Wednesday, September 30, 2015

The crimes of the past echo in the present...Tear drop by Joanne Clancy. #Excerpt #Mystery #Giveaway


Tear Drop
by Joanne Clancy
Series: Detective Elizabeth Ireland, Book 1
Genre: Mystery/ Police Procedural
Release Date: August 27, 2015



The crimes of the past echo in the present...

Ross Campbell vanished almost a decade ago, and since then nothing has been heard from the serial killer known as Teardrop...until now.

An Irish newspaper receives a chilling letter claiming to be from Campbell, which promises a new reign of terror. As death stalks the dark streets of Cork City, it soon becomes clear to the police and the media that a serial killer is on the loose.

Elizabeth Ireland, a former detective with The Metropolitan Police, was the lead investigator on the original case when Campbell vanished. However, only she believes that Campbell didn’t send the letter.

She embarks upon a frightening psychological journey to uncover the killer's identity, where she's pulled into a lethal game in which the killer sets the rules and waits for her next move. With the crimes of the past echoing in the present, can she find the killer before he comes for her?



Chapter One

The cold rain fell relentlessly, shrouding Cork City in its misty veil. Elizabeth Ireland sat by the window of her favourite coffee shop, where the smell of fresh scones and strong coffee cocooned her from the encroaching winter. The place was quiet and rundown but it was the one place in the city that cherished silence as much as she did.
Elizabeth scanned BBC London's website for any news from home. She glanced up as the door chimed and watched the man violently shake off the rain. A moment before their eyes met, she averted her gaze, knowing he was looking for her; Brendan Mahon didn't have the intelligence or subtlety to feign an accidental meeting. She ignored him, hoping that he'd take the hint and leave her in peace, instead he headed straight for her table.
"Good morning, Elizabeth," he said, revealing a smile that didn't reach his hazel eyes.
"Morning," she said curtly. She watched him run his fingers through his dirty blond hair, in a way that someone with a cruel sense of humour must have told him was attractive.
"It's a day for the ducks," he said.
She shrugged and turned back to her iPad.
Brendan Mahon was a journalist with The Examiner, one of Ireland's leading newspapers. When his editor couldn't find anyone with anything more incisive to say, Brendan was handy to fill a column or two. Elizabeth had never liked him, and she had no problem making her feelings known.
"May I join you?" he asked.
"No.'' She sighed at his predictability.
He laughed and pulled up a chair anyway. It amazed her how he always took her blatant rudeness for sarcasm. He placed a brown envelope on the table between them. She didn't give him the satisfaction of looking at it. If he wanted something from her, he’d have to ask.
"Would you like anything?" he asked instead.
"I've been coming here most mornings for the past nine years, Brendan. I think I can order for myself."
"What did you have to eat?" he asked, ignoring her brusque tone. He picked up the menu, and she closed her iPad, already missing her lost solitude.
"Same again, please, Nora," Elizabeth said to the waitress.
"I haven't seen you in here before," Nora smiled down at him.
"This is Brendan, a reporter from The Examiner.''
Nora's tired eyes lit up. "A reporter? How exciting."
Brendan leaned back in his chair and basked in the unexpected attention.
"He'll have an Americano and a scone, please," Elizabeth interrupted, not in the mood for flirting at that hour of the morning.
"Coming right up." Nora scurried away.
"Let's skip the niceties and get straight to the point, shall we? What can I do for you, Brendan?"
"I need your help."
"What sort of help?"
"I have a story."
"It must be big news if you're talking to me."
"It's big."
She glanced at the envelope that sat tantalisingly between them, and silently cursed for showing an interest. "Spit it out!" she snapped.
"A letter was delivered to my office."
"For you?"
"Yes, for me; it happens, occasionally. It arrived a few days ago. Only my editor and I know about it. We want to publish it, but first we want to check the facts."
"And you'd like me to check them out?"
"Yes, if you're interested." He smirked.
"So I'd be a consultant?"
"You'd be our expert. You'd write a few background and follow-up pieces with your impressions and opinions. You'd be paid, of course."
"Of course you'd bloody well pay me. I won't write for your rag for less than twenty grand."
"Don't be daft." He sat bolt upright. "That's crazy money."
"Okay, fifteen, but that's my final offer."
"My editor's a reasonable man. He'll be more than happy to offer you a fair deal."
"Okay," she said, relenting. "I'm interested but why me? I'm sure I wasn't top of your list." She averted her gaze from the sight of him stuffing a scone into his mouth as if it had been days since he'd last eaten, then again, maybe it had been days; he was certainly looking skinnier than usual.
"Someone you used to know sent the letter." Time stood still. She knew what he was about to say. The name chimed in her head before his lips formed the words. "Ross Campbell aka Teardrop." She glanced out the window at the rain and the dark streets, longing to close her eyes and make Brendan disappear. "Did you hear me?" He searched her face that had turned pale beneath her tan.
"I heard you." She gulped her coffee, willing her face to return to normal. She looked at him over her cup, but he didn't seem to realise that anything was wrong. For once, she was grateful for his stupidity.
"Do you remember him?" he asked.
"Of course I remember him. How could I forget?"
Nine years previously, she had arrested Ross Campbell on suspicion of the murder of five women in London. The killer had carved a teardrop on the victims’ faces and left a note with quotes from the Bible on their bodies, shoved inside their underwear or grazing their skin in a final, vicious act of intimacy.
Campbell was picked up in one of London's notorious red light districts. Licence plate checks proved that he'd been in the area on the nights when two victims had disappeared, DNA evidence linked him to their deaths.
Predictably, he protested his innocence, hounding newspapers and some influential acquaintances with his plight, but he was charged with the murders. However, the prosecution's case against him collapsed when Elizabeth was falsely accused of planting DNA evidence to secure a conviction.
When she won her case for defamation against The Met, she decided to retire to Ireland, where she had spent many happy childhood summers. Shortly afterwards, Campbell vanished, and no one had heard from the killer known as Teardrop, until now.
"Ross Campbell is dead," she said, realising that the silence had gone on too long.
"Vanished isn't the same as dead," Brendan replied.
"Nobody's seen or heard from him in almost a decade. People like Campbell are noticed, whatever they do; they can't help it. Someone somewhere would have seen him."
"Maybe not. I've read about serial killers lying dormant for years."
"Trust me, serial killers can't stop killing."
"Not according to the letter." He pushed the envelope towards her. “Apparently, he's alive and well."
"Does it explain why he's suddenly reappeared?"
"He wants to set the record straight."
"Why did he contact you?"
He looked at her indignantly. Elizabeth stifled a smile. She knew all about the book on serial killers that Brendan had recently written, but she wanted to see him squirm. The book was mostly sensation and an insight into Brendan's uninspired mind. "He wants to correct some facts in my book and he wants us to publish his letter."
She burst out laughing. "Are you seriously planning on having a serial killer write a column in your newspaper? Maybe he should take over the problem page. I know: he could be your new resident agony uncle."
"Keep it down," he hissed, glancing over his shoulder at Nora who was busy behind the counter. "We need to keep this quiet for now."
"I suppose it's good publicity for your book." She gazed out the window at the city that was slowly coming to life. The first of the early-morning commuters were venturing out. "What else is in the letter?"
"He says he'll kill again."
"Any details?"
"He gave a name."
"Does he say when or where?"
"Not really. The letter's vague, but he says it will happen in Cork."
"Have you taken the letter to the police?"
"Not yet. It could be a hoax. Don't look at me like I'm some moron. This is a good story. We'll pass it on to the police when we're ready."
"How do I fit into your little plan?"
"We'd like you to read the letter and tell us if it's genuine. You know Campbell."
"I knew him: past tense."
"Okay, you knew him. Sorry. You knew him better than most. Read the letter and tell us if it's him, that's all we want to know." He paused, waiting for her reply, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Besides, his use of "we" and "us" was starting to irritate her. Clearly, he was getting too friendly with "the powers that be", as he liked to call them. If it meant so much to him, she'd make him beg.
"Please, Elizabeth. Will you read it?"
"I'll think about it, that's all I'm promising. Call me later."
"It'll be worth your while. This is front-page news. There'll be big money in it for all of us."
"I thought you weren't sure about printing it yet."
"Well, you know how it goes."
She knew.
"I have to go." She stood up and pulled on her black parka. She was tall and striking. Her dark looks, which she'd inherited from her Italian mother, made her exotic among the mostly pale-skinned, freckled Irish. Her nose was slightly crooked from a childhood accident, and there was an edginess about her, like a bird about to swoop on its prey.
"Don't forget the letter.'' He picked it up reverently. “Promise you won't show it to anyone?"
"Of course I won't show it to anyone." She reached for the envelope in irritation.
"Promise me?"
"I promise. Give me the bloody envelope."
He handed it to her solemnly, and she grabbed it, stuffing it unceremoniously into her cavernous bag. She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and went outside into the rain, leaving Brendan to pay.
She sensed him watching as she forced herself not to run. There were only a few more steps before she turned the corner, out of sight. No one believed that Campbell was dead because only she knew the truth. Campbell had haunted her from the last moment she had seen him. He wasn't coming back. He was dead, and she knew it because she'd killed him herself.




Joanne Clancy is a Kindle All-Star and an Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award quarter-finalist. Joanne is an Irish mystery writer, from Cork, Ireland. She is an avid reader, a self-confessed Kindle addict, and a tea fiend!

Her books combine murder, mystery, and suspense with a twist of psychological drama.

Her crime books have consistently hit the Amazon paid bestseller lists in Crime, Thrillers & Mystery.

Joanne's latest release is TEAR DROP (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series, Book 1). She is currently working on her twenty-sixth book, INSINCERE (Detective Elizabeth Ireland Crime Thriller Series, Book 2) which is available to pre-order now at Amazon and will be released in October 2015.

Sign up for Joanne's mailing list at JoanneClancy.com to receive three best-selling mystery books for FREE!

BOOKS BY JOANNE CLANCY
**Crime Novels:
*Tear Drop (Detective Elizabeth Ireland, Book 1)
*Insincere (Detective Elizabeth Ireland, Book 2)

*Open Your Eyes
*Return to Me
*I Should Have Told You
*Before I'm Gone
*The Gift
*The Detective's Wife
*If You Tell Anyone
*Traceless

*Killing Time
*Watched
*A Daughter's Secret
*Killer Friends
*Shattered
*The Offering

**Romance Novels
*The Unfaithful Series:
*Unfaithfully Yours
*Revenge
*Web of Deceit

*The Secrets & Lies Trilogy:
*Secrets & Lies
*Aftermath
*Redemption

*Unforgettable Embrace
*The Wedding Day







Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Cover Reveal: One with the Darkness by Susan Squires. #Regency #Paranormal #Romance

BOOK INFORMATION

TITLE – One With the Darkness SERIES – The Companion Series AUTHOR – Susan Squires GENRE – Regency Paranormal Romance PUBLICATION DATE – October 6, 2015 LENGTH – 341 pages PUBLISHER – Independent COVER ARTIST – Rebecca Poole, Dreams2Media


BOOK SYNOPSIS

New York Times bestselling author Susan Squires invites you into the world of two lovers who share a seductive past and a dangerous desire…
DIVIDED BY CENTURIES
Contessa Donnatella di Poliziano has power, beauty, and—as a vampire—eternal life. Her overwhelming regret is a mistake she made centuries ago when she chose not to transform her one true love, Jergan, into a vampire too. Donnatella’s choice has deprived her of the only true love she’s ever known. But just as all seems lost, the discovery of a 300-year-old note leads her to a gift left by her old friend, Leonardo da Vinci: a machine to take her back in time to rewrite the history of her heart…
UNITED BY OTHERWORLDLY DESIRE
Once back in time, Donnatella’s memory of the intervening years is lost. Yet when she sees the breathtaking barbarian slave, Jergan, from afar, she feels like she has always known him. The instant attraction she feels draws them together. For Donnatella, the romance is tantalizing, awakening a passion that feels both old and new. But as the two fall in love again, a new danger threatens to tear them apart. Now Jergan’s love for Donnatella will be tested in a most perilous way—and if he fails, the two lovers will be separated again…for eternity.
“Squires combines extreme sensuality with dangerous drama.”
Romantic Times BOOKreviews “ONE WITH THE DARKNESS is one of the finest, innovative vampire novels I've read.” --Romance Junkies

BUY & TBR LINKS



AUTHOR BIO

Susan Squires is a New York Times bestselling author known for breaking the rules of romance writing. Whatever her time period, or subject, some element of the paranormal always creeps in. She has won multiple contests for published novels and reviewer's choice awards. Publisher's Weekly named Body Electric one of the year’s most influential mass market books and One with the Shadows a Best book of the Year. Time for Eternity, the first in the DaVinci time travel series, received a starred review from Publisher's Weekly.
Susan has a Masters in English literature from UCLA and once toiled as an executive for a Fortune 500 company. Now she lives at the beach in Southern California with her husband, Harry, a writer of supernatural thrillers, and two very active Belgian Sheepdogs, who like to help her write by putting their chins on the keyboarddddddddddddddddddddddd.

AUTHOR FOLLOW LINKS


This Cover Reveal Was Organized & Hosted By:
Special Thank You To Carly's Book Reviews For The HTML Creation

Book Blast and Giveaway: Captured by Terri J Haynes. Now available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.


Book Title:  Captured

ASIN: B015DTKUX4

Publication Date: September 22, 2015

Genre: Christian Fiction/Romantic Suspense

Author: Terri Haynes

About The Book  




FBI agent Will Anderson is working his last human trafficking case before he leaves his painful past. Social activist Savannah Elliott thinks she has escaped hers by helping human trafficking victims regain their freedom. When a case unites them, can they overcome their scars and find love.



About The Author

Terri J. Haynes, a native Baltimorean, is a homeschool mom, writer, prolific knitter, freelance graphic artist and former Army wife (left the Army, not the husband). She loves to read, so much that when she was in elementary school, she masterminded a plan to be locked in a public library armed with only a flashlight to read all the books and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As she grew, her love for writing grew as she tried her hand at poetry, articles, speeches and fiction. She is storyteller at heart. Her passion is to draw readers in the story world she has created and to bring laughter and joy to their lives.
Terri is a 2010 American Christian Fiction Writers Genesis contest finalist, and a 2012 semi-finalist. She is also a 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarterfinalist. Her publishing credits include Cup of Comfort for Military Families, Crosswalk.com, the Secret Place Devotional, Urbanfaith.com, Vista Devotional, and Publisher’s Weekly.
Terri holds a Bachelor's Degree in Theology, a Master's degree in Theological Studies and a certificate in creative writing and graphic design, meeting the minimal requirements of being a geek. She and her husband pastor a church where she serves as executive pastor and worship leader. Terri lives in Maryland with her three wonderful children and her husband, who often beg her not to kill of their favorite characters.

Social Links
Website: http://www.terrijhaynes.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TerriJHaynesAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TerriJHaynes

Buy Links

Tour hosted by Write Now Literary www.wnlbooktours.com
Follow the tour: http://wnlbooktours.com/?p=5730
How to enter: Please enter using the rafflecopter widget below.
Contest code below~~~~~ Please include raffle code with post

Contest ends: October 9, 2015 11:59 pm
Open: Internationally

Terms and Conditions: NO PURCHASE NECESSARY TO ENTER OR WIN. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW. A winner will be randomly drawn through the Rafflecopter widget and will be contacted by email within 48 hours after the giveaway ends. The winner will then have 72 hours to respond. If the winner does not respond within 72 hours, a new draw will take place for a new winner. Odds of winning will vary depending on the number of eligible entries received. This contest is in no way sponsored, endorsed or administered by, or associated with Facebook. This giveaway is sponsored by the author Terri J. Haynes and is hosted and managed by Paulette from Write Now Literary Book Tours. If you have any additional questions – feel free to send an email to Paulette @ pharperjohnson@gmail.com


Thursday, September 24, 2015

Developing Minds: An American Ghost Story By Jonathan LaPoma #literary #fiction #Americanschoolsystem



Developing Minds: An American Ghost Story
By Jonathan LaPoma
Genre: Literary Fiction

DEVELOPING MINDS: AN AMERICAN GHOST STORY follows a group of recent college graduates who struggle with feelings of alienation and their addictions as they try to survive a year of teaching at two dysfunctional Miami public schools.

A poetic and insightful coming-of-age novel, DEVELOPING MINDS is centered on 24-year-old Luke Entelechy, an aspiring writer who sees his creative output suffer when he begins teaching at one of Miami's most challenging middle schools. As the year progresses, however, Luke begins to relate to the neglect and abuse his students suffer, and is faced with a haunting decision: continue to let his dark past destroy him, or rise above the struggle to realize his potential as an artist and a real human being.

Equal parts disturbing and humorous, DEVELOPING MINDS offers a brutally honest look at the American public school system and the extreme measures many teachers take to cope with working in it.


Author Bio

Jonathan LaPoma is an award-winning novelist, screenwriter, songwriter, and poet from Buffalo, NY. In 2005, he received a BA in history and a secondary education credential from the State University of New York at Geneseo, and he traveled extensively throughout the United States and Mexico after graduating. These experiences have become the inspiration for much of his writing, which often explores themes of alienation and misery as human constructions that can be overcome through self-understanding and the acceptance of suffering. His five feature-length screenplays have won over 40 awards/honors at various international screenwriting competitions, and his novel DEVELOPING MINDS: AN AMERICAN GHOST STORY is a finalist in the 2015 Stargazer Literary Prizes for best Visionary and Metaphysical Fiction. He lives in San Diego and teaches at a public secondary school.


Website: www.jonlapoma.com


Wednesday, September 23, 2015

What happens when a snarky force meets a younger hot object? Sparks fly. Kick save and a beauty by SC Ryan.





BLURB:


What happens when a snarky force meets a younger hot object?

Sparks fly

Chrissy Andersen is the reigning Snark Queen. 

Known for her quick wit and her tendency to say exactly what’s on her mind, she finds herself the object of Derrick Steele’s interest.

Derrick is a fast rising star in the NHL.

Known for his good looks and his goaltending skills, he finds himself falling fast for the combination of Chrissy’s looks, wit and sarcasm.

Snarky vs. Smooth, Old vs. Young, Woman vs. Man

What could possibly go wrong?





Media Links:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authors.c.ryan?fref=ts










LS Hawker is on tour with her latest book: The drowning game. #Suspense #Thriller #Excerpts




Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Release Date: September 22, 2015

BLURB:

They said she was armed.
They said she was dangerous.
They were right.
Petty Moshen spent eighteen years of her life as a prisoner in her own home, training with military precision for everything, ready for anything. She can disarm, dismember, and kill—and now, for the first time ever, she is free.
Her paranoid father is dead, his extreme dominance and rules a thing of the past, but his influence remains as strong as ever. When his final will reveals a future more terrible than her captive past, Petty knows she must escape—by whatever means necessary.
But when Petty learns the truth behind her father's madness—and her own family—the reality is worse than anything she could have imagined. On the road and in over her head, Petty's fight for her life has just begun.
Fans of female-powered thrillers will love debut author LS Hawker and her suspenseful tale of a young woman on the run for her future…and from the nightmares of her past.



COME CELEBRATE WITH LS HAWKER AT HER RELEASE PARTY https://www.facebook.com/events/856594864448466/



Purchase links è $1.99

 AMAZON *  B&N  *   iBooks  *   



CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday 
  
Sirens and the scent of strange men drove Sarx and Tesla into a frenzy of barking and pacing as they tried to keep the intruders off our property without the aid of a fence. Two police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance were parked on the other side of the dirt road. The huddled cops and firemen kept looking at the house.

Dad’s iPhone rang and went on ringing. I couldn’t make myself answer it. I knew it was the cops outside calling to get me to open the front door, but asking me to allow a group of strangers inside seemed like asking a pig to fly a jet. I had no training or experience to guide me. I longed to get the AK-47 out of the basement gun safe, even though it would be me against a half-dozen trained law men.

“Petty Moshen.” An electric megaphone amplified the man’s voice outside.

The dogs howled at the sound of it, intensifying further the tremor that possessed my entire body. I hadn’t shaken like this since the night Dad left me out on the prairie in a whiteout blizzard to hone my sense of direction.

“Petty, call off the dogs.”

I couldn’t do it.

“I’m going to dial up your father’s cell phone again, and I want you to answer it.”

Closing my eyes, I concentrated, imagining those words coming out of my dad’s mouth, in his voice. The iPhone vibrated. I pretended it was my dad, picked it up, hit the answer button and pressed it to my ear.

“This is Sheriff Bloch,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “We have to come in and talk to you about your dad.”

I cleared my throat again. “I need to do something first,” I said, and thumbed the end button. I headed down to the basement.

Downstairs, I got on the treadmill, cranked up the speed to ten miles an hour and ran for five minutes, flat-out, balls to the wall. This is what Detective Deirdre Walsh, my favorite character on TV’s Offender NYC, always did when emotions overwhelmed her. No one besides me and my dad had ever come into our house before, so I needed to steady myself.  

I jumped off and took the stairs two at a time, breathing hard, sweating, my legs burning, but steadier. I popped a stick of peppermint gum in my mouth. Then I walked straight to the front door the way Detective Walsh would—fearlessly, in charge, all business. I flung the door open and shouted, “Sarx! Tesla! Off! Come!”

They both immediately glanced over their shoulders and came loping toward me. I noticed another vehicle had joined the gauntlet on the other side of the road, a brand-new tricked-out red Dodge Ram 4x4 pickup truck. Randy King, wearing a buff-colored Stetson, plaid shirt, Lee’s, and cowboy boots, leaned against it. All I could see of his face was a black walrus mustache. He was the man my dad had instructed me to call if anything ever happened to him. I’d seen Randy only a couple of times but never actually talked to him until today.

The dogs sat in front of me, panting, worried, whimpering. I reached down and scratched their ears, thankful that Dad had trained them like he had. I straightened and led them to the one-car garage attached to the left side of the house. They sat again as I raised the door and signaled them inside. They did not like this one bit—they whined and jittered—but they obeyed my command to stay. I lowered the door and turned to face the invasion.

As if I’d disabled an invisible force field, all the men came forward at once: the paramedics and firemen carrying their gear boxes, the cops’ hands hovering over their sidearms. I couldn’t look any of them in the eye, but I felt them staring at me as if I were an exotic zoo animal or a serial killer.

The man who had to be the sheriff walked right up to me, and I stepped back palming the blade I keep clipped to my bra at all times. I knew it was unwise to reach into my hoodie, even just to touch the Baby Glock in my shoulder holster.

“Petty?” he said.

“Yes sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on the clump of yellow, poisonous prairie ragwort at my feet.

“I’m Sheriff Bloch. Would you show us in, please?”

“Yes sir,” I said, turning and walking up the front steps. I pushed open the screen and went in, standing aside to let in the phalanx of strange men. My breathing got shallow and the shaking started up. My heart beat so hard I could feel it in my face, and the bump on my left shoulder—scar tissue from a childhood injury—itched like crazy. It always did when I was nervous.

The EMTs came in after the sheriff.

“Where is he?” one of them asked. I pointed behind me to the right, up the stairs. They trooped up there carrying their cases. The house felt too tight, as if there wasn’t enough air for all these people.

Sheriff Bloch and a deputy walked into the living room. Both of them turned, looking around the room, empty except for the grandfather clock in the corner. The old thing had quit working many years before, so it was always three-seventeen in this house.

“Are you moving out?” the deputy asked.

“No,” I said, and then realized why he’d asked. All of our furniture is crowded in the center of each room, away from the windows.

Deputy and sheriff glanced at each other. The deputy walked to one of the front windows and peered out through the bars.

“Is that bulletproof glass?” he asked me.

“Yes sir.”

They glanced at each other again.

“Have anyplace we can sit?” Sheriff Bloch said.

I walked into our TV room, the house’s original dining room, and they followed. I sat on the couch, which gave off dust and a minor-chord spring squeak. I pulled my feet up and hugged my knees.

“This is Deputy Hencke.”

The deputy held out his hand toward me. I didn’t take it, and after a beat he let it drop.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. He had a blond crew cut and the dark blue uniform.

He went to sit on Dad’s recliner, and it happened in slow motion, like watching a knife sink into my stomach with no way to stop it.

“No!” I shouted.

Nobody but Dad had ever sat in that chair. It was one thing to let these people inside the house. It was another to allow them to do whatever they wanted.

He looked around and then at me, his face a mask of confusion. “What? I’m—I was just going to sit—”

“Get a chair out of the kitchen,” Sheriff Bloch said.

The deputy pulled one of the aqua vinyl chairs into the TV room. His hands shook as he tried to write on his little report pad. He must have been as rattled by my outburst as I was.

“Spell your last name for me?”

“M-O-S-H-E-N,” I said.

“Born here?”

“No,” I said. “We’re from Detroit originally.”

His face scrunched and he glanced up.

“How’d you end up here? You got family in the area?”

I shook my head. I didn’t tell him Dad had moved us to Saw Pole, Kansas, because he said he’d always wanted to be a farmer. In Saw Pole, he farmed a sticker patch and raised horse flies but not much else.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

He lowered his pencil. “Did you go to school in Niobe? I don’t ever remember seeing you.”

“Dad homeschooled me,” I said.

“What time did you discover the—your dad?” The deputy’s scalp grew pinker. He needed to 
grow his hair out some to hide his tell a little better.

“The dogs started barking about two—”

“Two a.m. or p.m.?”

p.m.,” I said. “At approximately two-fifteen p.m. our dogs began barking at the back door. I responded and found no evidence of attempted B and E at either entry point to the domicile. I retrieved my Winchester rifle from the basement gun safe with the intention of walking the perimeter of the property, but the dogs refused to follow. I came to the conclusion that the disturbance was inside the house, and I continued my investigation on the second floor.”

Deputy Hencke’s pencil was frozen in the air, a frown on his face. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Usually I ask questions and people answer them.”

“I’m telling you what happened.”

“Could you do it in regular English?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“Look,” he said. “Just answer the questions.”

“Okay.”

“All right. So where was your dad?”

“After breakfast this morning he said he didn’t feel good so he went up to his bedroom to lie down,” I said.

All day I’d expected Dad to call out for something to eat, but he never did. So I didn’t check on him because it was nice not having to cook him lunch or dinner or fetch him beers. I’d kept craning my neck all day to get a view of the stairs, kept waiting for Dad to sneak up on me, catch me watching forbidden TV shows. I turned the volume down so I’d hear if he came down the creaky old stairs.

“So the dogs’ barking is what finally made you go up to his bedroom, huh?”
I nodded.

“Those dogs wanted to tear us all to pieces,” the deputy said, swiping his hand back and forth across the top of his crew cut.

I’d always wanted a little lapdog, one I could cuddle, but Dad favored the big breeds. Sarx was a German shepherd and Tesla a rottweiler.

The deputy bent his head to his pad. “What do you think they were barking about?”

“They smelled it,” I said.

He looked up. “Smelled what?”

“Death. Next I knocked on the decedent’s— I mean, Dad’s—bedroom door to request 
permission to enter.”

“So you went in his room,” the deputy said, his pencil hovering above the paper.

“Once I determined he was unable to answer, I went in his room. He was lying on his stomach, on top of the covers, facing away from me, and—he had shorts on … you know how hot it’s been, and he doesn’t like to turn on the window air conditioner until after Memorial Day—and I looked at his legs and I thought, ‘He’s got some kind of rash. I better bring him the calamine lotion,’ but then I remembered learning about libidity on TV, and—”

“Lividity,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s lividity, not libidity, when the blood settles to the lowest part of the body.”

“Guess I’ve never seen it written down.”

“So what did you do then?”

“It was then that I …”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. Up until now, the shock of finding Dad’s body and the terror of letting people in the house had blotted out everything else. But now, the reality that Dad was dead came crashing down on me, making my eyes sting. I recognized the feeling from a long time ago. I was going to cry, and I couldn’t decide whether I was sad that Dad was gone or elated that I was finally going to be free. Free to live the normal life I’d always dreamed of.

But I couldn’t cry, not in front of these strangers, couldn’t show weakness. Weakness was dangerous. I thought of Deirdre Walsh again and remembered what she always did when she was in danger of crying. I cleared my throat.

“It was then that I determined that he was deceased. I estimated the time of death, based on the stage of rigor, to be around ten a.m. this morning, so I did not attempt to resuscitate him,” I said, remembering Dad’s cool, waxy dead skin under my hand. “Subsequently I retrieved his cell phone off his nightstand and called Mr. King.”

“Randy King?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“Because Dad told me to call Mr. King if something ever happened to him.”

The deputy stared at me like I’d admitted to murder. Then he looked away and stood.

“I think the coroner is almost done, but he’ll want to talk to you.”

While I waited, I huddled on the couch, thinking about how my life was going to change. I’d have to buy groceries and pay bills and taxes and do all the things Dad had never taught me how to do.

The coroner appeared in the doorway. “Miss Moshen?” He was a large zero-shaped man in a cardigan.

“Yes?”

He sat on the kitchen chair the deputy had vacated.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I was wary. The deputy had been slight and small, and even though he’d had a sidearm, I could have taken him if I’d needed to. I didn’t know about the coroner, he was so heavy and large.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

I began to repeat my account, but the coroner interrupted me. “You’re not testifying at trial,” 
he said. “Just tell me what happened.”

I tried to do as he asked, but I wasn’t sure how to say it so he wouldn’t be annoyed.

“Did your dad complain of chest pains, jaw pain? Did his left arm hurt?”

I shook my head. “Just said he didn’t feel good. Like he had the flu.”

“Did your dad have high cholesterol? High blood pressure?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was the last time he saw a doctor?” the coroner asked.

“He didn’t believe in doctors.”

“Your dad was only fifty-one, so I’ll have to schedule an autopsy, even though it was 
probably a heart attack. We’ll run a toxicology panel, which’ll take about four weeks because 
we have to send it to the lab in Topeka.”

The blood drained from my face. “Toxicology?” I said. “Why?”

“It’s standard procedure,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure my dad wouldn’t want an autopsy.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You can bury him before the panel comes back.”

“No, I mean Dad wouldn’t want someone cutting him up like that.”

“It’s state law.”

“Please,” I said.

His eyes narrowed as they focused on me. Then he stood.

“After the autopsy, where would you like the remains sent?”

“Holt Mortuary in Niobe,” a voice from the living room said.

I rose from the couch to see who’d said it. Randy King stood with his back to the wall, his Stetson low over his eyes.

The coroner glanced at me for confirmation.

“I’m the executor of Mr. Moshen’s will,” Randy said. He raised his head and I saw his eyes, light blue with tiny pupils that seemed to bore clear through to the back of my head.

I shrugged at the coroner.

“Would you like to say goodbye to your father before we transport him to the morgue?” he said.

I nodded and followed him to the stairs, where he stood aside. “After you,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You first.”

Dad had taught me never to go in a door first and never to let anyone walk behind me. The coroner frowned but mounted the stairs.

Upstairs, Dad’s room was the first one on the left. The coroner stood outside the door. He reached out to touch my arm and I took a step backward. He dropped his hand to his side.

“Miss Moshen,” he said in a hushed voice. “Your father looks different from when he was alive. It might be a bit of a shock. No one would blame you if you didn’t—”

I walked into Dad’s room, taking with me everything I knew from all the cop shows I’d watched. But I was not prepared at all for what I saw.

Since he’d died on his stomach, the EMTs had turned Dad onto his back. He was in full rigor mortis, so his upper lip was mashed into his gums and curled into a sneer, exposing his khaki-colored teeth. His hands were spread in front of his face, palms out. Dad’s eyes stared up and to the left and his entire face was grape-pop purple.

What struck me when I first saw him—after I inhaled my gum—was that he appeared to be warding off a demon. I should have waited until the mortician was done with him, because I knew I’d never get that image out of my mind.

I walked out of Dad’s room on unsteady feet, determined not to cry in front of these strangers. The deputy and the sheriff stood outside my bedroom, examining the door to it. 
Both of them looked confused.

“Petty,” Sheriff Bloch said.

I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.

“Yes?”

“Is this your bedroom?”

I nodded. 

Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of people they’d never even met and knew nothing about.

The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I’d never done much of it, I’d had no idea how exhausting it was.

The deputy said, “Why are there six dead bolts on the outside of your door?”

It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“So Dad could lock me in, of course.”




AUTHOR BIO:

LS HAWKER grew up in suburban Denver, indulging her worrisome obsession with true-crime books, and writing stories about anthropomorphic fruit and juvenile delinquents. She wrote her first novel at 14.
Armed with a B.S. in journalism from the University of Kansas, she had a radio show called “People Are So Stupid,” edited a trade magazine and worked as a traveling Kmart portrait photographer, but never lost her passion for fiction writing.

She’s got a hilarious, supportive husband, two brilliant daughters and a massive music collection. She lives in Colorado but considers Kansas her spiritual homeland. Visit her website at LSHawker.com. 


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EXCERPT:

Since he'd died on his stomach, the EMTs had turned Dad onto his back. He was in full rigor mortis, so his upper lip was mashed into his gums and curled into a sneer, exposing his khaki-colored teeth. His hands were spread in front of his face, palms out. Dad's eyes stared up and to the left and his entire face was grape-pop purple.
What struck me when I first saw him—after I inhaled my gum—was that he appeared to be warding off a demon. I should have waited until the mortician was done with him, because I knew I'd never get that image out of my mind.
I walked out of Dad's room on unsteady feet, determined not to cry in front of these strangers. The deputy and the sheriff stood outside my bedroom, examining the door to it. Both of them looked confused.
"Petty," Sheriff Bloch said.                             
I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.
"Yes?"
"Is this your bedroom?"
I nodded.
Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of people they'd never even met and knew nothing about.
The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I'd never done much of it, I'd had no idea how exhausting it was.
The deputy said, "Why are there six deadbolts on the outside of your door?"
It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.
"So Dad could lock me in, of course."





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