THE HAUNTING OF EMILY GRACE by Elena Taylor Trailer, Excerpt, Review & Giveaway

THE HAUNTING OF EMILY GRACE

by Elena Taylor

May 25 - June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

An eerie suspense novel, in which a grieving woman takes a job at an isolated mansion only to become wrapped up in the curse that seems to have befallen its eccentric owner.

Emily Grace has endured the worst loss imaginable. But can she survive a remote manor haunted by more than just memories . . .?

Drowning in grief, Emily Grace has lost everything: her home, her friends, her career. Only one lifeline remains—a job working for an eccentric millionaire. Along with his wife, he’s been building a mansion on a secluded island surrounded by a harsh and unforgiving sea. But when she disappears under mysterious circumstances, Emily Grace is hired to finish the project.

Locals believe the house is cursed, but their warnings go unheeded as Emily Grace works to rebuild her life. After what she’s been through, nothing can scare her—except perhaps the attention of a handsome man offering more than friendship. And yet, there’s something strange about this solitary fortress. Accidents. Mishaps. Ghostly whispers through the surrounding forest, footsteps when she’s completely alone . . .

Is there truly a curse or is the ethereal specter in the window an omen of something more sinister?

This spooky standalone from phenomenal crime author Elena Taylor will have readers sleeping with the light on for weeks! With vibes of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, fans of Riley Sager and thrillers with light horror elements will love The Haunting of Emily Grace!

NOW IN PAPERBACK!

Praise for The Haunting of Emily Grace:

"Taylor doesn’t just conjure suspense—she dissects it, peeling back the fragile layers of identity, memory, and trust until nothing feels safe. The Haunting of Emily Grace is deeply unsettling in all the best ways."
~ Carter Wilson, bestselling author of Tell Me What You Did

"Beautifully evocative and atmospheric, The Haunting of Emily Grace is a one-sitting read. I couldn't put it down."
~ Lisa Hall, bestselling author of suspense

"gut-tightening suspense"
~ Edward J Leahy, author of the Dan Brady and Kim Brady mysteries

The Haunting of Emily Grace Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense with a touch of light paranormal/horror
Published by: Severn House
Publication Date: May 21, 2026
Number of Pages: 288 pages
ISBN: 9781448318889 (ISBN10: 1448318882), Paperback
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Severn House

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Over the Water

Grief is a scab that I can’t stop picking at, no matter how hard I try. It pokes at me now as I sit in my truck on the deserted ferry dock, surrounded by dense morning fog and waiting for the boat to take me across an expanse of dark water to a house rumored to be cursed.

My fingers trace a photograph taped to my dashboard. My hand trembles, likely from an empty stomach or sleeplessness, as both are constant companions. But I outline the beloved face, forever frozen, like a precious object in amber. Lost to me in the real world, calling to me from the next.

The ferry slides into the dock in front of me with a bump against the pilings. A lone figure moves across the empty deck, while an old, grizzled seaman stays inside the tiny wheelhouse. One captain and one first mate.

Tying the ferry off with ropes thicker than my arm, the mate’s actions are practiced and steady. He lowers a ramp and waves me forward. Ever so slowly, I roll across the water, fighting against holding my breath—the superstition I’ve clung to my entire life every time I cross a bridge. The thirty-minute sail to Salish Island, and tiny Monk’s Rock where my new job awaits, won’t allow me the indulgence, so I might as well continue to breathe despite my need to cling to anything, even a silly belief, to keep me safe.

After parking the truck as the mate directs, I wait as he shoves bright orange chock blocks around all four wheels, as if, without a barrier, my vehicle might drive itself into the sea.

I open my door a crack; our eyes meet. “Can I get out?”

“Of course.”

The first mate is rugged, with an air of confidence like he’d be good in a crisis. Smooth skin on his cheeks. Bright, inquisitive eyes. Broad shoulders visible under the bulky uniform of dark green waterproof overalls and a yellow slicker.

He holds out his hand as I step out. “Careful. Parts of the deck can be slippery when it’s this wet.”

Electricity flies between our fingers, and I pull away as if he poses a threat. I don’t want to feel desire. Intimacy is dangerous. But what does it mean that I’m looking at men again?

He gives me an odd look. “We’ll be underway in a few minutes.” He walks back to the ramp, where two men unload a battered white cargo van. The three of them quickly stack boxes to one side, lashing them in place. No doubt provisions for an island that’s home to five hundred hearty souls—and me. At least for the time it takes to complete the finish carpentry in one enormous house.

I’d once been a very good carpenter. Before my life exploded into hospitals and medical visits, overwhelming helplessness and all the endless paperwork connected to dying. Since then, I’ve done a poor job of putting myself back together. The rough pieces of grownup life refusing to fit a new pattern now that I’m alone.

My mentor Bill Thomlinson had started this project less than a week ago but fell and broke his leg in multiple places. After he came through the surgery, metal pins in place, he convinced the homeowner to take a chance on me.

“You need this,” he said to me over the phone, his voice surprisingly strong for someone coming out of anesthesia. “I’m done watching you flail. This job can save you. Don’t let me down.”

Now I stand on the deck of a private ferry while the engines roar out a steady vibration under my feet, and wonder if I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Crossing to the rail, I pin my eyes where the horizon must lie out beyond the mist. Clouds above and waves below. Indistinguishable from each other because of the heavy air, thick like smoke. My stomach lurches at the thought of everything that swims underneath my feet and the unknown depth of the sea.

Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . focus on the future. Focus on the work.

All I know about the job ahead of me is that the original carpenter vanished, forcing the owner, Cameron Lang, to bring in someone else, but then Bill ended up with pins in his leg. Given that I haven’t slept in so long that I shouldn’t be trusted with power tools, I hope that whatever the curse is, it doesn’t come in threes.

When I feel like I’m losing my mind, it helps to ground myself with something physical, so I grip the hard, cold rail in my hands. No matter how much ending my life is a viable choice, some small part of me refuses to let death win again.

The fog brightens, and we cross a physical line in space, plunging into a blue so pure it hurts my eyes. I gasp and grip even tighter as the sky separates from the water, which now spreads out below me in an endless black void.

“Not quite got your sea legs?” The first mate watches me with barely disguised curiosity.

Salt spray traces tears down my cheeks. I must look like I’m crying. “I didn’t expect to come out of the fog so abruptly.”

“It does that sometimes. Now you see it, now you don’t. No matter how often we sail through a bank, it always feels like magic.”

“I can imagine.”

He lingers nearby. Maybe there’s little to do once the ferry is underway. Although small talk is beyond my ability, part of me longs to hear his voice again, even if I say things that sound insane.

The temperature drops as we head further out to sea.

We’re soon dodging between uninhabited land masses. “Some of these islands are so low they disappear in high tide.” He gestures to the slopes of land. Rocky outcroppings just under the surface. Dangerous, like unexploded mines in the sand.

Panic rises. The water below us taunts me—my troubles will be over if I simply fall into a watery grave. The voice becomes louder and more insistent that I should do something I can’t take back. To keep my mind off the words in my head, my eyes search for the defiant piece of US rock thrusting out of Canadian waters. If I can make it back to dry land, I can get through another day.

“That’s what you’re looking for.” The first mate’s breath tickles my ear as he comes closer, speaking over the hum of the engines, the slap of water on the hull, and the cry of seagulls. My gaze follows his arm to the far-off outline of Salish Island, where Monk’s Rock perches off the northern-most end, tethered to each other by the narrowest of bridges.

“Take this.” He presses a business card into my hand. “Just in case.” Under his name is a single word, handyman, and a phone number.

“Adrian Han?” I look up, his eyes capturing mine. “I thought you were the first mate.”

“I’m a lot of things.” His words are casual, but something reflects in his expression, an emotion I can’t put my finger on.

“You might realize at some point there’s a project you need help with. Nothing against your skills. Everyone needs another set of hands once in a while.”

“I have a helper.”

“Chuck, yeah. I’ve worked with him before.” His tone is carefully neutral.

My new boss made the arrangements for Chuck to help me with anything that requires two people. Am I going to regret his choice?

“How do you know why I’m here?”

Adrian’s carefree expression returns. “Emily Grace Turner. Carpenter. Here to finish the End of the World.”

It’s a jolt that he knows anything about me when I’ve worked so hard to become invisible. He reads me again, and his tone turns reassuring. “It’s a small town—people talk.” He gestures toward the wood rack that fits over my camper shell and the bumper sticker: Proud Member of the Carpenter’s Union. “Plus, your name was on your ferry registration.”

I chuckle for thinking his words are sinister until a darker emotion, one that looks like fear, crosses his face. “That house—” His lips purse as if he holds something back. “Just call if you need help. Anytime.”

The island takes clearer shape, and Adrian returns to the wheelhouse, his absence palpable, as if a physical hole remains in the air after he’s gone.

He’s taken his fear with him, except for the small part he’s left behind with me.

***

Excerpt from The Haunting of Emily Grace by Elena Taylor. Copyright 2025 by Elena Taylor. Reproduced with permission from Elena Taylor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Elena Taylor spent several years working in theater as a playwright, director, designer, and educator before turning her storytelling skills to novels. Her first series, the Eddie Shoes Mysteries, written under Elena Hartwell, introduced a quirky mother/daughter crime fighting duo.

With the Sheriff Bet Rivers Mysteries, Elena returned to her dramatic roots to bring readers more serious and atmospheric novels. Located in her beloved Washington State, Elena uses her connection to the environment to produce tense and suspenseful investigations for a lone sheriff in an isolated community. The third in the series, Kill to Keep, launches summer 2026.

The Haunting of Emily Grace is Elena’s first standalone suspense novel.

Her favorite place to be is at Paradise, the property she lives on south of Spokane, Washington, with her equines, dogs, cats, and hubby.

Catch Up With Elena Taylor:

www.ElenaTaylorAuthor.com
TheMysteryOfWriting.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @ElenaTaylorAuthor
Instagram - @ElenaTaylorAuthor
X - @Elena_TaylorAut
Facebook - @ElenaTaylorAuthor

My Review:

WOW! I have been reading books like this since I was 8 years old. I am a true horror fan at heart. This book was creepy. I could not read it in the dark. It is a good thing to be that surprised. I am only upset that I do not own every book by this author. I immediately felt bad for Emily because of her loss. Then with all the drama from her boss, I felt even worse. She is a character to root for! The author described the drive up to the house is such a way, that I felt like I was in the car with her. There was such eerie imagery. This is only the beginning. Next, I got into the cast of characters and how they interacted with each other. There is the shady widow, Cameron. Did he kill his wife? Which wife, he has lost two. Adrian, the jealous guy friend? Did he see Katrina last? Chloe, the long lost daughter, that is afraid of heights but has no problem looking out the window? There is also a psychic, towns folk, and other quirky characters. The mystery of who killed Katrina really tied the chapters together and kept me guessing. The chapters are short and that makes for a fast read, just not in the dark! I also was shocked by the end and the twists and turns. I did not see the ending coming. I would love to see this as a movie in a theater. I am giving this book a 5/5. I was given a copy to review, all opinions are my own. This is a must read! 

 

Tour Participants:

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How to Love a Prince by Hayden Stone Excerpt & Giveaway

How to Love a Prince
Hayden Stone
(Being Royal, #2)
Publication date: June 1st 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance

What happens when a playboy prince must find a respectable husband to redeem himself and secure the monarchy’s future when he unexpectedly inherits the throne?

When London-based playboy Prince Theodor learns he’s about to inherit the Danish throne, he must clean up his scandalous image by finding an appropriate husband. But his planned redemption arc to audition fake boyfriends to fake marry creates another set of problems, until a fateful trip to Corfu, Greece, leads him to Greek Prince Stefanos, of the former Greek monarchy, and challenges his guarded heart as sparks fly.

It’s too bad they accidentally sink a yacht, which inevitably leads to more scandal, and they must start apart. However, Theodor and Stefanos can’t stop thinking of each other, leading to heated, secret encounters between Greece and England guaranteed to set the tabloids alight once their secret is revealed…

How to Love a Prince, Book 2 in the Being Royal Series, is a light-hearted royal rom-com featuring fake dating, opposites-attract, and forbidden love.

For fans of Red, White & Royal Blue, Boyfriend Material, and The Unlikely Heir.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

When I pause long enough to go to the bar and get some water, I bump unsteadily into someone. “Sorry,” I manage, clapping a hand on the tall man’s shoulder in apology. It’s solid muscle under my fingers. He’s even more built than I am, and I’ve kept in good shape since my military service years ago and more recent modeling work after that. Before I settled into working with my business partner on our design projects.

The man turns around, frowning, his mouth open to complain. Then his eyes widen in recognition, beneath a tumble of dark, wavy hair.

Of course he’s hot.

I grit my teeth. A hot man is what got me in trouble to begin with tonight. Or, more like, said hot man got himself caught up in the tabloids and then caused me problems.

Also, I might be staring at the stranger.

Not being a British royal usually has its advantages in London. Less recognition, for starters. I’ve lived in London for years now, away from Denmark. I get less than I would get back home anyway, unless on the off chance I come across a Dane or a Danish monarchy enthusiast. Which, surprisingly, happens more often than one might think.

Except I’m hardly being subtle tonight. I want to be seen. Straightening to my full height, I stand my ground in defiance.

Let them photograph me. I insist.

I want Aidan to know what he’s missing. He’ll be sorry then, him and his wretched groom.

Except it doesn’t make things any better, and then it dawns on me I’ve still been gawping openly at a gorgeous man, with olive skin and black hair and blue eyes. Which, I’ve got to say, is a stunning combination known to do a number on me. He’s mesmerizing. I gawp like a tourist taking in one of the wonders of the world. Believe me, he’s one of them. Usually, I’m a shade more coy, to my credit, but I’ve had a lot to drink tonight, and my filter is off. In fact, my filter’s probably tossed somewhere deep in the Thames, like a votive offering right alongside some Bronze Age weapons and Roman coins.

“Prince Theodor?” He has an accent that I can’t quite place. It’s totally hot, though.

“Guilty,” I say flippantly, recovering in an artful facade of manners. I run a hand through my hair. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to crash into you. Shockingly rude. Would you like me to get you a drink to make up for it? Please.”

“No need. Already have one.” The man holds up his cocktail, complete with little umbrella and some fancy garnishes. His eyes dance. “You don’t know who I am?”

If I hadn’t been busy staring at his face like I was trying to etch it into my memory for all time, I would have maybe looked at his hand with its cocktail. Confession time. “To be honest, I barely know who I am right now.”

“Fair.” The grin he gives is spectacular, easy, almost familiar. His white teeth match his white shirt. I shiver. “I can see why you might want to forget tonight. Bad luck about the news.”

Now he looks sympathetic. My face burns.

Oh, hell.

Does everyone follow the tabloids? God, has everyone seen my embarrassment coming before I did?

Even so, do I want to forget this stranger? The probability in truth is at around nil. Around us, the dance music thumps on, people laugh and carry on around the bar where we stand in the shifting strobe lights from the dance floor, all purple and pink and blue.

And then, everything comes crashing down again as his words belatedly register in my brain. My mouth hangs slightly open. So much for finding the evening’s prospect. He’s murdered my opening.

“Ouch, man.” My suaveness has gone right out the door of the club and died on the Soho street. Probably by drowning in a well-trodden puddle. “You had to remind me about the news.”

“Sorry.” He looks contrite. Then he searches my eyes, with amusement lingering in his. There’s no malice that I can see, which makes for a refreshing change, at least. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“How rude, I should have asked your name. I’m sorry, my manners have vanished. Terribly sorry. What’s your name, then?” I ask.

He laughs easily, shrugging. “It’s Stefanos.”

I go back to staring. Something is at last clicking into place through an absinthe-induced fog. No wonder he looks a little familiar. “As in, Prince Stefanos?”

That would be Prince Stefanos of the former Greek monarchy. The Greek Royal Family remains, but in exile outside of Greece, spread across Europe.

“Yes.” Stefanos bows his head. There’s something completely charming in the gesture, almost shy. Certainly self-effacing. “And I’m very sorry about the reminder of the tabloids. I know they’re a pain for all of us.”

“You just re-reminded me,” I complain, but I’m smiling, despite the miserable night he seems to insist on reminding me about, like he’s delighting in a few more twists of the knife. And despite my best efforts to forget about Aidan. A stab wound is like that. My gut twinges. Or maybe it’s the drinks protesting in my stomach.

At any rate, I’m distracted by Stefanos, the moment of his glossy hair as he laughs again, ducking his head down as he breaks my riveted gaze.

“I’ve got to say, the prince-per-capita rating in this club is off the charts tonight.” I gaze openly at him, leaning ever so slightly in. Yes, he’s hot. Confirmed. As if there were any question about his hotness. The evening’s at last starting to look better and better. Thank fuck.

“Absolutely—”

Then, in turn, someone careens into me—and my flirting is officially cancelled.

Because it’s officially messy o’clock at the bar before last call.

And I’m drunk enough to not have my bones left for balance—and I crash hard, my drink splashing him first—and I fall hard right into Stefanos’s chest.

Author Bio:

More animal than mineral, Hayden Stone is a writer of fun queer fiction, especially with kissing. He currently lives in Victoria, Canada, and has previously lived in Vancouver, Canada and London, UK. He likes strong coffee and is owned by two cats. You can find out his latest news on Twitter or Instagram, or at his website: haydenstonebooks.com

Website / Goodreads / Instagram / TikTok / X

GIVEAWAY!

How to Love a Prince Blitz

—

LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN by Katharine Schellman Excerpt, Interview & Giveaway

LAST DANCE BEFORE DAWN

by Katharine Schellman

May 25 - June 19, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Nightingale Mysteries

 

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

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

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

Now experience this Edgar Award–nominated historical mystery in paperback!

Praise for Last Dance Before Dawn:

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

Book Details:

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

Read an excerpt:

Manhattan, 1925

Everyone came to the Nightingale looking for something.

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

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

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

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

They came for the party. They came to escape.

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

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

But not everyone was lucky.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Spence,” Vivian hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

 

 

Author Bio:

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

Interview:

1. When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

 

I was about six years old when I realized that real people actually wrote the books I was reading, and I almost immediately told my parents that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up.

 

2. How long does it take you to write a book?

 

That depends: am I on a deadline? Then I can often write the first draft of a book in about three months. (Three exhausting months.) If I’m just working on something new without a deadline, I’m often writing in between time spent on other projects, which means it can take me a year or more to get a first draft written.

 

My first book, before I had either an agent or a publisher, took several years to write and rewrite. I’ve gotten much faster since then.

 

3. What is your work schedule like when you're writing?

 

Very disorganized. Fiction takes up about half of my work time, and my other other writing and editing also comes with deadlines that I’m juggling. Plus, I’m working around school and daycare schedules, marketing, work travel, and all the general life stuff that everyone has to deal with. Four days a week, I have work time from 9:00 am to 2:00 pm. But what I’m working on during that time varies widely.

 

4. What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

 

I think I’m the only writer I know with no pets. There are just too many allergies in my family to make it worthwhile. Maybe we’ll get a goldfish one of these days.

 

5. How do books get published?

 

It’s different for every book! I’m traditionally published, which means I have a lot of collaborators helping me handle the different moving pieces, from developmental editing to ebook formatting to cover design to handling piracy takedown notices. For someone who is self-published or works with a hybrid publisher, the process looks very different.

 

But no matter what type of publishing model you use, it’s going to take time and energy to get a book from idea to bookshelf.

 

6. Where do you get your information or ideas for your books?

 

I write historical mysteries, which requires a good amount of research as I’m developing my worlds and characters. That takes up a lot of time both before and while writing that actual book.

 

Ideas are much easier; I don’t know a single writer who struggles to come up with ideas. The trick is narrowing down which ideas are going to make good books. It’s not always the ones you expect!

 

7. What do you like to do when you're not writing?

 

I try to have lots going on in my life outside of writing. Creative work needs fuel, and everyone needs hobbies. I love to garden (though I’m not that good at it yet) and work out. I spend a lot of time with my family or traveling with friends. I read a ton (no surprise there), play piano, and love to bake.

 

We’re also a hosting family, so we love having people over, either for a long visit or just for a casual get together. One of my favorite things is having friends with kids come over for a casual dinner at the end of the workday. The kids entertain each other, and the adults get to relax and have a real conversation.

 

8. How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

 

I have nine published books, and I’ve just written a tenth (the sixth book in my Lily Adler mystery series) that is scheduled to come out in February 2027. I also wrote 2.5 books in my teens and early 20s that will never see the light of day because they were terrible.

 

9. Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? If so, what are they?

 

Everyone needs editing! Creative work thrives in community, and getting feedback from writers whose work you respect is one of the best ways to grow in your craft.

 

I don’t think writers need to write every day (I certainly don’t). But I also frequently remind myself that one typed page is about 300 words. So if you write only 300 words a day, then after a year, you will have 365 pages, and that’s a book. If you write 600 words a day, it’ll be drafted in six months!

 

10. What would you like my readers to know?

 

I love hearing from readers! Writing is often solitary work, but getting to meet readers, whether virtually in person, makes the solitude worthwhile.

 

Catch Up With Katharine Schellman:

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

 

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The Corpse by the Creek by Iris March Interview & Giveaway

 

The Corpse by the Creek: A Succulent Sleuth Cozy Mystery by Iris March

About The Corpse by the Creek

 

The Corpse by the Creek: A Succulent Sleuth Cozy Mystery 

Cozy Mystery

3rd in Series (plus 2 short stories) 

Setting - Ohio

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Wandering Gingko Press 

Publication date ‏ : ‎ June 2, 2026 

Number of Pages ~200 pages 

Digital ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8998642616 

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0GS6S4HB6 

Paperback will be available as well.

Volunteer water sampling. Development deals. A dead businessman in the woods.

While volunteering with a local stream restoration group, Molly and her husband, Scott, expect to end the day with nothing more to show for it than muddy hiking shoes and water samples. Instead, they stumble upon a dead body left in the woods behind the Buckeye Trail. The victim turns out to be Upton North—an unpopular developer with business ties to half the town and enemies to match.

As Molly starts asking questions, she uncovers a web of grudges involving tenants, activists, and business owners. She’ll have to follow clues from forest trails to forgotten basements—and confront just how far greed and intimidation pushed the wrong person too far.

With a busy garden center to manage, and a beloved black and white cat occasionally underfoot, Molly digs into another Succulent Sleuth case where the roots of the crime run deep.

About Iris March

Iris March has a reputation for killing house plants, and now she’s killing people off in books? Coincidence? Perhaps not. Iris has spent two decades working in the sustainability field and is usually either reading a book or on a trail. She lives in Ohio with her husband, son, and three cats.

INTERVIEW

1.  When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

I was an English and Biology double major. When I graduated from college, I assumed I’d write a book someday. I just didn’t realize it would take me more than twenty years to get started.

 

2.  How long does it take you to write a book?

Depends on what else I have going on. Most books have taken around six months to get through the first draft, but then a lot longer to edit and go through critique and beta readers. My new release, The Corpse by the Creek, only took nine weeks to write the first draft because I was between jobs.

 

3.  What is your work schedule like when you're writing?

I like to write something every workday on my work in progress. I try to write first thing in the morning and make it the biggest priority of my day. I try to get a minimum of 500 words in a day, but that doesn’t always happen. But if I don’t have a lot going on (like when I wrote this book), sometimes I can write up to 2000 words a day.

 

 

4.  What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

I keep a word count spreadsheet and keep track of how many words I write every day and every week.

 

5.  How do books get published?

My Succulent Sleuth Series is indie published so I am my own publisher. I go through Draft2Digital for ebooks, Amazon (KDP), and Ingram Spark for other stores. I hire a book cover designer, a formatter, and an editor.

 

 

6.  Where do you get your information or ideas for your books?

I’ve had a lot of input from an admin guy at my local police station. He’s told me a lot about what happens when police are called on the scene, what happens when people are brought to their station, how they are transferred to a larger prison and so forth. I appreciate how willing he is to share with me, and he’s actually came and talked to our Sisters in Crime group. I also have a cousin-in-law whose family runs a garden center, so she has given me quite a bit of plant-y input and how a garden center works. My mom is also a skilled gardener and helps me a bit with plant knowledge. But like most fiction authors, I’m just making this stuff up!

 

 

7.  When did you write your first book and how old were you?

I started to write my first book when I was 39. It is a fictional retelling of my sister’s journey of beating cancer while being pregnant with twins and came out in 2022, The Story That Made Us Stronger.

 

8.  What do you like to do when you're not writing?

I love to read! I also love to hike, run, and kayak.

 

9.  What does your family think of your writing?

My son tells people that I’m an author even though I also work in the sustainability field. He seems to think that’s a cooler job. Everyone in my family is very supportive.

 

10.             What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your books?

I had no idea how to even start writing a book when I opened that first Google Doc. I’ve learned so much about story structure and character development.

 

11.             How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

I’m on my seventh book. My favorite book is always the one I’m writing.

 

12.             Do you have any suggestions to help me become a better writer? If so, what are they?

I think you need to read a lot in your genre and keep track of what you really don’t like and what you love. I also listen to a lot podcasts on craft and marketing.

 

13.             Do you hear from your readers much? What kinds of things do they say?

My readers are so encouraging and kind. I always get replies when I send out my monthly newsletter, and they make my day. There’s one that I took a screen shot of and is on my desktop for when I feel a little down. I had thanked my beta readers for their help and one of them replied and said, “It’s because we love you and your books. Keep writing.”

 

14.             Do you like to create books for adults?

(I only create books for adults so I think this is N/A)

 

15.             What do you think makes a good story?

I want all the open loops or problems to be solved or the promises of them to be solved as the series continues. Keeping secrets from readers by the end of the story, isn’t fair in my opinion.

 

16.             As a child, what did you want to do when you grew up?

When I was little, I was always going to be “a scientist,” expecting that I’d be doing “experiments” all day. No idea what kind of science or what kind of experiments. I was pretty serious about being an astronaut or astronomer from seventh grade through sophomore year of high school. In high school, I realized that I was terrible at physics and loved biology, so I thought I’d be an optometrist. But once I was in college, the environmental studies classes were my favorite, along with English.

 

17.             What would you like my readers to know?

The third novel in my Succulent Sleuth Series is about to launch, The Corpse by the Creek. They are stories about Molly Green, the manager of Patty’s Plant Place, a garden center in a fictional town in Northeast Ohio with the (not fictional) Buckeye Trail running behind it. She inherited the shop when her beloved grandma died. Molly owns it with her twin sister and cousin. People keep dying on the trail and she can’t help but get involved with solving the murders. 

 

Author Links 

Blue Skyhttps://bsky.app/profile/irismarchbooks.bsky.social Instagramhttps://www.instagram.com/irismarchbooks/ 

Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/irismarchbooks/ 

Websitewww.irismarchbooks.com 

Purchase Links- Amazon - Books 2 Read 

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Cold Silence by Freya Barker Excerpt

Title: Cold Silence (Silencer Series, #4) 

Author: Freya Barker 

Genre: Romantic Suspense

  Release Date: May 29, 2026 

Hosted by: Buoni Amici Press, LLC. 

Single motherhood to two teenage boys turns out to be far more challenging for Tessa Androtti than her brand-new job as detective for the Edwards County Sheriff’s Department. Especially, when the younger of her sons is keeping her up at night. Not only was the move from the big city supposed to give her a chance to build a new life away from lingering memories, but she had hoped it would be a positive change for her youngest, Remi.

However, just when she’s up to her eyeballs working on a recent violent murder, Remi gets himself into trouble again.

Trouble that appears to be connected to her investigation.

Lifetime resident of Silence, Clem Tanek, couldn’t be more surprised to find one of the new, pretty detective’s sons trespassing and stealing property from behind his auto repair shop. Despite his social awkwardness when interacting with the boy’s mother a few months ago, Clem can handle her kid just fine. Remi’s skills and interest in vehicles provide an opportunity to try and get the kid back onto the right track, without involving law enforcement. It also offers Clem a second chance with the new detective, hoping to make up for that disastrous first encounter.

But their path isn’t an easy one. Both have significant baggage, as one would expect from lives already half lived, and adapting to change can be a challenge. Particularly, when dealing with teenagers which, in this case, means wading into dangerous waters for both Tessa and Clem.

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CHAPTER 1 Tessa “Mo-om! Remi’s been in there for half an hour. I’ve gotta get ready!” I swear, I’m about to start drinking and it’s not even eight in the morning. Love my kids, but they sure wear me down. “Use my bathroom, Linc,” I yell up the stairs. I’m not sure what’s gotten into my youngest boy, Remi, recently. A few months ago, it would’ve been a chore to get him to brush his teeth or, God forbid, have the occasional shower, but lately he’s been spending a lot of time in there. Must be a girl. It was the same for his older brother, Lincoln, who went from looking like Pigpen and reeking like a gym locker most of the time to clean-clothed and smelling fresh. Maybe a little heavy on the Axe, but definitely better than the scent of dirty socks. Remi wasn’t quite that bad, he’s not into sports and athletics like his brother, but I was still relieved when he voluntarily took a shower a few weeks ago without me badgering him. I made the mistake of asking him what had prompted it—forgetting the unspoken parenting rule to never point out the desired behavior—and got my head bitten off in response. Still, I’m focusing on the silver lining. For the first time since puberty hit our house years ago, I can breathe freely again. Offering up what I’ve come to treasure as my personal sanctuary for the sake of peace in the house is a small sacrifice. Maybe now I can have five quiet minutes for my coffee to take effect. Grabbing my mug, I head out the back door to the deck. It’s a little chilly, but the cool air on my skin wakes me up and sharpens my senses. I love this time of day, everything smells fresh and full of promise, and this view is nothing to sneeze at. It’s one of the things that sold me on this house. It’s a much bigger place than we had in Spokane, and for less money, which is always a bonus. This is a quiet neighborhood on the edge of town, with mostly unspoiled nature at our back. I loved the idea of my boys having all this space with direct access to the outdoors. Heck, I’d even hoped it might spark some interest in Remi, who has been struggling to find his niche, but so far he’s persisted in his displeasure to have been forced to move here. I hate to label him as such, but Remi is my worry child. He seems so rudderless compared to his older brother, who has always been so clear in his purpose. Linc is a typical jock, with a focus on athletic performance first, girls a close second, and last, but not least, his grades. Despite some of the family shit that went on in his younger years, before I divorced his father, he seems to skate his way through life. It has to be tough for Remi to grow up in the shadow of his older brother, and I’ve tried to help him find his own light to shine in, but still my baby struggles. “Ma!” I tilt my head back to see my youngest poking his head out of his bedroom window. “I need a ride.” “Why can’t you go with Linc?” Lincoln worked part-time jobs since he turned fifteen, with the sole purpose of saving money to buy his own car. He is now the proud owner of an older Jeep Wrangler, rather beaten up, but running in good order. “He’s picking up Naomi.” Aha. These past few years, my eldest is never without female companionship for long, and once school started last month, it didn’t take more than a week for me to start hearing the name Naomi pop up. Linc has picked her up for school a few times before, and I guess he told his brother to get in the back seat, so Naomi could sit in front beside him. Remi doesn’t like to be a third wheel. I can see both their points, but I don’t have the energy to try and negotiate a compromise this morning. I have a ton of work waiting for me back at the station and can’t afford to be late. Luckily, the high school is just a few blocks from the office. “You’d better hustle, because I’m leaving in—” I quickly check my watch. “Three minutes.” Once we are on our way into town, I look over at Remi, who is slumped in the passenger seat beside me, his head turned to the side window in a clear attempt to avoid any and all conversation. I’m his mom, so fat chance of that. “Bud, happy as I am you’re spending more time in the bathroom, you’ve gotta leave time for your brother to get ready.” A snort is my only answer. “Hey,” I voice a little sharper. “Don’t give me attitude when I’m doing you a favor by dropping you off at school. All I’m asking is for you to be considerate, that’s all.” “Yeah, whatever.” I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to react to his disengaged response. I swear I can feel another gray hair sprouting every damn time we have one of these interactions. Pushing him is only going to ramp up the tension in my vehicle, so I opt to let it go. Raising teenagers is like walking a minefield on a day-to-day basis. I feel a little guilty at the relieved breath escaping me a few minutes later, when he darts out the passenger side door without a word, the moment I stop in front of his school. Despite the coffee I had at home, I already feel like I need a damn nap. It’s been another restless night, constant worry about Remi keeping me awake, so the moment I walk into the station, I make a beeline for the dark sludge passing for coffee in the kitchen. It doesn’t taste great, but it sure packs the kind of punch I need this morning. Brenda, the sheriff department’s office manager, is just coming out. “Mornin’,” she returns my mumbled greeting as she cocks her thumb over her shoulder. “Fresh pot in there.” “Bless your heart.” I slip past her and inhale the fumes as I grab one of the department mugs off the shelf and fill it. I take my first sip before I turn around to find Brenda leaning against the doorway, her head tilted to one side as she scrutinizes me. “Tough morning?” Instantly my hand goes to my hair, which is already escaping the messy knot I turned it into after my shower. “Is it that obvious?” She grins. “You forget, I’ve got a couple of boys too. I recognize the look of exasperation on your face. Pretty sure I’ve worn that same expression from time to time.” That’s right, I knew she had boys. I’ve been preoccupied getting us settled in, the boys ready for school, and myself up to speed at work, I haven’t really had the time to connect with people on a more personal level. Maybe that’s what I need for a better balance in my life. “Exasperation, huh? Guess that describes my state pretty accurately this morning,” I return. “Any tips or suggestions are welcome; maybe over drinks some time?” “Friday night my husband is taking the boys to Spokane to see the new Marvel movie on the big screen. Why don’t you pop by? I’ve got a fully stocked bar,” she adds with a wink. “Sounds tempting,” I admit. “Let me check in with my hoodlums to see what they have going on that night.” “Yeah, of course. See if it works.” She starts walking away before she stops and turns. “Oh, before I forget, I sent a copy of the forensics report you were waiting for to your email. It must’ve come in late last night.” Finally. About two weeks ago, a local hunter stumbled on to what looked to be a brand-new Ford Mustang abandoned on one of the old logging roads heading up Black Mountain. The vehicle had been deliberately covered with brush—clearly intended to hide it from view. When the hunter peered inside the window and noticed the passenger seat covered in blood, he immediately contacted us. Judging from the sheer volume of blood, it looked like someone bled out in that vehicle, but we found no evidence of a body, just a few smeared prints on the inside of the door. A VIN search on the Mustang came back to a stolen vehicle from the upscale Spokane neighborhood of Rockwood. A blood test confirmed the blood to be human, but who it might have belonged to, as well as the whereabouts of the victim, has remained a mystery. Hoping the forensics report will give me some guidance on this damn case I’ve been spinning my wheels on these past weeks, I rush to my desk. Clem “Go home, Kyle. I’ll finish it up.” As glad as I am the new, young mechanic I hired on after reopening the garage does not seem averse to working longer hours, it’s already been a long-ass day and I’m fucking starving. “You sure?” the scrawny, redheaded kid asks, poking his head out from under the hood of the Infinity he’s working on. “Yep. Get out of here, it’s Friday night. I’ll see you in the morning.” Tomorrow will be a busy day, but Manuel should be back, so there will be three of us to tackle the work. Manuel had a rare few days off to visit his ailing mother. One of only a few times he asked for time off since he started working for me over ten years ago. Anyway, we’ll be at full strength tomorrow and should hopefully be able to clear out the back lot before next week. I follow Kyle to the front and lower the massive bay door behind him, locking myself in for the night. When fire leveled the old auto shop—which had been in the family for generations—I wasn’t sure I’d have the heart or drive to rebuild Main Street Mechanics from the ground up. It would’ve taken a year at least, during which time I wouldn’t have had an income, and I’d likely have lost most of my customers in the interim. Aside from that, the business had already outgrown the shop, and there wasn’t a large enough real estate footprint to build anything bigger. Repurposing the old fire hall had been at the suggestion of Hugo Alexander, Edwards County Deputy Sheriff, who is a buddy of mine. The place had sat vacant since they built the new large fire station on the outskirts of Silence. It had taken a bit of negotiating and working out a bit of creative financing, but I was able to buy it and set up shop here. Turning the lights off in the shop—I’ll come back down later to finish replacing the hoses on that Infinity—I head up the open stairway to the second level and aim straight for the spacious open kitchen and the cold beer in my fridge. Originally, the upper level had housed the living and sleeping quarters for the fire crew but, with some minor renovations, I’d turned it into a comfortable apartment for myself. The insurance check I’d received for the old place hadn’t been enough to cover the cost of the fire hall, so I ended up selling the small house I’d called home for fifteen or so years to make up the difference. I didn’t really have any emotional connection to the house anyway. The shop was my home and I spent the bulk of my time there, but it had been somewhere to lay my head at night. With the extra money I was able to make a few adjustments to this upper floor, and already it feels more like a home than the house ever did. Although I suspect the smell of motor oil that follows me up here has a little something to do with that. Along with a beer, I pull a block of cheese from the fridge, cutting off a chunk to tide me over until I can get some dinner together. I’m thinking I’ll cut up some vegetables and a couple of those spicy sausages I picked up, and toss them on a baking tray in the oven. They can cook while I drink my beer and watch the news. I’ve been trying to watch what I eat. I never took the time to cook much before, just popped a frozen dinner in the microwave or stopped in at the diner for something greasy. It showed in the gut I’d been steadily growing since I hit my forties. Then right after the fire, I went in to see the new doc for a checkup. The guy warned me that with my high cholesterol and blood pressure, I was heading for a heart attack unless I started living healthier. Seeing as my father dropped dead from a heart attack when he was just a few years older, I took the warning and made some adjustments. A lot has changed this past year, and though I’m not normally a fan of changes, I feel I’ve landed in a pretty good place. My business is steady, my health is better, I’ve got my friends, my Thursday night poker game, and a kick-ass place that feels like a home to put my feet up in at the end of the day. What else do you need? After finishing up the dishes forty-five minutes later, I briefly consider leaving the Infinity until the morning, but end up heading back downstairs anyway. The moment I flick on the bright overhead lights in the garage, I hear some noise out back. A metallic clang, like something bumping the lid of the garbage container out there. Maybe I startled something rummaging through the trash, it wouldn’t be the first time. It’s not unheard of for wildlife to venture into town, looking for an easy meal at this time of year. Grabbing a large wrench from the tool bench—I’m not about to potentially face off with a hungry bear empty-handed—I head toward the regular back exit next to the large bay door. Unlocking it, I ease it open, poking my head out. At first, I don’t see anything. Nothing seems out of place in the back lot where we park vehicles still to be worked on and those waiting for owners to pick them up. In the light escaping from the glass panes at the top of the large rolling door, I spot no bears, or any other creatures for that matter, hanging out by the dumpster. But when I step outside, letting the door fall shut behind me, I can hear the sound of something scraping the gravel surface to my left. Swinging my head around, I just catch a glimpse of a red sneaker disappearing under the frame of the Jeep Patriot Tim Saunders dropped off for an oil change and fluid top-up earlier this afternoon. I slip my hand in my pocket to pull out my cell phone and turn on its flashlight as I duck down, shining it under the vehicle. “Get your ass out from under there,” I bark at the wide-eyed teenager looking back at me. “Trust me, kid, you don’t want my fucking help.” Wisely, the boy crawls out and scrambles to his feet. It takes me only a second to realize who it is. Well, shit. Then I quickly scan the Jeep, noticing a hack saw as well as a familiar part lying on the ground beside the vehicle. “Really, kid? Surely you can find better things to do than pulling catalytic converters from vehicles a stone’s throw away from the sheriff’s station.” “I wasn’t…I didn’t…” the punk stammers before snapping his mouth shut. He realizes there is no denying with the evidence basically lying at his feet. I can see his eyes dart left and right, looking for the fastest escape route. “I’m thinking your mom won’t be too pleased when I call it in.” His mother being the sheriff office’s most recent addition, Tessa Androtti. I recognize her boy from a cookout at Bess and Hugo’s place they were at, toward the end of the summer. “Please don’t,” the kid pleads, and in that moment, I see the vulnerable boy instead of the criminal teenager. Fuck. Those big puppy dog eyes are getting to me, making me feel like a goddamn monster for even considering turning him in. “How many?” I snap at him. “What do you mean?” he returns, looking confused. “Catalytic converters. How many did you drop?” He indicates a white Ford F-150 a few spots down. “That one too,” he admits. Dammit. It’ll take up valuable time to install each of those again, adding to an already full workload for tomorrow. “Do you know how much work it’s gonna be to fix those?” It’s more of a rhetorical question, I don’t actually expect an answer, but the kid gives me one anyway. “With the right tools, probably a couple of hours each.” I regard him with a lifted eyebrow. “And you would know what the right tools are?” This time he shrugs. “It’s not that hard.” There’s something about his casual arrogance that reminds me of myself, thirty years ago. I decide to call his bluff. “Well, in that case, I want your ass back here tomorrow morning at eight on the dot, and you can put your money where your mouth is.” Now he looks shocked. “You mean, I can go?” I wag a finger in his face. “But if you’re not here at eight, I will personally walk over to the sheriff’s station and file charges. Right after I have a nice long talk with your mother,” I threaten. As I watch the kid take off on his red sneakers, I realize this may not have been the wisest move on my part. But the boy doesn’t strike me as a hardcore criminal. If I’d venture a guess, he’s—at worst—a misguided kid who is heading down the wrong path. I was that kid once, before my dad put me to work in the shop. Who knows, maybe a little redirection of that energy, and some honing of what appears to be a passing interest in cars, will set the boy on the straight and narrow. I’m just not sure how his mother will respond when she finds out. I don’t think she likes me much.

 

USA Today bestselling author Freya Barker loves writing about ordinary people with extraordinary stories.

With forty-plus books already published, she continues to create characters who are perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy.

Recipient of the ReadFREE.ly 2019 Best Book We've Read All Year Award for "Covering Ollie, the 2015 RomCon “Reader’s Choice” Award for Best First Book, “Slim To None”, Finalist for the 2017 Kindle Book Award with “From Dust”, and Finalist for the 2020 Kindle Book Award with “When Hope Ends”, Freya spins story after story with an endless supply of bruised and dented characters, vying for attention!

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