A deadly welcome...

On her return to London, Rose Beckingham's reunion with her relatives is marred by shadows from the past. When a family wedding moves the party to the English countryside, it isn't long before old resentments resurface and dark suspicions are awakened.

With a sudden death throwing everyone into turmoil, can Rose unmask the killer stalking the corridors of Ridgewick Hall? And what of Rose's own secrets? Has the time come for a final reveal?

August 1925 After a slew of cases for Jack, a new book, and a series of business meetings for Vi, and an excess of Violet's stepmother for them both, Vi and Jack determine to flee to a lodge in the woods. A little fresh air, a ramble or two, afternoon naps, lingering mornings over a cup of Turkish coffee and perhaps all will be aright again. Only one morning walk ends with a body and yet again, Violet, Jack, and their friends find themselves involved in a mysterious death. The main suspects for the killer are none other than the victim's long-time friends. Just why do you turn on an old friend? And if you've done it once, will you do it again? Book THIRTEEN in the Violet Carlyle Mysteries. Are you ready for the roaring twenties? You'll love Vi, her patient husband Jack, her indulgent twin Vic, and their friends. For fans of Carola Dunn, Jacqueline Winspear, Georgette Heyer, and Lee Strauss. A light, cozy mystery with a fun peek into life in the life of a bright young thing. No swearing, graphic scenes, or cliffhangers.The Violet Carlyle Mysteries1- Murder & The Heir2- Kennington House Murder3- Murder at the Folly 4- A Merry Little Murder*5- Murder Among the Roses6- Murder in the Shallows 7- Gin & Murder 8- Obsidian Murder 9- Murder at the Ladies Club 10- Wedding Vows & Murder11- A Jazzy Little Murder12- Murder by Chocolate*13- A Friendly Little Murder 14- Murder by the Sea15- Murder on All Hallows16- Murder in the Shadows17 A Jolly Little Murer*There are two short stories that fall between A Merry Little Murder and Murder Among the Roses. They are: New Year's Madness and Valentine's Madness. There is a short story that falls between Murder by Chocolate and A Friendly Little Murder found in Candlelit Madness.

Is John Milton on the path to redemption or the road to revenge?

John Milton has done some bad things in his life. Very bad things. Now he's looking for ways to make amends. But trouble always seems to be looking for him.
Heading from San Francisco to Las Vegas, Milton's solo road trip takes an unexpected turn when he picks up Jessica Russo, a young woman in distress at the side of the road. She urgently needs a ride and he's happy to help her out.

But what starts out as a simple favour quickly becomes something more sinister. Once they get to their destination, it's clear something isn't right. Working for the Vegas casinos has got Jessica's father wrapped up with the wrong people. A mistake that could prove fatal for him and his family.

This is just the beginning of a dangerous journey that will take Milton from Sin City to Siena and beyond. As Milton goes deeper into a world of violence, ruthlessness and revenge, will he finally put his demons to rest? Or is he about to awaken the devil he's been trying to smother for so long?

"Mark Dawson has all the skills. A great thriller writer on the top of his game." - Sunday Times bestselling author Steve Cavanagh

From the award-winning author, of Comfort Plans, Kimberly Fish delivers a novel about family, forgiveness, and the seeds of second chances.Eight years ago, Autumn Joy Worthington, still reeling from the bitter divorce of her Grammy-Award-winning parents, endured the betrayal of a man who'd promised her a wedding. Running from pain seemed the logical response. Reinventing herself in Comfort, Texas, as a lavender grower, she creates a wildly successful gardening haven that draws in tourists and establishes an identity far removed from her parents' fame. Her mother's retirement from stardom inspires AJ to offer her refuge and nurse the dream that they could move past old hurts and the tarnish of the music industry ... to find friendship. A grandmother in the early stages of dementia, and the return of AJ's father complicate the recovery, but nothing sets the fragile reality spinning like the arrival of Nashville music executive, Luke English. As Alzheimer's slowly knocks away the filters of their family, AJ comes to appreciate the true meanings of love and forgiveness, and that the power of redemption can generate from the most unlikely sources. When AJ uncovers the grit to make hard choices, she also discovers that the flowers that bloom the brightest can have the most tangled roots.

From New York Times bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a beautiful novel about a little town you'll want to visit, and a love story you won't soon forget.

Harry Dane lives an ordinary life. From his days working alongside his father at a New England general store, to Harry's endearing and heartbreaking relationships, to sudden snowstorms, to quirky fiascos of found kittens and spilled jam jars, always...always there is a curious constant. 

Through it all, each and every winter, a Christmas card arrives at Harry's Craftsman bungalow from a mysterious woman named Sadie Welles. And when the two of them unexpectedly meet, Harry Dane soon finds himself in an intricate love story spanning Eighteen Winters.

Author Bio:

Joanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.

Shop The Winter Series 

Some secrets are buried for a reason. She's about to uncover the deadliest secret of all...

Anxious and reclusive, Cora Blackthorn uses online gaming as her sole tether to the outside world. Due to a condition that makes human touch crippling, she lives her life confined to a small island in the Puget Sound, never accompanying her mother on her tomb-raiding adventures. But when her mom sends home a cryptic SOS in the form of a mysterious package, Cora discovers the shocking truth behind her extraordinary affliction. Her condition isn't an illness; it's a gift not of this world.

Armed with a powerful, alien amulet and her mother's journal, Cora heads to Rome on a desperate rescue mission. But on the way, she discovers that a secret society is hot on her trail, and she has no chance of outrunning them. Her only hope is to confront them head on. A clash within the twisty catacombs beneath Vatican City leaves Cora with a perilous choice: find her way through an ancient, deadly labyrinth and save her mom, or fail and die...

Legacy of the Lost is the first book in the captivating new sci-fi adventure series, the Atlantis Legacy. If you like ancient mysteries, Greek mythology, treasure-hunting adventurers, and dynamic characters, then you'll love this exhilarating adventure.

Read Legacy of the Lost to unearth the truth about Atlantis today

Murder's Bad Karma. . .

Life couldn't be better on Eaton Square Gardens where the most prestigious families lived, until one of their own dies and it's murder.

Ginger and Basil are on the case, but it's not a simple glass of bubbly fizz. The more the clues present themselves, the trickier the puzzle gets, and Ginger feels she's on a wild goose chase.

But as someone close to the victim so aptly quips, "One shouldn't commit murder. It's bad karma."

Reaping what one sows is hardly a great cup of tea.

“Full of the action-packed suspense and romance that Barbara Freethy is known for…this rapid page turner will have you on the edge of your seat from cover to cover.” —Page Turners blog

Brodie McGuire was a bold, fearless skier whose dreams of Olympic gold vanished in one career-ending fall. Now, he's following in the footsteps of his grandfather as a cop in his hometown of Whisper Lake. Surrounded by the mountains he once conquered, Brodie is trying to find stability and purpose in his new future...when a case brings him together with a beautiful woman, whose cool reserve intrigues him more than he'd like.

Chelsea Cole was a country music singer on her way to the top when her music inspired a tragedy. Unable to face her fans or the spotlight, she went into hiding, reinventing herself as a small-town music teacher. But Whisper Lake has its secrets, and a problem with one of Chelsea's students introduces her to a brash and altogether too sexy cop who wreaks havoc on her plans for a quiet, drama-free life.

As Chelsea and Brodie work together to solve a mystery, sparks fly between them. Brodie tempts Chelsea out of her safe cocoon, but will more pain be waiting? And when Brodie pushes Chelsea to find her voice again, will she be one more dream he has to give up?

 

Author Bio:

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home. 

Shop the Whisper Lake Series
Shop all Barbara Freethy books 

Reeda Summer is running from a troubled marriage and a truth she can't face.

When the Summer sisters discover their grandmother's journals after her death, they unlock a mystery that shakes their family to the core. Who is Charlie Jackson? Is he their grandfather? And if so, what happened to him?

Reeda leaves the Waratah Inn and returns to Sydney, her husband, and her thriving interior design business, only to find her marriage in tatters. She's lost sight of what she wants in life and can't recognise the person she's become.

Instead of facing her problems, Reeda embarks on a journey to discover more about the grandfather she never knew, leaving her troubles behind her.

Her search takes her to Italy, where a trail of clues leads her across the country with few answers to satisfy her burning curiosity about the past. And instead of helping her to forget, her pilgrimage reminds her of everything she loves and what she's left behind.

Under the Italian sky, Reeda discovers that the joy she was searching for was hidden inside her all along. And instead of running from her problems, she embraces the healing she needs to face them.

Readers who enjoy Inglath Cooper, Rhys Bowen, Lisa Wingate, Debbie Macomber, and Lauren K. Denton will love taking this healing journey through delightful Italy.

"The story was very entertaining and the characters wonderful!...Cathy Parker is a gifted writer and she knows how to tell a story. I would recommend it to anyone who likes a book that is hard to put down...It was so much fun to read. I started it and literally read it in one sitting."  —Book Garden Reviews

An alien child catapults by sheer chance to earth. A beluga whale longs for freedom from the cruel confines of her small blue pool. Two powerful other-worldly beings seek to plunder our world, destroying our people and our resources. 

In this fast-paced, science fiction thrill ride, it falls to the fiercely independent bystander, Shannon Kendricks, attorney and Seaquarium volunteer, to return the child Essi to her world. To find a way to free the desperate beluga, Juneau. To defeat the ancient aliens. On the upside, with the arrival of Essi, Shannon is startled to find not only does her physical appearance change dramatically, but she now possesses useful, near-magical traits to help her with barriers that appear insurmountable. 

But Shannon soon learns the most terrible threat comes from within: a bizarre lavender lightning strike has caused the minds of the beluga and child to enter Shannon’s own mind. Their presence consumes many more calories than Shannon can possibly take in. They are killing her. In a desperate attempt to finish what she’s set out to do before she dies, Shannon enlists the help of her friends. Not everyone will survive. And... who or what is the other dark force that Shannon discovers lurking in the shadows with the alien invaders?

SCROLL FOR SAMPLE!

Book Excerpt:

Part 1: Lavender Lightning
Chapter 1: Sunday

Shannon Kendricks burst through the SeaQuarium fish house door, whipped her unruly hair behind her shoulders, and spun around toward the towering figure following close behind.

“‘No’ means ‘no.’ We’re quits. Leave it alone. Now go,” she said, her voice firm, louder than she intended. She slammed the door in his face. Stood and scowled for a moment, poised for the mother of all pitched battles if the man dared open the door.

Do it. Double dare you.

All remained quiet. The hapless fellow stood outside, still and scowling, a distorted mirror image of herself. Then an angry fist knocked along the fish house wall, tracing the path of his footsteps back toward the Admin Building.

Shannon smacked the last of the fish buckets onto the counter and, with great splashy fanfare, filled the sink with hot steaming water to grind through scrubbing of the last of the day’s feeding containers. She spared a moment to catch her hair in a loose ponytail.

On her path back to the fish house from the last otter feeding, she’d been waylaid by her would-be suitor. Nice guy, good looking, bright, one of the marine biologists over at the Aquarium. But in recent weeks he had started asking for “emotional closeness,” as he put it. Where did they hide all those guys who wanted nothing to do with emotional closeness? She wanted one of those. But she always ended up with the softies most women would kill for. There’s irony for you.

Emotional closeness? Shannon refused to go there. Ever. And this fellow didn’t want to hear the message. Steam arose from the hot water in the sink. She plunged her hands in. Well. Now he understood.

But she hadn’t handled it well. She sighed.

“You always want to let them down gently. You’re too nice about it,” her supervisor and best friend Becky Anderson said from her stool without looking up from her logbooks, always knowing her friend’s unspoken train of thought much too well, to Shannon’s ongoing discomfort. “Cold. That’s the way to clear them off. Act as cold as a frozen mackerel.”

Not just cold; keep clear of relationships altogether; that’s the ticket.

The grit of her encounter still scraped on her mood and, she suspected, her voice. Poor guy, not his fault she preferred going it alone. Tears clouded her vision. She didn’t to turn around when she spoke.

“Otters looked good,” she said, in a raspy effort at normal. “Nome chittered up a storm, took everything I offered, but didn’t eat much. Katmai ate enough for both of them. Shuyak waited her turn like a good girl. The usual.”

Shannon could feel Becky’s gaze on her back at the sink.

“Okay,” Becky said.

Neither spoke for a moment.

A volunteer breezed in, grabbed his backpack, and as he took off out the door, hollered behind him, “Walruses all present and accounted for. Cleanest underwater windows this side of the Windex Company. Been fantastic as usual, ladies. See you Monday after classes, Becky. Next weekend, Shannon. Ciao.”

Even Shannon had to laugh to herself. Oh, for the untroubled energy and irreverence of the very young.

Silence resettled on the fish house, broken by the periodic scratchings of Becky filling out the daily paperwork and Shannon scrubbing buckets.

“You want to talk about it?” Becky asked at last.

“No.” The angry edge to Shannon’s abrupt answer surprised even her. Becky raised her hands as if to deflect her words.

“Okay. Don’t bite my head off.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Shannon said.

Becky nodded at her and kept right on nodding. “When’re you gonna get it through that brilliant yet thick head of yours that (a) some things come along that one person just can’t deal with alone, (b) even if people could do some things for themselves, others would love to share the load and thus make the load lighter, and (c) even if people could do some things for themselves, if they try, they make a piss-poor job of it? Not to mention any names, Shannon.”

Shannon muttered to herself. She wasn't some people. She’d deal with it. She always did.

“If you say so,” Becky said, and returned to her paperwork.

The minutes stretched on without the usual banter between the two friends at the end of Shannon’s weekend volunteer duty. Was it Shannon’s imagination or had the second hand on the wall clock started ticking like Big Ben? She listened, poised for each next click, as if hoping that something, anything, would disrupt the rhythm of the clock’s beat.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick.

Odin’s eye, as her Norse grandmother would say, and as Shannon always said in loving memory of the kind, patient old woman. Enough.

“What’s called for here,” Shannon said, “is some non-toxic glue to keep these scales on the fish.” She glanced over. Did Becky take the bait?

Her friend didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Mmm hmm,” she said.

Shannon made a face at Becky and returned her attention to her fingertips. She needed just one fingernail long and stiff enough to pry that last stubborn fish scale off her stainless steel bucket. A difficult task for a woman whose fingernails sported the tensile strength of wet tissue. Those damn scales stuck like a bad reputation on a fun-loving girl.

“Ah ha,” she said, spying an eighth-inch of nail, little finger, left hand. She applied it to the sticky translucent oval. “Victory is mine.” She dried the bucket and added it to the stacks on the rear shelves of the fish house.

“I will wash absolutely, positively, and unconditionally no more buckets today,” she said, trying one more time get a rise out of Beck, who looked up from her log sheet and said, “Okay, Ms. Kendricks, what if I absolutely, positively, and unconditionally will no longer permit volunteers to fraternize with any creature in the Ocean City SeaQuarium Marine Mammal Center unless said volunteers wash as many buckets as I say? That ban would include the sea otters, the

seals, the sea lions, the orcas, and yes, my dear, the beluga whales.”

Shannon ran her fingers through her long dark ponytail, as if pausing to ponder Becky’s words. “Then I would say—hand me another bucket.”

“Thought so. Lucky for you everything’s clean. Go away.”

“I still need to wash this counter….” Shannon said without enthusiasm. She’d worked her patooti off today. She slumped against the counter searching for one last tiny spark of energy. No luck.

She sighed. And yet, even a hard day at the SeaQuarium rated higher than the one facing her tomorrow. Back to her “real” job. She must finish a difficult legal brief on one of her cases, conduct a deposition, attend a staff meeting with her petulant, petty, pasty-faced boss, who was, unfortunately, the head of the County Legal Department, and work her way through a mountain of legal paper sitting on her desk. She once loved days like that. Where had the joy gone?

Ah well. Who needed joy? People admired her, respected her. Some of the jokers she faced in court even feared her. Satisfaction enough.

Becky bent over her logs, her feet curled over the bars between stool legs, her head nodding to music she alone could hear. After a moment, she put down her paperwork and looked at her friend. “You sound tired. Why don’t you skip Juneau tonight and get on home to your big-eyed kitty and giant dog—what kind of dog is Indy again? Elephant dog?”

“Elephant dog? Elephant dog?” Shannon crumpled a wet paper towel sitting on the counter and aimed at Becky’s head. “Sofa-sized, max.”

Becky watched the wad fly off to her left. “You are one lousy shot, lady. That the best you’ve got?”

“I missed on purpose. Lucky thing I know you love my babies as much as I do, or—right between the eyes, kiddo,” Shannon said.

“You dream. So go home and feed your sofa.”

As Shannon opened her mouth to protest, Becky lifted her hands in defense. “Don’t say it. What was I thinking, suggesting you go home without your dose of SeaQuarium’s most stubborn, most intelligent, chubby white whale? You’re addicted, sweetheart, might as well face it. Go see the spithead.”

Addicted. True.

No need to ask twice. “All righty then,” Shannon said. “And thanks.” She picked up her backpack and headed for the door. As she left, she turned and caught a glimpse of Becky burying her face back in her paperwork, one hand waving in Shannon’s general direction, a leg jiggling to that unheard beat.

Shannon called a farewell, pushed the fish house door closed and made her way down the behind-the-scenes pathway.

Eager to see Juneau, the infamous spitting beluga, she struggled to pick up her pace.

Wouldn’t happen. She’d run out of pizazz. A squashed-flat penny on a train track. She surrendered to her exhaustion, and ambled past the equipment lining her route, taking comfort from its familiarity.

The whales’ enrichment toys—hoops as blue as the deepest ice, slick and squeaky balls, hose sections, buoys.

The stretcher designed for the belugas, with soft padded holes for short beluga fins, hanging on the generator room wall. For emergencies. Never needed during the ten years Shannon had volunteered. With any luck, it never would.

Heading downhill, she could see Juneau floating alone in the middle of the back whale pool, the rounded top of her head, her blow hole, her wide, white back, bobbing above the water. The other four belugas lingered out front in the big public pool; Juneau chose to remain in the private pool. A loner, Juneau, just like Shannon.

“Becky called you a spithead,” she said as she approached the rim of the aqua-colored tank. “Feel free to give her a whacking big spit bath next time she comes down. But you won’t spit at me, right, my bright yet moody friend? I’m your favorite volunteer, right? And you’re, no question, my favorite whale. Pals don’t spit at pals, right?”

Right. Odds, maybe 50/50.

And the worst part—the staff biologists had started it all by design, when they encouraged the belugas’ natural ability to press ice-cold mouthfuls of water through their lips in forceful streams, creating lovely upward spraying fountains. The belugas performed the behavior on cue, a good husbandry measure and crowd pleaser. However, Juneau would often spit without warning to send messages like “take a hike.” Shannon’s kind of girl. Except when the whale lobbed a torrent of salty water right at her face.

Shannon reached the rim of the tank, three feet high on her side, and twenty feet down on the whales’ side. Juneau swam to greet her, the whale’s snow-white, plump body gliding through the water. The beluga raised her head, with the broad, unmarked forehead, ebony button eyes set well back on each side, short soft curving nostrum, and the mouth that reached so far around each side she always appeared to smile. Beautiful as ever. Shannon grinned at the sight—she couldn’t help herself.

Shannon studied her for a moment. No sign of her pebble today. Shannon had no idea where the whale hid it. For safety reasons, the staff removed rocks of any size from the pool area whenever they spotted one, yet they’d never found this little round pebble the size of a pea that Juneau loved to bring to Shannon. Clever girl. Shannon should’ve taken it from her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Often she would take the little stone off Juneau’s tongue and drop it for Juneau to dive and find. Perhaps she found the pebble hunt more of a challenge, preferring to search for this tiny dull-colored object rather than for those big bright rings and buoys the trainers sent her to retrieve. In any case, Juneau had elected not to play today. Today she wanted rubs along her back and fluke, and scratches under her small pectoral fins. She did love her back rubs.

Shannon reached out to give Juneau’s smooth white head a gentle stroke.

The whale floated closer to the pool’s edge.

Fingers met forehead.

At that instant, a bolt of lavender lightning flashed over the pool and surrounded them. A jolting pain, like the electric shock of grabbing a live wire rippled through Shannon. The crackle of a hundred firecrackers erupted. A strong scent, spicy and exotic, filled her nose. The taste of salt water bit her tongue. Her ears rang as if the lightning had touched off sirens.

What the—? Can’t move, can’t breathe.

A second piercing shock ripped through her, shaking her like hands on a jackhammer. She jerked as shimmering, lavender energy captured her and Juneau in a tight net. Flashes of lavender branded miniature strands of light on the inside of her eyelids and scalded her eyes. The pool began to slide up.

Correction.

The pool remained stable; Shannon began a rapid collapse. No! She gripped the rough, rounded pool rim until she couldn’t feel her fingers. She fought the dizziness.

No good. Blackness circled inward from the edges of her vision, stealing the view of a hazy twilight sky. Her legs buckled.

Shit. She never fainted.

She dropped to the concrete like an anchor in shallow water.

* * *

Shannon fought her way from a thick black void toward light. Her head hurt. Thor had taken his hammer to her skull and continued to pound. She raised a shaky hand to explore her scalp. Her fingers found a hard lump the size of a dinner roll. She must have cracked her head when she fell. An exotic aroma floated on her skin, mingling with the familiar bleach-washed smell of the pool deck.

What had happened? Why was she sitting on her keister next to the back beluga pool with a knot on her head and her mind imitating twirling helicopter blades? So confused…she was missing something important…oh no, Juneau! What had happened to the beluga when the lightning hit her? Shannon grabbed the pool rim with aching fingers and pulled herself to her feet.

So weak.

Panic bubbled toward the surface. She clung to the rim of the pool. Steady.

Steady.

She squinted down into the well-lit tank.

The water. Dive into the water. Safe. Cold water. Go. Now.

No! That made no sense. She stiffened her arms and pushed hard against the rim. She took a deep breath, then forced out the air and tried to push her head fuzzies out with it.

She surveyed the results. Urge to swim gone. Good. Head fuzzies just where she’d left them. Crap.

Forget that, focus on Juneau. She peered down again. One of Juneau’s listless eyes stared at her. The beluga’s body floated on its side, sinking, the blow hole inches from the water. Water in Juneau’s blow hole meant water in her lungs. And that meant death.

“Juneau,” Shannon said, her voice a whisper. She listened. The whale exhaled a weak breath. Still alive. She pulled the whale’s head toward her. Juneau’s tail fluke sank another few inches. No good. Shannon spun and stumbled toward the fish house, screaming for Becky and the SeaQuarium vet Andy Fernandez.

The wind had picked up. It pressed her back, like an ocean wave. She leaned into it, but too far—she fell forward, flat on her forearms, skinning them on the rough cement.

Tired. Dizzy. Hurting. Hungry.

Wait. Hungry? At a time like this? Forget hungry.

She rested her head on the pavement for a moment.

Her mind swirled and jumped, as if a greyhound ran around a race track inconveniently located in her mind. As if something inside her fought to escape.

Her head would explode. No joke. She would shatter.

Afraid, so afraid…water, get in the water….

Then, out of nowhere, a humming rose in her whirling mind, slow, calm, like a rich, musical blanket to warm her shivering spirit. Shannon’s wild thoughts quieted. She experienced the strangest sensation, as if some small…something had brushed across her mind with a velvet glove.

The chaotic internal bouncing and battering departed. Not so much died down as went away, deep into her mind somewhere.

The humming hadn’t dissipated the confusion, dizziness, nausea, and headache, though, so she continued to rest her head on the walkway. The cool concrete soothed the side of her face. She’d just lie here until she stopped hurting and her head stepped off the merry-go-round. So tired. She closed her eyes. Lavender lightning flashed through her vision. Her eyes flew open.

Right. Juneau needed help. Get up and move. To the fish house. Go.

Shannon pushed herself to her hands and knees. Shaky. She scooted over to the generator room and pushed with her hands and legs until she could lean against it and stand. Still woozy, but she could walk. Her ponytail whipped in the wind. She kept one hand on the uneven unshimmery gray wall as she took one halting step at a time.

Unshimmery?

She wove back and forth and faltered, her steps unsteady, as she advanced toward the fish house. “Becky,” she shouted, her voice straining, “Juneau’s in trouble.” Her words blew back in her face, thrown by the wind as if by a petulant child.

Just as she reached the fish house, Becky opened the door. “Get Andy, it’s Juneau,” Shannon said, exhausted, leaning on the nearest counter. Without a moment’s hesitation, Becky whipped out her radio and called the vet.

“Come down to the pool and tell me what happened,” Becky said as she raced by Shannon.

Becky would handle it. Shannon relaxed. What little energy she’d mustered seeped out the soles of her boots.

Can’t rest. Get back down there and help. Well. Maybe she would grab an energy bar from Becky’s stash. She pushed off the counter with a groan, stumbled to the cabinet where Becky kept her snacks, unpeeled the energy bar, and began the slow, unsteady journey back to Juneau.

Andy rushed her way from the walrus pools. He charged past as the hare would pass the turtle, but she kept moving, wobbling, the wind swirling around her. At last she reached the pool. Becky barked into the radio she held in one hand, and into the cell phone she held in the other.

She didn’t shimmer either. This troubled Shannon. But why?

Shannon found herself looking at Becky’s legs. Andy’s too. Two legs. Her eyes wandered to her own legs. Yes, two.

She blinked. So strange, these thoughts.

Becky stepped in front of her, grabbing her under both arms and easing her to the ground. “You sit, girlfriend. Our friendly neighborhood paramedics are on the way.”

Then Becky turned back to Juneau. More staff arrived, other people Shannon didn’t recognize.

Shannon chewed on her energy bar and tried to focus on bits of conversation over the next few minutes, voices raised above the noise of the wind, but she couldn’t concentrate for more than a second or two.

“…some kind of biochemical leak?”

“…getting hazmat down here right now.”

“Juneau can’t breathe on her own. We haven’t got the equipment to deal with it….”

“The research center has agreed take the whale; they’ve got their water tank truck coming.”

“Where’s the woman who saw it happen?” an unidentified voice asked. Becky pointed at Shannon and took a step over to her. “Are you feeling better? Can you tell us what’s wrong with her?”

Shannon mumbled, but didn’t know if anyone understood her, didn’t even know what she’d said.

Someone, maybe Andy, said, “…don’t see anything obvious, but something happened here.”

Blackmail. Sex Trafficking. Kidnapping. Victoria is back.

This time she's in danger of having her life destroyed by the private agendas of powerful, corrupt men. Obsessed with growing her law firm and punishing the male law partner who fired her from theirs on trumped up charges, Victoria and her friends are on the hunt for evidence to prove Victoria's innocence. Unless she can get others to step forward, she'll be left to take on her former bosses single-handedly. Desperate and frustrated, Victoria and her friends concoct a last-minute plan to pull strings in Bangkok, Hong Kong and Chicago. Will it work?

About the Author
Dedrick, Katherine Smith: - Katherine Smith Dedrick is the author of The V-Files, a legal thriller series with strong female protagonists. An attorney for more than thirty years, Katherine has litigated in U.S. federal and state courts and served on the management team of a national law firm. Katherine holds a law degree from IIT Chicago Kent and MBA from The University of Chicago. In addition to writing novels and practicing law, she has received the Business Insurance Women to Watch Award, the Women with Visions Award, and the Mercedes Mentor Award.

I'm pregnant.

Gripping the test in my hand, I can't stop staring at the blue cross in the window.

Tears roll, hot and slow, down my cheeks. I huddle in a low ball, emotion bowing me. My dog, Blue, whines and presses against my side, his warm tongue laving my cheek, his musky scent enveloping me. A familiar comfort.

Will my child love Blue as I do?

My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter, and I hiccup a sob. Squeezing my eyes shut, pressing more tears free, I hold my breath. Blood rushes in my ears, and my heart throbs in my chest...a tidal wave is washing me away. I can't do this.

The soft ping of a voicemail brings my eyes open. I'm staring at the cross again.

Blue shifts closer, leaning his warm weight against me. As tall as a Great Dane, with the elegant snout of a collie, the markings of a wolf, and mismatched eyes-one blue the other brown-Blue means the world to me.

My heart will have to make room for more.

Fear slices through me, adrenaline flooding my veins and bringing another soft whine from Blue. Standing quickly, the adrenaline demanding action, I glance at my phone.

Robert Maxim.

He can't know. My eyes trace to the trash can of the hotel bathroom. Wrap up the test and put it in there.

But my hand won't follow the advice. My fingers grip tighter, refusing to release the small wand of plastic. The proof. The truth.

Grabbing my phone off the counter, I step back into the hotel room. Blue stays close to my hip, his nose tapping my waist once, a gentle reminder he is there.

I shove the plastic wand into my bag, pushing it into a zipper interior pocket and closing it up. Locking it away.

Just throw it out.

I can't.

My hand strays to my stomach, and Blue's nose swipes against my fingers. Vision blurred with tears, I stand in the center of the hotel room, my mind reeling. Lightning sizzles across my vision, and thunder ricochets inside my mind.

I'm not cut out for motherhood.
I know I'll survive. It's everyone I love who dies.
That changes now.

P.S. The dog does not die.
**Beware: If you can't handle a few f-bombs, you can't handle this series.**

“This is a romance that is unique, funny and beautifully romantic. Be prepared to laugh and swoon and get mad…Trey, Autumn and the Wolfpack are going to have you laughing and falling in love at the same time. A perfect balance of angst and swoon, making for the perfect summer read!” —The BookFairy Reviews

For Autumn Hickman, online dating has been an exercise in nothing more than coffee and failure. There simply isn’t a man on the planet who can compare to her best friend, Trey Wattson. And while Trey is everything Autumn has ever wanted in a partner, she knows the man who loves life’s most beautiful things could never cherish anything as scarred and mangled as her.

Trey Wattson is in love with his best friend, but he can't seem to reach her. She’s guarded, and for good reason, but Trey doesn’t care. He knows Autumn’s soul, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Desperate to claim Autumn’s heart for his own, Trey conspires with The Wolves to create a fake profile on the dating site Autumn frequents. But the more Autumn trusts Trey’s online persona, the more it becomes clear that Trey is gambling with the very thing he wants most of all.

Return to Tess Thompson's beloved Cliffside Bay and discover for yourself why true love is built on honesty and trust, and why best friends often make the very best life partners, in this anonymous online romance set in your favorite charming small town.

Author Bio:
Tess Thompson is the USA Today Bestselling and award-winning author of contemporary and historical Romantic Women’s Fiction with nearly 40 published titles. When asked to describe her books, she could never figure out what to say that would perfectly sum them up until she landed on, Hometowns and Heartstrings.

Shop the Cliffside Bay series

Most days it's manageable. No more than a quiet wondering around the edges of her mind. What has become of the baby she left behind? Smiling through the pain and suffering in silence, Leslie Laudon marches forward. Embracing the life skillfully designed by her husband Paul. Living right could be penance for an impossible choice made with an uneasy heart. Dutiful and anchoring, Leslie poured herself into her other children. Nurturing them through infancy, protecting them as toddlers, guiding them as teens. As her youngest child heads off to college with her suitcases and coordinating dorm room accessories, so goes Leslie's identity. The chaotic life of a busy working mother threatens to become dangerously quiet. Quiet enough to hear the voices she's tried to silence for decades. Gwen Fox was adopted by two perfect people. Noel and Millie have always treated her the same as their two biological sons. Her parents love is strong and unwavering, yet a soul-deep ache still lingers. Plagued by an unnamed, hard to explain, longing Gwen could never shake.Riddled with doubt and dragged down by the undertow of unanswered questions, Leslie and Gwen both find their lives suddenly upended. One seeks the truth about the day she was born. The other seeks herself, the woman she was before motherhood. Before she made a choice to leave a piece of her heart lying asleep in the hospital nursery. In this complex journey for answers, blame is abundant. Guilt is thick enough to choke on. Marriages are brought to the brink of disaster. As the ripples of the past vibrate through their lives, Gwen and Leslie realize there is no turning back. What they have put into motion cannot be stopped. The road toward the truth will be littered with casualties.

India's study into the language of spells is interrupted by the arrest of her teacher for an unpaid debt. Before Matt can repay it for him, the powerful magician escapes from his prison cell. To make matters worse, the moneylender is murdered and the magician is implicated.

Convinced of his innocence, India and Matt must discover who really killed the moneylender before the police find the magician. Their investigation leads them down a path littered with lies, betrayal, scandal, and interference from people they don't trust.

Meanwhile, Matt's relatives accuse Cyclops of ruining their daughter, and plan to marry off their manipulative youngest to someone even more manipulative and far more powerful. Should Matt and India support the union, or try to stop it? And how will they stop Cyclops from being deported back to America?

To move forward, she might have to take a step back.

Divorced empty-nester Becky Linden wants a fresh start. After two decades away, she returns to her hometown to find herself. What she discovers instead is the long-abandoned schoolhouse where she had her first kiss as a teenager. Others might see an eyesore, but Becky sees the neglected building as a charming business opportunity and... her future. However, she can't do it on her own. The one man who can help her is the last one she ever thought she'd ever ask-her ex-boyfriend.

Zack Durbin works for the school district that owns the run-down building, and he agrees with locals: the schoolhouse is a problem. What's more? It's his job to solve the problem. Then Zack's old high school sweetheart shows up with a dream to open a bookshop and reboot her life. Is Zack willing to sacrifice his career for the only woman he's ever loved? Or will the past haunt him forever?

The Schoolhouse is a heartwarming, second-chance romance about a determined forty-something, her high school sweetheart, and the abandoned schoolhouse that just might have a little life left. Order your copy today.

Hickory Grove, Indiana is an old-fashioned small town full of big-hearted people with quirky stories. Each book is a sweet, standalone read.

The Schoolhouse: Book One

The Christmas House: Book Two

The Farmhouse: Book Three

The Innkeeper's House: Book Four

The Quilting House: Book Five

The roaring twenties are now in full swing. But the clock is ticking

High up in an eyrie overlooking the Zambezi escarpment, a biplane appears out of the blue, dropping an invitation to visit Elephant Walk, the home of Harry Brigandshaw. With such an irresistible summons, two young English prospectors abandon camp and make their way.

On arrival, they are welcomed and introduced to the new Brigandshaw heir. Whilst appearing to be a contented family, nothing could be further from the truth. Harry is blissfully happy on his African farm, yet Tina desperately wishes to return to England and civilisation.

Pressurised to return, Harry finds himself back in the game of business financing a new musical with his old flame in the leading role. Jealousies flare and Tina retaliates with far-reaching consequences. But meanwhile in America, the stock market is rising steadily with things beginning to spiral out of control.

And then, disaster strikes Tina is left with distressing circumstances not only affecting her but the future of Colonial Shipping. Will she be able to make crucial decisions with time beginning to run out?

To the Manor Born is the fourth book in Peter Rimmer's spellbinding historical fiction series, taking you from the beauty of the African plains to the rich supper rooms and theatres of London, and the scheming businessmen of America.

What the older generation of Brigandshaws feared has returned. The world is no longer on the brink of tears.

Having joined the Air Ministry, Harry Brigandshaw is itching to fly but deemed too old. He has no alternative but to stay in London, working to keep his fevered mind at rest and running for shelter as the chilling air-raid sirens sound. To keep his wife and children out of insanity's reach, Harry sends them to Cape Town. But from so far away, can he stop his boys from enlisting, whilst other younger men are fighting for their lives in the skies above London?

For the beautiful film star, Genevieve, she has no choice but to watch from afar. She's petrified she will lose her man even before their love has had a chance to flourish. Along with other indomitable pilots, will her darling survive the greatest fight of his life?

Through the eyes of the Brigandshaws and their friends, Peter Rimmer yet again brings to life their lives and loves during the harrowing times of World War Two in Treason If You Lose, the thrilling sixth instalment of this historical fiction series.

Named a Kirkus “Best Books of 2022”

2019 Publisher’s Weekly BookLife Prize Semifinalist - Nonfiction (Memoir / Autobiography)

"…an inspiring narrative about changing the world through fearless innovation." —BookLife (Publisher's Weekly)

The 1970s saw women coming into their own, working hard to create new roles at home and in sports, culture, politics, and business. It was also the start of the “fitness revolution.” At this unique intersection of feminism and athleticism, Lisa Lindahl’s game-changing entrepreneurial journey began. 

She invented the first sports bra, the “Jogbra,” in 1977.  It was the right product at the right time, throwing Lisa into a high-stakes world of business and power—a world for which she was not fully prepared. Unleash the Girls is the improbable story of a young artist with a disability who used her powers of creativity to solve a vexing problem and ended up leveling the playing field for girls and women across the globe—literally, unleashing the girls.

Her invention would become a feminist icon and the company she founded would change an industry. But amid the success, Lisa continued to search for meaning and the true nature of power and beauty. This is the untold story of the invention of the sports bra and how it changed the world for girls and women...and, along the way, changed Lisa, too.

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More Reviews:

"... the author's narrative is as much an inspiring business memoir as it is an absorbing chronicle of a surprisingly significant piece of sports clothing. An engrossing account of the entrepreneur—and the bra—that changed women’s sports." —Kirkus Reviews

“The sports bra was and is more than a piece of sporting equipment, it has become a symbol and a vehicle for women and girls to propel themselves forward without inhibition towards the future that they are creating. Prior to its inception, the concept of women running, jumping, lifting, competing, basically moving dynamically, caused reticence. NOW, WE RUN AND MOVE in every athletic space and then some. To say I don’t think about my sports bra anymore is to say that I am FREE to accomplish and go after anything I want. I am EMPOWERED TO EMBRACE OPPORTUNITY!” —Brandi Chastain, American retired soccer player, two-time FIFA Women's World Cup champion, two-time Olympic gold-medalist, coach, and sports broadcaster

“The introduction of the sports bra did more than improve athletic performance. It represented a revolution in ready-to-wear clothing, and for many women athletes – past, present, and future – it actually made sports possible.” —Smithsonian Museum of American History Archivist Cathy Keen 

Author Bio:

Lisa Z. Lindahl is an artist, entrepreneur, and women's health advocate. She invented the sports bra in 1977, revolutionizing athletic participation for women and girls. In 2000, she patented a medical garment for use in breast cancer. She has a BS in education from the University of Vermont, a Master's of Arts in Culture and Spirituality from Holy Names University in California, and is a graduate of the Foundation for Shamanic Studies' Three Year Program of Advanced Initiations. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, where it rarely goes below freezing and one can garden year 'round.

Book Excerpt:

Preface

Sometimes a single moment captures and reveals  the essence of your life’s purpose. For me, it happened one day near the end of winter in Vermont. It was not quite springtime, mud season as it’s called, a difficult time of year for souls yearning for sunshine’s warmth and the first signs of green. I was standing at the window of my studio office overlooking Lake Champlain, always a changeable, capricious view. This day, I noticed a wind was tickling the top of the lake’s slate-colored surface. But my attention was turned inward. I was wrestling with my identity, and how the title “successful businesswoman” fit into the whole of my life. I chafed under the typical introduction, “Meet Lisa, the ‘Jogbra Lady!’” Wasn’t I more than just this one achievement? Had my entrepreneurial journey made a difference in the world? Did any of it really matter?

Nature, as she always did, called me back. Outside my window the gray sky was beginning to lift and just enough midday light was filtering through to create a bright and otherworldly sparkle on the lake’s now choppy water. It silhouetted the dark tree branches lining the lake edge, highlighting the baby yellow leaf buds clinging there. A blue jay’s call pierced my silence and suddenly I was immersed—if only for a moment—in a deep sense of timeless and complete beauty. 

There was my answer. 

In that moment, I realized that what really mattered was beauty. Not physical beauty. Not glamour, which is so often confused with beauty in today’s culture. No, what I had experienced was much bigger: It was True Beauty—transcendent and everlasting.

Since that moment, I’ve made it my life’s work to learn the way of True Beauty and teach others how to find and use it to create greater harmony in our world. 

My journey to that life-changing moment on Lake Champlain was long and circuitous. It began in a very different time and place, a time when my relationship with myself was muddled and my understanding of beauty was still nascent. I was a young, artistic woman trying to find herself. It was the early 1970s, and we were all trying to find ourselves. The “women’s liberation movement,” as it was then called, had swept across the United States. The changes were so profound that Time magazine awarded its 1975 “Man of the Year” cover to “American Women.” Only two years earlier, tennis star Billy Jean King had captivated the nation’s attention when she beat Bobby Riggs in the “Battle of the Sexes” on the tennis court. Women were coming into their own, working hard to carve out new roles for themselves at home, in sports, culture, politics and business. 

The nation in general was also beginning to move. We were getting up off the couch where we’d been watching TV shows like All in the Family, Maude, M*A*S*H and Bewitched and joining the “fitness revolution.” People started jogging—en masse. It’s estimated that 25 million Americans took up running in the 1970s and 1980s, including President Jimmy Carter. 

It’s at this unique intersection between feminism and athleticism that my entrepreneurial story begins. With the passage of Title IX in 1972, which prohibited discrimination on the basis of sex in any federally funded education program, doors were finally opening for young women not only in the classroom but also on the field. But Title IX could not erase the discomfort and self-consciousness that were insidious ingredients in keeping girls and women off those fields. 

Along with the other young women of my “Baby Boomer” generation, I was trying to find my way. In my mid-twenties I had headed back to the college classroom and, as part of my self-reinvention, taken up jogging. My new love of running, though, came with a problem—my breasts bounced...a lot. It was a constant distraction and discomfort and the only thing not great about my runs. I needed a solution. 

When I invented the sports bra in 1977, it completed what Title IX had started. It leveled the playing field for female athletes and athletic women. It turned out to be the one-two punch that knocked out old attitudes and restrictions. You might even say it “unleashed the girls.”

The Jogbra files, prototype, and history are now preserved at the Smithsonian Museum of American History, where archivist Cathy Keen said in 2015, “The introduction of the sports bra did more than improve athletes’ performances. It represented a revolution in ready-to-wear clothing, and for many women athletes, past, present, and future, it actually made sports possible.”

The original Jogbra company’s byline was “by women, for women.” I believe that women’s stories must be told—and when possible by the women who lived the tale. The story of the invention of the first sports bra is very much a story of women. It is also a big part of my life story. This is the improbable story of how I created the first sports bra and how it changed the world...and the course of my life. 

Chapter 1: Inspired

Let’s face it, in 1977, I was an unlikely candidate to become a business success story—let alone, since I’d never been particularly athletic, change the world for women in sports. My formal business education consisted of a post-collegiate one-year program at the Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School. I was an aspiring artist working in stained glass, selling my work at craft fairs. At the same time, I was also working part-time at Threshold, a rural residential treatment facility for adolescent drug abusers where my husband Al worked as a counselor. I administered tests and did secretarial stuff. I had little interest in a 9-to-5 sort of traditional career. At 28, I was working on finishing my undergraduate degree at the University of Vermont (UVM) in Burlington. My marriage of seven years to my husband Al was shaky, and I couldn’t drive a car due to having Epilepsy. It was quite an odd resume.

At the time, my lack of mobility felt a greater disability to me than having the occasional epileptic seizure. Without a driver’s license in our car-centric world I was very dependent on others. I could only maintain the job at Threshold because I got a ride out to its very rural location with Al. This aspect of my Epilepsy-induced dependence was probably one reason I had married so early and certainly was a factor in my decision in 1977 to take yet another job, this time as a low-level filing clerk at the UVM admissions office. It was hard on my ego and horribly boring, but unlike the job at the drug treatment facility, it was within walking distance of my house and afforded me a free academic course each semester. As an “older woman” in her late 20s (ha!), I had been intimidated by the prospect of going back to college. This job afforded me a way to try it out, then literally make it more affordable. 

Sitting most of the day for my filing job, I began to put on weight. My once “drop-dead gorgeous” figure, taken for granted ever since its appearance around age 15, had become blowzy and indistinct. A friend told me what I somehow knew but had resisted: dieting alone wouldn’t shed the pounds. I would need to exercise. My friend outlined his running regime, telling me that all I had to do was run a mile-and-a-quarter three times a week and I would achieve and maintain “physical fitness.” To me, translated, that meant “skinny.” And lord knows, as a 1960s teenage girl, skinny was a beauty hallmark. Remember Twiggy? Count me in.

The UVM job also gave me access to the university’s athletic facilities. Every day on my tightly controlled, exactly 60-minutes lunch hour, I walked up to the field house to run. The indoor track there was only one-tenth of a mile, but it might as well have been a thousand miles long. That first day, I could barely make it around even once. But my competitive spirit was awakened, and I suppose vanity drove me forward as well. I was determined to shed that creeping weight. Each day, I pushed myself to go just a little further. Just…a…little…further…until the day, months later, when I finally completed the tenth consecutive lap for the first time. I was elated. I had run an entire mile! You would have thought I’d won an Olympic gold medal. I felt terrific. I had challenged myself and won!

A little background here. My mother, raised by her Victorian-era grandmother, was a firm believer that her daughters would be raised to be ladies. Always full of platitudes, with such wisdom she would intone, “Horses sweat, men perspire, ladies glow.” Athletics, let alone organized sports, were not part of her repertoire. Me? Give me a bathing suit and point me towards ocean surf. No boards please. Growing up, spending my summers on the New Jersey shore, that was my idea of being “active.” But in my mid-20s, living in landlocked Vermont, there was no ocean nearby. When I found jogging, it became my land-based equivalent of active joy.

My running never grew into a desire to compete. Rather, running reconnected me to the natural world and became, frankly, one of my first spiritual practices. It is totally ironic that this practice spawned my financial success and exposure to the grit of the business world. And in so doing, like all good spiritual practices, it also afforded me the opportunity to confront some difficult personal issues. Oh joy!

The deeper irony is that for me to start running at all was completely out of character, Mom’s “encouragement” notwithstanding. While I remember enjoying recess and dodge ball in elementary grades, by middle school at the girls’ academy I attended I was self-conscious and uncomfortable in gym classes. A 2019 study shows many girls still feel awkward in gym class, but back in the early ’60s, all I knew was that my best friend Polly and I definitely were. We hated those locker room moments! There were those “jock” girls who relished gym and understood the rules of field hockey and were eager to get out on the tennis courts. They intimidated me. It seemed to me I was somehow less for not “getting” the whole sporty thing and for being so self-conscious. When possible, I opted for Beginning Bowling as my gym class choice. I didn’t like to even glow, let alone perspire. When I look back now, I can see that my relationship with my adolescent girl’s body was fraught with an underlying threat: When would the next seizure occur? When would my body suddenly throw itself on the floor, and my consciousness disappear—embarrassing, inconvenient, and painful.

Avoiding gym classes, playing around in the summertime ocean, doing some body surfing, and climbing the occasional tree—these were my ideas of “sports activities.” Until I discovered the meditation of running. Then my world did change. My body and I became more intimate. We glowed. We sweated. We gloried. I’d found not only my sport, but my practice. 

Malorie's best friend is missing. But due to her friend's wild past, no one is worried-until another med student's partial remains wash ashore a Seattle beach...

When Malorie witnesses her best friend and roommate leave a campus bar with a mystery date driving a silver Mercedes, she suspects foul play, especially when Lani fails to return home the next day. Both women, med students in their final year at Elliott Bay University, have a lot riding on the line, but due to Lani's wild past, no one in her family is worried. When Malorie's fears for her roommate deepen, she turns to her Uncle Wade, a Sergeant at Seattle Homicide.

Within 48 hours after Lani goes missing, the partial remains of a brutally murdered young woman wash up on Alki Beach, and a human hand is found in a crab pot off Bainbridge Island. When one of the bodies is identified as a pregnant, fourth-year medical student, Wade believes there's a connection with Lani's disappearance. And, that they might be looking for a serial killer.

Malorie suspects Lani's kidnapper is someone they know, possibly even one of their professors at the university, a prominent Seattle anesthesiologist whose wife is the president of EBU. But when Detective Blake Stephenson discovers evidence that links another suspect to the professor's Mercedes, he and Wade must act fast to attempt a wild rescue in the middle of Puget Sound.

She has every reason to hate her ex ... it doesn't mean she wants him dead.Every day on her way home from work, Dove Damiani drives past her ex-house, where her ex-husband lives with her ex-dog and her ex-yoga instructor, next to her ex-neighbors and the ex-life she once affectionately described as "frighteningly perfect."To outsiders, Dove is bitter and resentful. The divorce left her alone, with nothing but a set of car keys and 50% of a paltry savings account. So when the lifeless body of her former husband is discovered in the birch grove outside Dove's apartment on what would have been their fifth wedding anniversary, investigators waste no time making Dove a person of interest. She swears she didn't do it. She's never so much as killed a spider in her thirty-four years. But as evidence mounts against her, Dove finds herself questioning her memory, her sanity, and finally-her innocence.