The Ethical Assassin: A Vigilante's Memoir by William Ferraiolo - A Philosophic Debate Presentation - Not A Novel

 Can the sudden deprivation of normalcy lead to similar symptoms as the sudden loss of blood and oxygen to the brain? Blood was lost, to be sure, but it was not lost from my body. It was all of the other blood that mattered to me that drained away far too quickly for me to be able to process what had happened. People disappeared from my life in, from my perspective, an instant.

There is always more to every story than the part that gets told or written down.

In any case, I have no idea how to characterize the change within my own psyche at the moment I heard the news, nor do I know what to say about my state of mind all these years later when I consider everything that happened on that day and the days immediately following. I know that things have changed over the years between that day and this one, dramatically from my point of view. Exactly how and when these changes took place is not particularly interesting to me. My life now is almost nothing like my life before I received the phone call. Everything about which I once cared so deeply was simply taken from me at that moment. It did not all disappear a little bit at a time, in a manner that allowed me to adjust gradually. What I thought of as my entire life just “went away” all at once. I “had it all,” and then I had nothing, as far as I was concerned. What would that do to any man? It played a central role, I am fairly confident, in turning me into a killer. Of that, I am almost grateful on some occasions. At other times, it feels like a corollary injustice or, at the very least, an additional facet of the crushing misfortune of losing my family. If my wife and kids were still alive, then I would probably not endanger them by doing the things I have done since I lost them. As things stand, they are in no danger. They are safely dead. I cannot speak for any man other than myself regarding the impact of this type of event. The phone call whereby I learned that my family had all died at once left me feeling like I was suspended in mid-air. 

I felt like a cartoon character who has run off of a cliff, but not yet fallen because he has just looked down. In the Road Runner cartoons, gravity only takes effect when the character looks down to see that he is now standing on nothing. Like Wile E. Coyote, I experienced that instant when I realized that the ground had dropped away and there was now nothing but the abyss beneath my feet. I felt the abyss yawning beneath me, but there was no experience of plummeting to the ground. Feeling as if I had touched something beneath me might have been comforting. I felt absolutely nothing beneath me or supporting my body. I just “hung there,” suspended above the nothingness where my family had been. Plummeting into the abyss and finally hitting something would have been preferable, I think. That would have felt like something, at least. The coyote in the cartoons falls, crashes, makes sounds like an accordion, re-establishes bodily integrity, as if by magic, and then goes back about the business of trying to chase down the Road Runner. He still has the same purpose he always had. He recovers quickly. Cartoon characters can do that. The coyote still knows what he is supposed to do. His purpose is written for him. He has a script, after all. Wile E. Coyote exists only for the sake of chasing the Road Runner. All of his efforts serve that endeavor. He is lucky that way. I envy him in that way. His “character” is fixed by the script in which he exists. He has no need to try to make sense of his life. He does not struggle to find a meaning for his existence. Everything is quite obvious for Wile E. Coyote. It must be nice to be a cartoon character existing within the confines of a script in which nobody ever really dies. After the crash in my life, there was no obvious purpose for me to pursue. Nobody showed me a script...

There were, to be sure, things that had to be done. Funerals do not organize themselves, after all. I have vague and indistinct memories of phone calls, visits from people who “wanted to help,” but who also knew that there was nothing really that they could do about anything other than helping to handle trivial formalities and fairly meaningless rituals. The relevant rituals are intended to be comforting, I suppose. Those rituals are also more lucrative than is decent, are they not? The sickness and death industries are the most reliable sectors of any economy, I suppose. People die more consistently than they do just about anything else. The old quip about “death and taxes” is no joke. The death part is a certainty indeed. When the caskets have to be closed for an entire family, then the whole affair is somewhat less comforting, I think. People just show up to “pay their respects” to boxes with photographs standing next to them on easels. They do this because they have been taught that they are supposed to do this. I did not need them to show up. Frankly, I would have preferred to dispense with the whole funeral. Of course, I have also been taught what one is supposed to do in such cases. There are cultural customs that must be observed, for reasons I simply do not understand. Why can we not leave the dead alone, for God’s sake? No family member wants to attend the funeral and perform the rituals. In any case, I hope nobody wants that. There is something positively ghoulish about a funeral. The show, however, must go on, I guess. There can be no dispute about whether the dead people are truly gone when the caskets are closed. Nothing says “gone” quite like a closed box, a photograph, and an expressionless erstwhile husband and father who has just ceased to be anything that matters to him anymore. My wife and children were not present at the funeral. Their mangled bodies were in those boxes, as far as I was aware anyway. A mangled, lifeless body cannot be my wife or child. My family was composed of living people. Those living people did not show up at the funeral. Where that left me was entirely unclear. What is a middle-aged man who, suddenly, no longer has a wife or children? Is there even a word for that? Children who lose their parents are orphans. A parent who loses his children is nothing-in-particular. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no word for that in the English language. I think I probably still am a nothing-in-particular, in many respects. No term is necessary, I guess. A husband who loses his wife is a widower, but he is no longer a husband, is he? What the hell is a husband the moment his wife dies? When, exactly, does he stop being a husband? This is an interesting question that makes precisely no difference at the moment it arises in a man’s life. No man wonders, at the funeral, “am I still married, or am I now a bachelor?” as he stares at a casket. Well, I hope no man wonders about such matters at that moment. Who the hell knows what other people may or may not think about at any given time? Frankly, I do not care.

~~~

If I can ponder semantics and motives at the funeral, then I guess other men can wonder if they are still husbands. There is something ludicrous about all of this, is there not?

In less than 20 of the 137 pages pages, I had already questiond the premise of this book. It is supposedly an anonymous memoir that was found by a server at a diner when he had finished his meal and left his money on the table...with the book I just finished reading...

Normally, I would play along with the author who chooses to create such a scenario. But the writing prevented me. I immediately did a bio search for the author of the book and discovered that what I had felt about the book was correct. I believe this might be the first fiction book written by the author... He has a number of nonfiction books available as well.While it is an interesting book, and certainly is fiction, I don't consider it a novel...

I took a course in university level philosophy many years ago... The one thing I remember was a question: If a tree falls in the deep forest where nobody lived, can it be heard... Of course, I said "Yes." Let's face it, there are many things in this world we live in about which we know nothing... On the other hand, I have personally heard and seen a tree fall in my 13 acres of forest, so even if other trees fall that I do not hear, I am confident that it can be heard, if somebody who could hear, such as an animal, was nearby... I decided that I wasn't interested in any further study of philosophy even though I had received an A in the course...

I decided to share this information because, if you choose to read this book, you will immediately realize that it is not a normally written book. The author claims that he can't write, yet proceeds on writing almost ad nauseam... Yes, that means there is much repetition, much more than the normal fiction novel. One phrase in particular, for example, is "Time Will Tell..." It is used throughout the book as a, perhaps, closing to a paragraph (?). Or is it to request that the reader pay attention to his arguments?

For that is exactly what the book is about... It is a beginning (stated to be a trilogy) of the story of a man who has become an Assassin after his entire family was killed in a car accident. After I realized that the author taught philosophy in higher education, I was interested enough to read the book--I don't call it a novel; in fact, it defies genre identification in my own experience...Except maybe as a nonfiction book of philosophical debate on important issues... The one and only character who talks is obviously biased related to facts...

That is not to say that the book itself was not interesting, but my first thought about any book is what is the author trying to tell us? I knew immediately that he did not know how to write a novel, even if he had written nonfiction. The writing is indeed different... But, as I read, I felt like the author had much to talk about... Or, even better, wonder, about...

Several times while reading I thought of this book. Although I had never taken the time to read it, by the time it came out, I was fairly certain what it would say, LOL But there were several issues that came to light in this book that were, shall I say, surprising?

First of all, there is little attention to an overall concept of the book except maybe chronologically. However, it is very clear that the man who became an assassin, even though he loved his wife(?) that he also blamed his wife for his losing his entire family...Notice that the entire book is from a man's point of view...

Let's explore how the accident happened. His wife became squeamish when an animal had been killed on the road, so much so that she didn't want to run over it and automatically swerved. This resulted in her driving off the road and down a hillside. Now, the husband knew about her problem... He had chastized her over and over about what could happen by her swerving... Readers, not once in this book did the husband ask her why it so upset her, or even offer that she get help in getting over this obsession. Now, me, a woman, immediately thought that she might have had a special animal in her early life who was beloved as well as loving to her when she greatly needed it... And, taking it a step further, she immdiately had a flashback of having that animal accidentally killed as she watched...for just a second was back in her childhood... Readers don't know, do we? But what I determined by the end of this book was that this Assassin was not only a possible sociopath but also, not an ethical, but fearful, Vigilante... And he had never really made any effort to know his wife... 

One clue was given to arrive at this feeling... Whether that was intentional by the writer, or not, it was a telling point of what followed... You see, quite often the memoir reveals that what he had done was because He Wanted To Do It Himself! Just as he had done to a bully in school! The point of view was even debated from both sides of the coin. That is, he recognized that he realized that murdering a few would not do much for saving the world, but, it had given him a sense of personal satisfaction in doing it... The word retribution came to my mind... He had used a knife but didn't kill the bully, now he had graduated to murder...

Readers will then learn of how he discovered the men he felt needed to be killed. They included child molestors--in fact, anything that affected children would set him off... Now here's where we get into the philosophical part of the story... Anybody reading the book will undoubtedly want to also get rid of anybody who chose to abuse children, in any way. I, of course, have written about this many times... So, the philosophical question would be... "If you thought you could get away with it, would you kill a child molestor, pedophile, etc.?"

Now the thing is that we are all human and have thoughts and free will... I willingly acknowledge that I have many times thought of having a life taken because of their pure evilness... That's why I'm so concerned about losing the Rule of Law... Especially at this time, those thoughts are directed every day as I see the damage being done to America... In fact, this book "kinda" included a section on these issues, but it was lacking in any type of emotional feelings, other than to acknowledge that his fear prevented him from even considering assassinating somebody who had power, money, and an evil spirit, but was protected... I wasn't impressed with this coverage of the issue...

What you will be reading is a somewhat close analysis of most of the issues that are facing each of us in our daily living... and deciding how you are going to respond... When I was working and then supervising a staff, I prepared in advance for mistakes to be made. When a simple mistake was made, it usually can be easily solved and I wanted to develop the decision-making skills needed for most jobs in my office...  However, throughout the book, there is occasional references to believing in God...but then later arguing the option "if" there is a God, or "if" there is not a God, then there could be no punishment internally. My thought was that the question being posed was "Can you be a moral person without believing in a God who is known to provide judgment?" At this point, I didn't see any significant response, other than to believe he was an "ethical" assassin, and that if he wre ever caught, although he went to great lengths to ensure that didn't happen, he would acknowledge his "kills" to prevent a necessary trial... Seriously?

Now, most of my readers will know that I am a "God Lives" person, while at the same time, also questioning what is happening now, using God's name often as a reason as "Christian Nationalism" is spreading...The question is would I be willing to read two more books like this?

This is a book where I am going to leave it up to potential readers... I found the book interesting from a purely academic exercise. Normally I would expect a fiction novel to at least provide some type of completion rather than "Time Will Tell..." which says nothing about the most important part of that phrase: When? will time tell...

No, I am certainly no “avenging angel,” or anything remotely like one. It seems that I am just another bit of human detritus polluting the planet with my weakness and selfishness. Hoorah for the human race.

Bottom Line for me was this: It confirmed my opinion that has existed for the latter part of my life, especially, that women, by nature, are more effective decision makers than men... More specifically, we are prone to be empathic, sympathetic towards others unless something has happened in their lives as well... I went into job burnout working to cover the work that should have been done by men in my office... At no time did I ever NOT responded truthfully to what was being worked on... While the men were telling me to act as they said, no matter I knew that they didn't know what they were talking about... I did the job I was hired to do, as defined...

This man, who blamed his wife for leaving him helpless in all the things that his wife had naturally performed without requiring his assistance, suddenly resented the fact that he had to think to make decisions--normal decisions... He couldn't handle that. Women make decisions daily about small and large issues... To give you the best example that everybody would know about--consider that Kamala Harris unexpectedly was called upon to run for president... She immediately acted in response! Yes, she lost, I think, for a variety of reasons, but it was NOT for being unable to take on any task and riding the wave as far as she could go in a limited time... And, personally, I must add, that if her opponent hadn't lied through his entire campaign as the world is now discovering, I believe she would have won... Whether you agree about winning is not the point. Rather that, instead of continuing to lie over and over, and then pulling the stunts he has done this term, we know that his decisions were based on hate, retribution, prejudice and a desire for self-aggrandizement and power.... 

In his timid, fearful way, the vigilate assassin has done something very similar, because, let's face it, Trump's first action taking away USAID has already resulted in children's deaths... Will the Ethical Assassin proceed to this next step? Frankly, in my opinion, he will do just that in his fearful, hidden way... but will be because he now admits he likes killing people... 

Finally, I have reviewed this book as nonfiction even if the author presented it as fiction... There is no storyline...there is no introduction of characters... etc. this is a presentation of one person's opinions set against a few examples... I've evaluated that presentation as I understood it...as a debate within himself... You might say a Memoir Journal...

GABixlerReviews

Friend, Regis Auffray Just Posted New Poem - I Was Happy - Added Another To Share Two! A Gathering of One - Enjoy!

 

A Gathering of One

On a winter afternoon

Silver dusk comes early

He sits in front of the gas fireplace

He loves its insipid soothing hiss

He sips mellow red wine

From a glass that reflects the flames

The wine seems alive somehow

It warms his soul

Like a fond memory

He’s turned off the lights

So he can see the shadows dance

Upon the wall

So he is not alone

He greets his ghostly guests

One by one

It’s pleasantly distracting

To welcome each with rhyme

“Long time no see, Chelsea.

Love that machine, Nadine.

Is that leather, Heather?

Nice Lexus, Alexis.

How’s the divorce, Horace?

You’re looking dandy, Andy.

I need a lawyer, Sawyer.

I’m looking for a loan, Malone.

How’s Cassandra, Sandra?”

And on and on until

He grows weary of doing all the talking

Outside the darkness is complete

He bids his guests a good night

And as he dozes off

Before the friendly flames

He wonders why

The shadows yet dance upon the wall

After he thought his ghostly friends

Had bid him adieu for the night

And all is still

© Regis Auffray

I Was Happy

I was familiar

with joy

I was intimate

with happiness

when birds sang

flowers bloomed

sun shone and warmed

rain refreshed and cooled

children played with carefree abandon

I was one of them

moon rose and silver lined

the night

with love and light

skylarks soared

come the morn

wild creatures

went about their way

delightfully

the sea sighed

in sweet serenity

swishing the shore

of golden sand

in tune

with the lilt of the breeze

caressing our presence

the fullness of it all

enchanging us

All was well

when you were with me

It is still all fine

all well in the waiting

for that glowing ember of hope

to set our lives ablaze

with love unrestrained

@Regis Auffray

Find him at Authors Den!

Regis, thanks so much for being an ongoing contributor here at Book Readers Heaven!

Both of these are lovely!

Enjoy

Gabby

All Around the Town by Mary Higgins Clark - One of Her Best Books in my Opinion, Personal Favorite for 2025

Garrison knew more than anyone how vast sums could be diverted from worthy causes to greedy pockets. He did not intend that his ministry fall into the hands of anyone of that ilk. He also knew that by its very nature a television ministry needed a man in the pulpit who could not only inspire and lead his flock but also preach a rousing good sermon. 

“We must choose a man with showmanship but not a showman,” Garrison cautioned the members of the Church of the Airways Council. Nevertheless in late October, after Reverend Bobby Hawkins’s third appearance as guest preacher, the council voted to invite him to accept the pulpit. 

Garrison had the power of veto over council decisions. “I am not sure of that man,” he told the members angrily. “There’s something about him that troubles me. There’s no need to rush into a commitment.” “He has a messianic quality,” one of them protested. “The Messiah Himself was the one who warned us to beware of false prophets.” 

Rutland Garrison saw from the tolerant but somewhat irritated expressions on the faces of the men around him that they all believed his objections were based solely on his unwillingness to retire. He got up. “Do what you want,” he said wearily. “I’m going home.” That night Reverend Rutland Garrison died in his sleep.

September 12, 1991

Ridgewood, New Jersey 

DURING THE MASS, Sarah kept glancing sideways at Laurie. The sight of the two caskets at the steps of the sanctuary had clearly mesmerized her. She was staring at them, tearless now, seemingly unaware of the music, the prayers, the eulogy. Sarah had to put a hand under Laurie’s elbow to remind her to stand or kneel. At the end of the mass, as Monsignor Fisher blessed the coffins, Laurie whispered, “Mommy, Daddy, I’m sorry. I won’t go out front alone again.” “Laurie,” Sarah whispered. Laurie looked at her with unseeing eyes, then turned and with a puzzled expression studied the crowded church. “So many people.” Her voice sounded timid and young. The closing hymn was “Amazing Grace.” With the rest of the congregation, a couple near the back of the church began to sing, softly at first, but he was used to leading the music. As always he got carried away, his pure baritone becoming louder, soaring above the others, swelling over the thinner voice of the soloist. People turned distracted, admiring. “ ‘I once was lost but now am found . . .’ ” Through the pain and grief, Laurie felt icy terror. The voice. Ringing through her head, through her being. I am lost, she wailed silently. I am lost. They were moving the caskets. The wheels of the bier holding her mother’s casket squealed. She heard the measured steps of the pallbearers. Then the clattering of the typewriter. “ ‘. . . was blind but now I see.’ ” “No! No!” Laurie shrieked as she crumpled into merciful darkness. 

*   *   * 

Several dozen of Laurie’s classmates from Clinton College had attended the mass, along with a sprinkling of faculty. Allan Grant, Professor of English, was there and with shocked eyes watched Laurie collapse. Grant was one of the most popular teachers at Clinton. Just turned forty, he had thick, somewhat unruly brown hair, liberally streaked with gray. Large dark brown eyes that expressed humor and intelligence were the best feature in his somewhat long face. His lanky body and casual dress completed an appearance that many young women undergraduates found irresistible. Grant was genuinely interested in his students. Laurie had been in one of his classes every year since she entered Clinton. He knew her personal history and had been curious to see if there might be any observable aftereffects of her abduction. The only time he’d picked up anything had been in his creative writing class. Laurie was incapable of writing a personal memoir. On the other hand, her critiques of books, authors and plays were insightful and thought-provoking. Three days ago she had been in his class when the word came for her to go to the office immediately. The class was ending and, sensing trouble, he had accompanied her. As they hurried across the campus, she’d told him that her mother and father were driving down to switch cars with her. She’d forgotten to have her convertible inspected and had returned to college in her mother’s sedan. “They’re probably just running late,” she’d said, obviously trying to reassure herself. “My mother says I’m too much of a worrier about them. But she hasn’t been that well and Dad is almost seventy-two.” Somberly the dean told them that there had been a multivehicle accident on Route 78. Allan Grant drove Laurie to the hospital. Her sister, Sarah, was already there, her cloud of dark red hair framing a face dominated by large gray eyes that were filled with grief. Grant had met Sarah at a number of college functions and been impressed with the young assistant prosecutor’s protective attitude toward Laurie. One look at her sister’s face was enough to make Laurie realize that her parents were dead. Over and over she kept moaning “my fault, my fault,” seeming not to hear Sarah’s tearful insistence that she must not blame herself. 

*   *   * 

Distressed, Grant watched as an usher carried Laurie from the nave of the church, Sarah beside him. The organist began to play the recessional hymn. The pallbearers, led by the monsignor, started to walk slowly down the aisle. In the row in front of him, Grant saw a man making his way to the end of the pew. “Please excuse me. I’m a doctor,” he was saying, his voice low but authoritative. Some instinct made Allan Grant slip into the aisle and follow him to the small room off the vestibule where Laurie had been taken. She was lying on two chairs that had been pushed together. Sarah, her face chalk white, was bending over her. “Let me . . .” The doctor touched Sarah’s arm. Laurie stirred and moaned. The doctor raised her eyelids, felt her pulse. “She’s coming around but she must be taken home. She’s in no condition to go to the cemetery.” “I know.” Allan saw how desperately Sarah was trying to keep her own composure. “Sarah,” he said. She turned, seemingly aware of him for the first time. “Sarah, let me go back to the house with Laurie. She’ll be okay with me.” “Oh, would you?” For an instant gratitude replaced the strain and grief in her expression. “Some of the neighbors are there preparing food, but Laurie trusts you so much. I’d be so relieved.” 

*   *   * “ ‘I once was lost but now am found. . .’ ” A hand was coming at her holding the knife, the knife dripping with blood, slashing through the air. Her shirt and overalls were soaked with blood. She could feel the sticky warmth on her face. Something was flopping at her feet. The knife was coming. . . Laurie opened her eyes. She was in bed in her own room. It was dark. What happened? She remembered. The church. The caskets. The singing. “Sarah!” she shrieked, “Sarah! Where are you?”

~~~

Laurie had been outside, playing with her new music box... She knew some of the words now... "Boys and Girls together..." Suddenly a row of cars was going by her house; she saw people in those cars and she moved closer, even waving at some of those who were looking at her and smiling... She was wearing her pink bathing suit and had forgotten her mother's strict rule not to play near the road... She was turning back when a car stopped and she was picked up and taken into the car which quickly pulled away and soon was on the main road heading for anywhere out of town...

They drove and drove and she had fallen asleep until they arrived at a place out in the country (see book cover). A woman carried her into the house where they had clothes for her to change into. Laurie was only 4 and didn't understand what was going on. She only knew one thing--these people were not her parents! And she wanted her sister, Sarah, calling out for her, asking where she was, crying that she wanted to go home...

But she was not to go home for a very long time--two years... It might have been longer but the circumstances of the man had changed... Laurie lived in fear, even though there were short periods when the couple was nice to her... She had been assigned to help on the farm, collecting eggs from the hens... One day Bic, the man, had even picked up one of the chicks and said she could have it as a pet...

Until sometime later he killed that chick in front of her, enjoying her screaming... But Bic loved her... He would put his big burly arms around her while he rocked her, holding her tightly to his body, while he sang hymns--one of his favorites was Amazing Grace... But as the evening went by, he would tell her that it was time to go to bed... After the first night she learned what was coming and lived in fear of what he did to her in the night... Soon she learned to just go away from what he was doing... She would dream of the girls and boys from her music box--he played it for her each night to fall asleep--and in her dream a little, older boy told her what to do while Bic was touching her...

Bic and Opal had earned money singing in bars and then, because he sang hymns often, he was offered a change to be on the radio...As you read, it will become very clear that Bic believed that all that he did was done at the command of God.

After two years she was returned home, but there was never a time when he didn't keep track of his lovely girl... He loved her deeply, so much so that even Opal became jealous. Bic told her once and had to remind her often that there was no way that she could feel jealousy, at least so much so that she outwardly spoke of her feelings. Opal had learned to do exactly what Bic told her to do...

Laurie was changed when she returned. Her family and the church helped as much as possible to ensure she knew she was loved and so happy she was back home... Slowly she returned to their daughter, Laurie; but, within her, she was just as frightened as before... Years went by--she finished school and was in college when both parents were killed in a car accident...

 

Maybe she won’t. The Lord is warning me it’s time to remind her of what will happen if she talks about us.”

It was at the funeral, when she heard from the back of the church a deep voice, his voice rising above everybody as he sang... She could feel the strong arms coming around her and she was once more a 4-year-old little girl crying and afraid...She passed out...

Her hair. A cloud of curls . . . no, a mass of frizz. Impatiently she brushed it. “The sun will come out tomorrow . . .” she sang softly. All I need is a red dress with a white collar and a dopey-looking dog.

Sarah was by then a successful Assistant District Attorney, but it soon became evident to everybody that Laurie had relapsed in some way. Sarah immediately quit her job and became dedicatd to helping her sister get through all that she was facing... A Happy note: Both Sarah and Laurie had connected to a male friend by the end of the book.... In the meantime, Sarah arranged for her to begin sessions with a psychologist, but Laurie made no effort to even talk initially, although she accepted that she would have to follow her big sister's advice now that her parents were gone... But soon, that man began to notice things that did not fit with what he had been told of her background... He decided to contact a psychiatrist who was totally involved in the study of individuals--girls, mostly, but also boys who had been abused when they were very young... Which had resulted in their creation of somebody(s) who could help them when there was no other help... Clark uses the older medical name, which I prefer because I think it is more understandable to patients and family, of MPD--Multiple Personality Disorder... While they have included this within the broader dissociative disorders, the definition continues to be the same--even if some readers have scorned this book for including the issue...

Readers will be totally involved with everything that happens for all characters... Especially, at the point when a professor who had Laurie in his classes, was murdered... And evidence pointed to Laurie having been involved... Although she remembered nothing...

I hadn't read Mary Higgins Clark for over 20 years during my time when I reviewed upon request. So when I saw this book on sale at Book Bub, which is where I get deals on most of my books purchased these days, I immediately selected it to read one of a former favorite author's book... 

I found it somewhat disconcerting when the book was talking about child abuse and church involvement, when I had just posted my thoughts on the evolution of this terrible situation related to the treatment of children and females in particular, becoming more and more prevalent these days. This book certainly reveals what can happen to children during their very early years. For this reason alone, I call it a must-read...

But aside from reality, this is a fascinating, intensely developed multi-mystery that has your attention through to the very last page... Although I haven't read this author recently, I believe this one has to be considered as one of her greatest accomplishments. Taking on a sensitive subject that should be more often addressed publicly, pushing efforts to...do... something! 

GABixlerReviews

And just for fun:

Since I had to look for a music box sound for Laurie

(I'm a collector)

I decided to close with these two types of the more elite of music boxes

(I have one similar to the first with much smaller records)

(Don't you just love the sound of thousands of notes?)

The Bones at Point No Point - Also - The Shadows of Pike Place - Two Books at Once! By D. D. Black...

 

Note: this song is an appropriate substitute; 

apparently the song in this excerpt doesn't exist...LOL

Norwegian Point Beach, Hansville, WA 

Sarah knew she shouldn’t be here. She’d told Benny she couldn’t come, wouldn’t come. But by his third text, she’d agreed. And now he was the one running late. She’d been sitting on the massive driftwood log for ten minutes, staring out at the Puget Sound, as a light drizzle began. It was the kind of rain she’d grown up with, the sort she could be out in all day long and never get wet through her thin buffalo plaid fleece. She’d broken up with Benny three or four times now and had assured herself—not to mention her parents—that they would not be getting back together. But Benny had the best weed in Kitsap County—his cousin worked at one of the shops—and after the stress of finals and college applications, she needed to laugh and to green out. Finally. She smiled when she saw him coming down the beach. He wore a black hoodie and blue jeans, and walked with more swagger than he’d earned. They were never getting back together, she assured herself, but she did like his swagger. It was exaggerated, as though he was doing an impression of someone swaggering. Ironic, which somehow made it endearing. Maybe she could take him back, just for the Christmas break, which started in a couple weeks. He caught her eye and flashed a big smile. She smiled back. She ran her hands over her damp jeans and let out a long breath. “Hey,” she said as he plopped down on the log next to her, stretching his long legs. “Hey.” His voice was deep and sleepy, like he’d just rolled out of bed, which he probably had. What the hell was she doing? She’d told herself there was no way they were getting back together and yet here she was, sitting on the log where they’d first kissed, flashing a newly-tightened-braces smile at him. She should leave. Then again, the semester was almost over, and she’d already finished her essays. She deserved a break. Sarah jumped down from the log. “You wanna walk?” “We can blaze one right here.” He glanced up and down the deserted beach. Everything was shades of gray: the blue-gray water lapping against green-gray beach stones and brown-gray driftwood. Even the sand looked dull and lifeless under the dark gray sky. “Who the hell comes to the beach on a rainy day the week after Thanksgiving?” He chuckled. “Besides a former couple who are still madly in love and want to smoke a little.” Sarah slapped his arm, then looked toward the little café and general store, its entryway decorated with faint blue and white Christmas lights. It was the only business in town besides the post office, and there were two cars in the parking lot, and one was Benny’s. In the other direction, there were the abandoned shacks of Norwegian Point. December in Hansville was a dreary affair, most of the time. She doubted anyone would show up on the beach, but still. “Let’s go to the bluff,” she insisted. Benny shrugged and followed her down from the log. They took their usual route, following a mile-long stretch of beach that led past a row of waterfront homes and into the Point No Point Park. There were a few cars in the parking lot and a pair of kayakers in wetsuits trudged toward the water. In silence they walked just along the water’s edge and rounded the tip of the peninsula past the lighthouse. The water swayed gently in front of them. On a clear day, she would have been able to see Edmonds and Seattle across the water and all the way to Mount Rainier, hundreds of miles to the southeast. Sarah nodded toward the trail that led away from the beach, through the marshlands, and up to the bluff. Benny followed, hands in his pockets. “You think we’ll stay friends when you go away to college?” “Sure we will,” Sarah said, but she didn’t know if it was true. She didn’t even know where she’d go to college, and they both knew Benny wouldn’t be going at all. He caught her eye. “You’re humming that song again.” “No, I’m not,” she protested. “I’ve literally been listening to it for like two minutes.” Had she been? It popped back into her head. Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee-da, Da-da-dee-da-da-deeeeee. It was an old indie rock song about a girl who was never getting back together with her boyfriend. The first time they’d broken up she’d played it on repeat, and they’d laughed about it when they’d gotten back together a few weeks later. Now that they’d broken up three or four times—she’d lost track—it was more than a running joke. Benny dropped to his knees in the sand, holding up a stick as a microphone as he belted the chorus. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes… The last time we said gooooood bye.” He’d been in a mediocre band for a little over a year and had a pretty decent voice for a guy who put in next to no effort. “Enough,” Sarah said, laughing and pulling him up by his elbow. They continued up the trail, leaving behind the famous lighthouse and the plaque commemorating the treaty signed by the local tribes and the state government in 1855. When they reached the top of the stairs, they sat on a bench that offered a narrow view of the beach through a cutout in the blackberry bushes. 

Benny pulled a joint out of a little glass vial and held it out, lighter poised in the other hand. “Ladies first.” She was about to take it when she saw a figure down on the beach, walking close to the water. “Hold on.” She pointed. “Dude, she can’t see us from there. Not to mention, weed is legal now.” “Not for seventeen-year-olds. And if I can see her, then she can see us. And don’t call me dude. I mean, why do boys your age call everyone dude?” Benny smirked. “Fine, bro.” Sarah squinted. The woman was slight, with sandy brown hair and a quick, purposeful walk, but she couldn’t make out much about her face. “You recognize her?” Benny put the joint and lighter on his lap and held his hands in front of his eyes like they were binoculars. “Nope.” He went to light the joint and Sarah swatted his hands down. “No. She'll smell it. Just wait ’til she goes by.” They watched in silence as the woman walked along the beach, jutting up from the Sound toward a patch of driftwood thirty feet from the waterline. “What’s she carrying?” Sarah asked. “Picnic lunch?” Benny laughed, but Sarah ignored him. He was always making jokes. Or trying to. Moving with purpose, the woman stopped about halfway between the lighthouse and the bottom of the trail that led up the bluff. After a quick glance around, she set something on a log. From the bluff, it looked like a green bag. Next, the woman pulled out her phone and appeared to take a few pictures of the bag. Then she turned around and hurried back to the parking lot near the lighthouse, leaving the bag behind. “What the hell?” Sarah asked. Benny seemed unconcerned. “Maybe she’s doin’ one of those online treasure hunts or somethin’? Seen ‘em on Insta.” Sarah looked at him skeptically. “In Hansville, population, like, two thousand? In December?” Benny lit the joint and took a long drag, the sweet smell of high-end marijuana mingling with the moist, salty air. Sarah pulled up the collar on her jacket. Benny offered her the joint and, when she declined, he took another puff and put it out on the bench, then stowed it back in the vial. 

“Only one thing to do.” He leapt up and bolted down the stairs toward the beach, flapping his arms like the wings of a bird in flight and belting the breakup song. “The last time I saw your briiiight eyes The last time we said gooooood bye.” Sarah followed, smiling in spite of herself. He was funny when he was high. She was definitely not getting back together with him, but maybe they could have a little Christmas Break fling. Benny skidded to a stop in the sand. Dropping to his knees in front of the bag, he leaned back, wiggling his fingers in a trance-like, prayerful gesture, an impression of the famous Jimi Hendrix moment when he’d lit his guitar on fire and implored the flames to rise. Benny knew this one always got a laugh out of Sarah. The sack was roughly the size of a plastic grocery bag but made of green felt in the style of a holiday gift bag. It was decorated with cheesy cutouts of Thanksgiving turkeys and cranberries. Benny reached for it. “Don’t touch it!” He offered a dumb smile. “She clearly meant for us to have whatever is in here.” Sarah crouched next to him. “What if it’s a bomb or something?” “Ahh yes, because terrorists always want to blow up logs on empty beaches on mostly empty peninsulas at the edge of the known world.” He reached for it again. “How could we not look inside?” She glanced up and down the beach. Not a person in sight. “Why would she just leave it here?” “The world is a strange place, Sarah.” He looked up at the sky. “Why does anyone do anything?” “You’re sooooooo high.” Benny laughed and rolled into a patch of sand, spreading his arms and legs wide and flailing like he was trying to make a snow angel. Sarah took one more look around her, then reached for the bag. Bang! A thunderous pop cut the silence. Sarah’s shoulders tightened. Benny sat up, looking in the direction of the parking lot. “Was that a gunshot?” Sarah asked. Benny laughed. “Pro’lly a car backfiring.” She heard the quiet whooshing of a car passing on the road behind them. “You were so freaked out.” Benny spoke in a high-pitched mimic. “Was that a gunshot?” “Shut up, asshole.” He continued rolling in the sand, laughing. “This is some good shit.” Gently, Sarah inched the red drawstring between her fingers. The contents of the bag rattled softly as she tugged it open. At first, she saw only shadow. Then, angling her body so the light filtering through the cloud cover seeped into the bag, she gasped. “What?” Benny was looking over her shoulder now. “Is it a prize? Christmas come early? Cash? Oh, please tell me it’s cash.” He whipped out his phone. “Smile.” Before she could object, before she could turn, he snapped a picture. “You’re a jerk, Benny.” Sarah looked down, shaking the bag slightly. Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe they were plastic or something. Maybe they were… 

She peered inside, opening the bag a little wider. Bones. A hundred, maybe two hundred. Scattered at random as though fighting for space in the bag. Tiny. Bones. She rolled down the edges of the cloth, letting more light into the bag, and then she saw it. A human skull, the tiniest she’d ever seen. Jumping back, Sarah dropped the bag and screamed, causing the birds to rise from the marshland and take flight for safer ground...

This turned out to be a book for which I had mixed feelings. I didn't like the concept, but the mystery and suspense kept me reading. I think I've said befor that I'm to a point that some stories I just can't deal with due to the what I consider evil content... In this case, children are being kidnapped, cared for a few days and then murdred in an insane way... thus I won't be talking about the story itself... It is written as a thriller but it was more of a horror where the villain celebrated various holidays with the child--in this case, Thanksgiving, with appropriate food, decorations and loving care... until... bones were the only thing remaining upon which a poem was scratched:

the killer had written twelve lines using the baby’s twelve rib bones, the first line written on the top rib and the rest descending from there. 

Thanksgiving is A time to praise

  To love each other

 And cherish each day

 To gather around

 A feast fit for a king

 To laugh and toast

 To love and sing

 So come ye all

 To our table this fall

 And savor each moment

 And love one and all

It was one of those situations where I had to know "Why?" so I kept on reading... But I'm just going to say that a reader will have to decide; I don't recommend for all...

~~~

In the moment before she died, Eleanor Johnson gripped a single thought long enough to fill her last breath with bitterness: which one of those scheming bastards poisoned me?

Austin excused himself and quietly left the living room, wandering down the hallway and loitering by the bathrooms long enough to be sure no one was inside. He peered into the kitchen, where two dishwashers were scrubbing pots and pans over twin sinks. Mack and the cooks had gathered in the living room to keep the Champagne glasses full. At the end of the hallway, a door opened into an office, which was empty. Outside, a ball bounced rhythmically on cement. Thwap-thwap-thwap. Following the sound, Austin cut through the kitchen and walked along the side of the house. Kyon was no longer there. But the little girl was still playing basketball. She was good, too, cutting and weaving and making more than half the shots she took. “Mind if I play?” Austin asked. “My name’s Austin.” She shrugged. “How come you’re not inside with everyone?” “My mom said I could stay outside and play.” Austin held out his hands for a pass. “You like basketball?” She tossed him the ball. “Duh!” Austin laughed as he caught the pass. She was right. It had been a stupid question. He didn’t have a lot of experience with kids. “Who’s your mom?” “Susan.” He passed the ball back. So this little girl was one of the grandchildren who was there the night Eleanor died. “Where’s your cousin who you were playing with before?” “Kyon left.” She passed him the ball, a single bounce right into his hands. “Good pass.” He threw it gently back. “Do you know where he went?” “That was a basic bounce pass.” She began dribbling, between her legs, around her back. 

Suddenly she stopped and held the ball close to her chest. “I don’t think he liked Nanna very much.” “Nanna, is that what you called your grandma Eleanor?” She nodded. “And why do you say he didn’t like her?” “They got in a fight.” “Oh, when?” “Christmas. He makes loud music and she didn’t like it. She liked the Beatles. He said the Beatles were trash.” “That’s what they were arguing about?” She nodded. He held out his hands and she rifled him a chest pass. “I am a friend of the family. Do you mind telling me what you heard?” “Are you trying to find out what happened to Nanna?” “What do you mean?” Austin had assumed that no one told the children she was murdered. “I heard my uncle talking on the phone. He said she was poisoned. Is that true?” Austin passed her the ball. “I’m sorry.” She looked at the ground for a long time. “I like Kyon. He’s my favorite cousin. Mom says he shouldn’t dress like he does, he’s embarrassing the family. But I don’t care.” “I don’t care either,” Austin said. “When he fought with Nanna, he said rock and roll was dead. She said his music was bad. He said EDM was forever. That’s when he said the Beatles were trash.” Austin suppressed a laugh. It was as clichè a fight as there was. Most likely, Eleanor had had the same fight with her parents in the sixties, except she’d been saying jazz standards were dead and that rock and roll was forever. “Were they really mad?” Austin asked. She nodded, then looked up and passed him the ball. “But they must have made up.” “Why do you say that?” “Because. The night Nanna died we were playing video games, and they were sitting next to each other on the couch, sharing a box of chocolates.” 

By the time Austin made it back to the living room, the toasts had ended and everyone had broken up into small groups, chatting and sipping Champagne. Classical music played gently through hidden speakers. The mood of the room, though still somber, had lightened. He found Anna lingering by one of the large bay windows and told her about the conversation on the basketball court. “So far, I’m not loving any of our suspects. Kyon and Sasha are the only adults present that night who we haven’t spoken with.” Anna was already on her phone. “Hold on.” “What are you doing?” “I overheard Junior saying something about a DJ thing Kyon was doing today. He was badmouthing his own kid at his mother’s memorial.” She leaned in, whispering. “Junior may not be a killer, but he’s an absolute jerk.” “So what are you looking up?” “Hold on… yeah, got it. Let’s go.” “Where?” Austin asked, following her across the room. “Without saying goodbye?” “Yeah, this party’s dead anyway.” She didn’t even wait for him to ask about the reference. “Swingers. Another nineties movie you should have been watching instead of poring over police procedure manuals as a teenager.” “Okay, but where are we going?” “Kyon is DJ’ing a twenty-four-hour party in a warehouse downtown.” She smiled. “The nineties are back, baby.” She led them through the front door and out onto the lawn. The gentle sound of the string quartet followed them, and Austin noticed tiny speakers mounted on the side of the house. “As you know, I kinda missed the nineties,” Austin said. “What do you mean?” “Raves, all that stuff. They’re back, just with different music. Different clothes. And it’s not even that different.” “I’m sure it will surprise exactly no one that I didn’t get invited to any raves.” “Neither did I. I was more of a grunge girl. But at least I knew they existed.” She tapped her phone to call an Uber. “So how ‘bout it? Want to go to your first rave?” “Why not?” “Only, don’t call it that. I don’t think they call them that anymore.” “Noted.”

~~~

I decided to try the next book to see if it continued in the same type of dark plot... It did not, although it is still a traditional murder mystery... A Thomas Austin Crime Thriller and I came to appreciate the main character much more as I started this book. It is set in the midst of a wealthy family where there is just the matriarch remaining with the family and who is quite tight with the purse strings. On the other hand, the family in toto is so rich that they have an annual budget set aside for projects based upon an annual budget. But this year, there was quite a change in that group meeting where each family member old enough to participate, plus the family cook had been with them so long that he had been added... This year each request was funded for a limit of $1M because it was discovered that the matriarch had her own project which she deemed much more important to her upcoming retirement...

It was that same night as all the family members were gathered that she died painfully...from poison...

I asked her what her favorite food was and she looked at me like I was insane. Said something like, ‘In a world as big as ours, why would I ever have a favorite?’”

Eleanor had become somewhat of a food snob as she had gained the head of household position. Their cook was quite willing to participate and she would suggest a type of food or food from a country and each occasion's menu would be based upon that choice... It was later shown that she had died from oleander poisoning--a single leaf may kill an adult!

The investigation, of course, begins with talking with all of the family members who had attended that event about use of charitable funds--would anybody kill because they didn't get the projected budgt they wanted for their own idea? Bottom line, however, is that an unexpected twist near the end of the book blows the entire investigation into a much more broader look at just who this family really was...

For those who like to be kept guessing...this one is for you! I enjoyed it, especially with the teammate of the main character who  becomes involved when she was first asked to write Eleanor's memoir--and then lost the job... Tension between her and the new writer adds a turn that can't be ignored by anybody!

GABixlerReviews 

Beginning to Share Project 2025 as Promised, today on my sister blog... Just my Personal Opinion...

https://gabixlerpersonalopinion.blogspot.com/2025/05/mandate-for-leadership-conservative.html

Three Seconds To Rush: Piper Anderson Legacy Mystery Book l - by Danielle Stewart - Romantic Suspense at its Finest!

 

“Are you all right?” Tara asked, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest self-consciously. She’d taken a shower, brushed her hair out, and put on her only decent outfit. But the look in his eyes was making her feel like a heap of garbage. “I’m fine; how about you, are you fine? Are you clearheaded enough to have this conversation? I don’t need to be wasting my time. I put off two other meetings to have you up here. If you’re going to be turning down drug treatment, I hope you have some another plan for yourself. You’ll need to be clean for trial. Otherwise there’s really no point to this.” 

“What are you talking about?” Tara laughed but stopped abruptly at the look on his face. “I told you I don’t need drug treatment. I don’t do drugs.” “Did you take that cab home last night?” The arrogant look on his face made Tara’s stomach knot up. “Are you following me?” she asked indignantly, feeling like if she couldn’t get Reid to believe her, twelve strangers would surely never give her the benefit of the doubt. “I happened to see you,” he said bitterly, straightening some papers on his desk. “Listen I would be crazy to assume you’d kick the habit all in one night. All I’m saying is we need a plan to make sure you’re clean by trial time. You need to be open to that.” 

“Pass,” she said, nibbling angrily at the side of her mouth. “What?” Reid twisted his face in frustration. “What are you talking about?” “Pass; don’t you remember?” Tara’s mind, which had been pushed to the brink by sleep deprivation, had to wonder if maybe this wasn’t Reid. How could he have forgotten their code words and their secrets? “I . . . uh . . .” He faltered, narrowing his eyes at her. She would have sworn he was a stranger until he ran a hand over his cheek and rested it under his chin. The way he always had when she drove him nuts. “That’s what we used to say.” She smiled, wishing he’d remember it as fondly as she did. “If something got too heavy between us, if we couldn’t get the other person to see things our way, we’d say pass so we didn’t kill each other.” “Tara, this isn’t a game.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We aren’t kids anymore. You could go to jail. You might miss your son growing up. I need you to do what I ask of you.” “Just pass, Reid. It’s not that I won’t do what you want, I’m just saying let’s move on to something else. There must be other things we could do first. Why argue right out of the gate?” “Fine,” he acquiesced. “We need resources. Expert witnesses and an investigator. The police had you pegged as guilty from the first moment. They didn’t look any further into the case. That alone might be enough to create some reasonable doubt in a jury.” “How much does all that stuff cost? I know that your hourly rate must be way above my budget, but I want you to know I’ll do what I can to pay you back. Even if it takes me a lifetime.” She crossed her finger over her heart, another piece of their own, long-forgotten language. “Forget that right now. I’ll cover the cost of the investigator and call in some favors. There’s someone I’ve known a while. I asked her to join us this morning. It took some persuading, but I think she’ll have a good perspective, even if she doesn’t take the job.” “Okay,” Tara said in a tiny voice, feeling like she was overextending her friendship with Reid. She’d relied heavily on the past relationship between them but now she was sure she was exploiting that part of Reid that could never say no to her. If that was her only path back to Wylie she’d have to get right with it. 

“Her name is Willow. She’s based in New York, but she owes me a few favors. She’s willing to come up for a while and hear you out.” “And she’s an investigator?” Tara had wrongly assumed the investigator would be some big-bellied old man, retired from his detective job and looking to freelance. In her mind she’d conjured up an image of an old time Dick Tracy. “She’s more than an investigator. She runs an innocence project that helps people who have been wrongfully convicted. This isn’t in her normal protocol considering you haven’t been convicted yet.” “Yet?” “I mean it’s earlier than Willow normally jumps on a case, but she was willing to come today. That’s a start. She’s the best at what she does. I’ve never seen anyone so driven at what she believes. You want her in your corner, so remember that. She has a family of her own and working with us will be keeping her from them. It’s a lot to ask.” 

“Got it,” Tara said, happy that no matter what Willow was like, they had that one common thread; they were both mothers. Surely she’d understand the horror Tara was feeling. “She’s going to ask you things you might not want to answer. Don’t get defensive. Hear her out. Nothing she throws at you will be worse than what the prosecutor will be asking.” Reid looked at her with an intensity that demanded an answer. Tara nodded, but like a dammed river finally cresting she asked the questions she knew Reid did not want to answer. “Are you sure there is no way I can see Wylie? Not even for a few minutes? I think if I called the Oldens, even though we haven’t gotten along in the past, they’d let me see him. He must be asking for me all the time. I’m his whole world.” “No,” Reid asserted. “It’s not a good idea right now. Focus on the case.” Reid didn’t blink. He didn’t soften his gaze or mollify his voice. “That’s easy for you to say; you don’t have kids. You can’t imagine what it’s like to not be with him right now. You don’t know the agony.” She clutched a hand to her heart and the tears began to form again. “I brush his teeth every night and sing this song about Pearl the white tooth. I remind him to take potty breaks. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without him lying in my arms to fall asleep.” 

“Good,” Reid said, looking her over appraisingly. “You need to continue to play that card, be sympathetic.” He waved his arm like a director instructing an actress. “You think this is a card?” Her eyes shot wide open with disbelief. “You think this paralyzing pain of not having my son in my arms is some kind of act? I know every single inch of him, every freckle, every cry. I know him better than I know myself. I love him more than I have ever loved anything, and not being with him right now, imagining he’s scared, imagining he’s missing me, is the most crushing thing I’ve ever experienced, and trust me Reid, my life hasn’t been easy.” There it was. Finally, a break in his steely expression. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple jumped. His cheeks changed just slightly, the quick burning red of a firework that fizzled out just as quickly. It was unfortunate the only thing that had rattled him also confirmed Tara’s presumption of why he was here helping. Guilt. At the sound of hearing confirmation that her life had been littered with troubles, she knew instantly he felt blame for much of it. 

“She’ll be good on the stand,” a smooth voice said from behind Tara, sending her jumping. In strode a bronze-skinned woman with large eyes and bluntly cut blonde hair. Her clothes were casual, just a gray T-shirt and some well-fitting dark jeans, her black flats looking almost like slippers. Rope bracelets laced around her wrists and an intricately wound metal necklace hung long on her. She was well put together yet intentionally disjointed. “Willow,” Reid announced, standing quickly and pulling her in for a hug. A hug? Reid had seemed so stiff, so unfamiliar and cold, but now he was throwing hugs around. Clearly this was more than just a professional favor. “How’s the family? Is Josh still working at the clinic?” “He is,” Willow announced with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a glutton for punishment. But he’s doing some good, and you know how important that is to him. My husband the martyr.” They both laughed and Tara felt small, like she didn’t belong. “I always said he should wear a cape to work. I don’t know how he does it. All those treatment programs and sad cases. It has got to be exhausting.” Reid shook his head and flashed his familiar friendly smile at Willow. There was a time in their lives that Tara and Reid had their own body language. It was all gone now, saved for other people. “He must be a superhero to put up with me,” she joked as she leaned against the small bookshelf below the window. She didn’t opt for the chair next to Tara, probably a tactic to stay noncommittal to the situation. “I appreciate your making the trek up here. Your opinion on the case means a lot to me.” Reid settled back into his chair. “I’d imagined you’d be interested in more than my opinion; I figured you’d want my services.” She cocked one of her brows and challenged him. Then she smiled, letting him off the hook. “I didn’t want to start begging too early,” he said with a wry show of his teeth. “You and Josh have been key players in so many of these cases, and I don’t know how I’d have gotten through some of them without you. I respect you both a lot and . . .” “Are we already to the flattery stage?” Willow laughed, waving him off and pushing her bangs off her face. “Let’s hear what we’re working with, and I’ll let you know how I can help. You know Josh and I will do anything we can for you. Now who are we trying to get out of jail?” “No one’s in jail yet,” Reid said, his voice sounding cautious...

~~~

...but Tara knew better. Lies were in her veins recently. Her whole life was fake, and it had become second nature to say what people wanted to hear. Teachers asking why her parents had missed another teacher’s conference didn’t want to hear about their latest bender or how her mom had wanted to come but she’d begged her to stay home, knowing she was too high. That version of the story was too messy. So Tara would make something up...

“I don’t do hope anymore. This job will stomp that nonsense right out of you.”

When I first seriously started reading and reviewing fiction, I soon realized that I agreed with what I had read in publishing magazines, which I had subscribed to while I was working at a small publishing company. I learned that writers should strive to grab attention of the reader within the first few pages. It became something I've always looked for but didn't find often. Danielle Stewart did it perfectly, and I was hooked, even though as I read I was certain of whodunit...

The book opens when a young mother is discovered in an alley, with a needle sticking out of her arm, completely passed out... About the same time, her son was found in a grocery cart seat, cold with his lips turning blue... Tara was immediately given a drug to bring her out of the near-death experience and was rushed to the hospital. So was the son... Tara was not to see her son further. She had been charged with child endangerment...

Tara had had a terrible early life, then her husband died by a heroin overdose, leaving Tara alone with their child. She immediately looked for work and had three different jobs in order to keep food and shelter for her son. She had nobody in her life other than the few people involved in her jobs and she worked hard to financially be able to just keep moving forward. Stewart's character of Tara was one that readers will immediately know that Tara was not a mother who will in any way hurt her child...

And yet none of the people who were immediately involved in the crisis situation would stop to listen to her story. She had a needle in her arm and was passed out... Same old story. She was a drug addict... Worse, she cared more about getting high than to caring for her son... Me? None of it rang true. Yet the police and prosecutors felt they had a tight, evidence-based case and were proceeding to indict her.

Tara had nobody, no money, no supporting family. But she did have a close childhood friend who she had heard had become a defense lawyer... After that time, she thought she could call on him and beg for help...

Reid, however, at that time, was close to job burnout. He had reached a point where he was tired of having to find some "story," some "angle" he could use in order to defend his clients, often knowing that they were guilty and he was helping them return to their criminal activities! By the time Tara called him, asked for his help and he had called to learn about the charges, he felt that, even as a friend, Tara was just one more client who wanted him to lie to keep her from going to jail...

But Tara had learned more about herself, had decided what she wanted in life, and was working hard to make a home for her child, as a widow... And she was not willing to play games or lie...

We need to create some checkpoints, some mental health intervention and a support system that’s sustainable for you. But this could change everything. Think about Wylie.” 

“You want me to say I tried to kill myself?” she asked, her words broken with emotion. “I don’t think I can do that. I can’t go there and lie.” “You can’t say it’s a lie,” he cut in. “You admit you don’t remember what happened that night. If the prosecutor can’t find any evidence of habitual drug use, then what other explanation is there? They’ll know they can’t prove their case, and they’ll back the charges down. Isn’t that worth it?” 

“Worth saying I’m suicidal?” Tara cupped her hands over her mouth, the word seeming too bitter and unsavory to let out again. 

“Better than being a drug addict,” he argued, his voice raising a few octaves. “You have no idea how lucky you are that Willow stumbled upon this. Just think about it for a minute before you shoot it down completely.” She bit at her lip to force herself to do what Reid was asking. “What would we do next if I say what you want me to say?” 

A smile accompanied by a look of relief cascaded over Reid’s face. “We’re about to enter the discovery stage of the trial now that the arraignment is over. That means the prosecutor has to share information and evidence they’ve gathered.” 

“Everything?” she asked, feeling like she was about to be stripped bare and paraded through the court when the day came. “By law it’s any information reasonably calculated to lead to admissible evidence. We’ll get a good idea of what they intend to do in court, who they’ll call as witnesses. Once we have that information I think we should present this new evidence and petition the court to reduce the charges.”

Tara often would have flashbacks to when she had helped Reid in his youth. He would sneak into her bedroom window just to talk and she would help him see things from a different perspective. Often he was just drunk and would sleep there on the floor rather than go home. One time, she had lied for him when he could have been arrested along with a group of students who had committed a crime. Tara was so used to lying, that the police had no problem in believing her story...

But Reid was not in a position in his own life to be able to return that favor of lying in court for her. In other words, he believed that she was indeed addicted to drugs and had not considered any other option. Fortunately Reid had met some good people along the way and one individual in particular, who investigated cases where innocence of the accused was unclear. She began to investigate, thankfully, and, even better, was a mother who knew exactly what condition Tara was in with no other help to care for a three-year-old son... In other words, she believed Tara...

Readers will see how easily somebody can be set up to be accused of a crime... Expect to be greatly frustrated as to how Tara was treated, especially, since she claimed from the very first, since she had no idea what had happened to her, that she did not do drugs and would never harm her beloved son. You will feel her pain, knowing she was accused yet knowing that there was no way she had been involved with those accusations. 

Even though I had correctly figured out what was going on fairly early, I still responded with anger of how this woman was being treated... I know we have a drug problem in America, but, even more, we have lost our sense of believing people, even in relation to criminal actions that may or may not be able to be proven. Suspense, therefore, is high... But the change that occurs to Reid is significantly higher... He has lost faith in defending people who may be innocent of what they've been accused.

Even though I had correctly figured out what was going on fairly early, I still responded with anger of how this woman was being treated... I know we have a drug problem in America, but, even more, we have lost our sense of believing people, even in relation to criminal actions that may or may not be able to be proven. Suspense, therefore, is high... But the change that occurs to Reid is significantly higher... He has lost faith in defending people who may be innocent of what they been accused. Readers see his on again off response to Tara, as he thinks he learns enough to know she is guilty of addiction and the subsequent charge about her son...

Stewart has written a realistic human story, that could easily be a real story right now in America. Have we lost our ability to believe that not all people are capable of crimes--even though the outward signs reflect evidence to create a legitimate assumption?

The ending of this story is fantastic, not just for learning the whodunit... This novel has much to tell you about life in America at this time, when even those who have entered the justice system believing that they can help, are meeting so many obstacles, not the least of which that they are more than likely actually defending a guilty defendent, often somebody with power and money, or even religion in this case, to feel like they should be able to buy their way out of that courtroom... It was too raw a story to become a personal favorite, yet, I can't help but recommend that this book is one that should be read for many reasons... Do check it out!

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