Sometimes bad things happen to good people, so good people have to do bad things.
Our Queen of Twists, bestselling author of Daisy Darker and Rock Paper Scissors Alice Feeney, returns with another thrilling mystery filled with drama and her trademark surprises.
Twenty years after a baby is stolen from a stroller, a woman is murdered in a care home. The two crimes are somehow linked, and a good bad girl may be the key to discovering the truth.
Edith may have been tricked into a nursing home, but at eighty-years-young, she’s planning her escape. Patience works there, cleaning messes and bonding with Edith, a kindred spirit. But Patience is lying to Edith about almost everything.
Edith’s own daughter, Clio, won’t speak to her. And someone new is about to knock on Clio’s door…and their intentions aren’t good.
With every reason to distrust each other, the women must solve a mystery with three suspects, two murders, and one victim. If they do, they might just find out what happened to the baby who disappeared, the mother who lost her, and the connections that bind them.
In the style of Daisy Darker and Rock Paper Scissors, Good Bad Girl is a thriller in which nobody can be trusted and the twists come fast and furious.
Review
Edith has been placed into a nursing home but she has no intention of staying there. She becomes very close to one of the cleaning ladies, Patience. Edith and Patience concoct a plan. But, then the care home’s administrator ends up dead in the elevator. Now all of a sudden everyone is a suspect.
Ok, I am in the minority again…but I found this book BRILLIANT! I know a lot of other reviews did not find this to be as thrilling as Daisy Darker . But this book is a completely different style. The way Alice Feeney meandered through the story (and yes it is a bit slow!) to come to this ending….geez! I knew it was going to come together, just didn’t expect it to be this way!
Alice tied all these characters together in a neat little bow, including the detective with the pink stipe in her hair. And no…I did not see that one coming!
Every single one of these characters are dysfunctional at best. Talk about terrible mother-daughter relationships. But, I can’t help but see the intelligence it took to come up with this plot.
The narrators, Katherine Press and Stephanie Racine are fantastic. I love when there is a great tag team!
Need a good mystery which will have you wondering how it is all going to tie together…THIS IS IT!
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Meg is relaxing in the hammock, taste-testing Michael’s latest batch of Arnold Palmers and watching the hummingbirds at their feeders when her hopes for a relaxing early summer morning are dashed.
First her father recruits her to help him install a new batch of bees in the hive in her backyard. Then Mayor Shiffley recruits her to placate the NIMBYs (Not in my backyard), as she calls them – a group of newcomers to Caerphilly who have built McMansions next door to working farms and then do their best to make life miserable for the farmers. And finally Meg’s grandmother, shows up, trailed by a nosy reporter who is writing a feature on her for a genteel Southern ladies’ magazine.
Cordelia drafts Meg to accompany her and Deacon Washington of the New Life Baptist Church – and the reporter, alas – in their search for a long-lost African-American cemetery. Unfortunately what they discover is not an ancient cemetery but a fresh corpse. Can Meg protect her grandmother – and Caerphilly – from the reporter who seems to see the worst in everything . . . and help crack the case before the killer finds another victim?
Review
Meg has a relaxing day planned…until it is spoiled and spoiled again! She is asked by her dad to help with setting up his new bee hives. She thinks this is going to be the extent of her helpfulness. But, low and behold a dead body turns up and this sends everyone into everyone else’s business.
Well, I am in the minority on this book. This story, as with most cozy mysteries, is very predictable. I anticipated every scene. And the part about the bees…just went on and on.
Ok, now that my rant is over about what I didn’t like. Let’s talk about what I liked. I did enjoy the characters, especially Meg and her father. These two have some really cute conversations which had me smiling!
I also enjoyed the tale surrounding the reporter. There are quite a few story lines moving along in this novel. But the reporter is the best part of the whole book…she really is a piece of work!
Need a quick book for a road trip…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Decades after a brutal childhood trauma, a famous novelist finds his life shattered once again, in this unsettling psychological mystery thriller.
After years of turmoil, Brooks Anderson is sober and has a stable life with his wife and two kids. He should be enjoying life, but the persistent nightmares and sleepwalking tell a different story.
As hard as he’s tried, Brooks can’t run away from the defining event of his life: the senseless murders of his mother and brother during a vacation in Montauk. An eight-year-old Brooks was the sole survivor of the carnage, which left him in a catatonic state. He buried his pain and eventually overcame his demons. Or so he believed.
Now an unscrupulous journalist is threatening to write about the deaths. Fearful that the truth will be twisted to suit sordid ends, Brooks decides to write his own book, despite the grave misgivings of his agent, wife, and father.
However, when the journalist is brutally killed, Brooks finds himself in the authorities’ crosshairs. To prove his innocence and exorcize the past, he digs deeper into his psyche and that fateful summer. His relentless pursuit of the truth soon leads Brooks down a slippery slope that challenges everything—and brings him face-to-face with the real monster of Montauk.
He wants to Remember. He’ll wish he could forget.
About the Author
PJ McILVAINE is the author of A GOOD MAN (Bloodhound Books, August 2023), and THE CONUNDRUM OF CHARLEMAGNE CROSSE (Orange Blossom Books, September 2023). Her Showtime original movie My Horrible Year was nominated for a Daytime Emmy. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, Newsday, and elsewhere. She lives on Eastern Long Island with her family and Luna, a pampered French Bulldog. You can find her online at pjmacwriter.com.
It’s funny/not funny the things you remember about the worst day of your life.
It was a hot, humid, hazy, August afternoon.
We had hot dogs and baked beans for dinner. Later, I had a cosmic orchestra of gas and flatulence. Mom thought it was hilarious. Palmer accused me of being a show-off. He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Afterward, as we did every Sunday night, we watched The Ed Sullivan Show.
I drifted off to sleep as rain pelted the roof. The sky blinked off and on like a flashlight. The roar of thunder filled all the empty spaces.
My brother Palmer—forever thirteen—shook me awake, his hands red and sticky. I thought it was from a cherry ice pop—but I know now it was blood. Our mother’s blood.
“Hide, Brooks.” Palmer took in a huge gulp of air. “You know where. And don’t come back, whatever you do. The monster. He’s in the house.”
I ran up to the dunes at Ditch Plains Beach as fast as my stubby legs could carry me, soaked and chilled to the bone.
A week later, I woke up in a hospital bed. A nurse jabbed me with something.
My father gripped my hand. “You’re all right, son,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
But of course, it wasn’t. And I was far from all right. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. You have no idea how deep the rot goes until you bite into the apple and see a wriggling worm.
CHAPTER ONE
Sheldon Adler, my agent at Crown-Hawkins and my brother from another mother, is late as usual. No fucking surprise there. When you’re meeting Sheldon, you have to tack on an hour at least. I’m at our usual table at La Bonne Grenouille, the best little French bistro in Manhattan that no one has ever heard of, sipping a glass of ice-cold watermelon seltzer. Sheldon has been my literary agent—no, make that literary savior—since he read my first published short story that didn’t involve erect penises in The New Yorker. He contacted me out of the blue and suggested Hey, why don’t you write a book and I’ll sell it? I wrote Fallen Angels in twenty-four days in a drug haze. When it was finally published, it sold less than two hundred copies, but Sheldon was so fucking proud you would’ve thought it sold two million. I resigned myself to being a failure. Months later, the book was plucked out of obscurity by the senior literary critic of The New York Times and nominated for a Pulitzer. A tabloid dubbed me “The Heroin Hemingway.” The name stuck, even though I’ve been sober and drug-free for more than twenty-five years.
Sheldon got me my first million-dollar advance. He’s the wolf that other wolves hire, and his reputation is well-earned. My biggest supporter, he stayed with me through the lean, mean years when I wrote truly terrible books. Despite my abysmal marital track record, I’m extremely loyal. I wouldn’t dream of leaving Sheldon and believe me, other agents have tried to poach me. And unless I did or said something unacceptable that blew up on social media—which is why I don’t have any social media accounts—Sheldon wouldn’t kick me to the curb or toss me under the bus. All my skeletons are out there. Well, most of them.
A portly man with a vague resemblance to the great Mafia chronicler Mario Puzo, Sheldon huffs his way to our table. I can’t say it to his face, but Sheldon needs to lose forty—make that fifty—pounds, if not for himself, then for his young children. I’m sixty-five and I can still fit into the jeans I wore when I was nineteen. It takes discipline and willpower, of which I have plenty to spare.
After we order and exchange our typical innocuous pleasantries about the weather, politics, and soccer, for we’re both rabid fans, Sheldon downs a gin and tonic. It’s his first of the day and not his last. “Brooks, how is the book coming along?” he booms in a guttural Brooklyn accent that has other diners turning their heads.
“Great,” I reply cheerfully. “It couldn’t be going any better.
Gold, pure gold.”
He tilts his head. “Cassie says you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Cassie’s my third and—if I have anything to say about it—last wife. She interviewed me for a puff piece and months later, when the pregnancy test was positive, I knew I’d met my Waterloo, no thanks to Abba. An abortion was out of the question. Now we have two children under six, our lives are a merry-go-round of sweet chaos. Last fall, I had a vasectomy so there will be no more miniature Andersons polluting the planet.
I finish my seltzer and signal for another. “You know I never sleep well when I’m writing. I do my best work after midnight.” In the old days, that didn’t necessarily apply to writing.
The waitress delivers our meals: me, a grilled chicken Caesar salad with extra feta, and Sheldon a porterhouse with crispy julienne potatoes and parmesan creamed spinach. I eye his steak with unconcealed envy, but Cassie’s always after me to eat healthier. I sigh and add more dressing to my salad. Cassie would be pleased.
“Yeah, I know. You have the constitution of fucking Secretariat. You did drugs with Keith Richards and Lou Reed.” Sheldon cut into his steak; it’s not just blue, it’s bloody raw. Just looking at it makes me queasy. “But this is different. You’re writing about your goddamn family.”
“I can be objective.”
Sheldon puts his fork down. “Not about this, Brooks. Come on. The cold-blooded executions of your mother and brother—”
I suddenly lose my appetite. Sheldon means well. Cassie does, too. But this quasi-intervention is the last thing I need. “Sheldon, you know as well as Cassie that I had no choice. I wasn’t going to let that fucking guttersnipe drag my mother through the mud.” The fucking guttersnipe in question is Marshall Reagan (no relation to the former president), a douchebag posing as a journalist. His brand is writing scandalous, unauthorized biographies of the rich and famous because he knows he can get away with it. No dirt, no sleaze, is beneath him. And when he can’t find anything salacious, he makes shit up and pulls it out of his ass like saltwater taffy.
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, but I do know. I know exactly the angle he’d take. That my mother was having an affair with Julian.” Julian Broadhurst, born in Lancaster, England, in 1942. An artist who was supposedly the protégé of Peter Max. Julian had long blond hair and drove a robin’s-egg-blue Aston Martin. Palmer and I loathed him. “And when Mom wanted to end it, he killed her. But that wasn’t enough, fuck no. When my brother tried to protect her, Julian killed him, too.” I shake my head, the bile percolating like a fresh pot of coffee. “My mother was brilliant. Graduated from Mount Holyoke with honors. And she was utterly devoted to my father. To us. The idea that she’d have a summer fling with that bohemian scumbag—” I choke on the words (or is it a sliver of chicken that went down the wrong pipe?). “And you know damn well that when that cocksucker Reagan’s done tarring and feathering her, he’ll start in on my father, who has been nothing less than a fucking saint. Saint Bernard.” I rap my fist on the table. “It’s fucking ludicrous.”
Sheldon nods, sympathy oozing from every pore. “All I’m saying is that you have a lot on your plate. The book. The next book. Your father’s gala. You’re writing a speech for that, right? Jesus fucking Christ, Brooks. You’re not Superman. It’s bound to take a toll on you.”
“So, what are you suggesting? I can’t return the advance. It’s already spent.” Six million gone in a heartbeat. Lawyers. Trust funds. The new house in Water Mill. And I was finally able to get my ex-wives off my back with a tidy lump sum. For the first time in years, no alimony to shill out every goddamn month. All thanks to Sheldon, who hadn’t budged an inch during the multi- house book auction. He earned his commission ten times over.
“No one’s suggesting that. That’s crazy.” Sheldon’s halfway through his steak. “But we can ask to push the deadline back by a couple of months.”
“No.” I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. If there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s living up to my contractual obligations. I’ve never missed a deadline. I could be fucking pushing up daisies and I’d still deliver.
Sheldon sighs. “Why are you being so goddamn obstinate?” “I’m well into the book now, it’s just a matter of research.” “Really?” He gives me a side-eye. “Cassie says you’ve barely written the first chapter.”
I’m annoyed. Mostly because Cassie’s right. “It’s all in my head, Sheldon. Don’t worry.”
“Well, I do. Worry, I mean.” Sheldon furrows his bushy eyebrows; he looks like a caterpillar on meth. “I know how good you can be, Brooks. But you push yourself way too hard.”
I make a half-hearted stab at my chicken. He could’ve added— but tactfully didn’t—that he also knows how bad I can be. My books still sold phenomenally well, even that fucking godawful picture book Rocco the Stinky Raccoon, nominated for a Caldecott. I was ecstatic when it didn’t win.
By the time we say our goodbyes, it’s three o’clock. If I hurry, I can see the kids for a minute before they’re trundled off to gymnastics or karate or whatever activity Cassie has planned. Mark loves Star Wars and Hulk. Audra’s obsessed with unicorns. I buy them far too many toys. I love my children desperately, but I don’t pretend to understand them. That’s Cassie’s deal. She’s the hardass. I’m the marshmallow man.
We live in the Dakota on the UWS (upper west side) close to Central Park. Our apartment has a bird’s-eye view of the park. The Dakota’s where John Lennon was shot. We still have tourists who make pilgrimages. I wasn’t there the night it happened, but I’d like to think I’d have stopped Mark Chapman in his tracks. I’d bought into the Dakota with the advance I’d gotten for Fallen Angels. I never would’ve been able to afford it otherwise. That book’s the gift that keeps on giving. It’s been optioned by movie production companies at least a dozen times but it’ll never get made. I’ve reconciled myself to that.
“Daddy’s home!” I shout as I enter the foyer.
The kids always run to see what I’ve bought. Today I have a Baby Yoda electronic gizmo for Mark and a big unicorn doll for Audra. But no excited squeals greet me. Instead, there are two packed suitcases by the door. I walk into the living room and marvel once again at our panoramic views of Central Park.
Cassie, her eyes red, sits on the sofa.
“Bad day with the kids, baby?” I bend down to kiss her. She turns her head. This isn’t a good sign.
“Where are the munchkins?” I toss my suit jacket on a chair. “With my sister in Providence.” Her voice is flat.
I’m surprised. Tammy’s coming down on the weekend. Why would she have come early and taken the kids?
Cassie stares at me. If her eyes were bullets, I’d be a corpse. “Dr. Schultz’s office called. They said you missed your six-month check-up.”
Dr. Schultz. Shit. I try to act casual but my heart thumps like a boom box. I can talk myself out of this one. I’ve done it before. “Damn, I guess I forgot to give them my new cell number. I’ll call in the morning, they’re probably closed now.”
“Kind of like how you forgot to tell me about your vasectomy?” Her voice rises an octave.
I cringe. I’m in for it now. And I fucking deserve it. “I’m not stupid, Brooks.”
No. That’s one thing Cassie isn’t. She’s brilliant in every respect, far more than I could ever hope or aspire to be. I’m painfully aware that I’m the reason she hasn’t gotten the jobs and accolades. I’m the anchor that weighs her down. “We talked about it, Cassie.”
“No. You talked about it. Not me. Not ever.” Cassie’s so mad her body trembles. “Who else knows?”
“Dad.”
“Of course. I bet he was thrilled.” My father wasn’t in favor of this marriage. It was nothing against Cassie. He’d been against all my marriages. When I told him Cassie was pregnant, he was apoplectic. You can’t be serious, he said. You’re too old to be a father. And too fucked-up, he could’ve added. But he eventually came around.
“Who else?”
“Nobody. I mean, nobody important,” I stumble. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry that you had it done or sorry that I found out?”
The truth was both, but I’d done enough damage for one evening. “Baby, I admit, it was a stupid thing to do. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But you know, maybe not going to the check-up was a good thing. Maybe it didn’t take. And if it did, I can get it reversed. If they can reattach a penis, they can fix this, right?” I nervously chuckle. That’s my default posture. When in a difficult situation, I make a feeble attempt at humor. Usually, it worked. Not this time.
“I’m going to stay at Tammy’s. I don’t know for how long.”
I try not to make a face and fail. Tammy hates me. Well, maybe hate is too mild: detests, loathes, abhors. Tammy would revel in this. “Please, honey. Don’t do that. We can work this out.”
Cassie holds up her hand. “Since you began this book”—the book she and Dad were vehemently against from the start, probably the only thing in the universe they agree on— “you haven’t been the same.”
“That’s not true,” I protest.
“It is true even if you don’t want to admit it. You got the book advance and then a vasectomy. And you don’t see that’s a huge problem? What about last night?”
I give her a look. “What about it?”
“I found you in Audra’s room at two in the morning. Over her bed holding a baseball bat.”
What? I shiver as if I’ve fallen through a river of ice. Water fills my lungs, and I can barely breathe. “That’s preposterous!” I gasp.
“Muttering about monsters. And it wasn’t the first time.” She shot me a look I knew all too well from my boarding school days. I hated it then and I hate it even more now. “You almost had me convinced that writing about what happened to you would be a catharsis. Exorcizing old ghosts and demons. But the opposite is happening, and it scares the shit out of me. It kills me to say this, but I have to protect the kids and I’m not sure they’re safe around you right now.”
Cassie’s words hang in the air. Jesus fucking Christ. Talk about a gut punch. The kids aren’t safe around me? I adore Mark and Audra. I’d die for them in the blink of an eye, with no hesitation. I cut Mark’s umbilical cord. I spent weeks in the neonatal unit with Audra. I changed diapers, I rocked them to sleep, they lacked for nothing materially. “You don’t mean that,” I retort. “You’re upset and angry about the vasectomy.”
“That’s a separate issue. But fuck yeah, I’m angry. I’m fucking livid.”
No one says “fuck” quite the way Cassie does. To my shame, I feel myself getting hard. Embarrassed, I cover myself with a sofa pillow and hope she doesn’t notice.
She does and averts her eyes. “This is a problem, it’s a huge fucking problem. This is beyond my field of expertise, Brooks. I’m a freelance editor, not a therapist.”
“Therapists,” I jeer. I’d had my fill of them. Never again. They’re the modern-day equivalent of leeches. “I sleepwalk. You knew that from day one. I never hid it.”
“This is more than sleepwalking. I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t admit it’s a problem.”
“And your way of helping is talking to Sheldon?”
“Not just Sheldon. I spoke to Bernard, too. He’s worried about you. He’s noticed the change in you, we all have. Your father and I, we’re never going to be best friends, but I’m telling you, we’re united on this.”
My throat tightens as if someone’s wrapped a cord around my neck. I’m that eight-year-old kid shivering in the dunes, peeing on myself. “It’s been a rough winter. When I’m writing I can be an ogre. Maybe this vacation is what you and the kids need. The kids—” I stop myself. “I’ll call them in the morning. Better yet, why don’t I drive you there and I can tell them goodbye in person.”
Cassie picks up her handbag, the one I gave her last Christmas. A trendy, expensive designer label. To me they all look alike, so I asked the saleslady to give me the most popular one. I take that to mean Cassie isn’t entirely through with me yet. My marriage hung on this fucking bag. That’s how desperate I am. “I can drive myself.” Of course she can. We got his and hers matching Priuses with the book advance.
Cassie walks to the front door.
I follow and sniff her perfume like a love-sick puppy. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we order a very expensive meal, chill out with an old Bogie movie, and you can leave first thing.” I smile, in full Errol Flynn rogue mode.
Determined, she shakes her head. “You can’t fuck your way out of this one, Brooks.” She slams the door behind her so forcefully that my framed certificate from Caldecott falls off the fucking wall.
Immediately, my cell phone buzzes. I ignore Dad’s call. I’m not in the mood for another St. Bernard lecture on what a fucking mess I’ve made of my life. It’s suddenly very hot in the apartment. Or is it me? I tell Alexa to lower the temperature by five degrees, her calm demeanor a stark reminder of how quiet the apartment is without the kids screaming in the background. He pulled my hair! She grabbed my crayon!
I go upstairs into my writing lair. I must compartmentalize what just happened, otherwise, my head will detonate into a thousand pieces. Cassie and I have weathered worse. She’ll come back. She has to. I’ll call Dr. Schultz and fix this mess. For now, I must work on Dad’s speech. I pull out the desk chair and find it’s already occupied by one of Audra’s unicorn dolls.
Dad’s receiving a prestigious humanitarian award from the United Nations. Now pushing eighty-two or eighty-six depending on how many martinis he’s drunk, he’s evolved into an elder statesman on retainer as a crisis handler/negotiator. He advised LBJ on Vietnam. Nixon, too, although Dad couldn’t stand the prick. Dad begged Ford not to pardon Nixon because the voters and history would judge Ford harshly. Dad was right. Clinton made him a Special Envoy to Sarajevo. GW Bush called on him to head the 9/11 Commission, but Dad declined due to other “commitments”. Obama had him on speed dial. Dad has brokered peace agreements between nations and factions that were considered impossible. No one deserves this award more. I’ve been allotted roughly fifteen minutes to tell the world how I feel about him. I’d need fifteen years.
I touch a computer key. In Google Drive, the opening lines to my father’s speech flash on. “My beloved father, Bernard Stewart Anderson, is a generous, kind, honorable, decent man who embodies everything fine and good in this world. A man who has earned the respect of world leaders no matter their political persuasion. A man who goes out of his way to help the weak and oppressed. And he’s also a man who bore the ultimate tragedy with dignity and grace. No one knows Bernard Anderson better than I, his surviving son.”
From USA Today best-selling and multi-award-winning author Jacqueline Friedland comes a gripping work of fiction based on the true story of female abolitionist Ann Phillips and her connection to Anthony Burns, a young man who briefly escaped American slavery and rocked the nation with his astoundingly heroic story.
A passionate advocate of abolition from her earliest years, Ann’s activism was derailed just before her twenty-fourth birthday, when she fell sick with a mysterious illness. In order to protect her fragile health, her husband, the famous abolitionist Wendell Phillips, forbade her from joining any further anti-slavery outings. Even so, when fugitive slave Anthony Burns is apprehended in Boston, Ann is determined to help him, no matter what it costs her.
With a particular focus on the predicament of nineteenth-century women who wanted to effect change despite the restrictions society imposed on them, The Stockwell Letters takes a deep dive into the harrowing conditions of the antebellum South and the obstacles faced by abolitionists who fought tirelessly to eradicate slavery. A fast-paced, arresting recounting of America’s not-so-distant history, the story will stay with readers long after the final page.
Review
Ann becomes sick before her twenty-fourth birthday. Her illness is a complete puzzle to the physicians. She is weak, fatigued and aches all the time, to the point of not getting out of bed. She struggles on and eventually marries her long time beau, Wendell. These two become the voice of the abolitionist movement in the area surrounding Boston.
The setting of Boston before the civil war is a unique. I also loved the way the author wrote about her women characters, especially Ann. She knows what needs to be done and she does it!
This time period used to be my jam. For some reason, I moved away from it. But this novel may have me coming back. Talk about emotional! This story brings to light how terrible this period in our history actually was. If it had not been for people like Ann and her husband…I don’t even want to contemplate.
Need a well researched, abolition novel…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today
I received this novel from the author for a honest review.
This program features a prologue read by the author.
From the New York Times bestselling author of the Reese’s Book Club Pick The Other Woman comes The Trade Off, an electrifying new novel of suspense that begs the question: Would you tell a story, if you knew it was a lie? Or tell the truth and sleep at night?
For Stella, deputy editor of The Globe, the choice has always been clear. It doesn’t matter how low she has to stoop—getting the best story is what she’s built her reputation on.
For Jess, The Globe’s rookie reporter, the story stops when the truth does. But she knows that the dirty tricks of the tabloids will be hard to overturn.
And when a celebrity is hounded by The Globe and pays the ultimate price, Jess wonders just how much Stella and the paper are responsible.
Determined to show the world what the tabloid is capable of, Jess will do whatever it takes to uncover the truth, but she needs to watch her back, because someone else is prepared to kill to bury it.
RISK or REWARD. JUSTICE or REVENGE. INNOCENCE or GUILT.
A Macmillan Audio production from Minotaur Books.
Review
Jess has just been hired by the globe. She is their newest, rookie reporter. This is her dream job. But she soon realizes the unethical and dangerous tactics that The Globe uses to to get a story is not her idea of news. Jess decides to reveal all the dirty secrets but this may just be the death of her.
This story has quite a few corrupt, degenerate and viscous characters. And this is one of the reasons I did not enjoy it as well as many other readers. The underhanded and atrocious deeds got a little old for me. But, this story does get better the further you go along, especially surrounding Jess. Jess starts off a bit mousy but she comes into her own in a big way! You will need to read this to find out.
The narrators, Nathalie Buscombe and Sofia Engstrand had excellent tone for all the bad people in this book! They are probably the reason I stuck with it! Sandie Jones read the prologue to this novel. And I love a book where the author has a hand in the narration. It always adds to the realness of the tale.
Need a story about the British media…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Vampires may not walk among us, but FBI agents Della Hamilton and Mason Carter know real monsters exist. They’ve witnessed firsthand the worst humankind has to offer. They’re still catching their breaths after the apprehension of two such monstrous killers when they’re met with horrific news: Stephan Dante, the self-proclaimed king of the vampires, has escaped from prison, followed only by a trail of blood.
All too familiar with Dante’s cruelty, Della and Mason know the clock is ticking. But as Dante claims more victims, a chilling message arrives. The vampire killer seeks his eternal bride—Della herself. Playing into Dante’s desires might be the only way to stop the carnage once and for all, assuming they can outwit him. Della is confident the agents have the upper hand, but Mason knows every gamble runs the risk of not paying off, and this time, the consequences could be deadly.
Review
Stephan Dante has escaped from prison. Della and Mason are absolutely horrified. They are very familiar with Dante, “the vampire killer”. His cruelty and inhumanity is like nothing else these FBI agents have ever come across. They know he must be found quickly or there will be deadly consequences.
I have been reading this author since I was in high school. She has been a staple in my reading life for years. But, this is not my favorite series. It just seems too simple and predictable.
But, dang if she did not teach me quite a few things about Scotland and it’s lore. I very much enjoyed the weaving in of all the old superstitions and legacy’s surrounding the history of this country.
Need a quick serial killer chase…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Author Bio:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook.
In a race across Nazi-occupied Italy, two women—a German photographer and an American stenographer—hunt for priceless masterpieces looted from the Florentine art collections.
In the summer of 1943, Eva Brunner is taking photographs of Nazi-looted art hidden in the salt mines of the Austrian hinterland. Across the ocean in Connecticut, Josephine Evans is working as a humble typist at the Yale Art Gallery.
When both women are called to Italy to contribute to the war effort, neither imagines she will hold the fate of some of the world’s greatest masterpieces torn from the Uffizi Galleries and other Florentine art collections in her hands.
But as Italy turns from ally to enemy and Hitler’s plan to destroy irreplaceable monuments and works of art becomes frighteningly clear, each woman’s race against the clock—and against one another—might demand more than they were prepared to give.
The Last Masterpiece takes readers on a heart-pumping adventure up the Italian peninsula, where nothing is as it seems and some of the greatest works of art and human achievement are at stake. Who might steal and who might save a work of art—and at what cost?
Inspired by the incredible true story of the Monuments Women, the Fifth Army WACs, and the looted Florentine art collections during World War II, the latest historical novel by USA Today bestselling author and art historian Laura Morelli plunges readers into the heart of war-torn Italy.
Review
Two women, from different parts of the world, with one goal….to save the art in Italy. Eva, a German photographer and Josephine, a stenographer from Connecticut, are thrown into a world of intrigue in war torn Italy.
I will be honest, I did not feel a great connection to the characters in this story. But, what kept me reading was the history. This story is so well researched. I am fascinated by the history surrounding many art pieces. So, this novel really captivated me on what actually happened to the art in Italy. I learned so much and now I want to go over there and investigate!
I enjoyed the strong women as well! And to know this is based on the true story of WAC…HUGE PLUS!
Need a wonderful, art history tale…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the author for a honest review.
Within the margins of an antique book, a timeless love waits for a young woman on the precipice of a terrible mistake in this enthralling new novel from the acclaimed author of Some of It Was Real.
Constance Sparks always says yes…when her capricious best friend needs money; when her boss gives her more responsibility without a raise; and when her boyfriend, Hayden, who is very kind but also secretive, asks her to marry him.
While planning their wedding—and struggling with anxiety about the right course for her future—Constance researches the history of her antique engagement ring and unearths the name of a man who might be connected to it, plus his tragic love story. When she finds a book of letters in her library’s old manuscript section written by the long-dead man, Constance is deeply touched by his words and leaves a note for him confessing her uncertainty and doubts. She’s shocked days later to find a response tucked among the pages.
As the notes continue to arrive, Constance finds herself quickly falling in love with a ghost and putting her real-life relationship in jeopardy. Will a bond based on letters impossibly sent from the past derail her future? Or will Constance discover her voice and risk everything for the chance to somehow connect with her true soul mate?
Review
Constance has finally said yes to her boyfriend Hayden. He has given her a stunning ring. But Constance is still having second thoughts. She has not met Hayden’s friends or family yet. Plus, she has not really been truly honest with him about her past. So, as a distraction from her doubts, she starts to research her ring. What she discovers is a timeless, historical romance.
This was very close to a five star read for me. The only reason it is not…is because I felt like the author could have ended it about 50 or so pages sooner. The tying up of all the lose ends just took too long. And this is just my opinion.
That being said…you really do not want to miss this book. It captures all your emotions. And you just can’t help but fall for Constance and her insecurities. And when she finally comes into her own, she becomes a force! She no longer thinks of herself as second best.
I also enjoyed how the author wove into the story about Constance’s engagement ring. The mystery and the history surrounding this ring is very creative and so dang intriguing!
Need a story with a little bit of everything…romance, historical fiction, mystery…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today!
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Talulah Barclay returns to Coyote fourteen years after leaving her fiance at the alter. She’s back to sell her deceased aunt’s home and head back to Seattle as quickly as possible since the memories in a small town are long and no one has forgiven her for running off. And when she finds herself falling for the best friend of her jilted ex she knows life is going to get more difficult. And when she’s injured by shattered glass after someone throws a rock through her window she knows she is not welcome in town. But she still has close friends there and they rally around her and she finds herself willing to open her heart to the town and to the man she truly loves.
Review
Talulah’s great aunt has passed away. So, she must return to Coyote. This is not where she wants to be. She left her fiancé, Charlie, at the alter 14 years ago and ran away. And she knows, no one in this small town has forgotten. She also knows she must make amends.
Brenda Novak always has some of the best characters. I swear, I knew everyone in this book! And I loved Talulah! She is just struggling to survive and stay afloat. Then she has to go back to her home town. And BOY, did she make some mistakes there when she was young. She wants to make things right, but as you can guess, it is not as easy as she expected.
Enter Brant. Brant is Charlie’s best friend. Talulah and Brant have never really seen eye to eye. Now, after all these years, these two have a connection. You can just imagine what the town AND Charlie have to say about this!
Need a small town romance….THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today!
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak has written over 60 novels. An eight-time Rita nominee, she’s won The National Reader’s Choice, The Bookseller’s Best and other awards. She runs Brenda Novak for the Cure, a charity that has raised more than $2.5 million for diabetes research (her youngest son has this disease). She considers herself lucky to be a mother of five and married to the love of her life. Visit Brenda at http://www.brendanovak.com.
The Abbotts are liars. Their charming façade is far from the chilling reality that exists behind closed doors. But despite their secrets, they aren’t killers…are they?
When a member of their quiet community is brutally murdered, the Abbotts find themselves prime suspects of the crime. The couple is desperate to prove their innocence, but when a tape is discovered with horrifying evidence, everything changes.
With shocking truths beginning to surface, Rachael and Caide must decide just how far they are willing to go to protect those they love. Can they trust anyone around them, including each other? They’re liars, remember?
This book was previously published as If It Walks Like a Killer.
Review
Caide and Rachel have a very rocky marriage and they have been for a while. Caide begins an office romance. So, when his office romance comes up dead, Caide knows he is the prime suspect. When the police turn down his road, he prepares his wife for the worst. But, it is not Caide they are after…IT IS RACHEL!
Talk about twisting and turning! This novel started out and I honestly thought it was going to be a “fatal attraction” type of tale. But, guess what…it twisted when the police came after Rachel. But, that wasn’t the last twist…not by a long shot.
The only reason for the 4 star rating is this is a bit far fetched on the courtroom proceedings. I am not an attorney but there is no way some of this would occur. BUT! This book is very creative and I definitely was glued to the pages. It was just a bit frustrating the way the author manipulated the outcome. That being said, I almost finished this in one day! It moves quickly and boy, are you wondering where this will go next.
And oh my gosh! The narrators! Narrated by Ellen Quay; Angie Kane; Pete Cross; Pat Grimes; Chris Lutkin; Stephanie Willing; Qarie Marshall; Sarab Kamoo…fantastic! I love a production and believe me…THIS ONE IS ONE OF THE BESTS!
Need a good thriller with several twists that will have you gasping…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today!
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
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