Debra L. Hartmann's Blog

THE HISTORY WE CARRYA Daughter’s Memoirby Margaret WhitfordJuly 27 – August 21, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:For fans of Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died, a memoir for daughters who recognize that to truly understand themselves and the patterns of their lives, they must first understand their mothers and the forces that shaped these women.

When Margaret Whitford’s mother was dying, she told those present that her daughter “had her history.” This was true; Margaret had conducted interviews with her mother during the last decade of her life. But this didn’t end their estrangement, and Margaret chose not to return to her mother’s side during her final days.

In this memoir, Margaret confronts this decision by unearthing in her mother’s traumatic history the roots of the emotional distance between them. She explores how a history marked by the devastation of World War II in Europe, a violent childhood home, and sexual assault accumulated into complex PTSD that shaped her mother and the way she parented Margaret as her firstborn and as a daughter—and, in turn, how Margaret carried her mother’s trauma forward in her sense of self, in her relationships to others, and in the ways she navigated her world. Indeed, Margaret not only had her mother’s history—she embodied it.

Ultimately, The History We Carry confronts the legacy of intergenerational trauma with wisdom and compassion, revealing how familial history shapes each of us but need not be wholly determinative of whom we become and how we choose to live.

Praise for The History We Carry:

“An unflinching, well-rendered memoir that generously encompasses love, trauma, and the fraught relationship between a mother and daughter.”
~ Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Margaret Whitford’s compelling memoir—a reflection on her family history, her relationship with her mother, and trauma that spans generations—is clear-eyed, compassionate, and often startling in its insight and originality. I was engrossed from beginning to end.”
~ Clifford Thompson, author of Jazz June: A Self-Portrait in Essays

“Rarely have I finished a memoir understanding how our histories, both personal and generational, live and breathe within us in the present. By unearthing the complicated and poignant relationship she has with her mother, Margaret Whitford also powerfully speaks to the collective soul-searching so vitally necessary during these trying times. Written in elegant, luminous prose, this is a memoir that will stay with you long after the story is told.”
~ Ken Harvey, author of The Book of Casey Adair

“Despite Tolstoy’s famous quote—families are generally neither happy nor unhappy—they are complicated, like Whitford’s. This important memoir delves into sibling conflict, parental infidelity, and substance abuse. Overlying these familial tensions is geopolitical upheaval and the effects of successive world wars, almost unwanted family members themselves. The History We Carry seats them together at its literary table and gives each their due in courageous, precise, and ultimately both urgent and forgiving prose.”
~ Sue William Silverman, author of Selected Misdemeanors: Essays at the Mercy of the Reader

“An exhilarating mix of memoir and deep personal research, The History We Carry explores a mother’s complex history and a daughter’s lifelong struggle to understand and connect with her mother. In clear prose that never presents simple answers but rather digs to discover unknown truths and questions even her own long-held narratives, Margaret Whitford has written a robust story of love and trauma.”
~ Sheryl St. Germain, author of 50 Miles

“All our parents live lives before we arrive, lives that come to bear on our own. In this new memoir, Margaret Whitford bravely ventures into her mother’s past to better understand her own present and future. The History We Carry is a gorgeously written book about generational trauma and the intersections of love and grief. It’s a stunning debut.”
~ Lee Martin, author of Pulitzer Prize finalist The Bright Forever

Book Details:

Genre: Dysfunctional Families, Motherhood, Bereavement
Published by: She Writes Press
Publication Date: June 2, 2026
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9798896363224
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | She Writes Press | Simon & Schuster

Read an excerpt:A World of Two

I picture my mother lying on her hospital bed, the same one she has occupied for the last twelve days. The space is in shadow, the only light coming from the hallway. The room smells empty. No flowers or scented candles—she wouldn’t have wanted those. The sound of retreating footfalls in the corridor or a muffled voice from another part of the hospital occasionally interrupts the silence. Her breathing is shallow, until the moment it stops altogether. It happens so quietly, no one notices at first.

When my mother died in Concord, I was an ocean away, in a Paris hotel. Another day had already started. That remove feels familiar—geography and time following an established pattern.

In the morning’s early hours, I lay next to my husband, Tom, on a king-sized bed in a room of marble-inlaid tables and still-life paintings in gilded frames, the walls covered in red-and-gold-striped paper. I heard only the sounds of the night, a faint breeze moving through the magnolia trees in the courtyard and an occasional car gliding along the boulevard. While Tom slept, I lay awake, thinking about my mother. I had started to understand that we wouldn’t make it back in time. My mother would either be dead or so unresponsive that there could be no last words between us.

Tom read my brother Billy’s email while I was taking a shower. I knew from the way he walked into the bathroom, but he still had to say the words: “Your mother is dead.” Years from now, I thought, I will be able to replay this moment in my mind. He stood there, naked, looking both vulnerable and strong, his hand on the shower wall ready to reach for me.

My brothers and sister wanted to touch our mother after she died because she had not welcomed that while living. She would allow a hug or a kiss in greeting or farewell but shrugged you off if you lingered in the embrace.

Henry would have stroked her sparse hair, cut short after she could no longer shape it into a twist. He might have teased her about finally being able to touch her hair, something she loathed. Lydia might have rubbed her feet, those odd feet, with such high arches her toes curled to reach the ground. Her feet shaped by childhood polio and old age, missing the little toe on one foot, removed because of frostbite suffered during the Second World War. She could never find comfortable shoes, so she wore Birkenstock sandals year-round, donning socks with them in winter.

Billy would have rested his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers travel the length of her arm. He might have held her hand, bent at strange angles by arthritis and with the bones loose under the skin. Had I been there, I would also have been drawn to her hands, so small that they reminded me of a child’s. She kept her nails short and immaculate, a habit she’d adopted in medical school, and one I try to emulate. I might have traced the line of her aquiline nose and the contour of her jaw, fondled her cheek and pressed my fingers to her high cheekbones, a sign of her Slavic heritage, she once told me.

Her sandals and the pair of socks she last wore with them are mine now, safeguarded in a box in the back of my closet. Those Birkenstocks, the insoles shaped over time by the pressure of her feet, her navy-blue socks. I wanted the last of her clothing, something that had touched her. I run my hands over the smooth cork, hold the socks to my cheek, the much-washed cotton soft. I thought the socks might retain the cool, dry scent of her.

Our plane to Massachusetts departed in the afternoon, so Tom and I filled the morning with small errands—the purchase of a journal of good paper with a red ribbon to mark my place—and one last view of Notre-Dame. Each gesture, every step I made, accompanied by a voice in my head repeating, Your mother is dead.

The air smelled of diesel fuel and wet earth. My left arm entwined with Tom’s right, I rested my hand on his steady forearm, eavesdropped on the conversations around me, catching only phrases. I thought how these strangers knew nothing of my grief and I nothing of theirs. A rare winter’s morning, fresh with rain-washed skies, and sunlight bathing the bone-colored stone of centuries-old buildings. I noticed the quality of the light, its unusual clarity. Tom and I had introduced my mother to Paris on a trip years before. She will never see it again, I thought, trying to absorb its beauty on her behalf.

***

Excerpt from THE HISTORY WE CARRY by Margaret Whitford. Copyright 2026 by Margaret Whitford. Reproduced with permission from Margaret Whitford. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Margaret Whitford served in leadership positions within the nonprofit world for twenty years, including ten years in the social justice field, before turning to writing. She is fascinated by the ways in which we all seek to create places of refuge for ourselves, both in a metaphorical and a physical sense. The History We Carry is her first memoir. An avid Francophile, Margaret, with her husband, divides her time between a small village in the South of France and her home in Concord, Massachusetts.

Catch Up With Margaret Whitford:

MargaretWhitford.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram – @margaretwhitfordwriter
Facebook

 

Tour Participants:Click through the other tour stops for can’t-miss reviews, insider interviews, exclusive guest posts, and more chances to win!
Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

A History You’ll Want To Carry This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.THE HISTORY WE CARRY by Margaret WhitfordGet More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWNby David Woo & Margalit ShinarJuly 20 – August 14, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:A novel of nine linked parables about globalization, ambition, hope, love, and greed spanning two decades and eight countries.

Fall 2008. The Waldorf Astoria New York. Two armed men storm the hotel’s famed bar and hold the occupants hostage: an American corporate raider, a Chinese tycoon, a British hedge fund manager, a Japanese housewife-turned-celebrity, a Mexican undocumented worker, a Wall Street bond salesman, and a Norwegian environmentalist.

Who are these terrorists? What do they want? And what ties them to their captives?

Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a genre-breaking novel that explores globalization’s “butterfly effect”: how choices made in one corner of the world ignited an unstoppable chain of consequences that upended lives across continents.

Praise for Merry-Go-Round Broke Down:

“What a fantastic tapestry of wordsmithing and storytelling! It left me with a much better understanding of how the world was woven so tightly by globalization, all through the dramatic stories of fascinating cultures and characters that are relevant to this day.”
~ Paul Tudor Jones, Chief Investment Officer of Tudor Investment Corporation

“You might think that it would be impossible to write a novel that helps the reader put her arms around the complex issues raised by globalization. Yet, David Woo and Margalit Shinar have done precisely this. The result is most engaging and insightful. It is also one that even globalization experts such as myself can profit from.”
~ Jagdish Bhagwati, University Professor of economics and law at Columbia University, author of In Defense of Globalization

“Merry-Go-Round Broke Down depicts the key socio-economic developments of the last quarter-century. It brings to life the people who put them into effect, as well as those who were affected by them. Few were untouched.”
~ Howard Marks, the co-founder and co-CEO of Oaktree Capital and international best-selling author of The Most Important Thing

“A timely portrait of a world bound together by the pursuit of profit.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

“An ambitious thriller with rich characterizations and a heart-pounding pace, Merry-Go-Round Broke Down also offers a stark, on-the-ground vision of globalization’s devastation.”
~ Booklife by Publishers Weekly

“David Woo and Margalit Shinar have perfectly illustrated how even a tenuous connection between individuals can have a profound, far-reaching effect across the world that could never have been predicted.”
~ Reader’s Favorite

“Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a contemporary fiction novel with the propulsion of a financial thriller. It’s fiction, but it wants to explain the world while it entertains you… If you want a story that makes you look up from the page and think, “Wait, is this how it really works?,” then it delivers.”
~ Literary Titan

Book Details:

Genre: Financial Thriller
Published by: Regalo Press
Publication Date: March 31, 2026
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 9798895655801
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Simon & Schuster

Read an excerpt:Chapter 4TOMOKO WATANABE
Tokyo, Japan, January–July 2005

“Low interest rates punish savers.” —Bill Gross

THE HOUSE IN KASHIWA, CHIBA Prefecture, southeast of Tokyo, was a two-storied box with aluminum windows and clad in white mosaics. It had a grey-tiled roof and a tiny front garden. The wind was howling outside as Tomoko struggled to get up from her bed. It was six o’clock in the morning and still dark, and everybody in the house was asleep. She was loath to abandon the warmth of the heavy duvet, but today was her husband Akihiro Watanabe’s birthday, and she wanted to surprise him with a special breakfast.

Tomoko shivered as her feet, encased in thick white socks, trod silently on the tatami mat covering the floor. It was cold, even for January, and this was one time she wished there was heating in the bedroom upstairs. She put on her slippers, pulled on a heavy cardigan over her fleece pajamas, and went down to the kitchen.

The kitchen, Tomoko’s kingdom, was small, but she ran it like a tight ship, every utensil and small appliance kept in its assigned place.

She began to prepare her husband’s favorite menu: clam miso soup and omelet rolls. There was smoked fish left over from the previous night, as well as cooked rice.

After turning on the small heater and quickly swallowing a cup of hot tea, she put on her old blue-checked apron and set to work.

Poor Aki, she was thinking, as she removed from the fridge the asari clams she had bought the previous afternoon; he really deserved some cheering up. Only eight months ago he had lost his lifelong employment, the first serious crisis in their marriage of twenty-two years. The electronics company he had given his all to for over thirty years had gone bankrupt after its main customer decided to outsource to China.

She rinsed the clams in cold water, rubbed them clean with a dishcloth, and set them aside to soak in salt water. She then filled a pot with water from the sink and blanched a leaf of kelp. When it had softened, she removed it with chopsticks and then put it back in the pot to boil for a minute or two before taking it out again.

Though Aki had found a new job quickly enough, Tomoko was worried. It not only paid a third less than his previous salary, it was a temporary job, with a contract that had to be renewed every six months. While Tomoko was, by nature, someone who took life’s setbacks with a pragmatic optimism, she felt helpless in the face of the loss of their financial security. As she added dried bonito flakes to the boiling water, she shook her head and pursed her lips at the injustice of it.

When the fish was cooked, she passed the broth through a fine sieve lined with a cloth. Discarding the scum, she sieved it again. And again. Inspecting the liquid for any telltale specks, she repeated the process until she was satisfied the broth was perfectly clear. She now reached out for the clams, soaking in their bath of brine.

Usually, Tomoko loved the ritual fuss of birthdays, especially her husband’s—the shopping for presents, the paper decorations and cards, the candles on the cake—but this year there wasn’t much cause for celebration.

She rinsed the clams and tipped them into the broth. Bringing the liquid to a boil, she skimmed it patiently. Once the clams had opened, she mixed in the miso paste, squeezing it through a small sieve with a spoon. The soup was ready.

Now for the omelets. What was more worrying, she thought, breaking eggs into a bowl with a deft flick of her wrist, was that his pension was gone. And the new job offered no pension at all. The bleakness of their future agitated her as she whisked the eggs with more vigor than necessary and poured them into the frying pan.

The omelets were done. When they had cooled a bit, she rolled them up into narrow, finger-shaped wraps and put them aside. Then she arranged the fillets of cold smoked fish in the middle of a long rectangular plate, which she decorated in one corner with a dollop of daikon radish infused with ponzu sauce. Finally, she heated up the rice and took out some nattō, fermented soybeans, everyone’s favorite.

She looked out the window above the sink. The heavy night darkness was lifting, and she could make out the falling snowflakes and the leafless branches of the cherry tree in their garden bending in the wind. A cold grey light was beginning to infiltrate the kitchen. She switched off the overhead lamp, figuring she could do without it now.

A brown Formica-top table with six chairs stood in a nook just off the kitchen. Poor Aki, she repeated to herself as she began to set it. At the age of fifty-three, there was little chance of his finding steady employment again. Although they never talked about it, she knew that, ashamed and frustrated, her husband was unraveling. His drinking binges had become more frequent, and he had taken to coming home at all hours. He was also becoming moody and short-tempered.

Only last week he had flown off the handle when she told him she was thinking about looking for a part-time job. He wouldn’t hear of it, he had responded angrily. Their son was still at school and needed her. Besides, what would their neighbors think? It was out of the question.

Though Tomoko knew his objections had more to do with his pride, she didn’t bring up the subject again. She vowed to herself she would find another way to help. But how?

Tomoko put down a small flower arrangement, teacups, bowls, and chopstick supports on the table. She had to find a way to help Aki. Whereas she could still take comfort in little things, he had just lost his entire world. She took a moment to align the chopsticks just so. Taking a step back from the table, she viewed the result with satisfaction.

Tomoko glanced at the kitchen clock squeezed between the toaster oven and a shelf. It was seven-thirty and all was ready. Plenty of time left for a leisurely meal before Aki left for the office and their son, Nishio, left for school. What a pity her daughter, Keiko, wasn’t there.

Tomoko brushed that regret away, together with a lock of her permed black hair that had strayed onto her forehead, and stood meekly at the entrance of the kitchen, waiting. She could hear her family coming down the narrow wooden stairs.

She bowed to her husband and her mother-in-law as they appeared, her face faintly flushed from her efforts, her shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly. “Ohayō gozaimasu,” she said, with the politest of greetings.

But Aki only grunted a barely discernible thank-you as he viewed the mini-feast she had prepared and sat down, noisily pushing back his chair.

Then he buried his face in the morning newspaper that Tomoko had laid, neatly folded, to the right of his chopsticks.

He was followed by Nishio. At fifteen, he was a tall and gawky youth, with a few wisps of dark downy hair on his upper lip and chin. He advanced towards the table and sat down in silence. He sat there sullenly, looking down under lowered eyelids, not once making eye contact with his mother. He consumed his soup in a few rapid gulps and hurriedly shoved some rice into his mouth. Then with a curt, barely mumbled good-bye, he got up and was gone.

“Don’t forget your bento box,” Tomoko’s voice rang out after him, “you must eat lunch!”

The third person at the table was Mishimo, Tomoko’s mother-in-law. It was she who owned the house, and after the death of Akihiro’s father some ten years before had given over most of the space to her son’s family, keeping only one room for herself. It was a situation not without friction. She had never liked Tomoko and was of the opinion that her handsome son could have found a better match than the daughter of a taxi driver. Or, at the very least, a prettier one. Though their exchanges were invariably on the right side of civil, Mishimo inevitably found fault with everything Tomoko did. But this morning was different. She spooned down the soup slowly, savoring every sip. “Excellent, Tomoko,” she remarked loudly. “Well done.” A compliment! Tomoko was touched to the bottom of her heart.

She then turned to her husband.

“Anata,” he said, using a Japanese term of endearment. “I hope you’ll be home on time for dinner. I bought a cake for tonight. And there will be eel as a main course.”

Aki didn’t shift his eyes from the newspaper. “No. I’m eating out.

Client dinner. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back late.”

If Tomoko was disappointed, she showed no sign of it.

“Akihiro-san. I also bought you a small gift,” she announced timidly. She had bought it out of her personal savings and had hoped to give it to him at the evening meal. She would have to give it to him now instead.

She went to the living room where she had hidden it. Coming back, she bowed respectfully and held out the package in her two open palms like an offering, saying “Happy birthday” in English.

Aki finally deigned to lower the newspaper and stared at the box wrapped in delicately folded bright blue paper, tied with a slender red-and-gold string. He reached out to take it. But instead of opening it, he put it in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Have to rush now,” he said dismissively.

“It’s the lighter you always wanted,” said Tomoko. But Aki responded with a dead gaze of bitterness at the wall behind her. Suddenly, he jumped up from his chair with such violence that it crashed to the floor.

“Baka! You stupid woman! Kono ama, you bitch!” He exploded in an inexplicable fit of rage.

Tomoko shrank back.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to waste money?” he yelled. “Don’t you see the situation we’re in?”

Without warning, he grabbed the cast-iron teapot from the table. He seemed ready to hurl it straight at her. Tomoko raised her arm to defend herself. He had hit her before, and she thought she knew what to expect.

At the last moment, however, perhaps in response to a whispered word from Mishimo that never reached Tomoko’s ears, he changed the direction of his aim and the heavy pot went flying toward the kitchen. Spurting tea, it smashed loudly into one of the kitchen cabinets.

In the silence that followed, Tomoko couldn’t move. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. But she didn’t say a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she was just in time to catch the expression of icy disapproval on Mishimo’s face.

***

Excerpt from MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Copyright 2026 by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Reproduced with permission from David Woo & Margalit Shinar. All rights reserved.

 

 

David Woo:

David Woo is a renowned global macro strategist, widely recognized for his bold and prescient calls on some of the biggest economic, political, and geopolitical stories over the past quarter century. Bloomberg called him “one of the most outspoken voices on Wall Street,” while Business Insider named him among “the twelve smartest people on Wall Street.” His views have shaped debates across markets, policy circles, and the global media. David began his career at the International Monetary Fund before going on to hold senior positions at Bank of America, Barclays Capital, and Citigroup. He earned a PhD in economics from Columbia University and a bachelor of arts in mathematics from Tufts University. A true product of globalization, David was born in Pittsburgh, raised in Taiwan, and educated in the United States. His career has taken him from Washington DC to London and New York. He is fluent in English, Chinese, and French.

Catch Up With David Woo:

www.davidwoounbound.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Facebook

 

Margalit Shinar:

Margalit Shinar is an architect. Margalit was born in New York, the daughter of French émigrés. She has a master’s degree in art history from Tufts University and a bachelor of arts in architecture from the Technion, Israel Institute of Technology. She has edited a history book on ancient Israel. She is fluent in English, French, Hebrew, and Italian.

Catch Up With Margalit Shinar:

Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads

 

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New Thriller, New Gift Card—Jump In!This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for David Woo & Margalit Shinar. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN by David Woo & Margalit Shinar | Gift CardGet More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Bound Beauty
Jennifer Silverwood
(A Wylder Tale, #3)
Publication date: July 14th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Forgotten gods haunt her steps, and the cursed prince she left behind isn’t done fighting for her soul.

Vynasha is bound to the prince of Bitterhelm. Even if she were to die, her spirit will remain trapped with him in the castle forever. But she won’t give in to Grendel without a fight. With the aid of an oracle, a witchling, and the wolf that claims her heart, Vynasha plans to claim her power as the curse breaker.

Ceddrych guards their nephew secretly while fighting to keep the feral beasts roaming their borders at bay. But the monsters are closing in, and the madness he has struggled with drives him to one desperate, unforgivable act.

A war is about to begin between the forgotten people of Wylderland and the cruel might of Bitterhelm. Beings of prophecy and legend unite in the epic third chapter of the Wylder Tales Series, a romantic gothic re-telling of Beauty and the Beast.

WYLDER TALES is a series of romantic dark fairy tales, set in the past of the wider Borderlands Saga, and includes:
•slow burn romantasy
•forced proximity
•enemies to lovers
•found family
•magical bonds
•wicked witches
•burly beasts
•morally gray characters

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

IN A FORBIDEN DREAM IN WYLDERLAND…

The journey seemed to take far longer than she remembered, and part of her feared the passage of time here compared to the world her body remained behind. Ceddrych had told her countless tales of the dangers of magick, of what happened when one dwelled too long in enchanted dreams.

Here the palace looked less like a ruin wrought from rampage. Candles gave off an unnatural silver glow and the hovering lights that had been trailing Vynasha seemed to thicken and gather as she lifted a hand to push open the doors to the throne room. They cracked open before her hand could touch the intricately carved wood.

Snow filtered in through the broken ceiling and rose vines curled over every surface, crawling up the obsidian columns and steps to the throne. Surrounding the steps, the shadow-spirits of beasts of every size and shape lounged and paced. Their forms flickered about the edges, and their eyes glowed brightly, turning to fix upon Vynasha as she slowly entered the hall.

Upon the throne, the thorned vines had dug into a hunched over man. His blood gleamed luminous violet, the same shade as hers was now.

With every step she took, the full wreck of his downfall became increasingly apparent. The shadow beasts at her back pressed closer, urging her forward. Vynasha clenched her fists and refused to climb the steps to face him.

“Grendel.” Her voice echoed like a plucked lute string through the cavernous hall.

Grendel shuddered and then raised his head and looked at her with dead violet eyes. “Vynasha.” The crack in his voice echoed clearly to her ears. His eyes widened when she remained, and his vine-wrapped hands clawed at the arms of his throne. “You have come at last.”

Her feet began to move of their own accord. She barely caught herself in time. She could not, would not go to him, and certainly never pity him. “What happened here? Why are my roses taking over like this?”

“Can you not guess, Vynasha” Grendel leaned forward, ignoring the press of the rose crowning his dark hair. “Vynasha, you have no idea how your absence has undone me. It has been pure torture to sense you but never able to touch you.”

“Good.” Vynasha took a single involuntary step up the stairs leading to his throne. His violet eyes flared wide with apprehension as she growled, “You and your monsters have made our lives a living hell, Grendel. It’s only fair I repay your bloody kindness.”

Grendel’s lips parted and his gaze took in the full measure of her with all the subtlety of a starving man. “Yet you are here,” he said, a new clarity brightening his violet gaze. His hands flexed against the arms of his throne. “You are truly here, and that means the spell has been broken.”

Vynasha flinched at his sudden smile and found herself unable to take a step back. Her feet drove her forward once more, and this time she had no power over herself to stop. “What are you doing to me?”

Grendel’s hand twitched and then she was flung forward. He groaned as he caught her, the thorns digging deeper into his flesh. She cried out as the same thorns cut her palms as she braced herself against his chest. “I have you, at last, I have you,” he said, eyes bright with unshed tears.

He was mad. No, she was mad. For the instant her hands found his flesh, a roaring wave of need assaulted her. She could rage at him and claim this was his need she felt, not her own. But this compulsion was familiar, forbidden and something she had fought desperately to forget in the past three moons.

“Grendel, let me go” she pleaded as she leaned into him, the pain of his thorns forgotten as he pulled her into his lap and began to press his lips over every part of her he could reach.

“How could I give you up my beauty, my love, my queen?”

She couldn’t breathe. The scent of roses, of life and death, of him were overwhelming. A part of her was starving, had been starving for months, she realized wishsickening clarity. “I hate you,” she sobbed as she tilted her chin and gave him further access to her neck. “If you pull me back here again, I will find a way to kill you, I swear it.”

“You cannot kill me without killing yourself, love,” he said with a laugh.

“Then we both die.” She shook her head but could not help tracing her nose along his neck, to draw in more of his heady scent.

“Vynasha,” he cried as her lips pressed to his pulse. “Please, Vynasha!”

But he was no longer tangible beneath her hands, the thorns no longer piercing them both. The painful aching need to mold herself to him faded just as she did, her hands disappearing before her eyes.

“Vynasha!” He cried with an agony she felt as her spirit was ripped free from Grendel’s nightmare. And the world around her dimmed, consumed by a cloud of inky ashes.

Author Bio:

Jennifer Silverwood lives in the middle of an enchanted forest surrounded by cursed books, nosy spirits, and mischievous goblins she calls her children. After beginning several nonsensical degrees, she found her calling helping other authors bring their books to life. Jennifer is the author of two fairy tale fantasy series: the Borderlands Saga and Wylder Tales. Because she wasn’t satisfied writing in one genre, she also invites you to explore uncharted space with the Heaven’s Edge Novellas—and dare to fall in love again with the standalone romance titles Stay and She Walks in Moonlight.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok

GIVEAWAY!

Bound Beauty Blitz

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GRANDPA DAYby Perry SolomonJune 29 – August 7, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:

Becoming a grandfather opens the door to one of life’s most meaningful family relationships. In Grandpa Day, Perry Solomon shares a heartfelt and practical guide to building strong bonds with grandchildren through love, wisdom, and intentional time together.

Through true stories and simple ideas, this book shows grandfathers and grandparents how one-on-one Grandpa Days help nurture confidence, curiosity, grit, and emotional security. From everyday adventures to shared meals and conversations, Grandpa Day offers clear guidance on mentoring grandchildren, supporting parents, honoring boundaries, and creating memories that last a lifetime. It is a warm invitation to slow down, connect deeply, and leave a lasting legacy of love across generations.

Praise for Grandpa Day:

“Perry unlocks a magic world to grandparents by demystifying building deep connections with grandchildren and fostering their confidence and curiosity”
~ Anne van Leynseele, Esq. founder and farmer of Pa’ani Farms and author of Savor Your Chocolate

“Drawing from over twenty years of personal experience with his six grandchildren, Solomon provides a wealth of wisdom, stories, and advice to help grandfathers embrace their special role as mentors, cheerleaders, and steady presences in their families…His stories, such as mentoring his granddaughter Serena in her journey to becoming a craft chocolatier, illustrate how small moments of encouragement can spark lifelong passions.”
~ Carol Thompson for Readers’ Favorite, 5-Stars

“Grandpa Day reminds readers that the role of being a grandfather has evolved from being a distant patriarch to becoming actively involved and providing guidance and empathy…The writing style is enchanting, reflecting the love, joy, and pride of being a grandfather, and it is filled with practical wisdom and ideas on how to build the relationship between grandfather and grandchild.”
~ Leonard Smuts for Readers’ Favorite

“Perry Solomon’s approach to grandfatherhood is inspiring… The result? A close relationship… plus a profound sense of meaning for you.”
~ Merideth Mehlberg, author of Your Finest Work

“I can’t wait to be a grandmother… Perry’s book makes me even more excited about that milestone… His enthusiasm balanced with very practical tips makes the journey more meaningful… Thank you for this gift, Perry.”
~ Antonia Bowring, executive coach and author

Book Details:

Genre: Grandparenting, Biography/Autobiography, Non-Fiction, Self-Help
Published by: Lighthouse Family Press
Publication Date: February 6, 2026
Number of Pages: 196
ISBN: 9798994166703
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

 

Author Bio:

Perry Solomon is a proud grandfather whose greatest joy comes from the close, loving relationships he shares with his six grandchildren. From the day each was born, he has focused on building strong family relationships through time, attention, and support. Perry believes that love, communication, and shared memories are the foundation of lasting intergenerational relationships.

Perry lives in Santa Monica, California. Family is the heart of his life and legacy.

A successful serial entrepreneur, Perry has built and advised companies across multiple industries and completed four business exits. Today, he devotes his energy to grandparenting, mentoring, and helping grandparents create meaningful bonds, joyful activities, and a legacy of love and wisdom across generations.

Catch Up With Perry Solomon:

GrandpaDay.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @perryGPD
LinkedIn
Facebook – @Grandpa_Day

 

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SHADOWS OF FRENCHMENby Michael RiggJune 22 – July 31, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:A Jonathan Gray, M.D. Mystery

 

On a frosty Sunday morning in February, Dr. Jonathan Gray, Coroner of Orleans Parish, faces a gruesome sight. A dead man splayed against the circular steel and cut-glass blocks of the city’s AIDS memorial in Washington Square Park has strange symbols carved into his forehead and chest. A coded note—a cipher—has been placed under one hand. The body mutilation and note are hallmarks of a serial killer dubbed by the news media as the “Mardi Gras Sweeper,” because he strikes during Carnival season and leaves coded manifestos taunting police and giving hints about his next victim.

Hoping to avoid a panic during the city’s most profitable season, Mayor Max Jamerson asks Gray to investigate the murder “on the sly,” without formal assistance from the New Orleans Police Department. Time is of the essence as Gray races to figure out the cipher and track down the Sweeper in order to prevent additional killings—and save Mardi Gras.

Praise for Shadows of Frenchmen:

“A chilling, razor-sharp mystery set against the explosive energy of Mardi Gras. This cat-and-mouse hunt fuses cryptic clues, relentless suspense and rising terror into a tale that gives us a horrifyingly intimate glimpse into a killer’s mind. Dr. Jonathan Gray is a hero you won’t forget—and the Mardi Gras Sweeper is a nightmare you won’t escape.”
~ Kathleen Antrim, Bestselling Author, President-Outliers Writing University

“Michael Rigg does it again, with another thrilling mystery that you won’t be able to put down featuring New Orleans Coroner Jonathan Gray. Shadows of Frenchmen takes readers into the darkest corners of New Orleans’ lush settings and spooky cemeteries as Gray and his colleagues hunt for a possible serial killer, all against the backdrop of raucous Mardi Gras celebrations. Rigg’s love for this extraordinary city shines through on every page, even as danger lurks among the Spanish moss and above-ground tombs.”
~ Ellen Byron, USA Today Bestselling & Agatha Award Winning Author

“As a coroner, Dr. Jonathan Gray is the new Kay Scarpetta. In Shadows of Frenchmen, author Michael Rigg skillfully uses beads, beignets, bullets, bombs, and bodies to make New Orleans vivid and alive.”
~ John DeDakis, Former CNN editor, writing coach, and author of the Lark Chadwick mystery-suspense-thriller series, at johndedakis.com.

“Great action from the get-go! Atmosphere, characters, and all the right ingredients. A great read by Michael Rigg!”
~ Heather Graham, New York Times Bestselling Author

“Featuring smart and complex characters, Shadows of Frenchmen pulses with energy, taking the reader on a breathless chase for a serial killer terrorizing the city in the days leading up to a city-wide Mardi Gras celebration. Fans of the intrepid New Orleans coroner Dr. Jonathan Gray will not be disappointed!”
~ K.L. Murphy, Author of the Detective Callie Forde Mysteries, The Great Forgotten, and the award-nominated Her Sister’s Death

Book Details:

Genre: Medico-Legal (Coroner) Thriller
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: May 5, 2026
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 979-8898202354
Series: A Jonathan Gray, M.D. Mystery, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:Chapter OneAlpha and Omega
Sunday, February 1, 2015 – 1:47 a.m.

Twenty-plus years with the Orleans Parish Coroner’s Office taught Jonathan Gray to expect the unexpected. But Washington Square Park had always been a tranquil haven on the fringe of the French Quarter. So crime-scene tape draping the square’s wrought-iron fence presented the visual equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. Moonlight filtering through stately live oaks cast eerie—almost funereal—shadows, adding to the dissonance.

Fluttering in the nippy midwinter breeze, the neon-yellow ribbon communicated

a mute warning. On this side, normalcy. On the other, insanity. Stepping into the dysfunction never got easier. Regardless, turning back wasn’t an option. As if speaking the incantation aloud would immunize him against the unfolding drama, he repeated his trite pre-crime scene mantra: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” His breath lingered in the frosty air before evaporating.

After checking in with the uniformed officer monitoring access, Jonathan angled toward floodlights illuminating a temporary canopy above the city’s AIDS memorial. More tape—red as opposed to yellow—identified the innermost “Do Not Cross” perimeter. Crime scene technicians in white Tyvek protective suits busied themselves measuring and photographing what must be the reason he’d been summoned. A male corpse sitting upright on the ground—its arms and legs twisted at seemingly impossible angles—leaned against the memorial’s circular cut-glass and steel panels surrounded by a pool of thick, dark-crimson liquid.

A curved, nearly rectangular piece of wood with brass edges—most likely a knife handle—protruded from under the right side of the dead man’s rib cage. A portion of his intestines spilled out of the wound. A second knife—its handle and part of its blade visible—had been thrust downward into the soft tissue between the left collarbone and neck.

Cause of death seemed too obvious to require someone of Jonathan’s seniority. A first-year med student could have made the call. But markings carved into the dead man’s forehead and chest hinted at something more sinister. No wonder Mitch Broussard from NOPD had called him in the middle of the night. The man’s heavy flannel shirt lay open, exposing his chest and a series of

capital letters etched into his skin. The letters—G I D I A I D I V—made no sense, at least not in English. A folded piece of paper with similar letters and other symbols, not quite readable from that distance, lay under the man’s left hand. Lack of blood covering the letters in the chest signaled they had been added postmortem. Jonathan focused on two marks in the man’s forehead. An uppercase “A” and what looked like an upside-down horseshoe—the Greek letter Omega—apparently cut while the victim was still alive.

It couldn’t have been two years already. But there it was. Alpha and Omega. Jonathan bit his lip and cursed under his breath. Then, a silent prayer. Looked like the nightmare was about to begin—again.

One of the CSTs stood and raised her clear face shield. “Hey, Doc. Welcome to Funsville.”

Excerpt from SHADOWS OF FRENCHMEN by Michael Rigg. Copyright 2026 by Michael Rigg. Reproduced with permission from Michael Rigg. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Agatha and Anthony-nominated author Michael Rigg, a lawyer for more than four decades, writes mysteries and thrillers set in two very different locations: Virginia Beach (where he lives) and New Orleans (which he visits as often as possible “for research,” including participation in three Mardi Gras Krewes). He is a retired Navy Judge Advocate and a retired civilian government attorney, formerly working for the Department of the Navy Office of the General Counsel. He is a member of International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, and both the Sisters in Crime national organization and its Southeastern Virginia Chapter—Mystery by the Sea.

Catch Up With Michael Rigg:

www.MichaelRigg.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @michaelrigg716
Instagram – @michael.rigg716
Threads – @michael.rigg716
X – @MDR102030
LinkedIn
Facebook

 

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THE LEDGERby Steven ManchesterJune 8 – July 3, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:

 

Set in a medium-security penitentiary in the mid-1990s, The Ledger is a faith-based story that pulls back the curtain on prison life, allowing the reader a safe peek behind the wall.

Although told from three alternating perspectives—officer, inmate, and sergeant—many of the same questions are asked: Can light be found in the deepest darkness? What about forgiveness, redemption, and grace? And if the code is clear, “loyalty above all things except honor,” when should an officer cross the blue line to police one of his own?

The Ledger is the long-awaited companion novel to The Menu.

Praise for The Ledger:

“The Ledger illuminates the dark world of Corrections, making it safe for all of us to steal a peek.”
~ Barry McKee, Professor Emeritus, Criminal Justice

“I found myself holding my breath. It felt like I was right back inside the wall.”
~ Nelson Julius, Deputy Superintendent, DOC (ret.)

“Intensely powerful and deeply moving, pick up a copy to balance your own ledger.”
~ Debby Guyette, Book Blogger, Single Titles

“The Ledger is a spiritual read, drawing the reader inward.”
~ Reverend Andy Stinson, First Congregational Church of Fall River

Book Details:

Genre: Christian, Crime Fiction, Literary Fiction
Published by: Luna Bella Press
Publication Date: May 26, 2026
Number of Pages: 280
ISBN: 979-8999472021
Series: Companion novel to The Menu.
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:Bloody Boots

The sun had just cracked the horizon when Sergeant Jim Medeiros pulled into the prison’s parking lot and shut off the truck’s ignition. Sitting back, he took a few moments to ponder the ominous red-brick fortress.

Concrete walls, thirty feet high, were topped with coils of concertina wire, a devious invention designed to bite deeper into an escapee’s flesh with every move—like a python squeezing its victim to death. A guard tower loomed in the northwest corner, the silhouette of a rifleman gawking from its framed window. Home, sweet home, Jim thought, snickering.

Built in 1875 in Bridgewater, Massachusetts, S.E.C.C. was a menacing bastion that still protected society by housing 1,200 hardened criminals behind its thick walls. It was an eerie stronghold, surrounded by razor wire and steel fence. Black bars and tight mesh covered the filthy windows, while dark shadows moved behind them—warehousing those who’d committed the most unspeakable acts and could no longer be trusted to interact within society.

Jim grabbed his keys, swung open the pickup’s door, and stretched out his aching back. Two more years in this shithole and I’m a free man, he thought. With each step, he studied the oldest penitentiary in the system. The very shadow could strike fear in the hearts of frigid men. It’s as though the sadistic designer had intentionally created hell on earth, or at least his interpretation of hell.

Housing a diverse population from armed robbers to petty thieves, the “Island of Misfits” also accommodated its fair share of arsonists and rapists. Unique in two ways, S.E.C.C. included an Addiction Center for detoxing patients, men who were court committed to the program for a period of thirty days. There was also a Minimum-Security Unit attached to the sprawling facility, housing close to two hundred inmates.

S.E.C.C., the cesspool of the system, Jim thought, a wasteland for protective custody inmates, as well as the mentally ill bugs—criminally-insane inmates—that spill over from the state hospital.

Jim kept marching ahead. After all these years, it’s still a wonder I show up every day. In nearly three decades, few things had changed. Concealed behind the tons of concrete, bricks, and steel, reality continued to take on a horrifying appearance. Time stood still within the hidden jungle, while the desperate cries of men fell upon deaf walls. Shunned by a self-sedated world, yesterday knew no memories, today was blind, and tomorrow tasted of broken glass. Like the caches of lethal weapons and plentiful drugs, these truths were also well concealed.

Jim paused before reaching the heavy steel door. Somewhere along the way, the hypnotic routine replaced the exciting dreams of a young man. He looked to his left, where the gun tower stood as some abandoned exit sign. I should’ve left when I still had a chance… when I still had a future ahead of me. He reached the trap’s heavy steel door. But this place is where hope goes to die.

Banking a few deep breaths, Jim surrendered to another day of mayhem. Attempting to retain any semblance of sanity amid the constant madness was exhausting.

Upon entering the pedestrian trap, the shakedown of the day consisted of every sixth officer emptying the contents of his or her pockets; it was a random search which caught two rookies—also referred to as ‘boots’—Officers Letendre and Olivier. As they passed the search, Medeiros watched as the two baby-faced men punched their timecards and stood in the narrow trap to await entrance.

“Fresh out of the Academy, huh?” Jim asked.

Letendre nodded. “Yes, sir. We graduated last week.”

“Lucky you,” Jim said. “Did your parents attend the cap and gown ceremony?”

“There was no cap and…” Olivier began to reply.

“He’s screwing with you,” another officer barked, cutting the kid off. “You might want to figure out the difference, or you won’t last long in here.”

The new boots went silent.

“Here’s what you need to know for now,” Jim told them, his face serious. “You are going to be tested. Expect it.” He half-shrugged. “If you don’t want to get your feet wet, then you shouldn’t become a lifeguard. Same thing here. If you can’t tolerate someone cursing at you or spitting insults behind your back, then corrections is probably the wrong business for you.” He winked. “Sticks and stones, right?”

The new officers nodded in sync.

“Yes, Sarge,” one of them mumbled. It was barely a whisper.

“Speak up,” Jim told him. “When you chew on your tongue, you risk the ability to use it.” He gazed into the kid’s eyes. “Value your own voice, okay?”

“Okay,” the new fish barked.

Smiling, Jim looked toward the steel door. “Whatever happens to you in there, remember that there’s no going around it… over it or under it. There’s only going through it. And only until you go through it, do you know that you can.” He studied them. “Make sense?”

“Yes,” they replied in chorus.

“The good news is,” Jim said, smirking, “we’re all in the same boat, rowing through the river of piss and shit together.” As he’d done for twenty-eight years, Jim showed his Corrections ID to people who knew him well.

With a smile, the female officer behind the bulletproof glass nodded.

Jim glanced down at his ID. It’s an old picture, he thought. It must have been taken ten years ago. Officers were required to update photo IDs every ten years. So, it’s only my third since starting at the fun house. He shook his head. I was smaller then, at least in width. He looked closer. Maybe thirty pounds lighter and more solid. His face had the same scowl, minus two new scars: the one over his right eye and an earlobe missing a chunk of flesh. And my nose isn’t original either, he thought; it now leaned a bit to the left from multiple breaks. All souvenirs from my chosen profession. Although he wasn’t what anyone could accuse of being handsome, Jim had something that the women liked—and whatever that was, it was good enough for him. He realized how much older he felt—and not just looked—than his photo. It’s been a long, jagged road, he thought, and I’m not quite there yet. He slid the ID into his pocket and punched his timecard.

An obnoxious buzzer sounded, before the thick steel door began to slowly slide open.

“Just remember, boys,” Jim told the rookies, “once that last door closes, we’re all considered expendable.”

A few of the more seasoned officers chuckled at the old timer’s attempt to spook the recruits.

Letendre smiled. “Yeah, sure we are, Sarge.”

“This time, he wasn’t joking,” another officer blurted, wiping the smile from the kid’s innocent face.

“At least it’s Friday,” Jim said for all to hear. “Now, let’s go see what the animals have in store for us today.”

After roll call—informing the day shift that “there was an unsuccessful suicide attempt last night”—Jim snapped a new battery into his radio and clipped the ring of block keys onto his weathered belt.

He was walking toward his half-year assignment, Essex III, when his new flip phone rang. Fumbling the phone out of his pocket, he checked the caller ID. “Shit,” he muttered, “if it was anyone else…” He answered the call. “Hi, baby girl.”

“Hi Dad,” Heather said. “Hey, are you around at all next weekend?”

“This weekend?”

“No, next.”

“Not sure. I know Kay made plans for next Friday night. We’re supposed to go to some fancy restaurant in Providence. But I should be home the rest of the weekend.” He slowed his gait to finish the call. “Why? Are you going to treat me to that new greasy burger joint that…”

Pausing to listen, he smiled. “I like Kay, too,” he said, “and I’m always a gentleman. Don’t you worry about that.”

He listened more.

“I have no plans of screwing anything up, Heather. In fact, I really like…”

“Code 70,” a male voice screamed over the radio, “inmate down, The Fort.” The radio squelched once and went dead.

At a full-out sprint, Jim told his daughter, “Love you, baby, but Daddy’s got an urgent meeting to attend.” He was already gasping for air, as he charged toward the emergency.

“Stay safe, Dad,” he heard Heather say just before he ended the call and rushed into the unknown situation.

Even at a full sprint, he had to smile. Heather was the only good thing that came out of a marriage that his job helped to destroy.

Jim rounded the corner and slowed his pace on the polished concrete floor. First tier inmates—locked in their cells for 23 hours each day—were screaming and kicking their steel doors, doing all they could to contribute to the chaos. Jim followed two younger officers as they bound up a flight of stairs, their feet barely touching the floor. I remember those days, he thought, panting.

On the second tier, neighboring inmates howled in delight.

“Shut the fuck up!” Jim screamed, before entering the cell of the inmate that required medical assistance. Even with all his years of experience, the barbaric sight stopped him cold and threatened to steal his breath away.

The cell floor was covered in crimson, the coagulated blood nearly blackened, some of it pooled in spots. “Damn…” Jim took a few steps toward the bed, his boots creating a sucking sound from the jelly beneath his feet. A cold shiver traveled the length of his spine.

The two younger officers, no longer as enthusiastic about offering their assistance, backed away to give their sergeant ample room to make a proper assessment.

Jim took another step forward.

The older inmate, pale enough to play Dracula, was lying prone on his blood-saturated bunk.

“What the hell did you do, Frank?” Jim asked the future cadaver.

“I… I cut up,” he gasped, his words no more than broken coughs and whispers.

“I can see that from all your blood on the floor,” Jim said matter-of-factly. Surveying the scene, he spotted the two massive gouges carved lengthwise down the dying man’s wrists and forearms.

Jim yanked the blood-soaked sheet from the bed, nearly flipping Frank onto his side. With one grunt, he ripped the sheet down the middle before wrapping the zombie’s arms as tightly as he could. “What did you use to cut yourself, Frank?” he asked, his voice calm.

“A false…” The convict struggled for air. “…tooth.”

Shaking his head, Jim grabbed for his radio. “Southeast, this is 147. We need all medical personnel to report to room 24, the Fort. And call for a bus. There’s significant blood loss.”

Nodding weakly, Frank shut his eyes.

“Hey,” Jim barked at him, his voice booming off the tiny cell’s walls.

Frank opened his eyes to slits.

“Help is on its way, Frank, but you need to stay awake. If you don’t fight off the sleep, you won’t spend another minute in this world.”

Jim watched as the slightest grin flashed across the vampire’s mouth—just before he closed his eyes again and went to sleep. Can’t say that I blame you, Frank, Jim thought. If I had to live out my days in here, I’d choose death too. With a correction officer’s life expectancy being fifty-five years, Jim wasn’t far behind. He was fifty.

As the medical personnel piled into the cramped room, the veteran sergeant squeezed his way out. “The skinner’s gone,” he reported, “and it looks like I’m the one stuck with the damned paperwork again.”

“Skinner?” a voice repeated.

“That’s right,” Jim said, stopping. “Old Frank was a serial rapist, so don’t waste too many of your tears on him.”

“Damn, Sarge. That’s cold.”

Jim smirked. “No colder than Frank is right now.”

~~~

After getting cleaned up—washing his hands like he was preparing to perform surgery—Jim drafted his initial report before arriving at Essex III, the most feared block in the joint.

Three tiers, twenty cells each, knew two-thirds of its clientele to be lifers. These often proved to be the best inmates. Once they’d accepted their fate, they settled in and clung to a routine the way a child would its mother. Every one of them was institutionalized. After a few years inside, no man can escape it… inmate or officer.

Entering Essex III, Jim conducted a quick equipment and radio check before beginning his first round. Counting off one head after the other, he spotted Pauli Patricio, surrounded by a circle of younger convicts.

Oddly enough, Patricio was one of Jim’s favorite characters. He’s a charming psycho… in a Jeffery Dahmer kind of way.

Patricio had been a vicious hitman for the Monarco crime family before he took the fall on a murder beef many claimed he didn’t commit. Those same people, however, agreed, “It’s probably the only crime he never committed.” Nevertheless, Pauli now served the ‘book’ or a life bid, spending his twilight years in the nursing home for tough guys and maniacs.

By all accounts, the shot-caller was the most feared man to walk the streets in his day. An unnaturally powerful man with a will to match, he was a collector in every sense of the word, using a ball-peen hammer as his chosen tool for settling overdue accounts. By the time Jim had met him, the ox was already well beyond middle age, so he’d slowed a bit. That’s not to say, however, that Pauli didn’t run things within the inmate population. He did. According to Patricio, “Essex III is my house. I don’t give a damn whether some con serves a day or thirty years here, the punk’s still just a guest passing through my house.”

Due to the nature of Jim’s employment, he couldn’t afford to fear the man. It was imperative, though, that he be aware of the old timer’s cruel capabilities—and temper to match. If something goes down, Patricio has either orchestrated it, ordered it, or at least knows about it, Jim thought. He might not have been the big boss on the street, but his presence demands respect inside these walls.

Patricio claimed his home at the end of the first tier in a cell he affectionately called “the honeymoon suite.” For a cold-blooded killer, he had a great sense of humor.

Jim watched as the old thug regaled his audience with another colorful tale. “I’d been trained to kill in Vietnam, and there was no better place to sharpen my skills,” explained Patricio. “Trust me, boys, I got really good at my job.” He looked up and made eye contact with Jim. They exchanged grins. “So when I returned home,” Patricio continued, “it seemed silly to try my hand at anything else.” He shrugged. “When you’re good at something, why mess around with anything else, right?”

Everyone laughed.

Jim shook his head. I’ve heard this same friggin’ story for more than twenty years, he thought. Even still, he leaned against the wall and took it in.

“I came back from the jungle and could’ve either gone into law enforcement or organized crime,” Patricio said, shrugging. “A life of crime seemed less corrupt to me, so I joined the ranks.”

This time, Jim laughed.

“I started as a runner, collecting for Benny O’s book. It was easy work. It didn’t take me long to learn that being successful was less about being tough than…” He paused to find the right words. “It was more about where I was willing to take it to, you know? And I already knew that I could go all the way.” He shrugged again. “Killing’s never cost me a wink of sleep.”

A few of the inmates exchanged nervous glances.

Grinning, Jim shook his head. The Italian minstrel still wields a silver tongue.

“I’ve never given a rat’s ass about anything but making a name for myself,” Patricio explained. “Dangerous men, I mean real dangerous men, don’t have to worry about watching their backs.” While his audience leaned in, hanging on to his every word, Patricio added, “So those first few weeks I collected for Benny O, I busted up two guys so bad that one of ‘em ended up in a wheelchair. After that, I had enough street credit to grab a few new opportunities for myself.”

That’s right, Jim thought, and a few months later, Benny O was found floating in the Charles River. They said it was a company contract, an inside job. Not long after, Pauli Patricio was adopted by the Monarco family.

“Okay boys, story time’s over,” Jim told the group. “Let’s break it up and get lined up for chow.”

The younger inmates looked to Patricio, who nodded that they comply.

“Welcome back to my house, Sergeant Medeiros,” Patricio told Jim, grinning.

“Oh, I think we both know better than that,” Jim replied, returning the grin. Of all people, Pauli Patricio knew that Jim Medeiros ran his block with an iron fist. “This is my house, convict, and I’ll let you hang around just as long as you behave yourself.”

Patricio laughed. “Hey, I heard about the old timer in the Fort who bled out.”

“News travels fast,” Jim said, careful not to reveal any details.

“What a shame,” Patricio said, smirking.

“Is it?” Jim asked.

“Sure,” the con said. “It’s a real tragedy every time a sexual predator goes down for the long nap.”

Damn, Jim thought, old Pauli’s got the drop on everyone in this joint. He nodded in agreement. “I hear ya. My heart breaks clean in half every time we lose one of you fine gentlemen,” Jim said, throwing every inmate—regardless of their crimes—into the same rusty bucket. He returned the heartless man’s smirk to him.

The muscle just below Patricio’s left eye twitched. Although it was subtle, the tick was all the evidence Jim needed. I just crawled beneath the hitman’s skin.

“Oh, I bet it does,” Patricio replied through gritted teeth.

“Think about it,” Jim added, hunting for another nerve to pluck, “what would I do if I ever lost all of you?”

“I don’t know,” Patricio said, “find a real job?” He was quick.

You’re right, Jim thought. Unfortunately, I’m too stupid to quit this one. He smiled wide. “Line up for chow,” he told his cunning adversary. “I’m sure you don’t want to miss whatever delicacies they’ve whipped up for you.”

Nodding, Patricio started to make his way toward the front of the long line. “You know, Sarge, now that I think of it… I’m going to be heartbroken when you finally leave us.”

“When I retire?” Jim asked.

Patricio found his smile again. “Retire, die… whatever.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jim said, “but rest easy. I have no plans of going anywhere for a while.”

Patricio looked back and smiled; his eyes glassed over in some devious thought. “Ahhh, more time…” he mumbled, like he knew something Jim didn’t.

Thank God it’s Friday, Jim thought before remembering he still had a few reports to write before he could kick off the weekend. He looked back at Patricio, who was still grinning. Retire, die… he repeated in his head. Whatever.

It was nearly shift change, when Captain Tony Coletti made his first appearance on the block. “I have good news and bad news, Jim. Which do you want first?”

“It’s been a long week, Cap. How ‘bout we skip the games and cut to the chase?”

“You’re being assigned a rookie officer to shadow you for the next few…”

“No, Tony!” Jim complained. “Not the training thing again. How many has it been now?”

Coletti shrugged. “Jim, I’m not trying to blow smoke up your ass, but you’re one of the best in the business.”

“That smells like smoke,” Jim quipped.

“But you won’t be with us much longer,” Coletti added, shrugging. “We need you to pass on your knowledge to the next wave of crime fighters.”

“I’ve already danced to this song too many times,” Jim groaned, “Personally, I don’t care who takes over for me. In fact, they can have my job right now.” He stood to stretch out his back. “And I hope they’re better at it.”

“I’m not sure anyone…”

“But as far as trainees go,” Jim interrupted, “they get in the way of any…”

“I’m not asking, Jim,” Coletti said, cutting him off.

Jim glared at him. “This work relies so little on knowledge or skill, Tony. You know that. It’s all about instincts, gut feelings… being able to crawl into some con’s twisted head.” Jim paused to hammer his point home. “I can’t teach gut feelings, Tony. No one can. You either have them, or you don’t.”

Coletti nodded. “The rookie’s name is Luke Lambert; and from what I’m told, he’s already shown some pretty good instincts.”

“Where, in the Academy?” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “That does sound promising.”

“He’s a Gulf War vet,” Coletti added.

Jim pondered the fact, careful to conceal his admiration. “If Lambert has good instincts, then he doesn’t need me,” Jim said. It was a final attempt to sidestep the new responsibility.

“He’s all yours on Monday,” Coletti said, before starting for the barred door.

“Tony,” Jim called out.

The man turned.

“What was the good news?”

“I just gave it to you.”

In spite of himself, the veteran sergeant laughed. Good thing I didn’t ask what the bad news was.

~~~

Pulling into Mucky’s Liquor Store parking lot, Jim experienced a sobering thought. I wonder what other people think about when they drive home from work?

Even old man Mucky didn’t know.

Heading for the back cooler, Jim picked up a six-pack of cold pints before returning to the counter.

“The Sox are playing the Orioles tonight,” old man Mucky announced from behind his ancient cash register.

“Who’s on the mound?” Jim asked, feigning interest.

“That new kid they just brought up from Pawtucket. From what I hear, he’s a flamethrower.”

“I’ll have to catch the game then,” Jim fibbed, throwing two Slim Jims and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips onto the counter.

“Will that do it?” the old timer asked.

Jim shook his head, scanning over the display of colorful scratch tickets. “Give me five of those new two-dollar tickets. Any winners yet?”

Mucky counted out five, tearing them off the roll. “You’ll be the first,” he said.

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Jim said, paying for his Friday night loot. Suddenly, he remembered his daughter’s call from earlier in the day. I wonder what Heather’s planning for next weekend? he thought, wearing the day’s first genuine smile. Whatever it is, it’ll be nice to see her.

After all this time, he could still hear the door to her childhood slam shut behind them. And we can never go back. The truth of it echoed sorrowfully in his soul. He then he pictured Heather as the amazing woman she’d become. At least I got something right, he thought, or helped to, anyway.

Tearing the plastic wrapper away with his teeth, he snapped into a Slim Jim. For now, I’m just hoping to get a good night’s sleep, he thought. But after this miserable week, what are the chances? He looked down at his blood-stained boots. I have some cleanup to do first.

***

Excerpt from The Ledger by Steven Manchester. Copyright 2026 by Steven Manchester. Reproduced with permission from Steven Manchester. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

New England’s Storyteller Steven Manchester is the author of the soul-awakening novel, The Menu, as well as the ’80s nostalgia-series, Bread Bags & Bullies; Lawn Darts & Lemonade; Yearbooks & Yo-Yos. His other works include #1 bestsellers Twelve Months, The Rockin’ Chair, Pressed Pennies and Gooseberry Island; the national bestsellers, Ashes, The Changing Season and Three Shoeboxes; the multi-award winning novels, Dad and Goodnight Brian; and the heartwarming Christmas movie, The Thursday Night Club (NYIFA & LAFA winner). He is the co-author of You Will Be Peter, as well as Officer Erik & the Very Special Dad (written with TV icon, Erik Estrada). His work has appeared on NBC’s Today Show and CBS’s The Early Show; in Billboard and People Magazines. Three of Steven’s short stories were selected “101 Best” for Chicken Soup for the Soul series. He is a multi-produced playwright and winner of several book festivals, Including Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Amsterdam, and New England (from 2017-2025). When not spending time with his family, this Massachusetts author is promoting his works or writing.

Catch Up With Steven Manchester:

www.StevenManchester.com
Amazon Author Profile
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BookBub – @stevenhmanchester
Instagram – @authorstevemanchester
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Undying
Christy Healy
Publication date: June 9th 2026
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Rory Ó Conchúir has always known that she was destined for war. Her deadly gifts, the unwanted inheritance of her ancestor, the Mórrígan, can only be wielded as a weapon of destruction and doom. For years, she would not allow herself to be used as such, instead choosing to live far across the sea, refusing to regret what she has left behind in order to do so…until the fateful day that she learns of the price she has paid for her peace.

Niall Ó Flannagáin, the young king of Connacht, was never meant for war — that has always been his half-sister, Rory’s, role. But now he finds himself threatened with a foreign invasion and the ruination of the realm, without her aid. In desperation, he turns to a powerful enemy as an ally, his only hope to unite the provinces against the foreign armies gathering even now to destroy the land he has sworn to protect.

Locke MacMurchada, the son of the most hated traitor in all of Éire, owes a debt that he knows he can never pay. But when the opportunity to propose a political marriage with the murderous Rory Ó Conchúir arises, he seizes the chance to protect what is left of both his people, as well as the legacy which his father ripped to shreds…so long as she doesn’t kill him first.

When the fateful day of doom at last arrives, the fates of all three royals – the cursed princess, the young king, and the traitor prince – become inextricably woven together, forcing them to face new threats and old enemies, hoping to forge a stronger Éire from the ashes of the old.

Content Warnings:
Frequent depictions of war & battle scenes
Graphic descriptions of torture & death
Loss of a family member
Discussions of grief & self-hatred
On-page death of major character

Goodreads / Amazon

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Author Bio:

Christy Healy has been a book nerd ever since she was a little girl hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a dog-eared copy of Anne of Green Gables. She started writing soon after, and the obsession only grew. Now Christy weaves stories of her own into the myths and tales of the Celtic, Indo-European, and Greco-Roman worlds that she has loved for so long. When not lost in her fantasy worlds, she lives in North Carolina with her children, her dog, and her husband.

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Undying Blitz

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LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWNby Katharine SchellmanMay 25 – June 19, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:The Nightingale Mysteries

 

Last Dance Before Dawn is the final book in the luscious, mysterious, and queer Nightingale mystery series by Katharine Schellman, set in 1920s New York.

Vivian Kelly has finally created a home and a family at the glamorous speakeasy known as The Nightingale, where no one cares who you are in the daytime. After all, in the underground world of 1920s New York City, everyone has a secret to keep, and they’re on the Nightingale’s dance floor to leave those secrets behind. But sometimes it takes more than a dance to escape your past.

When a stranger from Chicago shows up at The Nightingale looking to settle old scores, Vivian and the Nightingale’s owner, the mysterious and alluring Honor Huxley, send him packing. They soon discover, though, that the stranger was just a warning. Slowly, the people who have made The Nightingale their home realize that someone is following them. Hunting them. And that someone won’t stop until they unravel a mystery that’s been cold for years: a missing girl, a boy out for revenge, and a truck full of cash that disappeared in a job gone horribly wrong.

Vivian just wants to protect the people she loves, and she’s willing to dig into the dirt of the past to make it happen. But some questions are safer left unanswered, and now that Vivian has built a family for herself, she has more to lose than ever before.

Now experience this Edgar Award–nominated historical mystery in paperback! Praise for Last Dance Before Dawn:

“A lively, sprawling crime story that captures the vibrancy of the Roaring ’20s.”
~ Kirkus Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Minotaur Books
Publication Date: May 26, 2026 | Paperback
Number of Pages: 350
ISBN: 978-1250325822
Series: The Nightingale Mysteries, Book 4 || Amazon, Goodreads, Macmillan Publishers
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Macmillan Publishers

Read an excerpt:Manhattan, 1925

Everyone came to the Nightingale looking for something.

They didn’t have much else in common, the folks who snuck down the alley toward a single electric light that flickered like it had been forgotten for years and could burn out at any moment. You never knew who would whisper the password at the door under the light, who would make their way through the midnight velvet curtains that muffled loud laughter and louder jazz.

Maybe your family could have bought half of Fifth Avenue, or maybe you couldn’t even buy new shoes. More likely, you lived somewhere in between, with work that paid your bills and the hope, one day, of something a little more. At the Nightingale, it didn’t matter who you were in the daytime. If you could hold your booze and let loose on the dance floor and keep a secret for a stranger, you were in.

They came looking for excitement, for the thrill of breaking a law that no one liked anyway. They came to dance and drink and maybe find a new friend, the sort of friend who—¬ after a glass or three of champagne—¬ would meet them in a quiet corner to get a little bit friendlier.

They came because they loved the music, the way it curled through the air and carried them across the floor, the way the singer’s voice filled the room and made their hearts ache.

They came for the party. They came to escape.

If they were lucky, they could pretend that whatever waited for them back at home didn’t exist. They could lose themselves in the music and the arms of someone new. They could feel free, even if it would never last, because in that moment nothing mattered but the next dance, the next drink, the next hour.

If they were lucky, they found what they were looking for, and they left before trouble could find them.

But not everyone was lucky.

***

Vivian recognized the sound of danger before she even realized what she was hearing.

Twilight had settled on the city, humid and heavy and speckled with the glow of streetlamps. She and Beatrice Henry—¬ Beatrice Bluebird, as she was known at the Nightingale, where she sang six nights a week—¬ moved through it with the practiced carefulness of two women who were used to navigating New York’s streets alone. Their steps were quick, but their eyes were quicker, always on the lookout for a man who might be trouble or a cop who might be trailing them.

The Nightingale paid off the police weekly, like any other dance hall or juice joint. But everyone who worked there knew to be wary just the same.

It was that wariness that sent a prickle of warning down Vivian’s back when they were two blocks from the Nightingale’s back entrance.

“Bea—¬ ” Vivian tossed out a hand to stop her friend in the middle of the sidewalk. A few steps ahead of them, a cat yowled as it ran out of a narrow alley. “You hear that?”

For a moment, the only sound out of the ordinary was the distant grumble of thunder. Then Vivian heard it again.

“Look a little closer, pal.” The voice was low and menacing, snaking out of the shadows and clearly not meant to be overheard. “I want to make sure you and me is on the same page.”

“Viv—¬ ” Bea hissed, but Vivian couldn’t help herself; she took a step forward, just enough to peek down the alley.

Halfway down the narrow stretch of filthy brick walls, two men were just visible in the fast-¬ fading light. One had his back against a wall. He was the taller of the two, but he still shrank back from the menacing bulk of the second figure. That one loomed toward him, his wide shoulders cutting off any escape as he shoved some kind of paper toward the nervous man’s face.

“—told you, when I have something, I’ll let you—”

The menacing man shoved him against the wall, the gesture nearly careless enough to hide the violence of it. The voice broke off with a grunt of pain, but it had been enough. Usually, Vivian would have stayed far away from anything that sounded like a beating and wasn’t her business. But she recognized that voice.

“Don’t interrupt,” the menacing man snarled. “My boss don’t take kindly to rude fu—”

“It’s Spence,” Vivian hissed.

Bea tried to pull her away. “It’s not our business. We can tell Silence or Benny,” she whispered, naming two of the bruisers who worked at the Nightingale keeping customers—¬ and anyone else who needed it—¬ in line. “They’ll come handle it.”

“That’ll take too long.” Vivian shook her head, pulling away from Bea’s cautious hand and running down the alley toward trouble. “Hey! Leave him alone!”

The bruiser barely glanced over his shoulder at her, just cocked his fist back and drove it, almost casually, into the nervous man’s stomach. He doubled over, heaving and gasping for air, as his assailant tipped his hat mockingly. “We’ll be seeing you soon, boyo. You can count on it.”

He was gone before Vivian could reach them. She stood, panting and staring at the gap between buildings where he had disappeared. A drizzling rain began to fall, plastering her hair against her cheeks. She wasn’t dumb enough to go after him.

“You okay, Spence?” she asked instead, turning toward the remaining man as he braced his hands on his knees.

“Swell,” croaked the Nightingale’s second bartender, a lanky, mouthy, handsome grump. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently chasing off the fella who was about to beat you to a pulp,” she said, stung. Spence had been working at the Nightingale all summer and still hadn’t managed to endear himself to any of the other staff. But Vivian had expected at least some gratitude. Instead, he scowled at her like she was the one who had just punched him in the stomach, not the one who had run the attacker off. “But no need to say thanks or anything.”

He hauled himself upright, wincing. “I had it handled, you know,” he said, still sounding resentful. “I didn’t need a rescue.”

“Sure you did, pal,” Bea said, joining them at last. “That was a stupid thing to do, by the way,” she added, glancing at Vivian as she opened her umbrella and held it over both their heads. “Be glad he didn’t have a friend waiting to beat the stuffing out of you too.”

“My stuffing’s doing just fine,” Spence groused, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and straightening his jacket and tie.

“What was that about?” Vivian asked, laying a hand on his arm. “Spence? Are you in trouble?”

***

Excerpt from LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN by Katharine Schellman. Copyright 2025 by Katharine Schellman. Reproduced with permission from Katharine Schellman. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Katharine Schellman is an award-winning author of historical crime fiction, including the Nightingale Mysteries and the Lily Adler Mysteries, whose work has been called “worthy of Rex Stout or Agatha Christie” (Library Journal). Her books have been nominated for an Edgar and a Silver Falchion, and she has won a Zibby Media National Book Award for “Best Book for the History Lover.” A former actor, onetime political consultant, and graduate of William & Mary, Katharine lives and writes in the mountains of Virginia.

Catch Up With Katharine Schellman:

www.katharineschellman.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @katharineschellman
BookBub – @katharineschellman
Instagram – @katharinewrites
Facebook – @katharineschellman

 

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Book Details:

Book Title: For She Had Eyes by Seth Margolis
Category:  Adult Fiction (18 +), 300 pages
Genre: Psychological Suspense 
Publisher:  Arcanum Books
Release date:  May 2026
Content Rating: PG +M: The book includes scenes of adultery, (mild) descriptions of sex, and some profanityBook Description:

Three people. Three lies. One deadly reckoning.When Oliver Troika meets Danielle Hampdon at a hotManhattan nightclub, the attraction is immediate – and unsettlingly perfect. Oliver is handsome, charming, and newly wealthy; Danielle is poised, intelligent, and born into one of Park Avenue’s most illustrious families. They come from vastly different worlds, yet their connection feels inevitable.Not everyone is convinced.Ivan Abelov, Oliver’s childhood friend and business partner, senses something off about Danielle. Or is it wishful thinking born of jealousy?  And the more Oliver falls under her spell, the more determined Ivan becomes to uncover who thinks she really is – even if he has to invent the truth about her.What begins as unsupported suspicion soon escalates into a dangerous game of secrets and deception, where every revelation raises the stakes – and every move risks exposing a truth that could ruin them all.In a story that echoes Othello, suspicion is carefully sown, and once it takes hold, it threatens to unravel everything. Who can be trusted? Who is hiding behind a carefully constructed past? And how far will each of them go to protect the life they’ve built?FOR SHE HAD EYES is a gripping suspense novel about ambition, loyalty, and the fatal cost of believing the wrong person – right up to its startling final pages.

BUY THE BOOK:
AMAZON

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Meet the Author:
Seth has written and published several novels, including LOSING ISAIAH, which was adapted as a feature film starring Halle Berry and Jessica Lange, and, most recently, THE SEMPER SONNET. He lives with his wife, Carole, in New York City. They have two grown children, Maggie and Jack. Seth received a BA in English from the University of Rochester and an MBA in marketing from New York University’s Stern School of Business Administration. When not writing fiction, he is a branding consultant for a wide range of companies, primarily in the financial services, technology and pharmaceutical industries. He has written articles for the New York Times and other publications on travel and entertainment.
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Book Details:

Book Title: Jane Avril: The Muse of the Moulin Rouge by M. L. Malcolm
Category:  Adult Fiction (18 +),  337 pages
Genre: Historical Fiction
Publisher:  A Good Read Publishing
Release date:  February 2026
Content Rating: PG +M: Some non-explicit discussions of sex; one subtle yet explicit sex scene and a brief discussion of suicide
Book Description:

Born the bastard daughter of an aristocrat, Jane Avril became the most famous dancer at the most famous dance hall in the world during the “Gay 90’s” in Paris: the Moulin Rouge. Beautiful, intelligent, and fiercelyindependent, she earned a place among the most famous artists, writers, and entertainers of her day, including Henri Toulouse Lautrec, who immortalized her in his paintings and posters. Immerse yourself in the turbulent and fascinating life of a Belle Epoque legend as she struggles out of poverty into the limelight, learning how to live and love as Queen of La Danse.
Buy the Book:
Amazon  
add to goodreads
Meet the Author:

M.L. Malcolm loves readers! She has visited with over a hundred book clubs all over the country, and is happy to use Zoom or whatever technology is available to connect when a personal visit isn’t possible. She’s also a history geek, so she loves reading and writing historical fiction.

She began her professional career as an attorney in Atlanta, Georgia. After practicing law for three years, M.L. determined that “she and the law werenot meant for each other,” and is now a self-described “recovering attorney.” 

As part of her recovery strategy, M.L. yielded to her entrepreneurial inclinations and took over a struggling travel agency. She ran the business successfully for several years before selling it to a larger company, then retired from the labor force to spend more time with her children and pursue her life-long ambition to become a writer. She has also amassed an impressive hat collection (and yes, she does wear them). 

M.L. has won several awards, including recognition in the prestigious Lorian Hemingway International Short Story Competition, and a silver medal from ForeWord magazine for Best Historical Fiction Book of the Year. “Heart of Lies” was chosen by the American Booksellers Association as an “Indie Pick” and a “Recommended Book Club Read” selection, and M.L. was selected by Target Stores as an “Author to Watch”. She has also worked as a free-lance journalist for newspapers and magazines in Washington, DC and Los Angeles.

She and her family currently live in Washington, DC. M.L. is her nickname. Her full name is Mary Lee Malcolm

connect with the author:  goodreadsEnter the Giveaway:Jane Avril: The Muse of the Moulin Rouge by M. L. Malcolm