$20 GW & Review – Proven Innocence by Mary J Rocco @goddessfish

PROVEN INNOCENCE by Mary J Rocco

GENRE:  Suspense/murder

Proven Innocence by Mary Rocco is her debut novel. The writing didn’t quite get there for a four or five star rating, but I see a lot of potential with the content. The mystery was easy for me to figure out, but I like that the one under suspicion, Cindy, is not the main character. Gabrielle is. That is a nice touch, Mary.

The writing needs work, but the characters and the story line were interesting enough to keep me turning the pages, wanting to find out how Cindy will get out of the mess she’s involved in through no fault of her own. She is accused of killing her husband and children and many are quick to call her guilty.

Gabrielle has taken it upon herself, a complete stranger to help cindy prove her innocence. She needs help. She can’t do it on her own. Even though Officer Mike Thomas has shown an interest in her, he has already labeled Cindy guilty, so she investigates on her own. I felt confident we would be hearing more about them before the story was over.

Proven Innocence has ruthless characters who’s motto is: Once you’re in, you’re never out.

The italicized sentences made it hard to read on my ereader. I get what Mary was trying to do, but I don’t think it was necessary.

Mary J Rocco did a good job with Proven Innocence and I look forward to reading more of her work as she polishes her craft. I foresee good things in her future.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of Proven Innocence by Mary J Rocco.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
3 Stars

Amazon / Kindle Unlimited / Goodreads

BLURB

Cynthia Evans wakes up in the trunk of a car, no idea how she got there, only to discover she’s wanted for the murder of her husband and children. With no memory of life prior, Cynthia is sure she did not commit the crime.

Only problem is-how does she convince anyone she’s not a murderer when she is not sure who she is?

With the help of a downtrodden diner waitress, Gabrielle, Cynthia fights to prove her innocence.

One thing is clear: Rick Evans is dead. But who is the real killer?

EXCERPT

Too many possibilities. To concentrate on survival, I must assure myself that this person driving knows I am here and plans to release me from the dark layer upon reaching his destination.

Seconds seem like minutes, minutes like hours, leaving it nearly impossible to estimate how long I have been lying here. My best guess is about thirty minutes, not including how long I lay there unconscious in the sealed compartment. No sense of day or night. No idea if it is dark or light outside, what day it is, or where I am in the world. I keep straining to listen for faint conversation, but still no luck. The blood on my head is drying and forming the beginning of a thin, crusty layer on top of my skin. My head itches, but I will not move a muscle to scratch it as the pain has not been numbed.

Suddenly, I feel the car turn around a ramp. The curvy road throws my body to the back part of the trunk. Gravity and cen¬trifugal force are not kind to my aching ailments as we exit the major highway. A series of turns are made after the exit, each a few minutes apart. I need to remember how many turns it takes to make a quick getaway back to the interstate, though, at this point, I have no foreseeable idea how that will happen. If my calculations are correct, the car proceeded off the high¬way as follows: it turned left at the end of the exit ramp; then it proceeded for about three minutes and made another left, a quick right, then another left. The ride begins to feel bump¬ier as the road beneath the wheels is no longer smooth pave¬ment. From the sound of the gravel below, I deduce the road is not paved. The location is too remote for paved roads––not a good sign.

Everything slows to a stop, and the roar of the engine fades. We have arrived at our destination. Sheer panic ensues.

What am I going to do? Is it best to pretend as if I am still knocked out? This person obviously wants me alive, or he would have finished the job earlier.

Click.

The driver popped open the trunk. It is slightly ajar, just enough to let in a small beam of light but not enough for me to see outside. Muted sunlight breaks through the space between the trunk and the car.

Both the driver’s side and the passenger’s side doors slam shut simultaneously, causing me to rock back and forth slightly.

There are two people.

AUTHOR Bio and Links

I have dreamed of being an author since the age of ten. I have been writing and crafting stories for the last twenty years, mostly because, well you know, life… and I got in my own way. After finishing law school, graduate school, travelling the world, getting married and starting a family I figured now was the time.

I was born and raised on Long Island, New York and spent ten years in my early adulthood living carefree in New York City. I currently reside with my husband and two beautiful children in the western suburbs of Chicago, Illinois, where I am a practicing attorney.

I hope to continue to publish many more novels that entertain and thrill readers.

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Mary-J.-Rocco/author/B0CX13KN4Y

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Giveaway – The Summer Of Love And Death by Marcy McCreary @partnersincr1me

The Summer of Love and Death by Marcy McCreary Banner

THE SUMMER OF LOVE AND DEATH

by Marcy McCreary

August 19 – September 13, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Summer of Love and Death by Marcy McCreary

A Ford Family Mystery

 

The summer of ’69: memorable for some, murder for others.

Detective Susan Ford and her new partner, Detective Jack Tomelli, are called to a crime scene at the local summer stock theater where they find the director of Murder on the Orient Express gruesomely murdered—naked, face caked in makeup, pillow at his feet, wrists and ankles bound by rope. When Susan describes the murder to her dad, retired detective Will Ford, he recognizes the MO of a 1969 serial killer . . . a case he worked fifty years ago.

Will remembers a lot of things about that summer—the Woodstock Festival, the Apollo 11 moon landing, the Miracle Mets—yet he is fuzzy on the details of the decades-old case. But when Susan and Jack discover the old case files, his memories start trickling back. And with each old and new clue, Susan, Jack, and Will must narrow down the pool of suspects before the killer strikes again.

Praise for The Summer of Love and Death:

“An old case has repercussions on a new copycat killing in this excellent police procedural. With juicy twists, an engaging cast, and an intriguing case that’s impossible to predict, The Summer of Love and Death is everything I want in a mystery. An addictive and entertaining ride!”
~ Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author

“McCreary unspools a lot of threads in The Summer of Love and Death, then masterfully weaves them all together atop the Ford family’s compelling dynamic for an ending you won’t see coming. It’s a fun ride that kept me guessing the whole time!”
~ Tony Wirt, bestselling author of Just Stay Away

“A compelling mystery that unfolds in two skillfully woven parallel narratives. McCreary pairs a haunting meditation on intergenerational trauma with an evocative rendering of that famous Summer of Love to deliver a suspenseful and deeply satisfying read.”
~ Lori Robbins, author of Murder in Fourth Position

“In the summer of 1969, there was peace and love—but also a serial killer committing bizarre murders. When a copycat killing occurs at the local summer stock theatre, detective Susan Ford must call on her father’s memory of his 1969 investigation to help her solve the present-day murder. The Summer of Love and Death offers page-turning suspense of how the legacy of murder can continue, leaving more than death in its wake.”
~ Nina Wachsman, author of The Courtesan’s Secret

“A fiendishly smart modern who-dunnit with clever characters and a mystery that keeps you guessing . . .”
~ Elise Hart Kipness, author of Lights Out

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery (Detective)
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: August 13, 2024
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 9780744310597 (ISBN10: 0744310598)
Series: A Ford Family Mystery, #3 | A Stand-Alone Series
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | CamCat Books

Read an excerpt:

You know that jittery, gut-roiling feeling you get when heading out on a blind date? That brew of nerves, anxiety, anticipation—plus a hint of dread. That pretty much summed up my morning. Today was the day, and standing at the front door, it finally hit me. I was no longer flying solo. A new partner was waiting for me down at the station.

My fingers twitchy, I fumbled with the zipper of my yellow slicker as I stood in front of the framed poster—an illustration of a white dove perched on a blue guitar neck, gripped by ivory fingers against a bright red background—touting three days of peace and music. Usually, I paid it no mind. But today it captured my attention. A signal, perhaps, that everything would turn out just fine, like it did exactly fifty years ago when four hundred thousand idealistic hippies descended upon this town. A projected disaster that ended up being a glorious experience. The legendary summer of love.

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair didn’t take place in Woodstock, New York. The residents of Woodstock were not keen on having the initially projected fifty thousand hippies traipsing through their town. The concert promoters eventually secured Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York—fifty-eight miles from Woodstock and six miles from where I live now. I was four at the time. I have no memory of it. Mom said I was sicker than sick that weekend. Ear infection. Fever escalating to 104 degrees. She tried to take me to a doctor, but the roads were clogged with festival revelers, so she had to postpone my appointment until Tuesday. But by then, the worst of it was over.

Fifty years. Those teenagers were in their sixties and seventies now. The older ones in their eighties. How many of them were still idealistic? How many were still into peace, love, and understanding? How many “dropped out” and berated “the man,” only later to find themselves the beneficiaries of capitalism? Becoming “the man.”

I leaned over slightly as I reached for the doorknob. The door swung open unexpectedly, smacking me in the forehead. “Whoa.” I ran my fingertips along my hairline. No bump. For now.

“Sorry, babe.” Ray’s voice drew Moxie’s attention. Our thirteenyear-old lab mix moseyed into the foyer, tail in full swing. Moseying was really all Moxie could muster these days. “Didn’t realize you were standing there.”

Ray had left the house an hour earlier. I peered over his shoulder at the running Jeep. “Forget something?”

“Yeah. My wallet.” Ray stepped inside, dripping. Moxie stared up at him, waiting. He squatted and rubbed her ears. “Raining cats and dogs out there. No offense, Moxie.” He glanced up at the poster. “Just like fifty years ago.” He sighed.

Ray’s parents were married at the festival by a traveling minister. One-year-old Ray in tow (earning him bragging rights as one of the youngest people to attend Woodstock). Tomorrow would have been their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Their death, at the hand of a drunk driver twelve years ago, spawned a program called Better Mad Than Sad—a class baked into the local drivers-ed curriculum that Ray (and the drunk driver’s girlfriend, Marisa) created ten years ago. Parents would join their kids for a fifty-minute session in which they pledged to pick up their kids or their kid’s friends, no questions asked, no judgment passed.

Last month, Ray reached out to a few of his and his parents’ friends asking if they would be up for a “celebration of life” vigil at the Woodstock Festival site this evening. Nothing formal. Just twenty or so folks standing around, reminiscing and shooting the shit about his parents.

Ray shook the rain off his jacket. “Met your new partner this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s very good-looking.” He smirked, then added, “Movie-star good looking.”

I leaned back and gave Ray the once-over. “I’m more into the rough-around-the-edges type.”

“So I got nothing to worry about?”

“Not as long as you treat me right.” I smiled coyly. I had been without an official partner for a little over a year, since July 2018. My ex-partner bought a small farm in Vermont. He told me not to take it personally, but he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I still wondered if I contributed to his anxiety in some small way. Then I got shot in the thigh that August. So hiring a new partner was put on hold. Upon my return to active duty in October of 2018, I was assigned an under-the-radar cold case with my dad brought on as consulting partner. By the time the Trudy Solomon case was resolved, in December 2018, Chief Eldridge still hadn’t found a suitable replacement. Small-town policing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. So for the better part of 2019, it was just me and my shadow. Dad and Ray assisted on the Madison Garcia case, but the chief made it clear that protocol called for two detectives working a case, and my partnerless days were numbered. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I didn’t want a partner. I did. I just wished I had a say in who it was.

***

Excerpt from The Summer of Love and Death by Marcy McCreary. Copyright 2024 by Marcy McCreary. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Marcy McCreary

Marcy McCreary is the author of the Ford Family Mystery series. She graduated from George Washington University with a B.A. in American literature and political science and pursued a career in marketing and communications. She lives in Hull, MA with her husband, Lew.

Catch Up With Marcy McCreary:
www.MarcyMcCreary.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @marcymccreary
Instagram – @marcymccrearyauthor
Threads – @marcymccrearyauthor
Twitter/X – @mcmarcy
Facebook – @marcymccrearywrites

 

 

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Review – Don’t Ask Don’t Follow by Mary Keliikoa @mary_keliikoa @edelweiss_squad

Amazon / Audiobook / Goodreads

I had seen Mary Keliikoa’s name around and always wanted to read some of her work, so when I saw Don’t Ask Don’t Follow on Edelweiss, I grabbed me a review copy. I was glad I did. I quickly got attached to Beth Ralston and curious about her sister, Lindsay.

Beth’s relationship with her family members are complicated, but she is confident and can stand on her own two feet. She was the responsible one, covering for her sister when they were growing up. Lindsay was the one taking risks, telling Beth, Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow.

When Beth’s boss is found murdered, she begins an investigation that reveals secrets that affected her life and her family’s life. I consider myself a realist and I know that sometimes it is family that can hurt you the most. Beth will be discovering. Maybe, too often, I think the worst of people.

As the investigation deepens, I found people playing God. They may mean well, but who are they to play judge, jury, and executioner. What makes their decisions the RIGHT one?

Guess what? I also saw my name, Sherry, was given to a character. Will she be a good one or a bad one? I don’t care. It’s just fun to see my name in a book. Author’s don’t use it a lot.

There are Book Club Discussion questions at the end of the book, and I think this could be a good one for your book club. There are plenty of questions about the characters motivations and the dysfunctional family that Beth is part of. Mary Keliikoa threw out enough false leads for me to follow and question how I could be wrong about this or that. Red Herrings are always fun to run across, being lead down a fuzzy path of clues.

The only thing I found missing was that heart in my throat, what will happen next feeling. That’s what makes the difference between a mystery and a thriller to me, and I consider Don’t Ask Don’t Follow more mystery than thriller.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Murder, dark family secrets, and the unwavering bond of sisterhood— regardless of the cost

Beth Ralston, a paralegal in Portland, Oregon, would rather be racking up billable hours than mingling at an office party— especially when her sister Lindsay, aka her plus one, is a no-show.

After making her obligatory rounds, Beth returns to her office to find that her boss, who she’d talked with moments before, has been murdered. She sees a woman fleeing the scene. Wait— was that Lindsay? Unable to catch up to her in time, Beth waits for the police to arrive and notices that Lindsay has left her phone behind with an unsent text message to Beth displayed on the screen: “ Don’t ask. Don’t follow.”

Lindsay is unreachable for days, and when Beth starts to come under suspicion for the crime, she decides that waiting is impossible. While retracing Lindsay’s steps, determined to bring her home, Beth uncovers what her sister, an investigative reporter bent on changing the world, was trying to expose— corruption, secrets, and betrayal on an unimaginable level. Revealing the truth might bring back the one person she’s desperate to find— but it could also destroy the only life and family Beth’s ever known.

Perfect for fans of Gregg Olsen and Karin Slaughter

  • Genre: Fiction, Mystery, Psychological Thriller, Suspense, Thriller
  • 368 pages, Paperback
  • First published June 4, 2024 by OceanView Publishing
  • Goodreads Reviews & Ratings – 3.91 – 318 ratings, 193 reviews

Mary Keliikoa is the author of the award-winning HIDDEN PIECES and DEADLY TIDES in the Misty Pines mystery series, and the PI Kelly Pruett mystery series, which includes the Shamus Finalist and Lefty, Agatha and Anthony award-nominated DERAILED for best debut.

Her first domestic suspense, DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW will be out June of 2024.

A Pacific NW native, she admits to being that person who gets excited when called for jury duty. When not in Washington, you can find Mary with toes in the sand on a Hawaiian beach. But even under the palm trees and blazing sun, she’s plotting her next murder—novel that is.

www.marykeliikoa.com

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Review – All The Missing Girls by Linda Hurtado Bond #AlltheMissingGirls #NetGalley @authorlindabond

Amazon / Goodreads

All The Missing Girls by Linda Hurtado Bond is not listed as a series, but it is. The first book, All The Broken Girls made Linda a must read author for me and I can hardly wait until she comes out with the next book in the series. They are fast paced mystery, suspense, thrillers that kept me flipping the pages.

Mari, an investigative journalist, Tony, her detective friend and love interest, and her photographer, Orlando, are on their way to Cuba. They may be the main characters, but there are plenty of peripheral characters that shine. They will be entering the country illegally to find her sister, Izzy, who she believes has been kidnapped by Raul, the man who killed her mother.

They were going to make a documentary about finding Izzy, until they find young girls are going missing and the fodder for the documentary grows. It doesn’t matter what she has to do, but Mari is not leaving Cuba without her sister. As they dodge the military and those who want to shut them up, the danger rises.

Whoa…as I read along I quickly figure out where the story was going, but it was such a grisly shock when I got there and Linda took a step further, making it even more shocking than I thought and shivers ran up and down my spine. I hate confined spaces. I love when an author can take something that seems predictable and ratchets it up a notch.

Each book has two mysteries to be solved, one which ends in the book, but it leaves a cliffhanger type ending for the ongoing mystery that will take place in the next book. I can hardly wait to get my hands on Book III, The Phantom Pirate of Gasparilla.

Three o’clock pm, Friday, September eighth. The clock starts ticking. Again

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of All The Missing Girls by Linda Hurtado Bond.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

She doesn’t belong here.

There’s no way for TV news crime reporter Mari Alvarez to get into Cuba except illegally. But with her estranged sister missing—and likely under the control of the guy who killed their mámá—Mari has no choice but to enter the country on an unregistered boat in the dead of night. Now she has forty-eight hours to find her sister, take revenge on her mother’s killer, and escape before the authorities even know she’s there…

But there’s nothing simple about it. With few contacts and a trail of cryptic clues, Mari and Detective Tony Garcia—along with her photographer—are caught up in a maze of lies, deceptions, and a sinister undercurrent of Brujería. Witchcraft.

Every lead draws Mari further into a world of shadows, and it soon becomes clear that her sister isn’t the only young woman who’s gone missing. But there’s no one here they can trust. And as they close in on the horrifying truth, one thing becomes clear…no one will let them leave Cuba alive.

  • Genre: Fiction, Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
  • 350 pages, ebook
  • First published August 19, 2024 by Entangled: Amara
  • Series: Book II
Linda  Hurtado Bond

Be sure to follow Linda Hurtado Bond on BookBub for the latest book info: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/linda…

Author Linda Hurtado Bond is an Emmy award winning TV news anchor and an author of romantic thrillers.

She’s worked as a television news reporter and anchor in Fort Myers, Orlando and Tampa Florida. For the past twenty years, she’s shared important information with viewers on the latest medical breakthroughs and has written emotional, human-interest stories on those who have the courage and spirit to fight for their lives.

She writes every day, under deadline, but has always loved losing herself in a good fiction story. Her love for writing fiction actually started in high school, but a thriving, busy professional life, along with five kids ( 2 step-kids, an adopted son from Cuba and 2 daughters ) kept her busy for many years.

Entangled Publishing released three romantic adventures Alive at 5, Cuba Undercover and Flatline. Think James Bond meets Romancing the Stone. Cuba Undercover is based on her own true life love story.

She has received numerous writing awards for Alive at 5 , Flatline and Cuba Undercover.

Her latest book, All the Broken Girls, releasing in 2022, features two Cuban American characters and a deep dive into Cuban American culture.

Linda has won 13 Emmy awards, numerous Society of Professional Journalist awards, Associated Press awards, as well as a Florida Bar award and an Edward R. Murrow award.

This former baton-twirling beauty queen from The University of Georgia, now lives in Tampa Florida with her husband and kids.

Website / Twitter / Facebook / Instagram / Bookbub / YouTube

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Review – Twelve Secrets by Robert Gold @netgalley @books_gold

Amazon / Goodreads

Talk about secrets….Twelve Secrets by Robert Gold is filled with them and Robert hands them out one at a time. Ben Harper is determined to get the answers to his mother’s death. Was it really suicide? Or did someone push her in front of the train.

Ben Harper has been haunted by secrets and death. Will he write the story?

Every time I turned around, I was met with another surprise, more danger. How many bodies will fall before all is exposed? Sure kept me guessing. The more I read, the more curious I became. I do love a fast paced novel filled with mystery and intrigue, and Twelve Secrets by Robert Gold fits the bill.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of Twelve Secrets by Robert Gold.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Ben Harper, true crime journalist, is about to unravel his most shocking story yet . . . his own.

The day his older brother was murdered was the day Ben Harper’s life changed forever.

In one of the most shocking crimes in national history, Nick and his friend were stabbed to death by two girls their own age. Police called the killings random, a senseless tragedy.

Twenty years on Ben is one of the best true crime journalists in the country. He has left the past behind, thanks to the support of his close-knit hometown community.

But when he learns about a fresh murder case with links to his brother’s death, Ben’s life is turned upside down once more. He soon find himself caught in a web of lies, one that implicates everyone around him. And on his quest for answers, Ben discovers one very important truth:

Everyone has secrets.
But some secrets are deadlier than others.

  • Genre: Fiction, Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
  • 448 pages, Kindle Edition
  • First published March 3, 2022
  • Series: Ben Harper #1

Originally from Harrogate in North Yorkshire, Robert Gold began his career as an intern at the American broadcaster CNN, based in Washington DC. He returned to Yorkshire to work for the retailer ASDA, becoming the chain’s nationwide book buyer. He now works in sales for a UK publishing company. Robert now lives in Putney and his new hometown served as the inspiration for the fictional town of Haddley in Twelve Secrets. In 2016, he co-authored three titles in James Patterson’s Bookshots series.

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$20 GC & Review – A Cold Cold World by Elena Taylor @partnersincr1me @Elena_TaylorAut

A Cold, Cold World by Elena Taylor Banner

A COLD, COLD WORLD

by Elena Taylor

July 29 – August 23, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

MY REVIEW

I am so happy to be back in Collier with Bet and the rest of the gang. Bet has been Sheriff of Collier for a year now. I think we are in for a chilling time in the Cascade Mountain Range of Washington State. It’s winter time and the storm of the century is heading their way.

Seeing Collier is a small town, it has a small police force. Bet’s the Sheriff, Clayton is her right hand man, and Alma is the glue that holds them all together. Bet is the first line of defense against disaster and most likely the last line too. She could use another man and Kane is in need of job. He’s qualified and I liked him right away.

We start out with a snow machine death and the Lakers, hometown folks, spin out of control. It’s hard to figure out who is doing what to who, but that is common for an Elena Taylor book.

The Colliers had founded the coal mining town and could Rob be a love interest for Bet? We shall see in future books in the Sheriff Bet Rivers series.

I love Shweitzer and Grizzly, the critters who add a certain something something to the story.

The avalanche…I had my heart in my throat for a moment or two.

We have so many suspects and so much action going on, at times my head was spinning. Elena Taylor does not make it easy to figure out who is doing what to whom and why they are doing it. She kept my interest from beginning to end.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of A Cold Cold World by Elena Taylor.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

Amazon / Audiobook / Goodreads

Synopsis:

A Sheriff Bet Rivers Mystery

 

A female sheriff tries to fill her late father’s boots and be the sheriff her small Washington State mountain town needs as a deadly snow storm engulfs the town, in this dark, twisty mystery.

The world felt pure. Nature made the location pristine again, hiding the scene from prying eyes. As if no one had died there at all.

In the months since Bet Rivers solved her first murder investigation and secured the sheriff’s seat in Collier, she’s remained determined to keep her town safe. With a massive snowstorm looming, it’s more important than ever that she stays vigilant.

When Bet gets a call that a family of tourists has stumbled across a teen injured in a snowmobile accident on a mountain ridge, she braves the storm to investigate. However, once she arrives at the scene of the accident it’s clear to Bet that the teen is not injured; he’s dead. And has been for some time . . .

Investigating a possible homicide is hard enough, but with the worst snowstorm the valley has seen in years threatening the safety of her town, not to mention the integrity of her crime scenes – as they seem to be mounting up as well – Bet has to move fast to uncover the complicated truth and prove that she’s worthy of keeping her father’s badge.

Praise for A Cold, Cold World:

“Readers who appreciate the strong woman police chief in Linda Castillo’s Kate Burkholder books or the vivid landscapes of Craig Johnson’s Walt Longmire mysteries will appreciate Taylor’s riveting crime novel.”
~ Lesa Holstine, Library Journal Starred Review

“Taylor perfectly captures the tension and determination of a small town sheriff facing down an isolating blizzard while racing against the clock to solve a murder and save a missing child. Sheriff Bet Rivers will be your new favorite character”
~ Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“A terrific ensemble cast in a total immersion setting! Fans of CJ Box and Julia Spencer-Fleming will adore this novel – it’s whipsmart, completely cinematic, and full of heart. Not to be missed!”
~ Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of One Wrong Word

“Sheriff Bet Rivers is back with a suspenseful and shrewdly plotted story of deadly small town secrets . . . Think Longmire meets Yellowstone”
~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of Dead Drop and Face of Greed

“Tense and divinely atmospheric, this is the perfect book to curl up with on a cold winter’s day”
~ J.L. Delozier, author of the multi-award-winning mystery, The Photo Thief

A Cold, Cold World Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural, Mystery
Published by: Severn House
Publication Date: August 6, 2024
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9781448314065 (ISBN10: 1448314062)
Series: A Sheriff Bet Rivers Mystery, Book 2 | Each is a Stand-Alone Mystery
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Severn House

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Bet Rivers sat in the sheriff’s station and watched the radar on her computer screen turn a darker and darker blue. Snow headed for the little town of Collier and keeping everyone safe was her responsibility. Bet’s advancement to sheriff had taken place less than a year ago, but the name Rivers had followed ‘Sheriff’ all the way back to the founding of the town. None of the previous Sheriff Rivers, her father included, ever failed the community, and she didn’t plan to be the first. With her father’s death last fall, Collier residents were the closest thing she had to family.

The valley Bet protected sat high in the Cascade Mountain Range of Washington State. Winter storms often dropped a couple inches of snow at once, a situation Collier could handle, and winter had been relatively mild so far. February, however, was shaping up into something else.

This morning, nearby Lake Collier – a dark and dangerous body of water the locals respected from a safe distance – started freezing completely over for the first time in years.

Bet couldn’t remember such a large storm ever bearing down on the valley. The weather was determined to test her in ways that patrolling the streets of Los Angeles and her short stint as sheriff had not yet done.

Clicking off the weather radar screen and opening another file, Bet read over her severe winter storm checklist. Snowplow – ready to go. Volunteers with tractors and trucks with snowplow attachments – set. The community center would be open twenty-four hours a day in case the town’s power went out and people needed a warm place to go. Donna, the elementary school nurse, was on hand for minor health emergencies. She would be staying at the center twenty-four seven until the storm passed.

Most residents owned generators and a lot of people used fireplaces for heat, but the community center provided a central location for anyone in trouble.

Nothing like living in an isolated mountain valley to make folks respect what Mother Nature hurled at them – and rely on each other, rather than the outside world. A lot of people would look to the sheriff as a leader. She couldn’t let them down.

Bet turned her attention to the pile of pink ‘while you were out’ notes that Alma still loved to use rather than sending information to Bet digitally. Alma was much more than an office manager, but she also fought certain modern conveniences.

Most of the notes were mundane issues that Alma could handle, but the last in the pile was a call from Jamie Garcia, a local reporter trying to get back into Bet’s good graces after an incident a few months ago had cost her Bet’s trust.

Wants to chat about the possibility of an increase in drug use in the area, the note read. Specifically – meth.

That would definitely have to wait. It crossed Bet’s mind that Jamie might exaggerate the situation just to have reason to touch base with her, but Bet taped it to the computer monitor to follow up on after the storm passed. Her valley didn’t have the kind of drug problems as many other communities, and Bet wanted to see it stay that way. If Jamie had any information on a rise in illegal activity, that could be useful.

The rest of the notes she would return to Alma to deal with. Right now, weathering the tempest would take all of Bet’s resources.

Bringing up the radar one more time, Bet’s stomach clenched as she tracked the monster storm. What if she made a decision during this event that hurt her entire community? Confidence didn’t make responsibility lighter to bear, and the hot, sunny streets of Los Angeles hadn’t prepared her for one thousand residents slowly buried under several feet of snow. They were a long way from the plowed highways and larger cities with fully functional hospitals.

Bet was the first line of defense against disaster.

She was also likely the last line of defense. Once they were snowed in, she couldn’t bring help in from the outside.

A year ago, she had been poised to take the detective’s exam in Los Angeles. Her goal was a long and successful career in the nation’s largest police force. But events outside her control got in the way, and now she was back in Collier, trying to fill her father’s large, all-too-recently vacated shoes.

She faced a once-in-a-century storm with her lone deputy, a septuagenarian secretary, and one very big dog.

Her first instinct was to talk to her father, but his death prevented her from ever gaining new insight into his expertise. Her second instinct was to contact Sergeant Magdalena Carrera. Maggie had mentored Bet during her time at the LAPD.

‘We chicas need to stick together,’ she’d said to Bet early on in her career, back when Bet still called her sergeant.

But as good as Maggie was at her job, Bet doubted she’d have much advice about facing a blizzard.

‘It’s up to us, Schweitzer,’ Bet said to the Anatolian shepherd sitting in her doorway. ‘As long as no one has a heart attack after the storm hits, we’ll be fine.’ Schweitzer had a look on his face like he knew what was coming. He always could read her mood, not to mention the weather, and he’d been edgy all morning.

She had learned to read his mood too, and right now it wasn’t good.

‘It’s going to be all right, Schweitz.’ It surprised her to realize she believed her own words. She could handle this.

Lakers – residents proudly took the nickname from their mysterious lake – could hunker down in their valley and survive on their own. Everyone in town knew that if snow blocked them in and a helicopter couldn’t fly, they had no access to a hospital. But Donna was good at her job too. Plus, it would only be for a couple of days.

The phone on her desk rang, jarring her from her thoughts.

As long as the ring didn’t herald an emergency, everything would be fine.

Bet rolled out in her black and white on the long teardrop of road that circled the valley. She didn’t turn on her siren; there wasn’t anyone on the loop to warn of her approach and the sound felt too loud, like a scream into the colorless void. The emergency lights on top of her SUV stained the white unmarked fields of snow on either side red, then blue, then red again, like blood streaking the ground. Her studded tires roared on the hard-packed snow, the surface easy to navigate – at least for now.

The drive to Jeb Pearson’s place took less than twenty minutes, even with the worsening conditions. Pearson’s Ranch sat at the end of the valley farthest from the lake and the town center. The ranch occupied an area the locals called the ‘Train Yard’, though that name didn’t show up on any official maps.

Long ago, the roundhouse for the Colliers’ private railway perched there at the end of the tracks. The roundhouse was a huge, wedge-shaped brick structure, like one third of a pie with the tips of the slices bitten off. It was built to house the big steam engines owned by the Colliers. The facility could hold five engines, each pulled inside through giant glass and iron doors. Engines could be parked and serviced inside the roundhouse, while an enormous turntable sat out front to spin the engines around, sending them down different tracks in order to pass each other in opposite directions.

It was unlikely the Colliers ever housed five engines up here all at once, but they owned other mines around the state and had used engines in other places. It must have been reassuring to know that if they ever needed to, they could bring their assets up here, protected in their high-elevation fiefdom.

Jeb used the property as a summer camp for boys who struggled with drug and alcohol addictions and guesthouses for snow adventure enthusiasts during the winter. Jeb lived there year-round, with a giant Newfoundland dog named Grizzly, a half a dozen horses, and one mini donkey named Dolly that helped him rehabilitate the boys.

Bet pulled up in front of the roundhouse. The cabins and other outbuildings stretched away from where she parked, with the barn the farthest from the road. The pastures were empty with the storm bearing down, the animals all safely tucked away in their stalls. Jeb stood out front with two bundled figures that must have been the father and son who were currently staying at his place. A third member of their party, the mother, was nowhere to be seen.

Bet got out of her vehicle and walked over to where two of Jeb’s snowmobiles were parked, running and ready to go. Layers of winter clothing padded Jeb’s wiry form, his face ruddy in the arctic wind.

‘What have we got, Jeb?’

‘Mark and Julia Crews and their son Jeremy came across what looks to be a solo wreck up on Iron Horse Ridge. They didn’t have any details about the driver’s condition, so I’m not sure what we’re looking at. The parents wanted to protect their son and got him out of there before he could see anything gruesome. These two came down to get me while Mrs Crews stayed with the injured rider.’

Bet nodded to the man standing a few feet away. Only part of his face was visible through the balaclava he wore. His eyes looked haunted.

‘You did the right thing,’ she said to him. ‘If the driver’s got a spinal injury, you could have done more damage than good trying to bring them down.’ She didn’t add that if the driver was dead there was nothing to be done except locate the next of kin.

‘Thanks, Sheriff,’ Mark Crews said, his voice shaky. ‘That was—’

Emotion cut off the man’s words. He reached for his son and pulled him close. The boy didn’t resist, but he also didn’t hug his father back. Bet considered checking the boy for shock, but guessed he was just a teen being a teen.

She gave Mark a nod and hoped the accident victim survived the wait – otherwise Mark Crews would always wonder if he should have made a different choice.

The father got his emotions under control and turned his attention back to Bet. ‘Please get my wife Julia down safely.’

Jeremy might be shocky, but the two people up on the ridge were her priority.

‘Always prioritize,’ Maggie said to Bet on a regular basis. ‘Don’t get caught up trying to fix everything at once. Fix the big things first.’

Her father would have agreed. His voice no longer took precedence in her mind, but his teachings never left her.

Bet promised to take care of Julia Crews and walked over to straddle the closest snowmobile. Pulling on the helmet she’d brought, she tucked her auburn curls out of the way before closing the face shield. Bet admired the Crews family for helping a stranger as the ominous storm bore down on the area. It must be terrifying to know Mrs Crews waited up on the ridge as the weather closed in. Bet was impressed the family put their own safety in jeopardy for someone they didn’t know. Not everyone would do that. It would have been easy enough to pretend they never found the accident, leaving the driver alone in the snow.

Jeb hopped on the other snowmobile, which was already set up to tow the Snowbulance – a small, enclosed trailer with a stretcher mounted inside. Bet made eye contact with Jeb to confirm she was ready, and they took off with him in the lead. Search-and-rescue was Jeb’s specialty, and he knew the terrain better than she did.

Her father Earle always said a good leader knew when to follow. Like most of her father’s advice, Bet knew it was true even if her instinct was never to admit someone else was the right person for a job she could do. In her defense, her father never faced life in law enforcement as a woman.

Maggie always said, ‘Never let a man think he’s got control. If you hand control over, he’ll never give it up.’

Bet wasn’t her father, but she wasn’t a patrol officer in LA, either. Sometimes neither Maggie’s nor her father’s advice was any help to her at all.

Not far from the ranch, Jeb turned off the main road and started up a forest service road that went west and north into the mountains. The turnoff wasn’t obvious, so it was interesting that the Crews had found that particular trail.

Snowmobiling was a popular sport in Collier and a lot of people used these forest service roads for trails, even the ones that were officially closed to traffic because there were no funds for maintenance. Without anyone to police the extensive system, the locals used them as their own private playground.

The roads connected in a complex web throughout the area. The injured teen could have arrived at the ridge from any direction. The forest was riddled with paths that the forest service no longer had the money or workforce to keep up, but people and animals kept cleared. In a lot of ways, the community benefited from the interlopers who cleared the roads, because that provided fire access into their local forest, which would otherwise become impassable through neglect.

If the brunt of the storm held off long enough for them to locate the scene of the accident and get the injured teen down the mountain before the conditions worsened, everything should still be all right.

Bet kept her focus on Jeb’s sled as they rode up the hill. The road turned dark as they got farther into the trees and the cloud cover grew almost black. She was glad for the headlight and someone she trusted to follow. At least in this moment, her father’s advice was right.

If only the injured rider survived the wait.

***

Excerpt from A Cold, Cold World by Elena Taylor. Copyright 2024 by Elena Taylor. Reproduced with permission from Elena Taylor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Elena Taylor, CREDIT MARK PERLSTEIN

Elena Taylor spent several years working in theater as a playwright, director, designer, and educator before turning her storytelling skills to fiction. Her first series, the Eddie Shoes Mysteries, written under the name Elena Hartwell, introduced a quirky mother/daughter crime fighting duo.

With the Bet Rivers Mysteries, Elena returns to her dramatic roots and brings readers much more serious and atmospheric novels. The series introduces Collier, Washington, with its dark and mysterious lake, tough-as-nails residents, and newly appointed sheriff with her sidekick Schweitzer, an Anatolian Shepherd.

Elena is also a senior editor with Allegory Editing, a developmental editing house, where she works one-on-one with writers to shape and polish manuscripts, short stories, and plays. If you’d like to work with Elena, visit www.allegoryediting.com.

Her favorite place to be is at Paradise, the property she and her hubby own south of Spokane, Washington. They live with their horses, dogs, and cats. Elena holds a B.A. from the University of San Diego, a M.Ed. from the University of Washington, Tacoma, and a Ph.D. from the University of Georgia.

Catch Up With Elena Taylor:
www.ElenaTaylorAuthor.com
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Review – All We Buried by Elena Taylor @Elena_TaylorAut

Amazon / Audiobook / Goodreads

I love an author that loves their research and Elena Taylor’s research shows in her writing. She lives her life surrounded by horses and dogs and her character, Sheriff Bet Rivers, will need to be a dog whisperer to win over Schweitzer, her father’s dog, a dog that picks her person.

Sheriff Bet Rivers has come back to the small town of Collier after her father falls ill and calls her home. She comes from a long line of policeman. She hasn’t reached the 30 years old mark and has one foot out the door. Will Collier become her home? I hope so because I plan on making a return visit.

When she starts investigating the caves, I had shivers going up and down my spine. Better her than me, that’s for sure. You wouldn’t catch me going underground with a killer hanging around.

Long buried secrets will be exposed. A nightmare comes to life. On top of that, it’s an election year. Complex mysteries will need to be solved and Elena Taylor keeps the mystery alive until the last pages are read.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of All We Buried by Elena Taylor.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Star

An amateur sheriff confronts the long-sleeping secrets of her small Washington State mountain town in this dark, twisty mystery for fans of Julia Keller and Sheena KamalInterim sheriff Elizabeth “Bet” Rivers has always had one repeat a shadowy figure throwing a suspicious object into her hometown lake in Collier, Washington. For the longest time, she chalked it up to an overactive imagination as a kid. Then the report arrives. In the woods of the Cascade mountain range, right in her jurisdiction, a body floats to the surface of Lake Collier. When the body is extricated and revealed, no one can identify Jane Doe. But someone must know the woman, so why aren’t they coming forward?Bet has been sitting as the interim sheriff of this tiny town in the ill-fitting shoes of her late father and predecessor. With the nightmare on her heels, Bet decided to build a life for herself in Los Angeles, but now it’s time to confront the tragic history of Collier. The more she learns, the more Bet realizes she doesn’t know the townspeople of Collier as well as she thought, and nothing can prepare her for what she is about to discover.

  • Genre: Fiction, Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
  • 301 pages, Kindle Edition
  • First published April 7, 2020 by Crooked Lane Books
  • Series: Sheriff Bet Rivers #1
CREDIT MARK PERLSTEIN

Mystery writer, avid reader, animal mom.

Elena Taylor started out her storytelling career in the theater. She worked for several years as a playwright, director, designer, technician, and educator before becoming a novelist.

Elena has more than twenty years of teaching experience and now works one-on-one with writers as a manuscript consultant and writing coach.

She lives in North Bend, Washington, with her husband, two cats, and the greatest dog in the world. When she’s not writing, teaching writing, or talking about writing, she can be found at a nearby stables, playing with her horses.

For more information about Elena, please visit www.elenataylorauthor.com.

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$20GC & Book – Diamond Cut by Thomas Cavanaugh @partnersincr1me @tbcavanagh

DIAMOND CUT

by Thomas B. Cavanagh

July 8 – August 2, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Gemstone Series

 

To find a missing girl, Sandy must return to the insidious places she once worked tirelessly to escape

Sandy Corrigan used to be called Diamond. She used to live in an apartment with other girls like her, though she rarely slept there, instead spending her evenings in hotel rooms around Orlando with lonely, unfaithful men. That is, until the incident.

But despite the personal hell she endured, the nightmarish crisis saved her from a life spent in strangers’ beds. Sandy now spends her evenings reading to her six-year-old son, Tyler, and her days working for her brother’ s private investigation business.

Despite severing all ties to her former life, a girl from her past reappears and asks Sandy to investigate the disappearance of a young call girl. Unsure of whether or not the girl is alive, and wary of the past traumas the investigation could bring to the surface, Sandy takes the case. What she doesn’t expect to discover is a sordid web of corruption, sex, and murder, and she soon grows more entangled with each step she takes. Can she survive the horrors she thought she escaped years ago?

Perfect for fans of Sue Grafton and Lisa Gardner!

 

Praise for Diamond Cut:

Diamond Cut is fast-paced and suspenseful, but with humor and heart. You’ll be rooting for Sandy Corrigan with every thrilling turn of the page.”
~ Janet Evanovich, #1 NY Times best-selling author of the Stephanie Plum series

“Thumbs up for Diamond Cut! Thomas B. Cavanagh has given us Sandy Corrigan, an engaging, multi-layered, thoughtful PI with a painful past, one you’ll remember long after you’ve read the last page.”
~ Tracy Clark, author of the Cass Raines and Det. Harriet Foster series, and winner of the 2020 and 2022 Sue Grafton Memorial Award

“Sandy Corrigan is a great protagonist with a truly checkered past. She uses it to her advantage when she gets sucked into the world she thought she had left behind. Diamond Cut is a thought provoking and compelling crime novel set within the world of human trafficking. I highly recommend it.”
~ James O. Born, NY Times best-selling author of Obsessed

Diamond Cut chronicles one woman’s dangerous adventure into her former life as a call girl to find a missing woman, written with a solid understanding of the unique ebb and flow of Florida life.”
~ Lisa Black, NY Times best-selling author of the Locard Institute series

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery / Thriller / Private Eye
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: July 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 322
ISBN: 9781608095964 (ISBN10: 1608095967)
Series: Gemstone Series, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Oceanview Publishing

Read an excerpt:

A diamond with a flaw is worth more than a pebble without imperfections.
Chinese Proverb

Chapter 1

I used to have sex for a living. Now, on a strictly part-time basis, I get paid not to. The guy I was getting paid to not sleep with tonight was a forty-one-year-old married father of two named Jeremy Knox. I had met him once before, two days earlier. Of course, he had no idea he wasn’t getting lucky tonight.

I had been told that he often liked to spend his lunch hour at a local Hooters knock-off called Cheerleaders. The place was wedged between a Chipotle Burrito Kitchen and a Panera Bread on the restaurant row area of University Blvd. out by the University of Central Florida. So, two days ago, I put on a little too much makeup and slipped into a dark suit with a skirt two inches shorter and heels an inch longer than I would normally wear in polite company and headed out to the east side of town. Not that the clientele of Cheerleaders exactly qualified as polite company.

I had been given his photo and background file by a fellow private investigator who had been hired by Jeremy Knox’s wife. It seemed Mrs. Knox suspected Jeremy of fooling around and, if her suspicions were correct, she wanted evidence to take with her into divorce court. I was the bait and Jeremy was the tuna.

At the risk of being immodest, I’m not bad bait. At thirty-one, I’m still plenty young for ol’ Jeremy and can still fill out a tight business suit. I keep in shape and the heels did make my calves look good. My shoulder-length hair is styled simply but tastefully, so that it frames my face without making me look like I’m wearing a helmet. Thankfully, no grey has yet crept into my natural sandy-blonde.

The restaurant was filled with basically two types: college boys from nearby UCF and government contractors from the dozens of training and simulation companies in the adjacent research park. Although I wasn’t the only female customer, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I was in a minority of no more than ten or fifteen percent. So, while it wasn’t completely weird for someone like me to stroll into Cheerleaders at 12:15 on a Tuesday afternoon, I knew I would at least attract a few looks. Fine. That was exactly what I wanted.

I caught a lucky break. Jeremy sat alone at the bar with a menu in his hand. The file said that he often spent his lunch hour here with some buddies from work. But sometimes alone. Fortunately, today the buddies were absent. Sure, if he had been in a group maybe I could have slipped him my number with a “hey, I noticed you, call me” note, but it’s always better to fish for tuna alone, one-on-one. So, I sidled up and took an open seat next to him.

I knew that he noticed me. A girl can tell. I crossed my legs. Damn, my calves did look good. If these heels weren’t such a pain to walk in, I might wear them more often. A buxom co-ed in a tight black t-shirt and nylon shorts delivered him a burger and fries. She handed over a menu and went off to pour me a diet cola. I saw Jeremy try not to check out the waitress’s perky backside. But he just couldn’t help himself. Hell, I could barely help myself. It was an impressive derriere.

“So what’s good in here?” I asked, offering Jeremy my best disarming smile.

“Pardon?” he said, quickly blinking his gaze away from the nylon shorts.

I waved the menu. “What’s good? Any local specialties?” So, I had just intentionally established that I was from out of town and that I was extroverted enough to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger. Plus, with the literally dozens of nearby dining options, I was willing to come into this classy place alone for lunch.

“Well,” Jeremy said. “It’s kind of a wings place. But,”–he leaned over conspiratorially¬– “I prefer the burgers.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I gave him a wink and a smile. “Maybe I’ll just stick with a salad.” They can say whatever they like about not caring. Most guys still expect women to eat salads. I extended my hand to shake. “Hi. I’m Karen.” Of course, my name is not Karen. Not even close.

He took my hand and a smile of unexpected possibility bloomed slowly across his face. “Jeremy.”

“And what do you do, Jeremy?” I asked and plucked a french fry from his plate. Then I smiled and took a bite.

His smile widened at the boldness of my eating off his plate. “Uh, I’m a program manager for Aeron Sim. We build training and simulation systems. Mostly for the military.”

“Well, that sounds pretty cool.” I then proceeded to share the lie that the other P.I. and I had concocted. I was posing as an account manager for an educational software company who was trying to get the university to buy one of my company’s systems. I was only in town through the weekend. I was based in California—as far away from Florida as possible, offering fewer chances of messy entanglements. I suggested that we move from the bar to a table, to which Jeremy eagerly agreed.

I steered him toward an open seat that offered an unobstructed view from the table where my colleague sat discreetly video recording us with a hidden camera. I noticed that he, too, had ordered a burger.

During the course of the next 70 minutes, I managed to make Jeremy feel like the most interesting guy in Orlando, while simultaneously working my way through a surprisingly large Asian chicken salad. I made sure to touch Jeremy on the arm a few times for the camera, laughing at his somewhat lame attempts to be amusing, getting my flirt on. I knew before it was over that I had my tuna on the hook. We parted with a handshake that I held too meaningfully long and an agreement to meet after work the next day for drinks at my hotel. I could just imagine the story he was going to tell Mrs. Knox about having to work late on a deadline or meet with military clients who were visiting from D.C.

So I now found myself sitting in the bar at the nearby Hilton, nursing a club soda and cranberry, waiting for Prince Charming to show up. My P.I. colleague, a guy named Mike Garrity from a competing but friendly agency, sat across the room, hidden camera pointed at me. This time I was wearing a wire to record our conversation in the likely event that Jeremy elected not to exercise his right to remain silent. I took a sip from my drink and spotted Jeremy entering the lobby.

He located me quickly, perhaps even eagerly, and sat across a low cocktail table. He ordered a gin and tonic from a passing waitress and leaned back in his seat, smirking at me.

“Hello again,” I said.

The smirk widened. “This is a nice place. You’re staying here?”

“That’s right.” I sipped from my club soda and cranberry, pretending it was alcoholic. “Are you hungry?”

He smiled wolfishly. “Starving.”

I faked an equally wolfish smile but it felt awkward, like I was contorting my face after biting a lemon. “The restaurant here is pretty good. We could grab a bite.”

“Sure…”

His drink arrived and he downed half of it on the walk across the lobby to the restaurant. We found a seat and I saw Garrity shift his position in the bar to get a better shot of our dinner.

For the second time in two days, I broke bread with this creep. I suppose he was attractive enough. His hair was mostly still dark brown with a few grey flecks sprinkled in. His smile was confident but with an almost charming boyish quality. His clothes were decent, department store Ralph Lauren, with nice patterned socks and a pair of Rockport shoes. But despite his respectable looks, the fact that he was a married father sitting here presumably expecting to bed a stranger just made him odious to me.

As the meal wore on, and he drank three more gin and tonics, all pretense regarding why he was here began to vanish. And I, in turn, began to get more and more anxious about the inevitable trip upstairs. You see, I don’t do hotel rooms. I’ve only been on the inside of a hotel room maybe twice in the last six years and never overnight. I won’t lie on a hotel bed. Never again.

The mere idea of entering a hotel room made me fidgety and, as the meal wound down, I felt my heart rate start to increase, pounding my temples. When we agreed to the job, Garrity had told me that he needed a shot of us entering the hotel room. As soon as the door shut, I could pop back out and make my escape, but video of the two of us entering the room and closing the door was what Mrs. Knox was paying for. So I knew from the beginning how this gig would end. But I thought I could handle it. I’m a professional, right? A professional… That was an unfortunate term to occur to me in this context. The more I thought about the elevator ride up and the long walk down the hall to the room Garrity had booked for the night, the more nauseous I felt. I pushed my half-eaten chicken away and realized that Jeremy was saying something. I forced myself to attend to the job.

“You really are hot, you know,” he said, not quite slurring, but definitely not entirely sober. “But you know that. Hot women always know they’re hot. So no boyfriend back in California? Really?”

I swallowed the golf ball of nerves that was forming in my throat and forced a smile. “Really. Just me and my cat.”

He broke out the devilish grin. “Just you and your cat…So… what kind of pussy do you have?”

Oh brother. This kind of witty banter couldn’t possibly be how he had courted his wife. I looked away so he didn’t catch my eye roll. The thought of the hotel room suddenly squeezed me hard in the stomach. I coughed into my hand, trying not to gag. I felt like I had snakes squirming in my gut. I excused myself to the ladies’ room where I spent four minutes in a bathroom stall, attempting to calm my breathing, preventing myself from hyperventilating. If I blew this gig because of my issue with hotel rooms I might not get paid. Billy was always threatening to fire me. Brother or not, he might finally go through with it. This was my job. My career now. With my background, my options were limited. Plus, I actually liked being a private investigator. I told myself to pull it together.

I splashed some water on my face—I was sweating at my hairline. I felt a bead trickle through my hair at my temple. Then I dried off and fixed my makeup. I took a deep breath and pushed back out into the hotel lobby. I marched up to the table and, before I lost my nerve—or puked—asked “Are you ready to come upstairs now?”

Jeremy paused for just a beat before responding. “I’ve been ready since I met you, baby.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

I turned and start walking. As Jeremy hastily threw some cash on the table for the drinks and dinner, I saw Mike Garrity slide out of his seat in the lobby and head up the stairwell. He had booked a room on the second floor so he could get up there and into position while we waited for the elevator. I hadn’t given him any warning and he was now having to hustle. But I had no choice. I was losing my resolve and had to get this over with before it was completely gone.

Jeremy and I stepped into the elevator and found ourselves alone. He immediately pushed himself up against me and kissed my neck and ear. I let him. I could take his touch for one floor. I have endured much worse for much longer. I sent my mind to the blank white room where I always used to send it, back in the day, and flipped the internal switch that made my insides go dead. It was all way too familiar, too easy to go back to that place in my life. I barely noticed the elevator doors opening.

We stepped out into the hallway and made our way down to the room, passing the vending alcove where Mike Garrity was now positioned with his camera. Jeremy pawed at me all the way down the hallway. I stopped at the door to the room, my heart thudding in my chest at the thought of stepping inside. I couldn’t do it. I needed a moment, I told myself. I needed to summon the courage to open the door. I turned around and leaned back against the door. I robotically put my hands on Jeremy’s hips. I lifted my chin, exposing my neck. We needed to give Mrs. Knox a good show, after all. And Jeremy obliged. He could no longer claim entrapment. He was just a garden variety pig now. He dove in, rubbing his hands up my thighs and over my breasts, kissing my neck from ear to collarbone. He tried to kiss my lips but I turned my head. No kissing on the mouth. Ever.

Despite my anxiety about entering the room, I also felt physically numb. It was almost too easy to make myself feel nothing, to turn my body to stone. Years of practice had made it almost automatic. Like riding a bike, right? I heard Jeremy’s eager breathing in my ear as if it were coming from far away, happening to someone else. Perhaps it was happening to someone else—me, six years ago, eight years ago…. But, no, it was happening now, to me, in this hallway. Jeremy unbuttoned the top of my blouse. That suddenly grounded me in the moment and I forced myself to turn around. He pressed himself against me from behind and grabbed my breasts. I inserted the key card in the door and turned the handle. And then we were across the threshold, the door shutting behind us.

I felt like I was moving underwater, in slow motion. I stopped just inside the room. Jeremy moved past me and continued over to the bed. He sat and leaned back on his elbows. I remained frozen where I was. I knew I needed to turn around now and leave—Garrity had the footage he needed for Mrs. Knox. My work was done. But my feet were frozen to the floor. This hotel room, it was so similar to that one six years ago. It, too, had been a Hilton…

“It’s okay, baby,” Jeremy said. “Don’t be shy. I won’t bite. Unless you like that.”

I had to leave. I had to get out of here. But I couldn’t move. Six years ago…

Jeremy got up from the bed and came over to me. He took my hand and pulled. But I didn’t budge. He pulled a little more insistently.

“Come on, Karen. It’s okay.”

I managed a hoarse whisper. “No…”

Jeremy cocked his head in a vaguely canine way. “No? What do you mean, no? I mean, we both know why we’re here.”

“No…” I reached my other hand for the door handle.

“You’re not gonna get me all the way up here and say no now. Come on. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” Jeremy pulled my hand even harder.

“No!” I screamed, my vision suddenly colored crimson. A jagged memory of blood everywhere. Blood spraying in a pumping squirt across my naked torso. White sheets a slick shiny red. Warm blood covering my hands, running in rivulets down my forearms.

Jeremy grabbed both of my wrists. “Hey, relax. Shhh. Calm down, you crazy bitch.”

I tried to pull loose, but his grip was too tight. I twisted my arms but he was too strong. He was now pulling me into the room, toward the bed. I could see the bed, covered in blood… No…Not again. Instinctively, I brought my knee up, driving it as hard as I could into his groin. I yanked my arms free and thrust the heel of my right palm up under his chin. I felt his teeth clack together and his head snap back. He stumbled backwards, dazed.

I turned and threw myself out the door and directly into the path of Mike Garrity, who was charging down the hall. He grabbed my arms to steady me.

“Sandra—are you OK?” His eyes were concerned, searching mine for trouble.

I managed a quick nod but was unable to say anything.

We skipped the elevator and headed down the stairs. Five minutes later, Garrity was driving me in his pickup to a nearby Starbucks so I could collect myself. He bought me a water and a decaf latte and we sat at a small round table in the corner for several long minutes before he finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. I looked up at him, unsure of how to respond. “I shouldn’t have made you go into the room with him. I could have gone to the client without that. Even without that, the footage was good. The audio was good. It would have been more than enough.”

“It’s OK,” I said quietly. I didn’t tell him about my issues with hotel rooms, but he probably knew. Garrity knew me then. He was there six years ago as the investigating detective, standing on the blood-soaked carpet, before either one of us had ever considered becoming private investigators. He knows who I am and what I was.

“As soon as I meet with the client and get paid, I’ll send Billy a check for the job. All right?”

I nodded. “All right.”

We sat in semi-amiable silence until our coffees were finished. Then Garrity drove me back to the hotel for my car. We made sure that Jeremy Knox was nowhere around before I slipped out of Garrity’s pickup and into my Honda.

“You gonna be OK?” he asked.

“You know me,” I said, which didn’t answer his question. I kept the radio off and the windows open on the drive downtown to my little 1940s craftsman bungalow. The warm nighttime spring air in my face helped. I imagined it blowing the events of the evening away so I didn’t bring them into my home with me. They didn’t belong there.

Tyler was already in bed when I came in but Laura was up watching Dancing With the Stars on TV.

“How’d everything go?” she asked.

“Y’know. Fine. Do we have any wine?”

“Fine, huh? Yeah. There’s a half bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.”

I poured myself a full glass. “How was your evening?”

“No problem. Tyler did his homework and we even read a chapter in that mouse book.”

Stuart Little.”

“Right. That’s what I said.”

Laura was ten years older than me but looked twice that. She appeared perpetually worn out, which, in truth, she probably was. She was in the life a lot longer than I was and that lifestyle will definitely chew you up. It certainly chewed her up. It almost literally killed me. Laura’s unkempt brown hair was going noticeably grey but she was unconcerned and made no attempt to hide it. My deal with Laura was free room and board as long as she stayed clean and sober and took care of Tyler whenever I wasn’t around, the occasional evening glass of Chardonnay notwithstanding. My job often had me working weird hours, so I needed to know that Tyler was safe and fed. For the past three and a half years the arrangement had been working out. Knowing Laura as I did, I was keeping my fingers crossed.

I took my wine and tiptoed to Tyler’s room. I quietly opened the door and slipped inside. He was visible in the dull blue glow of the crescent moon nightlight. He was lying in his bed, eyes closed, lips just barely parted. He seemed so motionless that I momentarily panicked and laid my hand on his chest to reassure myself that he was still breathing. His six-year-old chest gently rose and fell, and I felt the tender rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat beneath his ribcage. I brushed a blonde lock of hair away from his face and lightly kissed his cheek.

I crawled across the room and leaned my back against his dresser, pulling my knees tight up against my chest. Sipping my wine in the darkened room, I spent the next thirty minutes gazing silently at the very best thing I have ever done, a truly good thing to have come from a very bad life.

 

Chapter 2

The next morning, I walked Tyler the several blocks to the downtown Catholic school where he was in first grade. I loved that time with him. We held hands when we crossed the brick-lined streets, the dappled morning light peeking through the branches of the tall live oaks that hung over the sidewalks. Tyler wore his little white polo shirt with navy shorts and carried a Spider-Man backpack secured over his shoulders. He told me about what happened the day before or what he was looking forward to that day. Music, art, recess, and science were his favorites this week. He loved his teacher and, as far as I could tell, she loved him back. All his days were filled with wide-eyed possibility and I so envied that. I tried to let just a little rub off on me. But my emotional callouses were so thick. Sometimes I felt like I would never regain any sense of wide-eyed possibility. If anyone could ever bring that back to me, it was Tyler.

Spending that time with Tyler had put me behind schedule. When I finally got into the office, Billy was already there. Billy was always already there. He was smoking, as usual. I made a big show of coughing and waving my hands when I came in.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Good morning to you, too,” I replied.

“Just ‘cause you’re my sister doesn’t mean I won’t fire you.” His usual greeting.

“I know, Billy. But if you do that, who else would ever bring you Munchkins?” I plopped a carton of donut holes down on his desk. He offered a noncommittal grunt, which was how he expressed gratitude. He immediately popped two donut holes into his mouth.

“Did you finish that job for Garrity?” he said through his mouthful of Munchkins.

“Yep.”

“You get the goods?” Another donut hole.

“Yep.”

Another noncommittal grunt. Billy was my older brother by more than six years. His wiry black hair was noticeably thinning and he was carrying forty pounds more than he should, but somehow, he made it work. Although he acted gruff, he had always been there for me and took care of me after everything happened six years ago. Truth be told, he had always taken care of me. He was the only one who had ever taken care of me. He was the one who made sure that Ryan and I were fed, that our clothes were washed, that we went to school most days when Mom was gone or unable to get out of bed.

He was also the one who, a few years ago, encouraged me to get my Florida private investigator CC intern license, which allowed me to work for him under his MA license. He needed the help and I needed a job. I liked to think that it’s worked out well for both of us.

Billy wasn’t flashy and neither was his agency. We operated out of a nondescript office in a low-rent commercial building in a quasi-dodgy part of town. For his whole life, he always wanted to be a P.I. and, to his credit, the success of Class A Investigators was due entirely to him. The secret of his success was that he wasn’t afraid of the grunt work—the worker’s comp cases, the insurance and law firm stuff, process serving, even working the computer databases for hours at a time. And I was happy to take whatever assignments he gave me.

But he had never forced me to do the cheater stings. I did those voluntarily. It was one of the few areas where I could bring some added value to the agency. For as long as I was young enough and my looks held, I could occasionally dangle myself in front of unfaithful men to bring in revenue. It was usually easy money. When I first started doing the cheater stings, I wondered about the ethics of entrapment. But it quickly became clear that in the vast majority of the cases there was a very good reason why the spouse or girlfriend was suspicious. Simply put, their husbands or boyfriends were philandering pigs. And, every once in a while, the guy turned out to be a decent human being and stayed faithful. I was always secretly glad when I got rejected. But, of course, I told myself that it was because he loved his wife and not because he found me unattractive.

Usually, the stings went off without any complication. Last night’s flashback in the hotel room was an anomaly. The room looked so much like that same room six years ago. I hadn’t had an episode like that in a long time. I would need to be more careful next time.

After Billy swallowed what might have been his twelfth donut hole, he tilted his head at me, remembering something. “Hey. You got a call. Before. She wouldn’t leave a message with me. She only wanted your voice mail.”

“OK. Thanks.” I slid behind my desk and punched in the code to access my system voice mail. In another moment, I heard a woman’s recorded voice. Her accent was southern, almost twangy. She spoke haltingly, nervously, like she was looking over her shoulder.

“Hey, Diamond. It’s me. Collette. Collette Green…Y’know, Glitter? Listen, I need to talk to you about somethin’. It’s important. Real important. I’m gonna be at the Florida Mall at lunchtime, around noon. Maybe you can meet me in the food court. I just…I need your help. I don’t know who else to call. Please. OK? I’ll, uh, I’ll see you then. OK. Bye.”

I held the phone receiver frozen against my ear for an extended moment. Hey, Diamond…It had been a long, long time since anyone had called me that and, after my flashback last night, the timing was eerie. Just the mention of that name made my throat go dry. I listened to the message again before deleting it. I remembered Collette Green. We had shared an apartment for a few months with several other girls back in…Jeez, was it seven years ago or eight? She was younger than me by a few years, maybe more than a few. She was a new girl, fresh off the streets. A runaway who had made her way south from Georgia or South Carolina. I thought it might have been an Atlanta suburb. She had acted tough but I knew she was scared. She had asked me a lot of questions. If she was still in the life, she certainly wouldn’t be new anymore.

Billy had me doing filing and employment background check paperwork all morning but I remained distracted by the message. I didn’t know how she found me here, but I supposed it wasn’t that hard. I wasn’t hiding.

Hey, Diamond…

I told myself to ignore it. I had cut ties with all aspects of my former life. I couldn’t meet Collette at the mall. There was nothing she could say that would be good for me. Whatever she wanted to tell me would only be bad, would only bring some ghost from the past back into my new life to haunt me. My life was different now. I had Tyler. I was different now.

But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I needed to confront her. To confront what she represented. Last night’s episode had proven that, in some way, I was still not over what happened to me. The blood stains were still there, even if I was the only one who could see them. Maybe facing Collette would help me remove those stains, exorcise my hidden demons.

Or maybe I was just rationalizing my own curiosity. Because, as much as I hated to admit it, I was curious.

Either way, I knew that I would be eating lunch at the Florida Mall food court today.

 

***

 

I spotted her easily. Her hair was darker than I remembered, dyed perhaps a little too black. Unnaturally black. She was picking at some lo mein and looking up occasionally. I remained out of sight for a few minutes, watching her, watching the people who passed by her, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate setup for me. But then I told myself I was being paranoid. A setup by whom? For what reason? I couldn’t think of any. But, nevertheless, I got the sensation that something ominous was waiting for me at that small table with the paper napkins and Styrofoam cup of Diet Coke.

Even from this distance across the food court I could see that she was wearing too much makeup. Her eye shadow was too blue and her lips were too red. She was still pretty, though, under all that makeup. She sipped from her drink and went back to her noodles. I decided that she was probably alone and stepped out from around the corner where I was spying on her. I approached the table.

“Hello, Collette,” I said.

She looked up from her food and offered a shaky smile. “Hey, Diamond.”

“Don’t call me that. That’s not my name.”

She considered me for a brief moment and her face registered concern at making a faux pas. “Sorry. Sandy.” Her accent was dripping with sugary southern syrup. In my hypersensitive mind, I translated her likely sincere apology into It doesn’t matter what I call you. I still know who you are. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

I sat across from her.

“Aren’t you eating?” she asked.

I had no appetite. All desire for food left my body as soon as I heard her message earlier today. “Maybe later,” I said. “So, how are you?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Still doin’ that thing we do.”

She had included me in the life I left long ago by using the word “we.” I almost corrected her but decided to let it go. I didn’t want to seem overly defensive.

She was probably only in her mid-twenties, but somehow she looked older. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t her skin, which was almost flawless. No lines at the corners of her mouth. Her hair, while probably dyed, was cut well and looked good. Her clothes—a simple but nice t-shirt and a pair of jeans—looked almost stylish. But then I saw it. Her eyes. Her eyes were old. They were tired and they had seen too much.

“You look good, honey,” she said. “Really.”

“Thanks.” I took a deep breath. “I almost didn’t come.”

“I wondered whether or not you would. But I’m glad you did.”

“Why?”

“Because I need your help.”

And there it was. This was the part that would end up being bad. I didn’t yet know how, but somehow, some way, there would be trouble for me.

“Go on,” I said.

“There’s this new girl, a little Asian thing, I think from Thailand or the Philippines or Vietnam or somewhere. Her online name is Spice but her real name is Naomi. At least that’s what everyone calls her. Naomi Nguyen, which ain’t easy to pronounce, believe you me. But she taught me how to say it right.” I could see that Collette was nervous. She was talking just a bit too quickly, looking down at her food. She tried sipping again from her drink, which was empty. “Anyway, she’s been gone for over a week now and I’m worried. We’re all worried.”

“And…?”

“…and…we need somebody to find her.”

“Me.”

“That’s right.”

I snorted derisively. “You want me to find some poor girl so I can bring her back to a life of prostitution? Hell, if she got away, good for her. And even if I did find her, I’d give her some money and help her to keep going. You’re asking for help from the wrong girl, Collette.”

Collette shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. We’re afraid something happened to her. We’re afraid maybe, you know…”

Ah. I got it now. She thought that this Naomi girl might be dead. I sat back in my seat, feeling like a heavy stone was settling in the pit of my stomach.

“Why do you think that?” I asked, my words careful and deliberate. “How do you know she didn’t just run away? It’s not exactly rare. Lots do.” I looked at her meaningfully, reminding her of her own runaway past.

“Because, she never once talked about it. As far I know, she had nowhere to run to. She left all her stuff. Everything. All her clothes. Her makeup. Jewelry. Her shoes.”

I shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time a girl took off, leaving everything behind. Maybe a social worker found her. Maybe getting away was more important than shoes.”

“Yeah. I know. But…” She took another sip from her empty cup. “See, she has this stuffed animal. A rabbit. I swear, she loves this thing like she’s three years old or something. I think maybe her mother gave it to her when she was little. Anyway, she sleeps with it every night. Holds it when she’s on the couch watching TV. There was this one time when she couldn’t find it and she freaked out. And I mean freaked. We finally found it in the dirty laundry but by then she was hysterical, in tears. I mean, she was literally shaking.”

“Okay…” I said, knowing what was coming next. Collette reached down and pulled a dingy stuffed animal from her oversized purse. It was a mottled tan rabbit with floppy arms, legs, and feet. She placed it gingerly on the table, almost as if she might break it. I sighed and lifted it up, squeezing it slightly. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that she would never leave Mr. Cottontail here behind, right?”

“Yeah. Except his name is Thỏ. That’s what she calls him. I think it means bunny or something.”

I held Thỏ closer and peered into his shiny black button eyes. “I don’t know, Collette…”

“I have money,” she said quickly. “All the girls pitched in. Well, most did. We can pay you.”

“I just…it’s complicated.” I looked across the mall. Of course, at that moment, I happened to see three young Asian tourist girls walking by, shopping bags filled with American goodies. “What about Omar?” I asked. “Is he still around?”

“Yeah… But you know Omar ain’t gonna spend any time or money looking for her. To him, girls come and go. He’s probably already got someone to replace her. And then, there’s what he’ll do to her if he does find her. You remember. He’ll probably make an example out of her. Runnin’ away costs him money and makes him look bad to his partner. We need to find her first, if she can be found.”

I sighed, watching the Asian tourists disappear into a candle store. “I don’t know, Collette…”

“Sandy, please. We need you. You’re the only one who can help. You know we can’t go to the police. Plus…” She took yet another nervous sip from the empty cup, then looked down, avoiding my gaze. “You, of all people, know… The last time we saw her she was heading out to meet a client. But she never came back.” Collette looked up and directly into my eyes. “That could’ve been you, honey. We both know it. And if it had been, you would’ve wanted someone to look for you. To care.”

Collette’s words hit me like a concussive blast. Although I remained still and calm on the outside, inside I was psychically thrown back against a wall. That could’ve been you. She was right, of course. I could have easily disappeared that night six years ago and never been heard from again. Would anyone have cared? I honestly didn’t know. Maybe my brothers. Maybe. Perhaps one or two of the other girls. That was it. But no one would have searched for me. I didn’t think that with any sense of self-pity. It was simply a fact. I would have vanished and faded from everyone’s memory. My existence would have been forgotten like the fading ripples on the surface of a pond. Just another anonymous hooker who vanished. This girl—Naomi—she was alone, probably just a kid, an immigrant, likely brought here illegally for the sole purpose of working the sex trade. Who would know if she simply disappeared? Who would care?

Collette cared enough to offer to pay me to find her. Or least find out what happened to her. To help her, if possible. And if she was in fact already dead, to speak for her and acknowledge her existence by finding out what had happened to her.

Yes, I could’ve been Naomi. Perhaps, in some ways I still was. I gazed again into the black eyes of her rabbit Thỏ. I saw my distorted, twin fish-eye reflections looking back. The toy seemed to be asking me a question, imploring me for an answer.

“Sandy?” Collette said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.”

 

Chapter 3

 

When I was still in the life, there were between four and six of us living in the apartment at any given time. I never knew for sure how many other apartments Omar had and how many girls, but the rumors were that he had one or two other apartments, each housing the same number of girls as my place. This was where we slept and ate, did laundry, watched reality TV, and pretended like we were sisters. But we all knew we were pretending. This was no sorority. We were just killing time between clients.

Omar managed the girls and a business partner I never met fronted for the customers, marketed us on a password-protected website, and ran the finances. A couple of times a week, Omar would send each of us out to the hotels by the gigantic Orange County Convention Center, or by the attractions, sometimes other places around town, to have paid sex with men from out of town. While we would occasionally get a “date” with a local guy, our clientele was almost always the tourist and convention trade. I spent five and a half years in that apartment and in those hotel rooms, my soul withering a little bit for every day that passed.

I always lived in the “A” place. As long as you looked good and kept clean, stayed away from the hard drugs, and knew how to carry yourself, you were still marketable as an escort to the higher dollar clients served by Omar’s secret partner. You were given an exotic moniker such as “Diamond,” got to live in the nice apartment, and had your dates arranged. You had relative freedom to come and go, as long as you made sure you were always on call for dates. You got to keep a decent chunk of your earnings and could drive one of two shared cars. You could even have a bank account. Your value as a high-end call girl to Omar’s partner protected you. However, as soon as your looks started to go, either through age or crystal meth or something else, you were no longer of value to Omar’s partner and were moved down to the “B” place. Omar owned the girls at the “B” place outright without any partner and put them all on the streets, 365 days a year. They walked up and down Orange Blossom Trail in mini-skirts and stilettos and had to meet $300 a day quotas or they got their faces slapped bloody. The lifespan of the girls in the “B” place was only a few years. Some only a few months. You never wanted to get moved to the “B” place.

The girls who started there, never making the cut to live at the “A” place, were almost all runaways, often underage, and desperate to survive. They were all addicted to something. Omar would find them on the streets and prey on their weaknesses and desperation.

Using different tactics, he recruited girls for his partner, and for the “A” place, by cruising the college bars for coeds looking to make easy money and the strip clubs, where he could convince the occasional stripper to take her skills just a little bit further for the promise of a lot more money. Or, he sometimes found girls for the “A” place through referrals, like he found me. A friend from high school was already part of Omar’s stable and convinced me to give it a try. At that point in my life, having just lost a low-end waitress job and way behind on rent, I felt I had nothing more to lose by trying. Little did I know I would lose my soul.

It was an eerie sense of déjà vu when I crossed the threshold into Collette’s apartment. The apartment was different but the girls looked the same, watching TV in sweatpants and tank tops. I could smell the pot smoke as soon as I stepped in. The joint was gone, but the sweet, herbal aroma remained. The drugs were also around when I lived in an apartment like this, but I tried to stay away from them. I was no angel, but I avoided the really bad stuff. I knew that led to the “B” place.

There were three girls in the living room, two on the couch and one on a cheap lounge chair, watching E! on TV. I think I may have recognized one of them. But maybe not. I might as well have been right back there six years ago, it was so familiar. However, I was different now. Older. And the girls seemed so much younger. They looked up at me warily as Collette escorted me in.

“Girls,” Collette said. “This is Sandy.” The girls said nothing. “Sandy Corrigan,” Collette clarified. “She’s the one I told you about. She’s going to find Naomi.”

This got their attention. I stepped further into the apartment and said hello.

“I need to ask you some questions, okay?” I said and pulled a rickety wooden chair from the equally rickety dinette table into the living room. I pressed the TV remote and shut off the E! channel. “What are your names?”

Two of the girls deferred to the one in the middle, on the couch. She was a little older than the other two, African American, with short, close-cropped hair. A lot of the Black girls wore wigs on the job. Her short hair lent itself to wigs.

“My name’s Midnight,” she said. “This is Sunshine.” She indicated the blonde to her right. “And that’s Nasty,” she said nodding at the brunette on her left.

I chewed the inside of my lip and nodded. “Okay. But I’m interested in your real names. Your human being names.”

They blinked at me for a second before the brunette said, “Melissa.”

“Jordan,” said the blonde.

The one called Midnight narrowed her eyes at me. “You used to hook for Omar back in the day, didn’t you?” I didn’t reply. But my silence answered her question. “That’s right. I heard about you. Yeah, I heard all about you. Did you really cut that dude up like they say?” I remained silent. There was no way I was dredging all that up here for this audience. “Yeah…I definitely heard about that. Before I tell you my real name, my human being name, first you tell me your client name. Your online name.”

Collette held up a hand. “Look, Sandy is here trying to help. You don’t need to give her such—”

“It’s OK,” I said. “Diamond. My name was Diamond. But that’s not who I am anymore.”

“Not who you are anymore?” the one called Midnight said. “Girl, you are who you were and you can’t change that. You think changing a name changes who you are? Just because you quit that name don’t mean that the name quit you. So, what, you think you’re better than us now?”

“No,” I said carefully. She was one of those tough girls, hardened even more by the life she led. How could I explain my new sense of self—the purpose that Tyler’s presence had given me? The self-esteem of a legit job? It was as if before I was some sort of caterpillar and now I was growing my wings. But I couldn’t articulate that here in the “A” place. Instead, I simply said, “I’m just…different now. If you don’t want to tell me your name, fine.”

She considered me for a long beat. “Tonya,” she finally said.

I nodded. “So, Tonya, where do you think Naomi is?”

“Me?” Tonya said. “Damn. The girl ran. She couldn’t take the life. She was always…” She hesitated, reaching for the right word. “…miserable. No—worse. Fragile. Always crying about something.”

I searched the eyes of the other two girls—Melissa and Jordan. “Do you think Naomi ran?” I asked them. There was a long pause, as if they didn’t want to publicly contradict Tonya.

“No,” Melissa finally said.

I held her gaze. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Just a feeling. Y’know.”

I turned to the blonde. “What about you, Jordan? Do you think she ran?”

Jordan looked sideways at Tonya and then shook her head slightly. Tonya rolled her eyes.

“How well did you know Naomi?” I asked.

“Well, she hardly ever talked to me,” Tonya said. “I think she had a problem with Black people.”

“No she didn’t,” Melissa said. “You just scare her.”

Tonya twisted her lips. She wasn’t buying it.

I turned to Melissa. “Why do you say that?”

“Cause she’s shy. We share a room, so I probably talk to her more than anyone else. She doesn’t know a lot of English. But she tries. She’s quiet and always homesick real bad. I don’t know how old she is, but I doubt if she’s even sixteen. All I know is that she hates being here and she hates tricking.”

“Which is why she ran,” Tonya said. “Hell, she could’ve made good money. Young, pretty Asian girl. Omar tried. He even gave her some presents after her first few dates. To encourage her. Some earrings. A bracelet. I saw Lindsey wearing them the next day.”

“Lindsey?” I asked.

“Another girl,” Collette explained. “Satin. She’s…out right now.” I nodded, understanding that “out” meant with a client.

“That’s ‘cause she didn’t want them,” Melissa said. “She didn’t want anything to do with hooking or Omar.”

“Then why was she here in the first place?” Tonya pressed.

“That’s a good question,” I added.

“I don’t know the whole story. But I think she might have been taken. Kidnapped or sold or something back in Vietnam. One time I think she said something about her father selling her. But her English is bad and I have a hard time with her accent. She said she was told that she had to do whatever Omar said—to have sex with whoever she was told to—or else someone would kill her whole family back in Vietnam. I think she said she had four younger brothers, parents, grandparents. She was really worried. She cries herself to sleep a lot.”

“So that’s why you don’t think she ran,” I said. “Because if she did, she was afraid that her family back home would be killed.”

Melissa nodded. “She was terrified of that.”

We were all silent for a few moments. Even Tonya looked down, contemplating the mental and physical torture Naomi must have been going through. This story shocked even me. When I was still in the life, in a nondescript apartment not too different from this one, the girls were a lot like me. Runaways or drifters. Down on their luck. Girls from broken homes or with drunk or drug-addicted parents. Girls who had been abused—verbally, physically, and sexually. We were all vulnerable and we all found shelter and protection under the care of Omar and his anonymous partner. He preyed on our weaknesses and exploited us, providing the right amount of money at just the right times, sometimes picking certain girls to sleep with himself. He always provided and protected. Except when he was slapping one of us. Like all pimps, he was also controlling and dangerous when he felt disrespected or if he believed that a girl was holding back and not giving the Johns what they wanted. He expected us to perform, to “take care of business,” as he put it, and make money for him and his secret partner who managed the website and arranged the dates.

However, not once in all my years did I ever hear of Omar buying a girl. He found them on the streets himself and became a grotesque sort of father figure/boyfriend/boss. International human trafficking in that way was a new and dangerous low, even for him. And Naomi’s age was younger than I had ever heard for the “A” place. The “B” place was said to have its share of runaway minors but, to my recollection, I and my “roommates” at the time were all over 18. Yet I had no doubts that what Melissa was sharing was true. I just wondered how Omar got connected with the kind of people who operated international underage trafficking rings. He was a local operation. And could this somehow be related to why Naomi disappeared?

“Do you know where she was going the night you last saw her?” I asked.

Shrugs and shakes of heads.

“A client,” Melissa said. “Omar took her out. I think to I-Drive, but I could be wrong. She couldn’t drive so he took her himself.” I-Drive was shorthand for International Drive, the heart of Orlando’s convention Mecca.

“Do you know which hotel?”

“Sorry.”

“Now, Missy,” Collette said. “Tell us what you know. If you care about Naomi, you gotta tell us.”

“I really don’t know.”

“What about Brenda?” Jordan said, cutting her eyes nervously at Tonya.

“Brenda? Be serious, girl,” Tonya said with a dismissive exhale.

“Who’s Brenda?” I asked.

“Brenda Davis. She was Naomi’s roommate before me,” Melissa said. “She got moved down to the ‘B’ place a few weeks ago. She got strung out on meth kinda bad.”

“Bitch was starting to look like a skeleton,” Tonya said. “That won’t do for the ‘A’ place.”

“You think Brenda might know where she is?” I said.

Melissa shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Why do you think that?”

“They used to talk on the phone a lot. She was kinda like a big sister or aunt or something for Naomi when she first got here. Naomi was real broke up when Brenda got moved.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “You know how I can get in touch with Brenda?”

“I don’t know her number or anything,” Melissa said. “And none of us know where the ‘B’ place is.”

“Ain’t none of us want to know where the ‘B’ place is,” Tonya said.

“So you have no idea how to reach her?”

“You could ask Omar,” Jordan offered.

Tonya looked at her like she just sprouted a third eye. “You’re crazy, girl.”

I had to agree with Tonya on this one. There was no way Omar was going to tell me how to contact Brenda or where the “B” place was. The risk of exposure was too great. Plus, I wasn’t exactly his favorite person. After my own unfortunate situation six years ago, I heard there was a lot of heat brought down on him. While I never gave him up or told the cops anything—I valued my limbs and heartbeat too much—I knew that he had to scramble to move his girls before the cops closed in. It was an expensive pain in the ass for him and he blamed me, regardless of the actual facts of the situation.

“Well,” Collette said hesitantly. “What about the Trail?”

Orange Blossom Trail. Also called the Trail or OBT. Or, more specifically, a relatively short stretch of it running north from Oak Ridge Road up towards Colonial Drive. Orlando’s very own red light district, with seedy strip clubs every other block and low-slung motels boasting hourly rates. That’s where Omar sent his girls from the “B” place to walk the streets.

“You think I would find her there?”

“Where else?” Collette said.

Where else indeed. The four of them gave me a description of Brenda. Medium height, perhaps 5’6”. Brown hair gone flat and stringy with the effects of the crystal meth. A once-shapely figure shrinking to a rail thin husk. Dark sunken eyes. That described half the hookers on OBT. Her online name used to be Misty.

***

Excerpt from Diamond Cut by Thomas B. Cavanagh. Copyright 2024 by Thomas B. Cavanagh. Reproduced with permission from Thomas B. Cavanagh. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Thomas B Cavanagh

Thomas B. Cavanagh is an award-winning crime fiction author whose prior works include Head Games, Prodigal Son, and Murderland. Cavanagh holds a PhD in Texts & Technology from the University of Central Florida and is a graduate of the University of Miami Creative Writing program, where he has been named a distinguished alumnus. Though he now works in higher education, Cavanagh spent many years writing popular children’s television shows for Nickelodeon, The Disney Channel, and elsewhere before teaching at both the undergraduate and graduate level at a number of colleges and universities. Cavanagh is a recipient of the Florida Book Award Gold Medal for popular fiction and was named a Best Novel finalist for the Shamus Award. He lives in Central Florida with his family and two quirky cats.

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Review – One Big Happy Family by Jamie Day #netgalley #onebighappyfamily

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The cover for One Big Happy Family by Jamie Day drew me in. I wasn’t sure it would be mystery enough for me, but I was pleasantly surprised. It had more depth than I originally gave it credit for.

The Bishop Sisters come to the Precipice after the death of their father. Who is going to get what is on their mind. I think most of us have heard how ugly things can get when there’s a lot of money involved, but these sisters have more than money on their mind and someone is determined to bring to the forefront their secrets.

Charley has been working at the Precipice and counts on the paycheck to pay for her Nana and herself. That held a story I never saw coming and I loved it.

We also have a stowaway with a killer story that caught me by surprise.

I will definitely keep my eye out for more from Jamie Day. On the surface her books might seem like light reading, but there is so much more than a colorful cover.

I voluntarily reviewed a free copy of One Big Happy Family by Jamie Day.

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos
4 Stars

The newest, riveting summer suspense by the author of The Block Party, Jamie Day.

The Precipice is a legendary, family-owned hotel on the rocky coast of Maine. With the recent passing of their father, the Bishop sisters—Iris, Vicki, and Faith—have come for the weekend to claim it. But with a hurricane looming and each of the Bishop sisters harboring dangerous secrets, there’s murder in the air—and not everyone who checks into the Precipice will be checking out.

Each sister wants what is rightfully hers, and in the mix is the Precipe’s nineteen-year-old chambermaid Charley Kelley: smart, resilient, older than her years, and in desperate straits.

The arrival of the Bishop sisters could spell disaster for Charley. Will they close the hotel? Fire her? Discover her habit of pilfering from guests? Or even worse, learn that she’s using a guest room to hide a woman on the run.

With razor-sharp wit, heart, thrills, and twists, Jamie Day delivers a unique brand of SUMMERTIME SUSPENSE.

  • Genre: Contemporary, Fiction, Mystery, Suspense, Thrillerfictio
  • 384 pages, Kindle Edition
  • Expected publication July 16, 2024 by St Martin’s Press
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#booksfromthebacklog Winter’s Journey by Kathryn Meyer Griffith @KathrynG64

Books from the Backlog is a fun way to feature some of those neglected books sitting on your bookshelf unread.  If you are anything like me, you might be surprised by some of the unread books hiding in your stacks.

If you would like to join in, swing by Carole’s Random Life in Books.

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A woman takes a dangerous journey in an eighteen-wheeler on icy roads while a murderer stalks her. To keep the bank from repossessing her truck and putting her and her daughter on the street, Loretta Brennan takes a treacherous route to Wyoming with a winter storm approaching. She worries if she can make the deadline and navigate the icy roads since her driving partner husband died in an accident the year before. At a truck stop, Loretta meets handsome hitchhiker Sam Emerson, who helps her out of a bind. She feels compelled to return the favor and offers him a ride to Cheyenne. Blizzards, a series of trucker murders, and a sinister truck haunt them along their route. They grow close despite Loretta’s fear that Sam may be aligned with the killer. Is Sam a good man down on his luck or is she falling in love with a murderer?

  • Genre: Fiction, Mystery, Romance, Suspense, Thriller
  • 300 pages, Kindle Edition
  • First published April 4, 2008 by Kathryn Meyer Griffith

Goodreads Ratings: 4.18 120 ratings 27 reviews

I added Winter’s Journey by Kathryn Meyer Griffith to my TBR on 3.14.13. I have read numerous books of hers and loved them, so it’s a no brainer to add all her books to my TBR. My favorites are her dinosaur series, but she has a great variety of stories.

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