New Release Tour: Everything She Feared by Rick Mofina

 

Check out the newest thriller from author Rick Mofina in Everything She Feared today.

Everything She Feared

Author: Rick Mofina

Publication Date: April 11, 2023

ISBN: ‎ 978-0778333401

Paperback Original

Publisher: MIRA

Price $18.99

Book Summary:

 

“Everything She Feared moves like a raging river. This is a thriller not to be missed!
—Michael Connelly, #1 New York Times bestselling author 

Every mother worries about their child. But Sara Harmon fears hers…

When a teen falls while taking a selfie at the edge of a cliff, the last thing she sees before plummeting to her death is Katie Harmon, the nine-year-old girl she was babysitting, looking down at her.

Investigators gather at the scene, and Katie’s mother, Sara, rushes to comfort her daughter. Yet there’s a small, secret ping of alarm in Sara’s heart that she cannot share—though rookie detective Kim Pierce senses it.

For years, others have tried to unravel this secret. From true-crime podcasters to a haunted journalist searching for a killer who vanished after being released from prison several years ago. And now, with detectives tightening the focus of their investigation, Sara is consumed by her darkest fear—that the babysitter’s death was not an accident.

 

"Rick Mofina has penned a creepy, heart-pounding page-turner…. A gripping, chilling thriller from beginning to end."
—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Overnight Guest

Buy Links:

HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/everything-she-feared-rick-mofina?variant=40616325480482

BookShop.org https://bookshop.org/p/books/everything-she-feared-a-suspense-novel-original-rick-mofina/19780672?ean=9780778333401

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/everything-she-feared-rick-mofina/1141722031  

 Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Everything-She-Feared-Suspense-Novel/dp/077833340X/

Sneak Peek Excerpt:

Near North Bend, Washington

SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD ANNA SHAW didn’t want to die.

Adrenaline surged through every nerve ending, her fingers digging into the tree branch jutting from the cliffside.

This was a nightmare. It couldn’t be real.

But it is real.

Anna had been atop the cliff, taking in the breathtaking pan­oramic view of the river, forests and mountains. Then in a heart­beat she was falling, falling some twenty feet, crashing into the big twisting branch sticking from the cliff face, catching her­self, seizing it, struggling to hang on as it bent, now threaten­ing to give way.

Gasping, she looked in horror a hundred feet straight down to the rocks at the banks of the rushing river below.

Wind gusted up, nudging her dangling legs. As she hung on for life, the branch cracked, her body jolted.

“Oh God!”

Anna glanced up at nine-year-old Katie Harmon looking down at her from the clifftop.

“Katie! Get help!”

Transfixed, Katie stared in wide-eyed silence.

Anna strained to move along the weakening branch closer to the cliff face to find a hold on the craggy rocks.

But pulling herself caused the branch to bob and shake, crack­ling more under her weight. Her hands landed on short branch spikes, like protruding nails piercing her palms with electrify­ing pain.

Suddenly the branch split and Anna jounced a few feet lower, clawing, clinging on to the fibrous remains.

“Katie!” she shrieked. “Oh God!”

Anna looked up.

Katie was gone.

The branch cracked again.

 

Run!

Every part of Katie’s brain screamed at her to run.

She flew along the trail, twisting, turning through the dense woods, hoping to catch up to the others who had continued moving ahead.

Anna’s fall had happened in a terrible instant.

So real and so frightening.

And no one else knows! No one was with us to see!

Katie willed herself to run fast, faster than she’d ever run in her life.

She felt like she was moving in slow motion but she blazed along the trail, coming to the clearing where her group from the Sunny Days Youth Center was setting up.

Katie glimpsed the joyful calm, nearly thirty kids and a sprin­kling of adults supervising the day trip from the city, oblivious to the horror now on the cliff they’d all just passed. The boys were moving picnic tables together, others tossed a Frisbee. The girls were opening backpacks,

tearing into snacks and drinks while others took pictures.

It all stopped when Katie screeched: “Help!”

Heads turned, smiles melted, the Frisbee crashed.

“What’s up, Katie?” said Jackson, one of the supervisors.

“Anna fell!” Katie’s chest heaved; she was gasping for air. “Taking a selfie. Fell off the cliff! Hanging on to a tree!”

It took a moment for Jackson and the others to absorb the alarm and snap to attention.

“We’ll need ropes,” he said, glancing at the other supervi­sors, Adam and Connie, who’d grabbed a canvas bag, unzipped it and yanked out tent ropes. They turned to Katie, who’d al­ready fled back on the trail, her sobbing echoing in her wake.

“Everyone stay here!” Connie said, starting to run with the two men as she called to another adult with the group: “Da­kota, keep everyone here!”

The supervisors struggled to keep up with Katie, all of them racing back on the trail to the area of the cliff. Two backpacks on the ground marked the point where it happened. Katie stood there horrified when she looked down.

Only spear-like remnants of the branch reached from the cliffside.

Katie stepped back while Jackson, Adam and Connie, breath­ing hard, looked down, their eyes ballooning in disbelief.

“Oh God!” said Connie, her voice breaking.

“No! No! No!” Adam yelled.

Anna’s body was splayed on the rocks of the riverbank.

Ribbons of blood were webbing to the water.

******

 

IN THE TIME that followed, events unfolded like a tragic opera.

Connie’s 911 call went to the King County Communica­tions Center. Panting with panic, she struggled to report the emergency.

“A girl fell off a cliff! We need—please, we need—”

“Take a breath,” said the operator, calm, professional, taking control. “Tell me exactly where you are and what happened.”

Connie collected herself, answering questions and following instructions, enabling the operator to dispatch paramedics and deputies from the King County Sheriff’s Office North Precinct. The deputies then made a callout for Search and Rescue, setting the response in motion.

“I can’t look anymore.” Katie covered her face with her hands. Sobbing and trembling, she lowered her hands and asked: “Is Anna dead?”

“We don’t know.” Connie put her arm around her. “Help is coming.”

 

For their part, Jackson and Adam had found a safe route to hurry down from the cliff. Moving as fast as they could along the rugged riverbank, they came to Anna’s motionless body.

Her arms and legs were bent and twisted like a rag doll. She was lying faceup with her eyes open, staring skyward, blood dripping from the back of her neck. Jackson and Adam knelt next to her.

“Anna!” Adam said, knowing the worst but saying her name again.

Her stillness terrified them. They heard nothing but the river’s rush while Jackson felt her neck, warm but no pulse.

He began CPR.

Adam saw her palms, bleeding from branch fragments pro­jecting like quills in testament to her fight to hang on. Gen­tly holding her hand, Adam surveyed Anna, almost glowing on the rocks in her bright yellow T-shirt. He didn’t know that her mother had had it custom-made for her last birthday with the embroidered motto crowned over her heart: All We Have Is Today.

A small tattoo on her inner right wrist said Fearless, and on her inner left wrist was a small heart. Her jeans were faded, stylishly torn at the knees. One of her pink sneakers had been ripped away by the impact.

Anna’s head nodded in time with Jackson’s rhythmic pump­ing. But both men knew that the effort to save her was in vain.

Still Jackson refused to quit.

Adam’s phone rang—it was the emergency operator. She’d gotten his number from Connie.

“Yes… A lot of blood… No pulse… We both have CPR and First Aid… He’s doing CPR… Unconscious… Not responding… Tell them to hurry.”

Staying on the line to provide directions to the scene, Adam held Anna’s still-warm hand while watching Jackson’s unrelent­ing CPR. Blinking back tears. His gaze went from Anna to the rock face, his stomach lifting at the magnitude of the drop, his focus traveling up beyond the broken branch to the cliff, seeing Connie looking down at him.

Adam shook his head slowly.

Connie’s hand flew to her mouth. She turned, nearly dou­bling over before somehow getting enough control to pull Katie closer, comforting her. Slowly they started back to be with the others at their day camp.

Connie’s mind swirled as they returned to the clearing; twenty-four kids, aged nine to fourteen, were in the Sunny Days excursion, along with four adult supervisors and three older teen assistants—now, only two.

Moments ago they were all starting a blissful outing, only to see it turn into a day of horrible heartbreak, a day they would remember for the rest of their lives, Connie thought. Every­thing at their day camp came to a halt when Connie and Katie emerged.

“Is Anna okay?” asked Dakota, one of the supervisors.

Connie searched the group, meeting anxious, expectant faces, feeling Katie’s sobs against her. Holding her tight, Con­nie brushed at her own tears.

“Anna fell,” Connie said. “She’s hurt bad, really bad.”

“Did Anna die?” one of the girls asked.

Connie stared at her.

“I want to see!” said Dylan Frick, a boy who was also in Ka­tie’s class at school.

“No!” Connie said loudly, then softened her voice. “We don’t know anything yet. We just have to wait.”

Some of the kids got on their phones, texting and calling their families, while a few of the girls rushed to Katie and Connie, encircling them in a group hug, their sobbing soon mingling with the tragic operatic chorus of distant sirens echoing over the treetops.

 

 

Excerpted from Everything She Feared. Copyright © 2023 by Rick Mofina. Published by MIRA Books.

 

Author Bio:

 

Rick Mofina is a former crime reporter and the award-winning author of several acclaimed thrillers. He's interviewed murderers face-to-face on death row; patrolled with the LAPD and the RCMP. His true crime articles have appeared in The New York Times, Marie Claire, Reader’s Digest and Penthouse. He's reported from the U.S., Canada, the Caribbean, Africa, Qatar and Kuwait's border with Iraq. This is his 31^st book. For more information please visit www.rickmofina.com

 

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GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/93666.Rick_Mofina

Book Spotlight/Giveaway: Cold Sleep

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will award a $20 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

It’s the perfect score—stealing valuable data from a VIP in cryo-freeze midway through a decades-long interstellar crossing. If it works, Kara will have enough money to buy what she’s always wanted—a Captaincy.

But with the rest of the crew and the cargo of one hundred thousand colonists still frozen, Kara and her accomplice, Zed, realize they’re not the only ones awake. The murdered woman they find is only the first victim of whoever or whatever has woken from Cold Sleep.

Read an Excerpt

Stretching out the stiffness, my joints pop and crackle. One of the problems with lying in cold-sleep: you wake up feeling like arthritis has set in. With the synthetic dopamine and endorphins fading, I’d probably just want to curl up somewhere but good old synthphenethylamine’s still getting me going. A few seconds more for the upload of the quasi-intelligent virus to the ship’s system to finish.

Speaking of risks, getting caught with QI tech would see me court-martialed and spaced before any appeal notice could reach Earth. But this gig is worth it; it’s not for the thrill, it’s for what the payoff will get me.

Upload complete. And the ship’s systems stop registering our unscheduled revival.

A quick check back through the records shows all evidence of disruption to the normal cold-sleep routine has been erased. My little QI viral hitchhiker is back safe in the link-key, its work done for now.

Of course, a full virtual forensic check, stripping away every level of the programming and examining the source code, will make my tampering as obvious as a cometary impact. But the QI virus has laid the same evidence trail to each of the eighteen crew, four officers, and one hundred thousand passengers on board.

If you can’t hide your crime, make sure the evidence points to someone else. Better yet, everyone else.

For now, we’re ghosts aboard a sleeping ship.

About the Author:

A Brit now living in the Scandinavian wilds of Denmark with his wife and half-Viking kids, Luke worked as a Criminal Barrister in and around London for over a decade dealing with everything from minor theft cases to a real life axe murder and everything in between. Thanks to parents in the military he grew up being dragged around the world--while living in the Far East he picked up a love for the martial arts which continues to this day, as he passes on what he’s learned to a select dojo of students. Cold Sleep is his third novel. His first was Amazon cyberpunk bestseller Mercury’s Son, his second a UK set supernatural suspense novel 3:33 AM.

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New Release Spotlight: J.T. Elison's It's One of Us

 

IT’S ONE OF US

JT Ellison

On Sale Date: February 21, 2023

9780778311768

Hardcover

$27.99 USD, $34.99 CAD

 

About the Book:

From the New York Times bestselling author comes this twisting, emotionally layered thriller about a marriage torn apart when the police arrive at an infertile couple’s door and reveal the husband’s son is the prime suspect in a murder. The perfect blend of exhilarating suspense and issue-driven book club fiction.

Everybody lies. Even the ones you think you know best of all . . .

Olivia Bender designs exquisite home interiors that satisfy the most demanding clients. But her own deepest desire can’t be fulfilled by marble counters or the perfect rug. She desperately wants to be a mother. Fertility treatments and IVF keep failing. And just when she feels she’s at her lowest point, the police deliver shocking news to Olivia and her husband, Park.

DNA results show that the prime suspect in a murder investigation is Park’s son. Olivia is relieved, knowing this is a mistake. Despite their desire, the Benders don’t have any children. Then comes the confession. Many years ago, Park donated sperm to a clinic. He has no idea how many times it was sold—or how many children he has sired.

As the murder investigation goes deeper, more terrible truths come to light. With every revelation, Olivia must face the unthinkable. The man she married has fathered a killer. But can she hold that against him when she keeps such dark secrets of her own?

This twisting, emotionally layered thriller explores the lies we tell to keep a marriage together--or break each other apart . . .

Buy Links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Its-One-Us-Novel-Suspense-ebook/dp/B09ZLGLKH9/ref=sr_1_1?crid=222QCNJW8SCPI&keywords=it%27s+one+of+us&qid=1673560699&sprefix=it%27s+one+of+us%2Caps%2C74&sr=8-1 

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/its-one-of-us-j-t-ellison/1141813790?ean=9780778311768 

Bookshop: https://bookshop.org/book/9780778311768

IndieBound: https://www.indiebound.org/buy-local/9780778311768

Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Its-One-Us/J-T-Ellison/9780778311768?id=8292090795540

Sneak Peek Excerpt:

1

THE WIFE

There is blood again.

Olivia forces away the threatening tears. She will not collapse. She will not cry. She will stand up, square her shoulders and flush the toilet, whispering small words of benediction toward the life that was, that wasn’t, that could have been.

She will not linger; she will not acknowledge the sudden sense of emptiness consuming her body. She will not give this moment more than it deserves. It’s happened before, too many times now. It will happen again, her mind unhelpfully provides.

There is relief in this pain, some sort of primitive biological response to help ease her heavy heart. Olivia has never lied to herself about her feelings about having a child. She wants this, she’s sure of it. Wants the experience, wants to be able to speak the same language as her sisters in the fertility arts, her friends who’ve already birthed their own. And she loves the idea of being pregnant. Loves the feelings of that early flush of success—the soreness and tingling in her breasts, the spotty nausea, the excitement, the fatigue. Loves remembering that moment when she realized she was pregnant the first time.

She’d known even before she took the test. She could feel the life growing inside her. Feel the quickening pulse. A secret she held in her heart, managing several hours with just the two of them, alone in their nascent lives. Every room of the house looked new, fresh, dangerous. Sharp corners and glass coffee tables, no, no, those would have to be tempered, replaced. The sun glancing off the breakfast table—too bright here, the spot on the opposite side would be best for a high chair. The cat, snoozing in the window seat—how was she going to take an interloper? The plans. The plans.

After a carefully arranged lunch, fresh fruit and no soft cheeses, she’d driven to the bookstore for a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, accepted the sweet congratulations of the bookseller—think, a complete stranger knew more than her family, her husband. She tied the plastic stick with its beautiful double pink lines inside two elaborate bows—one pink, one blue—and gave it to Park after an elegant dinner.

The look on his face—pride and fear and terror and joy, all mingled with desire—when he realized what she was saying. He’d been struck dumb, could only grin ear to ear and pat her leg for the first twenty minutes.

So much joy between them. So much possibility.

Olivia replayed that moment, over and over, every time she got pregnant. It helped chase away the furrowing, the angles and planes of Park’s forehead, cheek, chin, as they collapsed into sorrow when she’d miscarried the first time. And the next. And the next. Every time she lost their children, it was the same, all played out on Park’s handsome face: exaltation, fear, sorrow. Pity.

No, the being pregnant part was idyllic for her, albeit terribly brief. It’s only that she doesn’t know how she feels about what happens ten months hence, and the lifetime that follows. The stranger that comes into being. But that’s normal—at least, that’s what everyone tells her. All women feel nervous about what comes next. Her ambivalence isn’t what’s killing her babies. She can’t help but feel it’s her fault for not being certain to her marrow what she wants. That God is punishing her for being cavalier.

Of course, this internal conversation is moot. There is blood. Again.

She hastily makes her repairs—the materials are never far away. If she stashed the pads and tampons away in the hall cabinet, it would be bad luck. Too optimistic.

Not like they’re having any luck anyway. Six pregnancies. Six miscarriages. IUIs and IVF. Needles and hormones and pain, so much pain. More than anyone should have to bear.

With a momentary glance at the crime scene in the toilet, she depresses the handle.

“Goodbye,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Olivia brushes her teeth, then pulls a comb through her glossy, prenatal-enriched locks, rehearsing the breakfast conversation she must now have.

How does she tell Park she’s failed, yet again, to hold the tiny life inside her?

Downstairs, it is now just another morning, no different from any over the past several years. Just the two of them, getting ready for the day.

The television is on in the kitchen, tuned to the local morning show. Park whistles as he whisks eggs in a bright red bowl. Park’s breakfasts are legendary. Savory omelets, buckwheat blueberry pancakes, veggie frittatas, yogurts and homemade granola—you name it, he makes it. Olivia handles dinner. If she cooks three nights out of seven, she considers that a success. They eat like kings in the morning and paupers at night, and they love it.

She pauses at the door, watching him bustle around. He is already dressed for work, jeans and a button-down, black lace-up brogues. His “office” is in the backyard, in a shed Olivia converted for his use. A former—reformed—English professor on a semipermanent sabbatical, Park has launched a second career ghostwriting psychological thrillers. He claims to love the anonymity of it, that he can work so close to home, and the money is good. Enough. Not obscene, but enough. They’ve been able to afford four rounds of IUI and two in vitros so far. And as he says, writing is the perfect career for a man who wants to be a stay-at-home dad. There’s no reason for him to go back to teaching. Not now.

A pang in her heart, echoed by a sharp cramp in her stomach. They are throwing everything away. She is throwing everything away. This round of IVF, she only produced a few retrievable eggs, and this was their last embryo.

My God, she’s gotten clinical. She’s gotten cold. Babies. Not embryos. There are no more frozen babies. Which means she’ll have to do it all again, the weeks-long scientific process of creating a child: the suppression drugs, the early morning blood tests, the shots, the trigger, the surgery, the implantation. The rage and fear and pain. Again.

The money. It costs so, so much.

She has frozen at the edge of the kitchen, thoughts roiling, and Park senses her there, turns with a wide smile. The whisk clicks against the bowl in time with her heartbeat.

“How are my darlings feeling this morning? Mama and bebe hungry?”

She is saved from blurting out the truth—mama no more, bebe is dead—by the ringing of the doorbell.

Park frowns. “Who is here so early? Watch the eggs, will you?”

Even chickens can do what she cannot.

It’s infuriating. House cats escape into the woods and sixty days later purge themselves of tiny blind beings. Insects, birds, rats, rabbits, deer, reproduce without thought or hindrance.

Nearly four million women a year—a year!—manage to give birth.

But not her.

She’s not depressed, really, she’s not. She’s come to terms with this. It happens. Today will be a bad day, tomorrow will be better. They will try again. It will all be okay.

Mechanically, Olivia moves to the stove, accepts the wooden spatula. Park disappears toward the foyer, shoulders broad and waist nearly as trim as the day she met him. She will never get over his handsomeness, his winning personality. Everyone loves Park. How could you not? He is perfect. He is everything Olivia is not.

The television is blaring a breaking news alert, and she turns her attention to it, grateful for something, anything, to focus on beside the intransigent nature of her womb and the fear her husband will abandon her. The anchor is new, from Mississippi, with a voice soft as honey. Tupelo? No, Oxford, Olivia remembers; Park took her to a quaint bookstore there on the square one summer, long ago.

“Sad news this morning, as it has been confirmed the body found in Davidson County earlier this week belongs to young mother Beverly Cooke. Cooke has been missing for three months, after she was last seen going for a hike at Radnor Lake. Her car was found in the parking lot, with her purse and phone inside. Metro Nashville Police spokesperson Vanda Priory tells Channel Four Metro is working with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation and Forensic Medical to determine her cause of death. The Cooke family released a statement a few minutes ago. ‘Thank you to everyone who has helped bring Beverly home. We will have more information on her burial soon. We ask for privacy during this difficult time.’ Metro now turns their attention to identifying a suspect. In this morning’s briefing, Homicide Detective William Osley stated that Metro has a lead and will be pursuing it vigorously. Next up, time to break into the cedar closet, it’s finally sweater weather!”

Olivia sighs in regret. That poor woman. Like everyone in Nashville, Olivia has followed the case religiously. To have a young mother—the kind of woman she’s so desperate to mold herself into— disappear into thin air from a safe, regularly traveled, popular spot, one Olivia herself hikes on occasion, has been terrifying. She knows Beverly Cooke, too, albeit peripherally. They were in a book club together a few years ago. Beverly was fun. Loud. Drank white wine in the kitchen of the house and gossiped about the neighbors. Never read the book.

Olivia stopped going after a few meetings. It was right before she’d started her first official fertility treatments, had two miscarriages behind her, was hopped up on Clomid and aspirin, and all anyone could do was talk babies. Beverly had just weaned her first and was drunk for the first time in two years. She alternated between complaining and cooing about the trials and joys of motherhood. Olivia couldn’t take it, this flagrant flaunting of the woman’s success. She stood stock still in the clubhouse kitchen, fingers clenching a glass of Chardonnay, envisioning the myriad ways she could murder Beverly. Cracking the glass on the counter’s edge and swiping it across Beverly’s pale stalk of a neck seemed the most expedient.

Honestly, she wanted to murder them all, the sycophantic breeders who took their ability to procreate for granted. They had no idea what she was going through. How she was tearing apart inside, month after month. How she felt the embryos detach and knew it was over. How Park’s face went from joy to disdain every time.

Some people wear their scars on the outside.

Some hide them deep, and never let anyone in to see them.

Olivia is still staring at the screen, which is blaring a commercial for car insurance, processing, remembering, fists balled so tightly she can feel her nails cutting the skin, when she hears her husband calling her name.

“Olivia?” His voice is pitched higher than normal, as if he’s excited, or scared.

Park enters the kitchen from the hall between the dining room and the butler’s pantry.

“Honey, they found Beverly—” she starts. But her words die in her throat when she sees two strangers, a man and a woman, standing behind him, people she knows immediately are police officers just by their wary bearing and shifting eyes that take in the whole room in a moment, then settle on her appraisingly.

“I know,” Park says, coming to her side, shutting off the gas. She’s burned the eggs; a sulfurous stench emanates from the gold-encrusted pan. He takes the spatula from her carefully. “It’s been on the news all morning. Liv, these detectives need to talk to us.”

“About?”

The man—stocky, slick smoky-lensed gold glasses, perfectly worn-in cowboy boots and a leather jacket over a button-down—takes a small step forward and removes his sunglasses. His eyes are the deepest espresso and hold something indefinable, between pity and accusation. It’s as if he knows what she is thinking, knows her uncharitable thoughts toward poor dead Beverly.

“Detective Osley, ma’am. My partner, Detective Moore. We’ve been working Beverly Cooke’s case. I understand you knew her? Our condolences for your loss.”

Olivia cuts her eyes at Park. What the hell has he been saying to them?

“I don’t know her. Didn’t. Not well. We were in a book club together, years ago. I don’t know what happened to her. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Oh, we understand. That’s not why we’re here.” Osley glances at his partner. The woman is taller than he is, graceful in the way of ex–ballet dancers even in her street clothes, with a long, supple neck, hooded green eyes devoid of makeup and blond hair twisted into a thick no-nonsense bun worn low, brushing the collar of her shirt.

“Why are you here, exactly?” Olivia asks.

Park frowns at her tone. She’s come across too sharp, but my God, what she’s already handled this morning would break a lesser woman.

“It’s about our suspect in the Cooke case. Can we sit down?”

Olivia reigns in her self-loathing fury and turns on the charm. The consummate hostess act always works. Park has taught her that. “Oh, of course. Can I get you some coffee? Tea? We were making breakfast. Can we offer you some eggs, or a muffin? I have a fresh pan here—”

“No, ma’am, we’re fine,” Moore demurs. “Let’s sit down and have a chat.”

Olivia has a moment of sheer freak-out. Was it Park? Had he killed Beverly Cooke? Was that why they wanted to talk, because he was a suspect? If he was a suspect, would the police sit down with them casually in the kitchen? Wouldn’t they want something more official? Take him to the station? Did they need to call a lawyer? Her mind was going fifty thousand miles an hour, and Park was already convicted and in prison, and she was so alone in the big house, so lonely, before she reached a hand to pull out the chair.

She needs to knock off the true crime podcasts. Her husband is not a murderer. He is incapable of that kind of deceit.

Isn’t he?

Sometimes she wonders.

“Nice kitchen,” Osley says.

“Thank you.”

Olivia loves her kitchen. It is the model for all her signature looks. Airy, open, white cabinets with iron pulls, leathered white marble counters. A black granite–topped island just the right size for chopping and serving, light spilling in from the big bay window. A white oak French country table with elegant cane-backed chairs. It was the heart of her home, the heart of her life with Park.

Now, though, it is simply the site of his greatest betrayal. Forevermore, from this morning—with the burned eggs and the somber police and Park’s face whiter than bone—until the end of her tenure here, and even then, in remembrance, she would look at this precious place with fury and sadness for what could have been. The ghosts of the life they were supposed to have clung to her, suckled her spirit like a babe at her breast never would. Everywhere she looked were echoes of the shadow existence she was supposed to be living. Here, a frazzled mother, smiling despite her fatigue at the children she’d created. There, a loving father, always ready to lend a hand tossing a ball or helping with homework. And look, a trio of towheaded boys and a soft blonde princess girl, the teasing and laughter of their mealtimes. How the table would seem to grow smaller as the boys got older and took up more space. The girlfriends came, the boyfriends. The emptiness when it was just the two of them again, the children grown with their own lives, the table bursting at holidays only. The grandchildren, happiness and racket, the noise and the joy creeping out from the woodwork again.

She is alone. She will always be alone. She will not have this life. She will not have this dream.

Park made it so.

As the detectives continue to speak, softly, without rancor, and her world splinters, Olivia hardens, compresses, shrinks. She watches her husband and holds on to one small thought.

I have the power to destroy you, too. Dear God, give me the chance.

Excerpted from It’s One of Us @ 2023 by JT Ellison, used with permission by MIRA Books.

About the Author:

J.T. Ellison is the NYT and USA Today bestselling author of more than 20 novels, and the EMMY-award winning co-host of A WORD ON WORDS, Nashville's premier literary show. With millions of books in print, her work has won critical acclaim, prestigious awards, and has been published in 26 countries. Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens.

 

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Book Spotlight Tour/Giveaway; Deadly Betrayal

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Sheila Kell will be awarding a $25 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

When trusting the wrong person can be deadly.

From Romantic Suspense BEST-SELLING and AWARD-WINNING Author • What happens when a former FBI analyst quits her job to become a PI and ends up partnering with the man who left her fourteen years earlier? In Sheila Kell’s riveting novel of secrets, deceit, and romance, two people rush to find a killer while reckoning with their growing attraction.

Cassie McKay was tired of being passed over as a FBI field agent. She quits her job as a FBI analyst, moved back home with her mother, and takes a job as a PI. Only she hadn’t expected her partner to be the one man who’d left her years before.

Jack “JD” Walker had done a lot wrong in his life, but he hadn’t killed the mother of his child as the police believed, nor had he expected the only women he’d ever loved to come to his rescue. The two work diligently to prove JD’s innocence while someone is determined to make JD pay.

Deadly Betrayal is the first book in the Coastal Investigations series. If you enjoy a thrilling, edge-of-your-seat read, you’ll love this installment of Sheila Kell’s new romantic suspense series.

Read an Excerpt

Before she could turn, a deep, gravelly voice said, “Cassie?”

She spun around, knowing who the voice belonged to, even though she’d last heard it on the man at seventeen years of age. Cassie’s breathless response of only “JD” undoubtedly expressed her surprise along with that flitter in her heart.

His vivid blue eyes turned icy cold. “Who is breaking the restraining order now?”

Confused, her brow scrunched up. “What?”

Without looking away, he shouted, “Gus, what is she here for? I’m not working on a case for her.” The stern voice hit like a slap to the face. What had happened to the JD she grew up with? The man she had one day swore she’d marry. Then Cassie remembered how he had abandoned her when he went off to college, and a fit of familiar anger and hurt surged within her.

“I gotta told you something, yeah. Well, I knowed ya been friends when you were young’uns, so I hired her to work with ya. I hoped it git rid of da prickliness.”

JD snapped his head to Gus. “She works here?”

As she turned back to Gus, she caught the man’s slow grin. “Sure thing, cher.”

She glanced back at JD. As handsome as ever. He sure had filled out nicely as a man. His shoulders were broader, the lines on his face distinguished, and the aura of danger still hung on him.

JD swiveled his head to stare at Gus as if they had concocted this meeting to taunt him or something.

She needed to explain that she wouldn’t be working there after all. “JD, I—”

He pointed at her, anger radiating from him. “I don’t want to hear anything from you.” He turned to Gus, his finger now pointing at the older gentleman. “I can’t believe you, Gus. Here I thought you liked me.” He exhaled loudly. “You can cram this job up your ass.” JD spun and exited, slamming the door behind him.

Cassie stood frozen, shaking. She wasn’t sure what the hell had just happened.

About the Author:

Sheila Kell writes about the romantic men who leave women’s hearts pounding with a happily ever after built on memorable, adrenaline-pumping stories. Or, (since her editor tries to cut down on her long-windedness) simply “Smokin’ Hot Romance & Intrigue.” Her debut novel, His Desire (HIS Series #1), launched as an Amazon #1 romantic suspense bestseller and Top 100 overall, later winning the Readers’ Favorite award for best romantic suspense novel.

As a Southern girl who traveled the world with the United States Air Force, she remembers all the embarrassing moments of her fellow veterans to include in her books and laughs every time she does it. Having left behind her days as a College President, she can usually be found nestled in the Mississippi woods, where she lives with her cats and all the strays that magically find her front door. When she isn’t writing, you can find Sheila with her nose in a good book, dealing with the woodland critters who enjoy her back patio, or wishing she had a genie to do her bidding.

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New Release Spotlight/Giveaway: Unbounded

Unbounded by C. Tyler

General Release Date: 31st January 2023

Word Count: 69,991
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 287

Genres:

ACTION AND ADVENTURE
BILLIONAIRE
BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
MAFIA/GANGS
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Sometimes, a little pain can lead to the greatest pleasure.

Bay Hurst had given up on relationships, content to ‘play’ instead. So when she found the perfect partner at a BDSM club, she knew what to expect—here for a moment, gone the next.

Six years later, that philosophy doesn’t hold as true.

When handsome stranger Michele Sacchi boards the yacht she works on, Bay is suddenly thrust head first into an unexpected situation. They’ve met before and, more than that, he was her perfect playmate.

Now the two must struggle with their desires as well as maintain a professional appearance, but there’s much more bubbling beneath the surface than even she realizes—and once they reach land, her world may erupt into chaos.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence and attempted murder.

Excerpt

Whenever I found myself in London, one place called to me, chanted my name over and over, enticing me to its belly.

Labyrinth was an establishment where membership was exclusive, and patrons had to fully trust one another. It catered to a specific clientele, to the people who enjoyed another side to eroticism, many of whom chose to remain anonymous.

Dress code consisted of whatever cocktail attire one owned and a mask. Whether made of lace, metal, cloth, or resin, a mask had remained mandatory since the beginning of Labyrinth’s reign.

I was not a member in the official sense. I couldn’t afford the fees, but the owner allowed me a free visit whenever I was in town, so long as I sang for my supper. And sing I would.

Music had been a passion of mine since childhood. The genre changed often, but my love for it never would. Music had the power to alter people’s moods, be it uplifting or heartbreaking. It could trigger memories or help create new ones. It meant the world to me, and singing in Labyrinth was the closest I’d ever get to being a part of that world.

When I’d finished my short set to a room filled with mysterious men and women, I left the small stage, met an instant later by a man in a suit with a black resin mask. Intense eyes stared at me, so dark that they blended effortlessly with the rest of his attire.

He offered me his hand, which I accepted and used to descend the rest of the stairs. My leather dress, fitted enough to have been painted on, creaked and groaned with each step. It clung so tightly to my legs that I welcomed his help.

The stranger brought me to him, our chests together. We each remained silent, even as he hooked his index finger beneath the lime-green bracelet I wore. Raising it high enough for us both to see, there’d been a hint of green peeking out from beneath the cuff of his suit jacket as well. We were a match, something that made my heart race.

Labyrinth had a system in which members could wear a paper bracelet, not unlike those at concerts, of varying colors. Different colors meant the wearer was into different things and cut out needless chit-chat.

“Interested?” he asked.

Hmm-mm, European, but not English. What is that?

His deep, alluring accent tickled something within me, a desire I hadn’t realized I’d had. I liked it and wanted more.

“Lead the way.”

He smiled at me, his full lips curling at the corner and begging to be nibbled on.

The stranger took my hand and together we retreated down a long hall of doors. Some were open, revealing their scintillating secrets to the world.

In one room stood a man with a hand braced against a piece of furniture, the other entwined in a woman’s hair while she bobbed up and down the length of his cock. The joy on his face told me all I needed to know.

In another room, a large, burly and hirsute gentleman donning a pair of impressive heels stood over a young man much thinner in frame, who placed multiple happy kisses to the toes of the stilettos.

Other doors had been shut, closing everyone out so that those inside could have the privacy they desired.

After a few moments, we came to an unoccupied room. He stood aside and motioned for me to enter before him, which I did.

Deep-colored walls surrounded me, lit by dim sconces. Each wall had been lined with racks of toys tastefully displayed and illuminated by beams of light as though they were modern pieces of art.

To the left rested a bed with cuffs in each corner to hold the player down, and not far from that sat a chaise lounge, a prime place for someone to sit while another individual groveled. But the suspension rack near the center of the room held my attention.

Cuffs and chains hung from each corner, but I had become more interested in the pair that dangled from the center beam, the wrist restraints that would bind one’s hands together above the head.

When I was situated far enough from the wall that nothing would impede whatever hung from it, I stood within the frame and turned to the stranger. He remained near the door, hands in his pockets while he sported a wicked grin. With my gaze locked to his, I gripped the restraints and lifted myself off the ground. They were very sturdy.

His smile broadened and, with the unspoken understanding that I’d found what I wanted, he closed the door to give us much-needed privacy. Hearing the latch engage caused my skin to prickle with excitement.

The stranger removed his jacket and laid it across the chaise. His cufflinks were next, which allowed him to roll the sleeves of his white button-up shirt, revealing thick, strong forearms beneath. Tattoos dotted his caramel-colored skin, though I didn’t bother identifying what they were.

As he prepared himself, I turned my attention to the walls of toys. One rack held whips, some with tips so thin they would break skin. Another held floggers like cat-o’-nine-tails. One held paddles, another slappers and from the last hung multiple riding crops.

Labyrinth catered to many preferences and, had I known the stranger better, I might have gone for something more adventurous. Seeing as I didn’t, I went with a selection that would be fun, but safer.

I returned to the stranger with a riding crop in one hand and a three-strip slapper in the other. One would offer a more concentrated snap while the second created a slightly duller thud. His eyes sparkled as he looked them over.

“Hmm.”

After a moment of consideration, he chose the slapper. My eagerness intensified. I quite liked slappers.

My stranger set the instrument aside and stepped behind me. Slowly but surely, he tugged the dress’s zipper down, loosening it around my body. When it reached the end, he slid his hands beneath the garment and proceeded to peel it away.

He dug his fingers into my body, along the curve of my waist and the slope of my hips while he pushed the dress down.

Within seconds, it rested in a pool of fabric at my feet, leaving me in nothing more than my lacy lingerie and four-inch heels.

He took my hand and guided me to the rack where he promptly secured my wrists, staring deep into my eyes as he did. My heart raced, lodging itself in my throat. The anticipation coursed through every inch of me, priming my nerves for what was to come.

In spite of how it appeared, I didn’t feel in danger. There was plenty of slack in the chains that would’ve allowed me to uncuff my wrists myself, and Labyrinth had a rigorous vetting process for their clientele. Regardless of how it may have appeared to someone on the outside, I was safe with the stranger.

“Bellisima,” he said.

Oh. So this sexy bastard is Italian. Even better.

My core ached.

Smirking, he draped my dress over the chaise with his jacket, took hold of the slapper and stepped behind me.

The first moment it touched my skin, I flinched. The cool leather and shock of it caused me to gasp. He chuckled.

He teased me for a while, running the slapper over the curve of my ass, along my spine and even down the backs of my thighs. He’d been tender, delicate, allowing each passing second to heighten the tension, and just before I could speak, before I had the chance to urge the stranger along, it happened.

A loud crack echoed through the room, shortly followed by my lustful gasp. He left the slapper in place for a breath, as though allowing the welt beneath it to form on my ass. The pain radiated through the whole of my body, infecting the smallest atom and causing me to vibrate.

It was just the beginning.

For what had to be nearly an hour, the stranger played with me. He would lull me into a sense of calm before bringing the slapper hard against my ass or the backs of my thighs. He knew what to do, how to tease every iota of pleasure out of me.

At one point, he stepped in front of me, looming tall. His eyes had turned black, any hint of brown choked out of existence with growing lust. I dared a glance down. His erection strained against his slacks. Their dark color helped hide it, but I wasn’t blind, more than able to see the line of his cock struggle to break free of the fabric. He was impressively sized, and images of me on my knees taking him into my mouth or him bending me over something and thrusting coursed through my head on an endless loop.

Sweeping my tongue across my upper lip, I stared at him through my lashes. He arched a thick brow. I doubted my intent had been unclear.

By that time in our play, my nipples had become painfully hard, rubbing against my bra and more wanting than before, while my clit throbbed and ached. I had no doubt that, if he chose to remove my panties, my excitement would’ve been visible. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had turned me on like that from nothing more than some paddling.

My stranger stared down at me. His jaw tightened, the muscles rolling beneath his olive skin. His chest heaved with each breath, and I knew I looked the same. Fire burned in my cheeks and between my legs. I wanted so badly for him to take me.

The image of him wrapping my legs around his waist and fucking me while I hung from the beam filled my mind. There was no hiding the shiver or the gasp that parted my lips. Sex wasn’t part of the deal with a green bracelet, but God save me, I wanted it.

He looked me over, and while I was desperate to come through my skin, he reached forward. My stranger ran the back of his curled index finger over my nipple. Pleasure tore through me, intensified when he pinched the sensitive bud. He groaned, running his full bottom lip through his teeth while he massaged my breast.

“If only we had more time.” He turned his attention to my other breast and gave it the same adoration. “I am certain we could have a lot of fun.”

I have no doubt.

He shifted his grip, running his hands up my arms and massaging my biceps. He met my gaze, his eyes burning black.

“This would be perfect for it, yes?” His hands trailed back down, over my breasts, along the curve of my waist and my hips.

“Yes.” The word had been little more than a whisper.

He bent forward, encompassing my ass with his hands. The softness of them did nothing to soothe the pain of his whipping.

My stranger lifted me with ease, guiding my legs around his hips and holding me close. I’d gasped at the suddenness of it, gripping my cuffs as best I could for better support.

He ground against my clit, keeping me at the perfect angle to feel the bulge of his cock millimeters from where I wanted it most. I chewed on my bottom lip, struggling to steady my breathing while my heart raced. He was giving me my fantasy, giving me what I’d begun to long for without me having to ask.

Jesus, was he made just for me?

“If given the chance,” he said, breath gliding across my lips while the spicy scent of his cologne filled my nose, “I could spend the night inside you.”

My pussy clenched on reflex, seemingly desperate to be given the opportunity, but I kept my exterior as calm as possible.

“You shouldn’t tease. It’s not very nice.”

A dark, wicked smirk curled his lips. In it, I sensed he’d made a promise, not an empty offer. Delightful thought, to be sure.

Digging his fingers into my ass harder than before, he began the slow, deliberate action of guiding me up the length of his shaft. I held my chains, desperate for the aid of them while he continued.

“I could spend the night making you shake.” His voice had grown as dark as the color of his eyes, a fathomless void that caressed me, called to me.

What’d begun slow and deliberate, as a teasing gesture meant to heighten the sex-filled atmosphere of our private room, had quickly devolved into something more. Within seconds, he worked harder, faster, eliciting sparks of joy each time my clit scraped along his shaft. It pushed me toward an end I hadn’t expected that night, an end that I had become desperate for.

“Yes,” I said on a breath.

My stranger leaned in, our bodies tight. The muscles in my arms burned. I’d been struggling to reach out for him, to wrap them around his thick shoulders, but the cuffs kept me in place. It remained my favorite part of being bound, the inability to touch my partner when I wanted to most.

He continued to bounce me in place, relentlessly rolling my hips into his unyielding cock. Dipping into the crook of my neck allowed his sweltering growls to glide across my exposed flesh, adding yet another layer to the moment.

The coil in my gut twisted more and more with each passing second. It wouldn’t be long.

“I would worship you,” he rasped, “just to hear your screams.”

His words were fading, drowned out by the thundering pulse in my ears.

“Don’t stop.” The mewling words had somehow managed to escape me.

My stranger drew back. I struggled to keep his gaze, to stare into his beautiful face, but he’d become determined in his action, fucking me like a wild man without penetration, and it was more than enough.

A string of Italian words left his lips, their encouraging tone the only thing that I could discern.

His gaze never left mine, tempting me further into the abyss. In spite of the mask that concealed so much of his face, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“Come for me, bella,” he said in a deep, rough voice. “I want to hear it.”

I nodded and his efforts increased. I was swallowed up a second later.

When the coil sprang, I didn’t hold back. I cried out, filling our chamber with the sounds of my elation, allowing it to wash over me and release all the glorious tension he’d spent an hour building.

From somewhere in the back of my mind, I might have heard a similar sound leave him, though I was too lost to notice.

My stranger held my ass in one hand while his free arm encircled me. I quivered and shook against him, struggling to draw air into my lungs. He kept me secured to him, engulfing me with little effort and helping to pull my shattered body back together.

I had finally given out, my muscles jellied from the orgasm.

Letting out a stiff breath, my stranger loosened his grip and allowed my legs to slide from his hips until I could stand on my own once more. It’d been difficult to manage, but the cuffs weren’t suspended so high that they took me off my feet. Instead, they allowed me a bit of support.

His eyelids were heavy while a flash of pink swathed his cheeks. His full lips, perfect for biting, were parted with each huffing breath.

“I’m afraid this is the end of our play, my dear.” Genuine disappointment saturated his voice. He reached up to unlatch my wrists, standing so close that the heat of him infected me further. “Truly regrettable.”

I found his accent delicious, the way it affected each syllable and curled the consonants. He had the sort of rich voice that I could listen to for hours.

“Pity,” I said. Regardless of what’d transpired, how exhausted I’d become, I wanted more.

He smiled.

When my wrists had been freed, he retrieved my dress and offered it to me. I put it on while he righted himself, and soon it appeared as though nothing had happened.

My welts brought me back to reality, however. Each scrape of my dress across the raw skin helped remind me that it’d been real, which only served to breathe new life into those smoldering embers.

Out of curiosity, I peered at his groin. A slick sheen had overtaken the dark fabric and I knew not all the dampness had been mine.

“Will there be another performance tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” I replied, stomach fluttering at the prospect of spending more time with him. “I actually have to leave Lon—”

My gaze drifted to the clock hanging near the door and my heart dropped. I’d been so invested in our play that I hadn’t been paying attention to the time. At nearly one in the morning, I’d stayed much longer than I’d intended.

“Oh, shit,” I said in shock. “I-I have to go.” I raced for the door and threw it open. “I had fun!” I shouted over my shoulder while I ran down the hall as best as my tight dress and shoes would allow.

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About the Author

C. Tyler

A fan of any genre, C. Tyler enjoys writing a wide array of stories, from fantasy and paranormal, to contemporary. Whether it’s a bad boy biker, or a burly shifter, there’s a little something for almost everyone.

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