Debra L. Hartmann's Blog

DYING WITH A SECRETby Tj O’ConnorJanuary 12 – February 13, 2026 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:THE DEAD DETECTIVE CASEFILESDying can bring out the best in people.
It can also bring out the worst of secrets.
If you want to know someone’s dirty secrets, kill them.
It works every time.

Oliver “Tuck” Tucker, the dead detective, is back—not just for another case, but from the dead—or vice versa. It all starts when a Federal Agent is killed by a mysterious force in front of dozens of witnesses—including Angel, his historian wife, and Tuck. Among the many suspects is a dark, clandestine Federal agency responsible for advanced research and weaponry, a university doctoral candidate who won’t stay dead, and the leader of a secret southern society bent on rekindling the Civil War. With the aid of a ten-year-old psychic and the spirit of Tuck’s Civil War grandmother—Sally Elizabeth Mosby—Tuck has to stay one step ahead of the Feds who are hellbent on capturing him—alive? But through all this, what’s a two-hundred-year-old lost fortune in gold got to do with dead agents, secret death rays, and rogue policemen?

Book Details:

Genre: Paranormal Mystery, PI Cozy Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: December 9, 2025
Number of Pages: 324
ISBN: 979-8898201111 (pbk)
Series: The Dead Detective Casefiles, Book 4
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

The Dead Detective CasefilesDYING TO KNOWAmazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads DYING FOR THE PASTAmazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads DYING TO TELLAmazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads Read an excerpt:Chapter One

Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder.

So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one.

It works every time.

What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead.

More about that later.

At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago.

This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true.

Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level.

Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces.

Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret.

All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part.

“Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?”

She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see.

“Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?”

She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look.

“Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?”

“No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.”

His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.”

Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet.

“I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?”

“Yes, Professor Tucker.”

“It’s not personal, Andrew.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?”

“Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?”

“Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”

“Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked.

She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase.

“Who?” he asked.

I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?”

She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.”

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.”

I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance.

“I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.”

“Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.”

“It’s coming back in style.”

She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“He doesn’t stare. He ogles.”

“Yes, he ogles.”

“I can get Bear to check him—”

“No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.”

Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly.

We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat.

A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip.

“That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.”

A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that.

“I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.”

“I am somewhere. I’m here.”

She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby.

As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats.

Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors.

Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him.

Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed…

“Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench.

Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace.

“Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?”

Hell if I knew.

Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark.

When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed.

Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside.

The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo.

Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included.

Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else.

What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me.

***

Excerpt from Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in antiterrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who are supplying a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O’Connor:

tjoconnor.com
Amazon Author
Goodreads
BookBub – @tj37
Instagram – @tjoconnorauthor
Twitter/X – @Tjoconnorauthor
Facebook – @TjOConnor.Author
YouTube – @tjoconnorauthor3905

 

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Every fiction writer knows the frustration: you’ve crafted a scene, written the conversation, but something feels off. The words sit flat on the page. The characters sound interchangeable. The tension deflates instead of building. You know there’s a problem but just can’t pinpoint what it is or how to fix it.

That’s where this book comes in. Written by an editor with over twenty years of experience working with writers from first-timers to New York Times bestsellers, Dialogue That Speaks teaches you to develop the same “editor’s ear” professionals use to identify—and fix—dialogue problems.

This isn’t another book of theory. It’s a working manual.

Inside, you’ll discover:

How to make every character sound distinct without relying on accents or speech quirksPractical techniques for weaving backstory and exposition into conversations naturallyWhy “show, don’t tell” applies to dialogue tooWhat on-the-nose dialogue is costing your storyThe rhythm and pacing secrets that keep readers turning pagesHow to handle the trickiest dialogue situations: group scenes, internal thoughts, and emotionally charged momentsThe seven-pass editing system that transforms revision from overwhelming to manageable

Each chapter includes diagnostic questions, before-and-after examples, and immediately applicable revision techniques. Plus, the comprehensive Toolkit section gives you checklists, templates, and reference materials to use with every manuscript you write.

Because here’s the truth: Good dialogue isn’t just about talent. It’s also about knowing what to listen for.

Write with intention. Revise with confidence. Grow with every book.

Grab your copy today! Meet the Author

Debra L. Hartmann is a professional developmental editor, line editor, and proofreader who has spent over two decades helping fiction writers find their voice and sharpen their craft. As The Pro Book Editor, she’s worked with authors ranging from first-time novelists to New York Times bestselling writers across virtually every fiction genre.

Known for her practical, no-nonsense approach, Debra believes every writer deserves access to the same insights that traditionally only came from expensive professional editing. That philosophy drives The Pro Book Editor’s Toolkit Series—a collection of working manuals designed to help writers develop professional-level self-editing skills.

Dialogue That Speaks is the first book in the series. Upcoming titles include:

Show, Don’t Tell: A Fiction Writer’s Guide to Crafting Movie ScenesCharacter Surgery: How to Fix Flat Characters and Create Unforgettable ProtagonistsPacing Problems Solved: Why Your Novel Drags (And How to Fix It).

When she’s not editing manuscripts or writing craft guides, Debra lives in the mountains of North Carolina where she continues her mission of empowering writers one book at a time.

Connect with the Author

Website: theprobookeditor.com
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/theprobookeditor/

About The Pro Book Editor’s Toolkit Series

Every title in this series is designed as a practical working manual—not another book of theory that sits on your shelf. Each volume tackles a specific craft challenge writers face, providing diagnostic tools, concrete examples, and systematic approaches to revision.

Book Details

Book Title: Dialogue That Speaks: Writing Conversations Readers Can Hear
Series: The Pro Book Editor’s Toolkit Series
Author: Debra L. Hartmann
Genre: Writing Craft & Technique
Publisher: True Haven Press (Asheville, NC)
Status: Available in eBook and Paperback

To Hell and Back
Bill Blume
Publication date: January 20th 2026
Genres: Adult, Fantasy

For one pair of swordfighters, their marriage is worth going to Hell and back.

Ty and Dani are a modern-day, swordfighting husband-and-wife duo who help with exorcisms until a demon kills Dani’s mother and all of their fellow exorcists. Now, they’re on a quest for revenge through the realms of Hell, and killing the demon is just the start of the journey. To keep the demon from reviving, Dani and Ty must escape Hell within seven days and cast the demon’s head and heart into an Eternal Flame. To get back to the mortal realm in time, they rely on their small terrier Wicket to lead them past the demon’s army and thousands of other horrors.

To Hell and Back takes readers on an epic journey perfect for those who believe love can overcome any challenge and that a devoted dog makes the perfect guide no matter where you need to go.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble

—

EXCERPT:

They didn’t drive far, parking on a cobblestone street next to the café, sitting on a street corner. The entire front wall of the café was made up of tall doors that were all turned open to take advantage of the pleasant spring weather. Ty sucked down his coffee. It tasted stronger than what he preferred, but as tired as he was, he considered that a good thing.

“I imagine you have a lot of questions.” Maria sat at one of the tables closest to the sidewalk with people dressed in business suits and hospital scrubs walking by. She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, draping her arm over the back of it.

“I’m told you work for the church?” He decided against gambling on whether it was the Catholic or Episcopal Church.

“Heard that, did you?” She cracked an amused grin, as if she’d been privy to his conversation with Barry. “That’s only partially true. We’re funded by the Church of England, but we don’t answer to them.”

Taking a chug of his coffee, Ty then asked, “And who is we?”

“A fair question, and I’ll get to that soon enough.” She paused for her own sip of coffee. When she continued, she stared out at the street as cars rumbled across the cobblestones. “I’d like to talk about you a bit first. I notice you’ve started the transition.”

“The what?”

“Oh, you’re trying to find a way to make a living off that sword arm of yours that doesn’t require a nine-to-five job typing on a keyboard or some other nonsense. You’re going the usual route: giving lessons to wannabes drunk on fantasies of medieval knights or Star Wars. You know. The usual stuff.” She looked at him with a smirk that assured him she already knew the answer to her next question. “You enjoying all that?”

He cleared his throat and sniffed. His sinuses were still killing him.

“I’m paying my bills.” He shrugged, trying to mimic her nonchalance by turning his focus out onto the street and the passersby. Didn’t keep him from seeing her amused reaction to his answer, that she knew he was full of shit.

Yeah, he’d taken to giving part-time lessons at a local fencing club that included saber fighting. Most of the job seemed more about punishing clients into the realization that they weren’t going to turn into Inigo Montoya overnight and that fighting with a sword required both finesse and brutality. Being good with a sword required a killer instinct. Forcing others with limited skills to realize they didn’t have that certain something was taking a toll on him.

“Look, Mr. Faison.” She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “For some people that’s enough, and that’s fine.” The way she said “fine” left little doubt it was anything but that. “But someone like you…” She shook her head.

He tried to bluff, acting amused and disinterested, but his acting skills failed him again. “You think so?”

The way her expression hardened, that single eye narrowing on him, forced his full focus on her. “I think you’re the kind of person who’s only ever whole when he’s got a sword in his hand and a real fight in front of him.”

She leaned back in her chair again, with all the satisfaction of a wildcat dining on a fresh kill. The silence offered him a chance to respond, but she’d left him speechless. No one had ever peeled him down to his bones like this—not even his parents—not this fast or with such ease.

After giving him his chance to answer and seeing he wasn’t able to, Maria sipped her coffee and then continued. “You’re twenty-six. You used to finish in the top three at most competitions you entered but you haven’t in more than a year. It’s not that your skills or body are fading, and it’s not because you’re distracted by the side work that pays the bills. No, it’s because even the competitions are starting to bore you. Those fights aren’t real anymore, because all that’s at stake there is pride.”

“And what? You’re offering me a ‘real fight’? What is this? Some kind of underground sword fight club, where the loser dies, and the first rule is to not talk about it?”

She shook her head, grinning at his attempt at wit. “This is no game or club. Underground? Somewhat. But what you’ll be doing will make a real difference in people’s lives. I’m offering you a chance to reclaim that fire that ignited the moment you first touched a sword.

“I’m giving you a chance to find your heart.”

Author Bio:

Bill Blume discovered his love for the written word while in high school and has been writing ever since. His latest novel, West of Apocalypse, is now available from Time Killer Publishing. His short stories have been published in many fantasy anthologies and various ezines.

Like the father figure in his “Gidion Keep, Vampire Hunter” novels, Bill works as a 911 dispatcher for Henrico County Police and has done so for more than two decades. He served as the 2013 chair for James River Writers, which produces one of the nation’s best annual conferences for educating and connecting writers.

He graduated from the University of South Carolina with a degree in Broadcast Journalism in 1995. In the years after, he worked as a TV news producer, first in Columbus, Georgia, and then in Richmond, Virginia, which has become home for Bill & his family.

You can learn more about Bill at his website: http://www.billblume.net.

Website / Goodreads / Instagram / Facebook

GIVEAWAY!

To Hell and Back Blitz

—

 

Book Details:
Book Title:  The Compassionate Writer: Find Your Voice, Enhance Your Story, and Touch Lives by Anne E. Beall
Category:  Adult Non-Fiction (18+),  282 pages
Genre: writing craft and creativity
Publisher:  Beall Research
Release date:  October, 2025
Content Rating:  PG +M. Some mature themes like suicide, self-harm, sexual violence.
Book Description:

Write with courage. Edit with kindness. Share your story with the world.Every writer struggles with self-doubt, fear of rejection, and the pressure to get it just right. But what if the secret to powerful writing isn’t striving for perfection—it’s embracing compassion?
In The Compassionate Writer, you’ll discover how to:Silence your inner critic and trust your creative voice.Write with vulnerability, emotional depth, and authenticity.Craft complex characters and conflicts through empathy.Overcome writer’s block and rejection with resilience.Edit your work without losing confidence in your vision.Build a supportive writing community that nurtures your growth.Through psychological insights, practical exercises, guided visualizations, and writing prompts, this book will help you cultivate self-kindness, write with emotional honesty, and create stories that resonate deeply.
Your words matter. Your voice deserves to be heard. Whether you’re writing fiction, memoir, or personal essays, this book will guide you toward a writing practice that is both fulfilling and transformative.
Are you ready to write with compassion—and change the way you tell your story?
Buy the Book:
Amazon ~ Audible
B&N ~ Bookshop.org
add to Goodreads

Meet the Author:

Anne E. Beall, Ph.D., is an award-winning author and social psychologist who writes about the emotional undercurrents that shape our lives. Her writing explores the psychology of relationships—between lovers, family members, friends, and pets who think they’re in charge.
She’s written eight nonfiction books, including Cinderella Didn’t Live Happily Ever After and Only Prince Charming Gets to Break the Rules, which reveal the hidden messages inside classic fairy tales. She has been featured in People Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, Toronto Sun, NPR, NBC, and WGN.
Anne is the founder and editor of Chicago Story Press Literary Journal, which publishes true stories that invite readers to see something in a new light. She holds a Ph.D. in social psychology from Yale—so yes, she can absolutely over analyze your childhood.
She lives in Chicago, where she writes, edits, walks a lot, and tries to convince other people that winter isn’t really that long in the Midwest.
connect with the author:  website ~ substack ~ linkedin ~ youtube ~ goodreadsEnter the Giveaway:COMPASSIONATE WRITER Book Tour Giveaway

GRQ: Get Rich Quickby Steven BernsteinNovember 17 – December 12, 2025 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:

 

One day. One city on the edge. One man gambling it all.

In a Los Angeles rattled by an earthquake and on the brink of collapse, Marlon has twenty-four hours to change his fate. Drowning in debt, reeling from personal loss, and desperate to save his family, he’s seduced by a shadowy financial guru promising salvation. But as Marlon spirals deeper into a web of risk, secrets long buried begin to surface—and his final gamble might cost him everything.

Taut, urgent, and psychologically astute, Get Rich Quick is a gripping descent into the dangers of ambition, delusion, and the American obsession with success.

Soon to be a major worldwide film release.

Praise for GRQ:

“Reading this book was like listening to a charming con man talk circles around the truth while you laugh and cringe in equal measure. The narrator’s voice is hypnotic. It’s funny, fast-talking, and flawed. Bernstein’s writing feels conversational and unfiltered, filled with tangents, wild lists, and jabs at everything from labradoodles to General Tso’s chicken. It’s brilliantly messy. The narrative never tries to be neat or linear. That looseness works in its favor. It mirrors the chaos of the characters’ lives and thoughts, making the humor land harder and the emotions hit sharper when they sneak in.”
~ Literary Titan

“Author Steven Bernstein builds this sneaky domestic thriller with addictive, vignette-like chapters narrated by voices that alternate between self-justification and raw emotion… Bernstein’s strength lies in how he seamlessly layers humor, suspense and sorrow. On one page, we’re laughing at Marlon’s ridiculous schemes and evasions. On the next, the ground shakes — literally, as Los Angeles is rocked by earthquakes, and figuratively, as the family fractures under pressure.”
~ BestThrillers.com

“Very rarely have I come across a book as riveting and thoroughly engaging as Steven Bernstein’s GRQ. The characters are so vivid and compelling that it wouldn’t surprise me at all if I were to encounter them in real life. An absolute must-read.'”
~ Gale Anne Hurd, Executive Producer (FEAR THE WALKING DEAD, MANKILLER)

“This little book of wisdom is an iChing for the mid 2020s. Marlon is the infernal dumbass in his schemes to Get Rich Quick, to the despair of his darling Viola. The problem is that there’s a Marlon in all of us. Well, most of us. Not me, obviously. A brilliant evisceration of debt and delusion.'”
~JP Maxwell, author and award-winning filmmaker

“I loved it: it feels like a dreamlike odyssey. A book perfectly suited for our era — a world where financial gain overshadows everything else, reminiscent of ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’. The short chapters and vignettes hit you at breakneck speed; you feel like you’re watching someone unravel before your very eyes. A truly compelling read.”
~ Tom Walker, Actor (Jonathan Pie)

“GRQ by Steven Bernstein is a pulsating, psychological thriller. I loved it.”
~ Keith McNally, New York Times best selling author

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Thriller, Dark Humor
Published by: Fly on the Wall Press
Publication Date: June 3, 2025
Number of Pages: 142, Paperback
ISBN: 9781915789464 (ISBN10: 191578946X)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Fly on the Wall Press

 

Author Bio:

Steven Bernstein, ASC, DGA, WGA is an award-winning feature film director and screenwriter, shaping some of the most visually striking films of the past 40 years. His work on the Academy Award-winning film Monster and on Like Water for Chocolate has earned global recognition. He is a recipient of the American Film Institute Award, the Sloan Award (for writing and directing), the Cannes Golden Lion (for commercials), and is an ASC nominee for outstanding cinematography. He has worked on over 50 feature films. He wrote and directed several groundbreaking feature films with major talent (John Malkovich, Samantha Morton, Helen Hunt and many more). His podcast Filmmakerandfans, about the creative process in film production, is listened to by millions.

Catch Up With Steven Bernstein:

Filmmaker and Fan’s Podcast
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram – @stevenbernsteindirectorwriter
Threads – @stevenbernsteindirectorwriter
X – @stevebfilm
Facebook – @StevenBernsteinOfficial
Learn more about GRQ the Movie

 

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MURDER AT THE MOULIN ROUGEby Carol PouliotNovember 3 – 28, 2025 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:A Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mystery

 

Paris, 1895. When a cancan dancer at the Moulin Rouge falls to her death from the top of one of Montmartre’s highest staircases, the police dismiss it as an accident. But, Madeleine was one of Toulouse-Lautrec’s favorite models, and the artist is certain she was murdered. Enter Depression-era detective Steven Blackwell and 21st-century journalist Olivia Watson who travel back in time to Paris to hunt down the killer. Before long, they learn that a second dancer—a ballerina and favorite model of painter Edgar Degas—has died. Two dancers dead in two weeks. Two artists grieving. Is the killer targeting young dancers, or, does this case involve the enigmatic Paris art world?

From the moment Steven and Olivia arrive, Steven is out of his element. The small-town cop has no idea what techniques the French police use in 1895. Worse, he has no official status to investigate murder in one of the world’s largest cities. The sleuths soon discover disturbing secrets at the Paris Ballet. And when Olivia insists on going undercover to visit a suspect’s house alone, Steven fears he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.

Travel back in time with Steven and Olivia, as they enter the back-stabbing world of dance in one of the world’s greatest cities. Murder at the Moulin Rouge is their most daring and dangerous case to date.

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Police Procedural with a Time-Travel Twist; Historical Mystery.
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 23, 2025
Number of Pages: 325
Series: The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries, #5
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mystery Series
Doorway to Murder
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Threshold of Deceit
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
Death Rang the Bell
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub
RSVP to Murder
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBubRead an excerpt:Chapter OneDecember 25, 1934
Knightsbridge, New York

“I need you to come to Paris.”

“You need what?” he asked.

Detective Steven Blackwell stared at the younger version of his mother standing in the room that had been her studio. Jaw dropped, eyes like saucers. He could barely speak.

“I need you—and your friend Olivia, if you like—to come to Paris. There’s been a murder and the police aren’t doing anything,” said Evangéline. “I thought I heard a voice a minute ago. Was that Olivia? Why don’t you get her? She’s probably wondering what’s going on.”

In a daze, and feeling like he had no control over his actions, Steven turned away from the vision of his mother and stumbled out into the hallway. He saw Olivia still waiting in the doorway at the end of the hall. Her hand flew to her chest, and she heaved a great sigh. “Oh, my God, you’re okay! What’s going on? I thought I heard voices. Is somebody here?” As he came closer, she noticed the look on his face. “What’s wrong? You look funny.”

“It’s my mother. My mother’s here.”

“What?”

“She looks as real as you do, but she’s young, around our age. She said she needs me to go to Paris. And you should come too.”

“What?” For one terrifying moment, Olivia wondered if a year of grieving had unhinged Steven’s mind. How could his mother be here? Evangéline Neuilly Blackwell died last January.

Steven repeated Evangéline’s instructions. “She said I should come get you.” He held out his hand. Olivia took it and stepped over the threshold into 1934.

They moved slowly down the hall then paused at the doorway to look at each other. Steven squeezed her hand. Olivia nodded. They both took a deep breath then entered Evangéline’s studio.

There in the shadowy room stood a beautiful woman, shoulder-length copper hair shining in the lamplight. She was slender, taller than average, and wore a stunning emerald dress, the kind French women wore to perfection. A wool coat with a fur collar had been thrown over the back of a chair. She held out her hand toward Olivia.

“Hello. I’m Evangéline Neuilly. I’m so happy to meet you.”

Olivia had always wanted to meet Steven’s exotic-sounding mother—a famous French artist—but that possibility had died along with Evangéline. Or so she had thought. Olivia told herself to close her mouth, which had fallen open, and shook the woman’s hand. “Olivia Watson.”

Evangéline looked at Steven. “I can tell you’re surprised to see me. I must not have told you about my ability to time travel. Surely, you wondered why you can? And if your father or I also had that ability?”

“Eh, no. Not really.”

Evangéline rolled her eyes and gave Olivia a look that said, Men, huh?

Olivia couldn’t help grinning.

“Well,” Evangéline opened her arms wide, “here’s the answer to your unasked question. You got it from me.”

Olivia recovered first. “So, Evangéline, you traveled here from…when?”

“1895. And I really need your help. Both of you.” She shook her head and waved her hand back and forth. “I know. I know. You have a lot of questions. Let’s go downstairs and have something to drink. I’ll tell you what has happened.”

They trouped down the stairs and into the living room.

“I know I must have lived in this house for some time and I assume I decorated this room….” Evangéline turned to Steven for confirmation.

“Yes, we lived here about twenty years or so before you….” He swallowed hard.

“Before I died,” she whispered, then patted his hand. “Pauvre chouchou. Poor sweetheart. I’m so sorry. But, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know when. Of course, I have an idea. But not the exact date.” She opened a door in the sideboard. “Bon! A bottle of red.” She handed the wine to Steven.

Still dazed, he opened it and poured a glass for each of them. Evangéline curled up in a leather chair. Steven and Olivia sat facing her on the couch.

His mother took a sip and pursed her lips. “Not bad. So, listen, we must act fast. A young girl has been killed but the police do nothing. They say it was an accident. We know it was not. I want you to find out who killed Madeleine Gervaise.”

His cop’s instincts kicked in, and Steven found himself intrigued. Who was Madeleine Gervaise? How did she die? Why do the police think it was an accident? And what was her connection to Evangéline?

Suddenly, Steven remembered something Sherlock Holmes once said: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” And with that assurance, he snapped out of his stupor and accepted his mother’s bewildering appearance. He leaned forward.

“All right, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I can and will go to Paris. Answer these questions.” He ticked them off his fingers. “Why do the police think it was an accident? How do you know it wasn’t? When did this happen?”

Evangéline placed her feet on the floor and mirrored him, ticking her answers off her fingers. Olivia almost laughed at the two of them. Talk about a chip off the old block, as her grandfather used to say. “She fell on one of the tall staircases in Montmartre. The police say she slipped on the ice. My friend Henri knows the human body and how it works. He says the…how do you say ‘marks of black and blue’?”

“Bruises,” Olivia chimed in. “We also say black-and-blue marks.”

“Ah! Bon. Henri says the bruises prove someone pushed her. It happened late Sunday night, early Monday morning. Today is already Wednesday. That is why we must move fast.”

Steven groaned, thinking of the days lost. “Is Henri a doctor?”

“No, an artist. But, believe me, Steven, he knows the body. If Henri says she was pushed, she was pushed.”

“So, again, if we were to do this, how would it work?”

“We must go with all speed. That means we must travel in Olivia’s time in one of those fast aeroplanes. That’s how I got here so quickly.”

“Wait, how do you know about Olivia?”

“Oh, mon Dieu, the questions! It is a long story but if it will help speed this up…last summer, I traveled to 1934, to America, with someone on business that had nothing to do with you or my future. When I was in New York City, I saw a photograph in a newspaper of the painting I’m working on right now. The article said a museum in Chicago had bought it and gave information about me, you, and your father. While my friend was completing his business, I had a couple of days to myself, so I took a train here and came to this house. Naturally, I was curious, so I came in and looked around. You really shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked, you know. Anyway, I saw the photograph of Olivia on your dresser. You have her name and the year 2014 written on the back. I realized you had inherited my ability to time travel and that Olivia also had the gift.” Evangéline blew out her cheeks. “Can we not return to the problem at hand now?”

Steven grinned. “Yeah, okay. You know, I always thought you learned English when you moved here with Dad. You speak really well.”

She rolled her eyes. “As you must know, my father is a professor of English at the Sorbonne. He taught me when I was a child.” She took a drink of her wine. “Now, to our problème…I went through the portal in Paris, from 1895 to Olivia’s time.”

“Why did you go into Olivia’s time?”

“If you keep interrupting me, we will never get anywhere. Just listen.” Evangéline took another drink of wine and went on. “Time is of the essence, as it’s already been almost three days. We must travel into 2014 and go to New York City as quickly as possible. Someone there will help us with what we need. Tomorrow night, we’ll fly to Paris. Once we’re there, we’ll travel back to 1895.”

“You make it sound easy. But I have so many questions,” Steven persisted. “How are we going to pay for all this? How do I get a passport fast enough to fly tomorrow? What about other things we might need?”

His mother tilted her head toward the ceiling and sighed. “You think I have come all this way without a plan? Before I left, Henri gave me a sketch. There’s a man in New York City—you will soon learn we have travel agents in cities all over the world who help us. This man in New York City, a place called Brooklyn, is selling the sketch for me, so we’ll have plenty of money. He’ll make a passport and other documents for you, Steven, just as someone in Paris made mine so I could come here.” Evangéline turned to Olivia. “Do you have a passport? Do you drive an automobile?”

“Yes. And I have a car.”

“Can you take us to New York City tomorrow morning so we can get Steven’s documents and the money to buy our tickets for the aeroplane? We must leave for Paris tomorrow night.”

“Sure. Listen, Evangéline, I’m sorry to hear about your friend Madeleine.”

“Thank you. She was lovely—a dancer and one of Henri’s favorite models. Such a waste.”

“Who is Henri? And why would anybody buy one of his sketches?”

“Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. I think he is well known in your time, Olivia.”

“Toulouse-Lautrec?” Olivia gasped. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“Yes, and he’s now your employer.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped.

Evangéline reached out toward Steven with her empty wineglass then settled back in the chair after he’d refilled it. “Now, let us talk about tomorrow. You must both pack a small bag. Steven, bring any tools or objects you will need to investigate. I don’t know what they might be, but that is most important. When we travel to my Paris in 1895, you can borrow clothes belonging to my friend Théo. He’s away on business right now. His wardrobe is filled with additional items—suits, shirts, collars, and so forth. There’s a cloak and hat as well. Olivia, we’re about the same size. I’m happy to share my clothes with you. I have plenty of skirts and dresses. I have an extra cloak, too. Just bring your personal things.”

Suddenly, Steven realized he had been given a gift. After a long, difficult year of grieving, he had the chance to spend time with the woman who would become his mother. How could he possibly say no?

“I’m sorry, but I have to interrupt again,” Steven said, grinning at Evangéline. “Before it gets too late, I need to call the chief to tell him a family emergency has come up and I need a few days off.” He stood and headed for the phone, then stopped. He turned around and walked back to Evangéline. “I know this is going to be weird for you. You don’t even know me yet. But I have missed you so much!” And he bent down and kissed his mother’s cheek.

***

Excerpt from Murder at the Moulin Rouge by Carol Pouliot . Copyright 2025 by Carol Pouliot . Reproduced with permission from Carol Pouliot . All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

A former language teacher and business owner, Carol Pouliot writes the acclaimed Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries, traditional police procedurals with a seemingly impossible relationship between a Depression-era cop and a 21st-century journalist. With their fast pace and unexpected twists and turns, the books have earned praise from readers and mystery authors. Carol is a founding member of Sleuths and Sidekicks, 4 mystery writers who have banded together to share their love of mysteries, immediate Past President and Program Chair of her Sisters in Crime chapter, and Co-Chair of Murderous March, an online mystery conference. When not writing, Carol can be found packing her suitcase and reaching for her passport for her next travel adventure.

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Facebook – @WriterCarolPouliot

 

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KILLER TRACKSby Mary KeliikoaOctober 27 – December 12, 2025 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:A Misty Pines Mystery

 

A peaceful retreat. A maze of smoke and murder. Is their remote getaway about to become a death trap?

Sheriff Jax Turner is worried about going off-grid and leaving his young team of deputies behind. But while his getaway with his ex is meant to help them reconnect, Jax is distracted by signs of a break-in at their rented lookout.

After a string of unsettling events and an approaching wildfire turn their isolated retreat into a danger zone, he’s stunned to find a dead body with marks tying it to a killer he put away a decade ago.

Terrified that his attempt at reconciliation has led them both into a fatal setup, Jax rushes back to his estranged wife before she joins the list of victims. But his dedication to serving and protecting could become an Achilles heel as other players join them among the darkening trees.

Can he fight his way out of the woods before the flames of revenge consume everything?

Praise for Killer Tracks:

“Keliikoa is the Queen of immersive small-town mystery. Killer Tracks is cleverly plotted with deftly drawn relatable characters who face off with a deadly threat from the past.”
~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

“Mary Keliikoa’s Killer Tracks is a wonderful addition to the Misty Pines mystery series. Great pacing, strong plotting, and compelling characters. Highly recommended!”
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, international bestselling coauthor of The Turner and Mosley Files

Book Details:

Genre: Police Procedural; Detective and Mystery; Crime Fiction; Suspense
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 30, 2025
Number of Pages: 319
ISBN: 979-8-89820-033-6 (pb)
Series: A Misty Pines Mystery, #3 || Amazon | Goodreads | Level Best Books
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:PROLOGUE

Click. Slide. Clang.

If he never heard that sound again, it’d be far too soon. That, and the sleepless nights under a thread-bare wool blanket that chafed his exposed skin, the looming threat of death… in the yard, the shower, the halls to and from the cafeteria or his cell.

Death and desperation seeped from the pores of this godforsaken place. So thick he could almost taste it. No amount of soap, no amount of ritual, would rid him of the stench that clung to him—though he’d be willing to try.

It was over now. Dying among these second-class men would not be his fate. A man of his intellect, a man far superior to the minions around him, deserved better than what he’d endured these past years.

He’d eagerly reeducate those who believed otherwise. They’d all see it by the time he was through with them, just like those that came before.

Click. Slide. Clang.

A voice echoed off the concrete walls.

“Inmate 22-A-4242. Gather your crap. Time to go.”

He stood, hands to his sides.

“Ready to face the world?”

He remained silent. None would get the satisfaction of his acknowledgement.

The voice continued. “They gave you a goddamn Hail Mary. Bleeding heart liberals anyway. Don’t screw it up.”

He bowed his head to obscure his smirk.

“Right. I know your type. You’re innocent.” The guard continued rambling. “That’s what all you convicts say. ‘I didn’t do it.’ ‘I was framed.’ ‘It’s unconstitutional.’” The guard’s voice dropped to a growl, prickling his skin. “Tell that to the victims and their families. I’d reckon less than one percent of you bastards got a legit claim.”

The guard had forgotten betrayed, of which he surely had been. But he shrugged, not to agree, but to stave off the urge to wrap his hands around the guard’s throat. So close to freedom…

Whether he was innocent or not had no bearing; it had not been among the criteria for the help he’d received. Being wrongfully convicted qualified. According to the junior team that had embraced his cause when he’d written the letter, they agreed that’s what had happened in his case. Even if it took them ten years, he loved a system that allowed more loopholes than the cable-knit sweater Mother had dressed him in for school.

“Sell it to someone else, you psycho,” the guard snapped. “Bet you money. We’ll see you again real soon.”

A jagged smile crossed his face. The guard had part of it correct—but he’d never be back here. Next time, he’d be less gullible.

And he intended to snuff out anything that could hurt him, like the light of every other woman who hadn’t seen his worth.

CHAPTER ONE

Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed.

Sheriff Jax Turner had experienced more than his fair share of those mornings in the past six years. First, when his daughter Lulu died from leukemia. Then, when his marriage dissolved—more like shattered into a million pieces. Followed by a couple of cases that had tested his limits of trust. They’d destroyed some, too.

Today was different.

Abby Kanekoa, his ex-wife with whom he’d shared the gutting grief of those past years, had offered hope for reconciliation—the chance to glue a few of those pieces back together. It would never be the same without their little girl… but perhaps they could create something new.

Leaving for the mountains just after Labor Day was less than ideal. Though with the tourist season coming to an end in Misty Pines, and Abby due a vacation at the Bureau, it was the best time. Deputy Rachel Killian, his new hire and right hand, was turning out to be as capable as he’d hoped. Applicants for filling the gaps at their station had been sparse. Few, it seemed, wanted to work these days—or work at the often cool and foggy Oregon coast. He’d at least been able to get most of his young crew on full-time payroll, so Rachel had help.

Bottom line, getting away was Abby’s idea. He would not tell her no.

Now to get through the pep talk with the team. The two major events of the past year had allowed them to punch a few notches into their experience belt, but wisdom and reliance on gut instinct were born with time. Leaving them to run Misty Pines without his guidance had his muscles taut.

He entered the sheriff’s office with his duffle flung over his shoulder.

“Oh hon, don’t tell me that’s all you’re taking for the week?” Trudy said. Jax’s long-time secretary, and overall, Team Mother to him and his ragtag group of deputies, lifted the headset off her ears.

He suppressed a smile. “Glad to see your accident hasn’t made you any less opinionated.”

Eight months had passed since the event that had nearly stolen her from him and the team. A warm and fuzzy Trudy would be hard to get used to—he was grateful he didn’t have to learn.

Trudy rested the headset around her neck. “Looks like Abby hasn’t given you any clue about where you’re going.”

“Other than the mountains, not much. I’ve tossed a few essentials in my truck.”

“Like?”

“A good book and a board game.” He smiled. “A couple of bottles of wine.”

She arched her brow.

“What? I’m assuming she’s arranged for us to be at some luxury resort.”

“You think so?”

“Abby likes her massages, saunas, breakfast in bed.” Not to mention time basking on the deck with a steaming cup of coffee. For being a tough no-nonsense woman, and a hell of an FBI agent, she liked the finer things—and she’d earned every damn one of them.

“And what do you like?” Trudy asked.

He chuckled. Not much of what he’d just mentioned. “Roughing it.”

“Hmmm…and she arranged this for the two of you to reconnect?”

His smile faded; he dropped the bag at his feet. “Are we camping?”

Trudy laughed and shook her head. “When it comes to women, you do take a minute to catch up. Might I suggest a few more items?”

“Like a tent?” He’d have to dig it out of his garage, which wouldn’t take long.

“No. But a communication device might come in handy.”

“Abby said something about our phones being off for the week.” He shifted on his feet. “Are you saying we’re headed somewhere with no service?”

She returned to her desk in response.

Of course they were. Several interruptions to his and Abby’s conversations had come from the station over the past months. Too often, when they’d just settled into talk or were on the edge of a sensitive topic. Tourist season was like that every year with the random fender bender, a too-loud party on the beach, a drunken brawl at the pub. Some infraction demanding his attention.

Added to that, Brody had slid his motorcycle on wet pavement and nearly dislocated his shoulder in the spring. Garrett had a few interviews in Portland, one in Seattle. Matt was called in to stock shelves by his boss at the IGA grocery store when they were short staffed, which had become more consistent.

Time with Abby had been the price, although the last time they’d carved out a night together still brought a smile to his face. Maybe this trip signaled her intention of wanting more quality togetherness. That thought alone made having limited phone access worth it regardless of where they went, even as the uneasiness of being out of contact with his crew niggled at him.

He flung the bag back over his shoulder and headed to his office.

The click of claws on the linoleum sounded behind him.

“Boss.” Rachel and Koa, her black lab, came out of the kitchen. “You all set?”

“Almost. Picking Abby up soon for what appears might be a wilderness retreat.”

Rachel laughed. “Don’t look so concerned.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you have a crease between your eyebrows.”

He rubbed the spot. “Guess I’m not fond of surprises.”

“Never have been myself, but I have a feeling you’ll have fun.”

“According to Trudy, I will. Hope Abby does.” It was sweet she’d chosen a place that appealed to him—more imperative if she enjoyed herself. She’d never been one to sleep on the ground.

“Believe me, she did good.”

“Take it you know where we’re headed?”

“Not precisely.”

“How about a hint of what you do know, so I’m better prepared?” Having spent far too much time in the dark, he preferred to be ahead of things these days.

She did a zipping motion in front of her mouth. “I get that it’ll be difficult for you, but try not to worry. The men and I have everything covered.”

He nodded. Letting go of the wheel would never be easy, and in law enforcement things could change quickly. But Rachel was solid, and he trusted her… despite his former partner Jameson not agreeing with him hiring his only daughter. Jax had made the right call; he stood by it. There should be no hesitation about him and Abby taking a week for themselves.

“You’ll get a hold of me if there’s a problem?” he said.

“You won’t have any way…”

“I’m taking the satellite phone.”

Rachel folded her arms over her chest. “Suppose that’s smart after the last trek in the wilderness…”

“Exactly my thought.”

Rachel pursed her lips, likely recalling that day when radio silence had left her and the team wrought with worry as they waited for word on whether Jax and Abby were alive. But Abby should understand his decision, if it came up. Probably better it didn’t.

“Let’s do a briefing before I head out,” he said.

Rachel winked. “The men are waiting for you in the strategy room.”

He chuckled. That’s why there’d been no sign of them when he’d arrived.

In his office, he set his duffle bag on a chair, and retrieved the satellite phone, burying it near the bottom in a T-shirt. Once he checked his email for the tenth time and cleared his desk, he started toward the meeting room, until he heard voices in the reception area.

Trudy was holding open the station’s door. The men were grabbing their gear about to file out, Rachel and Koa behind them.

“What’d I miss?” Jax said.

Koa turned at the sound of his voice, trotting to his side. Jax squatted next to her, draping his arm gently over her back.

“Nothing to worry about, boss,” Rachel said.

“Just a routine traffic revision, chief,” Brody said. “We’ve got it.” He’d gelled down his wispy brown hair today, making him look young. Too young.

“I’ve got forty minutes before…”

“Oh no you don’t, Jax Turner,” Trudy said. “It’s a half-hour drive to Abby, and you will not be late.”

“I—”

“We’ve got it, Sheriff,” Rachel said, calling Koa to her. Koa didn’t budge.

“Koa’s siding with me on this,” he said.

Rachel lifted a brow at her black lab, who promptly returned to her side.

Fine. Jax stood. He’d wanted a team he could rely on, and he had one. So why did he feel left out? “Who’s in need of traffic revision anyway?”

“Fire department,” Trudy said.

“There’s an apartment complex on fire at the edge of town,” Rachel said.

Battalion Chief Mike O’Brien rarely requested assistance. With the remaining tourists eking out the last of their holiday weekend there could be a traffic log, he supposed.

“I’ll go with you,” Jax said.

Rachel held up her hands in a stop gesture. “Please. Get out of here and have a good time.”

Before he could protest, Rachel was out the door and Trudy shut it behind them. Through the glass, Jax watched his team slide into two of the patrol cars.

“You heard your deputy, hon. Get your stuff and head to Abby’s. And don’t come back until you and that saint of a woman have worked everything out.”

Trudy was right. He needed to check his ego. Misty Pines could handle a week without him.

A call came through Trudy’s headset which she tapped to answer. She settled behind her desk as he grabbed his bag, her voice fading as he walked outside.

“Yes, Mrs. Harper. Just a small fire. Nothing to worry about.”

***

Excerpt from Killer Tracks by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2025 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Eighteen years in the legal field, and an over-active imagination, led Mary Keliikoa to plot murder—novels that is. She is the author of the domestic thriller DON’T ASK, DON’T FOLLOW, the newly released KILLER TRACKS, the third book in the Misty Pines mystery series which is an IPPY Silver and Bronze Award winner, Silver Falchion finalist, and a Foreword Indies award finalist, and the Shamus and CLUE Finalist, and Lefty, Agatha and Anthony nominated “PI Kelly Pruett” mystery series. Her short stories have appeared in Woman’s World and the anthology Peace, Love and Crime.

Catch Up With Mary Keliikoa:

MaryKeliikoa.com
Amazon Author Profile
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X – @mary_keliikoa
Facebook – @Mary.Keliikoa.Author

 

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Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Mary Keliikoa. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.KILLER TRACKS by Mary KeliikoaGet More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

Behind the Mirror
Bridget Budd
Publication date: July 1st 2025
Genres: Contemporary, Women’s Fiction

Behind the Mirror is a powerful, character-driven novel about emotional healing, generational trauma, and the courage it takes to stop performing and start living your truth.

Sometimes, the hardest person to face is the one behind the mirror…

Julie Sloan was shaped by abandonment early in life—left behind by the people who were supposed to love her first. In the absence of emotional safety, she became what the world rewarded: high-achieving, self-sacrificing, and always performing. Through four marriages, she searched for stability while suppressing her deepest fears—that she was unworthy of lasting love, and too broken to be fully seen.

But when her fourth marriage nearly collapsed, something shifted. It wasn’t betrayal that broke her—it was the quiet realization that she had never truly lived for herself.

What followed was a reckoning: with her past, with the roles she had played to survive, and with the parts of herself she had long silenced.

Now, years later, a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist named Laura wants to profile Julie’s nonprofit work—an organization devoted to helping women heal from emotional wounds. But what begins as a success story takes a deeper turn as Julie reveals the story behind the story—the one she’s never shared publicly. The one about how she abandoned herself first.

For readers drawn to novels about inner child work, identity, and spiritual awakening, this deeply personal journey will leave you both broken open and quietly restored.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Audible / IngramSpark

—

EXCERPT:

Julie Sloan had everything she thought she wanted—success, love, stability—but beneath the perfection was an exhaustion she couldn’t name. In this scene from Behind the Mirror, she begins to see the quiet cost of performing her way through life.

I had and have everything I had dreamed of. This gorgeous house, an indoor pool, a home gym, a massage room, and a state-of-the-art kitchen. Plus, I drive a super-fun and sporty Porsche 718 Boxster in Carmine Red … Nothing beats the top down on the glorious sunny days we have here.

But I was perpetually unhappy and had no idea why.

Did you notice that all those things I listed as being everything I dreamed of were external? None of them reflected satisfaction from the inside out. I was living from the outside in. Even as recently as ten years ago, I was stuck in that familiar pattern of thinking that I wasn’t worthy whenever someone did something kind for me.

… I was perpetually chasing the next goal, the next fix, the next thing that might finally make me feel whole. What I couldn’t see then was that the exhaustion I felt wasn’t from doing too much—it was from being someone I wasn’t.

I had mastered the art of performing for love, of polishing every rough edge until there was no “me” left underneath. The burnout wasn’t from my schedule; it was from the story I kept trying to live up to.

It’s strange, really, how easy it is to confuse performing with being alive. But when the performance ends—when the lights go down and the applause fades—what’s left is silence. And in that silence, I finally started to hear something truer than all the noise: myself.

Author Bio:

Bridget Budd is the author of Behind the Mirror, a debut novel that blends literary storytelling with therapeutic insight.

After more than twenty-five years in corporate sales, she stepped away to explore the emotional patterns beneath her success—and the cost of always holding it together.

Her work lives at the intersection of fiction and healing, drawing from her background in trauma-informed coaching, somatics, and holistic health. Bridget writes and speaks about identity, self-worth, and the shift from performing to presence.

Often described as “fiction with emotional teeth,” her stories are crafted for deep feelers, recovering perfectionists, and anyone quietly exhausted from chasing “enough.”

She divides her time between Marco Island, Florida, and Marvin, North Carolina, with her husband and two opinionated dogs.

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MAXIMUM PRESSUREby Sheila LoweOctober 6 – 31, 2025 Virtual Book TourSynopsis:Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery Series Old grudges die hard—some never die at all

Forensic handwriting expert Claudia Rose never expected much from her high school reunion, just the usual mix of mean girls, jocks, nerds, and bullies. But when she stumbles upon the lifeless body of someone she knew, the night takes a deadly turn. As secrets resurface and old rivalries ignite, Claudia finds herself caught in a dangerous game where the past is more than just a memory—it’s a motive for murder.

Praise for Maximum Pressure:

“Fun high school reunion story…until, well, the murders. The ending will surprise you. Intelligent read.”
~ Karen Fox 5 star Amazon Review

“A fantastic read!! Sheila Lowe, as always, delivers a compelling story that’ll have you in the edge of your seat!”
~ MattsHonestReviews 5 star Amazon Review

“I love this series… So well written I could see these characters very clearly. I love this series and this may be my favorite case! The suspense was edge of your seat & I loved it.”
~ K-BRC 5 star Amazon Review

“Another great book from Sheila Lowe–Hard to put down ’til the end… This is a fun and exciting story, face-paced, and as always with Sheila Lowe’s books, full of great HWA insights and comments. I think this is one of her best stories and right up my alley as an amateur handwriting analyst!”
~ Vera 5 star Amazon Review

“Excellent, well-written mystery that takes off like a jet from an aircraft carrier in the opening pages and never lets up! With every book she writes Lowe continues to sculpt her craft and gets better & better. The characters are likable & attention holding. The plot and the sub-plots were both well-developed.”
~ Roger Fauble 5 star Amazon Review

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Write Choice Ink
Publication Date: June 2, 2024
Number of Pages: 314
ISBN: 978-1970181487 (print)
Series: A Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery, #9
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle Unlimited | Audible | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Apple Audio

Read an excerpt:Chapter OneFriday afternoon, October 6

Everything had changed in Edentown, and nothing had changed. Twenty-five years ago, when Washington Boulevard was the main drag, the high school crowd hung out at the Fox theater on Saturday nights, then walked in a pack to Carl’s Jr. for burgers. There had been a shoe store, a drugstore, a barber shop and a hair salon, a couple of high-end dress boutiques. The no-tell hotel above Guido’s Café that rented rooms by the hour.

Those businesses were gone now, replaced by boxy modern high-rise office buildings, an ultra-modern museum, and a refurbished warehouse that housed upscale fast-food vendors, cheese shops, and a yoga studio. Enterprises that meant nothing to Claudia Rose in the context of her hometown. Making a right turn at Olive Avenue, she felt like Alice in Wonderland—as disoriented as if she had stumbled into an alternate reality.

As she made another right, more than a little uneasy that she might not recognize the old neighborhood, the breath she had held too long whooshed out like a popped balloon. Her shoulder muscles let go. She needn’t have worried. Aside from the odd paint job here and there, the residential streets were much the same as when she had graduated from Edentown High School in 1999.

She had driven the seventy miles from Playa de la Reina to work the registration desk at the opening event, a cocktail party in the school gym, with her best friend, Kelly Brennan. How many of her classmates would she be able to identify at the reunion, her first in all those years?

Despite running late due to the standard stop-and-go traffic that made the 405 famous, she refused to hurry. It was a long time since she had last visited Charter Street, and now that she was here, it felt weirdly like peeping in on someone else’s life.

There was the home her parents had bought when she was in junior high. It had been brand new, part of the creeping gentrification that devoured neighborhoods whole—Godzilla chomping its way to tracts of larger dwellings.

Claudia had loved that house, not least because she no longer had to share a bedroom with her younger brother. With its three-car garage and faux-French Country kitchen, the two-story rambler had seemed like a mansion after their old two-bedroom apartment. Now, her eyes were seeing it for what it was: an ordinary house on an ordinary street, looking smaller than the picture she’d held in her mind.

She stopped the car and sat there, calling up flashbacks of summer parties in the backyard. Hiding behind the bushes with her friends and getting high on weed; drinking beer filched from their parents’ coolers. What had happened to the families she had once known? Some of her classmates must have kids attending Edentown High.

Her first wedding reception had been held in that backyard. Within five years, the marriage had tanked. More years after that, her parents put the house on the market and moved to Seattle. Today, it would sell for close to a million.

Claudia loosed a long, nostalgic sigh. It felt as though she was sitting in the front row at a stage play that had ended long ago, the drama wrung out of it. The curtain had been raised; the scenery revealed as a plywood façade.

The sound of her phone startled the melancholy out of her. Kelly’s ringtone. She touched the answer button. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Where the blipity blam are you?”

“Keep your panties on. I’m five minutes away.”

“I need you here now, girlfriend. Here I am, womaning the desk all by my lonesome, and people are showing up early.”

Claudia knew better than to take the gripe seriously. Parties lit Kelly up brighter than fireworks on the Fourth of July. In the background she could hear the tuning-up sounds of a rock band. “Who’s there?”

“The committee members of course—the three Cathys—”

Three friends who shared a name, each with a different spelling. Cathi Soden, Cathy Brewer, Kathy McCarty. Kelly reeled off more names. “Sharon Bernstein, Espie Rodriguez, Ginny Vernon, Eleni Boukidis, Becky Condren. Lemme think … Mark Lukeman, Don Baker—”

Claudia broke into the litany. “Got it. I’ll see you in a few.”

“No detours.”

Too late.

“No detours.”

She ended the call and entered the school’s address into the GPS—something she had not needed to do twenty-five years ago. The mile-long walk straight up Charter Street had terminated at the rear entrance to the school’s swimming pool. Not anymore. The snippy electronic voice directed her to an underpass constructed years after she had left home.

Chapter two

Claudia entered the gym through the back door, at once hit by the disembodied voice of a young Christina Aguilera singing about a genie in a bottle. She paused there to take in the frenetic preparations for the reunion: A custodian on a ladder, hanging a “Class of 1999” banner. Caterers hurrying to offload chafing dishes of hors d’oeuvres onto a long buffet. Early arrivals milling around the portable bars, waiting for them to open. Volunteers decorating the round tables with baskets of chrysanthemums dyed in the blue and gold of the school’s colors.

Her eyes were drawn to the back wall, where “EDENTOWN HIGH SCHOOL” was freshly painted in six-foot-high letters. The bleachers that normally stood there had been folded away for the evening’s event, but Claudia had not forgotten the countless times she and her friends had stood on them cheering on their basketball team, the Pioneers, to a long string of winning games.

The registration desk was set up on the other side of the gym from where she had entered. Crossing the highly polished polyurethane floor, she could see Kelly laughing and bantering with a handful of classmates lined up to receive their name tags. Whether the reunion committee was ready or not, the party was getting started.

Claudia gave her friend a quick appraisal and dropped into the vacant chair beside her. “The dress rocks,” she said approvingly.

Kelly had dragged her along on a shopping trip, determined to dazzle the mean girls with her adult fashion sense, even if most of the mean girls had matured and forgotten her existence. She had found a sultry blue-grey A-line that brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Claudia’s pick was a one-shoulder black number that her husband, Joel, had judged as “extremely sexy.”

Her eyes were sparkling, her extra-white smile gleaming as Kelly pushed a box of name tags towards Claudia. “You look a-mayzing, you auburn-headed hussy.”

Cathi Soden, the reunion chair, had told them that almost half of the class was expected to attend one or more of the weekend events, which meant they had more than two hundred classmates to check in.

“What took you so long?” Kelly asked. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

“As much as this town has changed, it would be no big mystery if I had.”

Now that there were two of them, several people at the back of Kelly’s line moved to stand in front of Claudia. She looked up at the first woman in line and got a vague sense of familiarity, but no name. The woman wore a pink chiffon dress that billowed on a slender frame, making it look a size too large. And something about the glossy chestnut brown pageboy hairstyle jarred with her pasty complexion, and hazel eyes that burned brightly.

The woman gave her a knowing smile, challenging her with a winding “wrap it up” motion with her index finger. “C’mon, Claudia, I sat behind you in AP English our entire senior year. We passed a bazillion notes to each other—”

Before she could control her face, Claudia’s brows shot up and she felt her eyes widen in surprise. How could this pale shadow be the pudgy, rosy-cheeked classmate of her memory? “Omigod, Andie Adams. I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—”

Andie’s expression relaxed into a good-natured grin. “It’s okay, I’m not the only one here who doesn’t look like they did in high school. Unlike you, I might add. You haven’t changed much.” She glanced around the gym. “Isn’t it weird, seeing all these ‘old’ people and knowing you’re one of them?”

Claudia, thumbing through the “A’s” for her name tag, felt compelled to protest. “Hey, forty-two is not old.”

Andie laughed. “Depends on your attitude, I guess.” She pointed to the box of names. “Could I get Nat’s, too? You remember my cousin, Natalie Parker?”

A clear image of two teenage girls popped into Claudia’s head—Andrea, sweet and shy—the ever-ready gopher to her bossy cousin, the bubbly captain of the cheer squad. “It would be hard to forget her,” she said “Are you two still ‘Nat’nAndie?’” The two had borne the nickname throughout their school years, as though one name covered both of them.

Andie shook her head. “I work for Nat, but these days we have separate identities.”

Wondering whether there was a silent “finally” behind the remark, Claudia handed the badges over with a warm smile. “It’s great to see you, Andie. Have fun.”

“Why don’t you come find us when you’re done here. I’ll save you a seat. We can catch up.”

“Thanks, I will.” The invitation pleased Claudia. After all these years, it felt good to reconnect with old friends.

As Andie started to walk away, Kelly chimed in, “Save a seat for me too.”

She turned back. “Of course! See you both later.”

Waiting until Andie was out of earshot, Kelly cupped a hand to Claudia’s ear and whispered, “When was the last time that girl got some sun? She’s as white as tofu.”

“Her hands were like ice. Maybe she’s been sick.”

“Yeah, sick of following Nat around like a slave, doing her bidding.”

“Let’s hope they’ve both outgrown that by now.”

Kelly gave a small snort of derision. “I doubt it. She just picked up Nat’s badge for her, didn’t she?”

***

***

Excerpt from Maximum Pressure by Sheila Lowe. Copyright 2025 by Sheila Lowe. Reproduced with permission from Sheila Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Sheila Lowe is a forensic handwriting examiner, author, and educator with over fifty years of experience decoding the written word. Her nonfiction books include Reading Between the Lines: Decoding Handwriting and her memoir, Growing From the Ashes. In the bestselling Forensic Handwriting suspense series, Sheila’s real-world expertise drives unforgettable fiction as she bridges science and mystery with every stroke of the pen. Her Beyond the Veil paranormal suspense series features a woman who talks to dead people.

Catch Up With Sheila Lowe:

SheilaLoweBooks.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads – @sheilalowe
BookBub – @SheilaLoweBooks
Instagram – @SheilaLoweBooks
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X – @sheila_lowe
Facebook – @SheilaLoweBooks
YouTube – @SheilaLowe
BlueSky – ‪@sheilalowebooks.bsky.social‬
LinkedIn – @SheilaLowe

 

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HAPPY SUN FARMBehind the Facadeby Deven GreeneOctober 13 – November 7, 2025 Virtual Book TourSynopsis: She comes home to mourn her father. She stays to uncover the shocking truth.

When college student Berry returns to her family’s small Southern California farm after her father’s sudden death, she believes she’s coming home to grieve and reassure her mother that she’ll soon be back for good to run the farm. With farming in her blood, she is eager to bring new life to the failing farm through modernization and sound financial management after receiving her degree in agricultural economics.

It doesn’t take long for Berry’s plans to collapse, as she discovers all is not well in the surrounding farming community. A foreign-owned agribusiness, Happy Sun Farm, is taking over all the small farms, something her father had resisted.

As she delves deeper into the company’s campaign of coercing farm sales, Berry suspects they may have been responsible for her father’s death. She learns that Happy Sun Farm is far from a happy place. Their strange farming practices don’t make sense to her, and the unexplained deaths and secrecy surrounding the farm leave many questions unanswered.

With help from law enforcement not forthcoming, Berry sets out to explore what she can, but soon finds her own life in danger. Not knowing whom she can trust, she uncovers a diabolical plan of mass proportions no one could have imagined.

Praise for Happy Sun Farm: Behind the Facade

“I haven’t read a thriller so brilliant, creepy, and compelling in years.”
~ Readers’ Favorite

“Happy Sun Farm is an unputdownable read packed with realism and high-stakes intrigue.”
~ Indies Today

“Happy Sunny Farm: Behind the Façade by Deven Greene is a genre-bending tale that wears many disguises. At times, it feels like a Stephen King narrative rooted in small-town unease; at others, it channels John Grisham’s legal-tinged suspense.”
~ Literary Titan

“The blend of farming insights, thriller, and murder mystery builds intrigue and political confrontation to create a satisfyingly absorbing story that’s hard to put down.”
~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: October 22, 2025
Number of Pages: 356
ISBN: 978-196462008
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:Prologue

Fog rolled in as the sun set on the verdant hills, silent but for the small animals carrying out their daily tasks of finding food and safety while caring for their young. Below in the valley, the mist-shrouded a smattering of primitive structures—the permanent home of twenty-thousand guests of Hwasong, the largest political prisoner camp in North Korea.

All the inmates—men, women, and children—were serving a life sentence for anti-revolutionary activities or being within three generations of a person convicted of that same high crime, so-called guilt by association. Those imprisoned solely because they were related to a convicted enemy of the state lived separately on the grounds, never allowed to see their denounced relative again. Their living conditions were horrible, but not as horrible as those who had committed a serious offense.

A group of a hundred men, women, and teens wearing orange jumpsuits, tired after a long day of hard labor, shuffled into the large auditorium, hurried along by shoves and baton whacks from the guards. Already seated was an equal number of prisoners wearing blue jumpsuits, men, women, and teens who had arrived by bus a half-hour earlier from a nearby housing block. The inmates dressed in blue were emaciated, their skin loosely covering the bones underneath, while those in orange were thin but without signs of starvation. The people in orange were silent as they glanced around and sat in the vacant seats between those in blue.

If the two groups of prisoners had questions about why those in orange and blue were intermingled in this way, none dared to speak up. Ten guards armed with guns and batons stood around the room’s perimeter. After all the inmates were seated, one of the officers stepped to the front of the room and commenced the evening ritual of indoctrination. The session of self-criticism would be next.

Prisoners who occasionally slumped forward from exhaustion were struck with a baton. He or she would either straighten up or fall to the floor before being pulled by their arms out of the room, never to be seen again.

As the officer droned on about the greatness of the country and their Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Un, the guards around the perimeter continued to look straight ahead. None of the convicts seemed to notice the fine aerosol being emitted from nozzles that had poked through small holes in the ceiling high above. The mist silently spread to all corners of the room for several minutes before the apertures closed, and the spouts crawled back into the ceiling.

A short session followed in which several prisoners were required to admit to recent shortcomings, such as not working as hard as they could have or eating more than needed to survive. The other prisoners responded by agreeing that the behavior described was shameful.

When the meeting appeared to be over, the inmates in orange looked around, ready for the usual order to file into the cafeteria for a small meal. However, the doors remained shut, and all were told to stay seated. The lights dimmed, and a movie began, showing scenes of happy North Koreans at parades and concerts, playing sports, and attending school. For eleven hours, during which time the guards were replaced by a fresh batch, one film after the other played as the prisoners were forced to watch.

One of the prisoners in an orange jumpsuit began to moan. In the dim light, the officers exchanged knowing looks. The sounds of distress became louder and deeper as several more inmates, all wearing orange, began to groan. The guards started to place buckets at the feet of the prisoners in orange. Within three hours, almost all those wearing orange were groaning, doubled over in pain, as they vomited into buckets. The vomit became increasingly tinged with blood as the night turned to day. Blood and stomach contents spewed onto the floor as the prisoners became unable to control their forceful retching. Soon, the sounds of explosive diarrhea filled the air. Unable to exert any control over their bodies, the sick fell to the floor as bloody bodily fluids from both ends of their gastrointestinal systems streamed out of them, into their clothes, down their pant legs, and onto the floor. Blood oozed from their mouths, noses, and eyes.

At first, the convicts wearing blue sat still in their seats, fear drawn on their faces, but without suffering physically. At some point, one, then another, abandoned their seats and stood near the back of the room. Seeing that there were no repercussions, others followed.

Within eight hours of the start of vomiting, two prisoners in orange had died. The deaths began to mount as those in blue looked on in horror, wondering if they would be next. Two buckets were placed near them for their own hygiene needs while they waited.

Seventy-two hours later, the doors opened. The prisoners in blue, still emaciated but as healthy as they were when they had entered the building, were escorted outside into waiting buses to return them to their housing block. All of the prisoners in orange lay on the floor—dead.

Chapter 1

I handed my driver’s license to the airport security agent at the Indianapolis airport and scanned the boarding pass on my phone. As I had come to expect, the gray-haired man looked up at me and smiled. “I ain’t never seen that name before. Kinda takes me back.”

“I know,” I said. “I get that a lot.” My dad was only two when John Lennon was killed, but his parents indoctrinated their son on everything Beatles. He, in turn, spent countless hours listening to Beatles music with my mom. I think they got stoned a lot when they were doing it, but they never admitted it to me.

Given that their favorite Beatles song was “Strawberry Fields Forever,” I strongly favored that hypothesis. When I was born, they couldn’t resist naming me Strawberry. Oh, and my last name is Fields. Now you know why people often have something to say about my name. I’m a run-of-the-mill blond, not a strawberry blond. I think that would have made my life unbearable.

I pulled on the cuff of my long-sleeved shirt, grabbed my driver’s license, and was about to walk off when the man said, “You must be a student at Purdue. Going home to visit the folks?”

“Something like that.” I was in no mood to talk. I know the man was trying to be pleasant and make his day pass more quickly with small talk. The large P on the front of my baseball cap was known by all in the area to signify Purdue University, where I was, in fact, a student. I forced a weak smile and adjusted the shoulder straps on my backpack before walking off.

After passing through the luggage check without incident, I headed toward my gate. First class was already embarking, but I still had to wait a while before my boarding group was called. I had bought my ticket the previous night and was in the last group, my seat near the back of the plane. Fortunately, the flight to Bakersfield, with one stop in Phoenix, wasn’t in high demand, and almost a quarter of the seats in the rear were empty. With ample space in the overhead bin, I lobbed my backpack in and took my aisle seat. The man sitting next to the window glanced my way and nodded. I nodded back, glad he didn’t want to chat.

I remember taking off, but not much after that until I heard a male voice asking me if I was okay. I must have dosed off and wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I opened my eyes to see the concerned look on the flight attendant’s face, a pudgy middle-aged man who was bent over, his face close to mine. We were cruising at altitude, and tears were running down my face. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe them away. “Sorry,” I said. “I was dreaming about my dad. I’m on my way to his funeral.”

“So sorry, dear. If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll comp you a drink if that will help.”

I declined but thanked him for his offer and reflected on my mother’s hysterical call the day before. She had come home after spending all afternoon with a friend shopping and going to lunch when she found my dad dead on the kitchen floor. She had often confided in me that she felt terrible going places without him, but since he refused to leave the farm, she’d been doing things independent of him for quite some time. He’d been in good health—physically, that is—so his death was a big shock.

I reflected on the situation, different from what I had planned for before my dad died as the plane sat on the tarmac in Phoenix. I was all too aware that it was too late. I was heading home, ready or not. Hardly the family reunion I had anticipated.

I started to study a book on the economics of short-run decisions. After reading the first paragraph three times and still having no clue what it was about, I shut my eyes as the plane took off for the last leg of my trip. I’d be landing in Bakersfield in a little over an hour.

My rest was short-lived. The flight attendant came by with a cart and asked me if I would like vanilla, raspberry, or peach yogurt. I looked at the available items—individual servings of Happy Sun Farm yogurt. I’d had their yogurt before, and it was delicious.

“You’re lucky,” the attendant said. “Happy Sun Farm has donated a ton of yogurt to be served on our flights all week.”

I decided it was probably no use trying to sleep and chose the peach flavor even though I wasn’t hungry. As I started to eat, my mind wandered to Happy Sun Farm. I had never heard of them until about a year earlier when their dairy and agricultural products began popping up all over. The company heavily advertised on TV. They boasted about all their products being non-genetically modified, or non-GMO. I didn’t have a problem with genetically modified food myself but knew that a lot of Americans did. All the produce my dad grew was non-GMO because he suspected all genetically modified food to be part of a government conspiracy. A conspiracy to do what, I didn’t know.

Although I didn’t have time to watch much television, when I did, it was hard to avoid the Happy Sun Farm commercials featuring wholesome families frolicking and picnicking in a green meadow. The smiling sun logo served to reinforce that warm and fuzzy feeling emanating from their commercials. I wondered if they had a model I could follow to pursue success for my family’s farm. I’d noticed their rock-bottom prices, which was surprising since they must have spent a ton on ads. What I wouldn’t give to find out the secret to their success.

***

Excerpt from Happy Sun Farm: Behind the Facade by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Deven Greene enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry and medicine, and practiced pathology for over twenty years. Her other works include The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy, Ties That Kill, and The Organ Broker.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

www.DevenGreene.com
Subscribe to Deven’s Newsletter
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @Deven_G1
Instagram – @devengreeneauthor
Facebook – @DevenGreeneFiction

 

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