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Testimonial featured on
the back of the book:

“A
gripping new thriller by Angela Kay that pits FBI Special Agent Aidan
O’Reilly against the Carnations Killer, a serial killer who enjoys
playing Cat and Mouse with this formidable agent.” — Dana
Ridenour, retired FBI Agent and award winning author of Behind The
Mask and Beyond The Cabin

With
the help of his oldest friend and mentor, former Naval investigator
Russ Calhoun, DeLong sets out to find whether Manny Grimes is alive
or dead. The further away he gets to the bottom of the mystery, the
closer he comes to realize that his own life is falling
apart.

Delving
deeper into the murder of Manny Grimes, Lieutenant DeLong begins to
unravel, losing his sense of control, falling into old temptations he
spent years to overcome. Will he be able to move past his own demons
and untangle the web of lies before it’s too late?

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The
victim is his sister-in-law, and old thoughts he’s fought to delete
will be resurrected whether DeLong likes it or not. He and his
brother have been estranged by unhappy times in their youth. With no
clear motive, DeLong questions his ability to remain objective.

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Angela
Kay was one of 23 across the United States to win a 2009 playwrightcontest for her one-act entitled “Digging Deeper.” Because of
this, she was able to spend a week in Atlanta at the Horizon Theater
Company.

She
lives in Augusta, Georgia with her crazy calico, Maggie.

LIEUTENANT CHRISTENSON STARED at the lifeless body of a young woman who appeared to be in her
late twenties. Her eyes were closed, and her French braided hair looked like a mass of blonde spider webs. The
bruising on her body was prominent, and he could tell she’d endured a great amount of torture. Her wrists and
ankles held deep gashes, as though she’d once been bound by a thin wire. She had two puncture wounds on
her neck indicating a taser had been used.
She appeared to have been posed: her legs straight in front of her, head facing the sky, arms positioned over
her chest. She held a bouquet of white carnations in her hands, which stood in contrast against her black dress.
Christenson noticed her fingernails were broken and rugged. She had splinters and blood underneath them. He
guessed it was possible she’d tried escaping from wherever she was originally held.
But what struck his interest the most was the envelope resting against the carnations. It read: FBI Special
Agent Aidan O’Reilly.
Christenson had one of his men contact the Resident Agency in Augusta to notify them of the note singling out
one of their agents. After hearing the details of the crime, Assistant Special Agent-In-Charge Monroe
informed him she would get in touch with Agent O’Reilly and dispense a team of agents to the location.
As he waited for the FBI to arrive, the medical examiner was finishing her first-glance examination of the
body.
One of his men interviewed the teenage couple who called it in, while two divers searched beneath the Clarks
Hill Lake, and the rest of the men scoured the surrounding areas. So far, no other evidence had been found.
He watched as his divers pushed their heads out from underneath the water and returned to shore. They
reported to him that nothing unusual was found. He received the same from the land squad.
Christenson frowned at the body as the medical examiner rose.
“From what I can tell based on the body temp,” she began, removing her latex gloves, “she’s been dead for
about six or seven hours. I’ll know more once I perform the autopsy. I’d have to say the cause of death was
strangulation by a thin wire of some sort.”
Christenson nodded. “I’ve been instructed by the FBI to leave the body as she was found. But once she’s
released to you, she’s your first priority.”
“Understood.”
He stepped over to where the teenage couple stood. As he neared, he heard the young man say, “Can’t believe
I actually found a dead body.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” the girl whined. The light wind bristled through her brown hair,
sweeping a strand in her eyes. She brushed it to the side with a frown and hugged herself. “It’s so awful.”
“It’s very CSI-y, isn’t it?” The boy let out a scoff.
“This isn’t a joke,” Christenson said, frowning. “A woman’s dead.”
The boy swallowed as his gaze settled on the lieutenant. “I didn’t mean—I was just saying—”
Christenson ignored him with a wave of his hand and looked at the officer who interviewed the couple. “What
did you get?”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” the officer replied. “They planned on spending the day here but found her
instead.”
“Are you going to arrest us?” the boy asked.
“No,” Christenson assured him. “Thank you for calling it in. You’re free to go home, but the feds may need to
speak with you later.”
“Thanks,” the girl muttered. She tugged her boyfriend’s hand and pulled him from the scene. He followed
with reluctance, his eyes glued to the body by the water.
“All right, men, listen up,” Christenson called out. His officers looked his way, giving him their attention.
“When the FBI arrives, I want us to be as cooperative as possible. Understood?”
His men muttered their agreements.
Christenson returned to where the body rested. He wondered what her name was, who her family was. She had
a wedding band, and he wondered if she and her husband had any children.
“It’s tragic,” Sergeant Taylor stated, standing next to him.
Christenson didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. During the thirty years he spent as a police officer, he’d seen
unimaginable things.
And he knew it wouldn’t be his last.
All he knew to do to compensate for the evil deeds of the world was his job.

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Erin
had everything she ever wanted, her dream job as a FBI agent like her
father and grandfather, assisting the lead agent in a head line
catching serial murder case, and a boyfriend who loves her.

Untilshe lost everything. The boyfriend, the journalist who she thought
loves her, lied on a story causing Erin to lose everything she worked
for.

After
rebuilding her life in a quaint mountain town in Colorado, Erin
learns her family has a dark secret she was never supposed to
learn.

The
Messenger?

The
serial murderer she was hunting.

 TN Lowe
released her first book, Saving Ginny in February 2018.

As I walk into the station the next morning, Roy meets me at the reception desk, “Don’t bother to
sit down, there’s been a murder.”
“What happened?” I ask, following him to the cruiser.
“Not sure. Some hiker stumbled onto a woman in the forest. It looked like she was tied to a tree
and cut up pretty bad. The Rangers have cleared the area and are waiting for us,” Roy explains.
“I’ve been the Chief for almost twenty years; there’s never been a murder in Moose Valley.”
It can’t be, that’s all I can think as Roy and I drive to the scene. There is no way it could be the
D.C. Carver. But the scene sounds like him; the women tied to a tree, being cut up, no evidence
left at the scene. It sounds similar, that’s all I can think as Roy parks the car, and we walk to
where the woman is covered by a white sheet.
Roy lifts the sheet to see the woman underneath, and gasps, “My God. Have you ever seen
anything like this before?”
Studying the words and symbols carved into the body, I look Roy straight in the eye and say,
“Call the FBI, it’s the D.C. Carver.”

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Kathy Ryan #1

Genre: Horror

Occult
specialist Kathy Ryan returns in this thrilling novel of paranormalhorror from Mary SanGiovanni, the author ofChills .. .

In the town of Zarephath, Pennsylvania, just past the Pennsylvania-New Jersey border and
northwest of Dingmans Ferry out by the Delaware Water Gap, there is a Door.
Many stories about it form a particularly colorful subset of the local lore of the town and its
surrounding woods, streams, and lakes. Most of them relate the same essential series of events,
beginning with a burden of no small psychological impact, progressing to a twilight trip through the
southwestern corner of the woods near Zarephath, and arriving at a door. Numerous variations detail
what, exactly, must be presented at the door and how, but ultimately, these stories end with an
unburdening of the soul and, more or less, happy endings. It is said “more or less” because such endings
are arbitrarily more or less agreeable to the individuals involved than the situations prior to their visit to
the Door of Zarephath. More times than not, the “less” wins out.
There are some old folks in town, snow- and storm cloud–haired sept and octogenarians who sip
coffee and people-watch from the local diner or gather on front porches at dusk or over the counter at
Ed’s Hardware to trade stories of Korea and Vietnam, and in one venerable case, World War II, and it’s
said they know a thing or two about that door. The old-timers remember the desperation of postwar
addictions and nightmares and what they used to call shell shock, of families they couldn’t help wearing
down or beating up or tearing apart, despite their best efforts to hold things together. They remember
carrying burdens, often buried but never very deeply, beneath their conscious thoughts, burdens that
crawled their way up from oblivion and into nightmares and flashbacks when the darkness of booze or
even just the night took over men who had once been children and who were expected to be men. They
remember late-night pilgrimages through the forest on the outskirts of town, trekking miles in through
rain or dark or frost-laced wind to find that door, and lay their sins and sorrows at its feet. And they
remember that sometimes, forgetting proved to be worse.
The old women too remember bruises and battered faces and blackouts. They remember
cheating husbands and cancers and unwanted pregnancies and miscarriages and daughters being
touched where they shouldn’t by men who should have protected them. The old women remember the
Door in Zarephath being a secret, almost sacred equalizer that older women imparted to younger
women, a means of power passed from one group whose hands were socially and conventionally tied to
another. And they remember watching strong women fall apart under the weight of that power.
And these old folks remember trying once to burn the door down, but of course, that hadn’t
worked. The Door in Zarephath won’t burn because it isn’t made of any wood of this earth, anything
beholden to the voracious appetite of fire. It had an appetite of its own that night, and no one has tried
to burn it down since. Rather, the old-timers have learned to stay away from it, for the most part, to
relegate the knowledge of its location and its promises to the same dusty old chests in the mind that the
worst of their war stories are kept. There’s an unspoken agreement that as far as the Door in Zarephath
goes, the young people can fend for themselves. While the folks in Zarephath won’t stop a person from
using the Door, they aren’t usually inclined to help anyone use it. Not in the open, and not just anyone
who asks about it. Behind some doors are rooms hidden for good cause in places human beings were
probably never meant to know about—rooms meant never to be entered—and the old folks of
Zarephath understand that for reasons they may never know, they were given a skeleton key to one
such room. There’s a responsibility in that, the kind whose true gravity is maybe only recognized by
those with enough years and experience and mistakes left behind to really grasp it.People often say the old-folks’ generation were stoic, used to getting by with very little and
largely of a mind frame not prone to histrionic anxiety or useless worry. People say it has to do with
surviving the Depression and growing up in a simpler, more rugged time. But for the old folks in
Zarephath, the strength of their fiber comes from what they remember—and from what they have
come to accept forgetting. It comes from what they no longer choose to lay before the Door.

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“Old school horror.”
—Jonathan Maberry

“A lot of splattery
fun.”—Publishers Weekly

“Frightening,
gripping.”—Night Owl Reviews

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It was going on dusk when we got to the restaurant. Business at Pasta 13 was light at the
moment. Restaurants didn’t get humming until at least seven on weeknights. I called the owner
ahead of time and we met him out back by the dumpster. It wouldn’t do him good for his diners
to see a pair of exterminators come strolling inside.
“You were here already today,” he said to Benny. The man was tall and thin everywhere except
his hips. He looked nervous, but then he always looked nervous. Owning a restaurant was not
for the fainthearted.
“We need to take a closer look,” she said, nodding toward the suitcase in my hand.
“Yes, but please, be discreet.”
“We take an oath of discretion,” I reassured him. He didn’t look reassured.
“Come directly to me if you need anything. My staff doesn’t need to know.”
I opened my mouth and closed it.
If his staff didn’t see the piles of rat shit everywhere, they were either blind or willfully ignorant.
“Let’s go down that one,” Benny said, pointing to the largest burrow. The edges were fuzzy,
having snagged copious amounts of hair. That meant it was the road most taken for this nest.
“As you wish, Alice.”
I opened the case and assembled the camera. It looked like a snake that plumbers use to clear
drains, with a fish-eye lens on the end. It hooked up to a small monitor so we could see into the
den.
This time of day, the rats should have been starting to get restless, but they were more than
likely still in the main nest.
“You want me to do the honors?” I asked, the camera poised over the hole. “By all means.”
I once had a rat jump out of a burrow just as I was about to drop the camera down. It landed on
my chest, desperate to find the soft tissue of my face. Thankfully, Benny had swatted it away
with a spade she’d been using to cover up some of the burrows. She’d managed to slice it in
half like a samurai.
Warm rat entrails soaked through my shirt, but thanks to her, I was still pretty.
“Get ready,” I said.
Sometimes, when we went exploring like this, the rats would pour out of the other burrows and
swarm around us in a frenzy. Our pants were tucked into our tough leather boots. Benny
gripped what she called her swattin’ pole. It had once been a nine iron, the head replaced by a
wood block, held on with a half mile of duct tape. What it lacked in esthetics it more than made
up for in efficiency. I slowly snaked the camera into the hole. With night vision activated, we
watched the black-and-white monitor.
What we saw was very similar to the video from a colonoscopy. Just traveling down a winding,
dark tunnel.
A normal rat’s den contained seven or so rats. We had caught three with snap traps last week.
Their dwindling numbers, especially if the Degenesis was working, couldn’t account for the
growing feces.
“Expect anything,” I said.
“What?”
“Just ruminating.”
I pushed the camera deeper, kicking up a puff of dust deep in the burrow.
A rat’s twitchy face sprang into view. I instinctively recoiled, then recovered in as manly a way
as possible.
“Say cheese,” Benny said, standing over me.
“You talk about my tired old witticisms.”
The rat retreated, tunneling backwards down the hole.
I knew I had to hurry up. The other rats would be ready to scatter .
Working the cable as fast as I could, I remotely spelunked, wondering just how far down they
had settled in.
In my periphery, I caught a rat leaping from a burrow to my left.
Benny gasped.
“What?”
She pointed at the screen.
“Holy shit!”I let the camera cable drop as if it were a poisonous snake.
We watched as dozens and dozens of rats writhed over one another. Every inch of the nest was
packed with vermin bodies.
“Pull back a little,” Benny said.
“Yeah, yeah.”
I tugged slightly on the cable so we could get a better view.
“Look at all the babies,” Benny said.
“It’s like the maternity ward in Shanghai,” I said.
We were either looking at multiple litters or the granddaddy of all litters.
“What do you think? At least twenty?”
Benny peered at the monitor. “I’d second that. And they all look like they’re from the same
generation.”
“I guess there’s no point in saying how impossible that is.”
“You guess right again.”
More adult rats were scurrying out of the holes around us. From what I could see, several had
stayed behind in the nest to guard the babies.
“I don’t like this at all,” I said, moving the camera some more to get a different angle. All of it was
being recorded.
“They like it less,” Benny said.
The camera’s intrusion had brought about sweeping panic in the nest. I almost felt sorry for the
little critters as they sought refuge around the adult guardians.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” I said, pulling the camera out. “I’ll send the file to Ratticus, see
what he thinks.”
“Stop, Chris.”
“Fine. Dr. Finch.”
“No. Put the camera down.”
“Why?”
I looked to Benny, whose eyes were wide and darting about. Following her gaze, the camera
slipped from my suddenly milquetoast grasp.
We were surrounded by rats. A dozen pairs of marble black eyes locked onto us.
They weren’t running away.
And they were sure as shit not afraid.

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