tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34903973704282474762024-02-19T21:36:02.211+05:30Eclectic MoodsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00438842700657370558noreply@blogger.comBlogger789125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-74576183712920257282023-07-31T10:00:00.001+05:302023-07-31T10:00:00.143+05:30Book Review: Love, Long Ago by Shreyasi R. Phukon<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><h4 style="background-color: white; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Title: Love, Long Ago<br />Author: Shreyasi R. Phukon<br />Publisher: Locksley Hall Publishers LLP</span></h4><div><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiEx-WYnjdKWVXz82S5j1VxW6rZDOv6_LeUeFB2C9YAP0KTzg0n3KrhfevnipJY2eBB2wqKnv-MJFTm2RCsZW_lYHMCyda9Y4jZPJ48l230L7PM9cSaYChaG_bX8mLuRgg-YRpAw9gKhbrWU3a8e_Z9IC4fQeOI__FwgufEBDfNXGkvq92TagLE3Ctm-6a/s1280/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-16%20at%208.11.07%20PM%20(1)%20(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1280" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiEx-WYnjdKWVXz82S5j1VxW6rZDOv6_LeUeFB2C9YAP0KTzg0n3KrhfevnipJY2eBB2wqKnv-MJFTm2RCsZW_lYHMCyda9Y4jZPJ48l230L7PM9cSaYChaG_bX8mLuRgg-YRpAw9gKhbrWU3a8e_Z9IC4fQeOI__FwgufEBDfNXGkvq92TagLE3Ctm-6a/w640-h462/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-16%20at%208.11.07%20PM%20(1)%20(1).jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMar0mGI4QjXYSkZ6jt-uFbSjCDvf2REtxZze0oswuQRglp85rTn7LzNXxLZ8aMmB1PUI4HDiJf_cWKcVFjPqKNZm1ezMmPQBBZKZl5Wl9b053C_ZKsD8XibM8Kfo2tlZirOlUneHiobGCTaBvPlOq1tLMJBO8fvWamiyaJm8NRu8LjS5jVEOc9g2qbRK/s728/Book%20Review.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="728" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMar0mGI4QjXYSkZ6jt-uFbSjCDvf2REtxZze0oswuQRglp85rTn7LzNXxLZ8aMmB1PUI4HDiJf_cWKcVFjPqKNZm1ezMmPQBBZKZl5Wl9b053C_ZKsD8XibM8Kfo2tlZirOlUneHiobGCTaBvPlOq1tLMJBO8fvWamiyaJm8NRu8LjS5jVEOc9g2qbRK/s320/Book%20Review.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Love, Long Ago is a contemporary romance novel, which is
both an emotional and a realistic story that deals with the themes of
heartbreak, betrayal, forgiveness, and destiny. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The book follows the story of Rhea Barua, who lives in the
US with her aunt Maya and cousin Hilda for her higher studies. There she meets
Aarav, a bestselling author whom she admires. Her strict aunt makes life a
little difficult for Rhea initially but soon realises her follies and lets her
live her life on her terms. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Aarav and Rhea come closer but Rhea’s happiness doesn’t last
longer. Out of the blue, her aunt is murdered and Rhea’s world is disrupted.
Aarav takes care of Rhea during this time and Rhea inevitably falls in love
with him. However, he rejects her and breaks her heart. Rhea returns to India,
broken and bitter, and agrees to marry Abhinav, a man she barely knows. However,
fate has other plans for her and she meets Aarav again in India. Will she be
able to forget her past and move on with Abhinav? Or will she give Aarav
another chance?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The book is well-written, with engaging dialogue and
believable characters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The author, Shreyasi Phukon, has a flair for writing
engaging and realistic characters that make the readers empathise with their
emotions and dilemmas. The plot is well-paced and has some twists and turns
that keep the readers hooked till the end. The language is simple and lucid,
making the book easy to read and enjoy.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The book is a perfect choice for romance lovers who like
stories that are sweet, emotional, and relatable. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A satisfying love story about people who grow into being
right for each other.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAgBrRhk6MBIB05DTy0DFcZVWdWMvR-xQ9hEUxsr0eGHkzDhlVbYu0umeVLyc40cip-s8VHx6V8gz06MrkOlFrnLpxNkihVifi9eIe1UE8fIq3FnirYlXgJYaoPnVGQwS6vIFuuN1ct9Oaqxd7V4QsecqaT7tHgu1pououygzthT2WKnIECY-oZhriUwv/s728/About%20the%20Author.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="728" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAgBrRhk6MBIB05DTy0DFcZVWdWMvR-xQ9hEUxsr0eGHkzDhlVbYu0umeVLyc40cip-s8VHx6V8gz06MrkOlFrnLpxNkihVifi9eIe1UE8fIq3FnirYlXgJYaoPnVGQwS6vIFuuN1ct9Oaqxd7V4QsecqaT7tHgu1pououygzthT2WKnIECY-oZhriUwv/s320/About%20the%20Author.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5Vlwp6NkXFbocWKR21TBEB3hREaqtwLcTQgslFy-517x79D5aMf1kt8U8fgVQgGwfT9O8FizTPIlN3J__EgQqyW4ss_S6Z4rYLila3MLCMomI6mOby3_MqW4fQmav0hTW2anReVcalDR-Bh4LYZIn7vAM4Y-mHtvI6T9mUEnP5Hb-LyZWza3MEqkPrek/s4570/SHREYA%20(9).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4570" data-original-width="3264" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5Vlwp6NkXFbocWKR21TBEB3hREaqtwLcTQgslFy-517x79D5aMf1kt8U8fgVQgGwfT9O8FizTPIlN3J__EgQqyW4ss_S6Z4rYLila3MLCMomI6mOby3_MqW4fQmav0hTW2anReVcalDR-Bh4LYZIn7vAM4Y-mHtvI6T9mUEnP5Hb-LyZWza3MEqkPrek/s320/SHREYA%20(9).jpg" width="229" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shreyasi Rhittika Phukon is an author and
has contributed her writings to a few anthologies and e-magazines. She has
initiated and also co-authored an anthology ‘A Phase Unknown Woman- A Tribute
Series’ and also published her debut solo short story book '18 Via Teen -Be
Yourself.'<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">'A Phase Unknown Woman- A Tribute' is a
venture initiated by Shreyasi R. with a
collection of short stories and poems contributed by various authors/poets pan
India. This book makes a strengthening call by questioning, poeticizing, and
narrating various social stigmas revolving around in the social air regarding
the identity of women. The book is a tribute to all women who somehow mark a
change in everybody's life. The first part of this book has been awarded the
‘Best Anthology Award 2014’ by Sanmati Publication. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">'18 Via Teen- Be yourself’ the name says
it all. It's a collection of short stories which enumerates the various phases
of a teen and the hopes, aspirations, apprehensions, ambiguity, insecurity,
dilemma, restlessness and sensitiveness, associated with each phase. Each story
vividly depicts the psychological aspects of a teenage girl/boy and how intuition
helps her/his to overcome the hurdles one after another, which in teens makes
her/him mature.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shreyasi was also awarded the 'Special
Jury Award 2016' conferred upon her by Sanmati Publication.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her new release, 'Love, Long Ago,' is her
debut novel which has been published by Locksley Hall Publishing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She now works as language editor for SAGE
Journals at TNQ Technologies.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczLSGCehLH3stp5E6SwhJKrLvRC7sS0oRvI_thlnK7mQJ-LG2QmmTHkVLRvWbIxkQ3pt9QAvBa8RCZIaCOQngidSzSZA-TkXWfmv3bOjKoqaYvcUGpOQt4V63MzNX5rwHiBgMnsQ8vGPz_xNGZdSLvzCN6LP58g-gTrBLXKLvnXc0Oonu4oTbRX4_p48y/s728/Buy%20Link.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="728" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczLSGCehLH3stp5E6SwhJKrLvRC7sS0oRvI_thlnK7mQJ-LG2QmmTHkVLRvWbIxkQ3pt9QAvBa8RCZIaCOQngidSzSZA-TkXWfmv3bOjKoqaYvcUGpOQt4V63MzNX5rwHiBgMnsQ8vGPz_xNGZdSLvzCN6LP58g-gTrBLXKLvnXc0Oonu4oTbRX4_p48y/s320/Buy%20Link.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.in/LOVE-LONG-SHREYASI-RHITTIKA-PHUKON/dp/9392428146/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=love%2C+long+ago&qid=1690651109&sprefix=love%2C+long%2Caps%2C399&sr=8-2"><span style="font-size: large;">Amazon</span></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;">I'd like to thank the author for letting me review the book. I do hope you end up liking the book when you read it. Thank you so much for stopping by, and happy reading!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3An1fVLG8IgnA2TjrvbKMY0ensphastS0Vn4Jkw13ZQylkhiN_OLYF7P1A6M9IHZ0g_gYDUavzT8GspdC85TDVAX5ZFu1cy4ws7BJZc9pzTRHUAShq5EMXTRiA2Q817IP43PTsenyoBH5I2gme5y5Nycq8m9W2ud1bwXZpio5AReEbr5GTkvLjL8VvBXZ/s150/JK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="46" data-original-width="150" height="46" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3An1fVLG8IgnA2TjrvbKMY0ensphastS0Vn4Jkw13ZQylkhiN_OLYF7P1A6M9IHZ0g_gYDUavzT8GspdC85TDVAX5ZFu1cy4ws7BJZc9pzTRHUAShq5EMXTRiA2Q817IP43PTsenyoBH5I2gme5y5Nycq8m9W2ud1bwXZpio5AReEbr5GTkvLjL8VvBXZ/s1600/JK.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-13293173449961931222023-04-04T10:00:00.001+05:302023-04-04T10:00:00.219+05:30Book Review: My Name Is Cinnamon by Vikas Prakash Joshi<p> </p><h4 style="background-color: white; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Title: My name Is Cinnamon<br />Author: Vikas Prakash Joshi<br />Publisher: Hay House India</span></h4><div><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDFFTUzyduKgisKmJecp_yWFiOqaeWvsooGanNlTCMxHs9PfbLjArB3ZeAFNQ7eVtH5HguTgYeZ4QgsWaSf2QNo1ea5Le2B-BVL7OnFEOIY-bjyTBTTk_cKOdV10CRj56ljmMgLUX78mjxGd4vVdvihKl6DxOHnQtP04sJbL3Lt3-xhz2oz1_JFFBaA/s1743/My%20Name%20Is%20Cinnamon%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="1743" height="469" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDFFTUzyduKgisKmJecp_yWFiOqaeWvsooGanNlTCMxHs9PfbLjArB3ZeAFNQ7eVtH5HguTgYeZ4QgsWaSf2QNo1ea5Le2B-BVL7OnFEOIY-bjyTBTTk_cKOdV10CRj56ljmMgLUX78mjxGd4vVdvihKl6DxOHnQtP04sJbL3Lt3-xhz2oz1_JFFBaA/w640-h469/My%20Name%20Is%20Cinnamon%20Cover.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0ATK6V5UZmN1YKVxvWtu8GYBVhzF4Hvysb-itP2Yn-QE3YUjAGCRW0YxJtOK3qFVyyChGdka6XR29qWHcKa_zFTRmyeIZevjQsbEm6eKS6bmRSBCfjVkU_oLFWLTtkSRfUkm366JJfwF-j0_AC2eDfGucML4hKZlMUgJHTJEzZIcQW_y9R8K4V9ovw/s728/Book%20Review.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="728" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0ATK6V5UZmN1YKVxvWtu8GYBVhzF4Hvysb-itP2Yn-QE3YUjAGCRW0YxJtOK3qFVyyChGdka6XR29qWHcKa_zFTRmyeIZevjQsbEm6eKS6bmRSBCfjVkU_oLFWLTtkSRfUkm366JJfwF-j0_AC2eDfGucML4hKZlMUgJHTJEzZIcQW_y9R8K4V9ovw/s320/Book%20Review.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">‘My Name is Cinnamon’ is the adventurous tale of Roshan
Rishikesh Paranjape aka Cinnamon, a teenage boy trying to find his roots and
place in the world. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The plotline chronicles Cinnamon’s journey in his search for
his birth parents. His search takes us from the bustling city streets of Pune
to the chaotic city of Kolkata and subsequently to the interiors of Maharashtra
(Nandurbar) where he finds his answers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On each part of his journey, Cinnamon encounters new people,
new cuisines, and new adventures. With him, readers are also drawn into his
world effortlessly. The story is seasoned well with a generous sprinkle of
humour. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Well-written and tautly paced, Vikas Prakash Joshi’s debut
novel reveals emotional turmoil both through what is recounted and what is not.
He deftly plays the characters against each other. Especially in the case of
Cinnamon’s mothers. There’s severe tension evident between the two during their
interactions and yet their love for their son surfaces together and bridges the
gap between them. This interlacing creates a rich texture that reflects the
complexity of the opportunities and challenges faced by the two in their
respective roles in Cinnamon’s life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Joshi starts Cinnamon’s story on a light note but subtly
traverses the intricate themes of adoption and the even grave theme of rare
genetic diseases that remain out of the scope of our literature for various
reasons. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Joshi’s passion for and knowledge about the topics he has
chosen to highlight in this novel may or may not be extensive but his story is
a compelling context against which to wrestle with themes of belonging,
autonomy, family, and agency. And by engaging with these complexities and
handling his subject and its characters with empathy, Joshi emerges as a
promising and determined voice.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">To sum up, Vikas Prakash Joshi’s ‘My Name is Cinnamon’ is a
book worth reading and discussing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; color: #474646; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcmycsZY5iVJrJwQDyIQhHac71sf75akcYOEehdGXhVminNjfxPvrvUnKukZ1sy6xyrJ8S1PXN3oh6h00dWtAnBLWGod2ivp63nefpZshVKH0PSp4C6J0IWgGFhXJo27A1zPtxY_4BVyXIUxq7c4Aq15-dc5EYkIuWRRR8s7ppyuUus_T8H34MZlfeQ/s728/About%20the%20Author.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="728" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcmycsZY5iVJrJwQDyIQhHac71sf75akcYOEehdGXhVminNjfxPvrvUnKukZ1sy6xyrJ8S1PXN3oh6h00dWtAnBLWGod2ivp63nefpZshVKH0PSp4C6J0IWgGFhXJo27A1zPtxY_4BVyXIUxq7c4Aq15-dc5EYkIuWRRR8s7ppyuUus_T8H34MZlfeQ/s320/About%20the%20Author.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQGn7fk4piC448jOmfUN34zTA6cRBYTovIO37WddlL4oysvYbmfGuLlWHpPO9qogDcOHceTx7l3tXpRE0QGWftoozkgD_sGATeEIizUa-RAlniHuP59WqvUFd0oMxn4AOepydTMih9xjMvz9zuiYGRpDASy3EbLM7L2BXdwDqKOTqxTHllLmyVI4C-w/s4567/Vikas%20Prakash%20Joshi_Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4567" data-original-width="3045" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyQGn7fk4piC448jOmfUN34zTA6cRBYTovIO37WddlL4oysvYbmfGuLlWHpPO9qogDcOHceTx7l3tXpRE0QGWftoozkgD_sGATeEIizUa-RAlniHuP59WqvUFd0oMxn4AOepydTMih9xjMvz9zuiYGRpDASy3EbLM7L2BXdwDqKOTqxTHllLmyVI4C-w/w266-h400/Vikas%20Prakash%20Joshi_Photo.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: center;">Vikas Prakash Joshi is a writer, editor, translator, public
speaker and freelance journalist based in Pune. He has been writing for
children since the age of 17, beginning with stories and columns in a major
urban English newspaper that is read by thousands of people. He writes in
English and his non-fiction articles and stories have been translated into 31
languages, both foreign and Indian, and published in 24 countries.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">His first children’s book, <b>My Name
is Cinnamon</b>, was published by Hay House India. The book was
appreciated by people from about 25 countries, as well as from all over
India. He has been published in many of the country's leading English
publications and won 8 public speaking awards. His hobbies include public
speaking, cooking and traveling</div><o:p></o:p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOOd36cGGYlHEegv_LFJP6SYiHOCJlHoBPtNng2etCMbULciKf72opwssRBoLJYU-SCPN4Nt32YslguLZr2bUqwJFLDg3XborzSgEkpRvaL4_wS7nuWz-94JaNFiKtStESKiqkdj52yt3vAhFGM48oF8ShK7X8c3_rb0wMWT3XzhJTZWRzjJ4QkJjKg/s728/Buy%20Link.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="728" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOOd36cGGYlHEegv_LFJP6SYiHOCJlHoBPtNng2etCMbULciKf72opwssRBoLJYU-SCPN4Nt32YslguLZr2bUqwJFLDg3XborzSgEkpRvaL4_wS7nuWz-94JaNFiKtStESKiqkdj52yt3vAhFGM48oF8ShK7X8c3_rb0wMWT3XzhJTZWRzjJ4QkJjKg/s320/Buy%20Link.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.in/Name-Cinnamon-Vikas-Prakash-Joshi/dp/9394613188/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=my+name+is+cinnamon&qid=1680536122&sprefix=my+na%2Caps%2C247&sr=8-1"><span style="font-size: large;">Amazon</span></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;">I'd like to thank the author for letting me review the book. I do hope you end up liking the book when you read it. Thank you so much for stopping by, and happy reading!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkBduKkHMM-Z4HHW-pQP7igJiB1P9az0W7lNQAy9z8KuH8nCMS07tVAAL0ywF9JfGZTt2YeRagK0jNV389xLw7ZHDxyNFi1jdO0I7-ms8oqyX8n9W_2R7XvNznvFwufPHKGkE7uKSrsYaIAX5je3px6ZCyBpLEuPAHvwD-noo1VVE8LhdQgdFvs5hAg/s150/JK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="46" data-original-width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkBduKkHMM-Z4HHW-pQP7igJiB1P9az0W7lNQAy9z8KuH8nCMS07tVAAL0ywF9JfGZTt2YeRagK0jNV389xLw7ZHDxyNFi1jdO0I7-ms8oqyX8n9W_2R7XvNznvFwufPHKGkE7uKSrsYaIAX5je3px6ZCyBpLEuPAHvwD-noo1VVE8LhdQgdFvs5hAg/s16000/JK.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher, serif; font-size: 10px;">* I received a review copy from the author in exchange for an honest review.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: philosopher; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="background: white; color: #474646; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background: white; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> </span></p></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-12491012701164696952022-05-23T10:00:00.001+05:302022-05-23T10:00:00.203+05:30Showcase: Dead Man's Leap by Tina deBellegarde<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/dead-mans-leap-by-tina-debellegarde/" title="Dead Man's Leap by Tina deBellegarde"><img alt="Dead Man's Leap by Tina deBellegarde Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/dead-mans-leap-by-tina-debellegarde-banner-.jpg" width="600" /></a></h2>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Dead Man's Leap</span></h2>
<h3>by Tina deBellegarde</h3>
<h4>May 1-31, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Dead Man's Leap by Tina deBellegarde" border="0" height="309" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/dead-mans-leap-by-tina-debellegarde-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h4><i>DEAD MAN’S LEAP</i> revisits Bianca St. Denis in Batavia-on-Hudson, New York</h4>
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<p>Rushing waters…dead bodies…secrets…</p>
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<p>As Bianca St. Denis and her neighbors scour their attics for donations to the charity rummage sale, they unearth secrets as well as prized possessions. Leonard Marshall’s historic inn hosts the sale each year, but it is his basement that houses the key to his past. When an enigmatic antiques dealer arrives in town, he upends Leonard’s carefully reconstructed life with an impossible choice that harkens back to the past.</p>
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<p>Meanwhile, when a storm forces the villagers of Batavia-on-Hudson to seek shelter, the river rises and so do tempers. Close quarters fuel simmering disputes, and Sheriff Mike Riley has his work cut out for him. When the floods wash up a corpse, Bianca once again finds herself teaming up with Sheriff Riley to solve a mystery. Are they investigating an accidental drowning or something more nefarious? </p>
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<h5>Dead Man’s Leap explores the burden of secrets, the relief of renunciation, and the danger of believing we can outpace our past.</h5>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Traditional Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Level Best Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> April 5, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 254</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1685120849 (ISBN-13: 978-1685120849)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> A Batavia-on-Hudson Mystery, #2</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3MDWurR" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<h5>CHAPTER ONE</h5>
<p>He inched toward the precipice, his toes gripping the stone ledge as if they had a will of their own. He lifted his head and squinted into the sunlight still streaming through the blackening clouds. He took in the expanse of rushing water below. In all his eighteen years, Trevor had never seen the creek roil so ferociously.</p>
<p>A clap of thunder startled him. His toes relaxed, and he felt as if the slightest wind could take him over the edge. Lightheaded for a second, he regained his footing and his purpose.</p>
<p>He had no choice if he wanted all this to stop.</p>
<p>He needed to do it.</p>
<p>And do it now.</p>
<p>The downpour would break again soon. But for now, all he could hear was the rushing of Horseshoe Falls beneath him, the roar drowning out the noise of his past.</p>
<p>Of his father.</p>
<p>Of his mother.</p>
<p>Yes, his mother. He had expected his father to be weak, and wasn’t surprised at all after he left. But his mother? A mother’s love is supposed to be unconditional. At least that’s what she had always said before she had turned their world upside down. It was bad enough when she had played at being the sexiest woman in town. At least when his friends teased him then, it was meant to be fun. But this was worse, far worse. Now they wanted nothing to do with him. Now they used him as a punching bag.</p>
<p>His gang no longer looked to him as their leader. They ridiculed him for what his mother had done. From the beginning, he knew those kids were bad news. What choice did he have? In grade school he’d been bullied. Well, he had put a stop to that in high school. Can’t be bullied if you’re the biggest bully.</p>
<p>His mother was gone. His father was gone. And now his posse. First, it was the cold shoulder, and a few snide remarks. Then he was cornered in the locker room after the game one day. That was the hardest. He hadn’t taken a beating like that since the fifth grade. But the tables had been turned on him so fast that he never saw it coming. Trevor realized now that they were never friends. They were just a group of trouble makers who hung out together. Good riddance to them. He didn’t need them anymore.</p>
<p>Another thunderclap reminded him where he was. On the edge. Right on the edge. He either had to do this properly or he would be going over anyway.</p>
<p>Trevor looked over his shoulder one last time and heard a faint commotion in the background. Once they rounded the path, he closed his eyes and jumped.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Bianca St. Denis stretched to grab the cord just out of reach above her head and yanked on it with all her force to bring down the attic staircase. She tilted her head to avoid being struck as it made its way down. She unfolded the retractable stairs and put one foot on the first rung. But there she stopped, not sure she could take the next few steps. At forty-two the issue wasn’t her physical ability to climb the steps, she was active, even fairly athletic. The old saying went “the mind was willing but the body was not.” Well, in her case “the body was willing but the mind was not.”</p>
<p>She had stayed out of the attic all these months since Richard’s death. She had made do without her ski parka this past winter, and used Richard’s barn jacket she’d found in the mudroom instead. She had made do without the spring curtains she would normally switch out in the living room each March. The winter ones still hung heavy and foreboding. And she made do without the patio cushions she had sewn two seasons ago. She simply sat on the raw wood when she wanted to read or eat in the backyard. She hadn’t realized the number of things she had been doing without by avoiding the attic, not until the town started buzzing about the rummage sale. She pretended it was because she hadn’t had time to search for the items, but she knew better.</p>
<p>She took her foot off the rung, bent and picked up the stairs again, refolded them, and let them float to the ceiling. The hatch closed with a neat click.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Once Trevor hit the water, his tension disappeared. He welcomed the release and let himself drop. Slowly he was pulled down into the chaos of the rushing water, but his mind had floated above it all. He didn’t feel a thing, he observed it instead. He watched as his body sank, as it swirled in the vortex of the overfull creek. He watched as his body escaped the current and floated peacefully in the murky water. And he watched as he gave in to full renunciation and allowed the water to decide what was to become of him.</p>
<p>His thoughts slowed, as muddy as the water surrounding him.</p>
<p>They slowed, but he could not make them disappear.</p>
<p>He had managed to avoid jumping off Dead Man’s Leap every summer, but this year he knew he couldn’t get away with it. They had already threatened to make sure he jumped this year. That was only part of what the summer had in store for him. Who could he turn to? His grandparents had no idea what he was going through. They always hid their heads in the sand anyway. There was nothing they could do for him. So, he had taken matters into his own hands.</p>
<p>He was shocked when his head broke the surface, and despite himself he gasped for air in enormous mouthfuls until he gagged. He bobbed there, undecided, until he finally attempted the few strides to reach the cove. It took him longer than he expected, like swimming in molasses. A cross between his fatigue, his indifference, and the strong current kept him from reaching the bank in the three strokes it would normally require. On his knees, he crawled out of the pull of rushing water and dropped on the shore.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Leonard Marshall picked up the package, the paper crinkling in his hand. He carefully unwrapped one layer, then another. Layer after layer until he held the smooth tiny statuette in his hand. He trembled, and smiled, attracted and repulsed at the same time. How could such a tiny thing hold so many emotions for him? So much power over him? It was so small he could cradle it in the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers around it. It disappeared. He opened them again, and there it was. With it came a flood of memories. Exhilarating. His heart raced with a quick pat, pat, pat.</p>
<p>The basement door creaked. He took in a breath.</p>
<p>Time slowed and his heart with it.</p>
<p>Thump……thump……thump.</p>
<p>The light clicked on.</p>
<p>Another creak. Above him a step, a pause, another step. The door ached on its hinges as it opened wider. The light flicked off. The door closed. The steps faded. He let out his breath.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Trevor had never experienced fatigue like this. He crawled onto shore in the shadow of the cliff and collapsed. He never expected to make it out of the water, and now that he had, he lay there drawing in large mouthfuls of air, as if his lungs would never get enough. He stayed there, staring up at the sky, watching the dark clouds shapeshift. The rain would be there any moment, and to his surprise, he welcomed it.</p>
<p>As his breathing relaxed, he realized that the pain he felt was a sharp object stabbing his back. He rolled over, removed it, and threw it off to the side. As he turned to lay back down, his blurry eyes focused on the object. It was a bone. A human bone? He scrambled onto his knees and slowly made his way over to it. He was repulsed and fascinated, but mostly he was frightened by the sight of a bone and what that could mean. What had happened here, right here in this cove?</p>
<p>In the distance, he heard their drunken voices again. He knelt and grabbed handfuls of dirt to cover the bone. He heard them approach the edge of the cliff.</p>
<p>“He came this way. I saw him jump.”</p>
<p>“He’s too chicken, he didn’t jump. But when I find him, he’ll jump alright. He’ll jump or I’ll send him flying.”</p>
<p>“He jumped, I tell ya. Leave him alone. You wanted him to jump, and he did. I saw him. Let it go, already.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well if he jumped, where is he?”</p>
<p>“You think he’s still under? You think he hit his head like that kid a while back?”</p>
<p>“I’m telling you, he didn’t jump.”</p>
<p>“There’s nowhere else to go but down. Of course, he jumped.”</p>
<p>“I’m going in. If he did jump, we’ll find him down there. He’s probably hiding under the cliff.”</p>
<p>Trevor carefully picked his way out of the cove. Scraping up against the cliff as close as his body would allow, he followed the contours until he came out on the other side of the falls. With his last bit of strength, he climbed up the rocky trail alongside Horseshoe Falls.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Dead Man's Leap</i> by Tina deBellegarde. Copyright 2022 by Tina deBellegarde. Reproduced with permission from Tina deBellegarde. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Tina deBellegarde" border="0" height="300" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/dead-mans-leap-by-tina-debellegarde-author-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Tina deBellegarde has been called “the Louise Penny of the Catskills.” <a href="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/winter-witness-by-tina-debellegarde/"><i>Winter Witness</i></a>, the first book in her Batavia-on-Hudson Mystery series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel, a Silver Falchion Award and a Chanticleer Mystery and Mayhem Award. Her story “Tokyo Stranger” which appears in the Mystery Writers of America anthology <i>When a Stranger Comes to Town</i> edited by Michael Koryta has been nominated for a Derringer Award. Tina’s short fiction also appears in <i>The Best New England Crime Stories</i> anthologies. She is the vice-president of the Upper Hudson Chapter of Sisters in Crime, a member of Mystery Writers of America and Writers in Kyoto. She lives in Catskill, New York, with her husband Denis and their cat Shelby where they tend to their beehives, harvest shiitake mushrooms, and cultivate their vegetable garden. She winters in Florida and travels to Japan regularly to visit her son Alessandro.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Tina deBellegarde:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3KfQWBu" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">tinadebellegarde.com</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3tz8vWz" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3ttVSvY" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @tinadebellegarde</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3hISTsy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @tdb_writes</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3KjD9tH" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter - @tdbwrites</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3txgP9i" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://bit.ly/3txgP9i" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @tinadebellegardeauthor</a></div></h3>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Tour Participants:</span></h2>
<p style="text-align: center;">Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways! <script src="https://www.linkytools.com/basic_linky_include.aspx?id=306538" type="text/javascript"></script></p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Enter to Win:</span></h2>
<h5 style="text-align: center;">This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for <i>Dead Man's Leap</i> by Tina deBellegarde. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours</span></a></h2>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-68059790373225144302022-05-16T10:00:00.001+05:302022-05-16T10:00:00.179+05:30Showcase: What They Don't Know by Susan Furlong<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="Thttps://www.partnersincrimetours.net/what-they-dont-know-by-susan-furlong-2/" title="What They Don't Know by Susan Furlong"><img alt="What They Don't Know by Susan Furlong Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/what-they-dont-know-by-susan-furlong-banner-2.jpg" width="600" /></a></h2>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">What They Don't Know</span></h2>
<h3>by Susan Furlong</h3>
<h4>May 9 - June 3, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="What They Don't Know by Susan Furlong" border="0" height="300" src="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/10/what-they-dont-know-by-susan-furlong-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>A picture-perfect suburban life fractures. . . and a darker reality bubbles beneath the surface.</h3>
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<p>Mona Ellison's life is as perfect as the porcelain dolls lined up on her shelves. She has a successful husband, a loving son, a beautiful home, and a supportive group of girlfriends ever ready for their weekly wine night.</p>
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<p>But when Mona’s son gets entangled with the wrong crowd and runs away from home, her blissful suburban world begins to unravel. She tells her friends that boys will be boys, that he’ll be back as soon as his money runs dry . . . but deep down she knows there’s something else going on.</p>
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<p>Then the police show up at Mona’s door. A young girl has turned up dead in their quiet town, and her missing son is the prime suspect.</p>
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<p>Determined to reunite with her son and prove his innocence, Mona follows an increasingly cryptic trail of clues on social media, uncovering a sinister side of suburbia and unveiling lies and betrayal from those she trusted most. And as Mona spirals further from her once cozy reality, a devastating revelation shatters everything she thought she knew. Now the only thing she’s sure of is that she can’t trust anyone . . . not even herself.</p>
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<h4>With unrelenting psychological suspense and a wicked twist, <i>What They Don’t Know</i> marries small-town thriller and domestic mystery—suburban paranoia at its best.</h4>
<h3><i>What They Don’t Know</i> Book Love:</h3>
<p>"Part domestic thriller, part small-town mystery, <i>What They Don’t Know</i> is everything suspense fans want: characters who'll make you think twice, a subversive plot, and pages that seemingly turn themselves the deeper you get into the story. In this portrait of suburban life tinged with malice and intrigue, paranoia lurks just around the corner. Read it at night. Don’t plan on sleep." (Tosca Lee, NYT bestselling author of The Line Between)</p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Suspense</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Seventh Street Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> May 17th, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 286</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1645060403 (ISBN13: 9781645060406)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3nIsaBh" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/33vz99T" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3fChFez" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p style="text-align: center;">It was the last Tuesday of the month, our normal book club night, and we were gathered at my house—Selma, Alice, Tara, and me—settled in the living room, Moroccan rug plush beneath us, immersed in the decor’s eclectic mix of whimsy and Old-World aesthetic. This would be our last book club meeting, but it was more than that, really. It was a pulled thread in the carefully woven tapestry of our friendships that had begun in college and endured careers, weddings, our first-borns, and remained constant through affairs, divorces, and much worse …</p>
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<p>Excerpt from <i>What They Don’t Know</i> by Susan Furlong. Copyright 2022 by Susan Furlong. Reproduced with permission from Susan Furlong. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-left: 0px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Susan Furlong" border="0" height="274" src="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/10/what-they-dont-know-by-susan-furlong-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><br /></p><p>Susan Furlong is the author of eleven novels including <i>SHATTERED JUSTICE</i>, a <i>New York Times</i> Best Crime Novel of the Year. She also contributes, under a pen name, to the <i>New York Times</i> bestselling Novel Idea series. Her most recent novel, <i>WHAT THEY DON'T KNOW</i>, has been praised by reviewers as an engrossing and delightfully creepy read. She resides in Illinois with her husband and children. </p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Susan Furlong:</span></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">GIVEAWAY:</span></h2>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-74148724561516243712022-05-09T10:00:00.001+05:302022-05-09T10:00:00.180+05:30Showcase: The Rising by Kerry L Peresta<div style="text-align: center;">.net/the-rising-by-kerry-l-peresta/" title="The Rising by Kerry L Peresta"><img alt="The Rising by Kerry L Peresta Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="https://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/the-rising-by-kerry-l-peresta-banner3.jpg" width="600" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">The Rising</span></h2>
<h3>by Kerry L Peresta</h3>
<h4>May 1-31, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img center="" src="https://www.partnersincrimeto<div style=" text-align:="" />
<h2><a alt="The Rising by Kerry L Peresta" border="0" height="301" href="https://www.partnersincrimetoursurs.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/the-rising-by-kerry-l-peresta-cover-rev2.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200"></a></h2></div>
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<p>After an assault that landed her in a hospital as a Jane Doe two years earlier, Olivia Callahan has regained her speech, movement, and much of the memory she lost due to a traumatic brain injury. The media hype about the incident has faded away, and Olivia is ready to rebuild her life, but her therapist insists she must continue to look back in order to move forward. The only person that can help her recall specifics is her abusive ex-husband, Monty, who is in prison for murder. The thought of talking to Monty makes her skin crawl, but for her daughters’ sake and her own sanity, she must learn more about who she was before the attack. </p>
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<p>Just as the pieces of her life start falling into place, she stumbles across the still-warm body of an old friend who has been gruesomely murdered. Her dream of pursuing a peaceful existence is shattered when she learns the killer left evidence behind to implicate her in the murder. The only person that would want to sabotage her is Monty—but he’s in prison! Something sinister is going on, and Olivia is desperate to uncover the truth before another senseless murder is committed.
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Psychological Suspense, Thriller, Crime Fiction, Suspense, Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Level Best Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> March 29, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 300</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 168512092X (ISBN-13: 978-1685120924)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> Olivia Callahan Suspense, Book 2</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3tONgl3" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3xf7d6O" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/37zOzvB" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<h6>“How low you fall points to how high you’ll rise.”<br />
~Matshona Dhliwayo</h6>
<p>The stark buildings and barbed-wire-topped walls surrounding the correctional facility reminded me of a Hitchcock movie.</p>
<p>My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I found a parking spot, and waited in the car a minute, taking in the starkness and finality of a prison compound. My heart did a little lurch when I thought about Monty—my ex-husband and the father of my two daughters—inside. <em>Incarcerated</em>. I guess since I hadn’t seen him since his indictment, it didn’t seem real.</p>
<p>However, I’d learned that having sympathy for Monty was like having sympathy for a snake just before it sank its fangs. “It’s been eighteen months. You can keep it together with this psycho,” I hissed to myself. I hiked my purse onto my shoulder and walked out into the buttery sunshine toward the visitors’ entrance.</p>
<p>I presented my driver’s license, endured a frisk, offered my hand for the fingerprint process, and walked through the metal detector, which of course, went off. With stoic resignation, I endured another frisk, a few hard glances from the guards, and eventually pulled the culprit from the pocket of my pants, an aluminum foil candy bar wrapper.</p>
<p>While I waited for Monty at one of the small, circular tables in the visitors’ room, I scanned the list of do’s and don’ts. Hands must be visible at all times. Vulgar language not allowed. No passing anything to the prisoner. No jewelry other than a wedding band or religious necklace.</p>
<p>I stared at my hands, sticky with sweat. My heart beat in my throat.</p>
<p>I lifted my curls off my forehead and fanned my face with one hand. Three other visitors sat at tables. One woman with graying hair piled like a crown on her head stared at the floor. When she noticed that I was looking at her, she raised her head and threw me a sad smile. A younger woman at another table struggled to keep two young children under control, and an older couple with stress-lined faces whispered to each other as they waited. The room had tan, cinder block walls, a drop-in ceiling with grid tiles that probably hid video cameras, and a single door. No windows. A scrawny, fake plant in one corner made a half-hearted attempt at civility.</p>
<p>The metal door opened. My thoughts were mush, a blender on high. Could I do this? After two years of physical therapy, occupational therapy, and every other kind of therapy the docs could throw at me, shouldn’t I react better than this?</p>
<p><em>Remember, they’re only feelings.</em></p>
<p>I squared my shoulders. Wiped my palms on my pants.</p>
<p>As Monty offered his cuffed wrists to the corrections officer, he scanned the room under lowered eyelids. When he saw me, he gave me a scorched- earth glare. After the guard removed his handcuffs, he shook out his arms and rubbed his wrists. The raven-black hair was longer, and brushed his shoulders. He’d been working out. A lot. He wore a loose-fitting top and pants. Orange. As usual, he was larger than life, and in the bright white of the visiting space, surrounded by matching plastic tables and chairs, he was a raven-haired Schwarzenegger in a room full of Danny DeVito’s. I’d once had hope for reconciliation. The thought gave me the shakes now.</p>
<p>He dropped into the chair across from me and plopped his hands on the table. “What do you want?”</p>
<p>I spent a few seconds examining his face—this man I’d spent twenty, long years trying to please, and the reason I’d been assaulted and left for dead by Niles Peterson, a wreck of a man whose life Monty had destroyed as well.</p>
<p>The man responsible for my convoluted recovery from a brain injury that stole my past. Even after two years, I still had huge gaps in my memory, and staring at him felt like staring at a stranger instead of an ex-husband. “My therapist says I need to look back to move forward. I wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” he grumbled. “I’ll give you a few minutes. Oh, and you’ll love this. I have to attend counseling sessions about how to keep my ‘darker dispositions’ under control, and I have one of those in thirty minutes.”</p>
<p>Resisting a smile, I quipped, “Are they helping?” He rolled his eyes. “What are the questions?”</p>
<p>“I still have problems remembering stuff. There are things I need to… figure out about who I was before—”</p>
<p>“Before you hooked up with my ole’ buddy Niles?” he interrupted, with a smirk. “Before you threw away everything we had? Before you got yourself in a situation that could’ve gotten you killed? Before you started treating me like a piece of shit?”</p>
<p>I was careful not to react. I’d had enough therapy to understand how to treat a control freak that tried to make me the reason he ended up in prison. That part of my life—the part where Monty had been in charge and his spouse had to obey or else—was over. “Are you done?” I asked.</p>
<p>He clamped his lips together.</p>
<p>I folded my hands on the table and leaned in. “I’ll get right to the point. What drew you to me in the first place? What was I like before the accident, from your perspective?”</p>
<p>Monty tried to get comfortable in the plastic chair. Beneath his immense bulk, it seemed like a child’s chair. “Is that how you’re dealing with it?” His lips twisted in disgust. “It was an <em>assault</em>, Olivia. He tried to rape you, for God’s sake.”</p>
<p>I looked away. “It’s over, and he’s in the ground, thanks to you.”</p>
<p>He crossed his arms and glared. A corrections officer lifted his hand. With a grunt, Monty slapped both hands on the small table where the officer could see them.</p>
<p>After a few beats, he sneered, “You mean besides the obvious attraction of an older guy to a high school girl?” “Give me a break, Monty.”</p>
<p>He chuckled. “You were kind of…I don’t know…<em>scared</em>. I was drawn to you in a protective way. You were shy.”</p>
<p>I frowned. “What was I scared of?”</p>
<p>“Your crazy mom had married some jerk that kept you off balance all the time. Don’t you remember him?”</p>
<p>I thought for a few seconds. Nothing came.</p>
<p>“That coma still messes with you, doesn’t it? Well…might be good not to remember. Maybe he did things to you that he shouldn’t have.” Monty raised his eyebrows up and down.</p>
<p>I wanted to slap him, but I kept my expression neutral.</p>
<p>“A brain injury recovery is unpredictable. I still lose memories, even if someone has drilled them into me. I’m trying to use visualization. I have this feeling…that if I can see it, the rest will be like dominos.”</p>
<p>“So you may not ever remember? Even the good things about our marriage?”</p>
<p>I laughed. “We must have very different perspectives about the word ‘good’, Monty.”</p>
<p>Monty’s jaw muscles flexed. “Next?”</p>
<p>“Was I a capable mother? Was I available and…loving to the kids?”</p>
<p>Maybe it was my imagination, but his lower lip quivered. Did the guy have a heart after all? I’d always believed he loved our daughters. I hoped this was true.</p>
<p>“Olivia, you were a good mother. We had our problems, but you made a good home, and took excellent care of the kids. You were at every freakin’ event, every school fundraiser, <em>everything</em>.” He scowled. “I took a big back seat to the kids.”</p>
<p>“What problems did we have? When did they start?”</p>
<p>He leaned in. “You don’t remember our sex life? How terrible it was? Nothing I could do would get you to….” He shook his head. “You couldn’t even fix a decent meal. You should have been <em>grateful</em> you married someone like me so I could…teach you things.”</p>
<h4>CHAPTER ONE</h4>
<p>“Keep your voice down!” I insisted, embarrassed.</p>
<p>He cocked his head and grinned. “You always had this…desperate need for my approval or whatever. And when you conveniently avoided telling me you weren’t taking birth control it caused a lot of issues that could’ve been avoided.” He snorted. “Like being in here.”</p>
<p>I tried to rein in my disgust.</p>
<p>“So, let me get this straight. Your priority in our marriage was sex and good food and to pin all our issues on your child bride?” My tone hardened. “A young woman who came from a single-parent home? Who had no understanding what a good and normal guy was like?”</p>
<p>He gave me a look that could peel the skin off my face.</p>
<p>“How did you react when I didn’t do things the way you wanted?” I continued.</p>
<p>“Like any man who’d been disrespected. I corrected the issue.”</p>
<p>“How? By yelling? Physical force? Kicking your pregnant wife in the stomach?” This was a memory I <em>had</em> recovered.</p>
<p>A vein pulsed in his neck.</p>
<p>“How often, Monty? Were these reactions a…a lifestyle in our marriage?” “Look,” he snarled, “I don’t know that this is productive.”</p>
<p>“It is for me,” I said, brightly.</p>
<p>I glanced at the closest officer. He had his hands full with an issue at one of the other tables.</p>
<p>“Mom told me that Serena and Lilly floated out to sea one time, on a rubber raft. Do you remember that?”</p>
<p>His eyes found a spot on the wall.</p>
<p>“So you do remember. What happened?”</p>
<p>“Look, they were, I don’t know, four and six or so. I didn’t think it would be a problem for me to run grab a drink from our bag, and come back. I was gone less than five minutes. How could I know they’d lose control of the raft?”</p>
<p>An earthquake of anger shot through me. “You turned your back on a four-year-old and a six-year-old and expected them to have <em>control of</em> a raft? They were <em>babies</em>!”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Well.” He rose. “Looks like this question thing of yours isn’t working for me.” He pushed his chair in with a bang. The correctional officer gave him a look. Monty strode to the officer’s station and held out his wrists. Adrenaline made me a little shaky after he’d gone, but it wasn’t from fear of the man. My therapist would call this real progress.</p>
<p>I left the room and gathered my things from the visitors’ processing center. As I walked out of the prison facility, all I could think about was…why? Why had I married this guy? And stayed for <em>twenty years?</em> I couldn’t even remember myself as a person who could do that.</p>
<p>At least I’d dragged more information out of him. I was determined to piece together the puzzle of the past I’d lost.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Rising</i> by Kerry L Peresta. Copyright 2022 by Kerry L Peresta. Reproduced with permission from Kerry L Peresta. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Kerry L Peresta" border="0" height="244" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/the-rising-by-kerry-l-peresta-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Kerry’s publishing credits include a popular newspaper column, “The Lighter Side,” (2009—2011), and magazine articles in <i>Local Life Magazine</i>, <i>The Bluffton Breeze</i>, <i>Lady Lowcountry</i>, and <i>Island Events Magazine</i>. She is the author of three published novels, <i>The Hunting</i>, women’s fiction, <i>The Deadening</i>, Book One of the Olivia Callahan Suspense Series, and <i>The Rising</i>, Book Two. Book Three in this series releases in 2023 by Level Best Books. She spent twenty-five years in advertising as an account manager, creative director, editor, and copywriter. She is past chapter president of the Maryland Writers’ Association and a current member and presenter of Hilton Head Island Writers’ Network, South Carolina Writers Association, and the Sisters in Crime organization. Kerry and her husband moved to Hilton Head Island, SC, in 2015. She is the mother of four adult children, and has a bunch of wonderful grandkids who remind her what life is all about.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Kerry L Peresta:</span></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-82210136723210950382022-05-02T10:00:00.001+05:302022-05-02T10:00:00.179+05:30Showcase: The Orientation of Dylan Woodger by Chiuba E Obele<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">The Orientation of Dylan Woodger</span></h2>
<h3>by Chiuba E Obele</h3>
<h4>April 18 - May 13, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
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<h3>Solving mysteries is never easy. Dealing with an infuriated mob boss and acute amnesia only makes it worse.</h3>
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<p>Dylan Woodger is a college student who is captured and tortured by the mafia. After amnesia obscures the last three years of his life, Dylan learns that he has stolen three million dollars from a ruthless mafia boss. When, how, and why – he doesn’t remember. But someone betrayed him and gave him a drug that erased his memory. He was then given over to be tortured.</p>
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<p>Determined to recover his memory, Dylan begins delving into the events of the past. As he struggles to put the pieces of his past back together, Dylan finds himself wrapped up in a path of vengeance made even more perilous by the presence of assassins, gangsters, and detectives. But as each new piece of the puzzle falls into place, Dylan realizes that no one is who they seem, especially himself. He now has links to rapists, white supremacists, and murders. People who claim to be his friends are hiding secrets from him. And his girlfriend is beautiful, but that’s all he knows about her. <i>Who are these people? And who is Dylan?</i> Even he doesn’t know!</p>
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<p><i>The Orientation of Dylan Woodger</i> is the story of a young man who is torn between his capacity to do evil and his desire to do what’s right. This book explores racism and feminism, and addresses controversial topics such as male rape, hate crimes, and misogyny toward women. The characters are disturbing, but the book aspires to be hopeful, as these characters ultimately succeed in finding some measure of humanity.</p>
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<h4>There are so many unanswered questions . . . But first, Dylan must survive the torture.</h4>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Fischer House Publications</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> April 19, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 377</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 9798985146400</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3vm5vPY" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/35ghlQZ" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h4>CHAPTER 3</h4>
<p><em>WHO WAS I?</em> Dylan J. Woodger</p>
<p><em>Where was I?</em> I wasn’t sure. <br /><em>What time was it?</em> I had no clue. <br /><em>Why was I here?</em> I didn’t know</p>
<p>What I did know, was that it was fucking cold. I could feel undergrowth beneath me. My eyes darted around. There were trees as far as the eye could see. I had a raging headache. I couldn’t move my hands or feet. I looked down at my prone body and saw rope wrapped tightly around my ankles. I couldn’t move my hands — they were tied behind my back. My wrists hurt, and whatever bound them also cut into my arms. I had a pain in my shoulder. It hurt bad. But it was nothing compared to the pain that I would suffer once I fell into the hands of the Utica Mafia.</p>
<p>But we’re not there yet.</p>
<p>In my mind, it was yesterday that my mother dropped me off at Hamilton College. I went to sleep, then woke up in the woods. It was warm and sunny when Mom left me. But now, I woke up in the freezing cold. I thought it was August and I couldn’t figure out how it could get so cold. And why was I tied up? And could the pain in my shoulder be…<em>a bullet wound?</em> But how could it be a bullet wound? I’d never been shot at!</p>
<p>I knew I had to get outta there, or else I’d freeze to death. Most people aren’t experts in rope tying. Usually, the average person without formal training doesn’t know how to do a good job. And this rope tying definitely wasn’t the work of a professional. So I felt confident I could escape. I managed to free my arms with some wriggling though it took more skin off my wrists. Then I focused on freeing my legs. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my feet out of the rope. Once my feet were free, I used my hands to pull the leg bonds down. I was now free, but still clueless. <em>Who had done this to me?</em> One thing I knew for sure: this was the work of an amateur who didn’t know how to properly tie someone up.</p>
<p>Oh, and I noticed something strange about myself. I grew facial hair and had put on some muscle. <em>But when did that happen?</em> I hadn’t looked in a mirror, but I doubted I was the same baby-faced boy my mom had dropped off that morning.</p>
<p>Just then, I heard a group of men shouting out of sync. “Hello, is anybody here? Hello?”</p>
<p>I felt relieved. <em>Did the police send out a search party for me?</em></p>
<p>I was eager to get out of the cold, and my first instinct was to shout, “Over here!”</p>
<p>That was my first mistake.</p>
<p>As the men approached, their boots crunching on twigs and fallen branches, I rushed over to them. I kept my left arm still — the pain of</p>
<p>moving it alone caused my vision to flash white and my ears to ring. I stumbled a bit, but soon I could see them clear enough. The men wore plain clothes, just any random winter jacket and jeans someone might get at the nearest Walmart. They weren’t uniformed as you would normally expect police to be.</p>
<p>“Thank goodness you’re here. I thought I would freeze to death.”</p>
<p>The men looked at each other in confusion, until one of them finally said, “Are you here with anyone?”</p>
<p>“No,” I replied. “I found myself tied up and managed to escape, just before you got here.”</p>
<p>“This guy is lying to us,” one of them said. “This must be an ambush.”</p>
<p>“An ambush? What are you talking about?” I struggled to keep my voice even. “I just woke up, and I haven’t seen another person until you guys showed up. I’m glad you got here, though. Can you please take me home?”</p>
<p>Just at that moment, one of the men pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. My hands flew out in front of me, and my blood ran cold when I saw the barrel. “Wait, hold on! What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“You better tell us right now. Is this an ambush? ’Cause if bullets start flying, you’ll be the first one to die.”</p>
<p>“No, sir. I promise, this isn’t an ambush.”</p>
<p>“So where’s our money?” he demanded.</p>
<p>I was confused. Then I thought I had pieced it together. “Yeah, okay. You guys obviously want money for going through the trouble of finding me. That’s fair. My mother’s pretty well off, and she probably offered a reward to find me. I’ll make sure you get it. That’s how these things work, right? So can you please take me home now?”</p>
<p>The man kept the gun pointed at me. I heard a click and knew he had cocked it. I realized then, that this was no <em>ordinary</em> search party.</p>
<p>“What’s going on here?” I asked, with fear creeping in.</p>
<p>The man with the gun shouted at me. “Stop playing games and tell us where our money is!”</p>
<p>I furrowed my eyebrows at him. He was an olive-skinned man. I pegged his age at around forty. He was bigger than average with shaggy black hair and unkempt facial hair.</p>
<p>“You’ve got me confused with someone else,” I said. “I don’t have anybody’s money.”</p>
<p>“Nice try, kid, but I’m not a <em>babbeo</em>. Whatever tricks you’re trying to pull, they won’t work. Stop acting like we’re suckers and tell us where our money is! I’m not gonna ask you again.”</p>
<p><em>Babbeo?</em> I wondered. <em>What language is that? Could it be Italian?</em></p>
<p>“Look, I already told you that if you take me home, my mom will be glad to help you with some money. Now can we please—”</p>
<p>Before I could finish speaking, the man with the gun slapped me with it. I grabbed my jaw and fell backward. My head exploded with pain.</p>
<p>One of the men said, “Shit, Tony. This guy is useless. Let’s finish him off and get outta here.”</p>
<p>Another man replied, “Wait, Tony. The boss sent us to collect the money. We can’t kill him. We have to make this kid talk.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Tony said. “Let’s take him back to the warehouse. And then we can really start having fun.”</p>
<p>I knew what he meant by “fun.” They were going to torture me. “Help!” I screamed. “Somebody help me!”</p>
<p>A loud bang rang out. Before my ears could even begin ringing, the bullet ripped into my thigh, stopping like red hot steel somewhere inside of me. My vision flashed white, and I fell to the ground. Pain pulsed out from the wound. I wasn’t aware of myself at that moment. Maybe I cried out, or maybe it was more of a scream. What I knew, though, was that Tony had shot me in the leg.</p>
<p>“Shut the fuck up!” he said, waving the gun around. “I better not hear one more word outta you, or the next bullet is going straight through your head. Don’t test me!”</p>
<p>The men grabbed the ropes I had untied and started binding me. All the while, I felt my pants getting soaked with warm blood. My temples pounded with my racing heart as I begged for my life. “Please, you have</p>
<p>to believe me. I haven’t taken anyone’s money!”</p>
<p>One of the men said, “Well, if you didn’t rob us, then explain how you got that bullet wound in your shoulder. Huh?”</p>
<p>The men paused and waited for me to answer. For a moment, I forgot about the pain in my leg. I looked over my shoulder, and I could see someone had bandaged me up.</p>
<p>“I don’t know where I got this from,” I said.</p>
<p>“Don’t lie! I specifically remember shooting someone in the shoulder when the guys who robbed us were running away. You mean to tell me that’s a coincidence?”</p>
<p>“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please let me go.”</p>
<p>Tony went into a rage and began kicking me relentlessly in the gut. I tried to curl into a ball to protect my stomach which was near impossible thanks to the rope bonds. “Stop pretending to be dumb!” he said. “You’re getting on my fucking nerves!”</p>
<p>“Tony, relax!” one of the men said. “Remember, we gotta keep this guy alive until we know where our money is.”</p>
<p>The men gagged my mouth with a dry kitchen cloth and carried me into their van. Then the van drove off. The windows were tinted black. I tried kicking. I tried screaming. But none of it worked. After they placed me into the van, one of the men pulled a bag over my head. I couldn’t see a thing, but I could still hear them speak. One of them sounded like Tony—a baritone smoker. He was apparently speaking on the phone.</p>
<p>“Yeah, Vinny,” he said. “Tell the boss we found someone…I don’t know who it is…I already told you, I don’t know who he is! It’s just some kid who’s putting on an act.”</p>
<p>I heard Vinny shouting on the other end of the call. “You didn’t even ask him his for fucking name, Tony?”</p>
<p>Tony jerked the bag off my head and yanked the gag from my mouth. “What’s your name, kid?” he asked.</p>
<p>I scrambled for a plan. <em>Should I give him a fake name? What if they catch me in a lie? That wouldn’t be so smart.</em> I thought about whether I should cooperate. Then I simply said, “I’m not saying a damn word.”</p>
<p>At that point, Tony pulled a knife from his pocket and repeatedly stabbed my leg wound. White-hot pain seared through my mind. I nearly passed out from the pain and the sight of blood pouring out of me.</p>
<p>“Stop! Please, stop!” I cried out.</p>
<p>One of the men said, “You could make this a lot easier, kid, if you just tell us your name.”</p>
<p>“Dylan!” I screamed. “My name is Dylan!” “Dylan who?” Tony asked.</p>
<p>“Dylan J. Woodger!”</p>
<p>The pain in my leg was so bad I could barely breathe. I trembled uncontrollably. Soon, I felt lightheaded. “Can you please wrap my leg?” I</p>
<p>begged. “I’m bleeding badly. And I—”</p>
<p>Before I could finish speaking, Tony gagged me again and pulled the bag over my head. He continued talking on the phone.</p>
<p>“Okay, Vinny. He said his name is Dylan…Dylan Woodger…Yeah, we’re on our way to the warehouse, and—”</p>
<p>At that moment, I heard the shriek of a police siren. “Shit!” the driver muttered.</p>
<p>“What is it?” Tony asked</p>
<p>“It’s a cop! We’re being pulled over.”</p>
<p>A wave of obscenities reverberated throughout the van. “Everyone, calm the fuck down!” Tony yelled.</p>
<p>I felt something hard being shoved against my crotch. It was the familiar feel of a gun.</p>
<p>“You better not say a word, kid,” Tony said, “or I’ll shoot you in the balls.”</p>
<p>The van halted abruptly. A minute passed. I heard footsteps outside on the road, the glide of shoes on gravel.</p>
<p>“Hello, Officer,” the driver said calmly, “What seems to be the problem?”</p>
<p>“License and registration,” said the cop.</p>
<p>“Sure. Not a problem.” The driver gave the cop his license and registration.</p>
<p>“Do you know why you’re being stopped?” “Was I speeding?”</p>
<p>“No. Your van has tinted windows. Tinted windows are illegal in the state of New York.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” the driver said. “I just bought this vehicle last week, and the car dealer failed to mention that. I’ll be sure to get the windows changed.” The driver laughed nervously. “So, I guess I’ll take that ticket and be on my way.”</p>
<p>“Not so fast,” the cop said. “I still have a couple of questions to ask you…Where are you coming from?”</p>
<p>“Oh umm…We’re just a few fellas going out hunting in the woods.</p>
<p>We just got finished not too long ago, and now we’re heading home.” “And where’s home?” the officer asked.</p>
<p>“Utica, sir.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re only allowed to hunt animals between November first and December twentieth. Hunting season ended last week.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sorry about that.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to check your vehicle.”</p>
<p>“Sure Officer. Go right ahead. I’ll unlock it for you.”</p>
<p>When I heard the rear door unlock, I nearly let out a cheer. It was as if the officer could hear my heart pounding its way through my chest. But as soon as I heard the rear door of the van creak open, a barrage of bullets tore open the air. I heard a body drop to the ground.</p>
<p>One of the men inside the van hissed, “Shit, he’s still moving. He’s probably got a vest on.”</p>
<p>Another man said, “I’ll go finish him off.”</p>
<p>“No! Hold on.” Tony stopped him. He pulled the bag off my head and said to me, “I want you to see what happens to those who get in our way.”</p>
<p>Tony stepped out of the van. Through the open door, I could see the officer on the ground, writhing in pain and begging for his life. “Please,” he said, “Don’t do this…I have three kids and a wife.”</p>
<p>At that point, Tony fired two gunshots straight into the officer’s head. Blood splattered onto the pavement. Tony got back into the van and said to me, “I wanted you to see that, so you know we’re capable of killing <em>anyone</em>. If you fuck with us, you’ll end up joining this guy here.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Orientation of Dylan Woodger</i> by Chiuba E Obele. Copyright 2022 by Chiuba E Obele. Reproduced with permission from Chiuba E Obele. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 330px;"><img align="left" alt="Chiuba E Obele" border="0" height="200" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/the-orientation-of-dylan-woodger-by-chiuba-e-obele-author-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="300" /></div>
<p>CHIUBA EUGENE OBELE is a poet, writer, and author of <i>The Orientation of Dylan Woodger: A Central New York Crime Story</i>. He can usually be found reading a book, and that book will more likely than not be a crime fiction novel. Chiuba lives and works out of his home in Boston, Massachusetts. When not absorbed in the latest page-turner, Chiuba enjoys spending his summers vacationing with his parents, siblings, and nieces and nephews.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Chiuba E Obele:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3K3jtKz" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">ChiubaObele.com</a></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-66306692564551185962022-04-25T10:00:00.001+05:302022-04-25T10:00:00.156+05:30Showcase: Not Your Child by Lis Angus<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Not Your Child</span></h2>
<h3>by Lis Angus</h3>
<h4>April 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Not Your Child by Lis Angus" border="0" height="300" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/not-your-child-by-lis-angus-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p>When Ottawa psychologist and single mother Susan Koss discovers that a strange man has been following her twelve-year-old daughter Maddy, she fears he’s a predator. But it’s worse than that. The man, Daniel Kazan, believes Maddy is his granddaughter, abducted as a baby, and he’s obsessed with getting her back.</p>
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<p>Susan insists on a DNA test to disprove Daniel’s claim, but the result is one she can’t understand or explain: it says she’s not Maddy’s mother.</p>
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<p>Then Maddy vanishes. Susan’s convinced Daniel has taken her, but he has an alibi, and two searches of his house turn up nothing. The hunt is on—police are on full mobilization, and Susan fears the worst.</p>
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<p> </p><blockquote class="details"><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Suspense</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> The Wild Rose Press</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> April 18, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 308</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 978-1-5092-4118-7</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Book Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3rn429F" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a> (<a href="https://amzn.to/3hRv8A8" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon.ca</a>) | <a href="https://bit.ly/35CF25I" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://apple.co/3MwG0Sd" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">AppleBooks</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3se4whE" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>As I was putting on my coat, the doorbell rang. I looked out the window.</p>
<p><i>What the hell?</i></p>
<p>Daniel Kazan stood on my doorstep.</p>
<p>I went cold. <i>How dare he?</i> I flung open the door. “What are you doing here?” I exploded.</p>
<p>Confronting him, I saw that he was a few inches taller than me, and exuded a tense energy that raised my hackles. He raised his hands, palms out, a placating expression on his face. As if he were trying to calm me down or reassure me.</p>
<p>“I just want to talk to Hannah. I came early to catch her, before she leaves for school.”</p>
<p>I squared my shoulders. “Get out of here! You've been told to stay away from us!”</p>
<p>His face was in shadow. “I think it’s fair to want to see Hannah. I’ve waited a long time.”</p>
<p><i>The guy is nuts.</i> “She’s not Hannah—she’s my daughter. Maddy.”</p>
<p>“You’re keeping her from me.” He was leaning toward me, and I had to keep from falling back. I couldn’t let myself seem weak. If he thought he’d intimidated me, what would be his next move?</p>
<p>My heart pounded. My hands were curled tight, my nails biting into my palms. “Damn right I’m keeping her from you. Now get off my porch before I call the police!” </p>
<p>What if he wouldn’t leave? I should call for help—but my phone was inside, and I didn’t want to leave him on the porch unattended.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Not Your Child</i> by Lis Angus. Copyright 2022 by Lis Angus. Reproduced with permission from Lis Angus. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Lis Angus" border="0" height="276" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/not-your-child-by-lis-angus-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><br /></p><p>Lis Angus is a Canadian suspense writer. Early in her career, she worked with children and families in crisis; later she worked as a policy advisor, business writer and editor while raising two daughters. She now lives south of Ottawa with her husband.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Lis:</span></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-70732390581579756812022-04-21T10:00:00.001+05:302022-04-21T10:00:00.174+05:30Showcase: Razing Stakes by TG Wolff<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Razing Stakes</span></h2>
<h3>by TG Wolff</h3>
<h4>April 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Razing Stakes by TG Wolff" border="0" height="300" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/razing-stakes-by-tg-wolff-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p>The first day of summer is the last day of a young accountant’s life. Colin McHenry is out for his regular run when an SUV crosses into his path, crushing him. Within hours of the hit-skip, Cleveland Homicide Detective Jesus De La Cruz finds the vehicle in the owner’s garage, who’s on vacation three time zones away. The setup is obvious, but not the hand behind it. The suspects read like a list out of a textbook: the jilted fiancée, the jealous coworker, the overlooked subordinate, the dirty client.</p>
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<p>His plate already full, Cruz is assigned to a “special project,” a case needing to be solved quickly and quietly. Cleveland Water technicians are the targets of focused attacks. The crimes range from intimidation to assault. The locations swing between the east, west, and south sides of the city. This is definitely madness, but there is a method behind it.</p>
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<p>The two cases are different and yet the same. Motives, opportunities, and alibis don’t point in a single direction. In these mysteries, Cruz has to think laterally, yanking down the curtain to expose the master minding the strings.</p>
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<p> </p><blockquote class="details"><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Down & Out Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> February 14, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 294</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 978-1-64396-245-0</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> The De La Cruz Case Files, 3rd in series</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3uPXDWP" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3HRXbLn" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3GyWEfF" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Down & Out Books</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<p style="text-align: center;">Ten minutes dead. The sun shined brightly, no clouds on this first day of summer, the last day of John Doe’s life. Cleveland police Detective Jesus De La Cruz squatted next to the broken body. The warmth beneath his hand testified to the newness of death.</p>
<p>Two EMTs had worked to sustain the man’s life. One was at the ambulance now, tending to the tools of his trade. The other stood over the body, shaking his head at the victim. “He was dead before we arrived, Detective. He just didn’t know it.” The EMT peeled off his gloves, finality in a simple act. “Damn it if we didn’t fight for him. In the end, he was just too crushed.”</p>
<p>Cruz rose looking east and west, north and south. The crime scene was on the side of a road halfway between East 9th Street and East 55th Street. North Marginal was a two-way street carved between Lake Erie and a spur off I-90 called the Shoreway. Properties cut off by the Shoreway—the Coast Guard station, Burke Lakefront Airport, a private marina, a condominium complex—were accessed from North Marginal. Even at the busiest times of day, vehicular traffic here was scant. Middle of a workday, a steady stream of runners arced around the first responders.</p>
<p>“Popular place,” Cruz said, meeting the eyes of a curious runner rubbernecking as he slowed to a jog.</p>
<p>“It is,” the EMT said. “Few better places downtown for running. A solid two and a half miles with no cross streets. Whoever hit him came from the east. Blew him up.”</p>
<p>The body spoke for itself. No way it could be where it was being hit from the west. Cruz straddled the curb, which was a generous term for the inch separating the driving surface from the running path. A bicycle wouldn’t call it an obstacle. John Doe either never saw it coming or was unable to get out of the way. The impact had launched him into the airport’s tall security fence. The fence bounced him back, the one-hundred-eighty-pound body a pinball rebounding off bumpers.</p>
<p>John Doe had been moved, necessary and appropriate as he’d been alive when he was found.</p>
<p>“Medical Examiner is en route,” the EMT said. “He’s yours now.”</p>
<p>“I’ll take care of him.” Cruz studied the victim. The man was mostly skin. He had taken off his shirt on the warm day, one of the first to be hot. A shirt lay on the edge of the path, marked by an evidence tag. Two other shirts lay close to the body; one black, one yellow and stained with blood.</p>
<p>The running shorts covered hip to mid-thigh. He wore socks, shoes, and a fitness device on his wrist. Skin was scraped off his arms, legs, chest, and face, the asphalt unforgiving. An AirPod was in his left ear, the right one missing.</p>
<p>Squatting again, Cruz felt the side seams of the shorts, finding zippered pockets. Inside the right one was a slim, card-size piece of plastic, a security badge for a building on East 9th Street. The dead man smiled out of a poor-quality image. Beneath was the name Colin McHenry.</p>
<p>“Detective, we found his phone,” one of the officers securing the scene called out. “It’s in good shape. Thumb print pass coded.”</p>
<p>“Open it before the ME takes him. Who found him?”</p>
<p>“A pair of runners. I parked them under the big tree.” The officer pointed across North Marginal to a small grove on a manmade hill. The two men waited anxiously under the tree, watching the activity. Both were runners. Both were shirtless. Both came to attention as Cruz approached and introduced himself.</p>
<p>“I’m Landon Chartres, this is Denny Bradford. We saw him as soon as we came around the bend. He was half in the street.” The otherwise straight line of North Marginal had a large curve bumping out to make space for an exit from the Shoreway. McHenry’s body would have been screened by the fence and shrubs separating the public from the airport’s private property.</p>
<p>“We knew someone was ahead of us,” Bradford said. “When you turn onto the Marginal, you can you see all the way to the curve.”</p>
<p>Chartres nodded like a bobblehead. “We saw the vehicle that must have hit him. It was the only one that passed us before we got to him. Black SUV. Part of the license plate was LDC. Those are my initials, so it caught my attention. I didn’t catch the make or model.”</p>
<p>Bradford looked behind him, to East 9th Street. He repeatedly shifted his weight from foot to foot. “He was only out of our sight to a few minutes. Would you say he had a five-minute lead, Landon?”</p>
<p>“At most. Probably more like three or four. We called 9-1-1 and pulled him out of the road. Anyone coming around the curve would have hit him. We used our shirts to try to stop the bleeding.”</p>
<p>As a pair of witnesses went, these two were easy, answering questions before he could ask them. They wanted to talk, maybe even needed to talk. “Did anyone pass you from behind, coming from East 9th going east?”</p>
<p>The pair looked at each other, huddled like they were on a pitcher’s mound deciding on a call. It was Chartres who answered. “We don’t think so, Detective, but we couldn’t swear to it. We weren’t paying that much attention. But the one that came toward us, the one with my initials, it was flying.”</p>
<p>“Is he going to make it?” Bradford asked, hope in his voice. “The ambulance got here fast. We kept pressure on his wounds, like they tell you to.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, he didn’t.” As if on cue, an engine started. The ambulance pulled away without a passenger.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Razing Stakes</i> by TG Wolff. Copyright 2022 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from TG Wolff. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 330px;"><img align="left" alt="TG Wolff" border="0" height="200" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/razing-stakes-by-tg-wolff-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 5px 15px;" width="300" /></div>
<p>TG Wolff writes thrillers and mysteries that play within the gray area between good and bad, right and wrong. Cause and effect drive the stories, drawing from 20+ years’ experience in Civil Engineering, where “cause” is more often a symptom of a bigger, more challenging problem. Diverse characters mirror the complexities of real life and real people, balanced with a healthy dose of entertainment. TG Wolff holds a Master’s Degree in Civil Engineering and is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With TG Wolff:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3ozu2g1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">TGWolffCom.wordpress.com</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3B7JLYL" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3oy8oc4" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @TG_Wolff</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3GyW8OL" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @tg_wolff</a></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-43740739154887225382022-04-18T10:00:00.001+05:302022-04-18T10:00:00.169+05:30Showcase: Paradise Cove by Davin Goodwin<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/paradise-cove-by-davin-goodwin/" title="Paradise Cove by Davin Goodwin"><img alt="Paradise Cove by Davin Goodwin Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/paradise-cove-by-davin-goodwin-banner.jpg" width="600" /></a></h2>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Paradise Cove</span></h2>
<h3>by Davin Goodwin</h3>
<h4>April 1-30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Paradise Cove by Dave Goodwin" border="0" height="307" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/paradise-cove-by-dave-goodwin-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>Every day is paradise on Bonaire—until something unexpected washes ashore</h3>
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<p>On the laid-back island of Bonaire, every day is paradise until a seaweed-entangled human leg washes ashore. Combing the beach, retired cop Roscoe Conklin examines the scene and quickly determines that the leg belongs to the nephew of a close friend.</p>
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<p>The island police launch an investigation, but with little evidence and no suspects, their progress comes to a frustrating halt. Then, thanks to a unique barter with the lead detective, Conklin finds himself in possession of the case file. He can now aggressively probe for his own answers.</p>
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<p>Sifting through the scant clues, eager to bring the killer to justice, Conklin struggles to maintain forward momentum. He has all the pieces. He can feel it. But he'd better get them snapped together soon.</p>
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<h4>Otherwise, the body count will continue to rise.</h4>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Praise for <i>Paradise Cove</i>:</span></h3>
<p>“An intriguingly gruesome beginning, sexy location, and a supremely satisfying ending. <i>Paradise Cove</i> is a terrific read.” —Marc Cameron, New York Times best-selling author</p>
<p>“<i>Paradise Cove</i> is a wonderful thriller with a great story . . . what makes it special are the perfect descriptions of Bonaire and life on the island.” —Nicholas Harvey, author of the AJ Bailey Adventure Series</p>
<p>“Grab a beer and revisit Bonaire with Roscoe Conklin as your guide in <i>Paradise Cove</i>. A rich cast of characters and an intriguing plot guarantee an exciting trip you’ll long remember.” –Shawn Wilson, author of Relentless</p>
<p> </p>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Oceanview Publishing</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> April 5th 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 304</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1608094855 (ISBN13: 9781608094851)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> Roscoe Conklin Mystery #2 | The novels in the Roscoe Conklin Mystery Series stand on their own and can be read in any order.</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3B32LYu" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/34IDdny" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3B6Fl4t" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>Finished with my morning swim, having pushed myself hard the last quarter mile, I sat on the end of the pier with my legs dangling over the edge. No clouds in the typical Caribbean-blue Bonaire sky and a faint hint of salt floated in the air. The wind shoved waves, larger than normal, against the shore.</p>
<p>An iguana lay a few feet away, basking in the sun, overweight from gorging itself on the remnants of the near-by garbage can. It sat motionless, one eye tilted in my direction, the other skewed over the edge of the pier at the water. It was a resident of the area and joined me regularly on the pier after my swims.</p>
<p>I had taken to calling it Charlie.</p>
<p>As I towel-dried my arms and hair, I noticed two teenaged boys using a stick to poke at an object near the water’s edge, a stone’s throw south of the pier. The object had washed ashore and was covered with random strands of dark seaweed.</p>
<p>I watched the boys take a few steps forward, jab the stick at the object, then retreat, as if expecting something to happen. Nothing did, so they repeated the process several times with the same result.</p>
<p>Some younger children ventured forth, staying well behind the brave teenagers. Wide-eyed, high-pitched streams of Papiamento—the native language of Bonaire—filled the air as they half-talked, half-screamed. They gawked at the object, the raced back up the beach to their mothers, sitting on beach blankets.</p>
<p>One mother stood, nodding her head, and, appeasing the child, walked toward the water. She stopped a few feet shy of the shore. Her eyes widened and she shuffled backward to the other women, grabbed her cell phone, and, with a shaky hand, put it to her ear. She pointed at the object and spoke, her Papiamento not as high-pitched as the child’s, but every bit as excited. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand a word they said, my Papiamento being only slightly better than my Klingon.</p>
<p>The base of my neck tingled.</p>
<p>I no longer carried a badge, but nearly three decades as a law enforcement officer, specifically with the Violent Crimes Division of the Rockford, Illinois, police department, had trained my curiosity to remain on high alert. Of the hundreds of traits, quirks, and ticks conditioned into my psyche during those years, the sense of inquisitiveness, along with a constant need to know and understand, were the most deeply engrained.</p>
<p>I shook my head, stood, and walked down the pier to the beach. This was something I probably needed to see.</p>
<p>My sudden movement startled Charlie and he darted to the other side of the pier, both eyes now pointed in my direction. I gave him a shallow wave. “Sorry, Charlie.”</p>
<p>The water surface on the west side—or leeward side—of the island remained consistently flat, almost glasslike, aided by a solid wind from the east. The wind also swept most of the seaweed, litter, and other debris out to sea. Few items floated ashore on the leeward coast of Bonaire.</p>
<p>Except during wind reversals. Over the last few days, the easterly wind had changed direction and blew in from the west, bringing with it all kinds of surface floaties.</p>
<p>I plodded through the sand, closing the distance to the water’s edge. Most likely, an unfortunate tuna or tarpon had met its demise. But based on the actions and behaviors of the children, and the concern of the mother, I quickly changed my mind. A fish washing ashore was too common an occurrence and wouldn’t generate the reactions I’d just witnessed.</p>
<p>Then I remembered the epidemic affecting the green moray eels. For some reason, a strange parasite was attacking the green morays, causing the deaths of many. The occurrence was so rare that a group of marine biologists had recently arrived on the island, and with the help of local researchers, were studying the phenomenon. The situation was declared serious, possibly affecting the entire green moray population of the local reefs. When a dead eel washed ashore, the researchers wanted to be informed so they could harvest the carcass for study.</p>
<p>The teenagers moved back a few steps as I worked past them and stood over the object. It wasn’t a tarpon or tuna. Or a diseased moral eel. I turned back toward the beach and scanned the area, noticing the increased crowd size. I admit, the word crowd is relative on a small island like Bonaire, but, even so, a small horde of lookie-loos had gathered. Some vied for a better view, meandering closer to the water’s edge.</p>
<p>But not too close.</p>
<p>I sighed and shook my head. Few things draw a crowd to the beach faster than a human body part washing ashore.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Paradise Cove</i> by Davin Goodwin. Copyright 2022 by Davin Goodwin. Reproduced with permission from Davin Goodwin. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Davin Goodwin" border="0" height="280" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/paradise-cove-by-dave-goodwin-author-scaled.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><br /></p><p>Davin Goodwin is a graduate of Arkansas State University and works in the technology industry. He’s been a small business owner, a real estate investor, an aerial photographer and flight instructor, a semi-professional banjo player, and a scuba diver, often seen on the island of Bonaire. Paradise Cove is the second novel in his Roscoe Conklin Mystery Series and he intends to continue writing the Roscoe Conklin series set on Bonaire. Goodwin lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with his wife, Leslie.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Davin Goodwin:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3uyWHph" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">DavinGoodwinAuthor.com</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3uz1gQK" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3uwRoH3" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @dgoodwin7757</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bit.ly/2FFjntA" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @davin_goodwin_author</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3Lkv9de" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://bit.ly/3Lkv9de" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @authordavingoodwin</a></div></h3>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Tour Participants:</span></h2>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-45304591489961039572022-04-14T10:00:00.001+05:302022-04-14T10:00:00.166+05:30Showcase: At Any Cost by Andrea Kane<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">At Any Cost</span></h2>
<h3>by Andrea Kane</h3>
<h4>March 21 - April 15, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="At Any Cost by Andrea Kane" border="0" height="300" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/at-any-cost-by-andrea-kane-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p>Aimee Bregman had the perfect life. She had an enviable job as head of marketing for an up-and-coming CBD-infused beer that was taking the tri-state area by storm. She had cultivated a massive social media following that showcased the beer at college campus parties and alumni events―and had fun doing it. She had an attentive, steady boyfriend and friends who believed in her. Everything was going right.</p>
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<p>But when her long-time mentor, Rita, sets up a business meeting with an important influencer―her life crashes all around her. The casual meeting over drinks suddenly devolves into a shouting match between all parties, and any chance of a new business relationship is over before it begins. Hours later, when the NYPD shows up at Aimee's apartment, questioning her about Rita's abrupt disappearance―foul play suspected―Aimee realizes she's in way over her head.</p>
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<p>Fearing that Rita has been murdered, and that she may be next, Aimee hires Forensic Instincts to keep her safe and figure out what's really going on.</p>
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<p>Forensic Instincts, a brilliant investigative firm who walks the fine line between legal and illegal, solves challenging and high-profile cases when the bureaucratic restrictions imposed on law enforcement get in the way of achieving results. But neither Aimee nor Forensic Instincts realize how ruthless, how connected, their adversaries are. As dangerous and powerful people are threatened with exposure, anyone is fair game for elimination. And when multiple victims die at the hands of a sociopathic serial killer, it gets harder and harder to tell where the battle lines are drawn… and who might die next.</p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Suspense Thriller</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Bonnie Meadow Publishing LLC</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> March 22nd 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 384</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 168232043X (ISBN13: 9781682320433)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> Forensic Instincts #9 | Each Can Be Read as a Stand Alone Novel</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3FUyJa7" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3GYVzPs" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3GYFqJy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<h4>1</h4>
<h5><i>Brightington University<br />
Birchmont, Westchester County, New York</i></h5>
<h5>Eight years ago</h5>
<p>A kill for a kill.</p>
<p>Weeks of watching and waiting. Plans devised. Soon to be meticulously executed. Mid-November. Football season nearing its peak. Thursday night. Nine p.m. Campus in early-weekend party mode. Undergrads drinking. Smoking up at the frat houses. Athletic building deserted.</p>
<p>Nearly deserted.</p>
<p>His target was there. Alone. Thursday night was his late night during football season. That’s when he reviewed his game strategy and player weaknesses. That’s when he targeted the next eager kid to torture until he broke.</p>
<p>The bastard wouldn’t be breaking anyone ever again. Not the way he’d broken Hank.</p>
<p>As the star quarterback in high school, Hank had gotten a full-ride Division 1 scholarship. Since he’d come from a dirt-poor family, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. A first-rate college education with a shot at the NFL. It was supposed to be a life-changing event.</p>
<p>Instead it turned out to be a death sentence.</p>
<p>His executioner had been Pete Rice. Football coach? Bullshit. Rice hadn’t coached Hank; he’d tortured him, driven him—until he’d blown out his knee on a rain-soaked football field junior year, ending his college career, his dreams. And in the end, his life.</p>
<p>It was first down and goal.</p>
<p>Rice was about to find out the true meaning of payback.</p>
<p>The campus grounds were soggy, leftover patches of wet leaves and an endless span of slick grass, made worse by the cold, steady rainfall. The bare trees swayed as rain pounded their branches. A wet mess. Treacherous, like a wet football field.</p>
<p>Slugging through the debris, he approached the athletic building, pausing yards away to don the black ski mask. He then tugged his hood back into place. No point in taking chances. Security cameras were everywhere. He didn’t need his face to be captured. Other than the mask, he could be any college student. A waterproof parka that swallowed up his body. Jeans and combat boots. Standard college garb.</p>
<p>He reached the building and slid Hank’s ID card into the entry slot. The card still worked. Too soon for it to be deactivated.</p>
<p>He was in. He wriggled into his latex gloves.</p>
<p>The office door was unlocked. Rice was at his desk, files spread across it. He was scribbling something on one of them, brows knit in concentration, totally focused on his work.</p>
<p>Clueless that he was about to die.</p>
<p>In one fluid motion, he was inside the office, the door closed behind him. Rice leapt to his feet, snatching the heavy football trophy on his desk as he rounded the front of it to defend himself against the intruder.</p>
<p>Without a word, the killer whipped out a pistol and fired two bullets, one into each of Rice’s kneecaps. Rice howled, collapsing to the floor in pain. The trophy hit the floor beside him with a thud.</p>
<p>The assailant moved quickly—four long strides until he was behind Rice, dragging him back to his chair and heaving him into it. He shoved a rag in the coach’s mouth to stifle his screams, then moved behind him, wrapping a strong arm in a choke hold around Rice’s throat. He pocketed his pistol, pulled out a zip tie, and leaned down to cinch the writhing man’s ankles together. That done, he slapped a digital voice recorder on the desk, with the record feature on. He yanked the rag out of Rice’s mouth, tossed it aside, and anchored his forearm against the left side of the coach’s neck, using his free hand to pull as tight against the carotid artery as he chose to—for now.</p>
<p>A rush of power surged through him. He could taste victory.</p>
<p>But there was work to be done before the final play.</p>
<p>“You killed Hank Bishop,” he growled. “I want details.”</p>
<p>When he got no answer, only a violent trembling of Rice’s body, he tightened the pressure around his neck. “Talk.”</p>
<p>“Car crash…” the coach gasped. “I didn’t…”</p>
<p>“Wrong answer.” His grip tightened still more, enough so Rice was on the verge of losing consciousness. The coach struggled in vain, his struggles weak and fading.</p>
<p>His soon-to-be executioner eased the pressure the tiniest fraction. He knew just what it would take. And he wasn’t ready. Not until he got what he wanted.</p>
<p>“Wanna die?” he asked in a flat tone that was chillingly devoid of emotion.</p>
<p>Terrified, blood oozing down his legs, Rice gave a feeble shake of his head.</p>
<p>“Good. Because this is what it will feel like.”</p>
<p>He increased the pressure until Rice passed out. Slowly, he eased the choke hold until the scumbag came to.</p>
<p>“Now I’ll ask my question again,” he said calmly. “Why is Hank dead? Why was he in that car crash? This is your last chance. I want to hear it all—what you did, how you did it, what you drove him to.”</p>
<p>Rice was drenched in sweat, his entire body shuddering, choking sounds coming from his throat.</p>
<p>No further coercion was necessary.</p>
<p>Between gasps for air, the coach spilled his guts, revealing everything he’d done, everything that had happened—plus a whole lot more that was happening still.</p>
<p>Interesting stuff. Some of which he knew about. Still more of which he didn’t. It was even bigger than what he’d come here to learn. But frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He’d originally planned to take the voice recorder with him to relive Rice’s agonized confession whenever he chose to. But it really didn’t matter. He’d committed the bastard’s words to memory. So instead, he’d leave the recorder here, let the cops hear the entire confession, including the big-picture part that had nothing to do with Hank but that would send their investigation in the entirely wrong direction—a direction his employer wouldn’t appreciate, but that was his problem.</p>
<p>His adrenaline pumping, he tightened his choke hold into a death grip, pressing against the carotid artery, closing it off and squeezing the life out of his victim.</p>
<p>A minute later, Rice was dead.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>At Any Cost</i> by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2022 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Andrea Kane" border="0" height="301" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/at-any-cost-by-andrea-kane-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Andrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of thirty-one novels, including seventeen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles. With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.<br />
Kane’s first contemporary suspense thriller, <i>Run for Your Life</i>, became an instant <i>New York Times</i> bestseller. </p>
<p>She followed with a string of bestselling psychological thrillers including <i>No Way Out</i>, <i>Twisted</i> and <i>Drawn in Blood</i>.</p>
<p>Her latest in the highly successful Forensic Instincts series, <i>At Any Cost</i>, showcases the dynamic, eclectic team of investigators as they square off against a criminal organization with a serial killer as a hit man. The first showcase of Forensic Instincts’ talents came with the <i>New York Times</i> bestseller, <i>The Girl Who Disappeared Twice</i>, followed by <i>The Line Between Here and Gone</i>, <i>The Stranger You Know</i>, <i>The Silence That Speaks</i>, <i>The Murder That Never Was</i>, <i>A Face To Die For</i>, <i>Dead In A Week</i>, <i>No Stone Unturned</i> and <i>At Any Cost</i>.</p>
<p>Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include <i>My Heart’s Desire</i>, <i>Samantha</i>, <i>Echoes in the Mist</i>, and <i>Wishes in the Wind</i>.</p>
<p>With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages. </p>
<p>Kane lives in New Jersey with her family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Andrea Kane:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3qTxiEB" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">AndreaKane.com</a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bit.ly/37Jetsb" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @authorandreakane</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3GXwS5F" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter - @andrea_kane</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3rLVHvd" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://bit.ly/3rLVHvd" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @AuthorAndreaKane</a></div></h3>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-20810822542749396002022-04-11T10:00:00.001+05:302022-04-11T10:00:00.173+05:30Showcase: Distorted Perception by Trish Arrowsmith<p>div style="text-align: center;"></p>
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Distorted Perception</span></h2>
<h3>by Trish Arrowsmith</h3>
<h4>March 28 - April 29, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Distorted Perception by Trish Arrowsmith" border="0" height="300" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/distorted-perception-by-trish-arrowsmith-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p>At twenty-six years of age, Kathleen has almost everything she needs: a fulfilling teaching career, a new car, and a recently purchased home. She dedicates her free time to her students, supporting them in a manner she never had growing up. Her days are filled with love and hope, but her nights are empty without a family to call her own. While spectating the first home baseball game of the season, she meets a man that she believes will change her evenings in the best possible way. With no children of his own, he committed his free time to bringing his young nephew to watch the game, hoping to encourage him to play. Kathleen is immediately drawn to him and sees him as a true family man.</p>
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<p>Maxwell is handsome, successful, and charming. When he proposes marriage shortly after they begin dating, Kathleen is eager to accept as the desire to start her own family consumes her. Within months of their marriage, Maxwell’s sweet, doting personality gives way to a more sinister, controlling side. Kathleen quickly realizes that while she was looking for a partner, Maxwell was looking for someone who existed solely to fulfill his needs.</p>
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<p>When he suggests a move to the country, Kathleen is hesitant to leave her job but believes the change of atmosphere will be an opportunity to bring them closer together. She soon realizes the isolation of the countryside only serves to enhance his power over her. It doesn’t take long for her to learn the devastating truth of who her husband really is, and she finds herself left with two choices: She can try to escape and hope he doesn’t find her, or she can stay and fight the battle in which all odds are against her.</p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Suspense, Domestic Suspense, Drama</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Trish Arrowsmith Author</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> February 24, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 276</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 9781736755952</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3gtN0Ak" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3HzjcOy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>He reached out and grabbed her hand like he used to when they were dating. “We’re moving. Next week.”</p>
<p>“What?” Kathleen cried. “What do you mean we’re moving?” She pulled her hand from his.</p>
<p>“We’re moving to the country. I bought us a house out there.”</p>
<p>Kathleen went from being the happiest she had been in a long time to livid in a matter of seconds. Her whole body begin to shake. “We can’t move next week, Maxwell. I own this house. I’ll need to clean it and put it up for sale. It could take months.”</p>
<p>“Already taken care of, beautiful. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”</p>
<p>She cringed at his choice of the word ‘beautiful.’ “It’s going to take me weeks just to pack everything.” She sounded like she was whining but she didn’t care, this was a huge decision he made for both of them without consulting her. He had never even mentioned a desire to move, and certainly not to the country. She had never been outside the suburbs of the city. She was already feeling lonely and now she would really be by herself. </p>
<p>“No need to worry. I hired movers. They’ll be here Tuesday.” </p>
<p>“Tuesday? Like five days from now?” </p>
<p>Maxwell laughed. “Well, yes. What did you think I meant when I said next week?” He continued eating his dinner like this was a normal conversation they would have on any given day. </p>
<p>Kathleen had lost her appetite. She slid her plate away from her and shook her head. She was upset that she hadn’t gotten to tell Maxwell her news. She wanted to make it a joyous occasion for them both and it had completely lost its appeal. At least for now. She got up and left the table without eating any more. She needed some time away to process what he told her. </p>
<p>She stood in the bathroom for five minutes fighting back tears before she went to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. She leaned against the frame with her arms crossed. “What do you mean it’s already taken care of? Did you sell my house? How is that even possible?”</p>
<p>Maxwell’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. After all this time she still didn’t seem to get it. Her naivety both humored and annoyed him. “You seem to forget rather easily that I’m a lawyer. There are so many things that I can do, so many things that I have access to, it would make your head spin. And yes, to answer your question, I did sell it. Got a pretty penny for it, too.” He smirked at her. “Did you make any dessert?” </p>
<p>Kathleen was furious that he had managed to sell her house without her knowing about it. She was sure his job gave him access to information like that, but it didn’t mean he had to abuse the privilege. How did he even know she bought the house outright, maybe she had inherited it from her grandmother or bought it from someone else in her family? She didn’t, of course, and she guessed he had access to that information as well, but this was the first house she had ever owned. She was proud of her little house. And considering it was hers, she would have liked to have some say in selling it. She decided now was not the time to ask him for specific details, but eventually she wanted to know why he sold it and how much he got for it.</p>
<p>She dropped a plate with a slice of Boston crème cake in front of him. The fork rattled and bounced from the plate to the table. Kathleen crossed her arms over her chest again and stared at him. “I know you have access to a lot of information but how did you manage to sell my house without my consent?” </p>
<p>Maxwell straightened his posture, he pulled back his shoulders, puffed up his chest, and smiled so wide it made Kathleen want to slap it off his face. “As a lawyer, I should advise you to read all forms and documents thoroughly before you sign them.”</p>
<p>Kathleen squinted and shook her head. “But I never…” </p>
<p>Maxwell howled with laughter as he watched the realization hit her. </p>
<p>Her mouth hung open and she sighed with shame. “Our wedding day.” Her arms dropped to her sides; her head fell forward. </p>
<p>He nodded his head and shoved a fork full of cake into his mouth. “What’s yours’ is mine.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Distorted Perception</i> by Trish Arrowsmith. Copyright 2022 by Trish Arrowsmith. Reproduced with permission from Trish Arrowsmith. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Trish Arrowsmith" border="0" height="230" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/distorted-perception-by-trish-arrowsmith-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p><br /></p><p>Trish recently moved across the country where she found her forever home, enjoying the desert sunshine and wildlife all year long. She was born and raised in a small town in northern Connecticut. Growing up, she was always fascinated by unsolved mysteries and true crime as well as the psychological elements behind them. As an avid reader, her go to books are thrillers, suspense, and true crime.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Trish Arrowsmith:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3oe8FRl" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.TrishArrowsmithAuthor.com</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3KYW2TS" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3ue3nJs" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @trisharrowsmith</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3IMbjFS" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @trisharrowsmithauthor</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3KTln1J" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter - @author_trish</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3s2gKKb" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://bit.ly/3s2gKKb" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @TrishArrowsmithAuthor</a></div></h3>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Tour Participants:</span></h2>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-45046027233011548102022-04-04T10:00:00.003+05:302022-04-04T10:00:00.176+05:30Showcase: The Yellow Honeysuckle Is The Sweetest by Bill Fentress<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="http://www.providencebookpromotions.com/the-yellow-honeysuckle-is-the-sweetest-by-bill-fentress/" title="The Yellow Honeysuckle is the Sweetest by Bill Fentress"><img class="aligncenter size-full" src="http://www.providencebookpromotions.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/yellow-honeysuckle-is-the-sweetest-by-bill-fentress-banner-.png" alt="The Yellow Honeysuckle is the Sweetest by Bill Fentress Banner" width="600" height="338"></a></h2>
</div>
<h2 align="center"><em>The Yellow Honeysuckle is the Sweetest</em></h2>
<h3 style="text-align:center;padding-top:0px;padding-bottom:0px">by Bill Fentress</h3>
<h5 style="text-align:center;padding-top:0px;">March 14 - April 8, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h5>
<h3>Synopsis:</h3>
<div style="float: left;width:225px;margin-right: 15px;"><img align="left" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px;" src="http://www.providencebookpromotions.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/the-yellow-honeysuckle-is-the-sweetest-by-bill-fentress-cover.png" alt="The Yellow Honeysuckle is the Sweetest by Bill Fentress" width="200" height="299"></div>
<div><i>THE YELLOW HONEYSUCKLE IS THE SWEETEST</i> is a salute by the author to a lifetime of outdoor experiences in eastern North Carolina and beyond. It encompasses 14 true short stories about family, friendships, and the emotions involved in hunting, fishing, and other outdoor-related topics. It is not a how-to book, nor just a compilation of hunting and fishing stories; it describes how simple family and personal interactions, with the outdoor sports and unmatched natural beauty as a backdrop, can result in treasured memories like perhaps no other pursuits.
If you hunt and fish, or grew up enjoying histories of family traditions and friendships revolving around the outdoors - whether it be in North Carolina, or elsewhere - <i>THE YELLOW HONEYSUCKLE IS THE SWEETEST</i> is for you.
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<h3>Book Details</h3>
<strong>Genre:</strong> Sports, (as in Hunting and Fishing), Nature, Family, Memoir
<strong>Published by:</strong> Indie
<strong>Publication Date:</strong> February 3, 2022
<strong>Number of Pages:</strong> 257
<strong>ISBN:</strong> 979-8-9855598-1-1
<strong>Purchase Links:</strong> <a href="https://amzn.to/3gynZEh" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3sAl3g0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a>
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<h3>Here's a word from our author:</h3>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hWgG06sNlJc" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>
<h3>Read an excerpt:</h3>
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There is something special about hunting, that sears in place our memories with others. Maybe it’s the vivid nature where our grand experiences take place or the team efforts we go through to make it all happen? Maybe it’s the getting up early, the black coffee, the smell of eggs and bacon in a cabin, the swoosh of ducks over decoys or the violent uprising of a big covey followed by the delirium of released bird dogs? Maybe it’s the sunrises, the sunsets, the gobbles at dawn, the split oak fires or the oysters? Maybe it’s the bonds we have over lifetimes? I’m not really sure. But I do know we’re blessed when these partners come into our lives.
Like many boys, my first hunting partner was a dog, Pepper. I wish I could say Pepper was the granddaughter of King Rothschild’s Sire of Pepper Creek, but I cannot. Pepper was a fittingly, albeit not uniquely, named black and white pointer-mix stray who took up at Miss Jo’s house in Bayboro. Somehow, through either constant brow beating with her pathetic brown eyes or via her constant hanging around the back door looking for food, Pepper convinced Miss Jo to call me—not my mother, her friend—but me.
“Billy,” she commanded, “I have a beautiful dog you would just love!”
Of course, I immediately got off the phone and begged Mom to take me to Bayboro. “Miss Jo’s got a dog she says I need!” I always thought Miss Jo should have led many of the sales classes I attended in my banking career. Let me tell you, she talked directly to the buyer, and went right around the secretary. While I’m not sure how long it took for Mom to talk to her again, we came home with Pepper in the Chevy wagon and me with a smile as broad as the cuff on my dungarees. Pepper was one of the smartest dogs I ever owned. She followed me everywhere—from our store to Grandmamma’s house to the woods behind our house to the tractor shelter woods across the road, down Swan Point Road, and of course behind our neighbor’s house. Pepper was smart enough to look both ways before she crossed the road. Don’t smirk; I saw her do it a hundred times. She also knew how to be quiet as I planned a sneak-up strategy on the local robins and wrens. But her mind absolutely took the day off when it came to our neighbor’s chickens.
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Excerpt from <i>The Yellow Honeysuckle is the Sweetest</i> by Bill Fentress. Copyright © 2021 by William C. Fentress. Reproduced with permission from Bill Fentress. All rights reserved.
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<h3>Author Bio:</h3>
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<div style="float: right;width:230px;margin-left: 15px;"><img align="left" style="margin-right: 10px;" src="http://www.providencebookpromotions.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/the-yellow-honeysuckle-is-the-sweetest-by-bill-fentress-author.jpg" alt="Bill Fentress" width="185" height="302"></div>
Bill Fentress is a retired banker and current Finance Officer in eastern North Carolina. A current resident of New Bern, NC, Bill grew up in Pamlico County, North Carolina, where many of his hunting and fishing experiences in The Yellow Honeysuckle is the Sweetest take place. He has enjoyed nature's beauty and God's gifts of family and the outdoors throughout his lifetime, in North Carolina and elsewhere.
<h6>Learn More About Bill Online:</h6>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3Ji2aVF" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">BillFentress.com</a>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3p3gLwP" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Goodreads</a>
<a href="https://bit.ly/3LmlYcv" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Facebook - @billfentressauthor</a>
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<h5>This is a giveaway hosted by Providence Book Promotions for Bill Fentress. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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<p> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-86199252611707805382022-03-30T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-30T10:00:00.161+05:30Release Day Blitz Pack: Ruin of the Scarred (Sting of Love #1) by Medha Nagur<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/2022/03/ruin-of-the-scarred.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxRtrmoydqVf8D7t2A7IVrB9WtYkGmgF05AAaGjR7-E2GJ-tj0IRKGWh6Gs6GK4dykStfsaSccKT5mCKp7b-rdvfqRi9dZ1tozfuH7lS_N1_bLUXNmlnMRf6Aa002tBPiBR6b8_DF8ajJO6OLHny2qKJC2Vc0wB4vhWv05v9zI651T2E9bajVMd_u/w400-h200/Ruin%20of%20the%20Scarred.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kOj7Txl3XSN6ywta72w13uKtmH6CYY3hoWOw0g_42IHx1nSGU_An8_jq17MHwEbrExWvmCQHJaPjDixbvpGtZcvu3GmX7pB6pIhk5ulDreoeprrZCbNFplqYlxHVc4MXBPR3Aii3HUB8OlL6mkG56WSlPqb-dRhZztr5fWU97QQ49AA1V2aKUGpE/s320/Ruin%20of%20the%20Scarred.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div>Bidisha, a 17-year-old braveheart, has lived all her life in hiding since she is the daughter of the most wanted woman in Bishnupur. In the calm of the British Raj, Bidisha embarks on the quest to free her mother from the false accusation. But for that, she needs to challenge the royals who dare not stand against the British.<br />And when she enters the palace, she encounters the power-hungry Yuvaraja Trinabh and his twisted mother, the Rani Maa. Rani Maa despises her dutiful but meek step-son Yuvaraja Prabir and his hound Debesh Das, a Yodha who is his master’s protector. And so, she assigns Bidisha a job to spy.<br />But hearts entwine, and love meddles their path in the most unpredictable and adventurous ways.<br />Furthermore, things become dicey when Bidisha slits off her lover’s thumb, the Yuvaraja himself. Her dream to live free becomes a farfetched nightmare as her hiding in the jungle is not an option anymore.<br />When the deadly romance and the moral complexity are only a superficial part of the deep-rooted dark conspiracy, will Bidisha survive her sinking ground?<br />Will she emerge a warrior, save her own heart and win her love?<br />Or, will she succumb to the royal politics, lose her mother and lose herself too?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Book Links:</span></u></b></div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60707611-ruin-of-the-scarred" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3Lk5zEw" target="_blank">Amazon.in</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3IOIyYT" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a> </b></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: xx-large;"><u>Read an Excerpt from Ruin of the Scarred</u></span></h2><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Bidisha’s ears pricked up when she heard twigs snap behind the temple. She looked around as she walked inside after her mother taking cautious steps. Bidisha dumped the clothes on the floor in haste. And her hand went straight to her sword as she walked out. She closed the door behind her and latched it from the outside. Bidisha stepped out in the twilight and walked to behind the temple. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Could it be a bear?’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Howbeit, it was not an animal but a man fully clothed in black, his back to her. Bidisha held the sword straight at his neck even before he realised her presence. But in an instant, the man turned around and pulled his sword out. The two blades clanked. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Not bad. You sensed my presence,’ he said, his sword moving against her steel as he closed in on her. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘You’ll be sorry for that soon,’ Bidisha sneered wrapping fingers around her worn hilt as she lurched back against his move, her nose just an inch away from his blade. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The man cut again. She scrambled back. But Bidisha came hard at him as she cut and thrust her sword against his. The two closed in on. Their swords clanked. His deeply set intense dark eyes peeked out at her from under his mask as their blades locked. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘He is not the same man. He is not Debesh.’</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Just when Bidisha aimed at his head, the man suddenly lunged. He caught her wrist and twisted it till she dropped her sword. He picked her sword before he let go of her hand. Bidisha aimed her fist at his jaw and connected. But he moved back just in time, so she was barely able to touch him. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Hold on. We can talk,’ he said, taking a step back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Bidisha advanced, her hand headed straight to his mask. But he dodged her, stepping back into the bush and onto a snake that hissed back at him. To protect himself, he ran ahead and landed on her, losing his balance. Even as he tried to get a hold, Bidisha was on the ground, on her back, groaning. His face above hers, their breath hitched. The man was stiff on his fours as if he was desperately avoiding her touch.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And just when he tried to get up, her eyes widened as the cobra struck right at her face, making it through the gap between the two. She held it and, in an instant, threw it away while the man in the mask slid off her. Bidisha bounced back on her feet when he had already grabbed the two swords he had dropped on the ground. She shuddered as the open mouth of the snake made it again before her eyes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">‘Can we talk now?’ </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">His deep voice reverberated in her chest. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The cool breeze from the lake brought the musk of the mud and the touch of the dew in the dusk moving her out of her thoughts.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">About the Author:</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="212" data-original-width="212" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DgLxKFEqLhtQNklJzLdGCcdIwAilHKNeAXOLE8Wp4IIIjUmw3ego73uBzf4Ife6IVLkp9utMU5iI3T4wPe3eOfwzi3dy6Pg0TTVmVj-xVzLC1lFJdQc_usVPsk0_R_kCSxMBmXPGjvSb1Js6V1yse7NQr9vz1mZHUJJigYaoK1Lv0_TQcaeoxQl8/s1600/Medha%20Nagur.jpeg" width="212" /></a></div>Medha Nagur is anything but a stereotypical homemaker, at home full time but with a pen all the time!<br />A freelance blogger by profession in her past life, she was on her maternity break when she started writing fiction. Medha considers herself a chronic creative aficionado who loves painting and writing.<br />Once a lecturer in Science College, where she gave lectures in Computer Science soon after her Masters, was fascinated by the blog world and realized her love for the words and took up writing full time.<br />She is also at her creative best when it comes to cooking innovative dishes to cater to the needs of her 11-year-old son, 4-year-old daughter, and not to mention her epicure husband. Get a glimpse of her culinary art on Instagram.<br />A music lover who likes to hit the floor on Zumba numbers is also a fashion enthusiast (like any woman on this planet!).<br />She wants to be in the womb of nature when it comes to holidays, embracing its warmth, which she believes is a gift to mankind.<br />All in all, she is born to collect laughs and make a relentless commitment to love so that she can enjoy life in abundance.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Medha on the Web:</span></u></b></div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/MedhaNagurAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a> * <a href="https://twitter.com/NagurMedha" target="_blank">Twitter</a> * <a href="https://www.instagram.com/medhanagur/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3iFrg5E" target="_blank">Amazon</a></b></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div>
<p> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-14995639685068331062022-03-29T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-29T10:00:00.171+05:30Showcase: One Will Too Many by PJ Peterson<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">One Will Too Many</span></h2>
<h3>by PJ Peterson</h3>
<h4>March 1-31, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="One Will Too Many by PJ Peterson" border="0" height="320" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/one-will-too-many-by-pj-peterson-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
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<p>A wealthy banker with a long list of secrets dies.</p>
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<p>The bizarre crime scene stumps the local police…</p>
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<p>… but a young doctor could be the key to solving the case.</p>
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<p>Internist Julia Fairchild encounters banker Jay moments too late - the poor man is near death in his own dining room. At first no one can figure out what killed him, but the coroner soon confirms that it was homicide: Jay died of methanol poisoning, and now a murderer is on the loose. Julia knows how to catch a killer and she can cut through the noise like a scalpel through skin. She agrees to help the understaffed police force solve the case, but each clue only complicates her investigation further.</p>
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<p>Can Julia dissect the deadly riddle and nail the perp, or will this be the first time a monster succeeds in giving her the slip?</p>
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<p>If you love Louise Penny, Kelly Oliver, and PC James, you need this medical mystery! Find out why fans say, “I love the character Julia Fairchild!”</p>
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<p>Don’t wait - <a href="https://amzn.to/3eWpPxT" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Click the BUY button now!</a></p>
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<p> </p><blockquote class="details"><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Cozy Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Finngirl, LLC</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> December 2021</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 206</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 978-1-7335675-7-2</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> A Julia Fairchild Mystery, #4 || Each is a stand Alone Novel</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3eWpPxT" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3pXwoXo" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3eY1ury" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<p>Julia arrived at the Hotel Montpelier just as Drake drove up. She took advantage of his simultaneous presence to make a proper entrance to the celebration in the Hotel’s Grand Ballroom. It had recently been refurbished to its original grandeur from the early 1920’s. She admired the beauty of the ceilings with their Art Deco design, recently uncovered by the removal of a false ceiling from a previous “upgrade.” The beautiful wood floor with exquisite inlaid mosaics shone from a recent floor polishing. The cherry and mahogany woodwork glistened in the light from the elegant crystal chandeliers which had also been hidden until now.</p>
<p>Julia and Drake were greeted by some of the other members of the restoration committee. Drake was the designated master of ceremonies while Julia’s primary duty was to personally welcome as many of the potential donors as possible and say a few words in support of the project. He certainly looked the part tonight in a well-cut black velvet tuxedo. His dark hair was touched with silver—just enough to give him a classy look. He stood tall and proud as he walked through the crowd, nodding to some and saying a word or two to other attendees. </p>
<p>Julia searched the assembled festival attendees for familiar faces as Drake gently guided her to an older man and woman. He placed his hand at the small of her back as he addressed the wealthy couple. “Julia, I’d like to introduce Mr. And Mrs. George Oglethorpe. They have been long-time supporters of the theatre.”</p>
<p>Julia stepped forward a half-step and extended her hand. “I’m Julia Fairchild. I’m honored to meet you. I love our theatre, too.”</p>
<p>The woman’s face brightened as she recognized the name. “Of course! <i>Dr.</i> Fairchild. Call me Anna. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” She took Julia’s hand in both of hers. “You’re so young and pretty for a doctor.”</p>
<p>Julia reddened. She actually felt a little mousey most days, but conceded to herself that she did ‘clean up’ nicely for such events. “Thank you. I was blessed with good genes. How long have you and your husband lived in Parkview?”</p>
<p>“My goodness. Forever. Right out of college anyway. George heard about the paper mill here looking for mechanical engineers and applied right away.” She smiled proudly at him. “We love the town and were never inclined to leave once we settled in. Isn’t that right, dear?” Her husband nodded between sips of his drink. “Are you from here?”</p>
<p>“Not from Parkview. I grew up down the highway on a small farm. My grandma persuaded me to come home and here I am.” Julia felt her eyes well up as she recalled warm memories of time spent with her grandparents. “Thank you for your support of our lovely theatre. The restoration committee will be sharing the plans for the renovation during the program.”</p>
<p>Julia felt Drake’s arm around her waist as he interceded. “Thank you for coming this evening. Please excuse us. I see someone who is clamoring to talk with Dr. Fairchild before the dinner starts.”</p>
<p>Drake took Julia’s arm and as they turned around, they found Gregory Lantz and his wife Sandy who had been standing right behind them. “Greg! So good to see you here tonight. Thanks for coming.” They exchanged nods and handshakes. “Julia is standing in for Karen tonight. She’s also supporting the project.” Julia smiled and nodded. Aside from the perfunctory smiles, Julia sensed a tension between the men, and she moved a step away from Drake to better observe them both.</p>
<p>Greg stirred his gin and tonic vigorously. “I’ve talked with some of the members of the board at the bank, but I don’t have a definite commitment yet for a donation. I think we can come through for $50,000. But nothing close to the million dollars that everyone seems to think the bank can donate.”</p>
<p>“Greg, any amount would be great. I understand it’s been a little tough with the new bank still getting started.” Drake Ashford was the president of the older, long-established Parkview National Bank. He was aware that despite heavy advertising and promotions, the new River City Community Bank was not yet meeting expectations. He was also acutely sensitive to the loss of some of his own banking clients to the new bank, where Greg was Vice President.</p>
<p>Greg bristled. “Actually, we’re meeting our numbers and seeing new business every day. I would think you would have noticed already.” He smirked.</p>
<p>“We’ve noticed a little change, but we’re prepared to handle it.” Drake took a large swallow of his scotch. “Please excuse us. I have some other people to greet. Talk to you later, Greg.” Drake and Julia moved away. </p>
<p>“That man really annoys me,” Drake said under his breath. “He’s so naive. He doesn’t see how Jay is using him. He’s just a ‘yes’ man. But I guess it makes him feel important.” </p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Julia asked, nodding and smiling at some of the faces she recognized. She knew he referred to Jay Morrison, recently divorced and head of the new bank. She felt Drake’s hand shaking as he maneuvered her through the crowd.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you later. Too many ears here.” He surveyed the guests nearby. “Let’s see…there’s Warren Pontell and his lovely wife Sarah. He’s talked about making a major contribution. His wife was a theatre actress in her younger days. And they have money to burn.” He turned to Julia and wiggled his eyebrows, à la Groucho Marx.</p>
<p>Drake and Julia chatted with the Pontells for a few minutes, using the time to emphasize the benefits of the smaller venue of the “little theatre.” It was designed to be an intimate stage setting with seating for about one hundred fifty people. Until recently, the area had been used for storage and was marginally functional for stage events in its current state.</p>
<p>Julia had found herself daydreaming but tuned back in when she heard Mr. Pontell say, “We’d like to donate $50,000 for the little theatre. Perhaps you can find a way to let us have something to say about naming it.” He grinned broadly as his wife beamed.</p>
<p>“Warren, that’s wonderful!” said Drake. “I’ll talk with the board of directors about naming opportunities. Let me get back to you on details for your donation. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Now grinning, Drake gently guided Julia toward Adam Johns, an influential man in the local union hierarchy, and his wife. He had started working at ESCO Paper Company right out of high school and had worked his way up from the labor pool to an electrician apprenticeship and then to a journeyman electrician. His constituents considered him to be fair and honest. He had an unofficial status in the union as a leader, although he didn’t have an elected or paid position as such. </p>
<p>Adam tugged at the neck of his dress shirt and pulled at the bottom of his dark blue waistcoat. The jacket gaped over his generous girth. He looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Julia was sure her mother would have said something like “putting perfume on a goat,” but most likely his wife had insisted he dress up for this occasion. He certainly looked impressive at his height of six foot three inches.</p>
<p>“Mr. and Mrs. Johns, good evening,” said Drake as he offered his hand. “Do you know Dr. Julia Fairchild? She’s helping to support the Theatre Restoration project as we all are.”</p>
<p>“We sure do,” said Adam, returning the handshake. “Dr. Fairchild, you took care of my mom several years back. She was real sick but you got her well and she’s fine now. Thanks to you. In fact, she’s going on a cruise through the Panama Canal with her church group this coming week. She’s always wanted to go on that trip.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome, Mr. Johns. I do remember your mom—Violette, I believe? She’s a lovely lady with a lot of spunk.” Julia shook his hand before turning to his wife. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Johns.”</p>
<p>Mr. Johns turned back to Drake. “Mr. Ashford, some of the guys at the mill want to know if you had talked with our union officials yet about the stock trading going on with our pension funds. And if you know anything, they hope you can tell them. And call me Adam. My wife is Linda.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Adam. I talked with a Scott Sowders in Portland. He’s looking into whether those trading fees can be traced back to any individuals. May I call you when I know something more?”</p>
<p>“Sure. You can call me at ESCO. The operator knows how to reach me. Thanks a lot, Mr. Ashford.”</p>
<p>“You can call me Drake, please. I’ll call you soon and we’ll go from there. Thanks again for being here tonight.”</p>
<p>“Hey. It’s an alright party. My wife is always trying to get me to gussy up. It’s more fun than I thought it would be.” He grinned and saluted with his cocktail.</p>
<p>Julia saw the auctioneer heading their way and alerted Drake. “I’ll check my lipstick while you talk with him. Where are we sitting?”</p>
<p>“Main table,” he said, pointing to the center of the long side of the room. He scowled. “Unfortunately, it appears we’re seated next to Jay Morrison, of all people.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>One Will Too Many</i> by PJ Peterson. Copyright 2022 by PJ Peterson. Reproduced with permission from PJ Peterson. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
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<p>PJ is a retired internist who enjoyed the diagnostic part of practicing medicine as well as creating long-lasting relationships with her patients. As a child she wanted to be a doctor so she could “help people.” She now volunteers at the local Free Medical Clinic to satisfy that need to help. She loved to read from a young age and read all the Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew books she could find. It wasn’t until she was an adult that she wrote anything longer than short stories for English classes and term papers in others. Writing mysteries only makes sense given her early exposure to that genre. Sprinkling in a little medical mystique makes it all the more fun.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-79685902071129753872022-03-22T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-22T10:00:00.177+05:30Showcase: The Wayward Assassin by Susan Ouellette<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">The Wayward Assassin</span></h2>
<h3>by Susan Ouellette</h3>
<h4>March 1-31, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Wayward Assassin by Susan Ouellette" border="0" height="309" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/the-wayward-assassin-by-susan-ouellette-cover.png" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>Revenge knows no deadline.</h3>
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<p>Although told to stand down now that the Chechen rebel who killed her fiancé is dead, CIA analyst Maggie Jenkins believes otherwise and goes rogue to track down the assassin. Soon it becomes clear that failure to find Zara will have repercussions far beyond the personal, as Maggie uncovers plans for a horrific attack on innocent Americans. Zara is the new face of terrorism–someone who doesn’t fit the profile, who can slip undetected from attack to attack, and who’s intent on pursuing a personal vendetta at any cost.</p>
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<p>Chasing Zara from Russia to the war-torn streets of Chechnya, to London, and finally, to the suburbs of Washington, D. C., Maggie risks her life to stop a deadly plot.</p>
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<h2><br /></h2><h2><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Praise for <i>The Wayward Assassin</i>:</span></h2>
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<p></p><div style="text-align: center;">“Ouellette, herself a former intelligence analyst for the CIA, imbues the exciting action with authenticity. Readers will want to see more of the wily Maggie . . .”</div><div style="text-align: center;">—<i>Publishers Weekly</i></div><p></p>
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<p></p><div style="text-align: center;">“Every once in a decade you read a book like <i>The Wayward Spy</i>, which is thrilling, addictive, and sends you reading more thrillers, but you’ll go back to this stunning book by Susan Ouellette and reread this tour de force.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">—<i>The Strand Magazine</i>, a Top 12 Book of the Year</div><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Thriller</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> CamCat Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> March 15, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 416</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 0744304784 (ISBN13: 9780744304787)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> The Wayward Series, Book 2 || Each is a Stand Alone Book</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3jRV3Jx" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/31i8mMS" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ztbLoY" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Bw14S5" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">IndieBound.Org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3GCO94m" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">CamCat Books</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">CHAPTER ONE </h4>
<h5>CIA Headquarters, August 16, 2004 </h5>
<p>Maggie Jenkins strode across the parking lot to the sidewalk that led her past the “Bubble,” the CIA’s white, dome-shaped auditorium. Just ahead, she paused at the bronze statue of Nathan Hale, the first American to be executed for spying for his country. A half dozen quarters lay scattered at his feet, left there by superstitious CIA employees hoping to garner good luck before deploying overseas. She fished around in her purse for a quarter, which she placed carefully atop Hale’s left shoe. </p>
<p>In just a few minutes, Maggie would learn whether her six-month deployment to the US embassy in Moscow had been approved. Even though Warner Thompson, the CIA’s deputy director for operations, had advocated on her behalf, there were several others, including an Agency psychiatrist and a team of polygraphers who were not convinced that she should be stationed overseas. She’s not ready yet, the shrink had opined, as if she were a piece of fruit not quite ripe enough for picking. </p>
<p>“Wish me luck,” she said to the statue as she turned for the entrance ahead. The CIA’s headquarters comprised two main buildings, both seven stories high, which were linked together by bright hallways with large windows overlooking a grassy courtyard. Maggie worked in the original headquarters building (OHB), which had been built some forty years earlier during the height of the Cold War. From the outside, OHB was a concrete monstrosity with no aesthetically redeeming value, at least in Maggie’s opinion. It reminded her of Soviet architecture—heavy on the concrete, light on the beauty. </p>
<p>And other than the expansive marbled foyer and the posh seventh-floor executive offices, OHB’s interior also was nothing to write home about. Every floor between the first and the seventh looked exactly the same—drab, hushed, windowless hallways lined with vault doors. Behind those heavily fortified doors sat rows of cubicles, a few conference rooms, and cramped offices here and there for mid-level managers. </p>
<p>Maggie pulled open the heavy glass entry door and ducked into a pristine lobby gleaming with white marble-clad walls. Ahead, the Agency’s bright blue logo covered a massive swath of the gray-and-white checked granite floor. To the right stood the Memorial Wall, which was emblazoned with black stars honoring dozens of Agency officers who’d perished in the line of duty. Maggie stopped and bit down on her lip. </p>
<p>The wall was an awesome, solemn reminder of lives given in the defense of freedom. Every time she walked past it, the sharp points of the eighty-fourth star—Steve’s star—ripped another gash in her heart. He’d been working under cover, so no outside friends or relatives had been invited to the ceremony. Warner had sat with her, stoic, as she clutched his hand and stared at the parade of speakers, not hearing a word they said. </p>
<p>She turned her gaze from the wall, slid her badge through the security turnstile, and offered a polite hello to the officer manning the front desk. She bypassed the elevator that she took every day to the fourth floor and made a beeline for the spacious employee cafeteria. In the far corner sat Warner Thompson, nose buried in the Washington Post. </p>
<p>“Morning,” she offered. </p>
<p>Warner rattled the paper and folded it lengthwise. “Coffee?” He pushed a Styrofoam cup across the quartz tabletop and smiled at her. His full head of hair had grayed considerably since last year, but it worked on him, enhancing his gray-flecked eyes and tanned complexion. </p>
<p>“Thanks.” Maggie sat. </p>
<p>“You ready?” </p>
<p>“I guess.” She sipped the coffee, still piping hot and perfectly sweetened. Warner knew her well. “What do you think they’ll say?” </p>
<p>“There’s no reason they should deny you the posting.” </p>
<p>“The psychiatrist thinks I’m obsessed with Zara.” </p>
<p>“He has a point.” Warner leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I told you not to bring her up in your evaluation sessions. If she’s still alive, we’ll find her, Maggie. I promise.” </p>
<p>“There’s no ‘if’ about it.” She waited until a man with a breakfast tray settled at a nearby table, then lowered her voice. “I saw her fleeing the farmhouse in Georgia. Who do they think set fire to the place after I escaped with Peter?” </p>
<p>Warner winced, obviously uncomfortable with the reminder of Peter, his former case officer, the one who’d been intimately involved in the murder of Steve, another case officer, and his protégé, nine short months ago. That Steve also had been Maggie’s fiancé made saying what he had to say all the more difficult. “The point is, the Agency needs to think that you’ve moved on from what happened in Georgia before they send you to such a sensitive overseas posting.” </p>
<p>“Moved on? Warner—” </p>
<p>He raised a hand to stop her. They’d had this discussion dozens of times since the previous November. Maggie had made it perfectly clear that there was no moving on, no closure, as people said these days, until she found Zara. “You know what I mean. You have to toe the party line and say you believe that everyone involved in Steve’s murder is dead. Period.” </p>
<p>“I still don’t understand why they won’t at least consider the possibility that Zara got away.” </p>
<p>Warner rubbed his forehead. “Because the Agency wants this to go away. A star operations officer was murdered by a terrorist and the terrorist is dead. It’s a simple, straightforward narrative. They don’t want the press finding out that another Agency employee and a senior US congressman were involved in Steve’s death. Everything is about the war on terror, Maggie. If the media found out that CIA and elected officials were mixed up with terrorists, there would be hell to pay.” </p>
<p>Maggie quoted the Biblical phrase inscribed on a wall in the CIA’s lobby. “The truth shall make you free.” She snorted. “The truth, unless it’s too embarrassing?” </p>
<p>Warner exhaled and shifted in his seat. “Both of us are lucky that the FBI investigation didn’t uncover . . . everything.” </p>
<p>He was right, of course. Last year, Maggie had destroyed classified documents and withheld other evidence from the FBI to protect them both. And Warner had been entangled, albeit unwittingly, with a Russian who had ties to both Zara and the congressman. Had the FBI known any of this, neither of them would be CIA employees today. </p>
<p>Maggie waved to a coworker who stared from the nearby coffee station. Warner didn’t frequent the employee cafeteria, so his appearance was sure to raise eyebrows. She’d grown accustomed to sidelong glances inside the Agency’s walls. Everyone recognized her. The media had splashed her face all over television and the internet after Congressman Carvelli’s death. There were some who whispered about her using her fiancé’s death to advance her career. Fortunately, they were in the minority. Most who knew about her role in uncovering the terrorist plot considered her a hero, a designation she refused to embrace. Her actions may have saved thousands of lives, but her motivation had been personal—to clear Steve’s name. </p>
<p>He was no traitor, and she’d proven it. </p>
<p>Maggie glanced at her watch. “We’d better go.” </p>
<p>Warner nodded. They grabbed their coffees and headed for the elevator bank. “Remember, you believe Zara died in the fire at the farmhouse,” Warner reminded her on the way up to the fourth floor. </p>
<p>“That’s what I told the shrink last session, but then he talked to the polygraph people.” Since leaving the House Intelligence Committee to return to the CIA earlier this year, she’d endured three marathon polygraph sessions. Every time, the stupid machine registered deception in her response to questions about whether she intended to violate government policies for her own benefit. “Now he thinks I’m up to something.” </p>
<p>Warner shrugged. “Aren’t you?” </p>
<p>Maggie laughed despite herself. “Always.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Wayward Assassin</i> by Susan Ouellette. Copyright 2022 by Susan Ouellette. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Susan Ouellette" border="0" height="200" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/the-wayward-assassin-by-susan-ouellette-author-scaled.jpeg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 1px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 1px 5px 15px;" width="206" /></div>
<p>Susan Ouellette is the author of <i>The Wayward Spy</i>, a thriller that Publishers Weekly calls a “gripping debut and series launch.” She was born and raised in the suburbs of Boston, where she studied international relations and Russian as both an undergraduate and graduate student. As the Soviet Union teetered on the edge of collapse, she worked as a CIA intelligence analyst. Subsequently, Susan worked on Capitol Hill as a professional staff member for the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence (HPSCI). Since her stint on Capitol Hill, she has worked for several federal consulting firms. Susan lives on a farm outside of Washington, D.C. with her family.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Susan Ouellette:</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3pR1MqT" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter - @smobooks</a></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">ENTER TO WIN:</span></h2>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-23360502554008910252022-03-15T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-15T10:00:00.163+05:30Showcase: The Pilate Scroll by M.B. Lewis<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">The Pilate Scroll</span></h2>
<h3>by M.B. Lewis</h3>
<h4>March 14 - April 8, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Pilate Scroll by M.B. Lewis" border="0" height="319" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/the-pilate-scroll-by-michael-byars-lewis-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>An artifact with untold power. An unlikely protector. Can she prevent the past from being used to destroy the future?</h3>
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<p>Kadie Jenkins lost her faith long ago. Traveling to Egypt as part of a research team battling a lethal virus, the talented scholar’s already weakened beliefs take a deadly dive when her colleague and mentor is murdered. With the man about to share a shocking finding before he met his demise, Kadie frantically gathers his papers… and barely escapes when the killer returns.</p>
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<p>Fleeing by plane and forced into an emergency-landing in Israel, Kadie questions who in her group she can actually trust. And as the murderers close in, she’s stunned to discover they’re all hunting for an ancient relic that could change the course of history…</p>
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<p>Will this headstrong academic lean on powers from above to keep the wicked from wreaking havoc on Earth?</p>
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<p><i>The Pilate Scroll</i> is a pulse-pounding Christian thriller. If you like complicated heroines, stunning twists, and divine light shining through the darkness, then you’ll love M.B. Lewis’s breakneck page-turner.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i>The Pilate Scroll</i> Book Trailer:</span></h2>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bPQ1fY--YW8" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Christian Thriller / Action-Adventure</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Satcom Publishing</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> April 27th 2021</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 346</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1733098917 (ISBN13: 9781733098915)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3nvQTsw" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://amzn.to/3ttoCGR" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Kindle Unlimited</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3I9NsiX" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3Kg6bv4" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<h4>Chapter 1</h4>
<p><i>Port Said, Egypt<br />The Market District</i></p>
<p>Samuel Jacobson was a dead man. Or at least <i>he</i> thought so. His phone call had been erratic, anxious—almost in a panic.</p>
<p>“Brian, we have to go.” Kadie Jenkins stood and slid her iPhone back in the pocket of her tan 5.11 cargo pants. She grabbed her purse and rose from the table in the back of the tiny restaurant, dragging her nineteen-year-old brother out before they had a chance to order their dinner. The restaurant sat tucked between shops selling hookahs on one side and women’s clothes on the other. The aroma of fresh bread and grilled meats dissipated, replaced by the pungent scent of car exhaust and camel dung. </p>
<p>“It’s only a fifteen-minute walk back to the hotel,” Kadie said. “I bet we can make it in ten.” </p>
<p>Brian stumbled behind her as they hurried along dusty streets. They turned into the <i>souk</i>, or open-air market, the brick-laid section of the market that was pedestrian-only this time of night. While many of the shops had their “roll-up” metal security doors pulled down, the market bristled with life. </p>
<p>Vendors waved items in their faces, children tugged on their pant legs, and beggars held their palms up hoping for a handout. Her eyes studied everyone who came close, gauging their intentions in a moment’s glance. She was one of only a few women in the market not wearing a <i>hijab</i>. </p>
<p>“Kadie slow down,” Brian said. His breathing came deep and awkward, despite being a regular participant in the Special Olympics. </p>
<p>“Sorry, Brian. We could get a cab at the other end of the market. But by the time we find one, describe our hotel, and negotiate a price, we could walk to the hotel.” While she relished the exercise, she worried her pace was too much for him. He was fit for a young man with Down syndrome, but she moved swiftly. </p>
<p>Their team had been in Egypt for almost three weeks. Starting in Cairo, the small group of seven from GDI, the Global Disease Initiative, had been scouring the city for clues to an ancient cure. Their quest had led them from the United States to Cairo, then to Port Said. Their four days here had not yet proven fruitful.</p>
<p>The goosebumps on her skin reminded her of Samuel’s phone call. His message was brief yet concise: his life was in danger because he knew what they were <i>really</i> searching for. What did he mean? Their team was one of four positioned across the Middle East in search of their goal. Now, for some reason, Samuel questioned what that was.</p>
<p>GDI had been contracted by the United States government to locate an ancient cure for an even older virus—the hantavirus. Kadie researched the topic before they left for Egypt. Rodents generally spread it, and this strain was a particularly virulent “Old World” virus that had proven resistant to modern medicine. </p>
<p>The Central Intelligence Agency learned that ISIS weaponized the hantavirus in aerosol form and planned to unleash it across the West. The virus was known at the CDC to cause hemorrhagic fever with renal syndrome. Initial symptoms include fever, chills, blurred vision, back and abdominal pain, and intense headaches known to bring a grown man to his knees. Later, those exposed would experience shock, low blood pressure, kidney failure, and vascular leakage—all in all, a nasty virus to thrust upon any population. The logistics involved in treating the virus were obvious. </p>
<p>The unique thing about the “Old World” hantavirus, was that it had predominantly appeared in Europe and Asia. GDI discovered that the virus had been eliminated in the Middle East, which was odd, as rodents were prevalent throughout the region.</p>
<p>Through one of their many connections, GDI learned of a legendary cure developed in ancient Israel around 30 A.D. The virus had a different name back then, but the symptoms were the same. The cure was a simple combination of plants and minerals. The formula was stored in a vase with Aramaic writing on the side and lay hidden for millennia. That was why she was here. Kadie was fluent in Latin, Greek, and Aramaic. The executive vice president for the Science and Technology Division of GDI had contacted her personally, telling her she was “uniquely qualified” for this job. Kadie was enthralled to join the team when the offer came. </p>
<p>Samuel was in his early sixties, and he and Kadie had struck up a friendship at the beginning of their journey. He became her mentor and father figure, occasionally giving her advice on what to do with her career. Samuel was the team’s expert on carbon dating. His equipment was state-of-the-art, but other than testing its functionality the day after they arrived, he hadn’t used it. So, what <i>did</i> he discover? What did he know that was worth killing for?</p>
<p>Halfway to the hotel, she mumbled something she shouldn’t have as she pulled out her phone and dialed. Her eyes darted toward her brother.</p>
<p>“Do not c-cuss,” Brian said between heavy breaths.</p>
<p>Brian. Her moral compass there to steer her back on course. She squeezed her brother’s hand. Brian always kept her grounded. What would she do when he was gone? But he was here now, and she needed to make sure he would be safe, something she had done for him since the day he was born.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Brian. I just remembered I need to call Curt. He’s probably on his way to the restaurant to meet us.”</p>
<p>“He is probably s-still wor—king.” Brian’s eyes darted back and forth. His speech impediment that made his ‘r’s sometimes sound like ‘w’s wasn’t nearly as bad as it was when he was younger, and his stutter only showed up when he was nervous.</p>
<p>Kadie grimaced. Curt didn’t answer his phone. He was GDI’s security man and the only full-time employee on their team. Kadie left a message, telling him she was sorry, but she had to leave the restaurant. They’d talk later.</p>
<p>Next, she called Samuel. He didn’t answer either. She slipped her phone back in her cargo pocket and glanced at her brother. He was doing all he could to keep up with Kadie and avoid the distractions of the numerous shops in the marketplace. Gasping, his jaw jutted forward, brow furrowed, and his eyes bulged. He had been reluctant to leave the restaurant; he must be starving. She had to plead with him to get him to budge. </p>
<p>“We did not stay—for food. I am hungry,” Brian said.</p>
<p>“I know. I’m sorry. I am, too.” Her eyes darted back and forth in search of something they could eat. A few moments later she smiled. Near the end of the market, a vendor baked and sold bread. They stopped next to the giant metal oven that extended back into a yellowing mud-brick building. The bread rolled out of the front like doughnuts at Krispy Kreme, and two men placed the warm food on a rack woven out of sticks to cool. Her limited vocabulary in conversational Arabic helped her in situations like this. Kadie bought two loaves of <i>Aish Baladi</i>, an Egyptian flatbread made with whole wheat flour, similar to a pita. Handing the bag of bread to Brian, they continued on their way.</p>
<p>The dust of the market peeled away as they rounded the corner, and their hotel came into sight. Well-lit against the black sky, it sat on the edge of the water where the Suez Canal merged into the Mediterranean Sea. An outdoor restaurant sat to her left; the numerous tables had their umbrellas open, lit candles centered on each table. To her right, a small mosque lay nestled amongst other buildings. This street was far less crowded than the <i>souk</i>.</p>
<p>“What do you think about Curt?” Her chestnut-brown hair bounced as she slowed her pace so Brian could keep up. She needed a conversation to take her mind off Samuel.</p>
<p>“He is okay.” Brian looked away when he answered. Kadie knew what that meant. Brian’s instincts on people were spot on, and he wasn’t very fond of Curt. She wasn’t sure why; she was still trying to figure him out herself. Curt was a few years older than her. He was handsome, dashing, and brave—former Delta Force. There was something to be said for that.</p>
<p>They entered the newly renovated hotel, leaving the Third World atmosphere behind them. Kadie sighed as they weaved through the crowded lobby and lumbered up the stairs to their room on the second floor. She dropped Brian off in their room before she went to check on Samuel.</p>
<p>“Don’t leave,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Brian moved to the couch and pressed the big green button on the television remote.</p>
<p>Kadie closed the door; the hairs on the back of her neck bristled, and her heartbeat raced higher than usual. She hurried down the hall to Samuel’s room. Inside, she heard a loud crash and the sound of something hitting the wall, followed by a solid thud.</p>
<p><i>That’s not good</i>, she thought.</p>
<p>Kadie tried the door handle. Locked. She pulled a small FOB out of her pocket. It was called a Gomer, a new device that opened almost any electronic lock. It had wreaked havoc on the hotel industry, but she had picked one up back in the States knowing she’d be living in hotels abroad for three months.</p>
<p>She was hesitant to use it. She shouldn’t just barge into his room. Then came a second thud, followed by a muffled cry.</p>
<p>Kadie swiped the FOB across the lock and pushed hard against the door. The door cracked open about two inches and abruptly stopped; the chain secured on the inside.</p>
<p>“Samuel?” She peered through the gap; a body lay on the floor. <i>Oh my, he’s had a heart attack.</i> Kadie lowered her shoulder and bulldozed the door. It started to give way. On the second try, the chain burst free from the wall and the door flew open.</p>
<p>Kadie gasped. In the center of the room, a large man stood over Samuel’s body, wearing a faded brown <i>futa</i>, the traditional Yemini male shirt, and black pants. A black <i>keffiyeh</i> covered his face, with only his eyes exposed. </p>
<p>The man stood over Samuel, the bloody knife in his hand dripping on the floor.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Pilate Scroll</i> by M.B. Lewis. Copyright 2022 by Michael Byars Lewis. Reproduced with permission from Michael Byars Lewis. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Michael Byars Lewis" border="0" height="267" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/the-pilate-scroll-by-michael-byars-lewis-author-scaled.jpeg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>Michael Byars Lewis is an Amazon #1 International Bestselling Author, and his books have also been on the Bestseller lists on Barnes and Noble Nook and Kobo platforms. The author of the award-winning Jason Conrad Thriller series has been on numerous author panels at writer’s conferences such as Thrillerfest, The Louisiana Book Festival, The Pensacola Book and Writers Festival, and Killer Nashville. A 25-year Air Force pilot, he has flown special operations combat missions in Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan in the AC-130U Spooky Gunship. Michael is currently a pilot for a major U.S. airline. A proud Christian active in his community, Michael has mentored college students on leadership development and team-building and is a facilitator for an international leadership training program. He has participated as a buddy for the Tim Tebow Foundation’s “Night to Shine” and in his church’s Military Ministry program. Michael has also teamed with the Air Commando Foundation, which supports Air Commando’s and their families’ unmet needs during critical times. While his adventures have led to travels all around the world, Michael lives in Florida with his wife Kim.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With M.B. Lewis:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3Kf4AG2" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.MichaelByarsLewis.com</a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3rqRFIi" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookBub - @MichaelByarsLewis</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3txvlzr" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram - @michaelbyarslewis</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3tyb5ho" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://bit.ly/3tyb5ho" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook - @mblauthor</a></div></h3>
<p style="text-align: center;">Plus, join in the <a href="https://bit.ly/3nuOdLy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter chat - #MichaelByarsLewis</a>!</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">ENTER OUR GIVEAWAY:</span></h2>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-40578413612474795562022-03-11T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-11T10:00:00.171+05:30Showcase: Vice & Virtue by Justin M. Kiska<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Vice & Virtue</span></h2>
<h3>by Justin M. Kiska</h3>
<h4>February 14 – March 11, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2><div><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Vice & Virtue by Justin M. Kiska" border="0" height="319" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/vice-virtue-by-justin-m-kiska-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h4>Parker City, 1984… </h4>
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<p>Three years after the Spring Strangler case rocked the historic Western Maryland city nestled at the foot of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, life has returned to normal for Detective Ben Winters and his partner, Tommy Mason. With a new chief now leading the department and the city slowly crawling out of its economic distress, everything seems to be moving in the right direction.</p>
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<p>Until one sweltering summer day, a killer begins targeting police officers. Ben and Tommy find themselves once again leading an investigation the likes of which Parker City has never seen. The detectives quickly come to realize that until the shooter is found, everyone wearing a badge is in danger. To complicate matters even further, when a recently unearthed skeleton mysteriously connects to the string of police homicides, Ben and Tommy begin to think their current case may be tied to events twenty years earlier.</p>
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<p>But how could a skeleton buried two decades ago hold the key to solving their current case?</p>
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<p> </p><blockquote class="details"><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Level Best Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> February 15, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 288</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 978-1-68512-069-6</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b>Parker City Mysteries, #2 || Each book is a stand alone novel.</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3ra4N4A" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3epAj8N" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>Tall and athletic, Tommy Mason always reminded Ben of Tom Selleck’s <i>Magnum P.I.</i> character from television. Tommy always had that whole ruggedly handsome thing going for him. Mixed with a little bit of a “bad boy” vibe and he drove the women wild.</p>
<p>Next to Ben’s clean-cut, buttoned-down appearance, their pairing caused many to do a doubletake. At first glance, they appeared to be complete opposites. But as one got to know them, they were very much alike. Each brought out the best in the other and at the end of the day, it was all about getting the job done. Sure, each had his own style, but that’s what made them such a formidable team.</p>
<p>Tommy’s apparent willingness to skirt the rules was always offset by Ben’s ability to find ways to use the rules to their benefit. Just as Ben’s refusal to play the internal politics game allowed Tommy to use his charm to keep too many feathers from getting ruffled amongst the powers-that-be. They each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses and how to adapt them to their own, which is why they’d been so impressive in getting the PCPD’s Detective Squad off the ground.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” Ben asked, more than a little surprised to see his partner.</p>
<p>“Shirley from Dispatch called me. She thought I’d be interested,” Tommy explained. “And before you say anything about what I’m wearing, I just want to remind you, it is our day off, so I didn’t think I needed to get dressed up to come to a potential crime scene. Especially when we don’t actually know this is a crime scene yet.”</p>
<p>He was referring to the fact he had on a T-shirt and comfortable pair of jeans, as opposed to the full suit and tie Ben was wearing.</p>
<p>“Besides, now you don’t have to worry about getting your fancy suit muddy. I have no problems getting down there in the dirt,” Tommy smiled, pointing at the fresh mud stains on his knees. With that, he knelt back down to take another look at the exposed skeletal remains under the floorboards.</p>
<p>“So, tell me. What do we have?” Ben asked, crouching next to Tommy so he could get a better look.</p>
<p>“You can see there’s a pretty big cavity here under this part of the floor,” Tommy pointed out. “It’s got to be a good ten by ten area where the ground has been eaten away, even though it’s not too deep, less than a foot in some places. It’s definitely because of water…there’s a lot of mud down there. As the earth under the floor eroded, it uncovered the skeleton. Partway, at least. Of course, no one could see what was happening under here until our friend Mr. Haggarty had the unfortunate experience of stepping on a board that was rotted through and it snapped, sending him falling through the floor. You can see where he landed in the mud.</p>
<p>“And right there,” Tommy pointed, “you see the skull and top portion of the skeleton sticking out of the ground.”</p>
<p>“You came face-to-face with that thing, man?” Tommy looked over at the construction worker who was leaning against the wall. “Not a good way to start the day.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. You’re telling me,” Haggarty answered.</p>
<p>Turning back to the skeleton, Tommy said, “I’m no expert, but that hole in the skull right there…see it, it looks like it could be a GSW from a pretty heavy caliber gun.”</p>
<p>Leaning down and twisting his head so he could try and get a better look at the skull, Ben saw the hole and wondered if his partner was right. Finding a skeleton buried under the floor was one thing. Finding a skeleton buried under the floor with a bullet hole in its skull was something else. It took everything to a different level.</p>
<p>Standing and stretching their legs, Tommy said, “When Shirley first called me, I thought this was going to have been some kind of prank. Some kids snuck into the site on a dare and left a skeleton for the crew to find.”</p>
<p>“You thought kids somehow buried a skeleton under this building in the hopes someone would fall through the floor and find it?” Ben asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not to mention having to figure out <i>how</i> to bury the thing under the floor?”</p>
<p>“In my defense,” Tommy started, raising a finger and shaking it at his partner, “I didn’t know the skeleton was buried <i>under</i> the warehouse. I just knew they’d found a skeleton <i>at</i> the warehouse.”</p>
<p>The first thing that needed to happen was to get the skeleton out of the ground. That would be up to the crime scene techs. Even though he could easily reach in and pull the skull out to get a better look, Ben didn’t want to disturb anything more than it already had been when Lance Haggarty crashed through the floor. Thankfully, he hadn’t actually landed on the skull itself.</p>
<p>“So much for our day off,” Ben said, looking at his watch, wondering where the crime scene guys were.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Vice & Virtue</i> by Justin M. Kiska. Copyright 2022 by Justin M. Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M. Kiska. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Justin M. Kiska" border="0" height="280" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/vice-virtue-by-justin-m-kiska-Author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>When not sitting in his library devising new and clever ways to kill people (for his mysteries), Justin can usually be found at The Way Off Broadway Dinner Theatre, outside of Washington, DC, where he is one of the owners and producers. In addition to writing the Parker City Mysteries Series, he is also the mastermind behind Marquee Mysteries, a series of interactive mystery events he has been writing and producing for over fifteen years. Justin and his wife, Jessica, live along Lake Linganore outside of Frederick, Maryland.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Our Author:</span></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-85223507997855512242022-03-08T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-08T10:00:00.173+05:30Showcase: Murder At The CDC by Jon Land<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/murder-at-the-cdc-by-jon-land/" title="MURDER AT THE CDC by Jon Land"><img alt="MURDER AT THE CDC by Jon Land Banner" class="aligncenter size-full" height="338" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/murder-at-the-cdc-by-jon-land-banner-r1.jpg" width="600" /></a></h2>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Murder at the CDC</span></h2>
<h3>by Jon Land</h3>
<h4>February 14 - March 11, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Murder at the CDC by Jon Land" border="0" height="312" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/murder-at-the-cdc-by-jon-land-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>2017: A military transport on a secret run to dispose of its deadly contents vanishes without a trace.</p>
<p>The present: A mass shooting on the steps of the Capitol nearly claims the life of Robert Brixton’s grandson.</p>
<p>No stranger to high-stakes investigations, Brixton embarks on a trail to uncover the motive behind the shooting. On the way he finds himself probing the attempted murder of the daughter his best friend, who works at the Washington offices of the CDC. The connection between the mass shooting and Alexandra’s poisoning lies in that long-lost military transport that has been recovered by forces determined to change America forever. Those forces are led by radical separatist leader Deacon Frank Wilhyte, whose goal is nothing short of bringing on a second Civil War. Brixton joins forces with Kelly Lofton, a former Baltimore homicide detective. She has her own reasons for wanting to find the truth behind the shooting on the Capitol steps, and is the only person with the direct knowledge Brixton needs. But chasing the truth places them in the cross-hairs of both Wilhyte’s legions and his Washington enablers.</p>
<h4><div style="text-align: center;">"A wonderful mystery novel, riveting until the last page."</div><div style="text-align: center;">--Strand Magazine</div></h4>
<p></p>
<h4><div style="text-align: center;">"A terrific tale that never lets up."</div><div style="text-align: center;">--Sandra Brown</div></h4>
<p> </p><blockquote class="details"><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Political Thriller</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Forge</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> February 15, 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 304</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 978-1250238894</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> Margaret Truman's Capital Crimes, #32 | Each is a stand alone work.</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3Ib1dOy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3KpKEAa" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3qHJ7ha" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h5>PROLOGUE</h5>
<p>December, 2016</p>
<p>The tanker lumbered through the night, headlights cutting a thin swath out of the storm raging around it.</p>
<p>“I can’t raise them, sir,” said Corporal Larry Kleinhurst, walkie-talkie still pressed tight against his ear.</p>
<p> “Try again,” Captain Frank Hall said from the wheel. </p>
<p> “Red Dog Two, this is Red Dog One, do you read me? Repeat, do you read me?”</p>
<p> No voice greeted him in response.</p>
<p> Kleinhurst pressed the walkie-talkie tighter. “Red Dog Three, this is Red Dog One, do you read me? Repeat, do you read me?”</p>
<p> Nothing again.</p>
<p> Kleinhurst lowered the walkie-talkie, as if to inspect it. “What’s the range on these things?”</p>
<p> “Couple miles, maybe a little less in this slop.”</p>
<p> “How’d we lose both our lead and follow teams?”</p>
<p> Hall remained silent in the driver’s seat, squeezing the steering wheel tighter. Procedure dictated that they rotate the driving duties in two-hour shifts, this one being the last before they reached their destination.</p>
<p> “We must be off the route, must have followed the wrong turn-off,” Kleinhurst said, squinting into the black void around them.</p>
<p> Hall snapped a look the corporal’s way. “Or the security teams did,” he said defensively.</p>
<p> “Both of them?” And when Hall failed to respond, he continued, “Unless somebody took them out.”</p>
<p> “Give it a rest, Corporal.”</p>
<p> “We could be headed straight for an ambush.”</p>
<p> “Or I fucked up and took the wrong turn-off. That’s what you’re saying.”</p>
<p> “I’m saying we could be lost, sir,” Kleinhurst told him, leaving it there.</p>
<p> He strained to see through the big truck’s windshield. They had left the Tooele Army Depot in Tooele County, Utah right on schedule at four o’clock pm for the twelve-hour journey to Umatilla, Oregon which housed the Umatilla Chemical Depot, destination of whatever they were hauling in the tanker. The actual final resting place of those contents, Kleinhurst knew, was actually the Umatilla Chemical Agent Disposal Facility located on the depot’s grounds, about which rumors ran rampant. He’d never spoken to anyone who’d actually seen its inner workings, but the tales of what had already been disposed of there was enough to make his skin crawl, weapons that could wipe out the world’s population several times over.</p>
<p> Which told Kleinhurst all he needed to know about whatever it was they were hauling, now without any security escort.</p>
<p> “We’re following the map, Corporal,” Hall said from behind the wheel, as if needing to explain himself further, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. </p>
<p> He kept playing with the lights in search of a beam level that could better reveal what lay ahead. But the storm gave little back, continuing to intensify the further they drew into the night. Mapping out a route the old-fashioned way might have been primitive by today’s standards, but procedure dictated they avoid the likes of Waze and Google Maps out of fear anything web-based could be hacked to the point where they might be rerouted to where potential hijackers were lying in wait.</p>
<p> Another thump atop the ragged, unpaved road shook Hall and Kleinhurst in their seats. They had barely settled back down when a heftier jolt jarred the rig mightily to the left. Hall managed to right it with a hard twist of the wheel that squeezed the blood from his hands.</p>
<p> “Captain . . .”</p>
<p> “This is the route they gave us, Corporal.”</p>
<p> Kleinhurst laid the map between them. “Not if I’m reading this right. With all due respect, sir, I believe we should turn back.”</p>
<p> Hall cast him a condescending stare. “This your first Red Dog run, son?”</p>
<p> “Yes, sir, it is.”</p>
<p> “When you’re hauling a shipment like what we got, you don’t turn back, no matter what. When they call us, it’s because they never want to see whatever we’re carrying again.”</p>
<p> With good reason, Kleinhurst thought. Among the initial chemicals stored at Umatilla, and the first to be destroyed at the chemical agent disposal facility housed there, were containers of GB and VX nerve agents, along with HD blister agent. The Tooele Army Depot, where their drive had originated, meanwhile, served as a storage site for war reserve and training munitions, supposedly devoted to conventional ordnance. In point of fact, the military also stored nonconventional munitions there in secret, a kind of way station for chemical weapons deemed too dangerous to store anywhere else.</p>
<p> The normal route from Tooele to Umatilla would have taken just over ten hours via I-84 west. But a Red Dog run required a different route entirely off the main roads in order to avoid population centers. The point was to steer clear of anywhere people resided to avoid the kind of attention an accident or spill would have otherwise caused, necessitating a much more winding route Hall and Kleinhurst hadn’t been given until moments prior to their departure. A helicopter had accompanied them through the first stages of the drive, chased away when a mountain storm the forecasts had made no mention of whipped up out of nowhere and caught the convoy in its grasp. Now two-thirds of that convoy had dropped off the map, leaving the tanker alone, unsecured, and exposed, deadly contents and all.</p>
<p> Kleinhurst’s mouth was so dry, he could barely swallow. “What exactly are we carrying, sir?”</p>
<p> Hall smirked. “If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be driving this rig.”</p>
<p> Kleinhurst’s eyes darted to the radio. “What about calling in?”</p>
<p> “We’re past the point of no return. That means radio silence, soldier. They don’t hear a peep from us until we get where we’re going.”</p>
<p> Kleinhurst watched the rig’s wipers slap at the pelting rain collecting on the windshield, only to have a fresh layer form the instant they had completed their sweep. “Even in an emergency? Even if we lost our escorts miles back in this slop?”</p>
<p> “Let me give it to you straight,” Hall snapped, a sharper edge entering his voice. “The stuff we’re hauling in this tanker doesn’t exist. That means we don’t exist. That means we talk to nobody. Got it?”</p>
<p> “Yes, sir,” Kleinhurst sighed.</p>
<p> “Good,” said Hall. “We get where we’re supposed to go and figure things out from there. But right now . . .” His voice drifted, as he stole a glance at the map.</p>
<p> Suddenly Kleinhurst lurched forward, straining the bonds of his shoulder harness to peer through the windshield. “Jesus Christ, up there straight ahead!”</p>
<p> “What?”</p>
<p> “Look!”</p>
<p> “At what?”</p>
<p> “Can’t you see it?”</p>
<p> “I can’t see shit through this muck, Corporal.”</p>
<p> “Slow down.”</p>
<p> Hall stubbornly held to his speed.</p>
<p> “Slow down, for God’s sake. Can’t you see it?”</p>
<p> “I can’t see a thing!”</p>
<p> “That’s it, like the world before us is gone. You need to stop!”</p>
<p> Hall hit the brakes and the rig’s tires locked up, sending the tanker into a vicious skid across the road. He tried to work the steering wheel, but it fought him every inch of the way, turning the skid into a spin through an empty wave of darkness.</p>
<p> “There!” Kleinhurst screamed. </p>
<p> “What in God’s name,” Hall rasped, still fighting to steer when a mouth opened out of the storm like a vast maw. </p>
<p>He desperately worked the brake and the clutch, trying to regain control. He’d been out in hurricanes, tornados, even earthquakes. None of those, though, compared to the sense of airlessness both he and Kleinhurst felt around them, almost as if they were floating over a massive vacuum that was sucking them downward. He’d done his share of parachute jumps for his airborne training and the sensation was eerily akin to those first few moments in freefall before the chute deployed. He remembered the sense of not so much being unable to breathe, as being trapped between breaths for an absurdly long moment.</p>
<p>The rig’s nose pitched downward, everything in the cab sent rattling. The dashboard lights flickered and died, the world beyond lost to darkness as the tanker dropped into oblivion.</p>
<p> And then there was nothing.</p>
<h5>CHAPTER 1</h5>
<p>“The hand of God is upon You! He is my shepherd and I shall not want!”</p>
<p> Those were the last words high school sophomore Ben McDonald heard before the shooting started. He and the other students clustered around him from the Gilman School in Maryland were on a school field trip to the Capitol Building from their Baltimore prep school, the first such trip taken since academic life returned to a degree of normalcy following the endless coronavirus nightmare. Everyone had shown up in their school uniforms, the buses had left on schedule, and the students felt like pioneers, explorers blazing a trail back into the world beyond shutdowns and social distancing.</p>
<p> The reduction in Capitol tour group size was still in force and had necessitated the two bus-loads of students to be divided into five groups of fifteen, give or take, three chaperones allotted to each. Ben and his twin brother Robbie’s group had gone first and they had found themselves lingering on the Capitol steps, taking pictures and chatting away with their local congressman and senator who’d come out to greet and mingle with the students on the steps at the building’s east front.</p>
<p> “Why are you still wearing a mask?” one of them had asked the congressman, but Ben had already forgotten the answer.</p>
<p> He remembered checking the time on his phone just before he heard the first shots. Ben thought they were firecrackers at first, realizing the truth a breath later when the screams began and bodies started flying.</p>
<p> “I am doing the Lord’s work! I am a sacrifice to his word!”</p>
<p> Somehow Ben gleaned those words through the screams and incessant hail of fire. The shots were coming so fast he wasn’t sure if the shooter was firing on semi or full auto. The boy never actually saw him as more than a shape amid the blur before him, enveloping his vision like a dull haze. The thin sheer curtain drawn over his eyes didn’t keep him from recording bodies crumpling, keeling over, tumbling down the steps. The force of a bullet’s momentum slammed a classmate into him, sparing Ben the ensuing fusillade that turned the other boy’s back into a pin cushion.</p>
<p> My brother!</p>
<p> The panic and shock of those initial seconds had stolen thought of Robbie from him. He wheeled about, covered in the blood of boy who had dropped off the scene.</p>
<p> “Robbie!”</p>
<p> Did he cry out his name or only think it? The steps around him looked blanketed in khaki and blue, pants and blazers that made up his Gilman uniform. The sound of gunfire continued to resound in his ears, but he wasn’t sure the shooter was still firing because no more bodies seemed to be falling. People were running in all directions, crying and screaming, Ben remaining frozen out of fear for his brother.</p>
<p> “Robbie!”</p>
<p> He saw his brother’s sandy blond hair draped down from one of the marble steps onto another. Nothing else at first, just the hair. Maybe he had dove atop a friend who’d been wounded to spare that kid more fire—that was Robbie. But there was no one beneath Him, and . . . And . . .</p>
<p> He wasn’t moving, his arms stretched to the sides on angles that looked all wrong. Ben dropped to his knees next to Robbie, his pants sinking into pooling patches of blood which merged and thickened beneath him. He felt something pinching him along right side of his ribcage and saw his blue shirt darkening with a spreading wave of red in the last moment before he collapsed next to his brother.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>MURDER AT THE CDC</i> by Jon Land. Copyright 2022 by Jon Land. Reproduced with permission from Jon Land. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Jon Land" border="0" height="300" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/murder-at-the-cdc-by-jon-land-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>JON LAND is the USA Today bestselling author of fifty-eight books, including eleven in the critically acclaimed Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong series, the most recent of which, Strong from the Heart, won the 2020 American Fiction Award for Best Thriller and the 2020 American Book Fest Award for Best Mystery/Suspense Novel. Additionally, he has teamed up with Heather Graham for a science fiction series that began with THE RISING (winner of the 2017 International Book Award for best Sci-fi Novel) and continues with BLOOD MOON, to be published in November of 2022. He has also written six books in the Murder, She Wrote series of mysteries and has more recently taken over Margaret Truman's Capital Crimes series, with his second effort, MURDER AT THE CDC, to be published in February of 2022. Jon is known as well for writing the film DIRTY DEEDS, a teen comedy starring Milo Ventimiglia and Zoe Saldana, which was released in 2005. A graduate of Brown University, he received the 2019 Rhode Island Authors Legacy Award for his lifetime of literary achievements.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-43535232744512384442022-03-04T10:00:00.001+05:302022-03-04T10:00:00.167+05:30Showcase: Trust Me by Kelly Irvin<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Trust Me</span></h2>
<h3>by Kelly Irvin</h3>
<h4>February 7 - March 4, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Trust Me by Kelly Irvin" border="0" height="305" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/trust-me-by-kelly-irvin-cover.jpeg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>When her best friend is murdered the same way her brother was, who can she possibly trust?</h3>
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<p>A decade ago, Delaney Broward discovered her brother’s murdered body at the San Antonio art co-op he founded with friends. Her artist boyfriend, Hunter Nash, went to prison for the murder, despite his not-guilty plea.</p>
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<p>This morning, Hunter walks out of prison a free man, having served his sentence.</p>
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<p>This afternoon, Delaney finds her best friend dead, murdered in the same fashion as her brother.</p>
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<p>Stay out of it or you're next, the killer warns.</p>
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<p>Hunter never stopped loving Delaney, though he can’t blame her for not forgiving her. He knows he’ll get his life back one day at a time, one step at a time. But he’s blindsided to realize he’s a murder suspect. Again.</p>
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<p>When Hunter shows up on her doorstep asking her to help him find the real killer, Delaney’s head says to run away, yet her heart tells her there’s more to his story than what came out in the trial. An uneasy truce leads to their probe into a dark past that shatters Delaney’s image of her brother. She can’t stop and neither can Hunter—which lands them both in the crosshairs of a murderer growing more desperate by the hour.</p>
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<h4>In this gripping romantic suspense, Kelly Irvin plumbs the complexity of broken trust in the people we love—and in God—and whether either can be mended.</h4>
<blockquote class="details">
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Mystery, Suspense</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Thomas Nelson</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> February 8th 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 384</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 0785231935 (ISBN13: 9780785231936)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3le6CLM" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3p6y5Qs" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3xr3d0N" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Christianbook.com</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3FOE2rX" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h3 style="text-align: center;">CHAPTER 1</h3>
<h4>APRIL 22, 2010<br />
SAN ANTONIO ART CO-OP<br />
SOUTHTOWN, SAN ANTONIO</h4>
<p>The cloying stench of pot told the same old story.</p>
<p>With an irritated sigh Delaney Broward quickened her pace through the warehouse-turned-art-co-op toward her brother’s studio at the far end of the cavernous hall. On his best days Corey had little sense of time. Add a joint to the mix and he lost his sense not only of time but of responsibility. It also explained why he didn’t answer his phone. When he got high and started painting, he wanted no interruptions. His lime-green VW van was parked cattywampus across two spaces in the lot that faced Alamo Street just south of downtown San Antonio. He might be physically present, but his THC-soaked mind had escaped its cell.</p>
<p>Marijuana served as his muse and taskmaster. Or so he’d said.</p>
<p>The soles of her huarache sandals clacking on the concrete floor sounded loud in Delaney’s ears. “Corey? Corey! You were supposed to pick us up at Ellie’s. Come on, dude. She’s waiting.”</p>
<p>No answer.</p>
<p>At this rate Delaney would never get to Night in Old San Antonio, affectionately known to most local folks as NIOSA. Everyone who was anyone knew it was pronounced NI-O-SA, long <i>I</i> and long <i>O</i>, the best party-slash-fundraiser during the mother of all parties where her boyfriend would be waiting for her. “Hey, bro, I’m starving. Let’s go.”</p>
<p>Delaney’s phone rang. She slowed and dug it from the pocket of her stonewashed jeans. Speaking of Ellie. “I’m at the co-op now. He’s here.”</p>
<p><i>Share as little info as possible.</i></p>
<p>“He’s stoned again, isn’t he? I’m sick of this.” Ellie’s shrill voice rose even higher. “I swear if he stands me up again— ”</p>
<p>“<i>Us.</i> Stands <i>us</i> up.”</p>
<p>“Stood us up again. That will be it. I’m done. I’m done waiting around for him. I’m done playing second fiddle to his self-destructive habits. I’m done with his starving-artist, free-spirit, pothead schtick. The man is a walking stereotype. I’m done with him, period.”</p>
<p>Delaney mouthed the words along with her friend. She knew the lyrics of this lovesick song by heart. The childish rejoinder “It takes one to know one” stuck in her throat. “We’ll be there in twenty. You can tell him yourself.”</p>
<p>Ellie would and then Corey would kiss her until she took it all back. With a final huff Ellie hung up.</p>
<p>The door to his studio— the largest and with the best light because the co-op was Corey’s dream child— stood open. “Seriously, Corey. Think of someone besides yourself once in a while, please.” Delaney strode through the door, ready to ream her brother up one side and down the other. “You are so selfish.”</p>
<p>Delaney halted. At first blush it didn’t make sense. Twisted and smashed canvases littered the floor. Along with paints, brushes, beer bottles, and Thai food take-out cartons.</p>
<p>Wooden easels were broken like toothpicks and scattered on top of the canvases. Someone had splattered red paint over another finished piece— a woman eating a raspa in front of a vendor’s mobile cart, the Alamo in the background.</p>
<p>Delaney’s hands went to her throat. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the odor of human waste gagged her. A fiery shiver started at her toes and raced like a lit fuse to her brain. Her mind took in detail after detail. That way she didn’t have to face the bigger picture staring her in the face. “Please, God, no.”</p>
<p>Even He couldn’t fix this.</p>
<p>She shot forward, stumbled, and fell to her knees. Her legs refused to work. She crawled the remainder of the distance to Corey across a floor marred by still-wet oil paint, beer, and other liquids she couldn’t bear to identify.</p>
<p>He sat with his back against the wall. His long legs clad in paint-splattered jeans sprawled in front of him. His feet were bare. His hands with those thin, expressive fingers lay in his lap. Deep lacerations scored his palms and fingers.</p>
<p>Her throat aching with the effort not to vomit, Delaney forced her gaze to move upward. His T-shirt, once white, now shone scarlet with blood. His blood. Rips in the shirt left his chest exposed, revealing stab wounds— too many to count.</p>
<p>Delaney opened her mouth. <i>Scream. Just scream. Let it out.</i></p>
<p>No sound emerged.</p>
<p>She crawled alongside her big brother until she could lean her shoulder and head against the wall. “Corey?” she whispered.</p>
<p>His green eyes, fringed by thick, dark lashes that were the envy of every woman he’d ever dated, were open and startled. His skin, always pale and ethereal, had a blue tinge to it.</p>
<p>Delaney drowned in a tsunami of nausea. “Come on, Corey, this isn’t funny. I need you.”</p>
<p>Her teeth chattered. Hands shaking, she touched his throat. His skin was cold. So cold.</p>
<p><i>Too late, too late, too late.</i> The words screamed in her head. S<i>top it. Just stop it.</i> “You can’t be dead. You’re not allowed to die.”</p>
<p>Mom and Dad had died in a car wreck a week past her eighth birthday. Nana and Pops had taken their turns the year Delaney turned eighteen. Everybody she cared about died.</p>
<p>Not Corey. Delaney punched in 9–1–1.</p>
<p>The operator’s assurance that help was on the way did nothing to soothe Delaney. She sat cross-legged and dragged Corey’s shoulders and head into her lap. She had to warm him up. “Tell them to hurry. Tell them my brother needs help.”</p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am. They’re en route.” </p>
<p>“Tell them he’s all I’ve got.”</p>
<h3>CHAPTER 2</h3>
<h4>TEN YEARS LATER<br />
NASH RESIDENCE, SAN ANTONIO</h4>
<p>Real men didn’t cry. Not even during a reunion with a beloved truck.</p>
<p>Swallowing hard, Hunter Nash wrapped his fingers around the keys, concentrating on the feel of the metal pressing into his skin. He cleared his throat. “Thanks, Mom. For keeping it all these years.”</p>
<p>His mom didn’t bother to try to hide her tears. She wiped her plump cheeks on a faded dish towel, offered him a tremulous smile, and bustled down the sidewalk that led from the house on San Antonio’s near west side where Hunter had grown up to the detached two-car garage in the back. It had housed his truck for the past eight years. Almost ten if he counted the two years it took for his case to go to trial. He had no place to go in those years when he’d allegedly been innocent until proven guilty. His friends no longer friends and his job gone, he had no need for transportation.</p>
<p>The door to the garage was padlocked. Mom handed him the key. “My hands are shaking. You’d better do the honors.” She stepped back. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”</p>
<p>“I did my time, Ma.” As a model prisoner he’d earned time off for good behavior. It was easy for a guy to behave when he spent his days and nights scared spitless.</p>
<p>“I know. All those nights I’ve lain in bed worrying about you in that place, whether you were safe, if you were hurt, if you were sick.” Her voice broke. “I can’t believe it’s over.”</p>
<p>“Me neither.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t over. In fact, it was just beginning, but she didn’t need to know that. His determination to prove his innocence would only worry her more. A divorced mother of four, she’d raised her kids on a teacher’s salary and an occasional child support check from the crud-for-brains ex-husband who showed up once every couple of years in an attempt to make nice with his kids. She deserved a break.</p>
<p>The aging manual garage door squeaked and protested when Hunter yanked on the handle. He needed to do some work around here, starting with applying some WD-40. The smell of mold and old motor oil wafted from the dark interior. Hunter slipped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. A layer of dust covered the 2002 midnight-blue Dodge RAM 1500, but otherwise it remained in the pristine condition in which he’d left it the night he said goodbye and promised he’d be back. “My baby.”</p>
<p>More tears trickling down her face, Mom chuckled softly. “After you finish reintroducing yourself, come back inside. I’m making your favorite chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, pineapple coleslaw, and creamed corn. Your brother and sisters are coming over after work. Shawna’s bringing a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Melissa’s contribution is three kinds of ice cream, including rocky road. She said it seemed appropriate. I hope you haven’t lost your sense of humor. And you know Curtis. He’s all about the beer.”</p>
<p>The last thing Hunter wanted to do was celebrate with his sibs. Mel and Shawna had visited faithfully at first, but less as the years rolled by. Curtis never showed, even though Fabian Dominguez State Jail was only a few miles down the road from San Antonio.</p>
<p>Nor did Hunter want to explain why he’d sworn off alcohol. The conditions of his parole included monthly pee tests— no alcohol or drugs, but that part of his life was over anyway. It had been easy to comply in prison, obviously. Whether he could maintain his sobriety in the beer drinking capital of the country remained to be seen. He’d do AA if necessary. “Mom— ”</p>
<p>“No buts. They’re family. They love you. You need to live life, enjoy life, make up for all you’ve missed. You haven’t even met most of your nieces and nephews. Did you know Mel is expecting another baby in August?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I— ”</p>
<p>“Today we celebrate your new job and your new life.”</p>
<p>His bachelor of fine arts with an emphasis in drawing and painting from Southwest School of Art might once have allowed him to teach art in one of the school districts, but not anymore.</p>
<p>It didn’t matter. The prison chaplain had hooked him up with Pastor James. The preacher ran a faith-based community center that served at-risk youth. He’d hired Hunter to teach art to those who’d already had their first brush with the law. He figured Hunter could teach life lessons at the same time he introduced them to art as a way to channel their anger at the hand life had dealt them. Learning what happened when a guy got off track would be the lesson.</p>
<p>Even though Hunter hadn’t gotten off the track. He’d been shoved off it. By an eager-beaver, newbie detective; a green-as-a-Granny-Smith-apple public defender; and an assembly-line justice system.</p>
<p>He would get by in this world that had hung him out to dry. Especially knowing Mom had his back. She had that <i>don’t-mess-with-me</i> teacher look in her burnt-amber eyes. Like her sixth graders, Hunter knew better than to argue. It felt good to know she remained in his corner. When everyone else had hit the ground, scattering in opposite directions, she never budged in her belief that son number two could not be a murderer. She’d brought him up better than that.</p>
<p>“You’re right. Give me a few minutes.”</p>
<p>She patted his chest and stretched on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. Her lips were chapped, and the wrinkles had deepened around her mouth and eyes. Her long hair had gone pure white during his years away. “Take your time, sweetheart.”</p>
<p>Hunter gritted his teeth. After years of looking over his shoulder, bobbing and weaving around hard-core convicts who’d as soon shank a guy in the shower as look at him, he didn’t know how to cope with nice. With sweet. With love tempered with wisdom and a hard life.</p>
<p><i>“One day at a time.”</i> That’s what the prison chaplain had told him. <i>“Get through the next minute, the next hour, the next day.”</i> That’s how he did eight years at Dominguez. This couldn’t be any harder. He opened the truck’s door and slid into the driver’s seat. The faint odor of pine air freshener greeted him. And citrus.</p>
<p>More likely that was his imagination. Delaney’s perfume simply could not linger that long. <i>Move on. She has.</i> She did. To her credit Delaney held on as long as she could— until the guilty verdict. Then she was forced to move on. She couldn’t be blamed for that.</p>
<p>Hunter picked up the sketch pad on the passenger seat. In those days he kept one everywhere. Just in case. The first page. The second. The third. All drawings of Delaney. Sweet Laney eating a slice of watermelon at a Fourth of July celebration. Laney rocking Hunter’s newborn nephew in a hickory rocker on the front porch. Laney in a bathing suit sitting on the dock at Medina Lake. Laney with her soulful eyes, long sandy-brown hair, and air of sad vulnerability worn like a pair of old jeans that fit perfectly. That too-big nose, wide mouth, and pointed chin. Corey might have been the angelic beauty— totally unfair— but Delaney’s face had character. She had a face Hunter never ceased to want to draw and paint.</p>
<p>And kiss.</p>
<p>He turned the pages slowly, allowing the memories to have their way with him. Meeting at a party Corey had thrown when Delaney was a senior in high school. Their first date, ribs and smoked chicken with heart-stopping creamed corn, potato salad, coleslaw, and jalapeños at Rudy’s Country Store and Bar-B-Q followed by dancing at Leon Springs Dance Hall.</p>
<p>She had danced with the abandon of a small child. As if she didn’t care who watched. Her face glowed with perspiration. Her green eyes sparkled with happiness. His two left feet couldn’t keep up, but she didn’t mind. She twirled her peasant skirt as she flew around him, her hands in the air, her curves beckoning.</p>
<p>Hunter closed his eyes. Her softness enveloped him. Her sweetness surrounded him.</p>
<p>He needed to see her again. He needed to talk to her. Somehow he had to prove to her that she was wrong about him. Whatever it took. He laid the sketchbook aside. “Come on, dude, let’s take a ride.”</p>
<p>He stuck the key in the ignition and turned it.</p>
<p>Nothing. Not even a <i>tick-tick-tick</i>. He tried a second time. Nada. “I’m an idiot.” He patted the steering wheel. “Not your fault, man.”</p>
<p>The truck hadn’t been driven in years. The battery was dead. He might be able to jump it, but more likely he’d need a new one. Batteries cost money.</p>
<p>One thing at a time. He’d waited this long.</p>
<p>Hunter slid from the truck and eased the door closed. “I’ll be back when I get my act together.”</p>
<p>In the kitchen Hunter found his mom peeling potatoes. She pointed the peeler at him. “You can’t imagine how good it feels to have you home.”</p>
<p>“You can’t imagine how good it feels to be here.” He landed a kiss on her soft hair. She smelled of Pond’s cold cream. The same old comforting scent. Life had changed but not her. “I’m gonna take a walk. I need to blow the prison stink off.”</p>
<p>“Enjoy. They redid the walking trail at the lake and installed new outdoor fitness equipment.” She waved the paring knife in the air. “But don’t stay too long. You have company coming.”</p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am.” He pantomimed a mock salute and headed for the front door.</p>
<p><i>One thing at a time.</i> One step at a time. That’s how he’d get his life back.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Trust Me</i> by Kelly Irvin. Copyright 2022 by Kelly Irvin. Reproduced with permission from Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
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<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Kelly Irvin is a bestselling, award-winning author of over twenty novels and stories. A retired public relations professional, Kelly lives with her husband, Tim, in San Antonio. They have two children, three grandchildren, and two ornery cats.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-1345112562499447042022-02-24T10:00:00.001+05:302022-02-24T10:00:00.171+05:30Release Day Blitz: Forever Yours by Alisha Kay, Andaleeb Wajid, and Shilpa Suraj<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/2022/02/releasedayblitz-forever-yours-novel-in-3-parts.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNlTqTIBGkkyqD5S-3hzZaCb13lgdpw6_XcX5aLtJ3lpcOwINVAj4iov9OeVE0sZgEvUqC0s9j5oTjbD1ysyzD71-Lo8EKFhSXzb53w4qlmk3zYnmnychRfdeFyg1LZRq3AAzE-ZNP6PNSnVVrkgaCeA3bYCn-M5odwPKdreNGCpwkp4YWpyU4w-YQ=s320" width="320" /></a><br /><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: center;">A fake engagement has gotten disturbingly real…</h3><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/2022/02/releasedayblitz-forever-yours-novel-in-3-parts.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2396" data-original-width="1601" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgis_qxfas7zC2O-IVlhZG-RN8HYYdAbCa2w0_n_M1MdqrRaDp-anT7ryTLQ5V0FbQkpd4zyW80abYXTf2QcftBObjezuQ9Dvr9dvA4-J5NOKjYQ9pCxKeS2s2J1zeaWaypjBpc18hsBnO4Bs5a0AAHvYjtEdM8YldCnCKFMIJEzY_-Czdf--XIor6U=s320" width="214" /></a></div><div>When a pretend engagement ends in a very real combined bachelor/bachelorette weekend in Goa, three couples find their lives going from chaotic to disastrous…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hatefully Yours by Alisha Kay</span> is the quintessential enemies to lovers story with a very interesting twist.<br />Aditi and Manan hate each other but love their mutual best friend, Karthik. Planning his bachelor party is a trip to hell sprinkled with accidental kisses that taste of heaven. Past misunderstandings, present attraction, and a future built on hope all tangles together to make this weekend one to remember.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sinfully Yours by Shilpa Suraj</span> is the story of a one night stand turning into nights that they hope never end.<br />Sidharth is Bollywood’s biggest hit-turned-overnight-flop. His best friend Sanjana’s bachelorette in Goa is the perfect place for him to hide out and drink his sorrows away. Until he passes out in the arms of the extremely hot pixie who moonlights as a bartender in a shack in Goa. And Dani is left with an armful of drunk movie star who is as messed up as he is hot.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Deceitfully Yours by Andaleeb Wajid</span> is the story of what happens when a fake relationship starts to feel very, very real.<br />Sanjana and Karthik just wanted their parents to stop talking marriage to them. So, they faked an engagement and now their parents are not talking marriage but planning a wedding instead. When their friends throw them a combined bachelor and bachelorette party, they use the opportunity to plan their breakup. Except behind all well laid plans lies the path to disaster.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Three love stories, three oddball couples, one epic weekend in Goa…</b></div><div><i>Will they find their heart’s twisted path or focus on the brain’s straight-but-boring one? Will they gamble on their happily-ever-after or choose to leave Goa as they came, single and not ready to mingle?</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Book Links:</span></u></b></div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60392411-forever-yours---a-novel-in-three-parts" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3BEjTUJ" target="_blank">Amazon.in</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3BL4t1a" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a></b></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Short Excerpt from Hatefully Yours by Alisha Kay</span></u></h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>No! God, no! Not her! Anyone but her.</div><div>What the hell was Aditi Kedia doing here?</div><div>The minute he asked himself that, Manan could have kicked himself. Of course, she’d be here. She was Karthik’s friend, just as he was, and while Karthik was the smartest guy he knew, he was completely oblivious to the cold vibes between his two best friends. Or maybe he didn’t care. He wouldn’t see anything wrong in inviting both his friends together.</div><div>Something else struck him, and the biryani that he’d had for lunch threatened to make a second appearance.</div><div>His mother hadn’t told him anything about the girl that Karthik was supposed to marry. Just said that she was a friend of his. Was it Aditi?</div><div>Every cell in his body revolted at the idea of Karthik marrying Aditi. He told himself that it was because he didn’t want his friend to be ensnared by the evil little she-devil. It had nothing to do with the way his heart sped up at the very sight of her. Or the very inexplicable impulse that came over him occasionally to kiss her senseless.</div><div>Not that he ever gave in to such an impulse. He hated Aditi with all his heart. That’s all there was to it.</div><div><br /></div><br /><div><div><b>Alisha Kay </b>writes funny, exciting and steamy stories, with spunky heroines who can rescue themselves, and hot, woke heroes who find such independence irresistible.</div><div>The first book in The Devgarh Royals series, The Maharaja’s Fake Fiancée, won the grand prize at the Amazon KDP Pen to Publish Contest 2020.</div></div><div><br /></div><h4 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/alishakayauthor/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> * <a href="https://twitter.com/alishakayauthor" target="_blank">Twitter</a></span></h4><h3 style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Short Excerpt from Sinfully Yours by Shilpa Suraj</span></u></h3><div><br />Sid froze, the glass near his lips. “You certainly have a way with words and polite conversation.”<br />“Really? You are critiquing me on etiquette, Beach Bum?” She responded to someone hailing her from the other end of the bar with a raised hand. <br />“Listen, I’ve got to go,” she told him. “Work and stuff. You have a good night, okay?” <br />“Dani, listen.” Sid grabbed her hand before she could rush off. “When do you finish?” <br />“I finish at two in the morning,” she smiled. “Not exactly an early night.” <br />“I’ll wait,” he smiled back, something frozen in his chest thawing at the sight of her warm, beaming face. “Could we get something to eat and maybe chat or something?” <br />“I don’t ‘or something’ with guys I’ve just met,” she grinned. <br />“I threw up on you. You threw a bucket of water on me. I think we’re past first or even third date pleasantries, don’t you agree?” <br />Dani threw her head back and laughed, the same loud, warm laugh he remembered. The thawing moved on to melting. <br />“Alright,” she said. “Stick around. We’ll grab dinner during my break and chat.” She pointed a finger at him. “No ‘or something’.”<br />Sid grinned. Suddenly, ‘or something’ was all he could think about.<br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgodFMe10cv6w-pOoisHQUsd85tIGvIuKdk47aq8XalC4H6qq28dFjkLIr9_TPkRY2HAAq9uwMASywUV4hW219gjkVq9nBgczyC5DMH2FZXBtDEDkRXEscoqnIWVx8_ZLRZmnyXpUUNYk/w160-h200/WhatsApp+Image+2020-10-14+at+7.47.11+PM.jpeg" width="160" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br /><b>Shilpa Suraj</b> wears many hats - corporate drone, homemaker, mother to a fabulous toddler and author.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />An avid reader with an overactive imagination, Shilpa has weaved stories in her head since she was a child. Her previous stints at Google, in an ad agency and as an entrepreneur provide colour to her present day stories, both fiction and non-fiction.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><br /><br /></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Contact the Author:</span></u></b></div><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="http://shilpasuraj.com/" target="_blank">Website</a> * <a href="https://www.facebook.com/shilpasuraj/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> * <a href="https://twitter.com/shilpaauthor" target="_blank">Twitter</a> * <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shilpa.suraj/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> * <a href="http://eepurl.com/dt-Br9" target="_blank">Newsletter</a></span></b><p></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Short Excerpt from Deceitfully Yours by Andaleeb Wajid</span></u></h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Karthik stared at Sanjana as she stood at the jetty and it almost felt like the rest of the world had faded to nothing. He could see only her, as she stood there, stark against the background of the greyish water. He was still reeling from what his mother had just said about him and Sanjana but he was also trying to look at it realistically. He had been a child then. But surely, there had to be something about her, something that had drawn them together that fateful day when he saw her seated in the garden on his favourite bench.</div><div>Fate. It had to be fate, he told himself.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6EVYppNuVsKkPyESsJzrvvKUWHNJiqTxXjFlrLCP0PUaF975NJ38UkD2mxaBE9mqW3GdfYs7yB6sa7_ZD0bjOhkF6z7xAI6PKSPu5m2utdHA7m1iMnJVTpEX8lO60yEhiskMcDBmPcLw/s320/Andaleeb+Wajid+Author+Pic.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b>Andaleeb Wajid</b> is the author of 27 published novels and she writes across different genres such as romance, YA and horror. Her horror novel It Waits was shortlisted at Mami Word to Screen 2017 and her Young Adult series, The Tamanna Trilogy has been optioned for screen by a reputed production house. Andaleeb's novel When She Went Away was shortlisted for The Hindu Young World Prize in 2017. Andaleeb is a hybrid author who has self-published more than 10 novels in the past two years.<p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><u><br /></u></b></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Andaleeb on the Web:</span></u></b></div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/AndaleebWajid/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> * <a href="https://twitter.com/andaleebwajid" target="_blank">Twitter</a> * <a href="https://www.instagram.com/andaleebwajid/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> * <a href="https://andaleebwajid.substack.com/" target="_blank">Newsletter</a></b></div></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div></div>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"> </span></p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-31398372305538029452022-02-22T22:00:00.001+05:302022-02-22T22:00:00.173+05:30Release Day Blitz: Whisper a Kiss by Laura Haley-McNeil<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/2022/02/whisper-a-kiss-by-laura-haley-mcneil.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSWNrg8aLMKYUtSG6QtfkTl0ZvdqRvIgqDsD2zxmep2qGwkS8fmg7I-VHEL0HAbJ8Sbceew4IkC9jauTTdF00u1NvG300yUbgMfzHLlFdBWAJQYg9JsakFRT4kAIT7bSCBySa9-lnTkk5BkJXo6yl3xYe2Vz0DU-F9Q6YCFONzQxX8cIXPQCmkR1kC=w400-h200" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><h4>He broke a promise to save her life.</h4><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlh946EB3jGMOsrjGlkVXws7jxbB1nOyEADsoh-pQcSZf4vcm2LL2Zv9dd1zruvZwe92GYgPhigu3Kghjc8MHAAanKE2JDZ0YuaDqyHN_BlT5HYjjfEb3VVns6ggzAE47o_nJ4sEhx7qlKJ8iWx2Ikk1nHR08N2EpTG3k9XgLNl6o2HDrzuruc5zLK=s320" width="200" /></a></div></div><p></p><div>Hunter Whitloch’s Wall Street career is on the fast track until he learns about his boss’, Egon Gregory, underhanded dealings. Hunter’s and Egon’s confrontation means Hunter must turn a blind eye or return to Crystal Creek and walk away from a lucrative career and the only woman he’s ever loved⸻Egon’s daughter, Bryce. He won’t let her make a choice between him and her father, so he makes that choice for her.<br />Bryce watched Hunter walk out of her life and never expected to see him again⸻until he shows up at her father’s funeral. The mystery deepens when Bryce learns her father asked Hunter to return to New York⸻the night her father died. The authorities have ruled Egon’s death a suicide but attempts on her life unearth more questions than answers⸻namely who can she trust? The man who abandoned her a year ago, or her father’s right-hand man who wants to seize control of the company from her?<br />Hunter has to return to Crystal Creek, but he won’t leave Bryce as bait to someone who wants her dead. But Crystal Creek isn’t the haven he expected, and soon he and Bryce race against the clock to find out what secret died with Egon, and how to endure the pain that has them fighting to protect their hearts and their lives. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;"><u>Book Links:</u></span></b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60000919-whisper-a-kiss" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3BqnZQk" target="_blank">Amazon.in</a> * <a href="https://amzn.to/3BuUxsr" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a></span></b></div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span><h1><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">Welcome to Crystal Creek!</span></h1></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love it when it’s time to write another Crystal Creek novel. This series combines so many of my greatest loves. First of all, because it’s set in the Colorado Rocky Mountains. This part of the country is special to me as it’s where my father grew up. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As children, we spent our summers at my father’s ranch, climbing in the hayloft, hiking in the mountains and riding horses along the trails. No matter how many times I wandered through the woods, I never got tired of being in that beautiful place filled with towering quaking aspen, wild roses, and brilliantly blue columbine. The deer and other animals kept their distance, but showed their curiosity toward these strange humans that moved through their territory.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Curling up in the hayloft with a mystery was the perfect way for me to spend the afternoon, but I also liked to read romances. When I learned I could combine romance and suspense, I knew I had discovered my favorite genre. What could be more exciting than solving a mystery with a powerfully built hero? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Now I had my favorite genre. I could spend my days on the ranch, ride horses, fall in love with a handsome man, and save the day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Bryce and Hunter, the characters in Whisper a Kiss, first appeared in A Ring Around Her Heart, Book 3 of the Crystal Creek Series. Readers wrote me and asked me to write their story. I wanted to know their story, too, and so sat down in front of my computer and started working through outlines. How did Hunter and Bryce meet? Why can’t they be together? What secret is hidden on Bryce’s father’s computer? Who’s determined to make sure Hunter and Bryce never learn that secret? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The questions kept coming. Now I had to find the answers. Even I didn’t know who had Bryce and Hunter in their crosshairs until the end. My readers worked hard to learn who hated Bryce and Hunter enough to want them dead, but I fooled even them. Through twists and turns I learned the secret so deadly it could cost Hunter and Bryce their lives. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Follow their tale as they resist love and work at a breathless pace to uncover a deadly secret that could destroy them both.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Come to Crystal Creek. Meet the Whitlochs and learn the secret that could keep Hunter and Bryce apart forever.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">About the Author:</span></u></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></u></b></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.b00kr3vi3ws.in/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYS1Lmr8V2PhsYsaU-ROcKt_z29uAQ953fBoupZAieA3GI5aKB0sVK-jiRJNQM9f-8kye-OXoIkO4xZSEAXEsLmTrQVUPxOCdWUibYwrca8UlClT6NrX4Gzx7SyXQmWpkKk_AYmO0LlsDkupEEVeulpxw1vv8bUkOZCOguBYtcDUvUPt88GGdGcxFN" width="300" /></a></div><br />A native of California, Laura Haley-McNeil spent her youth studying ballet and piano, though her favorite pastime was curling up with a good book. Without a clue as to how to write a book, she knew one day she would. <br />After college, she segued into the corporate world, but she never forgot her love for the arts and served on the board of two community orchestras. Finally realizing that the book she’d dreamt of writing wouldn’t write itself, she planted herself in front of her computer. She now immerses herself in the lives and loves of her characters in her romantic suspense and her contemporary romance novels. Many years later, she lived her own romantic novel when she married her piano teacher, the love of her life. <br />Though she and her husband have left warm California for cooler Colorado, they enjoy the outdoor life of hiking, bicycling, horseback riding and snow skiing. They satisfy their love of music by attending concerts and hanging out with their musician friends, but Laura still catches a few free moments when she can sneak off and read. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><u><span style="color: #990000;">Laura on the Web:</span></u></b></div><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.laurahaleymcneil.com/" target="_blank">Website</a> * <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LauraHaleyMcNeil/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> * <a href="https://twitter.com/laurarmcneil" target="_blank">Twitter</a> * <a href="https://www.laurahaleymcneil.com/newsletter/" target="_blank">Newsletter</a></b></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-25966101544848692892022-02-22T10:00:00.001+05:302022-02-22T10:00:00.175+05:30Showcase: The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">The Pine Barrens Stratagem</span></h2>
<h3>by Ken Harris</h3>
<h4>February 1-28, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris" border="0" height="302" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/the-pine-barrens-stratagem-by-ken-harris-cover-scaled.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>Private Investigator Steve Rockfish needs cash, like yesterday. The bad news is that yesterday, a global pandemic raged, and Maryland was headed toward a lockdown that would ultimately lead to cheating spouses no longer "working late," and hence a lack of new clients.</h3>
<p>Rockfish's luck changes when a Hollywood producer reaches out, but the job is two states away and involves digging up information on a child trafficking ring from the 1940s. What he uncovers will be used to support the launch of a true crime docuseries. He grabs a mask, hand sanitizer and heads for South Jersey.</p>
<p>On-site, Rockfish meets Jawnie McGee, the great granddaughter of a local policeman gone missing while investigating the original crimes. As the duo uncover more clues, they learn the same criminal alliance has reformed to use the pandemic as a conduit to defraud the Federal Government of that sweet, sweet, stimulus money.</p>
<p>It's not long before the investigation turns up some key intel on a myriad of illicit activity over the last eighty years and Rockfish rockets toward a showdown with the mafia, local archdiocese and dirty cops. COVID-19 isn't the only threat to his health.</p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Crime Thriller</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Black Rose Writing</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> January 27th 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 250</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1684338719 (ISBN13: 9781684338719)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3oZL47U" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3dVhp9A" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3sdLA4g" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>Rockfish sat in the Scion’s passenger seat while Jawnie drove. He wasn’t thrilled with the decision, but she was adamant that some of the dirt roads, deep within the Pine Barrens, were no place for a Dodge Challenger. Plus, she didn’t feel like playing navigator. In the end, Rockfish decided not to put up much of a fight, considering Jawnie was more than a little familiar with where they were headed, although he had second thoughts with the four cases of whiplash he had suffered before even reaching the highway. </p>
<p>“Do you drive with two feet,” he asked. “Because my head can’t keep jerking forward and slamming back much more. Unless you’re running an insurance scam, and if so, what would be my take?” </p>
<p>“Enough with the backseat driving, and can you put your visor back up? That late afternoon glare off the mirror is killing me.” </p>
<p>“Make a deal with you. You drive how you want. I’ll keep an eye on our surroundings the way I want. Speaking of which, can you move this right-side passenger mirror a little more to the right, all I’m seeing is the rear fender.” </p>
<p>“You got it,” Jawnie said, and she played with the mirror control until Rockfish let her know it was right where he needed it. He could monitor anyone approaching from behind without having to turn around. </p>
<p>“I do want to fill you in on something I learned before we left,” Rockfish said. “When you went into the house to fix those sandwiches, I reached out to a guy I know in the Baltimore PD, Dan Decker. He’s an old friend and helps me out when he can. He’s going to have one of their academy cadets do some research for us and see if there is anything more than a current history between the Marini and Provolone families. The Marini’s have run Baltimore as long as the Provolone’s have this area. If Edward’s notation of the two factions working together has anything to it, Decker will let us know. He said currently both families have worked together when it was profitable to do so. Sound familiar?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, same M.O. as our knuckle draggers and kid touchers,” Jawnie replied. </p>
<p>Rockfish was happy to learn Jawnie’s disdain for organized religion matched his own. “Well put. But if there is a history there, what are the odds that some wealthy, non-fertile Baltimore Catholics would be willing to pony up some cash to right the situation. And Edward was witness to it all?” </p>
<p>They drove in silence over the next twenty minutes, Rockfish trying to figure out exactly what he expected to find in a fifty-four-year-old decrepit building in the middle of the woods. He hadn’t arrived at a conclusion yet when something very familiar came into focus. </p>
<p>“Remember when you asked me about knowing when you’re being followed?” Rockfish said. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I just chalked it up to anxiety and paranoia. It comes standard on the Millennial base model.” </p>
<p>“Guess what? We are,” Rockfish deadpanned. “Don’t do a damn thing different and let me think for a second. There’s a Jeep Grand Cherokee, right now, two cars back that’s been with us since we pulled off the highway when I was telling you what Decker said.” </p>
<p>Rockfish pulled out a scrap of paper and jotted down the license plate. </p>
<p>“I’ll ask Decker to run this, if they end up sticking on our ass the whole way. I could be a tad paranoid, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll tell you if evasive actions become necessary. We’ll start you slow and work our way up to the infamous private eye J-turn.” </p>
<p>Ten minutes later, the Scion crossed the Hammonton City line and Rockfish lost sight of the Jeep. He had Jawnie drive a couple of concentric circles around the downtown area, before heading out on County Route 542 which, according to her, would point them towards the southern part of Wharton State Forest and the abandoned orphanage. </p>
<p>Rockfish spotted the Jeep, only a second or two after it turned on Route 542 from a side street. </p>
<p>“Company’s back,” Rockfish said. “I guess when we hit these dirt roads you mentioned, we’ll see how serious they are.” </p>
<p>When the Scion’s tires soon left the asphalt, and began rolling down the slightly larger than single lane dirt road, the Jeep’s true intentions came to light. No longer concerned about being spotted, the Jeep’s speed increased until it was only a few feet from Jawnie’s bumper. Rockfish’s head swiveled from the Jeep and back to his pilot. He needed to stay calm, but Jawnie looked petrified, and while her hands had a death grip on the wheel, they were also visibly shaking. </p>
<p>“Jawnie, listen to me and we’ll be alright.” </p>
<p>She didn’t say a word, but Rockfish could feel the car slowing down. Screw her feelings, he thought and began giving orders. </p>
<p>“Put your foot back on the gas. You need to keep a constant speed.” And then a minute later. “Stay in the center, don’t give them space to get alongside of us.” Lastly, he shouted. “The center I said!” His voice gave out with that last outburst and he knew she heard the fear in it. </p>
<p>Rockfish swore as the Jeep slammed into their back bumper. “That a girl, keep her straight! Gas, give it some—”</p>
<p>The rear windshield exploded, shards of safety glass like small pellets peppered the interior of the car. Jawnie screamed and instinctively yanked the wheel to the left. Likewise, Rockfish now yelled in order to be heard. </p>
<p>“Foot off the gas! Steer into it!” </p>
<p>Rockfish wasn’t sure how he got through to Jawnie, but she listened, and the Scion straightened back up and they were rocketing straight down the dirt road once again. But before he could congratulate his pupil, the Jeep was now angling to get alongside; the Scion drifting dangerously close to the right shoulder, or lack thereof. Rockfish turned and looked out the driver’s side rear window. He could clearly see the Jeep’s front end. </p>
<p>In the next instant, they were sliding again, Jawnie’s foot slammed on the brake and the Jeep’s right fender nudged the Scion’s left rear. Brakes squealed, and tires howled as dirt, dust and burnt rubber filled their lungs. </p>
<p>“Hold on, hold on, hold on!” It was all he managed to say, but her eyes told him she was a million miles away. Rockfish closed his and braced for impact. </p>
<p>The car spun violently to the left, a hundred and eighty degrees, and his head whipped left and then right, slamming against the window. The seatbelt dug into his chest and he had trouble breathing. A second later, the earth beneath the car’s right side began to give way and the Scion slid into a ditch before coming to a stop. </p>
<p>By the time Rockfish opened his eyes and turned around, the taillights from the Jeep had disappeared into the distance. </p>
<p>* * * * * * * * * *</p>
<p>“That settles it, I’m going to the police now! They, someone, fuck I don’t know who just tried to kill us!” Jawnie said. “Look at my car! Who’s going to pay for this? Not like we’re exchanging fucking information with them!” Her mask was around her neck and Rockfish could see the tears. </p>
<p>Rockfish took a second before he replied. His partner was still in shock, borderline hysterical, and he didn’t want to push her over the edge, unlike the car they pulled themselves from. The Jeep had performed a textbook pit maneuver and Rockfish bet Jawnie wasn’t a big fan of Cops or Live PD. Hence, her jumping straight to attempted murder. </p>
<p>“Now hold on Jawnie,” Rockfish said. “You’re not hurt, right? That seatbelt and airbag did their jobs?” </p>
<p>“Of course, but—” </p>
<p>“No buts about it. Your chest might be a little sore tomorrow from that belt, your eyes swollen from the air bag, and more importantly, you’ll never forget your first chase. But seriously, no one tried to kill us. If they had wanted us dead, we’d be bleeding out from gunshot wounds. Your rear window was the victim of a warning shot. When we were in that ditch, no one walked up from behind and pumped a few slugs into the back of our heads.” </p>
<p>Rockfish stopped and looked at Jawnie, he needed to make sure he was getting through. Her breathing had slowed down quite a bit and that was a start. </p>
<p>“This was a warning, pure and simple. All this tells us is that someone thinks you might be sticking your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. Obviously, it pertains to those boxes. I haven’t been in town long enough to piss someone off yet, at least, I hope. But if they were staking out your place, they’d have my license plate number and know who I am.” </p>
<p>“But I’ve only dealt with Hasty on this,” Jawnie said. </p>
<p>“Look. You might have worked out a deal with Hasty, but odds are he wasn’t the one that went into the very back of the evidence room and pulled those boxes for you. He’s probably recounted your conversation to a few of his ‘trusted’ senior men, and God knows who else might have been in the room when those conversations took place. Was there anything else you mentioned either to him or anyone else at the station that might cause a reaction like what just happened?” </p>
<p>“I d-d-did tell him I had hoped to t-t-take what I found in these boxes, scan what I could, and create a website. One that would ask the public for tips. Anonymously, of course. It would be a way to get the word out and maybe get someone’s attention who might remember something. Hasty asked his secretary to check and see if he had the authority to put the PD’s logo and tip line on this site. He was only trying to help.” </p>
<p>“So, he’s got a secretary. Old bird, I bet?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, Betty Lou Sommers. I’m guessing she’s logged more than a few years there.” </p>
<p>“There’s your problem. Old Betty Lou sees all Hasty’s business that comes and goes out of his office. I’d lay odds her loyalties lie with others she’s worked with or for through the years and not the guy who knocked the latest Ringle out of office.” </p>
<p>“I’d never thought of it that way.” </p>
<p>“If you’re trying to be a junior special agent, I’d advise you to think that way. Someone in that department is crooked and an off-duty cop or on-duty mafioso ran us off the road. Doesn’t matter who, I’m betting they can be one and the same. Now if you feel alright, we need to call for a tow.” </p>
<p>“And an Uber.”</p>
<p>“Do you have any bars?” Rockfish said.</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“We were lucky this was only a warning. We’ve got some walking ahead of us. They shouldn’t be coming back.”</p>
<p>I gotta reach out to Davenport, he thought. The stakes have significantly increased. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Pine Barrens Stratagem</i> by Ken Harris. Copyright 2022 by Ken Harris. Reproduced with permission from Ken Harris. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 330px;"><img align="left" alt="Ken Harris" border="0" height="200" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/the-pine-barrens-stratagem-by-ken-harris-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 5px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 5px 5px 15px;" width="298" /></div>
<p>Ken Harris retired from the FBI, after thirty-two years, as a cybersecurity executive. With over three decades writing intelligence products for senior Government officials, Ken provides unique perspectives on the conventional fast-paced crime thriller. While this is his first traditionally published novel, he previously self-published two novellas and two novels. He spends days with his wife Nicolita, and two Labradors, Shady and Chalupa Batman. Evenings are spent cheering on Philadelphia sports. Ken firmly believes Pink Floyd, Irish whiskey and a Montecristo cigar are the only muses necessary. He is a native of New Jersey and currently resides in Northern Virginia.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Ken Harris:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3GOalI1" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">www.KenHarrisFiction.com</a></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-83292283532099573852022-02-15T10:00:00.001+05:302022-02-15T10:00:00.176+05:30Showcase: Playing Possum by Lois Schmitt<div style="text-align: center;">
<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Playing Possum</span></h2>
<h3>by Lois Schmitt</h3>
<h4>February 1-28, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Playing Possum by Lois Schmitt" border="0" height="309" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/playing-possum-by-lois-schmitt-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h2>Murder, Mayhem, and Missing Animals.</h2>
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<p>When animals mysteriously disappear from the Pendwell Wildlife Refuge, former English teacher turned magazine reporter Kristy Farrell is on the case. Days later, the body of the refuge’s director is found in a grassy clearing.</p>
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<p>Kristy, assisted by her veterinarian daughter, investigates and discovers strong motives among the suspects, including greed, infidelity, betrayal, and blackmail.</p>
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<p>As Kristy delves further, she finds herself up against the powerful Pendwell family, especially matriarch Victoria Buckley Pendwell, chair of the refuge board of trustees, and Victoria’s son, Austin Pendwell, who is slated to run for the state senate. </p>
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<p>But ferreting out the murderer and finding the missing animals aren’t Kristy only challenges. While researching a story on puppy mills, she uncovers criminal activity that reaches far beyond the neighborhood pet store.</p>
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<p>Meanwhile, strange things are happening back at the refuge, and soon a second murder occurs. Kristy is thwarted in her attempts to discover the murderer by her old nemesis, the blustery Detective Wolfe.</p>
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<p>Kristy perseveres and as she unearths shady deals and dark secrets, Kristy slowly draws the killer out of the shadows.</p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Praise for <i>Playing Possum</i>:</span></h3>
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<p>Lois Schmitt's <i>Playing Possum</i> does cozies proud. Fresh and traditional all at once."<br />-Reed Farrel Coleman, <i>New York Times</i> bestselling author of <i>Sleepless City</i></p>
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<p>"In her third book of the series, writer Lois Schmitt has crafted an intricately-plotted mystery full of twists and humor, with a cast of colorful characters, set in a wildlife refuge rehab center. Cozy fans, and especially followers of Schmitt's animal lovers' mysteries, will find great entertainment in <i>Playing Possum</i>."<br />-Phyllis Gobbell, award-winning author of the Jordan Mayfair Mysteries</p>
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<p></p><blockquote class="details">
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Cozy Mystery</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> Encircle Publications</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> December 8, 2021</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 296</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1645993051 (ISBN13 978-1645993056)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b>A Kristy Farrell Animal Lovers Mystery, #3</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3qDw8vG" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/341w1SX" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ERZg7G" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
<p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<p>I waited until a man and a woman emerged from the county medical examiner’s van. I followed them into the wildlife preserve, maintaining a discreet distance while wondering what happened. Did a jogger succumb to a heart attack? Did a child fall into a pond and drown? I inhaled deeply, hoping to steady my nerves. </p>
<p>I passed the clearing on the right where the administration building was located. I continued trailing the two members of the medical examiner’s staff until another clearing came into view—this one bordered by yellow crime scene tape.</p>
<p>I gasped.</p>
<p>Not far from where I stood, spread out in full view was a female body with blood covering much of the head. The body was face down, but I recognized the small build, sandy colored hair, and jade green shirt.</p>
<p>I tasted bile. I wanted to scream, but I slapped my hand in front of my mouth. </p>
<p>After regaining my composure, I surveyed my surroundings. Three people wearing jackets emblazoned in the back with the words Crime Scene Investigator were near the front of the clearing. One was bent over the body and the other two appeared to be examining the nearby ground. When the medical examiner’s team approached, the investigator next to the body rose up and started talking. I couldn’t make it all out, but I did hear him say “Blow to the head.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” I mumbled when I spied two homicide detectives I knew.</p>
<p>Detective Adrian Fox, a thirty something African American, stood on the side of the clearing, near a small pond. He was talking to a woman who yesterday had been arguing with the preserve’s director. </p>
<p>The director had called this woman Elena, so I assumed this was Elena Salazar, the education coordinator. I couldn’t hear what she was saying to the detective, but she was gesturing wildly with her arms. </p>
<p>The other detective, Steve Wolfe, had marched over to the body and was now barking orders to the medical examiner’s staff, who didn’t seem pleased. As Wolfe turned around, the woman in the medical examiner’s jacket shook her head.</p>
<p>I sighed. Wolfe and I had a history. He was a bully who had gone to school with my younger brother Tim, constantly picking on him. Granted Tim was the classic nerd who might as well have worn the sign “Kick Me” on his back. I had recently solved two of Wolfe’s murder cases, which only irritated him more.</p>
<p>Wolfe spied me and headed in my direction, his face turning the color of a beet. His gray pants hung below his pot belly, his glacier blue eyes as cold as ever, and he wore the same annoying grin as when he was a kid that made me want to slap his face.</p>
<p>“What happened?” I asked.</p>
<p> “I’m here about a dead squirrel,” he said. “I’m a homicide detective. What do you think happened?”</p>
<p> “I know the victim,” I said.</p>
<p>He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know her?”</p>
<p> “I’m doing a story on the wildlife refuge and—”</p>
<p>“How come whenever you do a story people die?”</p>
<p>Not really a nice way to put it.</p>
<p>“Who found the body?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Three hikers.”</p>
<p>“What caused—”</p>
<p> “This is none of your business. This is a crime scene.” He pointed a fat finger at me. “You need to leave.”</p>
<p> “I’m behind the yellow tape,” I argued.</p>
<p>I didn’t think his face could get any redder, but it did. “Stay out of my way.” He spun around and stomped off toward the side where Detective Fox appeared to be jotting something in a notepad. Elena Salazar was no longer there. I had no idea where she went.</p>
<p>I had lots of questions, but I wasn’t getting answers from Wolfe. The crime scene investigators were packing up. Maybe I’d have better luck with them.</p>
<p> “When was she killed” I asked the one investigator, who looked young enough to appear on an acne remedy commercial.</p>
<p> “We need to wait for the autopsy.”</p>
<p> “Do you have an approximate time of death?”</p>
<p> “Sorry. We can’t talk to the public.”</p>
<p>I sighed. I’d have to get the answers somewhere else.</p>
<p>I wondered why the victim had been at the clearing. I glanced at the pond, guessing this was where the rehabilitated turtle would be released. Did she come here early to check things out before the release? But what would she be checking?</p>
<p>My thoughts were interrupted as the medical examiner’s team passed by me carrying a stretcher with the covered body. I figured I might learn something if I listened to their conversation. Eavesdropping was one of my talents.</p>
<p>I scratched my theory about arriving early to check on conditions for the turtle release when one of the attendants said, “I can’t imagine why anyone would be in these woods at midnight.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Playing Possum</i> by Lois Schmitt. Copyright 2021 by Lois Schmitt. Reproduced with permission from Lois Schmitt. All rights reserved.</p>
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<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Lois Schmitt" border="0" height="268" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/playing-possum-by-lois-schmitt-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>A mystery fan since she read her first Nancy Drew, Lois Schmitt combined a love of mysteries with a love of animals in her series featuring animal magazine reporter Kristy Farrell. Lois is member of several wildlife conservation and humane organizations, as well as Mystery Writers of America. She received 2nd runner-up for the Killer Nashville Claymore award for her second book in the series entitled <a href="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/something-fishy-by-lois-schmitt/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><i>Something Fishy</i></a>, She previously served as media spokesperson for a local consumer affairs agency and currently teaches at a community college. Lois lives in Massapequa, Long Island with her family, which includes a 120 pound Bernese Mountain dog. This dog bears a striking resemblance to Archie, a dog of many breeds featured in her Kristy Farrell Mystery Series.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Lois Schmitt:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3FuwIlh" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">LoisSchmitt.com</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/32bP3oN" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3DzNYFc" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram: @loisschmittmysteries</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3cwlyzS" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter: @schmittmystery</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3nydJjv" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://bit.ly/3nydJjv" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook: @LoisSchmittAuthor</a></div></h3>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Visit, Share, & Enter to WIN!</span></h2>
<h5 style="text-align: center;">This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Lois Schmitt. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.</h5>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-31500982920158455212022-02-08T10:00:00.001+05:302022-02-08T10:00:00.181+05:30Showcase: Fool Her Once by Joanna Elm<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">Fool Her Once</span></h2>
<h3>by Joanna Elm</h3>
<h4>February 1-28, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="Fool Her Once by Joanna Elm" border="0" height="309" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/fool-her-once-by-joanna-elm-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>Some killers are born. Others are made.</h3>
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<p>As a rookie tabloid reporter, Jenna Sinclair made a tragic mistake when she outed Denny Dennison, the illegitimate son of an executed serial killer. So she hid behind her marriage and motherhood. Now, decades later, betrayed by her husband and resented by her teenage daughter, Jenna decides to resurrect her career—and returns to the city she loves.</p>
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<p>When her former lover is brutally assaulted outside Jenna’s NYC apartment building, Jenna suspects that Denny has inherited his father’s psychopath gene and is out for revenge. She knows she must track him down before he can harm his next target, her daughter.</p>
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<p>Meanwhile, her estranged husband, Zack, fears that her investigative reporting skills will unearth his own devastating secret he’d kept buried in the past.
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<p>From New York City to the remote North Fork of Long Island and the murky waters surrounding it, Jenna rushes to uncover the terrible truth about a psychopath and realizes her own investigation may save or destroy her family.</p>
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<blockquote class="details">
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Thriller (Domestic)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> CamCat Books</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> March 1st 2022</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 416</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 0744304938 (ISBN13: 9780744304930)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/3xi5YS6" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3HPIzMC" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/32pjyYp" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3ztrFQg" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">BookShop.org</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/337xYg7" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">CamCat Books</a></div></b><p></p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
<div class="excerpt" style="border-color: 800000; border-style: groove; border-width: 3px; height: 250px; overflow: auto;">
<h3>Chapter Four</h3>
<h5>Week One: Friday Morning</h5>
<p>The buzzing of the intercom startled Jenna as she waited for the Bialetti to stop gurgling. Her head felt heavy, but her Fitbit told her she’d gotten almost six hours’ sleep since Ryan had left the apartment. She moved the moka pot off the flames and walked into the hallway to the intercom.</p>
<p>It was Oscar, the day doorman. “Miss Sinclair, police here to see you. Coming up now.”</p>
<p>She sat down abruptly on the narrow hallway bench. Dollie. Something had happened to Dollie. She felt ice cold as she opened the door to wait for the elevator to discharge the cops, who turned out to be plainclothes detectives. She tried to recall what someone—probably Lola, her best friend who knew all about law enforcement—had once told her about cops always going in threes, not twos, to inform next of kin when there was a fatality. Was that still true? Maybe they’d downsized because of budget cuts. Or maybe the “three” rule did not apply in New York City.</p>
<p>Her heart was pounding, thudding against her chest, the blood roaring in her ears, as she beckoned them into the apartment. She barely heard as the taller, younger one said: “Miss Sinclair, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we’re wondering if you could answer some questions about yesterday evening? We’re looking into an incident involving Mr. Ryan McAllister.”</p>
<p>It took her more than a moment to refocus, and for the pounding of her heart to slow a little. They weren’t here about Dollie.</p>
<p>“Incident?” She repeated the word, frowning.</p>
<p>They looked at each other. The taller, younger one was black with a shaved head and soft brown eyes. He introduced himself as Detective Jim Martins. His partner was older and shorter, with thinning hair. His face was slicked with perspiration, as if he’d walked up the three flights to her apartment rather than taking the elevator. Jenna immediately forgot his name.</p>
<p>Martins took a notebook out of his hip pocket but didn’t look at it when he replied: “Mr. McAllister was found in the street, early this morning.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean ‘found’?” Her voice rose shrilly. “Is he dead?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Where was he found?” Jenna’s heart was pounding again even as the memory from just a few hours ago flashed through her mind.</p>
<p>They had strolled back from Neary’s; had stopped on the corner of her street while Ryan fished around for a loose bill to hand over to the homeless guy who hung out there.</p>
<p>She’d linked her arm through his as they walked into her building and to the elevator. They’d barely crossed the threshold into her apartment when Ryan had nudged her back against the door and brought his mouth to her lips, working down to the hollow of her throat, his fingers tugging at the straps of her cami. All thoughts of waiting, doing the right thing had evaporated in a millisecond. Instead, she had responded, clinging to him, thrilling to the thought that he wanted her.</p>
<p>They had moved as one into the living room, onto the couch, then down onto the hand-knotted wool Jaipur rug, Ryan pushing down her jeans and panties and flinging them over the couch.</p>
<p>“No. Wait.” Jenna had sat up abruptly. “I can’t.”</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The detective’s reply jolted her back into the conversation. “Just a couple of hundred yards down the street from this building. You had dinner with him last night.”</p>
<p>Jenna focused on Martins. He didn’t sound as if he was asking. “Did Ryan tell you that?” She paused and repeated her first question. “What do you mean ‘found’?” Jenna wished she could take a long gulp of espresso to get her brain working again.</p>
<p>“Let us ask the questions, Miss Sinclair, okay? We’re just trying to figure out what happened.”</p>
<p>Jenna didn’t like the abrupt change in tone, and suddenly the detective’s eyes didn’t look so soft either. Did he think she’d done something wrong? She realized she sounded a little defensive. That was stupid.</p>
<p>There was nothing to hide.</p>
<p>“Yes, we had dinner,” she said.</p>
<p>The other detective nodded, and she followed his gaze across the floor into the living area to where her white jeans lay crumpled under the chair. “We’re just trying to establish a timeline,” he said. “We’d appreciate it if you could help us out. Give us some idea of what time he left here?”</p>
<p>“I don’t remember when he left.”</p>
<p>“He couldn’t help us with the timing either.”</p>
<p>Not hard to believe. The events of the night were wrapped in a mist floating around her head, but she remembered Ryan guiding her to the bed, sliding in beside her and holding her. “We don’t have to rush,” he’d said. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. It’s okay. We have all the time in the world.”</p>
<p>“We don’t know how long he was lying in the street,” Martins mentioned casually. “He couldn’t tell the paramedics what happened.”</p>
<p>“Oh my God.” The words came out as a whisper. The image of Ryan swaying drunkenly flashed before her eyes. “What happened? Did he fall? Did he pass out?”</p>
<p>“We don’t know exactly.”</p>
<p>“Is he injured?”</p>
<p>“We don’t know the full extent of his injuries. They’re checking him out now. He’s at Lenox Hill Hospital.”</p>
<p>Jenna had the feeling they weren’t telling her everything. Why would detectives be investigating someone falling down drunk in the street?</p>
<p>Had he been hit by a car?</p>
<p>“Miss Sinclair? Can you give us an approximate time when you last saw him?”</p>
<p>She nodded quickly. “Sure, I’ll try.” She knew they could get a time from Nando, the night doorman, and she didn’t want to appear uncooperative. “We had dinner at Neary’s, round the corner,” she said. “We came back here for a nightcap. We were discussing some writing projects I’m working on. I just finished one for his magazine.”</p>
<p>“His magazine?”</p>
<p>Jenna nodded. “He’s the publisher of <i>CityMagazine</i>. He bought the exposé I just wrote on restaurants in the Hamptons. We planned on working on some others together . . . I mean there were a couple of projects we discussed. We were talking, we lost track of time.” She knew she was babbling. God only knew why she felt so guilty. She and Ryan had done nothing wrong. “It was probably around three.” She paused. “I’m sorry. Yes, around three, maybe three thirty. That’s when I saw him out.”</p>
<p>“Did you part on friendly terms?” </p>
<p>Jenna stared at Martins. Had they already spoken to Nando? Had he told them he’d seen Jenna following Ryan down the street?</p>
<p>Just before leaving, Ryan had told her Teddi was returning, flying into La Guardia, and he had to go home, shower and change before picking her up. Jenna had been furious as she listened to the elevator carry Ryan down to the lobby.</p>
<p>She’d grabbed a T-shirt and sweatpants and headed for the stairs, arriving in the lobby in time to see Ryan walking out of the building, a little unsteady on his feet. She’d let him get to the corner before calling after him to stop.</p>
<p>“Miss Sinclair, did you have a fight?” Martins persisted.</p>
<p>“God, no!” Jenna’s reply burst from her lips. No, Nando could not have seen her push Ryan. She was surely already out of the doorman’s line of vision when she’d caught up with him.</p>
<p>“Okay.” The detective gave her a curt nod and handed her his business card. “If you remember anything else, please call me.” His partner opened the front door out into the hallway.</p>
<p>“You said he’s at Lenox Hill?“</p>
<p>Martins looked over her shoulder and appeared to be staring at something in her living room. She hoped it was not at her discarded white jeans. “Yes. Lenox Hill.” He nodded. “His wife is probably with him by now.” He paused in the open doorway. “They have Mr. McAllister in the ICU,” he added as he followed his partner to the front door.</p>
<p>The intensive care unit? It had to be serious.</p>
<p>“Did you say ICU?” She aimed the question at their backs, but the door had already closed.</p>
<p>Jenna returned to the kitchen. She was so parched it was making her dizzy. She stood at the faucet, cold water running into the sink as she cupped her hands and swigged from them, not caring that half of it was landing on the kitchen floor.</p>
<p>She poured herself a double espresso, carried the mug into the living room and sank into an armchair, looking around for her cell phone. Her eyes flickered round the room, noticing the mess the way the detectives would have seen it from the hallway. Through the door into the bedroom, she saw the empty glasses, the empty bottle of Jameson’s on the nightstand. Blood rose to her face, she felt hot and cold and then hot again as she caught sight of her scrunched-up, bright white panties hanging off the middle shelf of her bookcase, where Ryan had tossed them.</p>
<p>She took a couple of deep breaths. The cops probably thought they had the whole picture: cheating husband, wife returning from a trip, girlfriend gets jealous, doesn’t want to let him go. They’d questioned her as if they thought she was the one who’d hurt him badly enough to put him into intensive care in the hospital.</p>
<p>She closed her eyes and tried to recall exactly what had happened when she’d finally caught up with Ryan.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>Fool Her Once</i> by Joanna Elm. Copyright 2021 by Joanna Elm. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 330px;"><img align="left" alt="Joanna Elm" border="0" height="200" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/fool-her-once-by-joanna-elm-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 15px; margin-right: 1px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 1px 5px 15px;" width="300" /></div>
<p>Joanna Elm is an author, journalist, blogger and an attorney. Before publication of her first two suspense novels (<i>Scandal</i>, Tor/Forge 1996); (<i>Delusion</i>, Tor/Forge/1997), she was an investigative journalist on the London Evening News on Fleet Street in the U.K. She also wrote for British magazines like <i>Woman’s Own</i>.</p>
<p>Then, she moved to New York where she worked as a writer/producer for television news and tabloid TV programs like A <i>Current Affair</i>. She was also the researcher/writer for WNEW-TV’s Emmy-award winning documentary <i>Irish Eyes</i>. In 1980, she joined the <i>Star</i> as a reporter, eventually becoming the magazine’s news editor and managing editor before moving to Philadelphia as editor of the news/features section of <i>TV Guide</i>.</p>
<p>After completing her first two novels while living in South Florida, (Nelson DeMille described <i>Scandal</i> as “fresh, original and unpredictable”) Joanna returned to New York, enrolled in law school, graduated summa cum laude, passed the NY Bar exam and worked as principal law clerk for an appellate division justice in the prestigious First Department. She has been married to husband Joe for 35 years, and has one son.</p>
<h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Joanna Elm:</span></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3490397370428247476.post-81722903167945525022022-01-28T10:00:00.001+05:302022-01-28T10:00:00.171+05:30Showcase: The Prisoner of Paradise by Rob Samborn<div style="text-align: center;">
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<h2><span style="color: #990000;">The Prisoner of Paradise</span></h2>
<h3>by Rob Samborn</h3>
<h4>January 24 - February 18, 2022 Virtual Book Tour</h4>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Synopsis:</span></h2>
<div style="float: left; margin-right: 15px; width: 225px;"><img alt="The Prisoner of Paradise by Rob Samborn" border="0" height="320" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/the-prisoner-of-paradise-by-rob-samborn-cover.jpg" style="float: left; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<h3>The world's largest oil painting. A 400-year-old murder. A disembodied whisper: "Amore mio." My love.</h3>
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<p>Nick and Julia O'Connor's dream trip to Venice collapses when a haunting voice reaches out to Nick from Tintoretto's Paradise, a monumental depiction of Heaven. Convinced his delusions are the result of a concussion, Julia insists her husband see a doctor, though Nick is adamant the voice was real.</p>
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<p>Blacking out in the museum, Nick flashes back to a life as a 16th century Venetian peasant swordsman. He recalls precisely who the voice belongs to: Isabella Scalfini, a married aristocrat he was tasked to seduce but with whom he instead found true love. A love stolen from them hundreds of years prior.</p>
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<p>She implores Nick to liberate her from a powerful order of religious vigilantes who judge and sentence souls to the canvas for eternity. Releasing Isabella also means unleashing thousands of other imprisoned souls, all of which the order claims are evil.</p>
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<p>As infatuation with a possible hallucination clouds his commitment to a present-day wife, Nick's past self takes over. Wracked with guilt, he can no longer allow Isabella to remain tormented, despite the consequences. He must right an age-old wrong - destroy the painting and free his soul mate. But the order will eradicate anyone who threatens their ethereal prison and their control over Venice.</p>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Book Details:</span></h3>
<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Genre:</b> Thriller</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Published by:</b> TouchPoint Press</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Publication Date:</b> November 30th 2021</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Number of Pages:</b> 333</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ISBN:</b> 1952816890 (ISBN-13: 9781952816895)</div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Series:</b> The Paradise Series, #1</div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase Links:</b> <a href="https://amzn.to/32yeO2V" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Amazon</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/3xoTd8c" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="https://bit.ly/2ZlMVty" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Goodreads</a></div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Read an excerpt:</span></h3>
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<p>The flood of questions never left Nick’s lips. Large hands wrenched him up by his armpits.</p>
<p>A hushed voice spoke in his ear. “Come with us. Quietly.” </p>
<p>The grip tightened.</p>
<p>Nick twisted his head to his sides. Bernardo led him away, staring straight ahead. Another security guard in a navy-blue suit flanked him. The man was about Nick’s age, with a close-cropped beard and light brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail—and considerably heftier than Bernardo. </p>
<p>“Dante,” said Bernardo to the guard, “please notify—”</p>
<p>Nick whipped his arms from Bernardo’s hold. Twisting, he whacked Dante’s earpiece, jamming the device into the large man’s head. Then he shouldered him into the nearest wall. Appalled gasps rose from the remaining tourists. </p>
<p>Bernardo grabbed Nick from behind. Nick’s elbow blasted backward, landing with a shattering blow in the man’s ribs. Dante dug his finger into his ear and pulled the piece out. He flicked it at Nick, poised to attack. </p>
<p>Confident he was quicker, Nick ducked, popped up, and discharged a quick snap of his fist. </p>
<p>Blood from the brawny guard’s nose sprayed across the polished marble wall. </p>
<p>Museum patrons, many holding cell phones, cameras, and tablets, backed up, giving the fight a wide berth. Nick clocked Bernardo. His wide tungsten wedding ring connected with the man’s jaw. </p>
<p>Bernardo stumbled, falling to the floor. </p>
<p>Nick sprinted for the exit and down the hall, tossing the hat and scarf as he ran.</p>
<p>Bursting through the Palazzo doors, he descended the Giants’ Staircase three steps at a time but slipped on the courtyard’s stone surface and crashed on his back. A jolt to his tailbone rang up his spine. He rolled onto his side and checked the staircase. </p>
<p>Bernardo and Dante loomed at the top. The two men hustled down, their dark jackets flowing behind them. </p>
<p>Tiny gravel pebbles burrowed into Nick’s palms as he scrambled up. He darted for the main entrance, disregarding what felt like a sledgehammer pounding his lower back with every step.</p>
<p>“Arrestatelo!” Bernardo called out. </p>
<p>Two uniformed guards rushed to block the front gate. </p>
<p>Nick stormed ahead. </p>
<p>The guards braced themselves. Nick plowed into the larger one, his speed and weight bowling the man over. </p>
<p>The smaller guard dove for Nick, wrapping a firm hold around his ankle. He pitched forward and fell to the ground.</p>
<p>“Fuck.” Nick kicked his free foot out. It hit the man’s cheek with a sickening crunch. A bloody tooth flew out and skipped across the ground. The guard’s grip loosened. </p>
<p>Nick clambered to his feet and bolted for the entrance. He dodged a college-aged tourist, jumped the turnstile, and sprinted for St. Mark’s Square.</p>
<p>A large woman in a neon pink shirt with a matching visor shouted at him. She pulled her young daughter to her as Nick ran by, almost knocking them down. He regretted the bedlam he was causing, but what choice did he have?</p>
<p>Pigeons flew upward in alarm as he made his way through the golden, late afternoon light of the square. He glanced over his shoulder. </p>
<p>Bernardo and Dante closed in, thirty feet away. </p>
<p>Nick’s throbbing back screamed for attention, but he upped his speed and crossed into an alley in the corner of the piazza. He reached the other side, raced through the passageway between buildings, and entered a narrow street. He shuffled into a group of revelers who had overflowed from a crowded wine bar. Shimmying through the people, he spotted a small bridge over the next canal. Nick dashed across it and made another right, which led him to yet another alley. </p>
<p>Stagnant, rank air engulfed him.</p>
<p>“Son of a bitch.”</p>
<p>A dead-end. Illegible graffiti covered the walls. Even in the moment, the vandalism pissed Nick off.</p>
<p>A steel door was the only possible exit. The rusty knob didn’t budge. Nick pivoted back toward the alley entrance.</p>
<p>His pursuers cast long shadows that extended to Nick’s sneakers. Despite their broken posture as they fought to catch their breath, their expressions championed triumph. Dante wiped the blood from his nose with a grin. </p>
<p>“You were warned more than once.” Bernardo’s voice echoed off the walls.</p>
<p>Unsure how he’d escape, Nick retreated until he bumped against the door. </p>
<p>The men advanced. Each pulled a silver short sword from a concealed holster beneath their suit jackets.</p>
<p>Fear and desperation caused Nick’s heart to pound so violently, he thought he heard it. But the blood churning through him generated a stronger urge: revenge. And he could only do right by Isabella if he survived this mess.</p>
<p>Bernardo lunged. Though burly and one-armed, his movements were lithe. </p>
<p>Nick dropped low as the sword whizzed over his head. </p>
<p>Dante positioned his weapon high and brought it down, slicing through Nick’s shirt and into his forearm. </p>
<p>Nick hollered as the pain seared through him.</p>
<p>He charged Dante, who raised his sword again. Nick caught his hand and body-checked him into the brick wall. Nick sensed Bernardo behind him and rotated, barely avoiding the blade slicing for his back. </p>
<p>Planting his foot, Nick went for the sword. His hands clenched around Bernardo’s, and they struggled for control of the hilt. Nick spat in his eyes and wrested the weapon away. With the last of his wavering strength, he slipped behind Bernardo and brought the sword to the man’s armpit under his one arm.</p>
<p>“Drop it,” he said to Dante, who had his back to the alley’s end.</p>
<p>Dante scowled but let his weapon fall with an echoing clang.</p>
<p>“Now kick it over here and lay down. On your stomach. Arms out.”</p>
<p>Dante did as instructed.</p>
<p>“Get next to him,” Nick ordered Bernardo with a shove. “Flat.” </p>
<p>Bernardo followed suit.</p>
<p>Retrieving Dante’s weapon, Nick kept watch on their forms. His opponents counterbalanced the stare, studying his every move. Nick wrapped his fingers around the hilts. Holding swords felt good. Natural. He flourished them simultaneously and grinned, unaware he had that skill.</p>
<p>Nick had a peculiar sensation, not that of anger but distinct determination. His mind played through potential outcomes, and one came into focus: he imagined rushing the men, and with raised blades, he hacked their bodies—first their faces, then their necks and torsos. Their warm blood drenched his skin. </p>
<p>The scene gave him a surge of foul power. He teetered from the unfamiliarity of it and shook his head to clear the image. </p>
<p>No. Nick wasn’t a murderer.</p>
<p>Instead, he turned and raced for the alley entrance, tossing the swords away in disgust. His heart sank as he heard the two men getting to their feet. Rounding the corner, Nick ran under an archway connecting two buildings. He angled for the building wall, stepped on a brick edge, and jumped up, catching an exposed pipe ten feet up. </p>
<p>As footsteps approached, he swung and kicked, striking a direct hit into Bernardo’s face. Bernardo toppled into Dante, the two landing hard on the ground. Nick dropped from the pipe and sprinted in the other direction, his torn shirtsleeve flapping off his bloodied arm. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Excerpt from <i>The Prisoner of Paradise</i> by Rob Samborn. Copyright 2021 by Rob Samborn. Reproduced with permission from Rob Samborn. All rights reserved.</p>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Author Bio:</span></h2>
<div style="float: right; margin-left: 15px; width: 230px;"><img align="left" alt="Rob Samborn" border="0" height="267" src="http://www.partnersincrimetours.net/pict/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/the-prisoner-of-paradise-by-rob-samborn-author.jpg" style="float: right; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 15px; margin-top: 5px; margin: 5px 15px 5px 0px;" width="200" /></div>
<p>In addition to being a novelist, Rob Samborn is a screenwriter, entrepreneur and avid traveler. He’s been to forty countries, lived in five of them (including Italy) and studied nine languages. As a restless spirit who can’t remember the last time he was bored, Rob is on a quest to explore the intricacies of our world and try his hand at a multitude of crafts; he’s also an accomplished artist and musician, as well as a budding furniture maker. A native New Yorker who lived in Los Angeles for twenty years, he now makes his home in Denver with his wife, daughter and dog.</p>
<h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><br /></h3><h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Catch Up With Rob Samborn:</span></div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Jonali Karmakarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633266072751741486noreply@blogger.com1