DEADLY MOUNTAIN ESCAPE by Mary Alford is an exciting Christian suspense/mystery/Christian romantic suspense that drops the reader into action and danger right away and continues to escalate the peril until the climax of the story. This is a book that I sat down with and read from start to finish because I could not stop turning the pages.
K-9 Deputy Charlotte Walker and her K=9 partner, Annie, are notified by her elderly neighbor that her granddaughter never came home from work the night before. As Charlotte looks for Lainey, she is attacked and becomes trapped in a deadly situation.
Jonas Knowles walked away from his Amish religion after a tragedy. He notices the deputy go to the local home of a known troublemaker but when he sees her Jeep make the return trip, it is not Charlotte driving. He goes to look for her and hears noise coming from a car beginning to sink in the river…and the ever-escalating danger begins from there.
Charlotte and Jonas both carry personal guilt that has left them unable to move forward. As they run from the danger of a human trafficking ring who want to silence them, they both share their burdens and look to their faith and each other to help them with their guilt, protect them, and stop the trafficking ring in the mountains.
This is a wonderful action-adventure suspense with memorable characters and a plot that has several twists and surprises throughout. There is more suspense and mystery in this story than romance because it is set over a very short two-day period, but the epilogue gave me all the warm and happy vibes I hoped for at the end. Both Charlotte and Jonas are believable characters that are fully developed. They both carry guilt from their pasts but show empathy and understanding to each other. They both also have strong Christian faith backgrounds and beliefs that are woven seamlessly throughout the story in a realistic way. K- 9 Annie is a great addition to my dog-loving heart. Her loyalty and bravery play a pivotal role in several scenes. All the secondary characters were well written, both good and bad. The suspense/mystery kept me engaged and I did not guess the leader of the ring until almost the end.
I highly recommend this Christian suspense/mystery/Christian romantic suspense. Ms. Alford is fast becoming a must-read author of Amish and Christian fiction for me.
***
About the Author
Mary Alford is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of more than fifty novels. Her books have been finalists in the Selah Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, and the HOLT Medallion Contest. As a writer, Mary is an avid reader. She loves to cook and can’t face the day with-out coffee. She and her husband live in the heart of Texas in the middle of 70 acres with two very spoiled cats and one adorable rescue dog. Mary is very active online and would love to connect with readers.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for GIRL AMONG CROWS by Brendon Vayo on this Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my mini book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links, and a Kingsumo giveaway! Good luck on the giveaway and enjoy!
***
Book Description
Beware the Brotherhood of the Raven
When two boys vanish from her hometown, Daphne Gauge notices uncanny parallels to her brother’s disappearance 30 years earlier. Symbols of an ancient Norse god. Rumors of a promise to reward the town’s faithful with wealth and power, for a price. She warns her husband that another sacrifice is imminent, but just like last time, no one believes her.
This leaves her with a desperate choice: investigate with limited resources, or give in to the FBI’s request for an interview. For years, they’ve wanted a member of the Gauge family to go on record about the tragedy back in 1988. If she agrees to a deposition now, Daphne must confess her family’s dark secrets. But she also might have one last chance to unmask the killer from back then . . . and now.
Genre: Horror, Suspense Published by: CamCat Books Publication Date: November 2023 Number of Pages: 416 ISBN: 9780744306552 (ISBN10: 0744306558)
***
My Mini Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
GIRL AMONG CROWS by Brendon Vayo is an interestingly unique and atmospheric horror story with elements of suspense and mystery with Norse mythology influence.
This is a difficult book to review because I am afraid of giving away any important plot points. You have to give this book a chance to get going because at first a lot of information is given that did not make sense to me, but it is relevant later, and it will come together and move more quickly as the story progresses. The mystery unravels in two timelines, Daphne’s past and present, with the disappearance of young boys in both timelines and the Brotherhood of Crows playing an important part in both. Daphne is so complex because she wants to solve the disappearances, but at the same time she would be betraying those closest to her. One word that I did look up that helped in my understanding early on in the story was “blot” which is Old Norse for an exchange in which they did a blood sacrifice to the gods in order to get something in return.
I am very glad I gave this book a try because it did turn out to be an engrossing read. If you are into dark horror with suspense and mystery this is definitely the book for you.
***
Excerpt
My husband Karl shakes hands with other doctors, a carousel of orthopedic surgeons in cummerbunds. I read his lips over the brass band: How’s the champagne, Ed? Since he grayed, Karl wears a light beard that, for the convention, he trimmed to nothing.
The ballroom they rented has long windows that run along Boston’s waterfront. Sapphire table settings burn in their reflections.
The food looks delicious. Rainbows of heirloom carrots. Vermont white cheddar in the macaroni. Some compliment the main course, baked cod drizzled with olive oil. My eyes are on the chocolate cherries. Unless Karl is right, and they’re soaked in brandy.
At some dramatic point in the evening, balloons will drop from nets. A banner sags, prematurely revealing its last line.
CELEBRATING THIRTY YEARS!
Thirty years. How nice, though I try not to think that far back.
I miss something, another joke.
Everyone’s covering merlot-soaked teeth, and I wonder if they’re laughing at me. Is it my dress? I didn’t know if I should wear white like the other wives.
I redirect the conversation from my choice of a navy-blue one-shoulder, which I now see leaves me exposed, and ask so many questions about the latest in joint repair that I get lightheaded.
The chandelier spins. Double zeroes hit the roulette table. A break watching the ocean, then I’m back, resuming my duties as a spouse, suppressing a yawn for an older man my husband desperately wants to impress. A board member who could recommend Karl as the next director of clinical apps.
I’m thinking about moving up, our careers. I’m not thinking dark thoughts like people are laughing or staring at me. Not even when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Are you Daphne?” asks a young man. A member of the wait staff. No one should know me here; I’m an ornament. Yet something’s familiar about the young man’s blue eyes. Heat trickles down my neck as I try to name the sensation in my stomach.
“And you are?” I say.
“Gerard,” he says. The glasses on his platter sway with caffeinated amber. “Gerard Gedney. You remember?”
I gag on my ginger ale.
“My gosh, I do,” I say. “Gerard. Wow.”
Thirty years ago, when this convention was still in its planning stages, Gerard Gedney was the little boy who had to stay in his room for almost his entire childhood. Beginning of every school year, each class made Get Well Soon cards and mailed them to his house.
We moved before I knew what happened to Gerard, but with everything else, I never thought of him until now. All the growing up he must’ve done, despite the odds, and now at least he got out, got away.
“I beat the leukemia,” he says.
“I’m so glad for you, Gerard.”
If that’s the appropriate response. The awkwardness that defined my childhood creeps over me. Of all the people to bump into, it has to be David Gedney’s brother. David, the Boy Never Found.
My eyes jump from Gerard to the other wait staff. They wear pleated dress pants. Gerard’s in a T-shirt, bowtie, and black jeans.
“I don’t really work here, Daphne,” says Gerard, sliding the platter onto a table. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.”
The centerpiece topples. Glass shatters. An old woman holds her throat.
“Gerard,” I say, my knees weak, “I understand you’re upset about David. Can we please not do this here?”
Gerard wouldn’t be the first to unload on what awful people we were. But to hear family gossip aired tonight, in front of my husband and his colleagues? I can’t even imagine what Karl would think.
“I’m not here about my brother,” says Gerard. “I’m here about yours.” His words twist.
“Paul,” I say.
“What about him?” “I’m so sorry,” says a waiter, bumping me. Another kneels to pick up green chunks of the vase. When I find Gerard again, he’s at the service exit, waiting for me to follow.
Before I do, I take one last look at the distinguished men and a few women. The shoulder claps. The dancing. Karl wants to be in that clique—I mean, I want that too. For him, I want it.
But I realize something else. They’re having a good time in a way I never could, even if I were able to let go of the memory of my brother, Paul.
The catering service has two vans in the alleyway. It’s a tunnel that feeds into the Boston skyline, the Prudential Center its shining peak.
Gerard beckons me to duck behind a stinky dumpster. Rain drizzles on cardboard boxes.
I never knew Gerard as a man. Maybe he has a knife or wants to strangle me, and all this news about my brother was bait to lure me out here. I’m vulnerable in high heels. But Gerard doesn’t pull a weapon.
He pulls out a postcard, its edges dusty with a white powder I can’t identify. The image is of three black crows inscribed on a glowing full moon.
“I found it in Dad’s things,” says Gerard. “Please take it. Look, David is gone. We’ve got to live with the messes our parents made. Mine sacrificed a lot for my treatment, but had they moved to Boston, I probably would’ve beat the cancer in months instead of years.”
“And this is about Paul?” I say.
“When the chemo was at its worst,” says Gerard, “I dreamed about a boy, my older self, telling me I would survive.”
I take my eyes off Gerard long enough to read the back of the postcard:
$ from Crusher. Keep yourself pure, Brother. For the sake of our children, the Door must remain open.
Crusher. Brother. Door. No salutation or signature, no return address. Other than Crusher, no names of any kind. The words run together with Gerard’s take on how treatment changed his perspective.
Something presses my stomach again. Dread. Soon as I saw this young man, I knew he was an omen of something. And when is an omen good?
“Your dad had this,” I say. “Did he say why? Or who sent it?”
An angry look crosses Gerard’s face. “My dad’s dead,” he says. “So’s Brother Dominic. Liver cancer stage 4B on Christmas Day. What’d they do to deserve that, huh?”
“They both died on Christmas? Gerard, I’m so sorry.” First David, now his dad and Dominic? He stiffens when I reach for him, and, of course, I’m the last person he wants to comfort him. “I know how hard it is. I lost my mom, as you know, and my dad ten years ago.”
The day Dad died, I thought I’d never get off the floor. I cried so hard I threw up, right in the kitchen. Karl was there, my future husband, visiting on the weekend from his residency. I didn’t even think we were serious, but there he was, talking me through it, the words lost now, but not the comfort of his voice.
I looked in his eyes, daring to hope that with this man I wouldn’t pass on to my children what Mom passed down to me.
“Mom’s half-there most days,” says Gerard. “But one thing.”
The rear entrance bangs open, spewing orange light. Two men dump oily garbage, chatting in Spanish.
“Check the postmark, Daphne,” says Gerard at the end of the alleyway. He was right beside me. Now it’s a black bird sidestepping on the dumpster, its talons clacking, wanting me to feed it. I flinch and catch Gerard shrugging under the icy rain before he disappears.
The postmark is from Los Angeles, sent October last year. Six months ago, George Gedney received this postcard. Two months later, he’s dead, and so is another son.
What does that mean? How does it fit in with Paul?
Though he’s gone, I keep calling for Gerard, my voice strangled. Someone has me by the elbow, my husband. Even in lifts, Karl’s three inches shorter than me.
“Daphne, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Colquitt. I need Sheriff Colquitt or . . .” Voices argue in my head, and I nod at the hail swirling past yellow streetlamps. “Thirty years ago, Bixbee was a young man. He might still be alive.”
“Daphne, did that man hurt you? Hey.”
Karl demands that someone call the police, but I shake him.
“It’s fine, Karl,” I say, dialing Berkshire County Sheriff ’s Office. “Gerard’s a boy I knew from my hometown.”
Karl’s calling someone too. “Some coincidence,” he says.
Though it wasn’t. Here I am trying not to think about the past, and it comes back to slap me in the face as though I summoned it. Paul. The little brother I vowed to protect.
The phone finally picks up. “Berkshire Sheriff’s Office.”
“Hello,” I say, “could I leave a message for Harold Bixbee to call me back as soon as possible? He is or was a deputy in your department.”
“Uh, ma’am, I don’t have anyone in our personnel records who matches that name. But if it’s an emergency, I’d be glad—” I hang up. Damn. I should’ve known at nine p.m., all I’d get is a desk sergeant. I’d spend half the night catching him up to speed.
“Daphne.” My husband lowers his phone, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “I asked Ed to pull the hotel’s security feed. You’re the only one on tape.”
“What? No.”
“It shows that you walked out that door alone,” says Karl, gesturing, “and I come out a few minutes later.”
The Door must remain open.
Dread hardens, then the postcard’s corner jabs my thumb. I’m about to show Karl my proof when I realize that now there are only two crows in the moon.
“How’d he do that?” I keep flipping it, expecting the third one to return, before I sense my husband waiting. Distantly, I hear wings flap, but it could be the rain. “Gerard wanted me to have his dad’s postcard.”
“So this boy Gerard comes all the way from Springfield to hand you a postcard,” Karl says. “And he can magically avoid cameras?”
“I’m not from Springfield,” I say, shaking off a chill. Magically avoid cameras. And Gerard can turn pictures of crows into real ones too. How?
“You seem very agitated,” says Karl. “Want me to call Dr. Russell? Unless . . .” Karl’s listening, just not to me. “Ed says the camera angles aren’t the best here. There’s a few blind spots.”
“I said I’m not from Springfield, Karl. Any more than you’re from Boston.”
My husband nods, still wary. “Boston is more recognizable than Quincy. But how does your hometown account for why Gerard isn’t on the security footage?”
I lick my lips, my hand hovering over Karl’s phone.
When we first met, I wanted to keep things upbeat. Me? I’m a daddy’s girl, though (chuckling) certainly not to a fault. In the interest of a second date, I might’ve understated some things.
“Here,” I say, “it’s more like I’m from the Hilltowns. It’s a remote area.” My lips tremble, trying to force out the name of my hometown. “I was born and raised in New Minton, Karl.”
Somewhere between Cabbage Patch Kids and stickers hidden in a cereal box, the ones Paul demanded every time we opened a new Crøønchy Stars, is recognition. I can tell by the strange flicker on Karl’s face.
“The New Minton Boys,” he says. “All those missing kids, the ones never found.” Karl is stunned. “Daphne, you’re from there? Did you know those boys? God, you would’ve been a kid yourself.”
“I was eleven,” I say. And I was a kid, a selfish kid. I came from a large family. Brandy was seventeen, Courtney fifteen, Ellie nine, and Paul seven.
The day before my brother disappeared, I wasn’t thinking that this night was the last time we’d all be together. I wasn’t thinking about the pain Mom and Dad would go through, especially after the town gossip began.
No. I thought my biggest problems in the world were mean schoolboys. So I ruined dinner.
“Daphne?” Now Karl looks mad. “That’s a big secret not to tell your husband.”
If only he knew.
***
Author Bio
Brendon Vayo was born in Okinawa, Japan, and now lives in Austin, TX. He has a wonderful wife and three children. The kids keep him awake at night, so he hopes his books do the same to you.
BLESSING OF THE LOST GIRLS (A Brady and Walker Family Novel Book #1) by J.A. Jance is a gripping serial killer crime mystery police procedural suspense with combined characters from two of Ms. Jance’s long time series. This book can be read as a standalone because the character’s relationships are explained, and the focus is on a new generation of both families.
Federal agent Dan Pardee is now working for a new government agency, Missing and Murdered Indigenous People Task Force (MIP). An unidentified burned body was found in Cochise County and identified two years later with newly submitted dental records by the new MIP unit. Dan is assigned the case which brings him into Joanna Brady’s jurisdiction, but it is Joanna’s daughter, criminal justice major Jenny Brady, who has information for this investigation.
Dan’s investigation begins to grow as he discovers a rodeo connection from this killer to several more missing girls. He now realizes he is chasing a serial killer who preys on marginalized girls and is skilled at not leaving a trail.
I felt this was an exceptionally strong crime mystery plot which the author took step-by-step to an exciting conclusion, even knowing who the serial killer is from the beginning. The story could be right out of the headlines with the focus on missing and murdered indigenous women. Dan is a determined and skilled law enforcement agent with an interesting Native American background which makes him perfect for his job. I also liked the possibility of Jenny Brady working with Dan in the future, which was left open. The serial killer is terrifying in his proficiency. I have heard of J.A. Jance for years, but this is the first book I have read by this author. I feel that helped me enjoy the new focus on these characters without expectations, but the marketing of it as a Brady and Walker book is confusing. Dan Pardee is a great character and I think he should be the focus in future marketing.
I found this engrossing serial killer crime mystery/police procedural suspense a thrilling read with a much needed focus on missing and murdered indigenous women. I am looking forward to more books featuring Dan Pardee.
***
About the Author
J.A. Jance is the New York Times best selling author of 46 contemporary mysteries in four different series.
A voracious reader, J. A. Jance knew she wanted to be a writer from the moment she read her first Wizard of Oz book in second grade. Always drawn to mysteries, from Nancy Drew right through John D. McDonald’s Travis Magee series, it was only natural that when she tried her hand at writing her first book, it would be a mystery as well.
J. A. Jance went on to become the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, three interrelated thrillers featuring the Walker family, and Edge of Evil. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.
Jance is an avid crusader for many causes, including the American Cancer Society, Gilda’s Club, the Humane Society, the YMCA, and the Girl Scouts. A lover of animals, she has a rescued Dachshund named Bella.
A visceral and compelling mystery about a Cherokee archeologist for the Bureau of Indian Affairs who is summoned to rural Oklahoma to investigate the disappearance of two women…one of them her sister.
There are secrets in the land.
As an archeologist for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Syd Walker spends her days in Rhode Island trying to protect the land’s indigenous past, even as she’s escaping her own.
While Syd is dedicated to her job, she’s haunted by a night of violence she barely escaped in her Oklahoma hometown fifteen years ago. Though she swore she’d never go back, the past comes calling.
When a skull is found near the crime scene of her youth, just as her sister, Emma Lou, vanishes, Syd knows she must return home. She refuses to let her sister’s disappearance, or the remains, go ignored—as so often happens in cases of missing Native women.
But not everyone is glad to have Syd home, and she can feel the crosshairs on her back. Still, the deeper Syd digs, the more she uncovers about a string of missing indigenous women cases going back decades. To save her sister, she must expose a darkness in the town that no one wants to face—not even Syd.
The truth will be unearthed.
***
Elise’s Thoughts
Blood Sisters by Vanessa Lillie combines a riveting mystery within a thrilling plot. This is a story of the main character’s personal journey as she attempts to overcome her past demons and strives to balance her Native American identity with her current life.
Syd Walker, the protagonist, now lives in Rhode Island with her wife Mali, working for the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA). She moved there from Oklahoma because of her violent past. Fifteen years ago she barely escaped from being killed when two masked men came into the trailer she, her sister, and her best friend were staying. She was able to rescue her sister, Emma Lou, but her best friend, Luna Myers was murdered. She is guilt ridden and haunted literally by Luna’s ghost, who speaks to her ala Charles Todd whose ghost Hamish haunts Scotland Yard Inspector Ian Rutledge.
After Syd’s old BIA ID badge from a college internship is found inside a skull on BIA-managed land she is asked by her BIA supervisor, Jo Mankiller, to investigate. Reluctantly, she returns to her hometown and learns that her sister Emma Lou, an opiate addict, has vanished, one of many Indigenous women to have recently disappeared from the area. She begins to investigate the women’s disappearances, hoping her inquiry might finally bring her face-to-face with Luna’s killer.
The blending of the culture and history made the plot even more interesting. Readers take the journey with Syd as she tries to reconcile her past, come to terms with her demons, and attempting to rebuild a relationship with her family.
***
Author Interview
Elise Cooper: How did you get the idea for the story?
Vanessa Lillie: This is the first book in the series. The story is set in Northeast Oklahoma, which is where I am from. I wanted to write about my hometown and the surrounding towns. The town in the story, is based on the history of a real town where there was oil and minerals, lead, and zinc. It became a boom town overnight. I wanted to incorporate my real history within my fictional characters backstory. I also wanted to write about the meth production, the Mexican Cartels coming into NE Oklahoma, and the legislative changes which is all accurate for the time, in 2008. I wanted to show how the illegal drug of meth combined with the legal Opioid drugs caused a lot of devastation in so many communities.
EC: What about the Native American references?
VL: The Quapaw Tribe had land taken from them. I set the story in 2008 because it is now a ghost town, with a government buyout program. There are serious health issues because of all the left-over minerals. I grew up next to this community. I am Cherokee so I wanted to write about a Cherokee protagonist. Because the matriarchal connection among Native Americans is so strong, I wrote how Syd is connected to her late grandmother, her Cherokee heritage that they shared together.
EC: How would you describe the main protagonist Syd?
VL: She is a badass—with a lot of vulnerability. I wanted to show through this character how someone processes trauma. She cares about justice, what she believes is right. She is haunted and struggles to connect with people. She is not direct and a loner. She has a little bit chip on her shoulder.
EC: Syd coming home reminded me of those in the military who come home on leave and feel like a fish out of water?
VL: I am from a small town and left it to go to college when I was 18.I still felt a disconnect and insecurity when I returned, which is something I put onto Syd. It is hard for her to come in and think she has answers when Syd did not live there. She might have good intentions but does not know the reality of what is going on. She had created emotional boundaries and literal physical boundaries when she left her hometown and moved across the country.
EC: The story has the mystery of what happened to Syd’s sister?
VL: She will do anything to find, help, and save her. Even putting her life at risk. Syd had created boundaries in her life, but at the end of the day when her sister was at risk, she would do anything to save her sister.
EC: What was the role of Syd’s boss, Jo Mankiller?
VL: She represents the new generation of those in the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA). She feels she is there to support the tribes and the people. She has her own internal politics going. She agrees with Syd that BIA should help the tribes, particularly with the murdered and missing girls. The BIA is a management structure for tribal lands. Unfortunately, the Federal government in 2008 controls the law enforcement and they do not often care about girls going missing. Their attention is on the drug cases.
EC: What was the role of the ghost, Luna-did you get the idea from the movie “The Sixth Sense” where the boy saw “dead people?”
VL: I wrote a pilot through the Native American media. It was a screenplay. I was struggling to communicate Syd’s problem. My editor and I worked it into this story. Syd is literally haunted by this sarcastic ghost girl. Ghost Luna is a manifestation of trauma and pain that Syd carries. She appears during Syd’s stress. She is based on an old memory of a teenage friend when they were girls.
EC: Can you explain the quote about love?
VL: You are referring to this one, “Love isn’t protective. In fact, it’s what makes us vulnerable to pain.” Anytime someone loves, they risk pain. People open themselves up to others and risk disappointment and hurt. There are beautiful things that come with it. For Syd, she has the idea of love, pain, and hope.
EC: Next book?
VL: It will be set where I live now. Syd has another case tied to earlier colonial days. It will probably come out in 2025.
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 LOST BOYS OF BARLOWE THEATER by Jaime Jo Wright 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 Kingsumo giveaway. Enjoy!
***
Book Description
It promises beauty but steals life instead. Will the ghosts of Barlowe Theater entomb them all?
Barlowe Theater stole the life of Greta Mercy’s eldest brother during its construction. Now in 1915, the completed theater appears every bit as deadly. When Greta’s younger brother goes missing after breaking into the building, Greta engages the assistance of a local police officer to help her unveil the already ghostly secrets of the theater. But when help comes from an unlikely source, Greta decides that to save her family she must uncover the evil that haunts the theater and put its threat to rest.
Decades later, Kit Boyd’s best friend vanishes during a ghost walk at the Barlowe Theater, and old stories of mysterious disappearances and ghoulish happenings are revived. Then television ghost-hunting host and skeptic Evan Fisher joins Kit in the quest to identify the truth behind the theater’s history. Kit reluctantly agrees to work with him in hopes of finding her missing friend. As the theater’s curse unravels Kit’s life, she is determined to put an end to the evil that has marked the theater and their hometown for the last century.
Genre: Romantic Suspense, Christian, Historical Published by: Bethany House Publishers Publication Date: October 2023 Number of Pages: 384 ISBN: 9780764241444
***
My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
THE LOST BOYS OF BARLOWE THEATER by Jaime Jo Wright is a wonderfully atmospheric Christian romantic suspense/mystery story for the Halloween season. This story is told in dual timelines by two female heroines trying to find loved ones lost in the eerie Barlowe Theater in Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin.
The female heroine in 1915 is Greta Mercy. After the death of her parents and her eldest brother, she is trying desperately to keep her younger brothers with her. Her brother, Leo disappears with two other boys in the Barlowe theater. Her storyline was very believable and felt appropriate to the period. The female heroine in the present is Kit Boyd. Her best friend disappears in the Barlowe as they are filming with a crew from a TV show about psychics and skeptics. While I understand some adoptees have abandonment issues that make it difficult to trust and form attachments, Kit brought up her issue with this continually and I lost my sympathy with her because it just became annoying. Both women meet men that assist them with their investigations and become their HEAs. There is no sex and I felt little build up or chemistry to their relationships.
I really loved the intricate plots in the dual timelines that constantly had me guessing if this story was going to delve into the paranormal, spiritual, or just pedestrian criminal human realms. My angst level was high while I was reading this book, and I could not stop until the solution of both timelines. The discussions of faith, spirits and demons, and skepticism were interwoven in the timelines and illustrated the differing beliefs in the differing time periods. Both stories are based around missing loved ones and even though they were different, they blended perfectly.
I recommend this Christian romantic suspense/mystery for a haunting good read.
***
Excerpt
1
Greta Mercy
October 1915 Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin
Sometimes death came quietly. A phantom swooping in and siphoning the last remnant of a soul from one’s body, leaving behind a shell of a person who once was and would never be again. Other times, death decided that dramatics coupled with terror were its preferred method of delivery. Tonight, that was the chosen form death took.
Screams echoed throughout the theater’s golden, embellished auditorium and drifted upward to the domed, hand-painted ceiling, where Putti flew as angelic, childlike spirits over the mass of onlookers.
A shoulder rammed into Greta’s arm as a husky man, far too large for the narrow seats, pushed his way past her toward the center aisle.
“Let me pass!” he barked. Urgency spurred him forward. “I’m a doctor, let me pass!”
The vaudeville lights on either side of the stage boasted letters a through g, with the g lit and distinct over the other letters.
“I’m letter g!” The doctor shouted while those in front of him jostled to the side or hurried ahead to move out of his way. Doctors were assigned specific letters from the vaudeville lights, and if they were lit, a doctor was needed—either at home, on call, or in the vicinity.
The vicinity was here. It was now.
Onlookers continued to gasp and protest. Women in beautiful silks and satins hurried to the back to find respite in the upstairs ladies’ room. Men in evening wear catapulted over seats and to the floor on the far left of the auditorium.
Greta was frozen in place, her seat having flipped up against its back so she could move. But her eyes were fixed with horror on the scene unfolding. They lifted to one of the box seats above the floor, where men, including the doctor, were congregating en masse. The gilded box was a flurry of activity. A man embraced a woman, who fought and clawed at his hold. Her screams had many onlookers staring at her, including the performer in her violet gown and befeathered hair. Moments before, her vocals had swirled around them all in a cadence of beauty and refined music. Now, her mouth was open, her face pale, her entire pose aghast. She had captured an enthralled audience, all whose gazes toward the stage had kept them from seeing what Greta had seen. Greta, who shouldn’t have been here to begin with. She didn’t belong with the pomp and circumstance, the heady scent of perfume and cologne, which made her mind thick and her eyes wander. They’d wandered to the box seat, and she’d witnessed what no one else had. The white hands stretching, reaching over the side, dangling . . .
“It was a child!” The horrified cry slipped for the third time from Greta’s lips. She could hear herself screaming and was unable to stop. Her screams had ripped through the performance as the child in a white nightdress plummeted into the shadows of the floor’s obscure corner.
The woman in the box seat had been pulled from view, its red velvet curtain shut swiftly.
“It was a baby!” Greta rasped out as horror strangled her.
“Greta. It’s all right.” The reassuring voice of her friend, Eleanor Boyd, as well as the comforting grip on Greta’s arm finally stilled her.
Greta focused again on her friend—her wealthy friend who should not be her friend at all.
Eleanor’s blue eyes were round with fear that must mirror Greta’s own. Her blond curls swept upward and were twisted with pearls. Her dress was a baby-blue silk. Any other moment, Greta would have soaked in the awe that tonight she, Greta Boyd, who could barely keep her family fed and clothed, was sitting among the elite, pretending to be one of them. But now? It hardly mattered. The borrowed corset that tucked in her waistline, the aged but wearable pink dress she had borrowed from Eleanor, and even the gloves she wore on her dry, cracked hands—none of them mattered now.
“What happened? What did you see?” Eleanor clutched at Greta’s arm.
Greta couldn’t reply. The sheer magnitude of the moment, the honor of being in the audience of the Barlowe Theater had been overwhelming . . . until she’d seen it. The baby launched over the side of the box seat. Like a cherub from the mural above, it had taken flight before it disappeared.
Greta’s knees gave out, and she fell to where her seat should have been had it not folded in on itself. Her hip struck the polished wood arm.
“Greta!” Eleanor reached for her.
Greta felt Eleanor’s brother on her other side, grabbing for her waist to give her support. But it was too late. She had collapsed to the narrow walkway between the seats. Her knees hit the carpeted floor.
Was she the only person who had seen death’s swift visitation tonight? The only one who had witnessed its evil intent as it ripped the babe forcefully from its mother’s arms?
It wouldn’t survive. It could not. The fall was too far, too great.
Death had decided to match the theater’s reputation for drama and awe. Greta couldn’t tear her gaze from where she’d seen the small form disappear on its way to its resting place on the floor of the Barlowe Theater.
The babe had slipped. No, it had been tossed. Its mother’s screams still echoed from the hallway beyond the curtain. Those in the crowd cried “Accident,” “Traumatic mishap,” and other such things. But Greta knew differently. She had known before she came tonight, and she should have stayed away.
Barlowe Theater was not a place that brought joy and entertainment, as was its supposed purpose. No, it had already taken lives in the construction of it, tortured the ones who dared stand in its way, and now it was hunting those innocents who had happened into the shadows of its deadly interior. The theater was cursed.
Kit Boyd
October, Present Day Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin
Death stuck with a place. Once the blood had seeped into the carpet, the flooring, the walls, it stayed there, long after the stains were removed. They were the testament to lives robbed of their rightful journey through time. Cut short. Obliterated. Bludgeoned into nonexistence. Smothered by the grave, burrowed into by the worms—
“Hey!”
Fingers snapped in front of Kit Boyd’s face, and she startled out of her staring into the dark, narrow stairwell that led beneath the stage of the Barlowe Theater.
“Get with it, bruh.” The fingers snapped again. Kit looked up at the taller man beside her. He was overweight and smelled like pizza, but he had a nice face. His name was Tom, they’d told her, the crew from the TV show Psychic and the Skeptic.
“Sorry.” Kit offered him a wince. She’d paused on the first concrete step while her best friend, Madison, the psychic medium, Heather Grant, and the skeptic investigator, Evan Fischer, disappeared into the bowels of the theater. Tom the cameraman was held back by her hesitation. She gave him a warning look, though the theater’s darkness in the midnight atmosphere probably hid most of her expression. “You do know people died here . . . have disappeared here.”
“That’s the point.” Tom waved her forward, the camera on his shoulder blinking a red light. “But I need to catch them on film if I can, and you’re in my way.”
Fabulous. She was on camera. That would probably make the show too. Kit Boyd, the quirky sidekick to Madison Farrington, the historical activist, the beauty, the granddaughter of the town’s ambitious CEO of all things expansion, modern, and money-making.
“Hello?” There was definite irritation in Tom’s voice.
“I’m going! I’m going.” Kit hurried down the steps. She’d taken them many times before. Anyone who was native to Kipper’s Grove, Wisconsin, had grown up in the Barlowe Theater at one point or another. Dancers had tapped and glided across its stage in recitals, high school glee clubs with dreams of Broadway had warbled off-key through its hall, and the local theater guild had put on such plays as Arsenic and Old Lace and The Music Man. Kit hadn’t been in any of those. Instead, she was the one backstage handing bottles of water to the performers, smiling and cracking jokes to encourage the stage-frozen little six-year-old dressed in a yellow tutu with glitter on her cheeks.
“Oh, c’mon!” Tom hissed, his irritation past the point of being hidden. How he’d gotten behind her anyway was a faux pas for filming. He was supposed to stick close to the stars of the show, Heather and Evan. And boy, did those two get along famously—not.
“Whew!” Kit wheezed under her breath, not caring if Tom heard. “I’d try to avoid those two if you could.”
“Yeah, well, I have a job to do.” Tom squeezed past Kit as she hugged the cement-block wall at the bottom of the stairs to let him through. He elbowed her arm and didn’t bother to apologize. He probably felt as if she owed him that luxury. The luxury of being annoyed.
Okay, fine. She did.
If she was being honest, Kit wasn’t a fan of the Barlowe Theater past dark. Which was the cliché of all theaters built just after the turn of the century. It was dark. Haunted. The place was like a tomb. Crank up some vaudeville music and the place became a literal haunted house of horrors for Halloween. And Kit hated Halloween. The darkness, the Gothic look and feel, Halloween was for morbid people who thought Edgar Allan Poe was romantic in his mystery and lore instead of macabre and bleak. Hadn’t he died questionably? She’d heard a podcast once that claimed the poet might have been murdered, contrary to the popular belief that his death had been the result of some fatal malady undiagnosed.
Kit shook her head to clear her thoughts. Mom said cobwebs couldn’t possibly gather in her head because she had too many ideas. Mom was right. Kit would never be accused of having an underactive imagination.
A finger jabbed into the back of her shoulder.
“Stop it!” Kit spun to glare at the offender.
No one was there.
Her skin began crawling. “Gahhhhhh!” She waved her hands wildly at the unseen ghost finger. Probably her imagination, but whatever. She had let Madison sucker her into a ghost hunt for the popular ghost-hunting television show. This was her penance? Getting poked by an elusive spirit?
“Sorry, God.” Kit mumbled an apology to the Almighty, who was probably rolling His eyes at their attempts to mess with the spirit world. But this was Madison. She believed anything was possible. Kit had been raised to believe that this type of anything was probably demonic. There had to be a middle ground. Hadn’t there?
Kit hurried around the corner, stubbing her toe on a bolt that rose half an inch up from the floor. Dampness and time had warped the theater’s floor, making it uneven. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her bare toe. Flip-flops on a ghost hunt. Bad idea.
She looked around—well, as best as she could. The basement was dark, as were the dressing rooms to her right, sized like prison cells. The short hall to her left leading directly below the stage was also dark.
“Hello, darkness,” Kit crooned quietly, craning her neck to peer ahead. “Hello?” she tried again, this time louder.
No answer.
“Seriously, someone?” Kit was beginning to share Tom the cameraman’s annoyance now. Two argumentative television stars, her best friend, and a cameraman didn’t just vanish within minutes. The basement wasn’t that huge.
But it was Barlowe Theater.
“Tom?” Kit hissed, daring a few steps into the dank blackness. “Madison?”
Again, no one answered. The only light was a flickering bulb that had to be a wattage short of worth having at all. It buzzed too. Of course it did. If this stunt was for show dramatics . . .
“Madison!” Kit shouted. In the ten years since they’d graduated high school, she had followed this woman around. She was owed some loyalty in return. “If this is for ratings, it’s unkind of you!” Kit yelled. Her words echoed back at her.
“Madis—”
Light slammed into her face, blinding Kit. She raised her hands as the flashlight’s beam collided with her eyes.
“They’re gone!” It was Tom.
Kit could see the whites of his eyes just beyond the flashlight he swung around wildly.
“What do you mean?” Kit tried to take captive Tom’s arm as he flooded the hallway with the light, then a dressing room, then the ceiling. His camera wasn’t on his shoulder.
He wasn’t filming.
Kit’s throat tightened. Okay, that wasn’t a good sign. “Where’s Madison?”
Tom swung the light back in Kit’s face. “Where’s Evan? Where’s Heather? Where’s my team?” His voice shook with undisguised concern, turning fast into panic. “How big is this place?”
“Not that big.” Kit pushed past him. Concerned now. This had gone too far. Madison and her harebrained schemes to keep her own grandfather from ruining the historic downtown. Make it famous, she said. Put it on TV, she said. Make viewers defend Kipper’s Grove, she said. “Madison!” Kit shouted, anxiousness seeping into her voice. “Stop this! It’s not funny!”
Tom’s light bounced on the floor in front of them as Kit spun around and marched back toward him. She shoved past his husky chest and down the short passage to the door leading under the stage. Her fingers curled around the doorknob, its old mechanics making it wobbly beneath her grip.
Kit jerked it open.
She fell back with a shriek, colliding with Tom, who had come way too close behind her.
Heather, the medium from the show, stood stock-still facing them. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her skin white in the flashlight’s glow.
“She’s gone.” Heather’s monotone voice filtered through the passage.
Kit words were stolen from her as her stomach dropped.
“Who’s gone?” Tom demanded.
“Madison.” Evan Fischer, the cohost, the skeptic, and the all-around grumpy hero of the show strode past his partner. Heather’s expression didn’t waver as her eyes remained fixated on . . . whatever she was staring at in the spirit world beyond. “Madison’s gone.”
Evan left less than a few inches between his face and Kit’s as he bent his six-foot frame down to meet her five-foot-four one. “Where is she?”
“I don’t kn—”
“Where. Is. She?” He cut off Kit’s answer as unsatisfactory.
Her breaths came shorter, faster. She could feel Tom behind her. She was sandwiched between him and Evan, with Heather staring into the great abyss.
“I told you. I don’t know.” Kit heard the quaver in her voice. She shoved her trembling hands into her pockets.
“She’s gone.” Evan slapped the wall, glaring at Tom, who was speechless. “Is this a scam? A stunt?”
Kit couldn’t answer. Of course, the show would think it was a ploy by Madison. A publicity ploy. But it went deeper than that. Far deeper. Kit sagged against the wall, the air not reaching her lungs as it should.
She prayed then. Prayed that Madison really was messing with them. That she had simply gone too far ahead beneath the stage and left them behind.
But the theater was hungry, and everyone in Kipper’s Grove knew it was only a matter of time before this hunger added to the stories of death and spirits. That’s how the theater was, after all. Drama. Suspense. And the unearthly way that such things drifted through its rafters.
***
Author Bio
Jaime Jo Wright is the author of nine novels, including Christy Award and Daphne du Maurier Award winner The House on Foster Hill and Carol Award winner The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond. She’s also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime lives in Wisconsin with her cat named Foo; her husband, Cap’n Hook; and their two mini-adults, Peter Pan and CoCo.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for COLD PURSUIT (Ryland & St. Clair Book #1) by Nancy Mehl 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 Kingsumo giveaway. Good luck on the giveaway and enjoy!
***
Book Description
Ex-FBI profiler River Ryland still suffers from PTSD after a case went horribly wrong. Needing a fresh start, she moves to St. Louis to be near her ailing mother and opens a private investigation firm with her friend and former FBI partner, Tony St. Clair. They’re soon approached by a grieving mother who wants them to find out what happened to her teenaged son, who disappeared four years ago. River knows there’s almost no hope the boy is still alive, but his mother needs closure, and River and Tony need a case, no matter how cold it might be.
But as they follow the boy’s trail, which gets more complicated at every turn, they find themselves in the path of a murderer determined to punish anyone who gets in his way. As River and Tony race to stop him before he kills again, an even more dangerous threat emerges, stirring up the past that haunts River and plotting an end to her future.
Genre: Christian Suspense Published by: Bethany House Publishers Publication Date: July 2023 Number of Pages: 336 ISBN: 9780764240454 (ISBN10: 0764240455) Series: Ryland & St. Clair (#1)
***
My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
COLD PURSUIT (Ryland & St. Clair Book #1) by Nancy Mehl is a fast paced and gripping Christian suspense and the first book in this new series. These stories feature ex-FBI profilers, River Ryland and Tony St. Clair who have left the FBI and are opening their own private investigation firm.
Watson Investigations is opened by River Ryland and Tony St. Clair in River’s hometown of St. Louis. River left the FBI with PTSD after her last horrific case and her mother needs her now after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Tony follows and has mild aphasia and some loss of feeling in his hand and feet after being shot four times by the same perp. The killer is now in prison, but the DNA is not only his and there may be a follower who wants to finish the job of killing River.
At the same time, they get their first P.I. case. A mother whose son has been missing for four years comes to them for help finding him. She knows he is probably dead, but she would like his remains to put him to rest. They begin the investigation and follow a convoluted series of clues and help from people in his life that lead them to a surprisingly close suspect who is determined to punish anyone who makes him mad.
This is an intense suspense read with well-drawn protagonists. Their introduction in the prologue starts you off with a bang and this is the over-arcing plot that will continue in the series and keeps you on the edge-of-your-seat even as you follow their first P.I. case from start to finish in this book. The evidence, clues and twists come at you quickly even as they intertwine so this book is difficult to put down. I read Christian suspense/fiction from other authors and do not mind religious dialogue, prayer, or religious references, but there is too much for me in this story. It pulled me out of the thrills and chills. Overall, I really did enjoy the cold case mystery, the potential of romance between the two protagonists, and the threatening serial killer in the background who we know will return in the future.
A great start to a new Christian suspense series.
***
Excerpt
Prologue
River Ryland was convinced that madness exists only a breath away from genius. The man who stood in front of her and Tony had proven this to be true. He’d kept his identity hidden from the FBI’s best. Now River and Tony’s lives were about to end, and there was no one to save them.
Moonlight caused the river to sparkle as if it were layered with precious jewels. But the image didn’t provoke a sense of beauty. It spawned a feeling of terror so deep and evil that her body betrayed her. She couldn’t move. Why were they even here? She and Tony were behavioral analysts for the FBI, not field agents. They wrote profiles for the agents who were trained to confront insanity. A call from another agent had brought them here. “Come and see,” she’d said. “It’s important. I think we got it wrong.”
This was someone they trusted. Someone whose opinion mattered. Jacki was so smart. So naturally intuitive. And so surely dead. Why hadn’t River been alerted by the quiver in her voice? Why hadn’t the profiler profiled her friend and realized she was in trouble? She’d failed Jacki, Tony, . . . and herself. And now, without a miracle, she and Tony were going to die on the bank of this killer river—with moonlight standing guard over their execution.
“Come closer,” the man said to River, his face resembling a Greek theater mask. Was it Comedy or Tragedy? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t think. Even though she willed her feet to move, she stayed where she was. It was as if her shoes had been glued to the ground. But that wasn’t possible, was it?
The man swung his gun toward Tony. “I said move. If you don’t, I’ll shoot your friend.”
River forced her feet from the spot where she stood. It took every ounce of strength and willpower she possessed. She locked her eyes with Tony’s. Slowly, she made her way toward the man in the moonlight, his gun glinting in the soft light as he pointed it at her. A line from Shakespeare’s Othello echoed in her mind. It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she is wont and makes men mad.
She turned her face toward the man who planned to take her life. She knew she shouldn’t panic. She knew how to fight. How to defend herself. She hated feeling so helpless. So afraid. This was the moment she desperately needed to summon the trained agent inside of her. The one who knew how to confront evil. Yet she was aware of how powerful this man was. How deadly. He’d killed eleven women that they knew of, not counting Jacki, but he’d teased authorities with letters claiming up to eighty. Although it sounded impossible, it wasn’t. Transient women went missing every day. Hookers. Teenagers living on the streets. The number could be right. The one truth that was indisputable? No one had ever survived him. No one.
When she was close enough to smell his sour breath, in one quick move, he swung the gun back toward Tony and fired four times. Tony fell to the ground.
River started to scream his name, but before she could make a sound, the killer’s hands were around her neck, squeezing. Choking the life out of her. Suddenly, something clicked on in her brain, like her alarm clock in the morning. She had to help Tony—if it wasn’t already too late. She struggled, hitting at this horror of a human being. This man full of death and destruction. Then she rolled her eyes back in her head and stopped breathing, holding her breath for dear life. And that’s exactly what it was. Life. Hers and Tony’s. She went limp, hoping the monster would think she was dead.
He finally dropped her on the ground and walked toward his car. She needed to gulp in air but was afraid he’d hear. Breathing in a little at a time hurt her chest, yet she had no choice. She began to crawl quietly toward the gun he’d taken from Tony. It lay only a few feet away. She had no idea where hers was, but that didn’t matter.
She heard him close the trunk. She scrambled as quickly as she could until her fingers closed around the barrel of the gun, but before she could pick it up, he was behind her. He hit her on the head, and she felt herself losing consciousness. She could only stare up at the moon and hate it for watching this happen.
The next sensation she experienced was throbbing pain in her head and neck. Her first reaction wasn’t relief, it was surprise. The pain was awful, but didn’t that mean she was alive? A flash of euphoria gave way to terror when she realized she couldn’t move. Where was she? Why was she wet? She couldn’t see anything, and her hands were bound in front of her. Her fingers reached out and touched something hard. What was it? When she realized she was trapped inside some kind of container—and that water was leaking in—she screamed out in horror. She was in a large chest. All of the Strangler’s victims had been found in the Salt River, and most of them were inside old trunks. But they’d been dead when they went into the water, and she was still alive. He’d done it on purpose because she’d come too close. He needed more than her death. He wanted her to experience the terror he knew his madness could create.
River struggled with all her might, but she couldn’t get free. She pulled her hands up to her mouth and tried to use her teeth to rip through the duct tape wrapped around her wrists. She realized immediately that there was too much of it. She couldn’t make enough progress to help herself before she was completely submerged. The river was seeping in, slowly but surely. She was on her side, and half of her head was already under water. She cried out in terror as she tried to push herself onto her back so she could clear her nose and mouth, but there wasn’t enough room. As hope faded, she did something she never thought she’d do again. Something she hadn’t done in many years. She prayed.
“God, please. If you’re real, if you care anything about me, save me. Get me out of here. I’m sorry I’ve been so angry at you. If you give me another chance . . .” She couldn’t get the rest of the words out because water filled her mouth and she began to choke. She’d swallowed some of it, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She was suffocating. Drowning. Just when she’d decided to give in to the inevitable and let death overtake her, something flashed in her mind. Right before the Strangler hit her . . . there was something. A movement on the hill behind them. Was someone watching? Had they gone for help? Was there a chance? As much as she wanted to believe it, another part of her thought it would be best to just relax and float away. Hope only brought disappointment, and she’d experienced too much of it. Still, she couldn’t help but grab onto a slim chance that . . .
That’s when she felt it. Movement. Something jostled the trunk. Was she being lifted out of the river? As the water level began to decrease inside the trunk, River began to cry. She was going to live. “Thank you, God,” she croaked. “Thank you.”
He was convinced he’d been born to be exceptional. He was certainly smarter than these weak, feckless creatures who revolved around his genius. Was he a god? Or was he a demon? Who was smarter, God or Lucifer? It seemed Lucifer had certainly ruined the plan of the Almighty. If God was really the Creator of all things, how was it that one of His creations was able to rebel and cause such havoc on Earth? Seemed to him that the devil was the winner of that particular contest.
So, on whose side was he working? Being honest about it, he didn’t really care. He only knew that the desire to rid the world of those who were unworthy of life burned in him like a fire. One that he had no power or will to quench. It was his destiny. His reason for living. His fate had been decided for him many years ago, and he’d accepted it gladly. Lucifer or Jehovah. It didn’t matter.
Some would call what he’d done sin. But what was sin anyway? Perhaps it was the road less traveled because of fear of retribution. He didn’t fear judgment. His god didn’t threaten him. Instead, he only fueled the glorious desire that clawed and scratched inside him, demanding release.
He especially enjoyed pitting himself against those who called themselves righteous because they had the ability to forgive. Forgiveness was for the feeble-minded. He would never forgive. He hated anyone who considered themselves moral or spiritually justified and had promised the voice that whispered in the darkness that he would never fail to respond to its unending song of reckoning against them.
He laughed suddenly, the sound echoing around him. These idiotic cattle thought they’d defeated him, but he had a surprise for them. All he had to do was wait. They would rue the day they’d tried to cage him.
The killing hadn’t stopped. It had only just begun.
Chapter One
Brian woke up shivering again, calling out for his mother and father. As he looked around the small room he rented in the rundown boarding house, reality sunk in. He had no idea where his parents were, and even if he could find them, they didn’t want him. They’d stuck him in that residential facility until he was eighteen, like some kind of unwanted dog left in the pound. They’d paid the hospital boatloads of money for all those years, yet when he’d been released there was no family waiting to take him home. So why was he still having the same nightmare? Would it ever leave him alone?
Before they’d kicked him out, the social worker at the hospital had found him a job, but if he wanted to keep it, he had to visit a therapist every week. He hated going, but he couldn’t walk away from his job. Although he didn’t make much, at least he could pay for this room. Fredric, a kind man who’d worked in the hospital cafeteria, had helped him find this rooming house and had even paid his rent for two months. Brian was grateful for Fredric’s help, but this place was really awful. Paint peeling off the walls. A shared bathroom for all three rooms on this floor, which was usually dirty. The guy who lived across the hall drank and didn’t flush the toilet. And at night the cockroaches came out. Brian didn’t blame Fredric. He’d done everything he could with his limited funds. Brian blamed his parents. They were rich. They could have helped him. Kept him safe. Brian hated them with every fiber of his being.
When he was very young, they were attentive—even loving. But as he grew older, and they realized he was different, everything changed. Although he’d never met his father’s father, he’d heard the whispers—that Brian was crazy, just like his grandfather had been. When he first began to tell his parents what he was experiencing, they seemed concerned. Then when doctors informed them he was hallucinating and that he needed professional help, the way they looked at him changed. The word schizophrenia became his enemy—and his identity.
At first, his father appeared to care for his broken son, but as his mother applied pressure, he began to distance himself—just as she had. It was clear he wasn’t the child they’d wanted. And then his brother was born. And his sister. They were perfect. As he grew older and his problems began to increase, it was obvious that his mother only saw him as an embarrassment. Something that interfered with their perfect lives. Thankfully, in their eyes, God had shown them mercy and given them the children they deserved, so sending him away solved their dilemma. He had a memory of his parents fighting one night. His father wanted Brian to stay with them, but his mother had threatened to leave him and take his ideal children away. Finally, his father gave in. Brian hated him even more than his mother for caving in to her demands. For turning his back on the son that needed him so desperately. After he went to live in that terrible hospital with its white walls, disinfectant smells, locked doors, and abusive staff, his parents began to visit him less and less. The more he begged them to take him home, the more uncomfortable they became, and by the time he was thirteen, they stopped coming altogether. As he remembered the anger he’d felt, bad words swirled around in the air, each letter a different color. As they turned red, he mouthed the words he saw, and rage built inside him. He would need to release it soon.
Suddenly his alarm clock went off, causing the air around him to pulsate. He hit the alarm and pushed himself up from the bed. It was an especially cold November. The blanket he’d purchased from Goodwill wasn’t enough to keep him warm, especially in this drafty room, but it was all he could afford if he wanted to pay his rent and eat. As his teeth chattered, the word cold floated in front of his eyes. He couldn’t hold back a sneeze that made his mouth feel funny. He swiped at the bad words that started flying around his head.
“Stop it!” he said loudly. Immediately, he put his hand over his mouth. What if someone complained because he was too loud? No matter what, he couldn’t lose this room. He had nowhere else to go, and he didn’t want to live on the streets. That was a nightmare he couldn’t face.
The afternoon sun shone through a gap in the curtains on his window, but it brought no warmth. He took off his sweatpants and sweatshirt and hurried over to the decrepit chest of drawers where he kept his clothes. He pulled out his work pants and some clean underwear. Then he went over to the hooks on the wall where he hung his three work shirts. There was only one clean shirt left. He’d have to go to the laundromat tomorrow. That could be a problem since he had to see his therapist in the morning. He’d have to wake up early to get everything done. He glanced at the clock on the top of his dresser. Four o’clock. He needed to leave by five-thirty to get to work on time. At least the cleaning company left him alone, since they trusted him and knew he would get the job done. As long as he had a place to live and he could keep his fifteen-year-old car running, he would keep showing up.
His supervisor usually only showed up once a week to collect Brian’s time sheet. He used to check his work, but he didn’t anymore. Most importantly, the man never gave him the look. Brian hated that look. The one he saw on his parents’ faces before they’d shipped him off. Rage burned inside him toward normal people who laughed at him and treated him as less than human. As he headed toward the bathroom, the word blood pulsated in front of his eyes, and he could almost taste its sugary aroma in his mouth.
***
Author Bio
Nancy Mehl (www.nancymehl.com) is the author of almost fifty books, a Parable bestseller, as well as the winner of an ACFW Book of the Year Award, a Carol Award, and the Daphne Du Maurier Award. She has also been a finalist for two Carol Awards, and the Christy Award. Nancy writes from her home in Missouri, where she lives with her husband, Norman, and their puggle, Watson. To learn more, visit nancymehl.com.
