Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Maybe You Lied by Jennifer Sadera

MAYBE YOU LIED

by Jennifer Sadera

September 7 - October 16, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Everything he knows about his life is. . . a lie.

Blindsided by the sudden death of his mother, 21-year-old Will Lockhart can no longer afford the rent or bear the haunting memories of their shared Massachusetts apartment. While packing up his mother's belongings, he discovers his long-dead father's deed to a house in upstate New York. With nowhere else to go, he settles there, intent on making a fresh start. But odd things happen as soon as Will moves in. He's unnerved by evidence of fire damage in the cottage, and alarmed by the seizure his elderly next-door neighbor suffers upon meeting him. Most shocking of all are the rumors of a long-ago murder in his house. Now, trapped in a town full of strangers, unsure of whether local murmurings are true or simply small-town gossip, he's determined to discover what really happened all those years ago, and how he's connected to the chaos. The truth will set him free. Or get him killed.

Praise for Maybe You Lied:

"Sadera has done it again! Maybe You Lied is an evocative and compelling tale of family trauma, betrayal, and the chilling truth that the most dangerous secrets are those buried by the people closest to us."
~ Lisa Malice, bestselling author of Lest She Forget, winner of the 2023 IBPA Best New Voice in Fiction Award

"MAYBE YOU LIED is a spectacular thriller that instantly grips you and refuses to let go. With great emotional depth, this novel plunges you inside Will Lockhart's mind, soul, and angst. He's a down on his luck, grief and guilt-ridden young man stuck in a hopeless rut. When he discovers a deed to a house he believes he's inherited, it seems like his luck just might change. Page by page, he uncovers hidden layers of a past he could never have imagined. But when nothing is as it seems and everything you knew about your family and your past is a lie, be careful of digging up the truth. It might set you free...unless it kills you first. This darkly suspenseful, romantic journey knits a cast of intriguing, deeply unreliable characters into a clever, twisty narrative. You won't want to put down this edgy story of loss, love, identity, and family truths as you hurtle towards its surprising end."
~ Zelly Ruskin, award-winning author of Not Yours to Keep and the forthcoming One of Us Must Die

"Maybe You Lied is a twisty, emotionally charged domestic suspense that ramps up to a jaw-dropping, visceral finale. Don't miss it!"
~ Bonnie Traymore, Author of The Rich Guy's Wife

"Family ties? Or family lies? Will Lockhart is coming home to a woodland cottage he never knew existed, his life in shreds and fragments. In a novel as intricately woven as a web, Jennifer Sadera explores sociopathy, nature versus nurture, and the one thing that can never die--a chance at love and redemption."
~ Jenny Milchman, Mary Higgins Clark award winning author of the Arles Shepherd thrillers

"A young man's attempt to piece together his family's dark history propels this gripping mystery, which moves with an electric speed through secrets twistier than the branches of a mangled family tree. Combining thrills, romance, and a moving exploration of grief, MAYBE YOU LIED is perfect for fans of sinister family dynamics who want to devour a thriller in one breathless go."
~ Ashley Winstead, national bestselling author of This Book Will Bury Me

MAYBE YOU LIED Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense, Domestic Suspense
Published by: Creative James Media
Publication Date: September 22, 2026
Number of Pages: 344
ISBN: 9781965648919 (ISBN10: 1965648916)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Landlords don’t rent apartments to zombies.

I scratched the four-day stubble on my jawline and parked my mom’s Camry behind the brown brick walk-up. Home-Not-So-Sweet Home.

As I stepped into the cramped apartment lobby Sergei was waiting.

“The rent,” he said, his guttural Russian accent turning his words into a nonsensical de-REN. I paused, reluctantly meeting the bushy brows lowered ominously over his steely slitted eyes. Easy to translate.

I nodded and darted my own eyes to the stairway. One of these days my landlord would surely raise a heavily muscled arm and crash his ham hock fist into my face. Emitting my zombie grunt, I pivoted to the stairwell and rushed up, expecting Sergei to follow. Relieved when he didn’t.

It would be a brief reprieve. When my mom lived here Sergei only showed up once a month, but in the three years since she died, he’d pounded his frustration with my spotty payments onto my apartment door with increasing frequency, not budging until I opened the creaky steel barrier. Saying nothing, he’d hold out a meaty palm that looked like it could strangle me all by itself.

Back when I still had cash, I’d offer a wad of fifties and hundreds that he’d snatch up like grabbing cash from an ATM. Only the Will Lockhart machine was now empty, and Sergei looked as though he wanted to kick it into compliance. Kick me. Face flushed with fury, he’d study me with those hard gray pebbles, taking in my disheveled hair and sagging clothes. A gaze that told me exactly what he thought about me—a twenty-one-year-old slacker who clearly cared about nothing. A deadbeat. A zombie. And this was mostly true except for the one thing I cared deeply about: those last seconds with Mom. I relived them daily, the guilt as fresh and dangerously addictive as a drunk’s bleary-eyed yearning for a Bloody Mary the morning after a bender.

I deserved the memories. If not for me, Mom would still be alive.

I closed my eyes against the inevitable scene rolling through my mind. The flash of headlights slicing through my Honda’s dusky interior like a white-hot comet, too fast to stop, too bright to blink away; a violent force whirling me into its vortex. My neck twisting painfully, head hitting something hard. The car’s interior exploding into a slow-motion kaleidoscope. How I’d instinctively thrust my arm out to protect my mom, instant pain bolting from fingers to shoulder; glass shattering and raining down upon us like the stinging embers of trailing fireworks.

And then, the stillness. The church-like quiet.

I’d blinked into the silence as the noises trickled in—the hissing of the steaming engine, and a tinny song coming through the radio from somewhere under the car’s hood. A far-off voice belted out a twangy country tune. “Put on the bacon and the eggs, darlin’ . . .”

Mom and her country music. Mom and her . . . Mom. Head throbbing, I’d scanned the smoke-choked twilight. She was right where she was supposed to be, still hooked in place by her seatbelt, staring straight ahead, like she was listening for something.

“Mom? Are you all right?”

Beyond the jagged glass edges of her blown-out window I saw the lines of the truck through the smoky haze, the words “Barclay’s Bread” written in fancy red letters on its wide, boxy side. Mom said nothing.

Painfully bolted into our twisted metal cage, waiting for the Jaws of Life to extract us, I’d reached out, trying to touch her with my other hand, the one that still worked. If I could just shake her out of her trance.

But in those final precious seconds our bodies existed in the same world, I knew. She was already gone.

I shook my head, forcing me back to the present, wishing my mind could be like the Etch-a-Sketch Mom bought me when I was six. One harsh shake in each direction and the contents of the screen disappeared. But my mind retained in painful detail the truck driver’s distinctive profile, the beak of a nose angled down, a squinted eye and bulbous cheekbone lit up by his cell-phone screen.

As a kid, the thought of Mom dying had set waves of terror rolling through me. Not just because I loved her, but because a part of me always dreaded the day she’d be taken from me. Convinced it would happen but unsure of when, I’d spent a good four years waking up each night and tiptoeing to her bedroom door, peeking through the crack between the edge of the flimsy wood and the wall to ensure she was still in bed, alive. Ridiculous as it seemed, even then, it was understandable, given our track record. I mean, not long before my dad left us, just after my fifth birthday, we’d been a family of four.

***

Excerpt from MAYBE YOU LIED by Jennifer Sadera. Copyright 2026 by Jennifer Sadera. Reproduced with permission from Jennifer Sadera. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Jennifer Sadera first worked in the publishing industry as a junior copywriter for NAL/Penguin. She has written and edited for newspapers and magazines as a freelancer and on the staffs of major women's publications, Woman's World and Redbook.

Catch Up With Jennifer Sadera:

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Review:

5 stars!

Mounting tension and long-held secrets kept me riveted to my seat! 

Maybe You Lied, a new psychological thriller by Jennifer Sadera, blends an engaging, vulnerable main character with a mysterious setting and suspenseful plot to deliver a tale that kept me glued to the page and reading long into the night. After the death of his mother, young Will Lockhart falls on hard times, earning a dreaded and inevitable eviction notice. But as he gathers important documents in preparation for the coming changes, he discovers a deed, in his deceased father's name, for a house he knew nothing about.

 At the urging of his family's attorney, he drives two hours away to see if it's a viable option for his new home. Vacant and little more than a cabin, Will is just about to explore further when an angry older man approaches him, demanding to know his business. But when he gets a good look at Will's face, this stranger seems to recognize him and turns fearful, his agitation precipitating a sudden medical emergency for which Will summons an ambulance, perhaps saving the man's life. 

Feeling guilty for triggering the man's condition, Will doesn't correct the man's housekeeper, who soon arrives on the scene. Instead, he takes her to the hospital behind the ambulance and waits with her for the update from the doctors. Neither does he come clean when he meets the man's only daughter, Penelope, who believes the story that he just came across him, unconscious, in the wooded area around the vacant cabin. Will settles into his new home, and he and Penelope get closer. Her father's condition remains critical, and he continues to be unable to offer an alternative scenario. Will is living on borrowed time as he tries to uncover the story behind the house and the man's extreme reaction to his arrival. 

The author drew me in from the very start with the shocking hints of what the very young Will may have seen of his older sister, Ange, and kept me rooted in place with her depiction of him at 21, suffering through survivor's guilt over the death of his mother in a car accident which occurred while he was driving. With his older sister's loss followed by his father's departure from the family when Will was only five, it had always been just him and his mother. The tension gradually builds as he is evicted from the apartment they shared after his long recovery from the injuries he himself sustained in the accident. Each twist in the plot heightens the suspense and shifts the story's trajectory, keeping me guessing and riveted for what's to come. I really felt for this character and was immediately invested in what he was experiencing, needing to know the answers to all the secrets he encountered as much as he did. I was absolutely not disappointed. 

Sadera's writing style is clean, easy to read, and immersive, painting a vivid picture of what's unfolding around this vulnerable, sympathetic main character. Once I picked up the story, I was in for the duration and glued to the book well past any reasonable bedtime. 

I recommend MAYBE YOU LIED to readers of psychological and domestic thrillers.

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Book Review: The Bone Nest by Shanessa Gluhm

The Bone Nest by Shanessa Gluhm
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It was their final summer together, and nothing would ever be the same.

The Bone Nest is a suspenseful and cleverly plotted murder mystery by Shanessa Gluhm and set in Blusummer, Texas, where almost 40 years earlier, a serial killer had committed a string of murders of young local women, strangled and photographed, the bodies of the first three never found. That summer was the last one that Hayes Sheridan, Chantilly Price, Troy Terrell, and Greer Collins would have together before the four split up to follow their post-graduation college and work plans. But the 4th of July would see the group destroyed as one would die and another would be accused of murder.

Fast-forward to 2024, where a young criminal defense attorney, Joaquin Ramos, out to enervate his new practice and make a name for himself, would take on the death sentence case of Troy Terrell, the convicted serial killer known as "The Songbird Strangler," whose punishment was scheduled to be carried out after the New Year. Working to overturn Troy’s conviction at the behest of the Death Penalty Abolition Program, Joaquin and his team have an uphill battle as the previous petitions on Troy’s behalf have failed.

The story unfolds in dual timelines (1986 and 2024) and from multiple points of view, giving readers a front-row seat to the events of both the past and the present, and personal insight into the characters involved. Because we know Troy Terrell is on death row, with his time running, and that he was there for the murder of his friend, Tilly, the buildup to the night of July 4, 1986, is breath-stealingly suspenseful. There are secrets among all the friends, which develop later into several plausible motives for Tilly’s murder. I was completely certain I knew who the killer was SEVERAL times, only to have one theory after another kicked to the curb by the plot, which would take spectacular turn after spectacular turn.

The resulting tale is full of missed connections and choices that led to unfulfilled dreams and futures that never lived up to expectations. The main female character, Greer Collins Sheridan, one of the four teenagers in 1986, had loved Hayes Sheridan all her life but only got him by default. She gets the life she dreamed of, only to face tragedy and the knowledge that she was always his second choice. Hayes follows his parents’ plans for his future rather than his dream of becoming a farmer. Troy, who just wanted to get out of Blusummer, gets his wish, but life on death row for a murder he swears he didn’t commit was a devastatingly cruel plot twist. Even the attorney, Joaquin, who dreams of winning big in court and is not afraid to put in the work to achieve it, faces a personal roadblock. His attraction to Melrose Reed, the paralegal on Troy’s defense team, feels wrong, and as her boss, it is inappropriate as long as they work together. But he hopes with all his heart that after the case is settled, he can finally approach her as a regular man interested in a legitimate romantic relationship.

With its strong and interesting character development and clever, twisty plot, I recommend THE BONE NEST to readers of suspense, mysteries, and thrillers.

View all my reviews

Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Lies to Forever by Marlene M. Bell

LIES TO FOREVER

by Marlene M. Bell

June 1 - 26, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

 

First they stole her trust. Now they want her life.

April Manning’s generous nature has always been a gift, and her greatest weakness. After being scammed out of her life savings by a trusted friend, April is left with an eviction notice and one last hope: reclaiming her position as an interior designer at her old architectural firm, even if it means a showdown with head architect Hunter Ellis, her cheating ex.

But that’s not the only hitch. When the owner of the firm turns up dead, the last thing April expects to find is the bloody murder weapon on her doorstep.

Now the killer sets a plan for April and suspicion flares at every turn…from the mysterious new handyman, to an estranged family member she’s tried to forget. Chased from her dream home and cornered like prey, April is hemmed by the wintry forests of Tennessee with few options. As chilling memories of childhood abandonment haunt her, it seems everyone has a hidden agenda to take April down.

Only one thing is certain. A monster is stalking Smoky Creek, and April must unmask them before they land the fatal blow.

Readers of Sarah Alderson and Kiersten Modglin will love the twisted betrayals and dark obsession of Lies to Forever, the latest standalone thriller by award-winning novelist Marlene M. Bell.

Praise for Lies to Forever:

"A must-read for fans of smart, character-driven suspense fiction. Highly recommended"
~ The International Review of Books

"Author Marlene M. Bell has crafted a gripping, psychological thriller. ...a suspense-laden drama where the twists and turns of the plot are genuinely surprising and rewarding."
~ The Book Review Directory

Lies to Forever Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Crime
Published by: Ewephoric
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages:316
ISBN: 9798986340982
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.

When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.

The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover.

He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door.

Without so much as a warning.

My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles.

The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend?

“April.”

My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office.

Whang.

A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface.

A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient.

“I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.”

The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes.

“Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name.

My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees.

A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.”

Haven’t heard that in a while.

Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes.

I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way.

Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped.

A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early.

“Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm.

“Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area.

“Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.”

I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant.

He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought.

“Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair.

I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.”

From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable.

I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.”

“Miss.”

I turn toward the voice.

“I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.”

My first slam-and-crash date request.

It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared.

Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest.

“If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table.

“Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?”

I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.”

“April, he’s not coming in.”

“That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.”

“Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.”

With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk.

“I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?”

“Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.”

“Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.”

The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.”

Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress.

“Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.”

“You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs.

“It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds.

“Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.”

“Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks.

“Been there a few times.”

“You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso.

Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment.

Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say.

When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude.

The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take.

Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out.

While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain…

A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather.

I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps.

Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow?

A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace.

I don’t smell burning wood.

My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub.

Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa.

“Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?”

I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—”

A metallic odor hits me.

“Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived.

Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene.

I can’t be implicated in this.

***

Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Marlene M. Bell shares many traits with the bold protagonists she writes. Her Annalisse series stars a New York antiquities appraiser who chases dangerous criminals in far-flung locales. The series has won eight international literary awards and an avid fan base around the world.

When Marlene's not busy plotting her next novel, she's exploring her wooded Texas ranch with camera in hand and thirty sheep faithfully in tow. As an accomplished painter and nature photographer, she's always hunting for the next spark of inspiration - or the next adventure calling her name.

Catch Up With Marlene M Bell:

www.MarleneMBell.com
Amazon Author Profile
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BookBub - @dorsetgalwrites
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Facebook, Personal
Facebook - @marlenembell

 

Review:

4 stars!

Riveting domestic thriller with danger and a plot twist around every corner! 

Lies to Forever by Marlene M. Bell is a riveting new domestic thriller set in eastern Tennessee and features a young out-of-work interior designer on the run from an unknown killer. With danger and plot twists around every corner, the story is a genuine page-turner! 

April Manning is having a bad day. After awakening to an unexpected eviction notice on her door and a no-show bass at her interview to return to work at her former workplace, she decides to take her portfolio to his home, where he’s supposed to be repairing a spa pump, only to find a murder scene. Bad enough, but the day isn’t over yet. 

April is a likable and engaging main character, as is her former coworker and beau, Hunter Ellis, who takes up her cause the moment she confides in him. (She had broken up with him over a BIG MISUNDERSTANDING.) As the day goes on, she picks up a stalker who is on top of her every move, and both the homes she takes refuge in feel open, unprotected, and so remote. The cold, snowy Tennessee Smokies add to the strong impression of isolation and lurking danger. 

The story is full of mystery regarding who is behind the attacks on April and why they are pursuing her. These questions are further complicated by hints that April’s own mother, a woman who abandoned her to a neighbor 20 years earlier, may have a hand in things. However, the truth proves to be much more diabolical than even that!

 I recommend LIES TO FOREVER to fans of domestic thrillers.

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Lies, Deception… and a Deadly Giveaway

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: Everyone is Perfect Here by Jane Haseldine

EVERYONE IS PERFECT HERE

by Jane Haseldine

April 6 - May 1, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

There’s no such thing as perfect.

To the outside world, English professor Carly Bennett is a rising star…. poised, confident and on a fast-track to success. But behind her professional facade lies a childhood shattered by betrayal and her mother’s mysterious death.

Fifteen years earlier, Carly was shipped off to boarding school after being accused of threats she never made and exiled by her beloved mother and wealthy stepfamily. Throughout, Carly clung to her one ally, her stepbrother Julien…. until she discovered he masterminded her downfall.

Julien, now a psychiatrist, reappears in Carly’s life, apologetic and bearing news: before a fatal break-in, Carly’s mother planned to bring Carly home. Vindicated, Carly investigates her mother’s cold case. But doing so unearths memories that cause Carly to question her sanity and finally face the truth.

Was she responsible for her mother’s murder or is something more sinister at play in her former stepfamily’s still perfect world?

Praise for Everyone Is Perfect Here:

"This tense psychological thriller, where nothing is as it seems, will keep you on edge until the final reveal"
~ Kirkus Reviews

"This was a well-written and complex drama that immediately grabbed my attention, quickly becoming a page-turner as I had to know how this was going to end."
~ Dru Ann Love, Agatha, Anthony & Macavity Award-Winning Author, Raven Award Recipient

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Severn House
Publication Date: April 7, 2026
Number of Pages: 301
ISBN: 9781448320127 (ISBN10: 1448320127)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Severn House

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Present Day, Los Angeles
Carly Bennett

Light blue on dirty blonde.

Creative writing professor Carly Bennett did a quick scan of her face from its reflection in the window that overlooked the University of Southern California quad and smoothed a crease in her pencil skirt.

If Carly had known that the dean of the English department would schedule a last-minute meeting with her, she would’ve picked a better outfit than one that screamed, “I had no time to take this to the cleaner, so I ran a fast iron over it. But thank God the skirt is black so no one can see the stain from when my coffee cup lid jimmied its way free this morning.”

Nothing like near first-degree burns on your thigh from an errant Starbucks Pike to jolt a person awake during LA’s slog of a commute.

No matter. Here she was.

And she’d be ready. Even though she needed to master her prep on the fly.

Carly turned the corner to the English department’s Office of the Dean and forged through her speaking points that she’d deliver to her boss, Bert Scanlon.

“Making the LA Times’s ‘Thirty-Under-Thirty’ list was a complete surprise, but I’m so happy that the article will shine a spotlight on the great work our team is doing under your leadership.”

Ack. Too mealy-mouthed. Plus, it made her sound like a big-headed brown-noser. And nobody likes that person.

“Thank you for the kind words. Please know how much I appreciate that you believe in me, and I swear, I won’t let you down.”

Better, and that sentiment was from the heart.

Carly pictured her face, front and center on the page when she’d pulled up the LA Times story that morning and hoped that the people she used to know from her early Malibu days saw it too.

Elitist jerks.

As for herself, Carly had read the write-up, over and over, until she could now recite it in perpetuity.

Carly passed by the USC English department’s wall of fame, which showcased its students’ esteemed awards through the years. She paused when she saw her name, capturing a moment in time from freshman year. Her: scared to near speechlessness amongst the far cooler co-eds but finding strength behind her pen.

Winner of the 2018 Undergraduate Writing Prize—First Place: Carly Bennett

Had she really come this far? Most would’ve marked her a losing bet at age twelve, her personal line of demarcation, but sometimes, even dark horses can come from behind and win the whole damn thing.

Four. Three. Two. One.

“You got this,” Carly whispered.

She reached for the security of her inhaler in her briefcase and entered Scanlon’s office.

Gretchyn Olson, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was working the phone with precision. She held up a single finger when she saw Carly.

While she waited, Carly continued to clutch her briefcase in one hand and placed the other behind her back, where she dug a fingernail into a stray cuticle.

After a beat, Scanlon’s assistant put the call on hold.

“They’re waiting for you,” Gretchyn said. “Hang in there, kid. Sometimes, you need to play the game.”

They? And what game was she talking about?

Carly’s neck felt hot, but she made certain she was smiling when she entered the office, where she locked eyes with Scanlon, who rose to greet her. Scanlon had a Mr. Clean, shiny bald head, and his stomach struggled to stay behind the confines of the clasped gold buttons of his tweed coat.

Seated across from the dean of the English department was an unfamiliar male, who was well dressed, neatly manicured, and appeared to be in his early fifties.

Carly shot the stranger an equally polite smile. Who was this guy?

“Miss Bennett, thank you for taking time to swing by under such short notice,” Scanlon said.

“Of course, sir.”

Maybe the man was another reporter from the paper who covered the education beat and was writing a follow-up article on the English department.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Franklin Yeager. You taught Frank’s son, Landon, last semester.”

In that moment, Carly felt like someone had jabbed an ice pick into her high-flying helium balloon.

The room became very still as Carly struggled to find the appropriate response.

“In all due respect, if this is about my former student, I think any further discussion should be held in private and between the administration, but I was under the impression the incident and disciplinary action had been decided,” Carly said.

A robotic delivery, but at least she got the words out.

“There’ve been some developments that have been brought to my attention. I asked Frank to come in so we could clear the air, so to speak,” Scanlon said. “Please, sit, Miss Bennett.”

Carly kept her place, arms folded, standing above the men, but when Scanlon cleared his throat, she acquiesced and found a seat next to her former student’s father.

“Landon didn’t plagiarize the paper,” Yeager said.

Yes, he did! Carly wanted to scream. Instead, she slipped her hands underneath her legs, in case her palms started to sweat.

“If my son did cheat, I’d be the first to request that USC boot him out the door on his fanny,” Yeager continued. “But I know my kid, and I also know a liar, and Landon is beside himself over this false accusation. I’ll be honest with you, when Landon first told me about the whole mess, I was ready to call my lawyer, but since Bert is an old friend, I thought, why not try and hash things out man-to-man first.”

She had to respond. The words were there, ready to make her point, if only she could find the ability and the guts to say them.

“But he did ch-ch-cheat,” Carly said, despising the catch in her voice.

When was the last time she’d stuttered? Probably a year ago, during her annual review with Scanlon. She wondered if the universe would grant her a reprieve, and somehow the two men hadn’t picked up on her residual speech impediment, which still ambushed her in the worst possible moments, rising like an unkillable weed despite all her years of work to get rid of it.

She shot a glance at Yeager, whose mouth had turned up into a bow that resembled a smirk or, worse, pity.

If she were going down, at least she had to throw a punch.

“I want all my students to excel, and if they need extra time on an assignment, they know I’ll give it to them, and my door is always open if they need additional help. But the paper Landon wrote was a complete replica of one I received from a different student last year. We’re talking down to the semicolon.”

Carly looked to Scanlon, hoping for some back-up, but the dean kept his focus on Yeager.

“Then it wasn’t a case of cheating but purely accidental on Landon’s part,” Yeager said. “Or is the word coincidental? You’re the English whizzes in here, and I’m a businessman who wouldn’t know a semicolon from a hyphen, but I do know mistakes can be made, even by well-meaning young professors. How long have you been a teacher? You look more like a co-ed than a professor, and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways.”

Yeager chuckled, sounding to Carly like the laugh was cover so he wouldn’t sound like a creep.

Too late.

Carly fought to speak up and defend herself. But she remained still and silent, stuck between two powerful, rich males who were doing a very fine job of reeling in the young, errant female who didn’t know her place.

“This is my second year at USC.”

“Miss Bennett is still relatively new to our school as a professor, but she’s a rising star in our English department and did quite well as a student here before joining our professional fold.”

The heat that Carly had felt in her neck earlier had now exploded into a full-blown, five-alarm inferno, despite Scanlon throwing her a pseudo-bone.

Carly had crossed her legs and put a hand to her throat to try and cover her growing rash when she noticed Yeager was staring at something on the bottom of her black high heel. Whatever it was seemed to give him great satisfaction.

“Mr. Scanlon . . .” Carly pleaded, but the dean interrupted.

“I appreciate that you hold your students to the highest of standards, as you should, but since Frank is a trusted friend to the school, this time, we’ll expunge the previous disciplinary action and wipe the slate clean. Landon can resubmit the assignment and finish up the course through independent study, so he won’t lose credit. I have your word that Landon will be more careful in his work going forward, Frank?”

“You bet. My kid is a good boy, and I knew we could wrangle this problem to the ground. You have my word on my kid and on my continued support. Generations of Yeagers have supported this school, and we’ll continue the tradition. “Fight on for ol’ SC, our men fight on to victory!” Yeager warbled, hitting the notes of the USC fight song slightly off-key but with great confidence in his delivery.

When Yeager stood to shake the dean’s hand, Carly looked to the bottom of her high heel and saw a Macy’s close-out sale sticker still affixed to its outsole.

Her previous high-flying balloon was now bits of spent plastic that an entitled rich boy and his adult minions had tossed into the dumpster.

“No hard feelings, OK? New teachers can make mistakes with the best of them,” Yeager said.

He extended his hand to Carly.

You sold your integrity for a buck, and to a total cheese bag when you know I’m right! Carly wanted to scream to Scanlon.

Instead, Carly remained quiet and stared at Yeager’s outstretched hand.

Scanlon cleared his throat again.

“Miss Bennett, the matter has been settled,” Scanlon answered.

The dean’s eyes narrowed, and Carly followed his cue.

She reached for Yeager’s hand, gave it a quick shake, and regretted it the second her skin touched Yeager’s.

“That will be all, Miss Bennett.”

This was so unfair. She had to stand her ground.

“Is there something else you wanted to say?” Scanlon pressed.

Carly paused, searching for the words. They were right there, but when she jumped from the platform to catch the brass ring, she missed and spiraled into freefall.

“Miss Bennett?” Scanlon asked.

“Th–th–th–thank you, sir.”

She couldn’t remember leaving the office, but there she was, back in the lobby. Carly hurried past Gretchyn, and by the time she reached the corridor, she was certain that she heard the two men laughing from behind the office door.

“HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!”

*

After escaping the humiliation-fest in Scanlon’s office, Carly lowered her head so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact, or worse, engage in fake, idle chitchat after her fall, and continued her fast walk to the USC faculty bathroom. She had ten minutes until her advanced creative writing class started, which was threading the needle a bit, but the familiar vice was constricting her chest, and if she didn’t take a pull from her inhaler soon, she’d be in the throes of a full-fledged, not to mention very public, asthma attack.

She struggled for air and rushed into an open stall. Once inside, she slammed the door, snatched her inhaler from her briefcase, and gave it a quick shake. She heard the familiar whistling sound coming from her throat and shoved her rescue inhaler into her mouth.

Feeling like a five-hundred-pound man was now sitting on her chest, Carly fought to stay calm. She closed her eyes, forced herself to hold her breath for the requisite ten seconds between puffs and prayed for the corticosteroid to kick in.

When the tightness in her lungs loosened, she could see, plain as day, her old practice phrase, the one she’d started reciting at boarding school to help conquer her stutter.

When her breathing steadied to a normal inhale-in, exhale-out, she whispered the words aloud to find her center.

“The girl wore her hair in two braids, tied with two blue bows.”

Not bad. Her voice was clear and strong this time, unlike her herky-jerky performance earlier.

How had she let herself choke, and on such an epic scale?

Feeling like she was no longer dry-drowning from her asthma attack, Carly took one more hit of her inhaler. She squeezed the metal canister and pictured Scanlon’s and Yeager’s mugs, having a big old chuckle at her expense.

“Never again,” Carly whispered, not quite believing it, but at least it was a start.

She rose from crouching position in the stall, straightened her shoulders, and then shot her middle finger in the air.

“That’s bravery right there, giving the bird to a restroom door instead of standing up for yourself. Next time will be different.”

Carly exited the stall and was relieved to see the faculty bathroom was still empty.

She splashed cold water from the sink onto her face, then patted her sticky armpits with a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. A poor girl’s spa day.

Having no idea how much time had passed since the start of her asthma attack, Carly worried that she was late for her next class. She grabbed her phone from her briefcase to check the time and gasped.

On the home screen was a photo memory, which captured a hoped-for promise never to come.

Carly ran her finger over the image of her mother and studied her twelve-year-old self. The photo had been taken by her then soon-to-be stepbrother Julien, on the day she’d met him and the rest of the Whites.

A pang of melancholy cut through her. Everybody would’ve believed her if she were a rich boy.

***

Excerpt from Everyone Is Perfect Here by Jane Haseldine. Copyright 2026 by Jane Haseldine. Reproduced with permission from Jane Haseldine. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Jane Haseldine is a journalist, former crime reporter, columnist, and newspaper editor, and has also worked in politics as the deputy director of communications for a governor. Jane is the author of the Julia Gooden mystery series from Kensington Publishing and her upcoming domestic suspense novel, Everyone is Perfect Here, from Severn House.

Catch Up With Our Author:

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Amazon Author Profile
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Instagram - @janehaseldineauthor
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Facebook - @janehaseldinebooks

 

Review:

4 stars!

Unsettling and twisty psychological domestic thriller. 

Everyone Is Perfect Here is a new psychological domestic thriller by author Jane Haseldine, and features unsettling family drama and shocking plot twists that will keep readers on the edge of their seats from start to finish. USC English professor Carly Bennett has finally gained hold on a satisfactory life after her tragic childhood that culminated with the murder of her mother and police suspicions that she was somehow involved. But when she discovers the body of a campus janitor in her office and the stepbrother who betrayed her all those years ago suddenly reconnects, it seems all her old nightmares are coming back to haunt her … or worse. 

Carly Bennett was the victim of psychological manipulation as a child and is now facing similar circumstances as an adult, but who exactly is behind it all? Ava Patel is her strong, vibrant, and loyal best friend, doing her darndest to get to the bottom of what's going on, and she's such an exciting element in the story. I'd love to see her appear in another book. 

The plot unfolds from multiple points of view, including Carly's flashbacks to her childhood, when she and her mother, Emily, first became part of the White family. I loved how the author sets readers up with clues pointing in one direction while sprinkling clever indicators that perhaps things weren't what they seemed throughout the tale. I was delightfully fooled. 

I recommend EVERYONE IS PERFECT HERE to readers of psychological or domestic thrillers.

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Where Not‑So‑Perfect Secrets = Perfect Prizes

This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Jane Haseldine. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

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Release Blitz & Giveaway: In Her Own Backyard by Ashley Hanna-Morgan

In Her Own Backyard

by

Ashley Hanna-Morgan

Thriller
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
Date Published: March 26, 2026
Page count: 440 pages

SCROLL DOWN FOR GIVEAWAY!

SYNOPSIS:

Every street holds a secret . . . 

New to the neighborhood and reeling from the traumatic birth of her second child, Marlowe Moore is barely holding it together. Battling postpartum depression and anxiety, she’s desperate for stability.

But when she learns that a woman who once lived in her family’s new home vanished without a trace, Marlowe becomes obsessed. As strange things happen and neighborly smiles feel like veiled threats, Marlowe can’t shake the feeling that someone is hiding something.

She spirals further into paranoia, fixated on the abandoned case and determined to seek justice. But how can a woman who feels lost find a missing person?

Juggling the demands of her beloved family and her harrowing mental illness, Marlowe doesn’t realize she is caught in a cat-and-mouse game that could cost her everything … including her life.

CLICK TO PURCHASE!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ashley Hanna-Morgan is a licensed clinical social worker (LCSW) certified in perinatal mental health (PMH-C). In addition to her work as a psychotherapist, she writes about mental health to advocate for change and inspire hope. In 2016, she wrote The Afterglow, a mindfulness and cognitive behavioral therapy curriculum that supports parents with postpartum depression and anxiety. In 2017, she published I Gave Birth to My Heart, a collection of poems about the secret anguishes and innumerable joys of reinventing oneself after postpartum depression.

When she isn’t counseling clients or volunteering with Postpartum Support International, Ashley loves to experiment in the kitchen and spend as much time outside as possible in San Diego, where she resides with her family. In Her Own Backyard is her first novel.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth

THE FIRST TO DIE

by Suzanne Trauth

February 9 - March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing. Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn’t know. Now, fifteen years later, Simone’s murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral—she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave. Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother's disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn’t know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die…but not the last.

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Between the Lines Publishing
Publication Date: November 18, 2025
Number of Pages: 334 (Pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-965059-65-4
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Between the Lines Publishing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Now

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.

42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.

Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.

Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.

The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.

“Connie Tucker!”

She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.

She’d aged. And not well.

Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”

Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.

“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”

Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”

“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”

The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”

Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.

Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.

Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.

The door swung open.

With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.

A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.

Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.

A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.

***

Excerpt from The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth. Copyright 2025 by Suzanne Trauth. Reproduced with permission from Suzanne Trauth. All rights reserved.

 

 

Review:

5 stars!

Mesmerizing tale of a daughter’s search for her mother’s killer. 

The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth is the mesmerizing mystery of a young woman’s deep dive into the circumstances surrounding her mother’s disappearance and subsequent death. Connie Tucker is called home to her childhood home in New Jersey when the remains of her long-missing mother were discovered. Simone Tucker had disappeared from the theatre where she had been in rehearsals for A Streetcar Named Desire, when Connie and her sister, Gaby, were 13 and 14, respectively, never to be seen or heard from again. But someone in her life had seen her at least one last time that night, and Connie was determined to find out who that person was. However, someone was just as determined to stop her. 

Connie is a sympathetic character, stuck in her past, unable to fully move forward until she knows what happened to her mother and whether a secret her mother made her promise to keep could have made a difference in the tragic outcome. Her feelings are further compounded by her father’s perceived betrayal when he sent her younger, grieving, out-of-control self to live with an aunt in California soon after her mother’s disappearance. Her sister, Gaby, is the perpetually wounded one, her main desire being to have her family reunited and happy again. Their father, Liam, while grieving the loss of his wife all over again, tells an inconsistent story of his movements the night of Simone’s disappearance. The combination makes for a riveting story I couldn’t put down. 

The plot alternates between the present and the past as Connie begins her own investigation when the cold case detective assigned to her mother’s murder inspires little confidence. The story unfolds as she chases her own memories of that night and questions some of the most important people from her past, never expecting the twists and turns she encounters. I had so many theories about what actually happened as I read, but the resolution still came as a big surprise. 

I recommend THE FIRST TO DIE to readers of mysteries and domestic thrillers.

Author Bio:

Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include The First to Die, What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women's Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time and Killing Time. Ms. Trauth has co-authored Sonia Moore and American Acting Training and co-edited Katrina on Stage: Five Plays. She is a former member of the theatre faculty at a university and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.

Catch Up With Suzanne Trauth:

www.SuzanneTrauth.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads, @suzannetrauth
BookBub, @trauths1
Instagram, @suzannetrauth
Facebook, @suzanne.trauth.2025
Facebook, @SuzanneTrauth (Author)

 

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Book Review: The Light in the Barn by Susan P. Baker

The Light in the Barn: A Domestic Thriller by Susan P. Baker
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The mounting page-by-page suspense makes this book hard to put down!

The Light in the Barn by Susan P. Baker is a new domestic thriller featuring newlyweds, an old barn full of junk, and a serial killer on the loose! After a whirlwind courtship, recently-divorced Aurora married Jeff, a handsome, charming medical supplies salesman, and when her grandfather passed away soon after, they moved from Houston into the country farmhouse he left her. Ten months later, however, the honeymoon was over, as Jeff became increasingly critical of her every move and thought, maritally demanding, and spending much more time away on sales trips than at home.

Aurora, a budding mystery writer, tried to balance her time working on her who-dun-it with clearing out the years of building materials collected and stored in the barn by her grandfather for a planned series of yard sales to help fund their own renovation efforts. However, late in the night before their first sale, with Jeff still out of town, Aurora surprises a trespasser dressed all in black lurking in the barn. Knocked down as he rushed away but unhurt, Aurora is shaken but returns to bed as she needs to get up early to set up and open the sale. With her girlfriends' help and Jeff eventually making a late-morning appearance, the sale goes well, with no signs of the evening visitor's return or of anything being taken. Ian, a handsome house flipper new to the small rural community, catches the eye of Aurora's best friend, Sarah, as he browses for materials he can use in his latest home restoration.

Meanwhile, the county is experiencing a rash of young women being abducted from local shopping malls, their bodies later found dumped on the side of a road, often showing signs of having been run over. Sarah, having had no luck in attracting Ian's attention and unable to verify his identity online or through social media, begins to suspect the lifestyle of a house flipper might be the perfect cover for a serial killer. When Ian keeps showing up at the farmhouse while Jeff is on the road, wanting to search through the barn for more items he can use on his current home project, Aurora, too, begins to wonder if he might be THE ONE and that she may be THE NEXT.

The story is tension-filled and fast-paced, with suspense building with every turn of the page. Aurora has been deeply hurt by her first husband's betrayal and is starting to realize she doesn't really know much about her new one, who has stopped being so charming or attentive and has shifted to verbal abuse and gaslighting her at every turn. The couple's confrontation over Chloe, the adopted guard dog, was nasty and shocking on Jeff's part.

Everyone's suspicions grow when a murder occurs close to home, but there are a couple of good suspects to consider, complicating and already vexing case of who is really behind the disappearances and deaths of the young women. The final resolution came as an absolute surprise, with its "killer" twist.

I recommend THE LIGHT IN THE BARN to readers of suspense and domestic thrillers.

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Virtual Book Tour & Giveaway: The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth

 

The First to Die

by

Suzanne Trauth

About The First to Die

 

The First to Die
Psychological Suspense
Setting - New Jersey
Publisher: Willow River Press
Publication date: November 18, 2025
Print length: 334 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1965059661 / ASIN: B0FQ4T189P

Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing.

Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn’t know. Fifteen years later, Simone’s murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral—she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave. Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother's disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn’t know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die…but not the last.

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Excerpt

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

About Suzanne Trauth

 

Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women's Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time, and Killing Time. Her most recent book, The First to Die, a domestic suspense novel, will be released in November 2025. She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.

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