in the Cuervo County Coroner's Office, with copies popping up like blowflies on a cow carcass. Even the federales had him playing poker with the Devil, his prison mugshot tucked away in ATF and DEA files, DECEASED stamped across his face in bold, black letters.

The con was slick and easy. Money changed hands, files were swapped or ditched, reports were shredded or faked. Somebody else's corpse became him. The relentless power of bureaucratic incompetence and inertia did the rest.

Yessir. According to all that yellowing, lawdog paper, he was nobody they had to worry about no more. Finito. A shade. A ghost who said adios. A good thug now that he was a dead thug. Muerto.

Not hardly.

That's what John Wayne said to all those hombres who thought he was dead in Big Jake. With a growl and a scowl.

Not hardly.

He liked that. Matter of fact, he just trotted out the Duke's line to a guy he used to be tight with. Caught up to him climbing the three cinder block steps to the front door of his desert double wide.

Tapped him on the shoulder, saw the wild-eyed fear when the dude turned and saw who the finger belonged to. Blurted out: "You're supposed to be dead!"

Not hardly. Said it with a growl but no scowl. Then grabbed him by a greasy hank of raven black hair, yanking his head back and cutting a crimson smile across his throat from ear to ear. With a bone-handled straight razor. His favorite.

Threw the guy into the sand at the side of the steps. Listened to the choking gurgle and death rattle. Then licked the blood off the blade.

Not hardly. He tilted his head back and laughed. Savored the kill. Alone and alive. An endless dome of stars glittering in the midnight sky above the rocky desert outback near Radium Springs, New Mexico. No moon. A dead man at his feet. Used to be a member of his crew. Frankie Sheridan.

Met him at Pelican Bay. An Alice Baker brother doing a long stretch for bank robbery. Had a shamrock tattooed on his chest with the initials AB in capital letters—Alice Baker, Aryan Brotherhood. Blood in, blood out. Ex-Army. Knew his way around diesels, alarm systems, and weapons.

Sent him a ticket to Texas when he got out. Made him a member of his crew, smuggling guns and drugs out of a ranch north of Faver, the Cuervo County seat, a bent outfit that ran cattle for cover and fleeced bitter and gullible white trash while promising them the return of the Republic of Texas for Caucasian Christians only, a New Zion based on God, guns, guts, and the Good Book. Niggers, Jews, Arabs, and Spics need not apply.

Bad move. Frankie was a ratfuck snitch. Uno chivato. Not to the lawdogs. Just as bad, though. Frankie sold him out to a rival outfit of gunrunners and drug smugglers. Kept them one step ahead of him as they chased a third outfit that held a cache of stolen military hardware everybody wanted.

Rockets, bloopers, mortars, and full-auto carbines and rifles. Bang-bangs that could tip the scales on both sides of the river. All in the hands of a crew fronted by a flashy woman in jeans, tall boots, a bolero jacket, and a blonde wig. A wet dream for the pendejos she hustled.

La Güera. Just the thought of her caused his molars to grind. He wanted her dead. No, he needed her dead. She and her lover were the reason his life got flushed into the sewer, his crew dead, his stash of guns and drugs long gone. Had him climbing out of the shitter, clawing to the top of the dung heap. Again.

He caught the lover. Sliced off his manhood. Slit his throat. Then chopped off his head and butchered his body to stuff into a giant barbecue smoker. Tucked the man's jewels into his mouth as the crowning touch to a cannibal's mesquite-smoked delight.

Not the same. Didn't have her. She still needed to feel his blade, feel his eyes boring holes into hers as he gave her that crimson smile. He needed to lick her blood off that sharp stainless steel. Taste it. And grin. Only then would the circle be complete. He'd be whole again.

Well, not completely whole.

His right eye was gone, blown out by a glancing hit from one of those .45 ACP slugs that also shattered the orbital bones. Nothing extensive plastic surgery, bone implants and a new glass eye couldn't cure. Had to stack plenty of cash up front to repair damage that severe.

Gave that part of his face a waxy texture straight out of Madame Tussauds. But it sure beat wearing an eye patch and the lopsided face of a Dick Tracy cartoon villain.

His left knee was also shattered, replaced with a titanium joint that allowed him to walk with only a slight limp. Another five-figure hit to his stash of greenbacks.

The man who fired those rounds was also on his payback list. An ex-cop. Big-ass older fucker with a gray beard. Said to be a washed-up Dallas P. I..

Beg to differ, sir. Sumbitch sure kept him from getting to her during that clusterfuck in the West Texas desert. A real Wild West shootout between rival drug gangs wanting the blonde bitch's bang-bangs.

He was oh-so-close to grabbing her up, dodging bullets and bodies, closing the gap between him and Ol' Dude, who was carrying the bitch draped over his right shoulder. He screamed her name and leveled an M-16A1 at the both of them.

"La Güeraaaaaaa! I got you, bitch! Got you now! Gonna slice you wide open and watch you bleeeeeeed!"

Ol' Dude spun on his heel and emptied a 1911 mag at him offhand. Yelled this: "Not today, you cockbite motherfucker. Not in this lifetime or the next." A lefty. On target without dropping the bitch. Only thing that kept him alive was a Kevlar vest that caught the Flying Ashtrays that would have shredded his chest.

Washed-up, my ass. The man wrecked me. His time was coming, though. Count on a reckoning. Soon. But not now. He was working his way up the ladder of a list he kept in his head. One body at a time.

Frankie was the bottom rung. La Güera was at the top with Ol' Dude second. Five other rungs between Frankie and them.

Time to get gone. And get busy.

***

Author Bio:

Jim Nesbitt has the perfect radio face, bionic knees that can grind coffee beans and tell time and a cat who poaches his cigars and uses his cellphone to place bets on British soccer. He is also a recovering journalist who once chased politicians, neo-Nazis, hurricanes, rodeo cowboys, plane wrecks and the everyday people swept up in a news event who gave his stories depth, authenticity and a distinct voice.

A lapsed horseman, pilot, journalist and saloon sport with a keen appreciation of old guns, vintage cars, red meat, good cigars, aged whisky without an 'e' and a well-told story, Nesbitt is also the award-winning author of five hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers that feature battered but relentless Dallas PI Ed Earl Burch -- THE LAST SECOND CHANCE, THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER, THE BEST LOUSY CHOICE, THE DEAD CERTAIN DOUBT and THE FATAL SAVING GRACE.

A diehard Tennessee Vols fan, he now lives in enemy territory -- Athens, Alabama -- with his wife, Pam, and is working on his sixth Ed Earl Burch novel, THE PERFECT TRAIN WRECK. When he's off his meds, he's been known to call himself Reverend Jim and preach the Gospel of Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction.

Catch Up With Jim Nesbitt:

www.JimNesbittBooks.com
Jim's Substack - @edearl56
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @edearl56
Instagram - @edearl74
Threads - @edearl74
Facebook - @edearlburchbooks

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BTS Pre-comeback #ReadingList

2026-02-19T00:00:00.017+05:30

There are two kinds of comeback preparations. The normal kind is where fans clear their schedule, charge the lightsticks, rehearse lyrics and prepare their vocal chords anticipating all the screaming that’s to come.

And, then there’s the Bangtan kind:
In this case, ARMYs end up accidentally reading advanced psychology at 1:30 AM on a week day, because they managed to catch the title of a book that Yoongi was reading in ‘In the soop’; and now their brain won’t shut up till they finish reading all the reference material they can find on the topic after finishing the book itself!!!

At this point, Boraland is less about “waiting for music” and more like unwittingly getting a literature degree taught by seven asian men with colour coded microphones. If the recent hints, installations, and that suspiciously philosophical ‘What is your love song?’ prompt are anything to go by, we are probably not getting a simple romance era. Nothing is ever that simple in Boraland. We are getting a thinking about love era. Which means the only logical to prepare for the upcoming album drop is… reading.

I am comparatively new to the fandom & as such I haven’t caught up with ALL the BTS content that is out there. But, the lovely lady at Asian Entertainment & Culture has made this informative video on Youtube with the 3 books that she thinks may have their influence in ARIRANG. 

But here are some of the books that I know for sure has influenced their music in the previous eras. So, if you did not know or have not read these books yet, let get ‘Namjooning’ folks!  

1) Jung’s Map of the Soul by Murray Stein

I have to list this book first because that is how I realised that BTS draws inspiration from literature. They named and framed a whole album by drawing from Carl Jung via Murray Stein’s Jung’s Map of the Soul. They have worked in Carl Jung’s theories on human personalities and introduces the audience to the persona, shadow, and ego. Mixed with their personal experiences, the album is basically psychology 101 through music. Brush up your psychology and enjoy the music in depth by reading ‘Jung’s Map of the Soul’

2) Into the Magic Shop by Dr. James R. Doty

You have seen this book doing the rounds everywhere. Whether its booktok or bookstagram or the internet in general, people have been hyped this book everywhere. The book talks about mindfulness, compassion, brain-heart connection, and personal transformation. BTS took the basic concept of the book and produced ‘Magic Shop’ - a place for respite and recharging when you are having tough time in your life. Learn how to live a better life while understanding what Jungkook means when he says ‘So show me’ by reading ‘Into the Magic Shop’

3) Demian by Hermann Hesse

I picked up this book because I got curious about it after watching ‘Blood, Sweat & Tears’ music video. The music video is heavily inspired by the book. Besides that, BTS in their WINGS era talks about the basic themes covered in the book. Temptation, guilt, desire, and self-recognition all appear as necessary steps toward maturity. Youth becomes the stage where identity fractures and reforms.

4) The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas by Ursula K. Le Guin

I’ll be honest here, I did not catch the ‘Omelas’ reference when I watched ‘Spring Day’ music video. I only realised the connection when I happened to read the story at work. Le Guin’s short story presents a perfect society sustained by one child’s suffering. Happiness exists in that world only because people agree not to confront its cost. The video highlights the Sewol Ferry tragedy from 2014 - cost humanity paid that day. You can read the short story here: https://shsdavisapes.pbworks.com/f/Omelas.pdf 

5) Pied Piper of Hamelin

I think it is safe to say that we all know this German folklore. BTS uses the story of Pied Piper to, for the lack of a better word, ROAST their fans. RM shows up rapping at us to go study hard, but Yoongi claims he is just testing us and J-hope gives up any pretence and declares ‘I am your guilty pleasure’. The vocal line only adds to the allure with their voices. And yes, we are following the BTS tune all the way…

6) Almond by Sohn Won-Pyung

Both Yoongi and RM were seen reading this book during ‘In the Soop’ season 1 and I have no doubt in my mind that if not the source, this book at least worked as reference material for Yoongi to write ‘Amygdala’ - a song that can either trigger or heal you, depending on where you are in your healing journey. Almond is a YA book that explores the life of a protagonist who has an underdeveloped amygdala—the brain's emotional center. It is a must read! Get it HERE.

7) The Owl Service by Alan Garner 

In the book, characters are stuck in a never-ending cycle. Sounds familiar with respect to BTS? Yes, their ‘Bangtain Universe’. You’ll find hidden references and familiar themes from the book in ‘You Never Walk Alone’ album. Get your copy HERE.

8 & 9) Kafka on the Shore & 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

The song ‘Butterfly’ left me in tears. You can only truly feel the song if you have ever experienced a certain situation in your life. The lyrics and Jimin’s voice makes it unforgettable for me. However, I only found out later that the lyrics were inspired by this book.  
Have you heard their hidden track “Sea”? The lyrics have a direct quote from the book that says - “Wherever there’s hope, there’s a trial.” 
I am yet to read these myself (maybe I should get to it before the comeback) and so I was hesitating to put them on this list. But, Murakami is a must read for all bibliophiles anyway. So, go pick up your copy of Kafka on the Shore or 1Q84

So, now go pick up atleast ONE of these books...
(So that Namjoon doesn't have to shave your eyebrows off)

Ofcourse you can act like a normal fan and wait for teasers and photo drops till 20th March. Then watch the Netflix livestream on 21st March.

OR you can do what this group has trained us to do: read books, theorise and bring a notebook to the album drop because it is BTS… It is always a reading assignment of sorts.

Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto

2026-02-17T00:00:00.000+05:30

WINTER'S SEASON

by R.J. Koreto

January 26 - February 20, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

In 1817 London, Before the Police, There Was Captain Winter.

London, 1817. A city teeming with life, yet lacking a professional police force. When a wealthy young woman is brutally murdered in an alley frequented by prostitutes, a shadowy government bureau in Whitehall dispatches its "special emissary"―Captain Winter. A veteran of the Napoleonic Wars and a gentleman forged by chance and conflict, Winter is uniquely equipped to navigate the treacherous currents of London society, from aristocratic drawing rooms to the city's grimmest taverns.

Without an army of officers or the aid of forensic science, Winter must rely on his wits and a network of unconventional allies. His childhood friend, a nobleman, opens doors in high society, while a wise Jewish physician uncovers secrets the dead cannot hide.

But Winter's most intriguing, and potentially dangerous, asset is Barbara Lightwood. Shrewd, beautiful, and operating as a discreet intermediary among the elite, Barbara shares a past with Winter from the war years. Their rekindled affair is fraught with wariness; she offers intimate information crucial to his investigation, but guards her own secrets fiercely. Like Winter, she is both cunning and capable of danger.

From grand houses to dimly lit streets, death stalks Captain Winter. He must tread carefully to unmask a killer, navigate a web of secrets and lies, and perhaps, in the process, save his own soul.

Winter's Season Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Historical, Romance, Political, Crime
Published by: Histria Books
Publication Date: February 17, 2026
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 9781592116898 (ISBN10: 1592116892)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Histria Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter I

It was the custom of Colonel Sir Joshua Williams to invite his veteran officers to his house each Season to commemorate the Battle of San Stefano. After dinner, the closing ceremony was invariable: First, the ladies rose, the young in their pale blues and pinks and the more matronly in their deeper reds and purples. They smiled and departed, leaving the table surrounded by men in their scarlet coats, adorned with medals glittering by the light of dozens of beeswax candles in their silver holders. The liveried footmen filled the port glasses and left as well, closing the doors behind them.

One former company captain looked around, taking note that he was the youngest battle veteran there—the toast would fall to him. Others had moved on or died. He had himself missed last year's dinner, spending it on the Afghan border, dressed like a Saracen and getting his skin burned black while trying to uncover the secrets of that land's sullen and violent inhabitants. Even the task he had to complete after leaving tonight, difficult as it seemed, was nothing compared with that.

The colonel caught his eye, and so the captain stood. Every man stopped talking as the captain raised his glass, and then they stood at attention. He remembered the words easily, and in a strong voice he said, "Did our battle line ever break?"

"No!" shouted the company.

"Why did it not break?"

"We are the hard men," they replied in unison.

"Gentlemen, to our departed brothers of the First Northumberland Foot," called the captain. They drained their glasses and slammed them down, then burst into applause. The dinner was over.

The captain—indeed, he suspected, the other officers as well—was reflecting on how this dinner came about in a year of peace. The English and their allies had defeated Napoleon for the final time at Waterloo two years past now in 1815 and life was moving on—the best people were all in London this time of year, with no war to talk about, just fashions and parties and theater and how good it was to be able to import from France the best claret again.

They rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, and the captain sought out Lady Williams, the colonel's wife.

"My Lady, thank you for your invitation."

"It is I who should thank you, captain. These dinners mean so much to the colonel as he ages, having all his officers around."

"And he means so much to us, Lady Williams, the pleasure and honor are ours. I am only glad I am back in London so I can attend."

"Yes, he mentioned you found a position in the Home Office?" She showed as much surprise and curiosity as a lady of her breeding dared reveal. The captain knew the look—how did a man of his obscure background land what appeared to be a distinguished government position? Despite its simple name, the Home Office had become, since its founding some 25 years before, one of the most powerful and overarching government ministries, with responsibility for security and safety within the British Isles. The Home Secretary was one of the most influential men in England. How Winter had advanced his career in that august body was beyond reckoning.

"Yes, my lady. The work is interesting, but at times onerous, I'm afraid. Indeed, my masters call me even now."

"At this hour, captain? How tedious for you. But again, I am pleased you could come. Give my warmest regards to the Earl and Countess."

The captain said goodbye to his colonel and a few other officers, and the butler saw him out. He walked to the nearest stand and engaged a hackney cab to Bow Street Court. A few heads turned as he entered the building, but no one accosted him. A clerk gave him the barest nod but said nothing as he entered a room.

A few minutes later, the captain came out. He was no longer in his regimentals, but in rather shabby outfit, almost rural, with a slouch hat. Down the hall, he entered another room, where a squad of Bow Street Runners awaited—constables, employed by the local court at Bow Street, to keep order and seize felons. Winter suppressed a grimace. They were poorly trained and poorly paid, but it was pretty much all London had for law enforcement. Many still thought the idea of a formal professional constabulary too much government interference—too un-English. So, the Runners would have to do. At least they were willing and obedient.

"We have already gone over where you should be standing," said the captain. "You know how important it is you aren't seen." There was more than instruction in his voice--there was menace.

"Yes, sir," said the most senior constable present.

"Then take your places. I'll be along shortly."

Moving quickly, he left the building and walked along dark streets that became progressively dirtier and more dangerous. He saw men hiding in the shadows, those who preyed on the weak and unaware, but nothing happened to him.

Eventually he came to a building that was well-lit, at least by the neighborhood standards. It was certainly the noisiest venue in the street. The cracked and faded sign marked it as The Three Bells.

The Captain entered—a few were eating off dirty plates, and almost everyone was drinking beer, or something stronger. Slatternly women laughed and tried to slip away from the half-drunk men who loudly pursued them. Some allowed themselves to be caught, and there was more laughter and then a talk of money. The whole room smelled of smoke and grease, and the floor was sticky from weeks of spilled ale.

Few paid attention to the captain, but a fat man walked up to him surprisingly quickly for someone of his bulk.

"Oh captain, I am so pleased, do you think—"

"Shut up. Where's Sally? She was suitable last night, and she'll be suitable tonight."

"Sally—oh there she is." He pointed to a tallish girl wearing more makeup than an actress. A large man in worker's clothes, probably a stevedore, thought the captain, had grabbed her and placed her on his lap. She didn't seem to mind.

The captain strode over, grabbed the woman by her wrist, and pulled her off the man's lap.

"Come, my girl, we have an appointment as you well know."

She yelped with surprise, then gave a shrug and followed. The large man stood up.

"See here—I saw her first," he said. His accent wasn't London, which explained everything.

"Good for you," said the Captain, and pulled the girl across the room. The big man started to follow, but two of his friends grabbed him.

"Now Jake, no need to cause trouble," said the first, who was clearly local.

"Cause trouble? I'll flatten him—"

"No, you won't. You don't know, you're new here. For God's sake, that's the Captain, a soldier, they say he was, and you don't want to start something with him—I've seen what happens to those who do—"

"That's right," chimed in the other friend, also a Londoner. "Remember Big Nick—used to be here, no one stood up to him, but he challenged the Captain…" he shuddered.

"And what happened?" asked a skeptical Jake. Both men look their heads.

"We never saw him again. He wasn't arrested. They didn't find his body—he was just…gone. So just stop thinking about it. There are plenty of other girls."

But Jake still felt he had to make a show of standing up for himself.

"So, you're telling me it would be a mistake to call him out?"

"Your last mistake," said the first man. Then very softly, as if he was afraid of his words, he said, "He's called Winter. If you're thinking of staying in this part of London, you would do well to remember that name."

Captain Winter—indeed, that was his family name—dragged the girl along to the same place as the night previous, with a hope of better hunting. He told her to ply her trade in this alley and then set himself up again behind some empty crates that had once held vegetables, brought to London from the farmlands. Winter was a country boy and knew the smells. Memories of his childhood came back, which kept him from getting bored. He had learned to keep himself occupied while waiting indefinitely for something to happen. Few realized how much time in the army was spent just waiting. In the army, patience was usually rewarded with a battle, and tonight, he hoped, it would be rewarded with the capture of a killer.

Although the evening had been spent remembering battles past, he put those out of his mind and thought about grain at harvest time on the estate, the bacon being smoked, the farm workers shearing the sheep and the earthy smell of the fine horses—especially the joy of riding them through the earl's lands, with Charlotte, chattering and giggling. Half his mind focused on the scene in front of him, while the other half wandered back to a past Twelfth Night: The coach had been stopped 10 miles from Rockland Court by a surprising snow, so he had borrowed a big white horse from the coaching inn and set out against all advice.

It was hardly an elegant mount, more suited for pulling a plow than for carrying an officer, but it was strong, and Winter had urged it through the drifts. Charlotte had seen him from her bedroom window high up, and as he approached the manor house she had raced down and out the door, wrapped in her rabbit fur cloak.

"You made it! I never thought you would!"

"I'm a gentleman—and a gentleman always keeps his word." Once he was inside, servants came to relieve him of his wet outer garments, leaving him in his red coat. A footman pressed a hot cup of wassail in his hand, and he let himself be led into the library, where a fire was roaring. The earl and countess joined them, chiding him for taking such a risk in stormy weather, but he had just laughed.

Cook outdid herself that day, with a magnificent roast, and while the Earl noticed Winter's insatiable appetite, Winter noticed Charlotte hardly ate anything, hanging on his every word. The family stayed up late, until Winter fell asleep in a library chair, and the countess sent a reluctant Charlotte to bed. But when he was alone, Charlotte slipped back down and, on his brow, planted a kiss she mistakenly thought he wouldn't notice, before tiptoeing back out again.

A noise brought Winter back to the present. His hand checked the pistol on his lap, caressed the smooth wood stock, felt the metal trigger. Then he reached for the blade hidden in his boot—thin, but strong, with a razor edge on each side. He was ready.

The girl he was watching meanwhile had apparently lost herself in an impossible daydream, walking slowly, and idly playing with her hair. For now, she could imagine being the well-kept mistress of a gentleman—she was still young and fairly pretty. In another year or two, she would be neither. Winter had wanted an attractive girl, but more than that, an obedient one. That miserable fat procurer had told him the first night that the man was killing the best of them, and feared "sweet little Sally" would be next.

"She was born to this, she was, captain, she’s natural for it," he had said.

Winter had told him to shut his mouth. But the man spoke anyway. He'd need more of a motivation to keep quiet, thought Winter, entertaining pleasantly dark thoughts about what he'd like to do to that bastard--thoughts he knew he couldn’t act on.

It was the third night. Winter had narrowed down the location, but couldn’t be completely sure. The killer was also easily spooked, and if the night was too lively, he didn’t show. But this evening was perfect, foggy, with little moon, in an alley a short walk to St. Jude. Wasn't he the one for lost causes? How perfect.

The girl had been complaining after two empty nights, but when Winter pointed out the options to walking out under his protection, she sulkily cooperated.

There was the barest illumination from the busy street near the alley, and Winter had a lantern, lit but masked, at his side. He had told the constables to stay some distance away and hidden, but within whistle call. They were getting bored too. But perhaps tonight. Hadn't Colonel Williams once told him, “You’re a good officer, Winter, but even better, you're a lucky one."

Winter had tried to anticipate everything, but he knew that was impossible. The noise of a boot lightly treading on a cobblestone and Winter had the pistol out, but even he wasn't fast enough: The man was quicker and darker than he had expected. It took him a second to have his arm around the girl, and a knife to her throat. But he hadn’t yet cut her when Winter had opened the lantern, stood, and aimed the pistol.

"Let the girl go and drop the knife." The man's eyes darted in each direction, but Winter blew the whistle and a moment later they heard running feet, and the squad of Bow Street Runners was on the scene. They looked uncertain at the standoff. Winter hoped they would follow his directions.

"Escape is impossible. Let the girl go, surrender, and you will have a fair trial."

And the man laughed, slightly hysterical. It was as Dr. Wolfe had said, some men were sick in body, and some sick in mind.

"Yes, a trial, and then a hanging. Well, I can take one more—one more sinner off the streets."

The Runners had brought lanterns too, and now Winter could see his face, and his clothes. Yes—a gentleman. He knew there had been a reason they couldn't find him. They were looking in all the wrong places.

The girl gurgled in absolute terror as the blade came ever closer, and Winter knew it took a lot to frighten a woman in her line of work.

"If you spill one drop of her blood, I swear you will not leave this alley alive."

"Rope or ball, it's all the same."

"No, it's not. I'll shoot you in the stomach. You might live a whole day like that, in agony you can't begin to imagine." He held the lantern up higher. "Look at me and realize I am not bluffing."

Winter saw the eyes waver and knew he had won. Before any battle, he could always look at each one of his men and tell: Who would stand to the end. Who would panic. Who would freeze.

"It would seem we have a draw, then," said the man.

"We do not. I am going to count down from five. Then I will shoot right through the girl—"

At that she screamed, and the man held her tighter.

"I will shoot right through the girl and at this range the ball will go directly into you. The girl will die instantly, but London has plenty of whores and one less won't be a problem. I'm counting now. When I reach one, I'll shoot."

The scene froze, like just like the beginning of a battle. The Runners looked both curious and frightened. The girl was now hysterical. And the man—he would break.

"Five…Four…"

"But—you're a gentleman," said the killer, who had in the short time taken in Winter's voice and demeanor, which came through despite his clothes. Winter almost laughed.

Three…Two—"

The killer threw the girl and raised his hands, still holding the dagger. He was mad, but not stupid.

"You have made a sensible decision," said Winter. He laid the pistol on a box. "Now give me that blade and come with us peacefully to Bow Street."

But the eyes darted to the discarded pistol, and he suddenly came at Winter with the knife poised to bury itself in his chest. A moment later, however, the dagger was flying, and Winter had landed a fist full into the man's face. He felt into a heavy heap on the ground, as he bled from his nose.

"Well don't stand there gawking, tie him up before he wakes. And someone pick up that blade—it will be needed for the trial." Two of the Runners woke from their stupor and did as they were told.

"I…I've never seen fighting like that, sir," said the senior Runner. "You kicked the knife right out of his hand."

"It's French street-fighting. I learned it from a French prisoner."

"Very impressive, sir, but if I may take a liberty, you shouldn't have put your pistol down while he was still armed."

"But it was intentional. I didn't want to miss the pleasure of beating him senseless." And Winter smiled humorlessly. He was an odd one, the Runners knew, and you couldn’t be sure…

Winter turned his attention to Sally, huddled and whimpering in the corner. "It’s all over, my sweet." His voice was very gentle, and he reached a hand out to her. She took a breath, then looked Winter in the eye.

"You bastard," she said, and followed with an impressive stream of invective.

"Our regimental sergeant major was known throughout the army for his skill at cursing, but you have him beat." He laughed.

"You were going to shoot me!" she said.

"I knew he'd fold. You were never in any danger. I told you that you would be safe, and you are. Now for being such a good girl, I'm going to give you a reward." He held out some money, and she stared as if she couldn't believe it. Then her hand reached out quickly and snatched it.

"Do I have to share it with…"

"I won't tell if you won't," said Winter.

"Uh…Captain…?" The constables were leading the prisoner away, stumbling and still a little stunned, and one of them was holding his lantern high into a corner of the alley. "I think I found another one."

Winter sighed and walked over. Yes, there was another woman, but he quickly saw this was something different. She was dressed in dark clothes, not the cheap gaudy dresses Sally and her cohorts wore. And her throat was untouched. Winter bent down but couldn’t immediately see a wound—and there was nothing stuffed into her mouth. The captured killer hadn’t done this one.

He stood up and sighed again. "You two—take him back to Bow Street and return with a cart, anything to carry this body away." He turned to the other two Runners. "You—take the girl back to tavern." He pulled some more coins from his pocket and handed them to one of the runners. "Get her something to drink and a hot meal." She looked even more pleased at that. "Then bring that fat bastard back. I want him to look at this girl."

"Yes, sir."

"And you—Johnson—do you know where Wilkie Lane is? Go to number 7 and you'll find a Dr. Wolfe there. Wake him and tell him I'll need him to see a body tonight."

"But, sir, orders are—"

"Orders are as I give them."

"Yes, sir."

The Runners hurried off to their tasks, and Winter was left alone with the dead woman. He took a closer look at her. Although Winter had ordered the procurer to the scene, he was sure she was not a woman of the streets. She looked clean and healthy. Her hands were soft. The woman’s dress was simple and sober—perhaps a maid on her day off, but that didn’t entirely fit either.

The young woman was beyond modesty, and Winter began looking for a wound. He found it, just under her ribcage. A very nasty hole. He stood and flashed the lantern around—no blood.

The Runner returned with the procurer, puffing and sweaty, although the night was cool.

"Captain, captain, they tell me you caught the man—I cannot tell you how grateful I am. At last, my girls are safe. They haven't been going out in the streets, and the money—"

"Your business dealings are of no interest to me. This dead girl is." He shined the lantern on the body.

"Oh, I say, Captain, not one of mine. Although I wish she had been, a pretty girl."

"I didn't think so, but I need to be sure."

"Poor little girl. These streets just aren't safe for young girls such as her."

"Your sentiment does you credit," said Winter.

"Thank you, Captain."

Sarcasm was wasted on him.

"You're dismissed—get back to your tavern. And clean it up. I'll be back in a week and if I don't like the way it looks then I’ll wake a company from the Middlesex garrison, arrest everyone, and raze your tavern to the ground. I don't care who your protectors are." And he had the pleasure of watching him run away as fast as he could with his bulk. No doubt he'd contact his patrons, to find out just how powerful Winter was—could this mysterious gentleman really shut him down? Well, at least Winter had scared him for a while.

Winter and the remaining constable waited for the cart for the body.

Wilkie Lane, where Dr. Wolfe lived, ran to about a dozen houses, a little scuffed but generally in good repair, and quiet. People kept themselves to themselves here, and few Londoners from other parts of the city found reason to visit.

Winter had the constable drive there and told him to stay outside with the cart. The man had had the forethought to bring a bottle of ale and some bread and cheese, and didn't seem too upset at the prospect.

Throwing the body over his shoulder, Winter entered the house, which Dr. Wolfe had left unlocked in anticipation of Winter's arrival. The doctor was dressed and in his well-lit examining room, his face impassive behind his beard.

"Don’t you ever have crimes during the workday?" asked Wolfe.

"The criminal classes work better by night," said Winter, and placed the corpse on the table.

Now Winter could see—she had been a very pretty girl, with a clear face and hair that held the remnants of a fashionable style.

"A better class of victim than usual," said the doctor. "Who is she?"

"I don’t know. She was found in an alley. There's an apparent knife wound in her side."

"We'll come to that presently. First, let’s see what we can uncover." He prodded her, then ran his hands over different bones. "This one got plenty of food." Next, he pried open her mouth. "A suitable diet."

"But her dress is plain. I guessed a superior servant, a parlor maid or lady's maid. But I looked at her hands, and now in the light, I'm sure she wasn't. They're too soft. Even lady's maids should have pinpricks from sewing or other signs of work. This woman did nothing."

"Gentry?" asked the doctor. "Should I even be examining her, then?"

Another man might've taken the doctor's reluctance for fear, but Winter had seen Wolfe calmly dressing wounds on a battlefield while musket balls flew around his head. The doctor had no fear. He had wanted to study wounds, so he just showed up at the regimental HQ and offered his service on the front lines. The need was great, so no one was in a position to turn down a volunteer doctor, even a foreigner and a Jew. And as it turned out, he saved lives and limbs. He earned Winter's respect, and then his friendship. Winter made it clear that any man who had a problem with Dr. Wolfe, had a problem with him.

"Do whatever you need to. But time isn’t unlimited. A woman of her class will be missed, and I can't keep the body forever."

"Then you'll be my assistant." They wrestled the dress off the girl.

"She was a lady. Those are expensive and fine underthings. No servant would wear those."

Winter looked up from the body to see a wry smile on the doctor's face. "Dare I ask how you come by that knowledge, my friend?"

"My position has forced me to educate myself in many different subjects," responded Winter, coolly.

"Someday the king will realize the sacrifices you have made in his service, and you'll get a knighthood," said Wolfe. "Now let's see this wound." He examined the slit in the woman's side. "Did you see lots of blood?"

"None. Not under her or nearby."

"Then she was killed elsewhere. There should've been a lot of blood. Now, as to a weapon." He pulled out some lenses. "This is different from the last ones I examined. Not only the location on her body but a much different weapon, not thin and sharp, I'd almost say a bayonet. But—there's some tearing, as if the blade had a nick. I wonder…." He frowned. "Come with me."

They walked back to the kitchen. "Let's hope Miriam doesn’t find out I was here. This is her room only." Miriam was a cousin of the doctor's, who cooked and kept house for him, with the assistance of local girl who lived out and did the heavy cleaning. Efficient and hard-working, Miriam was loyal to the doctor, but had disliked Winter from the moment she met him, and no amount of time would change that.

Kitchen knives were hanging on a rack. Wolfe selected a couple, thumbed the blades, and carried them back to the examining room. He held them against the wound. "That is my conclusion, Captain. If we assume kitchen knives are much alike, that's what killed this girl. Cooks keep them sharp, but over the years the blades get nicks, chopping through bone. She would've died quickly."

"But why a well-born girl in a servant's clothes? And why no jewelry?"

"Wouldn't anything have been stolen from the body?"

"There are no signs that rings were wrenched off quickly, or necklaces pulled off a neck. I think jewelry was removed and clothing changed, to disguise her. She was wearing something else when she was killed—we know that, because there's almost no blood on the inside of her dress, and no corresponding cut in the dress."

Wolfe stepped over to his lenses, chose one, and bent over to get as close as possible to the wound.

"Hand me my tweezers," he said, and Winter did. The doctor held his glass with one hand and manipulated the tweezers with great care into the slit. "Very good." He gingerly carried the tweezers to an odd device, almost like a sextant, and placed what he captured in the tweezers on a small glass plate. He adjusted the device and looked through an eyepiece on the top. "Very good, indeed. Captain, this is a microscope. Just as telescopes make far things close, this makes small things big. Look—tell me what you see."

Winter squinted into the eyepiece. "Blue threads."

"Exactly. When the knife went into the girl, it pushed threads from the dress into the wound. She was wearing a pale blue dress."

"You have exceeded yourself, doctor. You've worked a miracle."

"Only the good Lord above works miracles," said the doctor.

"Your Lord or mine?" asked Winter, smiling.

"Aren't they one and the same?" asked the doctor, mildly, and Winter laughed.

Dr. Wolfe turned back to the body, and explored her hands, and feet and various joints. It was almost impossible to imagine this girl in a fashionable dress, dancing at one of the Season's parties. And Winter didn't try. He had seen fields of men like that, and thoughts about the lives they had led before, the lives they would never now lead, could only provoke madness.

"There is little roughness. The young lady did not walk much and did no work, as you guessed. Additional proof she was a lady of leisure. But if it helps you, she broke the smallest finger on her left hand. They either didn't send for a doctor quickly enough or he was clumsy. There would've been some permanent stiffness."

"They should've called for you."

"Yes, I am the first physician the English gentry considers," he said, dryly.

Then Dr. Wolfe thought for a moment and laid his hand on her abdomen. "My friend, I think the young lady has one more secret to give up. Hand me that tray of tools…" Wolfe's fingers worked quickly and surely, his brow furrowed as he focused on his tasks. Then he allowed himself a smile of triumph. "It is as I thought. The young lady was with child."

"You're certain?"

"Within the first three months, I believe. She should've known." He shrugged. "Unless she chose not to know."

"So, I have a pregnant woman from a good family in a part of London she shouldn't even have known about, let alone entered, in a dress that wasn't hers. This will be a little harder than finding out who decided to rid London of whores."

"And that reminds me. How does that investigation fare?"

"I actually caught the man this evening. I found this girl in the same area, and first thought she was another of his victims."

"Congratulations on your success."

"Yours too, doctor. You were the one who identified the kind of blade it was." The doctor had examined the murdered ladies of the street and had concluded the blade was expensive and well-cared for, hardly something a common criminal would carry. "You were right. He was mad." Winter made a grimace. "Somewhat like our king, I suppose." It wasn't openly discussed in Society, but King George III had become "unwell," as it was politely said. His son had been given most of the king's power, his royal purse and the title of "Prince Regent"—all of which he used more to pursue pleasure than to govern.

"The murderer or your English king—beyond my poor skills. But I am pleased I could assist with your case. Can I find you something to eat before you go?"

"Thank you, but I should be getting the body back to Bow Street. Someone is probably looking for her." And hunger was the only thing keeping him awake.

"Very well, but as your friend and doctor, I ask you to take care of your health."

Winter and the Runner drove back to Bow Street, where the body was placed, and Winter arranged to be informed if anyone inquired after a missing woman. He thought finally to get back to his lodgings for food and sleep, when he received another surprise: Sir Alston Tenebrac himself. Winter had rarely seen him outside of chambers at Whitehall, but even in Bow Street's rough quarters he looked much the same. He wore plain but beautifully tailored clothes that suited his short stature. His pale face, which rose to a perfectly bald head, was dominated by two small eyes, as dark and sharp as obsidian, and they darted around, missing nothing.

"Sir Alston. A pleasure to see you here."

"And a great surprise, I am sure." His voice was just over a whisper, but it caught your attention. Sir Alston was a lawyer, and they taught you those tricks of the voice, Winter had heard. "I hear you caught the man responsible for those dreadful murders of prostitutes. Slitting their throats and stuffing bible verses into their mouths. How did you catch him? I look forward to your report, but surely you can give me a précis now."

Winter didn't ask how Sir Alston had found out so quickly. It would've been impertinent, as well as pointless—Sir Alston seemed to hear everything.

"The bible verses stuffed into the girls' mouths, in the opinion of a physician I consulted, suggested a madman, sir. One with a peculiar religious bent. I inquired at various churches to see if the ministers had been visited by anyone displaying unseemly religious fervor and found something else—someone had disturbed a different church near each murder on each night. But nothing was stolen or damaged, so no reports were made. It seems he went to pray after each killing. I mapped the murders and churches and could draw a line from the fashionable neighborhoods deeper into the poor areas. After each murder, he had to descend deeper to find a new victim, but he never was far from a church. That pointed to a gentleman—"

At that word, Sir Alston raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Also, the weapon was an expensive blade. He was clearly not a resident of the area. Knowing he had to be near a church but not far from an area prostitutes walked, and that he had to travel a little further each time, I narrowed down the places."

Sir Alston nodded. "It sounds like you planned a military campaign."

"That was my training, sir."

"Of course, of course. I am pleased at the resolution. The matter was becoming increasingly gossiped about by the servant class, and when that happens, it's only a matter of time before their masters hear about it. But to new matters. On arriving here for a discussion of the case with the magistrates, I heard you have deposited another body. A woman apparently from a good family."

"That is the only aspect that is apparent, sir. I don't even have an identity. I assume you want me to investigate, sir?"

"That would seem advisable, Captain. But with tact and discretion. I want to be kept closely informed on this." He looked Winter up and down. "You might want to refresh yourself first, though."

"My thoughts exactly, sir."

"Then I will wish you good day." He took several steps, then turned. "Tact and discretion, Captain."

Winter's timing was fortunate—breakfast was just being served at the Cravell house. Violet, the little maid, was racing around the table with hot toast. Mr. Cravell sipped tea sparingly, as if he was afraid to spill on drop on his unfashionable but extremely respectable suit. Mrs. Cravell's eyes looked for any sign of imperfection, from the table settings, to the position of the teapot, to the behavior of her two boys.

"It's not polite to whisper," she admonished them.

She stopped searching when Winter walked in. "Bless me, Captain Winter, I said to Mr. Cravell, I hoped Captain Winter would make it to breakfast. We have set you a plate. You look like you need a good meal."

"Yes, bless you, Mrs. Cravell, you are correct. I trust I will not offend you, but I was traveling extensively tonight and am still in my riding clothes."

"Nonsense, Captain. You were working hard on the King's business. Take a seat and think nothing more of it."

He looked around the table, and his eye landed on a new occupant, a young woman with an outdoor complexion and the peculiarly rich flaxen hair you found in the old Saxon families. Her dress was plain, but suited her nicely rounded figure. This girl is a dairy maid, concluded Winter. He had known such girls in his boyhood, with their strong hands and creamy cheeks, and he remembered the songs they sang with their gentle voices while they worked.

This particular girl had soft grey eyes that looked at him with curiosity and perhaps some amusement.

"I haven't had the pleasure," he said, gravely.

"I am sorry, Captain," said Mrs. Cravell. "I was going to make an introduction after you had had a little tea. Miss Charity Thorne, may I present Captain Edmund Winter, who works with Mr. Cravell at Whitehall. Miss Thorne is my niece, my brother's daughter." She paused for full effect. "Captain Winter is foster brother to the Earl of Rockland. He is originally from Rockland Court, and now the Earl and Countess are up for the Season, aren’t they, Captain? They are no doubt with the Hon. Miss Charlotte Fitzhugh, the countess's niece, daughter of the late Viscount Devereaux, and granddaughter of the Duke of Vale."

There would be no changing the words to that song. It was Mrs. Cravell's favorite.

"Your servant, miss," said Winter. Yes, that must be amusement in those eyes. "I hope your journey up to London was pleasant."

"Very much so, Captain. It's my first visit to London, and I am finding it most interesting."

"No one can help but find London interesting," he said, and started to eat. Mrs. Cravell was beaming at him, for some reason. "Mr. Cravell, I met with Sir Alston at Bow Street. I expect he may be there for some time. So don't be surprised if he is not in the office when you arrive."

"I have been in Sir Alston's service for 20 years, and have ceased to be surprised at anything he does," said Mr. Cravell, in his usual somber tone. It was as if he had gone into mourning when Queen Anne had died a century before and still hadn't come out. He was Sir Alston's chief clerk, which is how Winter had come to rent a room in their house. "I thank you, though, for the information. I trust your meeting at Bow Street was due to a successful conclusion in your task?"

"Very successful, thank you, Mr. Cravell. Sir Alston seemed pleased."

"Very good, then," said Mr. Cravell. The boys glanced at Winter, who was a figure of romance and mystery to them and resumed whispering. Mrs. Cravell's eyes darted to Miss Thorne, who spoke. "May I inquire about the nature of your work for Sir Alston, Captain? I understand from my uncle that you work in a bureau of the Home Office."

Winter, happily in the middle of a sausage, had to think. Mr. Cravell looked like he was going to answer the question, but a furious look from his wife silenced him.

"My particular bureau is concerned with curbing the criminal classes, Miss Thorne, as the Home Office overall is concerned with upholding the law. My military experience and travels abroad have given me some peculiar knowledge, and I advise their lordships in government as best I can. I file reports for the most part; it's rather dull."

He didn't think to say more, but Miss Thorne continued to look at him expectantly, as if he were in the middle of a story she wanted him to finish, so he continued. "You may not be aware, but London does not have a professional police force—that is, men who are trained and paid to prevent crime and catch criminals, unlike Paris, which has had such a body for many years."

"That's very interesting, Captain. We hear so little of the world outside of Cheshire back home." Winter could think of nothing else to say, as he became acutely aware of his clothes, inconsistent with the rather clerkly job he had just described. He felt her intelligent eyes on him; this young woman knew he didn't spend his days behind a desk, or his nights riding a horse. She probably didn't believe he was an earl's foster brother either.

She spoke again. "So, Captain, if I understand you rightly, Paris has a—what you called a 'professional police force.' And London—well, London has you." There was merriment in those eyes now.

Yes, Miss Thorne was definitely laughing at him.

***

Author Bio:

R.J. Koreto is the author of the Historic Home mystery series, set in modern New York City; the Lady Frances Ffolkes mystery series, set in Edwardian England; and the Alice Roosevelt mystery series, set in turn-of-the-century New York. His short stories have been published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, as well as various anthologies.

Most recently, he is the author of "Winter's Season," which takes place on the dark streets and glittering ballrooms of Regency-era London.

In his day job, he works as a business and financial journalist. Over the years, he’s been a magazine writer and editor, website manager, PR consultant, book author, and seaman in the U.S. Merchant Marine. Like his heroine, Lady Frances Ffolkes, he’s a graduate of Vassar College.

He and his wife have two grown daughters, and divide their time between Paris and Martha’s Vineyard.

Catch Up With R.J. Koreto:

www.RJKoreto.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub
Instagram - @rjkoreto
X - @RJKoreto
Facebook - @rjkoreto

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Bait the Devil by Winter Austin

2026-02-12T00:00:00.003+05:30

BAIT THE DEVIL

by Winter Austin

February 2 - March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS

In bounty hunting, clean jobs are a myth. Dot knows—she’s seen the blood.

Dot Ybarra doesn’t bluff. Fresh into her bounty hunting career, she’s already earning a reputation for results. But when a “routine” rogue bounty—taken as a favor to her lawyer cousin—turns lethal, she’s staring down a case with international reach, bodies in its wake, and the stench of power.

Her business partner, T.J. Roman, is hiding a secret. If Dot finds out … well, she can’t find out. It would end the effective partnership they’ve built. But the trail won’t wait. What should have been a clean pickup of a fellow military veteran spirals into a hunt through the shadows, where one wrong move could see them both buried in an unmarked grave.

To stop the predators at the center of a violent trafficking ring, they’ll have to go straight into its core—and make themselves the bait. Every step makes them vulnerable to each other as well.

The devil’s coming for them.

Dot plans to be the one still standing after he bites.

Bait the Devil Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Modern Western Thriller
Published by: Tule Mystery
Publication Date: January 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 285
ISBN: 9781969218651 (ISBN10: 1969218657)
Series: A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS, Book 2 {Amazon, Tule}
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Apple Books | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Mystery

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

Two hours later, they had managed to corral the quickly sobering Freddy into the back of the Suburban, with no more eventful chases, and turn him over to the county jail. Freddy’s bail bondsman paid out their fair share of the bond and a huge tip after some hard pressing on T.J.’s part about the circumstances leading up to Freddy’s apprehension. Once the check was cashed, a celebratory late lunch at one of the best Basque eateries Dot had found in Boise was the best way to top off a successful day of bounty hunting.

Parked behind the Bar Gernika, she and T.J. sat in the back end of the Chevy Suburban with the hatch up eating chorizo sandwiches with smoked cod croquetas and a bowl of green olives dripping in garlic olive oil. Dot slurped down half of her Coke, then shook the ice in her cup.

T.J. pointed the remains of his smoked beef chorizo at her. “We should register for the SHOT show in Vegas.”

“Why?”

“Because we can.” T.J. pulled his duh face.

Dot rolled her eyes and bit into her sandwich.

“Have you ever been there?” T.J. asked.

She shook her head, wiping smokey chorizo juice from the corner of her mouth.

“The woman raised to be a hunter and a firearms collector has never been to the great SHOT show?” He lowered his reflective sunglasses and eyed her over the top of the rims. “Never?”

“You do realize my family wasn’t made of money.” Dot popped one of the croquetas into her mouth. “And that’s in the dead of winter, when we couldn’t just up and run off while we were in the middle of lambing season.”

“All the more reason you should go now.” T.J. grinned. “A lot of the best bounty hunters meet up there.”

Dot scowled at her partner and sometimes bunk buddy. “Lemme guess. You wanna show off your shiny new partner to the boys?”

“Maybe.” His grin turned devilish. “Or maybe I wanna see you kick their asses.”

Dot wadded up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it at T.J.’s head. “I’m not a toy.”

The crumbled ball of waxed paper bounced off his forehead and landed on the Suburban floor between them.

“Really? Then why are you so easy to wind up?”

“You sonofa—” Dot lunged for his throat but was quickly subdued.

Their moment of levity was interrupted by a shrill ring from T.J.’s phone.

“Damn it,” he snapped and patted down his body in search for his cell.

Dot found it lying on the makeshift floor behind his hulking frame. She snatched it up and checked the screen. She batted her eyelashes at T.J.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled.

She pressed the green icon to answer the call. “Well, hello, cousin dearest.”

Lawyer-extraordinaire and covert purveyor of information, Vivian Montgomery was Dot’s second cousin. And apparently had earned a spot on T.J.’s contact list under the moniker of Hot Ass Lawyer.

“Dot? When did you start taking business calls?” Vivian asked, her brisk tone underscored by the sound of her heavy breathing.

“What are you doing?” Dot asked. “You sound like you’re saving the horse and riding a cowboy.”

“Oh, grow up. I’m on a treadmill. Put T.J. on the phone.”

“You shouldn’t run on those things. They destroy your knees and back,” Dot chided.

“When I want health advice from a cigar smoker who jumps from helicopters for fun, I’ll call.”

“I don’t jump from the helo. Unless it’s crashing. Even then, that’s sketchy shit.”

T.J., giving a rumbling growl, jerked the phone from Dot, and pressed it to his ear. “Vivian, what do you need?” He waited a moment, then with another low growl, pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”

“I need a huge favor from the two of you.”

“When you say huge favor, how huge are we talking?” Dot asked.

“You know, I think I liked you better when you were a brooding, isolated eremite whose main goal in life was equal parts trying to piss off her mother and keep her out of trouble,” Vivian shot back.

“Love you too, coz.”

“Now shut up and let me finish.” The whining sound of the treadmill belt slowing echoed over the phone connection. “I just got a call from one of my colleagues. She had a client fail to appear today.”

“Shouldn’t the defendant’s bail bondsman be calling us?” T.J. asked.

“It’s … complicated.”

Dot smiled as T.J. groaned.

“Vivian, every time you rope us into one of your firm’s problems with their unruly children, we’re out money, time, and patience. We’re called bounty hunters for a reason. Bounty is in the name.”

“Roman, if you keep up the condescending behavior, I’ll expose your dirty little secret.”

“Dirty secret, huh,” Dot piped in. “What’s that?”

He thrust a finger at her nose. “None of your business. Vivian, if you so much as breathe out of line, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Will you do me the favor?”

T.J. stared at Dot, who shrugged as if to say, Why not?

“Fine. Mark my words, I’ll be cashing in on this huge favor sooner than you think.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, expect the guy is a veteran, and you two being veterans yourself, I figured he’d be more likely to work with you than anyone else.”

“What’s on his file?” Dot asked.

“That’s the complicated part. Officially, his file says he was picked up a third time for carrying with the intent to sell. Unofficially, he’s … classified.”

Dot frowned as she and T.J. locked eyes. As a former army ranger who spent a lot of time flying in and out of forward operating bases in Afghanistan, T.J. knew all about classified situations. Dot, as the main helicopter pilot shuttling him and his team back and forth, though never read in on his actual missions, typically was under strict orders of her own.

“Vivian, I’m not getting fuzzy feelings about this,” T.J. said.

“Neither am I. It’s why I’m calling the two of you in. The judge wants to issue a bench warrant. My colleague was able to ask for a delay before it’s submitted. She was given three hours to present her client or the warrant is released. If you’d rather, you could consider this job PI work instead of fugitive recovery.”

The shingle hanging outside their business office did say private investigators. At this point, that title belonged to T.J. and T.J. alone.

“Still not selling me on this,” he said. “If there’s no bench warrant, there’s no cash for catching him.”

“Hang on.” Vivian spoke to someone, her voice muffled, then she was back. “The firm will pay you a finder’s fee.”

T.J. continued to stare at Dot. She could sense what he was thinking. He was torn. Take this off-the-cuff job and cash in on the favor department with Vivian to help a fellow veteran? Or say fuck it and play hooky for the rest of the day like he’d planned?

Dot didn’t really have much of a say in the business dealings of their partnership since she was eight months into the training phase as a fugitive recovery agent and she wasn’t a licensed PI. It didn’t stop T.J. from pressing her for her opinion, who argued that, because she was about to start taking bounties on her own, she needed to take the reins more often.

“If it helps you make a decision, I’ve got his last known address and a phone number along with a photo,” Vivian said. “This won’t be a hard catch.”

“Stop saying that. Every time you tell me it’s an easy one, it turns into a disaster,” T.J. snarled.

“He’s right,” Dot added.

“Okay, I retract my statement. But, please say yes. Huge favor to me. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Dot glared at him.

“Within reason,” Vivian shot back.

“We’ll do it,” Dot said, tired of T.J.’s runaround. “Send us the four-one-one, and we’ll go check it out.”

T.J. glared at her; his dark eyes flashed a warning. Dot returned his glare with a smug look of her own that dared him to bring it.

“Thank you, coz. Hurry. There’s only two hours left before the bench warrant goes out. Then it’ll be a free-for-all.”

“You couldn’t have called us about this an hour ago?” T.J. groused.

“Shut your yap, Roman,” Vivian said. “There. Info sent.”

His phone dinged.

“His name is Cade Porter. He was a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps.” Vivian sucked in a breath. “Oooh.”

“Oooh, what?” T.J. insisted.

“If this is right, he was in an artillery unit.”

“Oh my God.” T.J. groaned.

Dot grinned. Not only did acting on a favor for Vivian chafe T.J. in the chaps, but doing it for a Marine with explosives expertise was going to make that chafe burn. Throughout their long, storied history, there had always been a deep-seated friendly animosity between the army and the Marines. Push came to shove, however, they still had each other’s backs.

“If that crayon eater blows us up, I’m going to haunt you,” he said.

“I look forward to the visits. Now get going.” Vivian ended the call.

T.J. shoved his phone in a side pocket of his cargo pants. “Tell me again why we let Vivian help us out?”

“Because,” Dot said as she scooted out of the SUV’s backend, “she’s good for the money. And I trust her intel more than I would some of your bail bondsmen.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“Nire familia da. Garrantzitsua da.”

T.J. paused before closing the hatch. “I speak Pashto, Arabic, some Spanish, and Oklahoman. I do not speak Basque.”

Dot chuckled. “Time to learn, Danger Ranger.”

“Load up and let’s roll.”

***

Author Bio:

Winter Austin perpetually answers the question: “were you born in the winter?” with a flat “nope,” but believe her, there is a story behind her name.

A lifelong Mid-West gal with strong ties to the agriculture world, Winter grew up listening to the captivating stories told by relatives around a table or a campfire. As a published author, she learned her glass half-empty personality makes for a perfect suspense/thriller writer. Taking her ability to verbally spin a vivid and detailed story, Winter translated that into writing deadly romantic suspense, mysteries, and thrillers.

When she’s not slaving away at the computer, you can find Winter supporting her daughter in cattle shows, seeing her three sons off into the wide-wide world, loving on her fur babies, prodding her teacher husband, and nagging at her flock of hens to stay in the coop or the dogs will get them.

She is the author of multiple novels.

Catch Up With Winter Austin:

AuthorWinterAustin.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @WinterAustin
Instagram - @iasuspensewriter
Facebook - @author.winteraustin

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Haunted by a Broken Oath by Dee Armstrong

2026-02-09T00:00:00.003+05:30

HAUNTED BY A BROKEN OATH

by Dee Armstrong

February 2 - March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A JD WOLFE INVESTIGATION

When a hero dies and children vanish, PI JD Wolfe must confront a deadly conspiracy--and the ghost that's haunted her since childhood.

A decorated military hero is found hanging from a rope. Two young boys vanish without a trace. And private investigator JD Wolfe's world begins to unravel.

The deeper she digs, the closer the danger creeps--not just to her, but to the family that saved her and the career that keeps her sane. JD knows these crimes aren't random. They're a message. And she might be the target.

Once called Diamond in a grim orphanage, the Wolfe family adopted JD, but she's never felt like she truly belonged. She harbors secrets too dark to speak. Secrets that landed her in an asylum. Secrets tied to a ghost that's haunted her since the night her mother died in a fire.

This ghost doesn't sleep. It invades JD's cases, her dreams, and even her heart. She's kept it buried for years. But now, with lives on the line, JD must do the unthinkable.

She must let the ghost in.

Praise for Haunted by a Broken Oath:

"Meet JD Wolfe—a tough, smart, quirky PI with special skills and a meddling ghost in tow. Buckle up for a wild ride!"
~ DP Lyle, Award-Winning Author of the Jake Longly and Cain/Harper Thriller Series and Co-Creator of the Outliers Writing University

"Dee Armstrong is a refreshing new voice in action thrillers. Her new novel is packed with gut-gripping suspense, peppered with witty quips that had me chuckling, while her plot twists had me biting back a scream. Blazing brilliant!"
~ Kathleen Baldwin, Wall Street Journal and #1 Barnes & Noble bestselling author of A School for Unusual Girls

"Haunted By A Broken Oath will grip you from the very first page and linger in your mind long after the last. Armstrong’s strong voice and resonant characters make this an unforgettable read."
~ Kathleen Antrim, Bestselling Author

"A highly eventful but fast-paced supernatural thriller."
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller with a touch of paranormal
Published by: Outliers Press . Suspense Publishing
Publication Date: November 11, 2025
Number of Pages: 424
ISBN: 9798999682994 (Paperback)
Series: A JD Wolfe Investigation, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The first rule on my “JD Wolfe’s Survival List” was: Don’t trust the ghost, because she couldn’t leave anything alone. Not when you were awake, not when you were asleep, not when she was haunting you. Not when the only surprise you received for your eighth birthday, other than the death of your mom in a fire, was for the ghost who had tormented her to transfer that torment to you.

And torment you forever.

During the thirteen years since the fire, I went from homeless to orphan to private eye. I reinvented myself. I became stronger. When life comes at you, and you have no one to protect you, and flight isn’t an option, you either fight or surrender.

I chose fight.

I took my adopted family’s surname and changed my name from Diamond, the girl with no last name, to Justyne Diamond Wolfe, or JD for short. I haven’t forgotten my survival rules.

I’ve added more to the list.

Past midnight, I sat hunched at the counter, scrolling through my phone in one of those diners you see in the movies with wide windows, cushy booths, a long counter, and pictures of All American Little League baseball teams lining the walls. You’d expect to see couples snuggled in the booths and a clean-cut, milkshake melt-in-your-mouth kind of guy in a starched button-down shirt. Instead, I was alone with Creepy Diner Guy working the counter. His hair slicked back, his shirt a stain-spattered rendering of a Jackson Pollock painting, his buttons playing hopscotch, missing every other hole.

He wiped a dirty rag around a glass jar with a MISSING flier taped to the front. A pretty, fresh-faced, school-age girl smiled for the camera wearing decades-old clothes and a Hello Kitty backpack. The change and dollar bills stuffed into the jar suggested hope was still alive.

I wasn’t so sure. In my experience, hope was for suckers.

“Get you another coffee, Red?” His nasty meth-smile busted and blackened.

“Still struggling with this one.” I swirled the sludge he called coffee in the bottom of my cup. It had created a tar pit inside my gut. I decided to check in with the office before the coffee killed me.

On the stool at my nine, a ball of light appeared. Flickered. Sparked in shades between blue, violet and eye-piercing white. The air snapped. The skin on my arms tingled and puckered like a plucked goose’s butt.

The light shifted from a pixelated pattern into a semi-transparent woman, all monochromatic shades of gray. Stringy hair stuck to her face, hiding her features. Only her silver eyes and charcoal lips showed through. A dingy nightgown hung from her shoulders and fluttered in shreds around her bare feet.

Home, home, home, the ghost whispered in my brain, where the thoughts were supposed to be mine, not hers. One of many things about the Woman that ticked me off.

Most people would call the ghost a spirit or specter, but I preferred “the Woman.”

Or “Bitch.”

Instead of playing patty-cake and singing nursery rhymes, I learned how to survive living with a not-so-dearly departed. I didn’t care how she died, only that she stuck to my mom like a nasty rash.

The second rule I learned? Never tell anyone about the ghost. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re crazy and lock you up.

Creepy Diner Guy didn’t react to his supernatural guest. He walked past and wiped down tables. That didn’t shock me. My mom had been the only other living person I’d known who could see or hear or smell the Woman.

Even when the Woman didn’t appear, she watched. Listened. Waited for a way to interfere. It was inevitable. I lived with the dead.

An overwhelming smell of lavender clung to the Woman. I gagged on the disgusting sweetness. My hand tugged at the collar of my leather jacket and the t-shirt beneath. “Why can’t you give me one day?” I whispered. “One day without your lavender scent up my nose, your annoying voice blabbing in my head, your bony butt blocking my way?”

S-s-sorry, s-s-sorry, sorry, she repeated.

“Yeah, right. If you were sorry, you’d go back to hell.”

La-la-late. The staccato beat of her words pounded against my temples. As if the ghost cared if she didn’t get forty winks.

“I’m on a job. Go away.” I worked in the family’s business, White Wolfe Investigations. Today’s job was more of a payback than a paycheck. My adopted father, Milt Wolfe—whom I liked to call Fixer Geezer in my head—owed a lifelong favor to his old Navy buddy, Master Chief Ben Palmer. I didn’t know why Master Chief had bought a 24-hour diner right off I-95. Senile? Maybe.

This kind of debt could never be paid off. How could you put a price on someone saving your life?

I understood Milt’s orders: Sit tight. Observe and report. Master Chief thought Creepy Diner Guy volunteered for the night shift to make money on the shady side of life—the side where things slip from white-lie gray to back-alley black; the side where cops close your restaurant and cart you off to jail.

My phone buzzed. No doubt it was one of the Geezers. Two brothers I considered my real fathers, and my bosses. “Sweet cheeks, I’ll be home soon.”

“Sweet cheeks?” Their voices blended into one. They’d put me on speakerphone. Great. Two opinionated, life-controlling Geezers for the price of one.

I couldn’t bring myself to call Milt anything like Dad or Daddy or Pop. Some things took time and a barge load of counseling. “Is everything okay, Sweet Cheeks?”

“Has he passed any packages? Drugs? Money?” Cliff Wolfe, a.k.a. Smarty Pants Geezer and my adopted uncle, was super stinkin’ smart. The type of smart that could send a rocket to the moon but not close the refrigerator door.

“Nope. Only coffee.” I ignored the ghost and monitored Creepy Diner Guy. He picked at a stain on his shirt and popped something into his mouth.

My stomach revolted.

“Stolen anything?” Street smart and straight to the point, Milt didn’t waste words.

“Nope. Nada. Not cash from the till or a quarter from the floor.”

“Be smart.” Uncle Cliff’s voice geared into lecture mode.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be smart.”

“Don’t approach anyone. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Get the intel. Get home. You’re more important than a favor.” Milt, the man who fixed everything with what he had on hand, even if it was only his brute strength or a rubber band, sounded as strong and sure as the day he saved me from St. Francis’ Group Home for Lost Souls. A fancy name for an orphanage. People rebrand and rename. It’s all the same. Group home or orphanage. I preferred orphanage. Or St. Francis’ Hell Hole.

The name didn’t catch on.

“Pleeease.” Unwanted emotions compressed my chest. I struggled to remain in character. “I know better than to talk to strangers.”

“She can handle this.” The rise in Cliff’s voice vetoed any worry.

Creepy Diner Guy inched closer with each swipe of his rag.

Unsure what he could hear, I kept my words soft. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

The Woman leaned in.

I leaned away, checking the diner’s clock. “It’s past midnight. Do you need me home?”

“A few more hours. Nothing good happens between midnight and three,” said Cliff.

“I don’t like her on her own.” Concern lined the deep timbre of Milt’s voice. “We’ll meet you there. Follow orders and stay safe.”

My face burned solar-flare hot. He didn’t trust me. How could I prove myself if he didn’t give me a chance? “Sheesh. You don’t need to pick me up. I can drive home. I’m not eleven anymore.”

Back ramrod-straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the Woman disapproved of my tone. You’d think after decades of death, she’d have pulled the sequoia-sized stick out of her spectral butt.

“It’s been a long time since you lived on the streets.” Milt shouted into the speakerphone. Technology wasn’t one of his strengths.

“Sweet cheeks, don’t yell.” A sick part of me enjoyed the charade. “I can hear you.” My gaze flickered to Creepy Diner Guy, and I clicked down the volume on my phone. “It’s a cellphone, not a handheld radio.”

“Milt’s right. We shouldn’t have sent you in alone.” Cliff’s words rose decibels higher than his brother’s.

They’d joined forces and wanted to pull the plug on my mission. I couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m okay.” I kept my voice light and confident. To ease their angst, I added a hint of humor. “Worrying is only going to make you grayer.” By age seven, I’d mastered controlling my voice to manipulate adults. That was how you survived when you were the proxy adult because your mom had surrendered to another drug-enhanced dream.

Bored with our conversation, the Woman hummed a song—not a pop or a rap or a country song, but that lullaby. I rubbed my temples, biting my tongue to prevent myself from begging her to stop.

“Keep us posted.” Milt barked out the order as if I was a newbie boot on his ship.

I suppressed an aye, aye, Sir, and replied, “Be home soon.” I hung up and glared at the Woman. “Don’t you start.”

The Woman switched to a jazzy tune.

I passed the time naming the stains on Creepy Diner Guy’s shirt. Red—ketchup. Yellow—mustard. There was a slick of brown across his midriff. Grease? Gravy?

The coffee pit in my belly bubbled. I didn’t want to know.

He shuffled into the back and returned with a plate stacked high with raw hamburger patties and a bag of frozen fries. He tossed the meat on the grill, dumped the fries into a basket, lowered them into grease, and wiped the grill’s metal front with his rag.

In the mirror above the grills, I scanned the parking lot behind me through the diner’s gigantic windows. Empty except for my Jeep.

Through the same mirror, Creepy Diner Guy gave me a hey-baby-I’m-the-answer-to-your-prayers look.

I shot back a don’t-make-me-shove-that-rag-down-your-throat glare. The ghost’s laughter rang in my head. A girly giggle slipped from my throat before I could kill it.

Creepy Diner Guy flipped the hamburgers. He turned, wiping his hands down his shirt. “Waiting for a boyfriend?”

“Expecting a midnight rush?” I countered. The meat smelled a little off, or maybe the nauseous odor came from him.

“Nonya.”

Was that code for something? “Nonya?”

“None ya business.” His shrill laugh shredded my eardrums. He planted his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Lived in Rubyville long?” His lunch haunted his breath. Hamburger with extra onions.

Home, home, home.

“Kinda,” I replied with my own one-word cryptic answer and snubbed the ghost.

Home, Home, HOME. The Woman didn’t like to be left out or ignored. The longer it went, the more insistent she’d become. At least her humming stopped.

Creepy Diner Guy turned back to the grill, removed the hamburgers, and lifted the basket of fries from the grease. He came around the counter. Sat on a ripped vinyl stool, sandwiched me between his onion breath and the Woman’s putrid potpourri. He leaned close. “I like green eyes and red hair. You look real good in black.”

As if I cared what he thought. Shades from onyx to ebony filled ninety percent of my wardrobe. My leather jacket and knee-high boots fell comfortably in the range. Black was easy to accessorize. It went with more black. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”

Truck pipes rumbled. I checked the parking lot in the mirror. A baby-blue, nineteen-eighty-two Ford parked out front. I’d love to have a truck like that. All shiny and clean.

Home, Home, Home.

I raised my phone as a shield between his breath and me. I texted the Geezers: Got movement, adding the truck’s description and license plate number. In a low voice, I told the Woman, “Hit the bricks.”

“No need to be like that. I’m not going to hurt you,” Creepy Diner Guy replied, his tone operator-smooth. He rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. My hair. “Red’s my favorite color.”

My muscles tensed. One swift back fist. That’s all it would take. He could add fresh blood to the stains on his shirt. Bright red would enhance his color palette. Besides, red was his favorite.

But I was on a job. A job I couldn’t mess up by spilling his blood. “Don’t you have more burgers to flip? Potatoes to peel?”

“You wanna peel my potato?”

The coffee tar backed up into my throat. Leaning into my third rule—keep everything important safe in your boots and everything important will keep you safe—I palmed the knife from my boot and showed him the blade. “I can peel more than that. Wanna play?”

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, the Woman chanted. The lights in the diner flashed.

I slid the blade of my knife against his jaw, giving him a free shave. “You’re not really bad, are you?”

The diner’s door opened. I shifted, keeping my back between the door and the knife. No need to frighten a customer or warn off the pick-up guy.

Creepy Diner Guy’s face turned morgue gray. Scared stiff worked for him. He scrambled backward, helter-skelter, and side slipped from the stool.

“That’s what I thought.” I lowered my knife.

Like a buck caught in the crosshairs, he froze. A tsunami of fear flowed over his face. He gazed over my head. Neither my blade nor the Woman caused his locked stare.

Someone scarier than a knife to his throat stood behind me.

Dread dripped down my backbone like bacon grease from a hot pan, setting my nerves on fire. I tucked my chin and snuck a peek over my shoulder.

Scary didn’t do the guy justice. He was a mashup of Godzilla and King Kong—butt ugly and horribly wrong. A massive neck—a monster mama would be proud of—steel-studded earlobes, his hair spiky and nuclear green. He’d claimed this cement jungle and declared himself king.

And I?

I was the bug in his way. But I wasn’t Diamond, the girl with no last name, anymore. I was JD Wolfe, Private Eye.

***

Author Bio:

Dee Armstrong writes thrillers and romantic suspense with a paranormal twist — stories that squeeze the heart, rattle the nerves, and still leave room for love, laughter, and sass.

She pits tough heroines against bad guys you’ll love to hate — with twists that keep the pages flying and endings that fight for hope.

A former U.S. Air Force Russian linguist and three-time Taekwondo Black Belt National Sparring Champion, Dee believes the vulnerable should be protected and justice must be fierce—because the past never stays buried, and the truth never sleeps.

When she’s not writing about danger and desire, Dee is chasing after her littles, sipping tea on the porch, and plotting against the weeds in her garden.

Find her on social @DeeArmstrongAuthor for sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes chaos, and stories that leave a fingerprint on your heart.

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Hard Headed Woman by Howard Gimple

2026-02-02T00:00:00.005+05:30

HARD HEADED WOMAN

by Howard Gimple

February 2 - 27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

No one but Hannah Johansson believes her father was murdered. Not even her mother. The doctors say he had a stroke, but Hannah knows he was poisoned. She just doesn’t know who did it or why. One thing she does know is that the answers can be found at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, a pristine 9,000 acre nature preserve where her father was superintendent.

When she goes back to the Refuge, instead of answers, all she finds are more questions. Ominous questions. Where are all the birds? Why is there a heavily armed guard at the gate? What’s in the mysterious bundles being dropped off there in the middle of the night? When the police won’t investigate, Hannah is determined to find the answers herself, and she won’t quit until she learns the truth. Not even after she is shot at, thrown in jail, and beaten up by a 300-pound lesbian biker.

Praise for Hard Headed Woman:

"A gamesome detective story, dramatically absorbing and intelligently wrought."
~ Kirkus Reviews

"Hard Headed Woman is a refreshingly original story, free of many of the tropes often associated with mystery novels. That alone makes it deliciously difficult for the reader to guess who did what, and that makes this story one of the better mysteries we’ve read recently."
~ The Mystery Review Crew

"The writing was exquisite, with vivid descriptions of all the events. It was a gripping read, especially with all the changes happening in the wildlife refuge. I found the story thoroughly enjoyable and was engrossed until the final page. The conclusion was a major surprise, and I did not expect it at all."
~ Readers’ Favorite

Book Details:

Genre: Mystromedy (a mystery comedy)
Published by: MYSTROMEDY BOOKS
Publication Date: June 22, 2024
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 979-8990761513
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Hannah Johansson stood at the lectern in front of 300 people staring at her, waiting for her to say something heartfelt and meaningful. She looked around the room. A room that was unfamiliar to her even though she’d been in it thousands of times. But that was when it was the multipurpose room at the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. She played in the large barn-like structure as a child with her dolls and toys and electric trains. She practiced her jumpshot here when her father put up a hoop after she made her junior high team. And when she was a little older, it was where she came when she needed to be alone with her thoughts and her guitar.

But the room that Hannah knew was gone. It was now the Axel Johansson Memorial Auditorium, renamed to honor her father’s memory.

Every seat was filled. The first two rows were reserved for relatives and VIPs. Hannah’s aunt Gilda and cousins Catherine and Phillip were sitting in the middle of the front row, flanked by officials from the Mayor’s Office, the New York City Parks Department, the National Parks Service and local assemblymen and state senators. The second row held representatives from a half-dozen environmental organizations including the Sierra Club, the National Audubon Society and the World Wildlife Fund.

The rest of the packed hall was crammed with children from neighborhood schools, birdwatching enthusiasts from all over the city and beyond, and men and women of all ages and ethnicities who loved the beauty and tranquility of the Refuge and wanted to show their appreciation and gratitude for the man who created and nurtured it.

Michael Leigh, the president of the east coast chapter of the National Environmental Conservancy and the organizer of the event, had just finished the last of a dozen tributes to her father, the man who transformed a rat infested, garbage strewn swamp into one of New York City’s environmental treasures.

Before Leigh left the stage he said, “Our final speaker, Superintendent Johansson’s daughter Hannah, would like to say a few words.”

On one side of the podium an easel held a portrait of her father in his khaki superintendent’s uniform, surrounded by a snowy egret, a great blue heron and a glossy ibis, painted by the celebrated wildlife artist Arthur Singer. On the other side was a wrought iron plant stand, but in place of a plant it held a hand-enameled aluminum urn containing her father’s ashes.

Tiny pearls of sweat formed on Hannah’s forehead. She gripped the lectern for support.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, fighting to maintain composure. “I know my father meant a lot to you. He meant everything to me. He was my hero. My mentor. My best friend. I loved him more than I could ever possibly say.”

Her face contorted. Her eyes welled up.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I killed him,” she wailed.

***

Author Bio:

Howard Gimple was a writer at Newsday, the editor of a newsletter for the New York Giants football team, and a copywriter and creative director for several New York ad agencies. He has written English dialogue for the American releases of Japanese anime cartoons, reviewed books for the Long Island History Journal, and written movie scripts for a pay-per-view television network.

Howard was Chief Creative Officer at TajMania Entertainment, a film and TV production company dedicated to creating socially conscious programming. He wrote the award-winning documentary, 'The Garbageman,' about a waste management executive who helped save the lives of more than 50,000 children with congenital heart disease. He was a writer and sports editor for the Stony Brook University alumni magazine. He also taught two seminars at the university, 'Rock & Relevance,' about the political influence of 60's rock & roll and 'Filthy Shakespeare, ' exploring the dramatic use of sexual puns and innuendos in the Bard's plays and poems.

He grew up in Brooklyn, lived in Manhattan and Long Island, and now lives in Glendora, California, with his wife and goldendoodle.

Catch Up With Howard Gimple:

howardgimple.com
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Facebook - @authorhowardgimple

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Dying with a Secret by Tj O'Connor

2026-01-26T00:00:00.004+05:30

DYING WITH A SECRET

by Tj O'Connor

January 12 - February 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE DEAD DETECTIVE CASEFILES

Dying can bring out the best in people.
It can also bring out the worst of secrets.
If you want to know someone’s dirty secrets, kill them.
It works every time.

Oliver “Tuck” Tucker, the dead detective, is back—not just for another case, but from the dead—or vice versa. It all starts when a Federal Agent is killed by a mysterious force in front of dozens of witnesses—including Angel, his historian wife, and Tuck. Among the many suspects is a dark, clandestine Federal agency responsible for advanced research and weaponry, a university doctoral candidate who won’t stay dead, and the leader of a secret southern society bent on rekindling the Civil War. With the aid of a ten-year-old psychic and the spirit of Tuck’s Civil War grandmother—Sally Elizabeth Mosby—Tuck has to stay one step ahead of the Feds who are hellbent on capturing him—alive? But through all this, what’s a two-hundred-year-old lost fortune in gold got to do with dead agents, secret death rays, and rogue policemen?

DYING WITH A SECRET Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Mystery, PI Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: December 9, 2025
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 979-8898201111 (pbk)
Series: The Dead Detective Casefiles, Book 4
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

The Dead Detective Casefiles

DYING TO KNOW

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

DYING FOR THE PAST

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

DYING TO TELL

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder.

So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one.

It works every time.

What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead.

More about that later.

At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago.

This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true.

Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level.

Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces.

Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret.

All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part.

“Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?”

She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see.

“Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?”

She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look.

“Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?”

“No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.”

His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.”

Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet.

“I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?”

“Yes, Professor Tucker.”

“It’s not personal, Andrew.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?”

“Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?”

“Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”

“Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked.

She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase.

“Who?” he asked.

I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?”

She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.”

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.”

I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance.

“I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.”

“Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.”

“It’s coming back in style.”

She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“He doesn’t stare. He ogles.”

“Yes, he ogles.”

“I can get Bear to check him—”

“No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.”

Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly.

We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat.

A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip.

“That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.”

A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that.

“I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.”

“I am somewhere. I’m here.”

She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby.

As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats.

Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors.

Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him.

Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed…

“Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench.

Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace.

“Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?”

Hell if I knew.

Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark.

When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed.

Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside.

The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo.

Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included.

Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else.

What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me.

***

Author Bio:

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in antiterrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who are supplying a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O'Connor:

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Craniofacial Anatomy and Forensic Identification by Gloria Nusse

2026-01-19T00:00:00.001+05:30

CRANIOFACIAL ANATOMY AND FORENSIC IDENTIFICATION

by Gloria Nusse

January 12 - February 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Our bodies record what happens to us physically throughout our lives. This is illustrated by the simple appearance of scars from injuries sustained years, and even decades ago. Evidence such as scars also tells us how we used our joints or may have injured them as children and adults. Our bodies conform to the environment in which we live, both outside and inside. By examining and observing these key clues, a forensic investigator can reveal the unique character that tells the story of a person’s life and death.

Craniofacial Anatomy and Forensic Identification is an atlas that covers all aspects of facial reconstruction and anatomy of the head and neck, such as facial expression and the anatomic basis for facial development, along with the effects of muscle movement. Written by a world-renowned forensic artist with decades of experience as a scientific illustrator as well as a portraitist, anthropologist, and lecturer in anatomy and biology, the author is as much a scientist as an artist.

Comprehensively addresses the history o facial reconstruction, facial development, muscle movements, and bone physiology used by forensic artists and forensic anthropologists

Demonstrates techniques in mold making and sculpting to bring the body to life

Includes images from cadaver labs and recent case studies

Provides detailed anatomy of vessels and nerves found in the face including the eyes

Details the muscles, ligaments and tissues down to the skull

Describes the changing face as it ages

Book Details:

Genre: Non-Fiction, True Crime,
Published by: Academic Press
Publication Date: October 13, 2022
Number of Pages: 302
ISBN: 9780128092880 (ISBN10: 0128092882)
Audience: Forensic Anthropologists, Forensic Artists, Medico-legal Professionals, Forensic Scientists. Graduate Students, Law Enforcement Agencies, and Legal Professionals. Anyone Working In The Field Of Facial Imaging.
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | ThriftBooks | Goodreads | ScienceDirect | Walmart | Elsevier

Author Bio:

Gloria Nusse is a forensic artist, anatomist and anthropologist. She has aided in identification of unidentified remains and return 14 plus persons to their families. As well she has recreated the faces of ancient peoples of the Middle East, as well as recreations of the crystal skull for National Geographic among others. Her work has been featured on 48 Hours, Forensic Files, Dateline, National Geographic specials, Unsolved History and others. She worked as a scientific artist for over 35 years and has taught human dissection and anatomy at San Francisco State University for 12 years. ( currently Emeritus)

She has authored and co-authored several journal articles and chapters for various publications. She was the invited speaker for the Chalmers Historical Address for the Association of Oral and Maxillary surgeons meeting in 2013.

As well she has taught many workshops for professionals, including the FBI.

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Day 2 at Jaipur Literature Festival 2026 ranged from sports and travel to history, humour and science

2026-01-16T23:30:00.031+05:30

From the mind of a chess grandmaster to the wit of Stephen Fry, from the origins of fiction to the mysteries of the universe, Day 2 at Jaipur Literature Festival 2026 unfolded as a rich exploration of ideas, intellect, and creative expression, at Hotel Clarks Amer, Jaipur.

(L-R) Simon Goldhill - Josephine Quinn

The world’s most iconic literary celebration, a carnival of books, ideas, music, art, heritage and the connections forged between cultures continued to draw packed audiences across venues, building on the Festival’s momentum of the previous day, that included the launch of Older, Bolder, the first edition of the book by Aman Nath, unveiled by Sanjoy K. Roy and Zeenat Aman. Speaking about it, Aman Nath said, “My book is dedicated to faces loved and left behind and faces that I loved but never knew.” Reflecting on the work, Zeenat Aman added, “If you read through the book, you will find a range of subjects that he has chosen to talk about both in poetry and prose over the years of his journey.”

The second day began with Morning Music by Bhanwari Devi of the Bhopa community, whose soulful folk performance brought the rich traditions of Rajasthan to life, followed by the Festival’s first session, Lightning Kid, which saw World Chess Champion Viswanathan Anand in conversation with Rahul Bhattacharya. The session traced Anand’s illustrious career, tactical evolutions in the global chess circuit, and the personal motivations behind his latest literary work, Lightning Kid. Encouraging curiosity among the young players, Anand said, “You should have one thing you do, intentionally and passionately, that you do not get paid for.”

Viswanathan Anand

In his book, and at the session, he acknowledged his mother’s influence on his life and career, and filled it with a fun, anecdotal train of recounting. Anand also shared the non-glamorous parts of his journey – training, pressures and failures.

Conversations on contemporary realities continued with The Philanthropy Paradox, featuring Esther Duflo, Siddharth Sharma, Vaibhav Budhraja and Kanta Singh, in conversation with Naushad Forbes. The panel spoke on the purpose and goals of philanthropy, success stories from the industry, and the complexities in the interaction of government, NGOs, and private trusts, alongside the lack of centralisation with regard to what women can bring to the philanthropic world. The day continued with The Travel Session, where Geoff Dyer, Lyse Doucet, Noa Avishag Schnall and Pallavi Aiyar, in conversation with Monisha Rajesh, read from their recent books and brought in perspectives on what travel writing truly is. Each author examined the idea that travel writing can be seen as a memoir, but it is not just about oneself, but the environment one puts oneself in and the journey through it.

Well-known British actor Stephen Fry reflected on language, wit and intellectual curiosity in a wide- ranging conversation with Anish Gawande. The session, A Bit of Fry, traced his journey from a troubled childhood to becoming one of Britain’s most beloved public figures, anchored by his lifelong love of words. Fry spoke about discovering language as salvation, his fascination with anagrams, Oscar Wilde’s influence on his humour, and the joy of verbal excess, while also touching on identity, creativity, shame, social media, and the enduring power of ideas and ritual.

Audiences attended The Lost Heer: Women in Colonial Punjab, with Harleen Singh in conversation with British journalist Anita Anand. Harleen Singh discussed his latest book. Singh said he wanted to write about the histories of the women of Punjab, as they are not very well documented. Any representation of women of the province was through a colonial lens -as martial women- missing out on the femininity that the stories of these women carry. Singh said, “The history of common women is found in folklore; it's found in recipes; it's found in random pictures, where something might have accidentally been seen. Overall, they are scattered all over the place”. Talking about the title of the book, Singh said that he chose the title very consciously and named it so because Heer represents the quintessential Punjabi woman to him.

In a seminal session on the beginning of the universe, God Particle: The Story of Everything, CERN scientist Archana Sharma and astrophysicist Geraint Lewis, in conversation with Marcus du Sautoy, captivated audiences with a discussion on the universe’s fundamental mysteries. “Every discovery today is a catalyst for tomorrow,” said Archana Sharma at the session. The “God particle”, officially named the Higgs boson particle, is the universe’s fundamental particle, which gives mass to other elementary particles. Both scientists spoke about how the scientific world plans to use mathematics for the good of humanity.

Island of Ireland

Day 2 also saw the announcement of a new JLF International edition. Following successful editions in the USA, Valladolid, and London, JLF will now make its advent at the Island of Ireland. JLF Island of Ireland will be held from 22–31 May, 2026. The announcement outlined the vision and scope of the initiative and opened with a breathtaking fiddle performance by Ivan Rodrick, followed by remarks and conversation featuring Ambassador Kevin Kelly, Niamh Campbell, Michelle Galan, Sam Mc Bride, Fintan O Toole, Sonja Hyland, and Sanjoy K. Roy.

Continuing with new announcements, Teamwork Arts also gave out the dates for the upcoming Sleepwell Presents The Sacred Amritsar Festival 2026, to be held from Friday, February 20 to Sunday, February 22, 2026. A star-studded lineup of performers, including Padma Shri Kailash Kher and Kailasa; The Anirudh Varma Collective; The Kutle Khan Project; and Usha Uthup, are to be featured at the festival.

Attendees on the second day were also treated to Ojas Art: Ascending Roots, a conversation between Ravinder Reddy and Premjish Achari, introduced by Anubhav Nath, exploring the intersections of tradition, innovation, and cultural storytelling in contemporary Indian art. The session also marked the presentation of the Ojas Art Award for 2026 to Pisadu Ram Mandavi, a visual artist from the Muria tribe of Chhattisgarh, by Sonya Rhie Mace. Mandavi will be present at the festival on all five days, creating artworks live for audiences to enjoy.

The third day of literature’s most marquee celebration awaits sessions on The Magic of the Lost Earrings with Sudha Murty in conversation with Mandira Nayar. You Can Have It All: Unlock the Secrets to a Great Life with Gaur Gopal Das in conversation with Poulomi Chatterjee, Human Edge: What's Cooking in AI with Ali Eslami, Nitin Seth, and Barsali Bhattacharyya in conversation with Sumeet Shetty, and What is Free Speech? The History of a Dangerous Idea with Fara Dabhoiwala in conversation with Oscar Guardiola- Rivera.

Day 1 at the Jaipur Literature Festival 2026

2026-01-15T23:30:00.003+05:30

The much-anticipated 19th edition of the Jaipur Literature Festival opened today at Hotel Clarks Amer, Jaipur, bringing together some of the most influential voices from literature, politics, media, and culture across India and the world. Presented by Vedanta and produced by Teamwork Arts, the Festival will run till 19th January 2026, continuing its legacy as a vibrant platform for dialogue, debate, and the free exchange of ideas. The opening day set the tone for five days of thought-provoking conversations, powerful storytelling, and meaningful engagement with contemporary issues.

(L-R) Moutushi Mukherjee - Banu Mushtaq

In the traditional beginning of the Festival Morning Music, supported by Infosys Foundation, Aishwarya Vidya Raghunath and Rithvik Raja led a five-piece Carnatic music ensemble that blended classical rigour with quiet imagination. With Sayee Rakshith on violin, Praveen Sparsh on mridangam, and Skanda Manjunath on ghatam, the meditative performance created a calm, immersive tone for the day’s dialogue and discovery.

The opening day featured a keynote address by Banu Mushtaq, followed by inaugural addresses by writers and Festival Co-directors Namita Gokhale and William Dalrymple, and Festival Producer Sanjoy K. Roy. A traditional lamp-lighting ceremony marked an auspicious start in the presence of Rajasthan’s Hon’ble Chief Minister Bhajan Lal Sharma and Deputy Chief Ministers Diya Kumari and Prem Chand Bairwa. Sanjoy K. Roy, Managing Director of Teamwork Arts, reflected on the Festival’s journey from Diggi Palace to its current global presence across nine cities, highlighting its engagement with contemporary themes such as artificial intelligence. Festival Co-director and author Namita Gokhale welcomed the audience, acknowledging writers from across India and the world, representing diverse languages and literary traditions. In his Keynote address, Hon’ble Chief Minister of Rajasthan, Bhajan Lal Sharma, spoke about Rajasthan’s rich cultural heritage, noting, “The Jaipur Literature Festival is not merely an event; it is a celebration of ideas, a confluence of words, and a bridge of dialogue between cultures.

Gokhale added, “In this bright sunshine, in the month of Magh, when fluttering kites reach for freedom as our minds do, the Jaipur Literature Festival 2026 carries the spontaneity and spunk that mark every edition. We have whimsy, opinions, counter opinions…every year brings its own magic, yet the spirit remains unchanged, a joyous curiosity.” Historian and Festival Co-director, William Dalrymple, in his address, emphasised how the festival has grown enormously in the past 19 years, and said: “There is a reason why this Festival has taken root in quite the spectacular fashion that it has…sometimes half a million people turn up to hear writers speak about books.”

(L-R) Puneeta Roy - Vrinda Grover - Banu Mushtaq - Swati Pandey - Deepti Priya Mehrotra

The opening session featured International Booker prize winner Banu Mushtaq in conversation with Moutushi Mukherjee. Mustaq emphasised writing as an act of survival and resistance in societies marked by inequality and erasure. Framing literature as inseparable from life, she noted that her accolades, including the International Booker Prize 2025, reinforce her social responsibility. She advised young writers: “Don’t just plan writing, start writing. Write, Write, and Write.”

Legendary poet, lyricist, and public intellectual Javed Akhtar drew packed audiences in Javed Akhtar: Points of View, in conversation with Warisha Farasat, sharing the changes in post-independent cultures, the middle class in India, and the role of writers and poets in society. To the young minds present in the audience, he said that there will always be people in the world who are better than you. His guiding words of encouragement urged them to look within themselves for inspiration instead of competing with others.

In a session where global histories and shared futures formed the focus of Coexistence: How Arabs and Jews Can Live Together, featuring historians Ussama Makdisi, Noa Avishag Schnall, and Avi Shlaim, in conversation with William Sieghart, the panelists offered perspectives on memory, reconciliation, and coexistence.

Among other highlight sessions was The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny, where Booker Prize-winning author Kiran Desai was in conversation with Nandini Nair. Desai spoke about her Booker shortlisted novel, offering rare insight into her writing life, creative discipline, and the emotional core of the book. The session moved fluidly between craft, memory, and the many meanings of loneliness that shape Desai’s fiction.

The Festival also hosted The Undying Light: India’s Futures, featuring diplomat and author Gopalkrishna Gandhi in conversation with Narayani Basu, offering a deeply reflective exploration of India’s moral imagination, democracy, and the road ahead. At a session on his new remarkable memoir, ‘The Undying Light: A Personal History of Independent India,’ Gandhi commented on how he committed himself to truth and honesty through the course of writing. Speaking of his associations with esteemed personalities such as M.S. Subbulakshmi, a most sensitive singer, Gandhi talked about how she personified sorrow and sublimity on stage, the former that was part of her life and the latter that she brought through her music. The Festival also witnessed notable FIRST EDITION book launches. A Statesman and a Seeker: The Life and Legacy of Dr Karan Singh by Harbans Singh was launched by Namita Gokhale, William Dalrymple, and Sanjoy K. Roy, followed by a conversation between Dr Karan Singh and Harbans Singh, moderated by Ravi Singh.

Another much-anticipated launch was The Art of Being Fabulous by Shalini Passi, who was in conversation with Ruchika Mehta, offering reflections on creativity, self-expression, and contemporary culture. In Unplugged: Adventures from MTV to Timbuktu, media pioneer and MTV co-founder Tom Freston spoke with journalist Saad Mohseni, sharing insights from a life shaped by global media, cultural exchange, and storytelling across borders, Freston recounted stories from the iconic “I want my MTV” campaign with David Bowie, his experience owning a clothing business in India and Afghanistan, launching Comedy Central, and even creating advertising for a toilet paper company.

(L-R) Sanjoy K. Roy - Priyambada Jayakumar - Manu Joseph

Issues of credibility and truth in the digital age were addressed in The Seven Rules of Trust, where Jimmy Wales, founder of Wikipedia, was in conversation with journalist Anita Anand, discussing transparency, accountability, and the evolving nature of information. Wales discussed the role of social media algorithms in amplifying hostility by promoting aggressive and emotionally charged content, framing political disagreement as a moral threat rather than a democratic difference. Despite these challenges, he expressed cautious optimism, emphasising that societies have historically managed ideological differences through compromise when systems are perceived as fair.

Track of Courage by Susan May Warren

2026-01-15T00:00:00.007+05:30

TRACK OF COURAGE

by Susan May Warren

January 5 - 16, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

CALL OF THE WILD

A hijacked plane. A pursuing killer. And a K9's instinct to help them make it out alive.

Pop singer Keely Williams's search for her biological mother in Alaska has been painfully unsuccessful. Now she just wants to escape this wild frontier and never look back. But when her plane is hijacked, she's suddenly plunged into a race against not only an Alaskan blizzard but also a killer who's on her tail.

After a career-ending injury, ex-cop Dawson Mulligan has only one friend--Caspian, the stray dog he adopted. Dawson just wants to figure out how to get his life on track, but during a flight home to Copper Mountain, he spots a downed plane and stops to help. Except, when his not-a-rescue dog runs off into the woods and discovers the trail of a missing survivor, it's up to the former cop to stage a rescue.

But Dawson has no idea he's being pulled into a deadly pursuit, or that Caspian is more than he seems. There might be redemption and second chances waiting for both Dawson and Keely if they have the courage to face their wounded pasts and fight for their future.

Join master storyteller Susan May Warren for a propulsive ride through the Alaskan wilderness, where love might be the riskiest--and most rewarding--adventure of all.

Prepare to experience edge-of-your-seat action combined with heart-stirring romance and heroic K9 companions in this exhilarating romantic suspense that will thrill fans of Lynette Eason and Elizabeth Goddard.

Book Details:

Genre: Christian Romantic Suspense Thriller
Published by: Revell
Publication Date: January 6, 2026
Number of Pages: 320 pages, Paperback
ISBN: 9780800746056 (ISBN10: 0800746058) Pbk
Series: Call of the Wild, #1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | ChristianBook | Baker Book House

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Author Bio:

Susan May Warren is the USA Today bestselling author of nearly 100 novels with more than 1.5 million books sold, including the Global Search and Rescue and Montana Rescue series. Winner of a RITA Award and multiple Christy and Carol Awards, as well as the HOLT Medallion and numerous Readers' Choice Awards, Susan makes her home in Minnesota.

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Bookish Indulgences

Murder On Site by TG Wolff

MURDER ON SITE

by TG Wolff

March 16 - April 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Rizk Brothers Legal Mysteries

In the corridors of Indiana’s justice system, power is both a weapon and a curse.

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~Jakob~

Wednesday. 2:30 p.m.

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Life or Death by Andrea Kane

LIFE OR DEATH

by Andrea Kane

March 16 - April 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

FORENSIC INSTINCTS

Who killed Ryan McKay’s cousin?

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Bronx River Parkway Friday, 3:55 p.m.

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One Click Could Be Life Or Death For Your TBR

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The Rat King by Aj Skelly

Wired for Magic by Janet Roberts

WIRED FOR MAGIC

by Janet Roberts

March 30 - April 24, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Rowan Campbell has a stalker. Only her magic can stop him.

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Round Up the Usual Suspects by Elizabeth Crowens

ROUND UP THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS

by Elizabeth Crowens

March 9 - April 17, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Babs Norman Hollywood Mystery

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Mystery Series

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Chapter One

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Who's Out There by Westley Smith

WHO'S OUT THERE

by Westley Smith

March 9 - April 3, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

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WHO'S OUT THERE? The Winner, That's Who! 🎉💀

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Zig Zag by Ruth Knafo Setton

Bronx River Parkway
Friday, 3:55 p.m.

Atlantic City
Wednesday October 17
24 years later

HALLOWEEN THRILLS, CHILLS & BLACK MAGICK! REBEL MAGIC
STORMIE, VAN, & LUCY BLACK WIDOW THEATRE, 13TH FLOOR – if you dare! MIDNIGHT CASINO, OCT 17 – NOV 10