Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for DEPTHS OF DECEIT (A Jamie Rush Mystery Book #2) by Laura Oles on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy!
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Book Description
One deadly secret.
No time to lose.
PI Jamie Rush has her hands full with small-time skip-tracing and surveillance jobs in Port Alene, Texas. The work is steady, though she still struggles to make ends meet. But when her partner, Cookie, brings in a low-paying and potentially time-consuming case, Jamie takes it on out of loyalty.
Cookie’s childhood friend, Renata, needs to find her younger sister, Leah. As Jamie digs into Leah’s past, it becomes clear that the missing woman’s life was shrouded in secrets, the kind that could jeopardize those involved in the case.
To complicate matters, PI Alastair Finn has returned, and he’s willing to reclaim his town by any means necessary. Jamie has never been one to retreat, and Alastair enjoys a good fight. Sparks will fly.
A missing woman. Felonies. Finn’s return. Every twist reminds Jamie that she’s still an outsider in this town. Jamie must prove herself all over again, and the stakes have never been higher.
Genre: Mystery, Female PI Published by: Red Adept Publishing Publication Date: May 31, 2022 Number of Pages: 292 Series: A Jamie Rush Mystery, #2
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My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
DEPTHS OF DECEIT (A Jamie Rush Mystery Book #2) by Laura Oles is a character focused and driven mystery in this series featuring P.I. Jamie Rush and her sidekick Cookie Hinojosa set in the coastal town of Port Alene, Texas. While this mystery can be read as a standalone, I feel it would be more enjoyable if “Daughters of Bad Men” were read first due to evolving character arcs.
P.I. Jamie Rush agrees to take on a case for Cookie even though there is no guarantee of payment for time involved. Cookie’s childhood friend, Renata needs to find her younger sister, Leah but as they begin to investigate, they discover more secrets than they anticipated.
To complicate Jamie’s life even more, P.I. Alastair Finn has returned to Port Alene.
I enjoy this type of P.I. mystery which is character forward and not step-by-step procedural investigation if done right, and this one is. The plot is a steady pace throughout except for the faster paced climax. The dialogue and banter between the characters is entertaining and believable. The coastal town of Port Alene, Texas comes to life in this story and adds to the immersive feeling while reading the story.
This is an entertaining cast of characters that I am looking forward to following in the future.
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Excerpt
Depths of Deceit
A Jamie Rush Mystery #2
By Laura Oles
The mermaid in the truck bed was what caught Jamie Rush’s attention. The cast-iron figure peeked over the hatch, her carved, flowing hair and demure smile in view. This was supposed to be a standard identify-and-repo job. Jamie was certain she hadn’t seen a mermaid on the itemized paperwork. Brody Rutger, in addition to hiding from creditors, had added theft of a local celebrity to his resume.
The day had started strong, with a lead on Rutger and an opportunity to catch him between fishing charters, using a boat he’d quit paying on months before. Suddenly, Marian the Mermaid was caught up in the mix.
And something was going on with the weather.
The month of November normally brought a steady stream of long-term vacationers from the north—affectionally called Winter Texans—who fled harsh winters for the promise of more tepid temperatures. Those who’d already set up residence in Port Alene were likely to be disappointed. Port A, usually quite predictable in her warmth, had suddenly changed her mind. That day, she was trading humidity for frigid air, and the wind, once laced with a warm, salty breeze, was offering only a cold shoulder. The palm trees lining Island Main bristled from side to side, and the town seemed to have turned inward in response. The icy wind whistled in the gap of her Tahoe’s window.
Jamie shuddered at the weather’s frigid downturn, while her partner, Cookie Hinojosa, all but cursed Mother Nature. He believed anything under seventy degrees was downright blasphemous. Jamie tilted her head toward the gray sky and welcomed the sting of air on her cheeks, her head briefly popping out the driver’s-side window. Cookie glanced over and shook his head. “
You’re very grumpy this morning,” Jamie said. She gave him a once-over, taking note of the large Dallas Cowboys logo on his chest, the silver star claiming almost all the space between his shoulders. “I see you found your favorite winter hoodie. Probably more fun to wear when they’re winning.”
Cookie turned to her and scowled. “Et tu, Brute? You’re going to dump on our favorite team? Really?”
Jamie reached over and gave her partner’s meaty shoulder a squeeze. “They need to earn our love by playing better. And we’ve been damned patient.” She rubbed her hand up and down his sleeve, noting the fabric felt cold. “You should probably break down and buy a proper winter jacket.”
“This is South Texas. Only snowbirds wear ‘proper’ winter jackets.”
Cookie dismissed the idea of wearing anything that added additional bulk to his substantial frame. “My Hawaiian shirts are sad from neglect.”
She had to agree. A long-sleeved Hawaiian shirt would look ridiculous on anyone. She rubbed her hands together and hoped the cold snap would soon dissipate, returning the balmy temperatures Port Alene normally delivered.
“I’m going to pull back a bit,” Jamie said.
Their skip of the day, Brody Rutger, owed their client, AAA Repo Services, $15,027. Brody had ducked all attempts at collection, so Jamie and Cookie had been hired to locate him and return the boat. Jamie and Cookie specialized in skip tracing, which essentially meant finding people who didn’t want to be found. They worked skips but also some surveillance—which paid well but was boring beyond belief—and some divorce cases, which also paid well but renewed Jamie’s resolve to never get married. In Jamie’s experience, if a person disappeared, the reasons involved money, private information, or violence. And secrets—always a secret.
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Author Bio
Laura Oles is the Agatha-nominated and award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series, along with short stories and nonfiction. With two decades of experience in the digital photography industry, Laura’s work has appeared in trade and consumer magazines, crime-fiction anthologies, and she served as a business columnist. Laura loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running. She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family.
Today I am excited to be sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for BECOMING FAMILY (Dogwood County Book #3) by Elysia Whisler on this HTP Books August 2022 Romance Blog Tour. I have anxiously been waiting for this next book in this series.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
Contemporary romance for fans of Jill Shalvis and Lori Foster, returning to the characters of the Dogwood County series, Book 3 follows Tabitha Steele as she plans to have her best year ever.
On her thirtieth birthday, Tabitha realizes she hasn’t much to show for her life since she left military service. Tabitha makes a hasty vow that she will make this the best year of her life, which is a tall order considering her mish-mash of unfulfilling jobs, her stagnant social life, and the crippling PTSD she has to overcome on a near-daily basis. But she thinks she can do it with the help of her beloved service dog, Trinity.
Chris Hobbs, the playful and wild-hearted bad boy of the Semper Fit gym, is Tabitha’s complete opposite. Which is why, despite his habit of dating any woman who bats an eye at him, he’s always steered clear of Tabitha, even though they’ve formed a tight friendship. Especially because of that.
BECOMING FAMILY (Dogwood County Book #3) by Elysia Whisler is another wonderful addition to this contemporary romance series featuring a community of veterans from all branches of service, their families, friends, and service animals. These books can be read as standalone romances, but the entire community of characters and their relationships continue to evolve in each consecutive story, so I feel they are best read in order.
Tabitha Steele has decided on her thirtieth birthday to take charge of her life and do what she really wants instead of just getting by. She feels she is better at handling her PTSD with her service dog, Trinity and now it is time to accomplish some goals to move her career and personal life forward.
Chris Hobbs is the flirty and playful coach at Semper Fit. He always keeps things light and his relationships short, but something about the timid Tabitha pulls at him and he wants to help her discover her strengths. With the sudden death of his abusive father, Chris must face his own past and decide if he is willing to allow Tabitha to see the vulnerable person behind the mask.
I love this series so much. I have been waiting for Chris to meet his match and I just knew there was more than met the eye with this hero. Tabitha at first seemed too timid to take on Chris, but Ms. Whisler expertly turned the tables with Tabitha being stronger than she believed and Chris covering up more than his “good ole boy” persona let on. I also enjoy how all the characters from previous stories, and I am sure more stories to come are a family by choice and play helpful roles in the current featured couple’s journey to their HEA. I love all the pets and service animals intertwine throughout these stories and especially the pitties, my favorite dogs. This book has everything I love about a great contemporary romance and that it is a series is like having a cherry on the top.
I highly recommend this romance, this series, and this author!
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Excerpt
ONE
Tabitha’s radar was lit before the woman even entered the store. The way she whipped into the parking space, killed the engine at a crooked angle and jangled the bell over the shop door like it was being throttled. Tabitha had just taken a bite of the Really Big Cookie—a birthday indulgence bought at the community college cafeteria—when the woman marched right up to the front counter and, without so much as hello, slapped down some pictures. “My father’s old Harley has been sitting in the barn for decades,” she declared, out of breath. “And I’m determined to get it going.”
Tabitha closed up her Journal of Invincibility—I am not afraid; I was born to do this. ~Joan of Arc—and tucked it behind the counter, like a mother protecting her young. The woman went on for a bit, while Tabitha tried to chew and swallow her treat. When she was done ranting, she stood there in silence. Eventually, she shook her head. “Don’t you know anything about motorcycles?” Big-breasted, big-hipped, big personality, big, brassy red hair, the customer rested her elbow on the counter and leaned against it, settling in.
“Not much, no.” A hunk of cookie fell from Tabitha’s lips and landed on the front of her Triple M Classics employee T-shirt. She hastily brushed it away and gestured to the shelves that lined the rear of the shop. “I just ring up the merchandise. Keep tabs on the floor when the mechanics are in the back.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, but that just prompted images from school this morning, which she didn’t want in her head. Still, with her eyes closed, Tabitha sensed that this wasn’t really about the motorcycle. The woman was upset, possibly grieving. The motorcycle meant something to her and she wanted quick answers because she was searching for a way to ease her pain. Tabitha opened her eyes again, looked past the woman and settled her gaze on Trinity, the little black rescue pit bull who always made her feel better.
“Then get the mechanic. Or, better yet, get the owner. Where’s Delaney Monroe?”
“She’s on an errand.” Tabitha kept her gaze on Trinity, who lay near the stairs that led to Delaney’s apartment. She was catching some zees in the dog bed intended for Delaney’s dog, Wyatt. For about the third time that day Tabitha thought, What am I doing here? I’m not cut out for this.
“Delaney Monroe is who I came to see,” the woman pressed. “I heard she’s an expert on classic bikes. If you work in a bike shop, you should know about bikes. I don’t have time for this.” She straightened up and planted her hands on her hips.
“Delaney’s out. Maybe I can help.”
Tabitha turned to the sound of Nora’s raspy voice.
“I’m Nora. One of the mechanics.” Delaney’s mom had come out of the back room, wiping grease from her fingers with a shop rag. She had a cigarette tucked behind her ear, right where her temples were starting to gray. The rest of her hair was silky black and tied back in a ponytail. Nora was a small woman with a slight build, but the way she carried herself, she might as well have been six feet tall. She wore blue jeans and the same Triple M Classics T-shirt and she locked her fearless, almond-shaped eyes into the irritated gaze of the customer. “Whatcha got?” She nodded at the photographs.
The woman pushed them across the countertop. “This has been in my father’s barn for ages. He recently passed and I’m not sure if it’s worth fixing up.”
Nora went silent while she leafed through the pictures. “An old Harley Panhead,” she murmured. “Sweet. Do you know the year? Looks like a ’49.”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
Tabitha felt a shift in the air as the woman’s demeanor changed, her anger melting away, relief softening her shoulders and her scrunched-up mouth. Crisis averted.
“The window on a Panhead is only ’48 to ’65. The emblem on the gas tank in this shot tells me it’s a ’49.” Nora tapped the top photo with her grease-stained finger.
The woman stuck out her hand, a huge grin on her face. “Nelly Washington. Nice to meet you.”
“Nora.” Nora glanced at Nelly’s hand but didn’t touch her. “My girl owns this place.”
“I’ve heard good things.”
“Damn straight you heard good things. My girl’s the best.”
Nelly gave off a deep belly laugh and used the humor as an excuse to withdraw her unrequited handshake. “Can she fix it up? Make it run?”
Like a cowgirl walking into a saloon in an old Western, Delaney pushed open the shop door at that moment. The bell jangled as she strode inside, motorcycle boots thunking over the floor, helmet in her gloved hand. Delaney was taller than her mother by several inches, had the same slender build and dark hair, but in a pixie cut. Wyatt, the wandering white pit bull with the brown eye patch, trotted in next to her, still wearing his Doggles. Delaney slipped the eye protection off her motorcycle-riding companion. Wyatt spotted Trinity on his dog bed and raced over to play. He leaned on his front paws, butt in the air, tail wagging, then jumped backward and spun. When that didn’t work, he danced all around her, flipping his head and poking his muzzle in the air. Trinity, unmoved, looked to Tabitha for instruction.
“Break, Trinity,” Tabitha said, and the dogs were soon twining necks like ponies.
Nora waved at her daughter and shrugged at Nelly. “You’ll need to bring the bike in. See what’s up. Is it dry?”
“Been in the shed. Covered up.” Nelly’s gaze went to Delaney as she neared.
“She means did you drain the carburetor and gas tank,” Delaney clarified, settling her helmet on the counter. “Before you stored it.”
“Oh.” Nelly’s face went straight. “I don’t know, actually. My father is the one who stored it. Once his arthritis got too bad for him to ride.”
“That’ll make a difference,” Delaney continued, like she’d been in on the conversation from the beginning. “That, and how straight the bike was when it was put up.” She glanced at the photos. “A ’49 Panhead. Cool. Bring it in. We’ll take a look.”
“I will definitely do that. Thank you. My father recently passed away. He used to take me on rides on that bike when I was a little girl.” Nelly’s voice grew faraway, wistful. “We’d go to the general store and he’d buy me a grape soda. I loved feeling the wind in my hair.” Nelly waved a hand. “This was before helmet laws. Anyway.” The reminiscent look in Nelly’s eyes slid away and she sniffed deeply. “Are you Delaney?”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry. I’ve never met a Panhead I can’t get going.”
Tabitha stuffed the rest of the cookie in her mouth and tried to sneak away, her lack of motorcycle knowledge no longer an issue. Her shift was over, she was exhausted and she was ready to go home.
“Get back here, Steele.” Delaney grasped the hem of Tabitha’s shirt and pulled her back gently. “You need to take down this lady’s information. The more you listen, the more you’ll learn. Pretty soon you’ll know a Harley Panhead on sight.” Delaney nodded at Tabitha. “She’s still learning.”
“She seems like a nice young lady.” Nelly was all smiles now, like their earlier interaction had never happened.
After Tabitha filled out a capture sheet with Nelly Washington’s information, and the woman had left the shop in an entirely different mood than the one she’d barged in with, Delaney turned to her and said, “What’s going on, Steele? You look ready to lie on the floor and call your dog for Smoosh Time.”
Smoosh Time was Delaney’s slang for the deep pressure therapy Trinity was trained to provide if Tabitha was having a panic attack. It was affectionate rather than sarcastic. Unused to affection, Tabitha liked it and had taken to calling the therapy Smoosh Time herself. Smoosh Time actually sounded really good about now. But Trinity was still on break, chasing Wyatt around the perimeter of the shop. “It’s been a long day.”
“Massage school getting you down?”
“Old Nelly was kinda rough on her,” Nora offered. She slipped the cigarette from behind her ear and stuck it between her lips.
“That’s why she’s learning as much as she can.” Delaney tapped the capture sheet. “That’s all you can do, Steele. I don’t expect you to become a mechanic, unless you want to, but you soak in everything you can while you’re here.” She glanced at her mother. “Don’t you dare light that in here, Nora.”
Nora pulled it from her lips and rolled her eyes. “I’m not. It’s just a prop, okay?”
“How many days has it been?” After some hemming and hawing Delaney clarified, “For real.”
“Half a day,” Nora admitted. “I’d gone two days and then I caved this morning. It’s so hard not to smoke after I eat. Maybe I need to stop eating.”
Delaney shook her head. “You gotta be tough, Nora. Like Tabitha here.”
“I’m not tough.” Tabitha had been enjoying watching the mother-daughter pair interact, despite how rough her day had been so far. They made her wonder what her relationship with her birth mother would’ve been like, if she’d known her. Tabitha’s relationship with Auntie El—the woman who’d raised her and the only mother Tabitha had ever known—was as old-fashioned as it got. Yes, ma’am, No, ma’am, please and thank you, respect your elders and all boundaries clearly drawn and rarely crossed. There was none of this role reversal or sarcastic banter. Life certainly hadn’t been easy, and Tabitha had been handed absolutely nothing. If that didn’t make her tough, nothing would. “Tough is just not my nature.”
Sensitive was Tabitha’s nature, for good or bad. The armor she lacked had never been very useful, not until she joined the navy and her main job in Afghanistan was to protect her chaplain from harm. She’d been pretty good at smelling trouble, hearing things nobody else heard, seeing things nobody else saw. Some had even jokingly called her Radar, after the character from M*A*S*H. It made her good at her job, despite the fact that she hadn’t been able to prevent the IED that had got her chaplain hurt, and despite the fact that the skill was kind of useless, and often counterintuitive, in everyday life.
“You’re tough-ish, Tabitha,” Nora agreed. “Which means you got potential. Just gotta stand up for yourself with lippy women like Nelly.”
“Spill it, Steele.” Delaney shot her mother a silencing look. “What’s going on?”
“You were right, Sarge,” Tabitha admitted. She hadn’t planned on discussing her day, but there was just something about Delaney, the woman she’d met at Camp Leatherneck years ago. The woman who’d helped her keep her head straight during that awful day when an IED had taken out her convoy. “It’s massage school.”
“What about it?”
“It’s the student exchanges.” Tabitha drew a deep breath. “We have to swap with our classmates once a week to practice the strokes we learn in class. At first, I was doing really well. Everyone loved my massages and said that I just had that magic touch. But then…well… I’m doing something wrong. I’m not…massaging right.” Tabitha bit down on her lower lip.
“How can you not massage right?” Nora spoke around the unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. “Aren’t you just squirting lotion on each other? How hard can that be?”
“No. We’re not just squirting lotion. It’s a lot more than that.” Tabitha was used to Nora’s directness at this point, and did her best to not let Delaney’s mother get under her skin. “You have to learn all the bones and muscles and physiology. Plus all the strokes. There’s a lot of science. You have to learn about how the body moves and how everything works together. And then you have to massage in such a way that you’re helping people. And right now, I’m not helping anyone.” Just like she hadn’t been able to help Nelly Washington with her Panhead. Tabitha wasn’t helping anyone, anywhere.
She was an impostor in every aspect of her own life.
Nora pulled a Zippo from her pocket and flipped it open. “How do you know?” She ran her thumb over the wheel, making a clicking sound with the lighting mechanism without actually bringing the flame to life.
“I’m…” Tabitha sighed and faced the blank expressions of the women. “I’m giving the men erections.”
A round of silence passed.
“I’ve done it three times now, to three different men. So it’s not like a one-off. I’m doing something wrong.”
“Man,” Delaney said, shaking her head. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
Wyatt gave off a loud woof and everyone burst into laughter.
“Well.” Nora stuck the cigarette behind her ear and jammed the lighter in the front pocket of her jeans. “Au contraire, but I bet those men think you’re doing something right.”
“We’re definitely not supposed to get erections,” Tabitha insisted. All three men had reacted differently. Todd—young, indifferent, thought massage therapy would be an easy career field—had pretended it didn’t happen. Frank—in his forties, quiet, deliberate—had been embarrassed and would no longer make eye contact with Tabitha in class. Corbin—a loud twentysomething who called everyone dude—had eyed his own erection with detached interest and announced, “You’re doing something wrong, dude.”
Delaney shook her head. “Men are just like that. The wind blows and their dicks get hard. I wouldn’t be so down on yourself.”
“I already struggle with the science. Like right now we’re learning all the bones, with all their divots and ridges and stuff. It’s excruciating and not coming easily to me,” Tabitha said. “And now I’m screwing up the massages. I’m starting to think I’m just not cut out for it.” Just like I’m not cut out for this bike shop, she didn’t add. She already knew Delaney had given her the job out of pity. No need to shine a spotlight.
“Sounds like the bones are coming easily to you,” Nora muttered as she collected today’s paperwork from the counter and started to file it away. “You’ll be the most requested massage girl in the county. I don’t see what the big problem is.”
Delaney stifled a laugh. “Don’t listen to her. Ask Red about it later. We have the Halloween party, remember?”
The party. Tabitha died a little inside. “Right. The party. Tonight.” But Delaney was right. Tonight she could ask Constance, “Red” for short, the famous massager of humans and dogs alike, about the erections. See what advice she had to give. She’d been the one to talk Tabitha into massage school in the first place, claiming Tabitha had a gift for connecting with people. She was connecting, all right. Just not in the way she meant to.
Delaney grinned and slapped her on the shoulder. “Go home and get some Smoosh Time with your dog, Steele. Rest up. We’ll figure out the boners later.”
Elysia Whisler is the author of RESCUE YOU and other coming titles in the Dogwood County series. She was raised in Texas, Italy, Alaska, Mississippi, Nebraska, Hawai’i and Virginia, in true military fashion. Her nomadic life made storytelling a compulsion from a young age. Her work as a massage therapist and a CrossFit trainer informs her stories. She lives in Virginia with her family, including her large brood of cat and dog rescues, who vastly outnumber the humans.
THE WAR LIBRARIAN by Addison Armstrong is an emotionally captivating dual timeline historical fiction story featuring two women finding their voices and standing up for what they believe is right against injustice and inequality no matter the personal cost. So much in this historical story mirrors the ongoing moral struggle occurring in current society.
In 1918, Emmaline Balakin works in the Dead Letter Office. An only child, timid and bookish until she discovers a letter bearing a name from her past. It is the spark she needs to break out of her shell and embark on an adventure that takes her to a frontline hospital in France as a volunteer librarian. She reunites with a man from her past, befriends black servicemen and protests banned books as she discovers she is stronger than she believed until the military steps in.
In 1976, Kathleen Carre is eager to prove herself in the first coed class at the U.S. Naval Academy, but not everyone wants women at the Academy. The harassment only makes Kathleen more determined to succeed until the death of her grandmother who raised her almost breaks her. The solitary Kathleen soon finds herself being accused of crimes that could be the end of her dreams at the Academy unless she learns to trust others and uncover a secret from her grandmother’s past.
I loved this story and the strong, independent women characters. I found the history of the voluntary librarians overseas fascinating and the ongoing discussion of banning books relevant, to my dismay, to this day. The integration of women into the service academies occurred when I had just graduated from high school, and I always found those women to be brave leaders in the fight for equality. To read and realize that some of the problems encountered by the female midshipmen still occurs today, almost 50 years later is at times disheartening and at times maddening. This story opens the readers eyes to so many societal issues that are still considered issues and have never been resolved. This is an emotional rollercoaster with great characters that I could not put down.
I highly recommend this dual timeline historical fiction!
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About the Author
I’ve wanted to be an author since I was a five-year old writing stories about talking school supplies and ants getting their revenge on exterminators. While a junior at Vanderbilt University studying elementary education, I wrote my first historical fiction novel, The Light of Luna Park, and sold it to G.P. Putnam’s Sons in January of my senior year. Now that I’ve graduated with my Bachelor’s in Elementary Education and Language & Literacy Studies, as well as a Master’s in Reading Education with an ESL endorsement, I’m teaching third grade English language learners in Nashville and continuing to write.
Boston homicide detective Jane Rizzoli and medical examiner Maura Isles are plagued by what seems like a completely senseless murder. Sofia Suarez, a widow and nurse who was universally liked by all her neighbors, lies bludgeoned to death in her own home. But anything can happen behind closed doors, and Sofia seemed to have plenty of secrets in her last days, making covert phone calls to old contacts and traceless burner phones. When Jane finally makes a connection between Sofia and the victim of a hit-and-run months earlier, the case only grows more blurry. What exactly was Sofia involved in? One thing is clear: The killer will do anything it takes to keep their secret safe.
Meanwhile, Angela Rizzoli hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in all the years since her daughter became a homicide detective. Maybe the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Nothing in her neighborhood gets by Angela – not the gossip about a runaway teenager down the block and definitely not the strange neighbors who have just moved in across the street. Angela’s sure there’s no such thing as coincidence in her sleepy suburb. If only Jane would listen; instead she writes off Angela’s concerns as the result of an overactive imagination. But Angela’s convinced there’s a real wolf in her vicinity, and her cries might now fall on deaf ears.
With so much happening on the Sofia case, Jane and Maura already struggle to see the forest for the trees, but will they lose sight of something sinister happening much closer to home?
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Elise’s Thoughts
Listen To Me by Tess Gerritsen brings back the beloved characters Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles in a new novel. A heads up for readers is that there are two storylines, both engrossing.
The plot has Rizzoli, her partner Barry Frost, and Maura investigating a series of puzzling events. The first has them wondering who killed Sofia Suarez, a nurse, brutally murdered. Then there is Amy Antrim a victim of a hit and run accident after she walked off the curb. What the investigators are wondering, is there a connection since Sophia was Amy’s nurse.
Then there is Jane’s mom Angela who is a typical caring mother. Now preoccupied because her lover, retired detective Vince Korsak, is in California caring for his sister, Angela has become the neighborhood’s busy body. But she too investigates some oddities in the neighborhood and becomes like daughter, like mother. There is a missing teenage runaway who the local police aren’t taking seriously, and a new couple that moved into the neighborhood. They are suspiciously keeping to themselves and there appears to be a lot of construction noises coming from the house. She is continually asking Jane to participate in the investigation to find out what is happening. Upset that Jane is not listening to her, Angela becomes the number one watcher of the neighborhood and starts her own investigation which leads to trouble for both her and Jane.
This story has humor, character personalities, and suspense. It is interesting how this intricate plot also details the lives of Jane, Maura, Angela, and Barry.
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Author Interview
Elise Cooper: The last Rizzoli & Isles book was I know A Secret in 2017.
Tess Gerritsen: Yes, it has been a while. I did have two books in the interim, but several years have passed. After I finished number twelve, I didn’t feel I was going to write anymore and thought the series would be over with the book, I know A Secret. I had other stories I wanted to tell.
EC: How did you get the idea for this story?
TG: Jane’s mom, Angela Rizzoli started to talk to me. I heard her say very clearly in her Boston accent “if you see something, say something.” The signs are in Boston’s Logan Airport. I thought, what is Angela seeing? It turned out this book is about the suburbs where people used to know everyone who lives in the neighborhood. Angela suddenly feels something is wrong. It was “Rear Window” but in the suburbs with Angela Rizzoli playing Jimmy Stewart’s role.
EC: These days it does not seem that there are anymore “neighborhoods?”
TG: This is true. Now a days everybody works with the houses empty during the day. When I grew up in a little suburban area of San Diego that was how it was. I had an auntie who was very snoopy, in everybody’s business. I kind of modeled Angela after her. In the past there were many more housewives and people at home. People knew their neighbors and had block parties. It is sad those days may not be true anymore.
EC: Which season did you like the best?
TG: I enjoy winter. It is my most creative time. I think winter can be a character, although not so much in this book. I like the sense of isolation. As a writer I don’t mind being shut up in my house for four months and not seeing anyone for a while. It is almost as if when everything gets less colorful, turning grey, white, and black, the colors bloom in my head. In the wintertime there is less of a distraction.
EC: Angela has had a rough go, but came out, OK?
TG: She is clever, a survivor. She has been battered in the last couple of years. Angela started in 2001 as a contented housewife, raising her children. Around book five her husband has left her for another woman. She suddenly finds herself without a career, husband, and living in the same suburban house by herself. She learns there is life beyond the first marriage. She did find love with a retired homicide detective, but now he is California caring for his sister. So, she has a little too much time on her hands.
EC: Does she feel like she has an empty nest?
TG: She does have a granddaughter, Jane’s daughter Regina whom she babysat until she attended pre-school. The one joy she has is cooking for her family. In one of the scenes, she has a big dinner, a giant Italian feast. Her life is her grandchild and cooking for people she loves.
EC: How would you describe Angela?
TG: She is a neighborhood snoop, a busybody, and will always be motherly to her children. She is kind and has a good heart. When she does get involved, it is to make sure no one gets hurt.
EC: There are two quotes about motherhood in this book. Please explain.
TG: You are referring, “No one wants to listen to their mother,” and “The burden of motherhood is that your children’s problems are your problems.” I raised two sons, and their problems are my problems. Even now if something is going wrong in their life, I try to think how I can help fix things. If I offer some advice, it does not mean they will listen. Mothers at ninety are going to worry about their seventy something children. It just never goes away.
EC: How would you describe Jane?
TG: She is courageous and competent. She is determined and thorough. Yet, Jane is having problems with her mother. She is honest, direct, impatient, sarcastic, a tomboy, and relentless.
EC: How is the relationship between Jane and her mom Angela?
TG: I think of Angela like my mom. I was at my mom’s house, going to a book signing, and wearing a St. John suit. I was then forty something years old. She looks at me and tells me, “Your skirt is too short.” I thought how children can never be perfect. This is what Jane is dealing with now. But Jane is partly at fault because she is not listening to her mother even though Angela has some very valid issues. I wanted to focus on the complications of her life, which has nothing to do with police work.
EC: How would you describe Maura?
TG: Maura and Jane are like salt and pepper. The showrunner for the TV show describes Jane and Maura as Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. She is very patient, and what drives her is her intellect. She is a pianist in a doctor’s orchestra. I just use my life as shorthand for Maura.
EC: How are you and Maura similar?
TG: I did grow up playing the piano. I also had the kind of car she drives, enjoy the kind of wine she drinks, we play the same instrument, and went to the same medical school. She is all from my life. In so many ways I identify with her. We are both self-contained. She is happy around dead people, while I am happy in my office. We are not the kind of people who feel comfortable in crowds and showing how imperfect we are.
EC: Maura has a relationship with a Priest, Daniel Brophy. Why did you do it?
TG: The Priest showed up in book number three, The Sinner. It was a book about murder in a convent. When I lived in Paris it was right around the corner from a seminary with young Priests in training. I kept thinking it is too bad for the sake of motherhood they are out of reach. I was also a big fan of the “The Thorn Birds” where Richard Chamberlain played this yummy Priest. It is about forbidden fruit. When the Priest came into the story, I thought that Maura and he would just have fond looks. But in book number four, Body Double, he was suddenly back, becoming the Priest for the Boston PD. The repeated contact between him and Maura led them to give in to a relationship. It is a constant struggle for both.
EC: Did you get any backlash?
TG: Yes. I get more notes about that relationship than anything else in the stories. They ask is he going to leave the Church and marry Maura? Will they have a happily ever after? Why is Maura so stupid to fall for a Priest, an unattainable man? We all know brilliant women who have fallen in love with the wrong man. It happens. As time has gone by, they come to an understanding that will satisfy them both.
EC: Will there be a TV show reunion based on this book?
TG: I do not think there is anything in the works for this to happen. I did have people ask to bring them back for a reunion, but it has not happened.
EC: Next book?
TG: It is not another Rizzoli and Isles book. The book is based on a little town I live in Maine. My husband and I found out that our neighborhood had these people who worked for the government but would not talk about it. They were all retired CIA. On our street we had retired CIA on one side and retired OSS on the other. It occurred that these retired spies would be a fun setting for a book with a dead body showing up in one of their driveways. It also has generational conflict since the young local police investigator does not realize who these grey-haired people are, and she completely disrespects them. The working title is Spyville, and hopefully will be out this time next year.
THANK YOU!!
***
BIO: Elise Cooper has written book reviews and interviewed best-selling authors since 2009. Her reviews have covered several different genres, including thrillers, mysteries, women’s fiction, romance and cozy mysteries. An avid reader, she engages authors to discuss their works, and to focus on the descriptions of their characters and the plot. While not writing reviews, Elise loves to watch baseball and visit the ocean in Southern California, with her dog and husband.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE LAST OF THESEVEN by Steven Hartov on the HTP Books Summer Historical Fiction Blog Tour.
Below you will find an about the book section, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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About the Book
A spellbinding novel of World War II based on the little-known history of the “X Troop” – a team of European Jews who escaped the Continent only to join the British Army and return home to exact their revenge on Hitler’s military.
A lone soldier wearing a German uniform stumbles into a British military camp in the North African desert with an incredible story to tell. He is the only survivor of an undercover operation meant to infiltrate a Nazi base, trading on the soldiers’ perfect fluency in German. For this man is not British born but instead a German Jew seeking revenge for the deaths of his family back home in Berlin.
As the Allies advance into Europe, the young lieutenant is brought to Sicily to recover, where he’s recruited by a British major to join to newly formed “X Troop,” a commando unit composed of German and Austrian Jews, training for a top-secret mission at a nearby camp in the Sicilian hills. They are all “lost boys,” driven not by patriotism but by vengeance. Drawing on meticulous research into this unique group of soldiers, The Seventh Commando is a lyrical, propulsive historical novel perfect for readers of Mark Sullivan, Robert Harris, and Alan Furst.
THE LAST OF THE SEVEN by Steven Hartov is an emotionally intense WWII historical fiction story featuring the fictional portrayal of a member of the historical “X Troop” who were a group of European Jews trained for covert operations by the British Army and sent behind enemy lines.
Lieutenant Bernard Froelich stumbles upon a British military camp wounded, dehydrated and barely alive after having escaped a Nazi camp in North Africa. He has traveled across the desert on an unbelievable journey. He is the only survivor of an undercover operation.
This is the story of Froelich’s odyssey of survival, loss, love, and vengeance as a Jew of German origin during WWII. The author paints beautiful and at times stark word pictures of every location of Froelich’s journey. I felt as though I was right along with him in every location and in every harrowing scene were he could have been killed. The author’s extensive research is evident throughout the story. I felt this story is important for readers to realize that there were Jewish commandos fighting the Nazis even as they faced antisemitism from some in the British army they served bravely.
I highly recommend this historical fiction based on an amazing troop of men during WWII.
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Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
North Africa, Spring 1943
In the Sahara, the sun could make a man bleed.
It was hard to believe at first, especially if you’d ever trekked a frigid winter landscape somewhere, boots slogging through alpine snow, limbs shivering and aching bone deep. It was a challenge to imagine it, such a murderous sun, when December memory recalled teeth chattering like a Morse code key, toes and fingers numbed and raw, eyebrows stiff with frost, till all at once that blessed star emerged from charcoal clouds to save the day.
The sun was a holy thing then. The breath of God on your frozen face.
Ah, but in the vastness of that empty desert, when spring fell prey to cruel summer, when the cloudless sky was nothing but a silver mirror, the sand an iron griddle, and there was not a tree or cave or cactus to throw a shadow’s sliver. Nowhere to run from the sun. It was then that heaven’s jewel became a hunting thing, its furnace eye unblinking, merciless, and pounding.
You could shade your skull with a cap, drape your blistered neck with burlap, but still you had to see your path as your squinting eyes filled with flies who’d found the only liquid in the land. The lancing light bounced off the dunes to slowly broil your face, lips turned plaster white and split, and the oils of your nose and cheeks fried patches there like poultry on a spit. And then, the crow’s-feet wrinkles at the corners of your bleary vision turned to brittle parchment, until at last they cracked, and the most unnatural happened…
The man across the dunes was weeping tears of brine and blood. But they were not of sorrow or self-pity, for all of his emotions had hollowed out so many weeks ago. They were simply the last vestiges of all the fluid he had left, squeezed from the ducts by that relentless sun.
He was small there in the distance, and nearly weightless now, though from the way he moved it seemed he wore a yoke of iron. He was no more than an upthrust child’s thumb against the umber sands, shimmering in the steaming light of the fata morgana, an illusion where horizon met the sky.
He wore a Bedouin burnoose, tight about his oily blond curls and rough against his bristled jaw. His German staff sergeant’s tunic was girded with white salt lines of evaporated sweat, a single bandolier of ammunition, and the lanyard of a camel skin water bladder, now shriveled like an ancient’s scrotum, nothing left. One Feldwebel rank was on his collar, his Afrika Korps palm-tree shoulder patch was bleached into a ghost, and in one pocket were two lizard tails he’d chewed from time to time, though all the meat was spent. The right waist of his tunic was punched through with a bullet hole, its fringes black with dried blood, and in the left thigh of his trousers was another one just like it, the reason for his crooked limp.
In his dangling right hand, below a ragged sleeve, he clutched a German MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol, barrel down, its leather strap dragging through the sand. His left hand held nothing, the nut-brown fingers capped with broken nails with which he’d tried and failed to dig some water from the heart of a dying oasis. His breaths rattled like an asthmatic’s, yet he came on, another half an hour, another mile.
A pair of British soldiers from Montgomery’s Eighth Army watched him. They knelt behind a berm of sandbags, Tommy helmets buckled tight, sleeves rolled up and neat, shorts revealing sun-browned thighs above knee socks and tanker’s boots. They were alone, the western guards of a garrison south of Medenine, Tunisia, and they raised their bayoneted Enfield rifles to bear down on the stranger, like twins who often read each other’s minds.
At twenty feet the German sergeant stopped, unmoving, only breathing. The Cockney Tommy on the left aimed the rifle at his chest.
“Drop the bloody Schmeisser.”
The German jolted, as if surprised to hear a voice aside from his own mutterings to himself, unsure if these two Brits were real or cruel mirage. Yet he obeyed, as after all he knew it didn’t matter. The machine pistol was choked with grit and only the first shell would have fired. He opened his fingers and let the gun slip, like the hand of a dying lover, and it fell to the sand and was still.
The Tommy on the right said, “Hände hoch.” Hands up. He was a Scot and it came out as “Handerr hook.”
The German tried, but he couldn’t raise his arms higher than his waist, and his leather palms fluttered there above the sand like a maestro urging his musicians to play the passage pianissimo. His cracked lips formed a trembling “O,” though no sound emerged, and he mouthed Water, and then again—a goldfish with its face pressed to the glass of an aquarium. The Scot, keeping his Enfield trained, pulled a tin canteen from his battle harness.
“Don’t go near him, Robbie,” warned the Tommy on the left.
The Scot pitched the water bottle, cricket-style, where it pinged against a rock before the German’s boots. But the man could hardly bend his wounded leg and leaned in half a fencer’s lunge, snatching the canteen two-handed. He unscrewed the cap and brought it, shaking, to his mouth, and raised his face to heaven as the water gushed into his swollen gullet and dribbled from his filthy beard. His body trembled, and he looked at the two men and said, in nearly perfect British English, “I am not a German.”
The Tommies glanced at one another, then back at their intruder.
“You don’t say, Klaus?” the Cockney said to him.
“Looks like a bleedin’ Jerry to me, Harry,” the Scot growled to his partner.
“He’s bleedin’ all right, mate,” said Harry sideways. “Got a couple of nicks.”
“Nicks?” Robbie snorted. “Coupla hefty caliber holes. Can hardly see `em for the flies.”
Cockney Harry craned his neck to peer beyond the German’s head.
“You all alone, mate?”
“Six others,” the German managed in a brittle whisper.
“Don’t see ’em.”
“All dead.”
“Right,” said Robbie. “And where’d ye come from then?”
The German dropped the canteen. His fingers wouldn’t hold it.
“Borj el-Khadra, by way of Tobruk.”
“Bollocks,” Harry spat. “That’s three hundred miles.” He thrust his buckled chin above the sea of endless dunes. “Across that.”
For a long moment, the trio regarded one another like drunkards sizing up opponents for a brawl. The Tommies watched the German’s hands, for they hadn’t searched him yet, while for his part he struggled to stay upright. Cockney Harry gestured at Robbie the Scot, but only with his head.
“Fire the Very pistol, Robbie. Green flare, not red. Let’s have the captain up here for a chat.”
Aside from Robbie’s flare, which arced into the silver sky and fell to earth somewhere, the trio stayed immobile until at last a throaty engine loomed. A four-wheeled open command car appeared from the north, its peeling fuselage bristling with petrol jerrycans, pickaxes, and Bren light machine guns snouted at the sky. It spewed a cloud of dust as it hove to and an officer dismounted, his captain’s cap stained with sweat, Webley pistol lanyarded to a holster. His left hand tapped a swagger stick against his muscled calf while his right fingers smoothed a short mustache. His large driver followed close, hefting a Thompson submachine gun.
The captain ambled up and stopped, his bloodshot eyes squinting at the strange tableau. Robbie the Scot turned and dipped his helmet brim, but Harry kept his rifle trained, and there were no salutes.
“What’s all this then, lads?” the captain said.
“Captured us an Afrika Korps infiltrator, sir,” said Harry.
“Sneaky desert serpent,” Robbie sneered.
“Good show then.” The captain nodded and scanned the prisoner head to foot. “Right. Summon a firing party.”
Harry turned and looked at his commander.
“Execution, sir?”
“Affirmative, Corporal.” The captain flicked his stick toward a distant rise. “And let’s stake his corpse on that hill. Perhaps it shall keep the other vultures at bay.”
“Yessir,” said the captain’s driver, and he turned back for the car to muster up a firing squad.
The captain wasn’t barbarous, but more than worn and weary, and his men were not quite sure if he was serious or bluffing. In the past few weeks, despite the routing of the Germans in the westward push for Tunisia, spies of every kind had probed his lines, including one Bedouin woman. They were often followed by marauding Stuka fighter-bombers. He’d lost four men, most painfully his major whom he’d buried and replaced, and had a fifth now dying in a tent, legless and weeping for his mother. So much, he thought, for Erwin Rommel’s “Krieg ohne Hass,” war without hate.
“I am not a German.” The intruder spoke again, and his voice spasmed with the effort.
The captain raised his chin. His driver stopped and turned. The prisoner’s accent was British, yet with a certain Berlin curl.
“That’s quite a claim,” the captain said, “given your costume.”
“He told us that shite too, sir,” said Robbie.
“Says he hoofed it from Borj el-Khadra,” Harry said. “By way of Tobruk, no less.”
The captain raised a palm to hush his men and squinted at the prisoner.
“What are you, then?”
The prisoner tried to swallow. The water hadn’t been enough. It would never be enough. His body quaked in feverish ripples now, his ragged clothing fluttering like gosling feathers. It was the proximity of rescue, now turned to sudden death, coupled with his famish, thirst, and wounds.
“SIG,” he said, tunneling in his delirium for the words. “Combined Operations.”
The captain raised an eyebrow. Harry asked him, “What’s ess-eye-gee, sir?”
“Special Interrogation Group.” The captain stroked his mustache corners. “Top secret commando unit, attached to LRDG and SAS. Mostly German Jews, but they were all killed at Tobruk, and that was many months ago.”
“Not I,” the prisoner croaked. His right hand reached into his tunic. The captain fumbled for his Webley and the Tommies’ Enfields stiffened, as the prisoner fetched a pair of British identification disks, one green, one amber, like autumn leaves on a threadbare lanyard, and they fell against his chest.
The captain glanced at them, and at the hollow bearded face again.
“Tobruk, you say. And where’ve you been since then…allegedly?”
“Captured. Escaped a month ago, or two, perhaps, I think.”
“You think.” The captain closed his fists and put them to his garrison belt. “And why, pray tell, if you were in this uniform, were you not executed as a spy? Those are Hitler’s orders, after all.”
“Because I had tea with Erwin Rommel,” the prisoner said, yet without a hint of irony that the German field marshal would have thusly intervened.
“Had a pint meself with Churchill just last week,” the captain’s driver quipped. The Tommies laughed, but the captain didn’t. There was something in the prisoner’s eyes—a sincerity of madness, or truth.
“What’s your name and rank?” he asked.
“Froelich, Bernard, second lieutenant.” He pronounced his given name as “Bern-udd” and his rank as “left-tenant.” Then he added, “Six seven two, four five seven.”
The captain produced a small pad and pencil from his tunic pocket—ink was useless in the desert. He wrote the details down, tore the page off and flicked it over his shoulder for the driver, his eyes never leaving the desperate gleaming blue ones there before him. They were bleeding from the ducts, but he’d seen that once or twice before.
“Sergeant Stafford,” he ordered, “take this to the wireless tent and have Binks get onto Cairo. Tell them we’ll need our answer double quick.”
The driver sped off amidst a cloud of dust, but his return was far from quick. A grueling fifteen minutes passed, while the prisoner teetered on his feet. He could no longer keep his head erect, and he fought to stay awake and straight. He told himself he’d stood this way before, for hours in formations, and he dredged up images of bucolic pleasures, the Danube and the Rhine, and even Galilee. He longed for rain and felt its kisses on his face, while rivulets of something else crawled down his beard and touched the corners of his mouth. But he tasted only brine, and then the armored car returned.
He raised his chin as the driver handed back the paper to the captain, who perused it, then spoke again.
“Lieutenant Froelich, if that’s you,” he said, “do you remember your last passwords?”
“I shall try,” the prisoner whispered as he stumbled through his memory, unsure if he could find the thing to save him from a bullet.
“If I said Rothmans cigarettes,” the captain posed, “what would you say?”
The prisoner’s sunburned brow creased deeply like a cutlass scar.
“I’d tell you I don’t like them, sir…that I fancy Players Navy Cut instead.”
The captain nodded, and offered his first thin smile of the week.
“That is correct.”
And Froelich slumped to his knees in the sand, a collapsed marionette, strings cut. And then he slipped from consciousness and toppled forward, knuckles in the desert, his palms turned up to the sun he hated.
“Fetch a stretcher, lads,” the captain said. “It’s him. He’s the last of them. He’s the seventh.”
Excerpted from My Last of the Seven @ 2022 by Steven Hartov, used with permission by Hanover Square Press.
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About the Author
Steven Hartov is the coauthor of the New York Times bestseller In the Company of Heroes, as well as The Night Stalkers and Afghanistan on the Bounce. For six years he served as Editor-in-Chief of Special Operations Report. He has appeared on CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, FOX, and most recently the History Channel’s Secret Armies. A former Merchant Marine sailor, Israeli Defense Forces paratrooper and special operator, he is currently a Task Force Commander in the New York Guard. He lives in New Jersey.
When you’ve already died, there should be nothing left to fear… When Adam Ramsdell pulls Elle’s half-frozen body from the surf on a lonely California beach, she has no memory of what her full name is and how she got those bruises ringing her throat.
GIRL LAST SEEN
Elle finds refuge in Adam’s home on the edge of Gothic, a remote village located between the steep lonely mountains and the raging Pacific Ocean. As flashes of her memory return, Elle faces a terrible truth—buried in her mind lurks a secret so dark it could get her killed.
POINT LAST SEEN
Everyone in Gothic seems to hide a dark past. Even Adam knows more than he will admit. Until Elle can unravel the truth, she doesn’t know who to trust, when to run and who else might be hurt when the killer who stalks her nightmares appears to finish what he started…
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Elise’s Thoughts
Point Last Seen by Christina Dodd blends mystery, action, with a tinge of romance. With her descriptive words she takes readers to the setting of Gothic, off the Big Sur coast. This first in a new series has well developed characters and an intense plot where the setting plays a major role since everyone there has a dark past.
Readers meet Adam Ramsdell, a town recluse by his own choosing. He likes to keep to himself until one of the town’s residents needs help. One of the occupants, Madam Rune, a fortune teller, alerts him that he will find “a lost soul coming to challenge his being.” While at the ocean he finds a body wrapped in plastic. As he carries her over his shoulder Elle starts breathing. Realizing she is not dead he takes her to his place for refuge since she is badly bruised, and it appears she was strangled. Unfortunately, she cannot remember any details of what happened to her. In the meantime, she grows close to Adam and makes friends with other townspeople forcing Adam to come out of his shell. As her memory slowly comes back with the help of Adam and Madam Rune, they all realize how much danger Elle is in.
Fans of Dodd will not be disappointed. She combines into the story twists, emotions, and an edginess that will keep readers turning the pages.
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Author Interview
Elise Cooper: Will this be a series?
Christina Dodd: This is the first book set in Gothic. The setting will be the series, not the characters.
EC: The idea for the story?
CD: I was writing a book set on a cruise line and then Covid hit. Because they were shut down, I realized I was in deep trouble. Then I had an idea about a woman rolling up on the beach unconscious. After she awakes, she cannot remember where she is from. I think this idea came to me because I was working with the ocean and the cruise lines. It was written while I was in Covid isolation.
EC: What was the role of the Gothic setting?
CD: It was a character. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay area and was captivated the first time I went up to Big Sur. This spring my husband and I drove up the coast. I thought how Big Sur seems to be immune to civilization because I wanted a place where people could disappear, and lost souls could come there.
EC: What role did the ocean play?
CD: It creates everything and is very dominant, controlling all the weather. It is so primal and creates atmosphere for the story. One of my earliest memories is standing on a beach and my great aunt said, ‘don’t ever turn your back on the ocean.’ It can be scary and glorious. There are storms, frothy and frosty waves crashing against the rocky cliffs, with different colors, and the great sea breeze. The ocean plays with fate since it brought Adam and Elle together.
EC: How would you describe Elle?
CD: Brilliant but trusted the wrong person. Briefly traumatized. A strong sense of self. She can be resilient, smug, and witty.
EC: How would you describe Adam?
CD: A loner, tragically wounded. I think this is Adam’s story. He has good instincts, very cautious and alert. Protective, stoic, and compassionate. He is grieving and feels guilty.
EC: What about the relationship?
CD: She is Adam’s salvation. Elle makes him interact with people. He ends up terribly invested in her. In the beginning, she is more open to having a relationship than him. He is afraid anyone he cares about will die.
EC: What about the bad guy Penderghast?
CD: He is a bully who enjoys seizing power. His scientific vessel that he financed was a great thing to do. But his personality of being arrogant, cruel, and self-centered overshadows that.
EC: Next book?
CD: It is set in Gothic and titled Forget What You Know, coming out in March of next year. The plot has a car pulled out of a lake with a dead body shot in the head and a precious statue in the back seat. The heroine is a flower breeder, the heir to this statue.
THANK YOU!!
***
BIO: Elise Cooper has written book reviews and interviewed best-selling authors since 2009. Her reviews have covered several different genres, including thrillers, mysteries, women’s fiction, romance and cozy mysteries. An avid reader, she engages authors to discuss their works, and to focus on the descriptions of their characters and the plot. While not writing reviews, Elise loves to watch baseball and visit the ocean in Southern California, with her dog and husband.
