Book Tour Stop: No One Aboard by Emy McGuire

 

No One Aboard 

Emy McGuire

On Sale Date: December 2, 2025

9781525831621

Trade Paperback

Graydon House

$18.99 USD

 

ABOUT THE BOOK:

The White Lotus meets Laura Dave’s The Last Thing He Told Me in this debut domestic mystery about a luxury sailboat found floating adrift in the ocean and the secrets of the missing family who set sail aboard it weeks before. 

"No One Aboard is a riveting, astonishing debut, and Emy McGuire is an important new voice in fiction. I will read anything she writes!"

—Sarah Pekkanen, #1 New York Times bestselling author 

At the start of summer, billionaire couple Francis and Lila Cameron set off on their private luxury sailboat to celebrate the high school graduation of their two beloved children.

 Three weeks later, the Camerons have not been heard from, the captain hasn’t responded to radio calls, and the sailboat is found floating off the coast of Florida. 

Empty.

 Where are the Camerons? What happened on their trip? And what secrets does the beautiful boat hold? 

Set over the course of their vacation and in the aftermath of the sailboat’s discovery, No One Aboard asks who is more dangerous to a family: a stormy ocean or each other?

Buy Links:

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/no-one-aboard-emy-mcguire/63fa7273f5ac1803

B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/no-one-aboard-emy-mcguire/1146730882

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/No-One-Aboard-Emy-McGuire/dp/1525831623/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.f319inHNhLU1wAiH2KL7rg._adJBWlXQ3kfFOuKUfnOBW2-IByPb1JvDNEFXuI1f2U&qid=1738439567&sr=8-1

 

 Excerpted from No One Aboard by Emy McGuire, Copyright © 2025 by Emy McGuire. Published by Graydon House.

Chapter 1

Jerry Baugh

Jerry Baugh didn’t see the ship. He didn’t notice the red warning on the screen. He was, in fact, cozied up in the cockpit of his Dyer 29 lobster boat, feet propped between the rungs of the helm and hands stacked on his belly.

 

Jerry’s day of deep-sea fishing had been successful—a sailfish bill, broken at the hilt, currently stuck out of his bomber jacket pocket—and he was thinking about whether the meat

should be marinated in lemon juice or just plain old butter.

 

He was too distracted to detect the boat in his path—white and gleaming, suspended between the black water of the Atlantic and the starless, moonless sky with the same sinister beauty of an iceberg.

 

Or a ghost.

 

When the boat alarm went off, Jerry jolted in his seat, sending his Bass Pro Shops cap tumbling down his chest. A single drop of sailfish blood had, at some point, fallen onto the face of his watch, which read nine minutes after midnight.

 

He detangled his feet from the helm and peered at the radar. He was heading two hundred and fifty-eight degrees toward Hallandale Marina. The strange white sailboat blocked

his way.

 

Jerry switched off the autopilot and eased the throttle to slow down, his heart thumping soundly in his chest. If the alarm hadn’t sounded, he might have shipwrecked them both.

 

This sent a surge of anger through him. Why hadn’t the captain of the sailboat moved out of his way? Sheila 2.0 wasn’t subtle, her engine making an ugly chewing noise not unlike a trash compactor. They should have heard her coming.

 

Jerry allowed his boat to chug closer before he killed the engine and processed what on the devil’s blue sea he was looking at.

 

It was a sailboat, yes, but not like the rust-laced ones that docked near Sheila 2.0 in the Hallandale Marina.

 

This boat was mesmerizing.

 

It had twin aluminum masts, a wood-finished deck, and sunbathing mattresses laid out on the chart house. The body of the boat was a blinding white, smooth, curvaceous. The cap

rails were teak and coated with a glittering crust of sea salt. No one had cleaned them in some time. Cursive lettering on the side spelled out the boat’s name.

The Old Eileen

Jerry stared, a bit starstruck. Boats like Sheila 2.0 were made to choke marine diesel oil and seawater until they finally died twitching in a harbor like a waterlogged beetle on its back.

 

Boats like The Old Eileen were made to be beautiful.

 

Jerry found his radio, hooked to his waistband, and cleared

his throat before speaking into it.

 

“Eileen, Eileen, Eileen, this is Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, over.”

He waited.

 

There was a time when Jerry was younger (and a good bit stupider) that he wanted to buy a sailboat instead of a motorboat. It was romantic, the idea of harnessing the wind to travel

the world. But in the end, it was those same winds that terrified him. Wind could overpower him, seize control of the boat and bend its course. Jerry would have had to accept that possibility. He would have had to bare his throat to the mercy of the sea.

 

A mercy, he had come to understand, that did not exist.

“Eileen, Eileen, Eileen!” Jerry repeated into the radio.

They must be asleep. Jerry leaned forward and sounded his horn—five short blasts to signal danger. He waited for the radio to crackle to life, for a silver-spooned captain to sputter

apologies, or maybe for an underpaid deckhand to rush up top and get the boat moving once more.

 

There was only the sound of the luffing, useless sails, and the ever-shifting sea.

 

Jerry frowned and fiddled with the fish bill in his pocket.

He should leave.

He fumbled in the dark to switch the engine back on. He would report what he’d seen to the coast guard, get the captain in trouble for being so reckless. He’d be back in Florida by dawn.

But Steve . . .

 

Jerry glanced at his dash where he had taped up a photograph of himself with his younger brother. It was the last picture taken of Steve before he died. Jerry closed his eyes for a moment. He would have traded his boat, his bait, and everything he owned if someone had stopped that night to help Steve.

 

“Well, shit.” Jerry rubbed at his clavicle and swallowed hard. He would be in and out. Just to make sure all was well.

 

Jerry moved across the deck, aware of every sound his shuffling feet made. He rummaged through his fishing equipment, eyes never leaving The Old Eileen. His calloused, practiced

hands fit right around the harpoon gun, and he felt a measure of reassurance with a weapon in his grasp. He wasn’t scared, he was too old for that, but there was nothing quite like a creaking, old ship on the ocean at night to make a man into a boy again.

 

He tucked the harpoon gun under one arm and set to work

lowering his tiny dinghy. He’d take one moment to wake

whoever was on board, then get right back on his boat. Good

deed done for the day. Maybe the decade.

Jerry grunted as he climbed up the Eileen’s porthole and over the rail. The deck was empty save for an orange life preserver tied to the stern, the boat’s name written in black on the top and a slogan in italics around the bottom.

 

Unwind Yachting Co.

Safe to sail in any gale!

 

With no one in sight, Jerry located the companionway stairs that led down beneath the cockpit and gave one last scan of the deck before going below.

 

Downstairs, the chart house was neat and captainless, but the ship’s manifest was sitting in the center of the table, open to the first page.

 

SHIP’S MANIFEST—THE OLD EILEEN

SKIPPER—Captain Francis Ryan Cameron (55)

MATE—MJ Tuckett (67)

CREW—Alejandro Matamoros (54), Nicolás de la Vega (22)

PASSENGERS—Lila Logan Cameron (54), Francis Rylan Cameron (17), Taliea Indigo Cameron (17)

 

Seven souls. Seven souls aboard The Old Eileen, and not a single one had answered the radio, which lay next to the manifest like an amputated limb. Jerry picked it up and felt an ice-cold trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

The cord had been cut.

Jerry’s knuckles went white against the harpoon gun. Bad things happen at sea. Storms kill and brothers drown.

But the radio cord hadn’t been severed by the ocean.

Jerry crept through the luxurious salon and to a door that must lead to a cabin. He let his trigger hand slip down for a moment so he could turn his radio to 16—the international maritime emergency channel.

Just in case.

He opened the door to the cabin.

The master bedroom. King-size bed with an indigo comforter and cream sheets. Velvet couch molded to fit the tight corner. A woman’s lipstick lay open on one bedside table, rolling back and forth as the boat rocked.

There was no one there. No sleeping captain, no apologetic deckhands, no life whatsoever. Had they just . . . left?

Jerry checked the next room. This one held two twin beds with identical navy bedspreads. One bed was unmade, with a variety of books scattered at its foot. The bedclothes on the other were tucked in, military-style.

A sketchbook was half hidden by the pillowcase, open to an illustration of some kind of monster.

Jerry mopped his brow with a rag he kept in his shirt pocket, not caring that it had dried sailfish blood caking the edges. He should have motored on by and called the damn guard.

He forced himself to concentrate. He was doing the right thing. The captain could be out cold and in need of help.

There were only a few more rooms.

But the last cabin was just as quiet.

Jerry peeked into the galley and the bilges, running out of places to check.

The heads. Each of the three cabins must have its own personal bathroom, and he hadn’t yet tried any of them. Hands slick with sweat around the harpoon gun, Jerry retraced his steps, checking first in the crew members’ head, then the master suite’s, then back to the room with the twin beds and the drawing of the monster.

He nudged open the last bathroom door and looked inside.

In the mirror, his own ref lection stared back at him, interrupted only by a string of crimson words that had been written on the glass.

A weight dropped anchor inside his stomach, flooding Jerry with a kind of dread he had avoided for thirty years. The harpoon gun slipped from his hands, and he reached for his radio, unable to peel his gaze from the message on the mirror.

Save yOur Self

 

The Convey

OPINION: The Ocean Is Our Great Equalizer (why the newest Atlantic disaster seems to

spell K-A-R-M-A for the one percent)

MIKE GRADY

The Camerons—a family of four headed by television darling Lila Logan and business tycoon Francis Cameron—have been reported missing after their multimillion-dollar sailing yacht turned up eighty miles offshore without a single person onboard early in the morning of June 9. Authorities and reporters have leaped into extensive action. The Atlantic has already been tempestuous at the beginning of this year’s hurricane season. Potential upcoming storms have given the search a dangerous time component in an investigation reminiscent of the Titan, the infamous submersible that imploded with five passengers aboard on its way to see the Titanic wreck. The world had plenty to say about the Titan and its affluent victims, and this latest oceanic mystery has the potential to play out the same. Francis and Lila Cameron both had modest childhoods, but thanks to the entertainment industry, the business world, and the good old American dream, they have skyrocketed into the fraction of Americans who own multiple homes (Palm Beach villa, LA bungalow, and a sleek Aspen chalet, if anyone’s wondering), not to mention the multimillion-dollar sailing yacht that came up empty in the early hours of yesterday morning. While I’m not necessarily here to say that the Atlantic Ocean is doing a better job than God or taxes to rid us of the elite, I do want to pose a big-picture question while authorities are sussing out the how did this happen? and where did they go? Of it all. My question instead to you, dear reader, is this: Why the Camerons?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

EMY MCGUIRE holds a bachelor’s degree in theatre/creative writing from New College of Florida. She has toured nationally in the Edgar Allan Poe Show, sailed from Rome to Antigua, and written everything from ocean thrillers to pirate musicals. She lives in Colorado. 

Social Links:

Author website: https://www.emymcguire.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/emy_mcguire/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/emy.mcguire/

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@emymcguire?lang=en

Twitter: https://x.com/AuthorEmy

Tour Stop: Nothing Ever Happens Here

 

Nothing Ever Happens Here

By Seraphina Nova Glass

On Sale: February 11, 2025

ISBN: 9781525831591

Graydon House Paperback

Price: $18.99

About the Book:

“A charming cast of characters, a twisty mystery, and a diabolical killer make Nothing Ever Happens Here impossible to put down. A riveting page-turner with a sly sense of humor.” —Robyn Harding, internationally bestselling author of The Haters

Nothing ever happens in small towns…

When Shelby Dawson survives a harrowing attack that should have left her dead, she tries to move past it—for herself, and for her family. Fifteen months later, with the help of her best friend, Mackenzie, she finally feels safe again in the snowy Minnesota town she calls home. But when an anonymous note appears on her windshield bearing the same threats her attacker made, Shelby realizes that her nightmare has only just begun.

As new evidence surfaces, and a group of well-meaning senior citizens accidentally makes the case go viral online, the situation quickly goes from bad to worse. And with suspicious accidents targeting those closest to her happening all over town, Shelby can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched. Fighting to stay one step ahead of disaster, she finds herself asking the question on everyone’s lips: Who attacked her that night?

But Shelby isn’t the only one with questions. Mackenzie’s husband, Leo, vanished without a trace on that terrible night, and over a year later, no one knows why. Until a deep dive into his finances reveals a history of debts, mismanaged funds, and hidden accounts—one of which is still active. Their suspicion that Leo is still alive only complicates things further, though, and when another person connected to Shelby goes missing, she’s caught in a race against time before her attacker becomes a killer.

 

Excerpted from NOTHING EVER HAPPENS HERE by Seraphina Nova Glass. Copyright © 2025 by Seraphina Nova Glass. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.

3

Florence

Fifteen Months Later

 

I read a story on the internet about how elderly people without hobbies are among the saddest sacks on earth, although I’m sure I have that wrong and they didn’t use the word “sacks.” Anyway, it went on to say how having hobbies could greatly reduce one’s chances of developing dementia. They didn’t give a percentage and I would have liked a percentage, because if it’s only a one percent chance reduction, well then, why bother? But I guess they wouldn’t have written the whole article, in that case, or used the words “greatly reduce one’s chances” for that matter either, would they? So I decided I would like a hobby.

So, when I Googled “how to start a hobby” the first advice given was to break it into small steps so you’re not overwhelmed. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t Google how to embezzle diamonds from the Russian mafia, I was simply thinking I might take up cookie making or something. How could I get overwhelmed? Anyway…then I learned that professional cookie decorators call themselves “cookiers” and I just found the term so irritating I gave up on the whole thing.

Then Millie told me I could knit with her and I told Millie that she’s shamefully cliché, and how does she not have carpal tunnel by now? And it’s not really a hobby, is it? She’d be sitting in front of the television watching Bonanza with or without her knitting in hand, so it’s quite mindless, and I don’t think a hobby should be mindless. Bernie has taken up winemaking, but his room smells like a boiled egg, so I don’t think he’s doing it right. It’s still at the top of my list, though.

Gardening was a contender too. I was quite the gardener once, but the snow won’t melt until April, so that seems a long wait. I could be dead by then for all I know. But then Herb said I should make a podcast about gardening and share my wisdom with the world. This intrigued me—because I was once a news announcer on public radio, and in a way it’s a perfect idea. My love for plants and helping people learn, hmm. But how would one even begin? I just showed up and talked into a mic at the station, and that was long ago. I would need to figure out a lot of things, but learning it all would keep me busy, and maybe that’s a hobby all in itself. I was almost sold on the idea.

But then something very serendipitous happened. I was at Murph Moyer’s funeral, which was such a sad occasion since Murph had just had a hair transplant he was very excited about, and had planned a trip to the Bahamas to swim with the pigs. I guess that’s a thing… He even bought a bottle of spray tan on Amazon, and then just like that, a fall on the ice on his way down to The Angry Trout for a pint one night and that was it. And now he looks orange in his casket, poor Murph, and he never even got to put his new hair to good use. It’s like that these days, though. When you get to be our age, you start receiving invitations to a lot more funerals. And part of you gets used to it, but the main part of you never does.

At the reception, I was chatting with Rosie and Susan by the punch bowl. We were sitting in metal folding chairs and holding little slices of white cake on napkins when I noticed Winny pouring a long pull of scotch into a Santa Claus coffee mug and sitting by herself next to a fake ficus in need of dusting. She was hunched over her drink, and I saw her dot her eye with the corner of a napkin, so I excused myself and went to sit with her.

I could tell it wasn’t her first scotch because she had a glassy-eyed look and loose lips, but that’s a good thing. It was easy to get her to confide in me and tell me why she’d missed our bridge game last Tuesday and what in the world was the matter. I mean, I know her husband passed only a couple of months ago, of course. But he’d been battling severe diabetes complications and was in the hospital for who knows how long. He was even left unable to speak after a diabetes-induced stroke. Lord help him. It was a mercy, really, him passing. It was very expected. So I am quite surprised at what Winny tells me—that she thinks her husband was murdered and didn’t die of natural causes. Well, I had to set my punch on the floor next to me and rest my hand on my heart a moment.

“Sweetheart, why would you say that? Otis was so sick, bless him,” I say to her, placing my hands on her knees. I thought she lost the plot, if I’m honest, but I was still going to be sympathetic. She picks at Santa’s chipping glitter beard and talks into her lap.

“Something wasn’t right there,” she says with a haunted look on her face.

“What do you mean, love?” I ask, trying to look in her eyes so she’s forced to look back at me, but she continues to mumble. And I suppose I would speak quietly too if I were saying the crazy thing she was about to say.

“Someone there killed him,” she whispers.

“At the hospital?”

“Yes, Florence. I… Yes. I’m not just—I’m not crazy. I’m not making shit up.”

“Of course you’re not, dear,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. “Well, did you tell the police?” I ask, because what else does one ask in this sort of situation? “Of course, but they don’t believe me. I can tell. They say they’ll ‘have a look,’ whatever that means, but I know when I’m being condescended to. They will not have a look. Plus that old detective Riley has a head full of chipped beef. Has he ever helped anyone solve anything in this town?” she asks, becoming louder and more agitated as she goes. She puts her mug down and takes a deep breath.

To be fair, the only crime I can remember happening in the last few years in this town, besides petty bike theft or drunk fistfights, is the tragedy that happened to Mack and Shelby that terrible night last year, but I can’t blame Riley for that. It absolutely baffled everyone. He does have a head full of chipped beef though, I’ll give her that.

“Why would you think something like that, love? You know all of the hospital workers,” I say, which is a given. She pretty much knows everyone around here. “You think one of them hurt Otis? That’s…” I stop, because I don’t know what to say. It’s absurd and makes me worry for Winny. I wonder if she’s gone around telling other people this sort of thing.

“He told me,” she says, and since I know he was unable to speak, now I really zip my lip and just look over at the bottle of scotch on the refreshments table with a longing gaze, wondering how to kindly extract myself from the conversation.

“Something’s goin’ on around here, Flor. Something is happening. First Shel and Mack, and poor Leo wherever the hell he really is. Now this.” It’s strange to hear someone say “poor Leo,” because the general, mostly unspoken consensus is that he’s a rat bastard who ghosted his wife. I hope I’m using that term correctly. Ghosted. Anyway, I wonder if it would be rude to lean over and pick a few cucumber sandwiches off of the table while she’s talking. I do hate to be rude, but I really am famished, and I know Liddy Wingfield made them, and she uses the pimento cream cheese on them, which is a dream.

Before I can decide, Winny leans in conspiratorially.

“Can I show you something?” she asks.

“Of course,” I agree, giving up on my chance for a cucumber sandwich as she motions for me to follow her. The reception is at Dusty Waltman’s house because he and Murph were very good friends. I suppose he’s a nice enough man, I just can’t get past the urge to take a bottle of Pledge and a washrag after him each time I hear the name Dusty. Not his fault, I suppose, and his house is quite tidy, although too drafty for my taste.

Even so, I follow Winny down his front hall with the brown plaid wallpaper and creaky wood floors, and we pull our coats from a pile of other sad-looking black and navy down coats draped over an old steamer trunk near the door and walk out into the frozen air. It’s so cold the snow is having trouble trying to fall, and it swirls around the lampposts in light, icy specks. Before I can complain about freezing to death, I hear “My Heart Will Go On” start to play inside, and now I’m happy to be out here, so I give her a minute as I shift from foot to foot and blow on my hands while she pulls something from her pocket. Why do they play songs like that at funerals? Everyone is already sad, and now I can hear sobs from inside. I hope they play “Another One Bites the Dust” at my funeral. And have it at a Dave & Buster’s, where everyone will get free mojitos and play free SkeeBall, and not in a drafty house with peely wallpaper and stale sheet cake.

Winny finally fishes out whatever it is she’s been digging for, then shoves the pieces of a ripped-up sheet of paper at me. I take it, examining it and have no idea what the hell she’s playing at.

“What is it?” I ask. She takes the papers back, swipes a layer of snow off of Dusty’s porch swing, and sits. I sit next to her, and she lays them out on her knees.

“Look,” she says, and I do. I see a scrap with the words “Help me” scrawled across it, and another that reads “Trying to kill me.” But the words before it are torn away. She stares at me, waiting for a response. “Well, what is this?” I ask. “Otis wrote it. Look! This is the clearest one.” She puts a scrap on top of the others. It says, “You have to tell someone what’s happening here.” The last part says, “Warn Mack and Shel…” but the end of her name is torn away.

“See,” she says, “and then it stops, like he couldn’t finish.”

“I don’t… Why is this in scraps? Why would he write this?” I’m shivering from the cold, and my words come out in white puffs.

“All I can think is that he was trying to get this note to me. Maybe something happened when I went home that last night, because he was gone by morning and he never had a chance to give it to me. And then I think back to all the people who were in the room when I was there, and maybe he couldn’t risk giving it to me then, but I was there so much it’s all a blur. I can’t keep it all straight. I found it just a few days ago in the wooly sweater he always wore over his hospital gown. It was sitting in a bag for weeks and then I went through it all and… God. He was begging for help. I’ll never forgive myself. Maybe he didn’t want someone to find he’d written it—someone he was afraid of. I don’t know,” she says, tears welling in her eyes as she pushes the paper shreds back into her pocket.

“Why else would it be torn up?” she asks before I even have a chance to respond to all this shocking information. “I mean, that’s all that makes sense, right? For why it’s torn up? It’s like he was afraid of someone finding it, I mean why else? He was trying to warn me—to get help, and he was afraid the person who was after him would find it. I know how that sounds, but I have gone over this a million times in my head, and what other reason could there be?”

“Shit” is all I manage to say.

“My poor Otis, I couldn’t help him and he was all alone there with someone trying to hurt him. But who would want to hurt Otis? I mean, who in the world?” she says, and that’s exactly what I was going to ask.

“And you told all of this to Detective Riley?” I ask.

“Yeah right. What do you think he’d say—that Otis had a stroke and we didn’t know the extent of the damage, so this was probably some delusion or paranoia?” she says, and he would have a point, of course. “But I know my Otis, and he seemed different those last days. I know, of course, a stroke makes people different, but I still know him, Florence. I know him, and I saw his eyes change. Now I think it was fear, not just being sick, but…this…” She half motions to the papers in her pocket.

“I can’t let it go. I can’t have his cries for help literally in my hand and blow it off as paranoia. I need to find out the truth. And fine, people can think whatever they want about me, but what about Mack…and poor Shelby Dawson. It was a warning to them too.”

“You think he meant they’re in danger?” I ask. She closes her eyes and blows a cone of white mist into the frozen air, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“This could all be connected,” I sort of mumble to myself, thinking about any reason why, even if he was suffering from some delusion, he would bring Mack and Shelby into it. That’s pretty specific for a delusional man’s imaginings. Winny holds her head in her hands and I put my arm around her shoulder. We shiver together for a few moments.

“I believe you,” I say.

“You do?” she asks, straightening up and looking at me with wet, desperate eyes.

“If there’s some motherfucker out there responsible for this, we’re gonna find him,” I say. She puts her arms around me and cries while I hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay.

And that’s the moment everything was set in motion. I didn’t know it then, but hunting a killer would become my new hobby, not gardening, as it turns out.

Buy Links:

HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/nothing-ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass?variant=42521060835362

Amazon: https://www.amazon.ca/s?k=9781525836725&tag=hcg-02-20

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nothing-ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass/1145581324?ean=9781525836725

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/everyone-knows-something-a-thriller-original-seraphina-nova-glass/21448569?ean=9781525836725

About the Author: 

Seraphina Nova Glass is an assistant professor of instruction and playwright in residence at the University of Texas, Arlington, where she teaches film studies and playwriting. Her novel On A Quiet Street was nominated for an Edgar Award, was a New York Times Summer Read, an Amazon Bestseller and Editor’s Pick, and also featured in the Boston Globe and Bustle. Publishers Weekly has named her “a writer to watch.” She’s also an award-winning playwright and holds an MFA degree in dramatic writing from Smith College and a second MFA in directing from the University of Idaho. She is a proud dog mom and loves to travel the world with her husband. She resides in Dallas, Texas.

Social Links:

Author Website: https://www.seraphinanovaglass.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/seraphinanovaglass/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8061717.Seraphina_Nova_Glass

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/seraphinasnovaglass/

New Release Spotlight: Zetas Till We Die

 

ZETAS TILL WE DIE

Author: Amber and Danielle Brown

ISBN: 9781525836718

Publication Date: September 10, 2024

Publisher: Graydon House

Book Summary:

“The Browns deliver their trademark mix of steamy sex and social commentary in an easy-to-binge package. This is bound to please fans of Shonda Rhimes.” —Publishers Weekly on Perfect Little Lives

 

SISTERS…FOR LIFE.

 

It’s been ten years since Priscilla and her Zeta Phi Zeta sorority sisters graduated college. Ten years since they were all in the same room together. Ten years since one of them died. And now Lupe’s killer has been released from prison on a technicality, days before their ten-year reunion.

 

Priscilla decides that the party must go on; Lupe would have wanted it to. And besides, an epic reunion bash might be the perfect distraction. Back together, the Zetas party like it’s 2012, and it’s wild, just the way it used to be. Maybe too wild. At least everyone makes it out alive this time…or so they think.

 

When one of them doesn’t return home after the party, Priscilla begins to realize that there might be more to Lupe’s murder and that someone is out for blood. With the murderer in their midst circling closer and closer, the Zetas are forced to confront what really happened the night Lupe died—and the secrets each of them swore to keep.

 Buy Links:

BookShop.org

Harlequin

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

Books-A-Million

Apple Books

Excerpted from ZETAS TILL WE DIE by Amber Brown and Danielle Brown, Copyright © 2024 by Amber Brown and Danielle Brown. Published by arrangement with HTP Books, a Division of HarperCollins.

 

TRANSCRIPT OF JURY TRIAL—DAY 16

Conducted on May 20, 2015

Case: California v. Wolfe

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Can you please remind the jury what you saw the night of May 7, 2012, as you returned home?

PRISCILLA: I was just getting home. Walking into the house and I saw him. Travis. His shirt was covered in her blood. Like soaked all the way through. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. It was dark. But when he got closer, I could tell it was blood. There was some on the tops of his pants too. He didn’t run or anything when he saw me. He just stared at me and then took off. I didn’t see him after that. I ran in to see what happened, where the blood was… Sorry. This is my first time seeing him again…after… Can I have some water, please?

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: And what did you see when you en­tered the house?

PRISCILLA: I remember…blood. Just a lot of blood. That’s all I could see at first. Just so much blood. I froze… I just…couldn’t believe it was Lupé…lying there like that. She wasn’t moving, her neck was… The way it was twisted, I could barely look. My mind was racing so fast. Everything just slowed down. I was there but not there.

 

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Understandable. Now, is it fair to say you may be misremembering some details due to your state of shock?

PRISCILLA: No. Not at all. I know what I saw. He came from inside the house covered in Lupé’s blood. I saw what I saw.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Tell me what else you saw as you walked into the house. Was anyone else present?

PRISCILLA: Dionne and Alexis first. They were at the bot­tom of the stairs, kneeling down at Lupé’s side, trying to get her to breathe, to wake up, something. Zoë and Chanel were also there. Somewhere. Someone was on the phone with the police. I think it was her.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Were they also covered in blood?

PRISCILLA: They took turns trying to give her CPR. They all had touched her by the time I got there.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: And you never saw Mr. Wolfe physi­cally harm Lupé that night, correct?

PRISCILLA: No, but he was the only one who just left when I showed up. Everyone else tried to save her. Tried to do some­thing. Why would he run away if he didn’t do it?

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Based on the little you actually saw, it could have been anyone else who was present when you arrived who pushed her down the stairs. Is that fair to say?

PRISCILLA: No one else had any reason to kill Lupé.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: What makes you so certain? Had you ever witnessed Mr. Wolfe threaten Lupé before?

PRISCILLA: No. But Travis—sorry, Mr. Wolfe—was constantly stalking her. I was worried for her. This guy always seemed to be around her and none of us knew anything about him or why he was so obsessed.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: And when you say none of “us,” who exactly are you referring to?

PRISCILLA: My sorority sisters. Her best friends. Me, Chanel, Zoë, Alexis, Dionne and Val.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: That night, were the doors locked?

PRISCILLA: We always lock the doors after eleven.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: So there was no way Travis could have entered the premises on his own? If the doors were locked?

PRISCILLA: We figured he broke in through her window. He was always staring up at her room like he was trying to figure out a way to get into it.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: And if he was there that night—

PRISCILLA: He was there.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: If he was there that night, someone could have let him in, right? That is possible, correct?

PRISCILLA: Lupé would have never let him in. None of us would have. We were all worried for her.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Lupé’s bedroom was on the second floor, was it not?

PRISCILLA: Yes, but—

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: It would have been nearly impossible for him to scale the building and break in through the window without anyone hearing or seeing anything, right?

PRISCILLA: I…

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: No further questions, Your Honor.

Author Bio:

Amber and Danielle Brown both graduated from Rider University where they studied Communications/Journalism and sat on the editorial staff for the On Fire!! literary journal. They then pursued a career in fashion and spent five years in NYC working their way up, eventually managing their own popular fashion and lifestyle blog. Amber is also a screenwriter, so they live in LA, which works out perfectly so Danielle can spoil her plant babies with copious amounts of sunshine.

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Discover Good Half Gone today!

 

GOOD HALF GONE

Author: Tarryn Fisher

ISBN: 9781525804885

Publication Date: March 19, 2024

Publisher: Graydon House

18.99 US | 23.99 CAN

 

Iris Walsh saw her twin sister Piper get kidnapped—so why does no one believe her?

Iris narrowly escaped her pretty, popular twin sister’s fate as a teen—kidnapped and trafficked and long gone before the cops agreed to investigate. Months later, Piper’s newborn son Callum was dropped on their estranged mother’s doorstep in the dead of night, with a note in Piper’s handwriting signed simply, Twin.

As an adult, Iris wants one thing—proof. Because she knows exactly who took Piper all those years ago, and she has a pretty good idea of who Callum’s father is. She just has to get close enough to prove it. And if the police won’t help, she’ll just have to do it her own way--by interning at the isolated Shoal Island Hospital for the criminally insane, where her target is kept under lock and key. Iris soon realizes that something sinister is bubbling beneath the surface of the Shoal, and that the patients aren’t the only ones being observed…

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 Excerpt from Good Half Gone by Tarryn Fisher. Copyright © 2024 by Tarryn Fisher. Published by Graydon House.

“911, WHAT IS your emergency?”

“Hello? Help me, please! They took my sister! Please hurry, I don’t know where they are. I can’t find them.” *rustling noise* *yells something* “Oh my god—oh my god. Piper!”

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down so that I can understand you.”

“Okay…” *crying*

“Who took your sister?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know them. Two guys. Dupont knows them, I—”

“Miss, what is the address? Where are you?”

“The theater on Pike, the Five Dollar…” *crying* “They took my phone, I’m calling from inside the theater.”

“Wait right where you are, someone is going to be there to help shortly. Can you tell me what your name is?”

*crying*

“What is your name? Hello…?”

*crying, indecipherable noises*

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Iris…”

“What is your sister’s name, Iris? And how old is she?”

“Piper. She’s fifteen.”

“Is she your older sister or younger sister… Iris, can you hear me?”

“We’re twins. They just put her in a car and drove away. Please hurry.”

“Can you tell me what kind of vehicle they were driving?”

“I don’t know…”

“—a van, or a sedan—?”

“It was blue and long. I can’t remember.”

“Did it have four doors or two… Iris?”

“Four.”

“And how many men were there?”

“Three.”

“I’m going to stay on the line with you until the officers get there.”

He leans forward, rouses the mouse, and turns off the audio on his computer. Click click clack. I was referred to Dr. Stanford a year ago when my long-term therapist retired. I had the option of finding a new therapist on my own or being assigned someone in the practice. Of course I considered breaking up with therapy all together, but after eight years it felt unnatural not to go. But I was a drinker of therapy sauce: a true believer in the art of feelings. I imagined people felt that way about church. At the end of the day, I told myself that a weird therapist was better than no therapist.

I disliked Allen Stanford on sight. Grubby. He is the grownup version of the kindergarten booger eater. A mouth breather with a slow, stiff smile. I was hoping he’d grow on me.

Dr. Stanford clears his throat.

“That’s hard to listen to for me, so I can only imagine how you must feel.”

Every year, on the anniversary of Piper’s kidnapping, I listen to the recording of the 911 call I made from the lobby of the Five Dollar. When I close my eyes, I can still see the blue diamond carpet and the blinking neon popcorn sign.

“Do you want to take a break?”

“A break from what?”

“It must be hard for you to hear that even now…”

That is true, reliving the worst day of my life never gets easier. The smell of popcorn is attached to the memory, and I feel nauseated. A cold chill sweeps over me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod once.

“What happened after you hung up the phone?”

“I waited…what else could I do? I was afraid they were outside waiting to take me too. My brain hadn’t fully caught up to what was happening. I felt like I was dreaming.”

My voice is weighed down with shame; in the moments after my twin was taken, I was thinking of my own safety, worried that her kidnappers would come back. Why hadn’t I chased the car down the street, or at least paid attention to the license plate so I could give it to the cops? Hindsight was a sore throat.

“I wanted to call Gran.” I shake my head. “I thought I was crazy because I’d dialed her number hundreds of times and I just… I forgot. I had to wait for the cops.”

My lungs feel like they’re compressing. I force a deep breath.

“I guess it took five minutes for the cops to get there, but if you asked me that day, I would have said it took an hour.”

When I close my eyes, I can still see the city block in detail— smell the fry oil drifting across the street from the McDonald’s.

“The cops parked their cruiser on the street in front of the theater,” I continue. “I was afraid of them. My mother was an addict—she hated cops. To certain people, cops only show up to take things away, you know?”

He nods like he knows, and maybe he does, maybe he had a mom like mine, but for the last twenty years, he’s been going to Disney World—according to the photos on his desk—and that somehow disqualifies him in my mind as a person who’s had things taken away from him.

I take another sip of water, the memories rushing back. I close my eyes, wanting to remember, but not wanting to feel— a fine line.

I was shaking when I stumbled out of the theater and ran toward the cop car, drunk with shock, the syrupy soda pooling in my belly. My toe hit a crack in the asphalt and I rolled my ankle, scraping it along the side of the curb. I made it to them, staggering and crying, scared out of my mind—and that’s when things had gone from bad to worse.

“Tell me about your exchange with the police,” he prompts. “What, if anything, did they do to help you in that moment?”

The antiquated anger begins festering now, my hands fisting into rocks. “Nothing. They arrived already not believing me. The first thing they asked was if I had taken any drugs. Then they wanted to know if Piper did drugs.”

The one with the watery eyes—I remember him having a lot of hair. It poked out the top of his shirt, tufted out of his ears. The guy whose glasses I could see my face in—he had no hair. But what they had both worn that day was the same bored, cynical expression. I sigh. “To them, teenagers who looked like me did drugs. They saw a tweaker, not a panicked, traumatized, teenage girl.”

“What was your response?”

“I denied it—said no way. For the last six months, my sister had been hanging with a church crowd. She spent weekends going to youth group and Bible study. If anyone was going to do drugs at that point, it would have been me.”

He writes something down on his notepad. Later I’ll try to imagine what it was, but for now I am focused.

“They thought I was lying—I don’t even know about what, just lying. The manager of the theater came outside to see what was going on, and he brought one of his employees out to confirm to the police that I had indeed come in with a girl who looked just like me, and three men. I asked if I could call my gran, who had custody of us.”

“Did they let you?”

“Not at first. They ignored me and just kept asking questions. The bald one asked if I lived with her, but before I could answer his question, the other one was asking me which way the car went. It was like being shot at from two different directions.” I lean forward in my seat to stretch my back. I’m so emotionally spiked, both of my legs are bouncing. I can’t make eye contact with him; I’m trapped in my own story—helpless and fifteen.

“The men who took my sister—they took my phone. The cops wanted to know how I called 911. I told them the manager let me use the phone inside the theater. They were stuck on the phone thing. They wanted to know why the men would take my phone. I screamed, ‘I have no idea. Why would they take my sister?’”

“They weren’t hearing you,” he interjects.

I stare at him. I want to say No shit, Sherlock, but I don’t. Shrinks are here to edit your emotions with adjectives in order to create a TV Guide synopsis of your issues. Today on an episode of Iris in Therapy, we discover she has never felt heard!

“I was hysterical by the time they put me in the cruiser to take me to the station. Being in the back of that car after just seeing Piper get kidnapped—it was like I could feel her panic. Her need to get away. They drove me to the station…” I pause to remember the order of how things happened.

“They let me call my grandmother, and then they put me in a room alone to wait. It was horrible—all the waiting. Every minute of that day felt like ten hours.”

“Trauma often feels that way.”

“It certainly does,” I say. “Have you ever been in a situation that makes you feel that way—like every minute is an hour?” I lean forward, wanting a real answer. Seconds tick by as he considers me from behind his desk. Therapists don’t like to answer questions. I find it hypocritical. I try to ask as many as I can just to make it fair.

 

Author Bio:

 

Tarryn Fisher is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of nine novels. Born a sun hater, she currently makes her home in Seattle, Washington, with her children, husband, and psychotic husky. She loves connecting with her readers on Instagram.

  

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