Congratuations to Susan Clayton-Goldner!

Please help us congratulate our Susan Clayton-Goldner. Her book, TORMENTED, has just won Best Thriller of 2019 in the InD'Tale RONE Awards!

To celebrate the win, we've discounted Tormented to 99c/p through 20 October. If you haven't read Tormented yet, or aren't familiar with Susan's body of work, this is a great opportunity to dive in.

Fr. Anthony's devotion to God begins to unravel the moment Rita Wittier steps inside his church and struggles to control his feelings. After 60 Minutes’ special on the Shepherd Academy, a school for disadvantaged children, Anthony becomes a national hero. But he can’t get Rita out of his mind. Just hours after telling her how he feels, she’s found dead in her car. Is it suicide, or is it murder?

For more info and to download your copy:

http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan/tormented.htm

* Listen to the author read the first chapter of her book on her page too!

If you have read Tormented, please be sure to share your feelings of the story via your review where you bought the book, share the link with your friends and family who you think would enjoy the book, share your comments on your socials. Your comments help authors know how they're doing with you, the reader, and learn where they may need improvement. And they aid in their ability to market their books more effectively. If you have reviewed already, thank you!

Some reviewer comments:

"Boy was I totally blindsided! First of all this was nothing of what I expected..." ~M. Rondeau

"You will not see the end coming." ~ Simatsu

"...truly a story of mental and emotional torment." ~ S. Lynn

  

Available Now: Bloody Creek Murder by Susan Clayton-Goldner

BLOODY CREEK MURDER
A Winston Radhauser Mystery, #6
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$4.99

BUY HERE

99c/p through Sunday 4 August

Five days after a tragic fall kills her 10-year-old son, Blair Bradshaw, an actress with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, is found dead. Her husband, Franklin Bradshaw, an esteemed criminal defense attorney, discovers her body. It is carefully displayed under her son's tree house, among the flowers and other memorabilia left at the site of his death.

Franklin insists her death is a suicide brought on by the loss of their son. But Detective Radhauser finds evidence at the scene—bloody shoe prints on one of the rocks in the nearby creek, the careful way the body is arranged, and the fact that no weapon is found near her body—leads him to believe otherwise.

Was it grief that killed her? Or was it murder?

• • •

Friday, May 4, 2001

Detective Winston Radhauser lunged the roan stallion in the round pen on their ranch in Ashland, Oregon—a thirty-two-acre paradise they’d named Graceland. Ashland was a Renaissance village set in the foothills of the Siskiyou mountains. It was most renowned for its diversity and its world-class Shakespeare Festival. The picturesque university town had surroundings so beautiful, visitors often called it God’s Country. After nearly a decade, Radhauser and his family called it home.

The bay stallion, Ameer, the Arabic name for prince, was a lean, spirited Arabian about fifteen hands high with four white feet and a blaze. Radhauser wanted to prove he’d learned a few things about horse training. He planned to saddle break the horse for Gracie. Ever since the cancer, diagnosed during her pregnancy with Jonathan, he was a bit over-protective of his wife and couldn’t imagine his world without Gracie and the kids. She’d come through chemo and radiation like the trooper she was. All signs pointed to a complete recovery. Still, he knew how fast his world could change, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down again.

At first, Ameer had reared and kicked until he worked up a sweat. But over the last few weeks, the stallion became accustomed to the halter and bridle and had even allowed the saddle blanket to stay on his back for an extended period of time.

Radhauser stopped lunging and draped the blanket over the subdued horse, added the saddle, then carefully tightened the cinch. The air around them was tinged with the smell of alfalfa from the dozens of bales he’d stored in the alcove behind the arena.

With the coat of molasses he’d put on the bit, the horse took it without a fight. He led Ameer over to the fence surrounding the pen, then climbed up the rails until he was higher than the saddle.

“Are you gonna ride him now, Daddy?” His six-year-old daughter, Lizzie, sat on the fence beside her mother. Just like Gracie, she wore a pair of denim jeans, red cowgirl boots, and a short-sleeved, red T-shirt with the Arabian Horse Association logo, a black sculptured horse head, on the front.

Outside the round pen, seventeen-month-old Jonathan sat playing with bristle blocks in a playpen set up under the shade of a big leaf maple tree.

“I suggest you lunge him with the saddle on for another ten minutes or so.” Gracie smiled and gave him one of her looks that said, Listen up. I know more about this than you.

Radhauser ignored her advice and slowly lowered himself into the saddle until his full weight was resting on it. But before he was firmly seated or could grab the saddle horn, Ameer reared and bucked. With his ears pinned back, he snorted and jerked his head, his black mane flying. His front legs lashed out, and his dark eyes were wide open like he’d been spooked.

The detective was tossed backward off the smooth leather saddle and landed with a thud on the sandy floor.

Gracie laughed.

Radhauser let out a sigh, stood and brushed off the seat of his jeans while Ameer bolted in circles around the fence line of the pen. His pride hurt more than his body.

“Better stick to what you know,” Gracie said. “You’re not exactly Bill Shoemaker.”

Shoemaker was one hell of a rider—an old-time jockey who held the world record of most professional wins for twenty-nine years. “I’m a foot and a half taller than he was and about a hundred pounds heavier. It puts me at a slight disadvantage.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Believing yourself invincible can be a handicap.”

“Daddy fell off the horse.” Lizzie covered her mouth and giggled. It came out in little bubbles, like water starting to boil.

Gracie slipped from the fence and walked slowly toward Ameer. “It’s okay, boy. You’re okay now.”

At the sound of her voice, the horse’s ears shot forward and he whinnied a greeting. Gracie Radhauser, the horse whisperer, took a carrot out of her back pocket.

Ameer moved closer to her. While he nibbled, she removed the bit and bridle, replaced it with a halter and led him around the pen.

When she passed Lizzie, still sitting on the fence, she squeezed the little girl’s leg. “Maybe Daddy needs a little more training.”

Lizzie giggled again—a sound Radhauser loved more than any other.

Even Jonathan got in on the fun. He scrambled to his feet, stood in his playpen, and clapped his hands. “Daddy go boom.”

As if on cue, Radhauser’s cell phone rang. He answered, relieved to discover it was his new partner, Maxine McBride.

“I know you’re on vacation. But any possibility you can help me out? Officer Corbin just called. He’s at a house over on Sand Creek Road. The husband suspects his wife committed suicide because of the recent death of their ten-year-old son, Tommy. But Corbin isn’t so sure and wants us to check things out. He thinks we may have a murder case. And from what I understand, it isn’t pretty. The victim is Blair Bradshaw. Apparently, she’s an actress with the Shakespeare Festival.”

“Nothing I’d rather do.” Radhauser wrote down the address and gate code. “Meet you there in ten minutes. And call Heron. You know how he likes to investigate the scene himself.”

Gracie continued to work Ameer, but glanced up at Radhauser and smiled. “Looks like you’ve been saved by the bell.”

He lifted his hands, palm side up. “What can I say? Murder calls. So, I’m off to do something I’m actually good at. But you be careful. That’s a stubborn one.”

She gave him a gratuitous smile. “Don’t worry. Ameer has met his match in me.”

And Radhauser knew she was right. Gracie was a far more skilled horse trainer than he’d ever be.

His daughter, always the diplomat, grinned. “You’re good at being my daddy.”

He ruffled her dark hair, releasing the smell of apple shampoo and sunshine. “Thanks, Lizzie girl. That makes me feel a lot better.”

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online:

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan

Available Now: Rich and Gone by WF Ranew

RICH AND GONE
Red Farlow Mysteries, #1
WF Ranew

$4.99

Free on Kindle Unlimited

PI Red Farlow is on the hunt to find $300 million a Florida insurance executive has bilked out of family and friends.

Woody Cunningham stashed the money in safe havens around the world before disappearing. Has he been done in by one of his enemies? Or did he skip town with his girlfriend to live off the ill-gotten wealth? If that’s the case, where is he?

Farlow must quickly learn how and why people hide their money in offshore accounts if he's to find out what happened to Cunningham.

When a tough guy from Farlow's past resurfaces, wanting to settle an old score, Farlow discovers he also has links to the missing man. Clues lead him across Georgia and Florida, and Europe, to find the answers.

Is Woody Cunningham dead, or just rich and gone?

• • •

We stopped and got out of our cars. Water oak leaves scattered over the ground. A gentle breeze rustled the fennel, sending its pungent odor into the air. I remembered yanking up the fennel weed from days spent on my uncle’s farm. If the cows ate it, which they rarely did, their milk would taste sour. This day, sunny and mild with fall in the air, made me imagine stomping around the fields with a shotgun.
"We received a missing person’s report on two people who were headed up here last Friday night," Tom said as we huddled near the gate. “No one has seen them since. We also got a disturbance call in the vicinity of where they visited in town.”

Tom kicked some rocks. “One caller mentioned Cunningham and a lady traveling with him. She’s Wanda Ramirez. Then we heard from his company. He didn’t show up at his office on Monday, Tuesday, or today. He missed a big meeting with shareholders yesterday morning.”

“Anything on the disturbance?” I asked.

“We sent someone over there to check into it. They found nothing out of the ordinary. We confirmed it was at the home of Wanda’s mother, a Mrs. Gonzalez.”

Tom waved to a deputy, who ambled over. “Willis, this is Red Farlow, a private investigator. We’ve known each other for a few years.” Willis nodded and shook my hand.

“Tell us about the car,” the sheriff said.

"Hit’s a Mer-say-deez Benz.”

"Any signs of any other vehicle?”

"Nawsir. Nothing. We wus careful not to mess anything up. Just looked’s all. No sign of anybody. We did check out the car."

"ID in it?" I asked.

"Yessir. Car's registered to the Oceans South Life Assurance Company. We found an insurance card on the floorboard. Florida.” The deputy held up both documents.

"Who is he?" Tom asked.

Willis squinted as he stared at the card. "Name is Woodrow Cunningham of an Ortega Boulevard address down in Jacksonville," he said.

“Sure confirms the missing person’s name,” Tom said. He wrinkled his brow and looked at me. “Thoughts?”

"Yep. Two things. Old South, deep pockets, well-heeled,” I told them. “Ortega is a chunk of prime real estate, juts out along the St. Johns River, and upon which sits one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Duval County. No, the wealthiest."

“And the other?”

“Cunningham’s wife is my client.”

Tom nodded. “Quite a coincidence. I want to hear more about it. It appears this was the couple’s last stop. Given what we have or don’t have here, I’m calling in the state crime scene analysts. No telling what those guys can turn up.”

It's never too early to assume the worst.

“Do we know anything else about the Wanda woman yet?” I asked.

“Only that she and Cunningham stopped in Badenville to visit her mother,” Tom said. “I’ll talk with Mrs. Gonzalez when we leave here.”

We straddled barbed wire in a low-slung section of the fence and tramped toward the cabin pitched above the languid, black-water river, stained dark by tannins of vegetation. Along its banks, the sugar loaf knees of cypress trees rose up out of the water. An idyllic spot, if you loved pines, mossy oaks, solitude, and an occasional water moccasin basking on a stump. Lord, it was quiet out here. A quiet broken only by the gently moving stream, birds chirping, and fish jumping. In the distance, a mourning dove sang its song of lamentation.

The dark brown chink-log cabin looked rustic enough. Upon closer inspection, modern accouterments stood out. A roof-mounted satellite dish turned up to the southwestern sky, and a surveillance camera pointed in our direction. A deck had been added at some point and wrapped around the original structure. One section, with a hot tub, hammock, and rocking chairs, extended over the riverbank.

Cunningham owned an expensive collection of shotguns for his frequent hunting trips on the property. Had he kept them in this house? Probably not. He was an insurance executive after all.

The car grabbed my attention. A relatively new, big, executive model Mercedes-Benz S class 550. Its steel-gray exterior complemented dark-blue leather seats. There was no better ride for Cunningham than this German-made automobile, which conveyed luxury and smooth driving—the man’s castle on wheels.

I stopped short of going any closer to the structure so as not to disturb any possible evidence. There were footprints of more than one person in the sandy soil around the car and the cabin’s front porch.

At this point, calls to Tom and me indicated people close to Cunningham thought something amiss. One thing for sure, a man had disappeared, and possibly a woman, with no indication what happened to them or where their bodies might be.

I gazed over at the bank and watched the river winding downstream. Possibly a stretch, but a river search could be in order. I had to remind myself of my unofficial status. All this together posed a mystery. The kind you do not usually get in rural South Georgia.

Whatever happened to Cunningham on that fall evening differed little from the fate of a lot of people who disappear. Such events raise a lot of questions and concerns. Where did Cunningham go? How did he leave the place, assuming he arrived there as the car’s presence indicated? A planned vanishing act or murder? Did he flee the country after socking away millions of dollars in the Caymans? Or did an enemy orchestrate a plot to get him out of the way? Finally, was he alive or dead?

Soon enough, some of the answers unfolded, leaving ample room for even more speculation, and revealing more about Wanda, too.

Crime scenes take time to evaluate and analyze for evidence. As I’d done my share of waiting in my years as a law officer, there was no need for me to remain at the site. Before returning to Badenville, I spoke with Tom, and we agreed to meet at Mrs. Gonzalez’ home in an hour. He gave me her address.

It wouldn’t take long for word to get around Cunningham had disappeared. Some luck, Gloria’s call, and my good friend Tom Weltner allowed me to stumble onto this early. Of course, a missing person often hasn’t gone missing at all. His family or friends just don't know where he went. Considering it had been only five days, the sheriff and others assumed he might show up in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. He didn't.

Driving away, the cabin receded in my rearview mirror. Someone had left on the porch light.

• • •

W.F. Ranew is a former newspaper reporter, editor, and communication executive. He started his journalism career covering sports, police, and city council meetings at his hometown newspaper, The Quitman Free Press. He also worked as a reporter and editor for several regional dailies: The Augusta (Ga.) Chronicle, The Florida Times-Union, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Ranew has written two previous novels: Schoolhouse Man and Candyman’s Sorrow.

He lives with his wife in Atlanta and St. Simons Island, Ga.

Find W.F. Online:

Website - https://www.wfranew.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/wfranew
Twitter - https://twitter.com/wfranew
Blog - https://wfranew.wordpress.com
LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/in/frankranew
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Ranew_WF

Available Now: Slaughtered by KA Lugo

SLAUGHTERED
A Jack Slaughter Thriller
K.A. Lugo

$4.99

BUY HERE

99c through 16 October

The Texter

Fallen homicide detective, Jack Slaughter, closes the door on the home where his perfect family has been brutally snatched from him. Moving across the city, he works as a private investigator to fund his own investigation into what happened to his family—who killed his little girl, Zoë, and where is his wife, Leah?

Every three month for the last three years, Jack receives a simple text telling him where he can find his missing wife. There’s a body at each location, but none of them are Leah.

Jack hates missing person’s cases, but they’re his bread and butter. He only takes the case to find Carl Boyd's missing wife because the details of her disappearance closely match Leah’s. He hopes by finding Bonnie Boyd, he'll find his own wife.

The Butcher

Following the leads in the Bonnie Boyd case, Jack discovers someone has been killing women all over the city for the last three years, a fact Jack’s ex-partner and still best friend, Ray Navarro, has neglected to tell him. The city has a serial killer and officials haven’t been able to find a single lead on the person they’ve dubbed The Butcher.

Could Bonnie Boyd’s disappearance be linked to The Butcher? More important, was Leah one of The Butcher’s victims? Could he have gone so far as to murder a child? With every clue Jack weaves together, his own life unravels even more.

• • •

San Francisco, California

Wednesday

“Is it her? Is it Leah?”

Jack Slaughter’s heart hammered a hole in his chest as he watched the rail-thin form of the newly-made detective, Paul Travers, stride toward him. If he could read the man’s expression and body language, Travers seemed more amused by Jack’s presence than annoyed.

When Jack started lifting the crime scene tape to duck under it, Travers pushed him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You gotta stop turning up like this, Jackie.” Travers’ flippant voice grated on Jack, almost as much as the man’s ruddy complexion and brassy hair. His voice edged on being just a bit too high and too nasal to want to listen to for long. Jack didn’t know how his best friend and former partner, Ray Navarro, could stand it.

With a hand still on his shoulder, Travers nudged Jack back. He made a shooing motion with his other hand. “Why don’t you just go on home and let the professionals do their jobs?”

Travers’ condescending tone made Jack want to punch him in the throat.

“Where’s Ray?” He followed Travers’ gaze over the man’s shoulder and saw Ray standing over the victim’s body several yards away. It appeared to have been positioned at the foot of a tall pine at the dead-end of the road. “I want to talk to him.”

Travers caught his gaze and looked back. “Go home, Jackie. You don’t belong here.” He emphasized the word you. They both knew why Jack was no longer Ray’s partner, nor on the force.

Ignoring the little pissant, Jack shouted over the man’s shoulder. “Ray!” His friend looked up and gave a quick wave to acknowledge he’d seen Jack. He finished up with a CSI, then made his way over.

“What are you doing here, Jack?” When Ray reached up to shake hands, Jack palmed his cell phone into Ray’s.

“I told him to go home . . . partner.”

In Jack’s opinion, Travers seemed to take every opportunity to rub it in that he now occupied Jack’s former position. It didn’t escape his notice that Ray also cringed at the word partner. Jack knew his leaving the force had been a blow to his friend too.

He gazed directly into Ray’s eyes, trying to keep the anxiety he felt from his voice. “I got another one.”

“Jack—” Ray sighed, gazing down at the phone’s screen to the open text—Spreckels Lake.

Since the very first text he’d received—You’ll find your wife in the Panhandle—there had never been anything more than the next location. The texts came every three months, as if on schedule. Every one of them led Jack to a body, but none of them were Leah. If the texter was trying to drive him crazy, it was working. But he couldn’t risk that the guy was crying wolf. Even after three years, Jack still showed up . . . just in case.

Ray handed back the phone then threw his hands onto his hips. Jack could almost hear the gears working in his friend’s head as he gazed around Spreckels Lake with obvious concentration.

This was a beautiful location. Jack remembered bringing his family here, but pushed the memory from his mind. He gazed away from the water, trying to breathe. He knew the answer, but he had to ask it anyway. “Is it her?” Even he heard the waver in his voice.

“You gotta let me do my job, man. You gotta trust me. If this was Leah, you know I’d tell you.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts, Jackie,” Travers cut in, edging up closer to him as if posturing. “You’re not a cop anymore. You don’t belong here. Go home.”

Jack starred at Travers with a look he hoped said, go ahead and touch me again, pissant, I dare you. He must have got his point across because Travers hesitated before stepping away, his back noticeably erect.

“I’m sorry. Paul’s right. You don’t need to be here. It’s not her.” Ray’s voice remained calm. Jack knew the tone, as he often used it to try defusing situations with suspects and distraught families.

“You’re just a distraction, Jackie.”

“Paul!” Ray’s warning tone made Travers jump, as it did those around them.

In his heart, Jack knew when a victim’s family turned up on a crime scene, or tried insinuating themselves into an investigation, it only disrupted the process. More times than he could count, the time he’d spent dealing with the family would have been better served on the investigation.

Jack shrank away from the crime scene tape, his energy evaporating. “You’re right, Ray. I’m sorry. I just can’t risk that the one time I don’t respond to the text, it really will be Leah.”

“I know, Jack. I know.” Ray put his hand on Jack’s shoulder this time, drawing Jack’s attention. “But this isn’t her. Go ho—” Ray stopped short, both knowing Jack hadn’t been home since that night three years ago. “Go back to your place. I’ll stop by after my shift. We’ll talk then, okay?”

Jack looked past Ray’s shoulder to the lifeless body. He watched as technicians carefully placed a protective tarp over the victim, telling him the CSIs had retrieved all the scene evidence they needed and now waited for the coroner’s removal.

Dumping the body at the lake had been a bold move. Even at this dead-end in the road, Golden Gate Park attracted a huge number of people, homeless and visitors alike. Someone had to have seen something.

“Can you use an extra hand?”

“Sorry, Jack. You know I can’t. I gotta get back. I’ll see you later, at your place.”

“Don’t bother.” Jack didn’t have to look back to know Ray watched to make sure he was leaving.

From behind him, he heard Travers ask, “What’s with that guy?”

“Lay off, Paul,” Ray said. “You’d react the same way if your daughter had been murdered and your wife was still missing.”

• • •

K.A Lugo is a native of Northern California who grew up on the Central Coast, with San Francisco just a stone's throw away. Llike most writers, Kem has been writing from a young age, sampling many genres before falling into thrillers, mystery, and suspense.

Kem. loves hearing from readers and promises to reply to each message. Please visit Kem's socials to stay up-to-date on this exciting new series.

Find K.A. Online

Website - http://www.jackslaughterthrillers.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/KALugoAuthor
Twitter - https://twitter.com/ka_lugo
Blog - http://jackslaughter.blogspot.com
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/KALugo

Available Now: Scathed by Sue Coletta

On a picturesque fall morning in Grafton County, New Hampshire, a brutal murder rocks the small town of Alexandria. In the backyard of a weekend getaway cabin, a dead woman is posed in red-satin, with two full-bloomed roses in place of eyes.

In her hand, a mysterious envelope addressed to Sheriff Niko Quintano. Inside, Paradox vows to kill again if his riddle isn’t solved within 24 hours.

With so little time and not enough manpower, Niko asks his wife for help. But Crime Writer Sage Quintano is dealing with her own private nightmare. Not only did she find massive amounts of blood on the mountain where she and her family reside, but a phone call from the past threatens her future—the creepy mechanical voice of John Doe, the serial killer who murdered her twin sister.

Together, can Niko and Sage solve the riddle in time to save the next victim? Or will the killer win this deadly game of survival?

• • •

October 16, 2008
6:00 a.m.

The unknown shattered my reality. Before entering hospital room 339, I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe. A gentle tap, tap, tap so I wouldn’t startle my husband. “Pup, it’s me.” Deep inhale, and I pushed open the door, with Noah straddled on my hip.

My heart collided with my ribcage.

Niko lay in the hospital bed, the sheet coin-tight across his chest. Clear tubing ran to intravenous medication, hanging by a metal pole, to clear bags secured to the bed frame, below the thin mattress. Five or six tubes in total. His pallid color worsened when he reached for me, his strong fingers grasping air, urging us closer. The fingers that soothed my pain with one touch, the hand I held as we recited our wedding vows—twice. Those very fingers weaved with mine for the last two decades, through agony, through despair, through sorrow, through excitement, through endless days and passion-filled nights. The man in that bed possessed the ability to wash away my darkest fears. Yet, in that moment, the hand that reached for me didn’t look like Niko’s. Its skin was mottled, gray, ill.

Frozen in place, I gaped at his suffering.

“This is not your fault,” he claimed. “Please don’t blame yourself, babe.” Balls of white cornered his dry, colorless lips. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Tears flooded my eyes, my vision clouding more and more with each soul-crushing second that crawled by. “What’re you saying? I don’t understand.”

“Don’t let our son forget me. Promise me.”

“Don’t talk like that.” I rushed to his side, pressed my lips to his forehead, sheathed in sweat. “You’re gonna be fine, pup. You’re the strongest man I know.”

“I love you, Sage Quintano. From the first day you strutted into the Hilltop Steakhouse, wavy hair cascading down your back, to this moment right here, right now, I’ve been helplessly, desperately, in love with you. Always remember that, remember me.”

“Pup, I don’t understand.” I cried harder, my chest heaving so heavily, I struggled for each and every breath. Noah wailed, too. At twenty months old, he was too young to grasp the severity of Niko’s words, but he sure sensed something wasn’t right. “Talk to me. Please,” I begged. “Tell me how and why you’re here. Who did this to you?”

“You’ll find love again, as much as it pains me to say. Consider this my blessing to move forward. I can’t bear to think of you, Noah, and the kids living alone in that big house.”

“Stop talking like that. I don’t want another love. I want you, pup.”

A slight grin arched beneath his straggly goatee, glints of silver more prominent in his dark hair than ever before. “I know you do, babe.”

When he forced the second grin, albeit weaker, the charade didn’t fool me. My husband feared the worst. What happened in the hours after he dropped me off? If Paradox were responsible for Niko’s grave condition, maybe there was a riddle that pointed to a clue to reverse the effect.

“This can’t be the end; it just can’t be. I’ll never make it without you. Hang on. Please, pup.”

“That might be out of my control,” he countered. “Remember how deeply I love you guys. You’re my whole world, my everything. Thank you for so many blissful years together, years I didn’t always deserve. I haven’t always been the best husband, especially when it came to recognizing your fears. Why didn’t I listen?” His warm, caramel-colored eyes rolled closed. From under his thick lashes, tears trickled down to the pillow. “I’m … so … tired.”

“Pup?” I shook him by the shoulder. “Pup?” My gaze shot to Noah, still bundled in my arms, and I fell to my knees, hands held in prayer around our son. “Dear God, no. You can’t take my husband. Not now. We’ve just begun this beautiful new chapter. It can’t end yet. Please, I’ll do anything.” Noah bawled with me as I rose. I pressed an open hand to my husband’s chest. “Fight harder. Don’t you dare give up. Fight for us.” Sweeping my hair around one ear, I lowered my cheek to his heart.

Thump … thump … thump.

Dr. Rollinsford strode up behind me and rested a supportive hand on my back. “Mrs. Quintano, may we talk?”

Without turning around, I said, “Only if you’ll give us hope. Otherwise, save your bullshit condolences for someone else. We don’t need ‘em.” I whirled around. “How did he wind up here? He was fine earlier. Maybe a little rundown, but nothing to indicate his life was in danger. Was he poisoned? Shot? Stabbed? I can’t tell what’s wrong with all these tubes.”

“Let’s go back to my office so Sheriff Quintano can rest.”

“No, dammit.” I stomped my foot. “I’m not leaving him. Whatever you need to tell me, you can say right here.”

With the saddest eyes I’ve ever had the misfortune of witnessing, he started slow. “Your husband ran into trouble earlier today when …” His words trailed off, his voice muffled by my devastation. The doctor’s lips moved, but I was trapped inside my own head, silently pleading with God, begging for mercy. If my husband died, I’d never recover. Not ever.

• • •

Sue Coletta is a member of Mystery Writers Of America and Sisters In Crime. She lives in northern New Hampshire with her husband and four-legged baby. If you catch her strolling on the beach or roaming the rural backroads don't be surprised if she stops to chat with you about her books or her two beautiful granddaughters. Just don't ever call her Grandma.

Find Sue Online:

Website - http://www.suecoletta.com
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Available now: The Black Hand by Jonathan Dunne

THE BLACK HAND
Jonathan Dunne

$5.99

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(99c through 13 May)

In the aftermath of Ireland’s most deadly gang war, Dublin’s ruling family has scattered to the wind.

Into the void steps a criminal genius known only as The Black Hand. His organisation’s powerful grip is ruthless, bloody and barbaric.

With Europe’s biggest crime in play, The Devil needs a distraction. And The Black Hand needs Jacob Boylan to return to Irish shores. He will stop at nothing to provoke Dublin’s most lethal criminal out of hiding.

But has the wily genius misstepped? As all eyes are on Jacob, the Dublin exile carefully plans a gangland wipeout, for he is nobody’s pawn.

• • •

The Hit

The Glaswegian sat sipping his coffee as the St Patrick’s Day parade rolled on by. It always amazed him that the Irish celebrated a man who unleashed Catholicism and all its ills on Ireland. They should be burning the effigies instead of celebrating them. He let the thought linger for a few seconds, then cleared his mind of all distractions. He had a job to do.

It was just after midday and he wouldn’t move until the band marched down O’Connell Street. The Glaswegian needed the noise to disguise the carnage he was about to let loose. Half of his contract had been paid. The other half would be transferred upon completion of the assignment. Fifteen more minutes passed as he calmly ran his thumb over the edge of his cup. The coffee was good; not great, just good.

The band began their journey into the heart of Dublin as the Glaswegian ran a crisp white cloth over every surface he touched. Nothing was left to chance. He slipped off the main street and carefully shielded his appearance from every form of surveillance. His black beard, dark eyes, and protruding teeth were all false. The chances of being identified were negligible, but he was meticulous in that respect.

The old structure rested halfway down a urine-soaked back street. It had a fire escape leading to several windows. He knew the window, the layout, and the schematics of this building intimately. Quietly and deliberately, he made his way into the building and followed the carefully constructed holes that led to the basement. When he reached it, he found an old lift shaft with a long ladder leading down into the vault. From this point onwards, he listened intently as the drumming of the bands outside got louder and louder. Perfect, he thought, as he began his downward climb. The insulation confused him until he realised it was sound-proof—an extra precaution to further disguise the noise of the ongoing construction.

The Glaswegian allowed himself a rare smile. This was a team he admired. They were, like him, professional in their approach to criminality. Slowly, he unsheathed a blade and cut a section of the insulation, large enough to crawl through. As he crept into the vault, he noticed the team of four men working in perfect harmony. One was bagging the goods, another was manning the scanners, and two were emptying the strong-room. The timer was running down, and they were set to leave in exactly five minutes.

Once more he shook his head in admiration. This was like running a blade across the canvass of a masterpiece. He was momentarily saddened as he pulled the pin of the grenade and threw it into the vault. He stood left of the wide hole that had been drilled in the wall. There were slight muffles as the crack of the grenade silenced the team. He threw one more in, just to be sure.

He caught his breath, steadying his pulse before crawling into the vault. This was messy. Nevertheless, he had his instructions. He checked the vitals of each of his victims and the first three were dead. He was happy. Jimmy Boylan, whom he knew well, had a pulse, of sorts. He pulled out a snub-nose gun and pressed it against Jimmy’s temple. Judging by his injuries, Jimmy had borne the brunt of the explosions.

The Glaswegian rarely saw that type of loyalty amongst criminals. It unsettled him. Jimmy was a bloody rag. The odds were stacked against him living the next ten minutes, let alone the next three days when the bank would reopen. He placed the gun back in his holster.

The executioner stepped away from Jimmy before taking two black duffel bags. It was all he could manage, and he wasn’t about to jeopardise his assignment by being greedy. His contract stipulated two bags. He would deliver two bags.

He looked back at Jimmy once more, wondering if he should put a bullet in the man’s head. No, he thought, he’s finished.

Today was a day of rarities for The Glaswegian. He stood in front of the vault entrance with the bags resting across his wide shoulders.

‘You’re dying because of a woman, Jimmy. I owe you that much. Now, let go.’

The Glaswegian doubted the other man heard one word.

Jimmy had heard every word.

• • •

Jonathan Dunne is a native of Dublin’s north inner city. This is his second novel in the crime genre. He is also an avid sports journalist who has penned articles for some of Ireland’s biggest publications. He holds a Degree from the Dublin Institute of Technology and is a strong advocate of lifelong learning and education. Jonathan also holds a 1st Degree Black Belt in Tae Kwondo and is currently a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu student. He lives in Dublin with his wife and two children.

Find Jonathan online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/dublinauthor
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/JKDunne
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Dunne_Jonathan

Available now: Tormented by Susan Clayton-Goldner

TORMENTED
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$5.99

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(99c through Sunday, 6 May)

Father's Anthony's devotion to God and His Church begins to unravel the moment Rita Wittier steps inside St. Catherine’s Cathedral in San Francisco. He struggles to control his feelings, but two years later, he is a man obsessed.

In an attempt to rediscover the priest he intended to become, Anthony flies back to Delaware to visit Father Timothy. If redemption can be found anywhere, surely it can be found in the church of his childhood and in the soothing Irish brogue of his former mentor.

The months pass, 60 Minutes does a special on Father Anthony and the Shepherd Academy—a school he started for disadvantaged children. He’s become a national hero— nicknamed the Good Shepherd. But he can’t get Rita out of his mind. He wants her more than anything—even God—and can no longer deny it. Six hours after he tell her how he feels, Rita is found dead in her car from an apparent suicide. Or is it murder?

• • •

San Francisco – April 1971

Tormented by thoughts no priest should ever have, Father Anthony rose from his nightly Bible reading and fastened the buttons on his cassock. Behind the dark and rain-streaked window of his ten-by-ten bedroom at the rectory, night closed in on him. He was lonelier than he’d ever been. Anthony prided himself on being a man of principles. But nothing in his world felt principled anymore. It was as if he, the one who knew from boyhood visions he was destined to be a priest, had switched lives with an ordinary man or, worse yet, a lovesick teenager.

It was 8:30 p.m. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to meet her so late. Or, God help him, maybe he did know. There was still time to cancel. He could tell her to come during the day on Wednesday after the regular confessional hours. He hurried down the hallway to his office.

When he flipped on the overhead light, he found her sitting in front of his desk, her head resting in her hands. Dozens of frantic moths flapped their wings inside his chest. He took a step back. He always left the rectory door unlocked when he expected a parishioner to visit. But how long had she been here, and why hadn’t he sensed her presence?

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, and bluer than any eyes he’d ever seen. “I know I’m early, but it’s urgent. I can’t go another night without…”

He looked away. Seeing her sitting in his office was terrifying and marvelous at the same time. He glanced back again. Her bottom lip was full; the top one thinner, but shaped like a perfect Cupid’s bow. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss her. She wore black slacks and a blue silk blouse that gave her eyes a deep sapphire color like Crater Lake in the sunlight. He wanted to dive into them and never resurface.

“Mrs. Wittier,” he said, unable to form any other words. Even as a boy, he’d been afraid of loving a woman, afraid of the wildness it might release in him.

“Please, call me Rita.” She stared straight at him and her eyes caught a spark of light from the ceiling lamp. “I have to confess tonight, before something awful happens to my daughter.”

The fear in her voice unsettled him. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “But we hold confessions on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. The sacraments are scheduled by the parish.” He was tempted to add, not by the whims of parishioners, but couldn’t make himself say those harsh words to Rita. She’d attended Mass at St. Catherine’s for nearly two years, but this was the first time she had asked for confession. How could he deny her so sincere a request?

Her face darkened. “This can’t wait, Father. God is going to punish me by hurting my daughter. Connie is only a little girl. What I did wasn’t her fault.”

He pulled a chair in front her and sat, their knees nearly touching. “God doesn’t punish children for their parents’ shortcomings.”

“Losing Connie would be my punishment, not my daughter’s,” she said. “Please, you have to help me. God is already tormenting me with nightmares.”

“Have you considered talking with a psychiatrist?” He knew psychiatrists could be helpful. His social worker took him to see one as a teenager when his divine visions first called him to the priesthood.

She shook her head. “This is between me and God.”

What was he thinking? Rita was his parishioner. She was suffering and needed her priest. But he had to obey the tenth commandment that he not covet his neighbor’s wife. He had to keep his vow to the church and to God. He would do what Hebrews 12:1 directed. He heard Father Timothy O’Brien’s voice, the voice of his childhood priest—the one voice he trusted above all others: “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus.”

He was a priest. The race marked out for him was clearly defined. And he must finish it. “Follow me,” he said. “I’m going to make an exception.”

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online:

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan

Available now: A River of Silence by Susan Clayton-Goldner

A RIVER OF SILENCE
A Winston Radhauser Mystery, #3
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$5.99

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(99c through28 January)

The past always finds us.

When Detective Winston Radhauser is awakened by a call from dispatch at 12:45a.m., it can mean only one thing—something terrible awaits him. He races to the Pine Street. In the kitchen, Caleb Bryce, nearly deaf from a childhood accident, is frantically giving CPR to 19-month-old Skyler Sterling. Less than an hour later, Skyler is dead.

The ME calls it a murder and the entire town of Ashland, Oregon is outraged. Someone must be held accountable. The police captain is under a lot of pressure and anxious to make an arrest. Despite Radhauser’s doubts about Bryce’s guilt, he is arrested and charged with first degree murder. Neither Radhauser nor Bryce’s young public defender believe he is guilty. Winston Radhauser will fight for justice, even if it means losing his job.

• • •

In only eleven minutes, Detective Winston Radhauser’s world would flip on its axis and a permanent line would be drawn—forever dividing his life into before and after. He drove toward the Pima County Sheriff’s office in Catalina, a small town in the Sonoran Desert just twelve miles north of Tucson. Through the speakers, Alabama sang You’ve Got the Touch. He hummed along.

He was working a domestic violence case with Officer Alison Finney, his partner for nearly seven years. They’d made the arrest—their collar was sleeping off a binge in the back of the squad car. It was just after 10 p.m. As always, Finney wore spider earrings—tonight’s selection was a pair of black widows he hadn’t seen before.

“You know, Finn, you’d have better luck with men if you wore sunflowers in your earlobes.”

She laughed. “Any guy intimated by a couple of 14-carat web spinners isn’t man enough for me.”

He never missed an opportunity to tease her. “Good thing you like being single.”

The radio released some static.

Radhauser turned off the CD.

Dispatch announced an automobile accident on Interstate 10 near the Orange Grove Road exit. Radhauser and Finney were too far east to respond.

Her car phone rang. She answered, listened for a few seconds. “Copy that. I’ll get him there.” Finney hung up, then placed the phone back into the charger mounted beneath the dashboard.

“Copy what?” he said. “Get who where?”

She eyed him. “Pull over. I need to drive now.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “What the hell for?”

Finney turned on the flashing lights. “Trust me and do what I ask.”

The unusual snap in her voice raised a bubble of anxiety in his chest. He pulled over and parked the patrol car on the shoulder of Sunrise Road.

She slipped out of the passenger seat and stood by the door waiting for him.

He jogged around the back of the cruiser.

Finney pushed him into the passenger seat. As if he was a child, she ordered him to fasten his seatbelt, then closed the car door and headed around the vehicle to get behind the wheel.

“Are you planning to tell me what’s going on?” he asked once she’d settled into the driver’s seat.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her unblinking eyes never wavered from his. “Your wife and son have been taken by ambulance to Tucson Medical Center.”

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online:

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan

Available Now: The Crucifixion by Daithi Kavanagh

THE CRUCIFIXION
The Tadhg Sullivan Series, #3
Daithi Kavanagh

$4.99

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(99c through 12 November)

Detective Tadhg Sullivan’s break away from serious crime comes to an abrupt end when he is pushed into investigating the murder of a retired Christian Brother. A newly elected left wing government fear that the media will hold them personally responsible for what is believed to be a hate crime against the Catholic Church.

Ella Kavanagh, the new Minister for Justice, hopes that placing Sullivan in charge of the investigation will help to distance the government from any mud-slinging by the media. However, no one is prepared for the litany of abuse and corruption stretching back decades, which is about explode in all of their faces.

Can Sullivan save this fledgling government, or will the sins of the past remain buried, and so doing destroy the future of everyone concerned?

• • •

It was a beautiful late spring morning. The sun was starting to burn through the haze. He could hear birds chirping, high up in the trees. They were welcoming the summer, which would turn the leaves green to camouflage their nests. He loved the early morning; it blew away the cobwebs and made him feel fresh and clean. At night, his past would engulf him, filling him with fear and guilt. He hated the dark and always slept with the light on.

He took his early morning stroll down to the old barn-style church. The tiny church was only a stone’s throw from the main Parochial House. His leather shoes crunched the gravel path, just as they had done for twenty years, since his retirement. At the time, no one would have imagined him still there. It’s hard to kill a bad thing.

He was just about to enter the church, when he heard a movement behind him. He hadn’t time to turn and see what it was, because suddenly a hand had clasped him around the mouth. It pulled him backwards; a stinging pain in the side of his neck and then everything went black.

When he came around, it felt as if his body were being torn apart. Taking his head away from his chest he could see that his hands had been nailed to the church door. Unable to scream, due to being gagged, his head dropped back onto his chest and his hands and arms felt like they were on fire. The searing pain pushed him back into unconsciousness as he was grabbed by the hair and his head slammed against the church door. His gag was pulled off and a face from the past appeared before him.

“Remember me, sir?” was all that came out of the grinning demonic mouth as his tormenter began to speak.

“What do you want?” the old man answered back, but they were the last words he spoke before he felt a piercing pain in his side and the smiling face welcomed him to hell.

• • •

Daithi Kavanagh lives in Trinity, County Wexford with his wife and two teenage children.

He has worked for several years as a musician.

In the last couple of years, after taking up adult education, he began writing.

Find Daithi Online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/caroline.kavanagh.543
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/DAITHIKAVANAGHWRITER
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Daithik3
Blog - http://www.daithikavanagh.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Kavanagh_Daithi

Available Now: When Time Is A River by Susan Clayton-Goldner

WHEN TIME IS A RIVER
A Winston Radhauser Mystery, #2
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$5.99

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($2.99 through 11 September)

On a bench at the edge of the Lithia Park playground, someone is stalking two-year-old Emily Michaelson as she plays with her eighteen-year old half sister, Brandy. The child’s laughter curves through the sunlight, as if on wings. The stalker is more enamored than ever, but aware of Brandy’s vigilance with Emily, knows a kidnapping won’t be easy. Planning to gain Emily’s trust, the stalker gives her a necklace—little girls love pretty things. A few days later, Brandy and Emily arrive at the park for the Children's Health Fair. When the stalker sees them enter the public restroom, the opportunity is seized.

Not long after Emily's disappearance, Detective Radhauser finds her rainbow-colored sneakers in Ashland Creek, their laces tied together in double knots. Brandy’s father and stepmother blame her for Emily’s disappearance. Radhauser feels sorry for Brandy, but insists she stay out of the investigation. Brandy can’t do that. She is obsessed with finding out who took her little sister, and why. Will Emily be found in time?

• • •

In the Ashland Outpatient Surgery Center, eighteen-year-old Brandy Michaelson picked at the taped gauze on her cheek. She fidgeted on the edge of the exam table, awaiting the results of her latest surgery. Her palms were sweaty. A successful surgery meant everything to Brandy. No matter how many career opportunities life brought to her, being an actress would always rise to the top. She glanced around the room. Its walls had been recently painted. Yellow. The color of hope.

Sighing, she watched her dad, a professor of English Literature at Southern Oregon University, read a student essay. She’d been disappointed so many times before. But this time would be different. “I had a dream last night,” she said. “And my face was perfect.”

He readjusted the crease on his trousers, that neatness he wore like a uniform. “Don’t get your hopes up too high, honey. Life seldom succumbs to our timetable. This type of surgery can take years.” He returned his attention to the same page of the essay he’d been staring at for fifteen minutes. How did he do it—year after year, the same freshman essays on Faulkner’s symbolism in Light In August?

She studied her dad’s jaw, chiseled with such precise angles that it must have obeyed some law of geometry. A jaw that was as stoic and rigid as his personality. If only her mother were still alive. She wouldn’t have her nose stuck in a frickin’ essay. She’d know how fast Brandy’s heart thumped—how excited and frightened she felt at the same time. Her mother would stand beside Brandy and hold her hand.

Careful to hide it from her dad, she slipped a small, silver-framed photo from the pocket of her carpenter pants and held it in her palm. In the photograph, a tall slender woman stood forever frozen at the edge of the Pacific, waves cresting behind her back. She wore a sleeveless, yellow sundress and her hair hung to her shoulders in dark, spiral curls. Brandy wondered if as she grew older she’d look more like her mother. Wondered if she should have her hair permed into corkscrew curls.

In the photo, her mother’s head was flung back and her whole body seemed to be laughing. It wasn’t the kind of smile someone pasted on for a photograph. It was something deeper—something as pure as joy.

She’d died from ovarian cancer when Brandy was almost four—far too young for memories. At least that’s what her dad claimed. But she often remembered small things. Romping in a backyard garden. Lilac soap. And bath oil that smelled like cinnamon and eucalyptus. The songs her mother tossed into the morning air like ribbons. Yet, despite Brandy’s frequent efforts to see her again, the fuzzy videotape of movement, scents, and sounds never added up to a whole woman. She needed to know more. Especially now that she’d gotten the role of a mother in the senior class play.

When Doctor Sorenson—a tall, square-jawed man in his early forties—entered the examining room, Brandy tucked the photo back into her pocket. Sorenson wore a bright blue lab coat and his matching blue eyes had mastered the sincere look—like every other plastic surgeon who’d ever examined her face.

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan

Available Now: Redemption Lake by Susan Clayton-Goldner

REDEMPTION LAKE
Winston Radhauser Series, #1
Susan Clayton-Goldner

$5.99

BUY HERE
(99c/99p through21 May)

Tucson, Arizona – Eighteen-year-old Matt Garrison is harboring two terrible secrets: his involvement in the drowning death of his 12-year-old cousin, and a night of drunken sex with his best friend’s mother, Crystal, whom he finds dead in a bathtub of blood. Guilt forces Matt to act on impulse and hide his involvement with Crystal.

Detective Winston Radhauser knows Matt is hiding something. But as the investigation progresses, Radhauser’s attention is focused on Matt’s father. Matt’s world closes in when his father is arrested for Crystal’s murder, and Travis breaks off their friendship.

Despite his father’s guilty plea, Matt knows his dad is innocent and only trying to protect his son. Devastated and bent on self-destruction, Matt heads for the lake where his cousin died—the only place he believes can truly free him. Are some secrets better left buried?

• • •

For the next hour and a half, he drifted in and out of sleep. Cradled by the night sounds of the desert outside the open window, each time a memory emerged, his thoughts thickened and folded back into sleep. At one point, he heard water running for a bath. A little later, he heard a car outside. Oh God, please don’t let it be Travis. He stumbled to the window and opened the curtains. In the street, two long rectangular taillights moved away, turning south onto Oracle Road.

Matt leaned against the wall, staring at the sunflower sheets on Crystal’s bed. The same bed he and Travis had jumped up and down on when they were eight. The digital clock read 10:38pm. His head throbbed. He needed to close his eyes. Crystal would wake him in time to leave before Travis got home. He fell back onto the bed.

When he woke up again, the room was very dark. He wore only his boxers and a white T-shirt his mother had insisted upon—claiming his usual dark one would show through his tuxedo shirt. As if the color of his T-shirt could ruin her perfect wedding. But he’d been ingenious and found another way to ruin things for his mother. He turned toward the empty space beside him. It took a few moments for him to realize where he was. He closed his eyes, shook his aching head to clear it. Crystal was his best friend’s mother. What the hell was he doing in her bed?

He thought he heard the sound of the front door open, then close again. Oh God, please don’t let it be Travis. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. One event at a time, he remembered everything.

Fully awake now, he shot from the bed, rocking for a few seconds before he achieved balance, then hurried to the window. The moon hung over the mountaintop, its light silver and unforgiving. Crystal’s driveway was empty. Whoever he’d heard, it wasn’t Travis. On the other side of the street, an engine started. This time the taillights were round. Definitely not Crystal’s Escort. The car turned north on Oracle Road.

Matt let out the breath he’d been holding and glanced at the digital clock—its red letters told him it was 11:20pm. He needed to get dressed and leave. The dance ended in forty minutes and Travis would head home. He grabbed his tuxedo pants and shirt from the chair. His hands shook so hard he could barely work the fly and the button on his trousers. He slipped into his shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed. As if he had the flu, his head throbbed and his stomach felt queasy.

He rushed down the hallway toward the bathroom. And when he did, he saw the puddle of blood on the floor beside the bathtub.

He hurried across the room, jerked open the pale green shower curtain.

Crystal lay naked in a bathtub filled with blood-colored water. Her hair, her beautiful blonde curls, had been chopped off, shorter in some places than others, as if a small child had done it. Some of the curls were floating on top of the water.

For a strange moment, everything remained calm and slow.

Her head was propped against one of those blow-up pillows attached to the back of the tub with suction cups. The tint of her skin was pale and slightly blue. Crystal’s eyes were open and staring straight ahead—looking at something he couldn’t see. Blood splattered the white tiles that surrounded the tub. It dripped down them like wet paint. One of her hands flopped over the side of the tub. A single thick drop fell from her index finger into the crimson pond congealing on the linoleum floor. It covered her neck and shoulders. Tiny bubbles of frothy blood still oozed from the gash in her neck.

An empty Smirnoff bottle sat in a puddle of blood on the tub’s rim, beside a straight-edged razor blade.

The bathroom was so quiet. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing. He clenched and unclenched his hands. His body grew numb. “Oh no. Oh God, no,” he said, the words thickening in the air in front of him. His head filled with strange sounds—the drone of insects humming, violinists tuning their strings. “What have I done?”

• • •

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

Find Susan Online

Website - http://susanclaytongoldner.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/susan.claytongoldner
Twitter - https://twitter.com/SusanCGoldner
Blog - http://susanclaytongoldner.com/my-blog---writing-the-life.html
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/ClaytonGoldner_Susan