Tag: giveaway

An Excerpt from The Mourner’s Cradle: A Widow’s Journey by Tommy B. Smith
The days and hours became lost in a blur. Now she stood in silence in front of a polished wooden casket.
It might be the first time any of them had noticed Anne’s wispy form, her light-complexioned
features with pale blond hair that fell straight down on each side, and her brown eyes.
The others who filled the room spoke in hushed tones. Anne heard soft steps approaching from
behind. A hand touched her shoulder. She pulled away from it.
“I’m sorry, dear,” the person, an elderly woman with curled white hair, said.
“Sorry for what?” Anne replied. She saw no value in artificial kindness. She certainly didn’t owe
it to anyone.
She didn’t even know the woman who stood in front of her or most of the rest of these people, and
they never knew her. They couldn’t know how she felt, what she and her husband had shared, or what
remained now that he was gone.
The only things left of Damon Sharpe, other than the ring she wore and his still form in that
casket, were inside of her and inside that house they had shared, though its contents had become almost
worthless to her. The house might as well be empty. In a way, it was.
“Anne,” a soft voice said to her from nearby, “if there is anything I can do, please let me know.”
Anne turned and fixed the brown-haired woman in the gray dress with a flat stare. The woman
swallowed, taking a step back.
“Anne, it’s me,” she said. “Tabby Reinhart. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but—”
“Miss Sharpe?” another voice broke in, the voice of a man.
The tall man in the dark blue suit stood just outside of Anne’s peripheral vision, to her left and
behind, as if he meant to force Anne to turn around to face him. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
She continued to face the casket.
“My condolences,” the man’s low voice spoke.
“Why are you here?” Anne asked.
“Why, Miss Sharpe, I’ve come to pay my respects.”
“There is nothing respectful about your visit here. We both know that.”
The man shifted. She could imagine the amused look that crossed his face, even if she didn’t look
at him.
“Miss Sharpe—”
“Mrs. Sharpe.”
A cough.
“Very well, Mrs. Sharpe, my name is Brock Keller. Your husband and I—”
“I know who you are,” Anne said, “and I know why you’re here. You’re here to have one last
laugh before they lower my husband into the ground.”
She faced the black-haired man in the blue suit and locked him full in her stare. “You have no
right to be here.”
Keller appeared surprised. The surprise was feigned, Anne knew. No matter what he pretended or
said to the contrary, Keller knew the hardship he had inflicted.
“You did your best to destroy everything my husband worked for,” Anne said to him.
“No, Mrs. Sharpe, you have it wrong,” Keller said.
“He was my husband,” she said. “You think I don’t know what went on his life? You think I don’t
know about the things you’ve done? You’re a liar, Keller.”
Keller looked around, becoming nervous. People were staring. Tabby Reinhart, still standing near,
took another step back.
“Get out of here,” Anne said to Keller. “You are not welcome here. Get out.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he asked.
“Get out!” Her hand twisted into a fist. She swung and struck him right in the face.
Keller’s head jerked back. His face flushed crimson. He grabbed her arms and she fought him,
screaming.
“GET OUT! GET OUT!”
Arms grabbed Keller from behind and pulled him back. Tabby rushed between them, pleading
quietly with Anne. Anne shoved her away. More people pulled Anne back, but she shouted and fought
against them.

Keller yanked his arms free of those around him and strode for the door. At the door, he took a
look back, his jaw clenched. His eyes burned with anger.
“Dear, please,” the older woman urged Anne. “It’s all right. He’s gone.”
Anne turned her eyes toward the door where Keller stood a moment before, saw the truth of the
old woman’s words, and forced her mouth shut. She pushed her shaking hands down to her sides.
“Will you be all right?” another voice asked her from out of eyesight. She didn’t know who had
spoken and didn’t care. She took a deep breath. With this group of people around her, she felt like she
was suffocating.
“Please,” she said through her teeth. “I just need to be alone.”
The group hesitated. After a moment, someone stepped away. The rest soon followed, leaving
Anne again to stand in front of her husband’s coffin, tears on her face, emotion pouring from her fractured
life.
The people standing behind her still wore those masks of concern, she imagined. She couldn’t turn
to face them. Not now, in her moment of weakness. They didn’t deserve to witness this, her fragility.
Besides, they wouldn’t understand.
It wasn’t sadness that possessed her and hardened her face against the tears that fell. It was hatred.

Leaving the Dreamvale would mean Brigitte would gradually forget growing up on the rocky
shores of the mystical islands. She stood in her favorite place high above the dreamclan village
watching the ocean dance with the cliffs. It would be her last chance to behold the glory of
sunset before boarding the galleon bobbing in the cove below.
Evenings were always a masterpiece of color, the best time to behold the splendor of nature’s
art. Clouds of rainbow prisms had the look of creatures billowing in the sky. But in the distance,
a wall of storm opened like the jaws of a predator, drifting ever closer to the peaceful, green
island.
“Brigitte.” A male voice echoed through her contemplation. She felt a pang of disappointment.
Leaving would mean the beginning of a journey she had feared all her life. With one last
lingering view of the panorama, she held her breath, reached out her arms and leapt from the
cliff. As a mass of dancing particles, she bounced down the ragged rocks toward the village,
one with the wind. Taking her time would be rude, so she kept moving until she filled the inside
of her room.
Her brother Lukias was a dreamseer, finely tuned to the invisible. As usual, his hair was a shock
of chaos that pointed in every direction. The amber of his eyes sparkled with gold flecks as he
stood over her body with arms crossed. He looked right at her dream form. “The council has
called us,” he said with a hint of impatience.
Brigitte sank back into her body and opened her eyes.
“I warned you not to dreamwalk too much.” He turned his back as she reached for her travel
clothes. “You could separate from your body and forget how to return. Especially here in the
Dreamvale.”
“It hardly matters anymore.” She watched the sun’s rays shoot dusty light through holes in the
walls. She thought about the pattern it made every day at this time, the royal symbol of Atlantis.
“In Atlantis we will be bound to our bodies.”
Lukias reached out a caring hand and patted her shoulder. “There will be ways to dreamwalk in
the realms of matter. It will just be more… challenging.”
She smirked, knowing he always loved a challenge. He could always find humor even in the
grimmest of circumstances. They exchanged a few moments of unfolding memories until, with
the final boot in place, she stamped her feet and started for the door. “You coming?”

Together they walked to the center of the village where the council was gathered in a semi-
circle facing a woman. She wore the leather of seafarers, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed

hat. With one hip thrust to the side, her demeanor was unruffled with a twist of amusement.
Their father Denikon raised his booming voice for all to hear. “Captain Ofira Pazit of the
Dreamship Vex Voyager, I give you my daughter Brigitte, emissary to Atlantis. She is the first
true Moirae born into our dreamclan for seven generations.”
The captain wrinkled her chin. “Impressive. Embodied Watchers are rare, even among
dreamclans.” Her chameleon eyes shifted in the fading light. “If you are ready, I think it wise that
we set sail before that shadow storm arrives, don’t you?” Her eyes slid toward the horizon. “This
storm has struck more than one dreamclan. All of them were to send emissaries for the renewal
of the Telluric Treaty. None of them have been heard from.” She turned back to the council. “Are
you certain you want to risk staying? It would be a tight fit, but we can evacuate the rest of you.”
Brigitte glanced at the grim face of her tutor Indrius. The mysterious Atlantean woman had
always been a curiosity to the clan. Though she had spent many years among them, she was
never one of them. She was riddled with tragedy from a past she never spoke of, a past born in
Atlantis.
Denikon answered, “Those who remain have chosen to face the shadows.” His voice was
steadfast though regret lingered in his eyes. He exchanged a nod with Indrius. “I am sending
Lukias, my son and heir, to accompany his sister. If we fall, he will be the future of our clan. But
trust me, we will not go down without a fight.”
The council had argued for many moon cycles, trying to decide the fate of their people. It was
important for Brigitte to escape. Her path was evident. The first ships had already departed,
taking women and children to places of refuge. The rest stayed, devising a strategy. Though
they were hopeful, they worked with the solemnity of people who faced their demise.
She squinted at Lukias as he and Indrius said their goodbyes. Theirs was always a close
relationship. But everyone liked Lukias. Her time spent with Indrius was always strained at best.
She offered him a gift. The sun flashed off a crystal dangling from a silver chain. Brigitte could
feel the telluric consciousness radiating from the multi-faceted quartz. It pulsed with a longing
that made her fidget.
After a whispered message to Lukias, the white-haired woman turned to look at Brigitte. Her
green eyes were gray with emotion. She brushed Brigitte’s cheek with her fingertips. “You know
your task,” she began. “Remember your Watcher powers. It has become exceedingly difficult to
travel between realms on this planet. I fear this shadow storm will make it even more difficult.

Atlantis is suffering from a disease. It will try and take you, too. Do not be attached to your
human wishes and emotions. For humans, attachment can turn to weakness and suffering. This
only serves to feed the shadows. Your path will not be easy.”
“I will do what it takes to find a cause and a cure for Atlantis. I will be mindful of your warnings.”
“Therein lies the trick. As you descend deeper into the Meridian Realm, you will forget my
warnings. Take steps to hold them in your heart.” She lingered in Brigitte’s eyes for a few
awkward moments. “I have prepared you as best I could, my child. I regret how I’ve treated
you.” She faced Brigitte and held her shoulders. “Know that I loved you like my own daughter.
My treatment toward you was an attempt to prepare you for the task you face. Atlantis will not
be kind to you.”
“I understand, Indrius. You had no choice.” Brigitte wanted to cry. But her tears had long since
dried up.

Once again, I was sitting in a waiting area.
This time, I was outside Aunt Halle’s room. We weren’t allowed inside with her yet.
I watched Caine sort out all the paperwork. He filled out various forms and gave all his contact
details.
I was too numb to think, and we hadn’t actually spoken yet. Not hello, or anything. He’d just
jumped into action and sorted things out.
There was one thing that I’d heard though. He said he was with Halle when she collapsed. It
was he who’d called the ambulance.
He was there when it all happened. And I wasn’t.
I was in town at the spa thinking of how bad my life was when the woman who’d sacrificed so
much for me fought for her life.
I couldn’t believe it. I was so numb I couldn’t think straight, and this all felt like I was watching
what was happening play out like it wasn’t happening to me but someone else.
Caine finished talking to Dr. Fernandes and looked at me.
I gazed at him, and like always got that stunned moment where I got sucked into his looks and
had to remind myself that the guy couldn’t stand me.
When we saw each other last, he was eighteen and I was fourteen. He’d looked like the regular
high school jock who was popular and played football and had the prettiest girls on his arm.
Much as I couldn’t stand him back then and knew the feeling was mutual, I was annoyed at
myself for finding him attractive.
That annoyance very much filled me now because Caine Donoghue had traded in his boyishly
handsome looks for the powerfully-built Navy man who stood before me. He’d cut his long, dark
locks and sported a sharp faux hawk that accentuated the angles and planes of his chiseled
face and his high, exotic cheekbones.
I couldn’t have been more annoyed at myself for even thinking about him, and at a time like this.
He walked up to me with a tentative expression on his handsome face. His bright green eyes
sparkled with a hint of something too, and he attempted a smile.
“Can I get you a coffee or something?”
The last time he got me an or something, there was a frog in the cup. I’d gone to the mall and
saw him there with his friends. I thought he was being nice when he brought me a tall Starbucks
cup. It shook as I took it, and when I took off the lid, a disgusting frog jumped out. Actually, I
think it could have been a toad.
“No, thank you.”
He sat next to me, and I looked at him out the corners of my eyes, then fully. I needed to say
thanks. It didn’t matter what happened between us as kids. I needed to tell him how grateful I
was. Especially since he didn’t have to be here. “Thank you, for doing this for her. I wouldn’t
know what I’d do if you hadn’t offered to help.”
A slow, easy smile crept across his sensual lips. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll pay you back.” Of course, I would. That was a lot of money to give, and it was a lot of money
to part with.
The smile widened on his face. “No, you won’t.”
“Yes, of course I will. I have every intention of doing so.”
He chuckled. “I don’t mean I think you won’t pay it. I mean I won’t accept any repayment.”
I gazed at him long and hard. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking so much from you.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but this isn’t about you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Wow, that was an endearment I never thought I’d hear from him. Not when I was
being called Big Bertha when I’d gained a bit of weight in my early teens, Metal Mouth when I
had to wear retainers for a few years, Dotto- dot when I had so many zits on my forehead it did
look like a game of
connect the dots, and then there was The Ugly Duckling. That one had hurt me the most. I
wasn’t ugly, not by a long shot, but he’d taken to calling me that after Mom cut my hair way too
short after a relaxer went wrong. My hair had looked like duck feathers. It took forever to grow
back.
“It’s a lot of money, and they only gave us the minimum, could be more.”
“Can’t put a price on life, and you can’t put a value on a woman like Halle.
She’s priceless. She was like a mother and father to me, so I’ll provide whatever she needs.

And you won’t pay me back, Anya.”
My name sounded foreign on his lips, probably because he’d rarely ever called me by it.
“Thank you. I thank you for her.” I looked over to the window, at Aunt Halle on the hospital bed.
She still looked so frail and weak. I hated seeing her that way.
“So… long time. Fifteen years,” Caine spoke.
“Very long time,” I answered, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my gaze trained on Halle.
“You were still in training bras.”
I frowned and turned to face him. “And you were a big-headed jock.”
“I thought you’d write me.”
Now I squinted at him and wrinkled my nose. “What?”
“When I went to join the Navy, I thought you’d write.”
“Why in the world would you think that?” No way was he being serious.
He smirked at my reaction.
“Oh, we were such good friends, I just thought you’d keep in touch. You know, seeing as how I
went to Afghanistan and Iraq. It was dangerous. A letter here and there, or even a Post-it note
just to say hey would have been nice.” He nodded.
I blinked several times. “Caine Donoghue, I’m pretty certain your host of admiring fans would
have written to you.”
“Not you though.”
“I’m not the letter-writing type. It wouldn’t have worked.” Better to say that.
“So, how come you went to see her? You were at the motel?”
“I visit her every time I’m home. Sometimes I stay over and help out if things need doing. I got
back Monday, and I was visiting today when it happened.”
I was surprised to hear that he went to visit her, but admittedly in awe to hear it. Halle hadn’t
worked for the Donoghue’s in nearly the same time that I hadn’t seen Caine. When he left, she
continued to work for them for an additional five years, then left to start her business.
She’d worked her fingers to the bone for twenty years and saved up, so she could start her own
business. The motel she called The Hideaway Motel. Located on the coast of Wrightsville
Beach, the place was perfect and attracted quite a lot of tourists. Aunt Halle took great pride of
the place. She was even more proud because she was one of the first African Americans to set
up a motel in that area.
It was her accomplishment, and I was proud of her.
“What happened? I didn’t even know she had a heart condition.”
“She didn’t tell you?” He lowered his brows.
“You knew?”
He nodded. “For a while now. I was the one who encouraged her to get treatment, and that was
years ago.”
I winced. “Why wouldn’t she tell me that? Something so important.”
He sighed. “Well, she was always very protective of you. Maybe it was that.
She just didn’t want you to know because she knew how worried you’d be.”
“I would have moved back here sooner.” That was for sure. I would have come back and taken
care of her. It wouldn’t have gotten to this stage where she was in hospital with talk of surgery.
“That’s probably why you didn’t know.”
“How did it happen? What happened today?”
“When I got to the motel, there were some shady-looking guys talking to her in reception. She
looked terrified. I got rid of them, but I think they’ll be back. Looked like they were loan sharks,
and not the understanding type either. We went to the back office to talk, and she grabbed her
chest and collapsed.”
I released a strained breath. This was getting from bad to worse. “Loan sharks?”
“Yes. I would say so. Anya, I think things may be a lot worse than Halle led anyone to believe.
She looked sick, and the motel doesn’t look like it used to, plus she seems to be working
overtime and doing the job of four or five people. The usual crew were there, but she has less
staff than last year.”
God, what did it mean? Clearly, she was struggling financially. I couldn’t believe it was that bad.
Loan sharks. Halle hated loans of any kind. She never even allowed me to get a student loan.
After Mom died, she paid for everything for me. She’d paid for everything well before, right from
when Dad walked out. But when I had no one left in the world, she made it so I could still have

all that I ever needed and wanted.
Caine was right. Halle was mother and father to him. She was that for me too.
“I didn’t know things were so bad. I feel just awful,” I said breathlessly.
“I feel bad too. She didn’t tell me anything either. I had to guess she was sick.”
“At least you can help her now.” I couldn’t.
“Anya, I would have preferred to stop things from getting this bad. Dr. Fernandes said she used
to be on the full insurance and switched things over to the lower package after the price
increased. A simple thing like that, and it could have meant she didn’t get the proper treatment.”
“She looks so frail.”
“She’s strong. A fighter. She has to make it.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“We just sit here and wait.”
“We?” Was he going to stay with me?
“We.”
As I pressed back into the chair, my shoulders tensed. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but
the warmth of his large hands over mine soothed me. I had to look down at where his hand
rested on top of mine on the crisscross pattern of the metal bench.
He was the last person I thought would be here to offer me comfort right now.A lump formed in
my throat, and my chest tightened. I had the feeling that bad luck of mine was about to really
show its true colors.
What I’d experienced before was nothing.

Five women. Five sublime authors of crime fiction. One stunning book.

Excerpt From Over the Edge
A Jocelyn Rush Story
Lisa Regan

Molly
Five Years Ago
My feet pound along the packed-earth Wissahickon Creek trail. Sweat drips from the
nape of my neck, down the length of my spine, and into the back of my shorts. It beads on my
nose, falling as I run, and turns my hair, pulled tightly into a ponytail, slick and heavy on the
back of my neck.
I’ve been running along this path four times a week for six months, and once every few
times out, I manage to overtake him on the trail. I tried not to notice him, but all that lean muscle
called out to me. I knew he saw me too. Then one day, as I ran past him, I turned and met his
eyes. Blue fire. He smiled. I smiled back. I ran ahead. He followed.
From then on, it’s been a game we play.
This section of the creek trail is called Forbidden Drive. The irony isn’t lost on me the
day something finally happens. The morning is fresh and dewy, sunlight slipping through the
canopy of trees overhead, dappling everything around me. I see his back. Today he is shirtless,
and every muscle in his back and shoulders ripple, glistening with sweat. I run up beside him,
closer this time. When I turn to catch his eye, there is something there that wasn’t before. An
acknowledgment. I see you, those fiery blue eyes seem to say. I know what you want. I run
ahead.
Far ahead but not so far that he loses sight of me. I veer off the trail at a break in the trees, my
feet crushing the brush beneath them. I hear a snapping twig behind me, and I know he’s there.
I stop when I reach a kind of clearing. It’s big enough, private enough. I put my hands
against a tree trunk, leaning over, my breath coming fast and hard from the slightly uphill run
through uneven terrain. He doesn’t talk. Hands grip my hips, digging into the flesh. Hot breath
slides down the nape of my neck. It doesn’t take long. We’re not wearing much to begin with,
and our bodies are already shiny and wet with sweat. Once we’ve both shuddered with
satisfaction, we part ways, wordless.
It happens a few more times after that. No words. No names. Then the winter sets in, and
I turn to the treadmill for my daily jog. Sometimes at night, lying in bed, I close my eyes and
remember how he felt, the way his blue eyes caught me in their snare. I remember the way my
body reacted to the things he did. The risks I took.
I’m glad it’s over. It was only a dream. A kinky fantasy. Fleeting. Gone forever.
I think I won’t ever see him again.

Q&A with Amy Vansant

What is something unique/quirky about you?
I’m incapable of writing anything without adding humor. I’ll come up with the most thrilling, scary story
in my head and by the time I’m done writing it, it’s full of jokes.

Tell us something really interesting that’s happened to you!
I was a freelance writer in high school and college and sent an article to Surfer Magazine about
colleges near waves and they bought it. A week later their East Coast Editor quit and I think I
was the only east coast writer they knew. Next thing I knew, I was East Coast Editor of Surfer
Magazine for five years. Just goes to show you to keep trying — you never know what will fall in
your lap!

Where were you born/grew up at?
Sea Isle City, NJ – a beach town south of Atlantic City and north of Cape May.

What kind of world ruler would you be?
Oh, probably a terrible one. I’m not much of a disciplinarian.

What are you passionate about these days?
My writing. (was that too predictable an answer?)

What do you do to unwind and relax?
Vodka/soda, whiskey/water, wine. 

When did you first consider yourself a writer?
When I was very little I wrote Winnie-the-Pooh complete with original drawings. I didn’t know much
about copyright infringement then. But it shows I’ve been writing since I could.

Do you have a favorite movie?
The Philadelphia Story with Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart. The dialog is amazing.

Which of your novels can you imagine made into a movie?
All of them… I write like a movie. But hey, I’ll accept a Netflix series. I really want to turn my Pineapple
Port mysteries into a series and have Kathy Bates play Darla. That series has a ton of great roles for older
actresses. (No offense Kathy, but you’re not a Spring chicken anymore! ).
As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
Oscar Wilde.

What inspired you to write this book?
Getting to be a part of this amazing collection of ladies.

Who wouldn’t want to be in a collection with
these authors?
What can we expect from you in the future?
I finish about five books a year. Right now, I’m alternating between my Pineapple Port Mysteries and the
Kilty Series featured in this collection.

How did you come up with the concept and characters for the book?
My husband and I do a lot of puns and wordplay and somehow, we started talking about Highlanders. (I
think my mother’s obsession with Outlander.) At some point he said “Kilty as Charged” and I thought,
“that would make a good book title.” Next thing you know, I’ve started a whole new series about a
Highlander who’s been whisked to the present and the Hollywood “fixer” he meets and falls in love with
while they solve crimes and fix problems for the studio.
I wanted to do it the reverse of the classic “woman goes back in time and meets sexy Highlander” because

watching Outlander, I couldn’t stand how no one was taking showers. I couldn’t help but think in real life
she’d die of a urinary tract infection in about a week. All that lust and they all had to stink to high heaven.
So I had my lead guy, Brochan, not only come to the future, but almost immediately become obsessed
with showering and shower products, which still cracks me up.

What did you enjoy most about writing this book?
I love how my characters tell me what’s happening. I just write it down.

Who designed your book covers?
Novak Illustration. Steven is an awesome person and talented designer.
Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.
With every book I try to have equal parts humor, thrills and mystery. The comedic thriller is a special
breed of book I don’t think gets enough attention, even though they have a large audience. I’m not talking
parody, I mean thrilling stories that have humor. Janet Evanovich, The Thin Man, Ocean’s Eleven, Baby
Driver, Pulp Fiction, Die Hard — Even Deadpool — these are all thrilling movies that can be serious
(even deadly serious) but also have a good amount of humor. If you like stories like that, you should like
my books.

If your book had a candle, what scent would it be?
What the… ? Maybe like Rum and Coke… something sweet and fun but with a bite.

Do the characters all come to you at the same time or do some of them come to you as you write?
I don’t plan ahead much at all. It all comes as I go. I’ve been told I’m a “pantser” as opposed to a
“planner.”

Do you see writing as a career?
Yes. Though I’m not sure my bank account does quite yet. I also started AuthorsXP.com, a site for
authors to try and help others market. There are a lot of predators out there trying to take our money and I
wanted to have a safe spot we could all work together to grow.

If you could have been the author of any book ever written, which book would you choose?
Either the Picture of Dorian Gray or The Great Gatsby.

Pen or type writer or computer?
What’s a pen?

What is your writing Kryptonite?
My husband. We work at home together and he’s always up to something he wants me to join in with…
which is adorable but makes it REALLY hard to get anything done. Picture a six-foot-two eight year
old…